by Tim Atkinson
25
‘Post,’ says Ocker when they get back to Remy Sidings. ‘Two weeks’ worth, an’ all. Blimey, Jacko, there’s even one here for you!’
‘You what?’
‘A letter for Jacko’ – he holds up the envelope – ‘look!’
‘What? Jacko never gets a letter!’
‘Well that’s because they know the poor fella can’t read, ain’t that right, mate?’
‘Give that to me.’ Jack snatches it from Ocker’s hand and stares at the envelope, open-mouthed.
‘Well, aren’t you going to open it?’
‘Maybe he’s able to decipher it through the envelope using the power of his mind.’
‘Perhaps he’s working out which of his English girlfriends it’s from?’
‘Or which of their husbands has found out where he’s hiding!’
Suddenly, without a word, Jack is screwing up the unopened letter and throwing it in the brazier.
‘Bad news, then, I take it.’
But Jack doesn’t answer.
Out in the sidings, a long train slows to a halt. Steam hisses and the wagons clank as the brakes take hold. A man walks along banging a stick on the carriages and shouting, ‘Remy! Remy Farm! Remy!’ Carriage doors slide open as passengers begin to disembark – older ones being helped down, others ignoring the steps and throwing their bags from the train before jumping down onto the adjacent track. Crates of tools – hoes, rakes, barrows – are unloaded from the open freight wagons. The new arrivals look around, a few recognising their surroundings, and some seeing familiar faces in the small crowd that has gathered by the train to help unload the horticultural supplies.
‘Well, well,’ a voice calls as a man picks up a small bundle of his belongings. ‘Who’d have thought it? You’re back in a bleedin’ hurry,’ the soldier says, grinning at his friend.
‘Yeah, but not in the Army no more,’ the new arrival tells him. ‘War Graves Regiment now – gardener, first class.’ He brings a hand smartly up to his large, flat woollen cap in mock salute.
‘Gardener?’ the man shouts. ‘You? You wouldn’t know a calendula from a linaria.’
The other man laughs. ‘No, but as long as someone else does I’ll dig the holes for him to plant ’em in.’
‘Anyone else here from the old battalion?’
‘If there is I’ve yet to meet them!’
The men slap each other on the back and wander off to find some breakfast. Billets are allocated for the new arrivals in Nissen huts recently vacated by the latest batch of demobbed soldiers. The few men still in uniform know now that it won’t be long before their own turn comes. For most, it can’t come soon enough. But for a few, the dreaded day is something they would happily see delayed indefinitely.
*
‘Are we wanted then today?’ asks Ocker, as the men return from breakfast. ‘Or are we officially off duty?’ Ingham is nowhere to be seen.
‘Didn’t bump him off did they, while we was in Loos?’
‘What, Jacko – and deprive us of the pleasure?’
‘And what pleasure might that be, then?’
‘Oh, there you are, Sarge. We were just saying how much we’d missed you, while we’ve been away.’
‘’SHUN!’ Townend bawls suddenly, and the men are springing to their feet. Except for Ocker, who slowly rises, throws his cigarette butt to the floor and casually brings a hand up to his head.
‘Sir!’
‘Why aren’t you lot on fatigues?’
‘Just got back from a month’s work at Loos, sir.’
‘Oh yeah?’ says Townend, puzzled. ‘On whose authority?’
‘Lieutenant Ingham’s orders, sir. Fixed it while you was away on leave. That’s obviously why you don’t know owt about it.’
‘Although there might be another reason,’ Ocker mutters.
‘And who was in command at Loos?’
‘Lieutenant Franks, sir. Their company was a bit below strength, apparently. We was sent out there to help.’
‘To help? God Almighty, then they must have been bloody desperate.’
‘That’s a bit unfair, sir.’
‘Well,’ Townend says, ‘we can’t have you sitting around here sunbathing all day, can we?’ He looks down at his clipboard and smiles. ‘Here’s a nice one for you lot.’
‘Boat trip back home is it, Sarge?’
‘Get yourselves over to Tyne Cot,’ Townend says, ignoring Ocker’s interruption, ‘and report to Captain Harris. While you’ve been off on yer bleedin’ holidays, the exhumation teams here have been working overtime clearing the last of the battlefield cemeteries.’ He looks back down at his clipboard, tilts back his head and starts to read aloud: ‘Iberian Trench; Kink Corner; Levi Cottage; Waterloo Farm – they’ve all been done.’
‘Blimey, Sarge, those names take us back a bit.’
‘Sounds like a roll-call of some of our finest battles and advances, does that, Sarge.’
‘As well as some of our most miserable failures,’ adds Mac.
‘OK, OK, once you lot have finished your fuckin’ trip down memory lane—’
‘Sorry, Sarge.’
‘—there’s a pretty smelly backlog of bodies in the morgue at Tyne Cottage waiting for a bunch of men like you to dig ’em a nice, deep trench and put ’em all to bed.’
‘Oh, bloody great!’
‘Jeez, that place has got bigger, hasn’t it?’ Ocker says as the truck begins the gentle climb from Zonnebeke.
‘Aye, and we’re about to make it even bigger,’ Jack says, as Blake hauls round the steering wheel and heads along Roeselarestraat. The men sit in silence for a while. From the back of the truck, the only sounds are Mac’s snoring and Skerritt’s mumbling. Ahead of them on the bare hillside, a seemingly endless army of wooden crosses marches up towards the smudge where the village of Passchendaele once stood. The fields on either side of the road are churned, not ploughed. And the only crops being tended for miles are these neat rows of wooden crosses.
‘Remember that old cove we almost ran over last time we was here?’
‘What about him?’
‘Wonder if he ever found what he was looking for.’
‘Must’ve done,’ says Jack as they approach the cemetery. ‘Look – they’ve started rebuilding his farm.’
‘Well,’ Ocker sighs. ‘Good luck to ’em, I say.’
‘At least sound like you mean it!’
‘Why wouldn’t I, Jacko? No – bloody good on ’em. Just wish I was getting on with my own life, too, instead of dealing with death day in, day out.’
‘Someone’s got to do it,’ Jack says.
‘True enough, Jacko.’ Ocker jumps down from the cab. ‘But does that someone have to be me? Come to that, does it have to be you? Does it have to be any one of us? We fought here, Jacko, you and me.’
‘Aye, and Mac’s been fighting here longer than the rest of us, the old sweat.’
‘Yeah, and meanwhile there are some fellas’ – Ocker aims a kick at Blake’s backside as he lowers himself down from the cab – ‘there’s some fellas here who either couldn’t fight or wouldn’t. And I reckon it’s about time they took a turn.’
‘Leave Blakey out of it, Ocker. At least he came here to do what his conscience would allow him to.’
‘Unlike them buggers who wouldn’t even wear the uniform. Why did they stand on their flamin’ dignity like that, eh, Blakey?’ Blake simply smiles, as inscrutable as ever.
‘There was plenty o’ civilians on that train this morning,’ Jack says. ‘Won’t be long now, lad, you’ll see.’ They leave Mac sleeping as they wheel barrows loaded with shovels, picks and wooden planks to the designated plot. Marked with chalk on the muddy earth, the trench measures 30 feet by 6, and is to be dug to a depth of 6 feet.
‘It’s going to take us all day.’ Jack shakes his head. ‘If Townend thinks we can get those fellas buried in one afternoon, he’s dafter than I thought.’
‘Not so fast, Jacko.’ Ock
er points. ‘Reckon the cavalry’s arrived. Reinforcements, look! And in time, too, for once.’
‘How do!’ Jack calls out. ‘Didn’t know we’d sent for backup.’
‘Johnson, sir.’ The youngest member of the works team replies. The others put down their wheelbarrows, take out cigarettes and matches and light up. ‘We’re from the War Graves Commission. Once they realised that you’d been given the fatigue alone, someone reckoned that we’d better come and lend a hand.’
‘Thank goodness someone round here’s got a bit o’ common sense. Come on then.’ Jack picks up his shovel. ‘Let’s get cracking.’
The combined forces of the two teams excavate the trench in double-quick time. Tools are tidied away before the men trudge up the gentle slope to the morgue to collect the bodies.
None of the bundles is heavy. These days they seldom are. Once any remaining Belgian soil has been scraped from the bones, and once pockets (if they exist) have been emptied, once guns and ammunition, rusted, twisted water bottles and personal possessions necessary for identification purposes – but useless in the long wait for Judgment Day – have been removed, then the weight of the neatly sewn cresol-soaked canvas sacks barely even registers as they are lifted on the stretchers. The dry bones of what were once men, men who were once soldiers, men who were husbands, sons, fathers, lovers, living, breathing human beings, shift and creak on the bumpy journey to their final resting place.
The chaplain arrives soon after each of the bundles has been laid – six inches apart – side by side in the long trench. But the committal is brief in what is already consecrated ground. The men stand around waiting to back-fill the hole. ‘And when you’ve finished you can dig up those damned heathen poppies, too,’ the padre shouts as he strides off, cassock flapping in the breeze.
‘Right then, lads,’ Jack says once they’ve packed the wagons. ‘We drive back via Wipers, and it’s traditional for Number One section to break the journey at a little local hostelry we know. Fancy joining us?’
Johnson, the young IWGC foreman, looks down. ‘I don’t drink, sir. Teetotal, me. Took the pledge five years ago. But—’
The others smile to themselves. ‘We’ll leave him minding the vans,’ one of them says. ‘He can keep your Blakey company.’
‘Aye,’ another laughs. ‘They can read the Bible to each other.’
It’s already getting dark by the time they set off down the hill from Tyne Cot, and by the time they reach Ypres the ruins, the scaffolding and the building works are all no more than shadows. The pale yellow lamps on the lorries light up the immediate road ahead, throwing a beam just far enough for the drivers to avoid the few remaining potholes, but little more.
‘Right, lads, I reckon we owe you one,’ Jack says as they reach the bar. ‘This round’s on me. Saved us a lot o’ sweat back there this afternoon.’ The men push a couple of tables together while Jack orders the drinks.
‘Hello, stranger!’ The woman starts decanting a jug of Leroy pils into a line of empty tankards.
‘You seem pleased to see us for once, Margreet.’
‘I am always pleased to see you, Jacques, you know that.’ She puts the jug down on the bar and runs a finger along Jack’s chin. ‘And anyway’ – she starts to put the tankards on a tray – ‘I have some news for you.’
‘Oh, aye?’
‘Yes – there has been somebody here looking for you, Jacques.’
‘Looking for me?’
‘Yes.’ She looks at him and nods slowly. ‘While you were away.’
Jack closes his eyes. ‘Why is it you always seem to enjoy it when you’ve got bad news, Margreet?’
The woman laughs. ‘Oh yes, Jacques,’ she goes on airily. ‘She has been in a couple of times, actually. Katia …’
‘What did she say to Katia?’
The woman suddenly stops pouring. ‘Oh Jacques,’ she soothes, ‘you are angry? You think she told Katia something … something you would rather she had not said? Something you would rather Katia did not know?’
‘What did she say?’ Jack leans across the bar close into Margreet’s face.
‘Oh Jacques!’ the woman shakes her head, stepping back. ‘How am I to know? It was you that she was looking for. It was Katia that she spoke to.’
‘Where is she? Where is Katia?’
‘In Poperinghe. With her papa.’
‘Damn!’
‘And maybe the woman is there too, no? Maybe she is still looking for you?’
‘Did she …’ Jack pauses. ‘Did she say, precisely, who it was she was looking for? I mean, did she mention me by name?’
The woman shrugs. ‘Je ne sais pas!’
‘Aye, well …’ Jack takes the tray of beers. ‘If she comes here agin, tell her, right?’
‘Tell her what, Jacques?’
‘Just tell her,’ Jack shouts over his shoulder.
‘Trouble, Jacko?’
‘It’s nowt. Here – sup up and shut up. Yer beer’s getting cold.’
‘Oh, pardon me, Lance-Corporal, sir!’
‘Sorry, Ocker lad.’
‘Do you want to talk about it, son?’
‘No thanks, Mac.’
‘Ah, well.’ Ocker smacks his lips. ‘Your secret’s safe with us, Jacko. Ain’t that right, Mac?’
‘And what bloody secret’s that then, eh?’
‘Thou knowest Lord, the secrets of our hearts …’ Mac says, draining his beer. ‘But in my case it’s no secret that I’m starving. It’s been a pleasure working with you boys.’ He nods to the War Graves men. ‘But I hear the call of the cookhouse. Anyone else ready to hit the road?’
‘Come on lads, drink up!’ says Jack.
‘Right! Early start tomorrow, eh?’
26
The lamps are all already lit when they arrive back at camp. The others go straight to the canteen but Jack isn’t feeling hungry. He lies on his bunk and listens as trains clank, trucks drive past the hut, men return to billets and – eventually – as the Last Post is sounded. The night is long. Daybreak comes, but Jack has been awake for hours.
‘What’s this?’ the doctor asks, listening through the stethoscope. ‘A case of Timor mortis conturbat me?’ Jack stands holding up his shirt, the only patient present at the sick parade that morning. ‘The fear of death doth trouble me,’ the MO translates. ‘Putting you out, is it?’ he asks. ‘Because there’s nothing physically wrong with you. There’s something rattling in your lungs a bit – you were gassed, weren’t you?’
‘Aye, sir.’
‘Still smoking, though?’
‘Aye, sir.’
‘Good. That’ll keep the tubes clear.’
Jack tucks his shirt back in and pulls up the braces of his trousers.
‘I’m going to give you a chitty for twenty-four hours, Patterson.’
‘Aye, sir.’
‘Report here again tomorrow morning, six-thirty.’
‘Aye, sir.’
With that, Jack returns to the hut. The others are already busy getting ready for another day’s digging. Only when they’re just about the leave do they realise that Jack, without a word, has climbed back into his bunk and pulled the blanket up over his face.
‘Jacko?’
‘We’re on the road in five minutes, man. What are you—?’
Jack slowly waves the sick note in the air like a white flag; his eyes are closed, his head is spinning.
‘He’s bloody surrendering!’
‘OK, son,’ Mac says at last. ‘We’ll see you later, then.’
Without another word, the men leave and Ocker quietly closes the door of the hut behind them. Jack hears the engine splutter as the truck is cranked. A few shouts follow as the men embark. A crunch as first gear is engaged, then a growl as the truck finally drives away. The sudden silence is punctuated by parade-ground shouts. Far off, a whistle blows; steam hisses and a train puffs and wheezes into life in the siding. Then, nothing.
‘Is it a girl?’ the woman pants, her
hair a mess of blood and sweat. ‘A girl?’
Jack already knows the answer. It is right there in his arms.
The woman’s breathing slows, her grimace gradually transforms into a thin, tired smile. Then nothing …
‘You never told me about her, Jack.’ Katia’s voice now. ‘You didn’t say her name.’
‘Aye, well …’ Jack’s eyelids press down on his eyes. ‘It were a long time ago,’ he says.
But Katia hasn’t heard him. Or if she has, she isn’t listening. ‘So why do you not go back to her?’ she asks. ‘Back home?’
He sits up in bed and looks at her as if seeing her for the first time. Her bare breasts are white and soft to the touch as his finger delicately traces a small circle round each nipple.
She closes her eyes. ‘Not saying something,’ she is murmuring, ‘is saying something too, you know.’ He looks up, but her face is now a blur. Only her voice, in his ear. ‘Tell me about her, Jacques. Tell me all about her …’
Tell her? How can he tell her? What is there to tell? Where can he begin?
‘You loved her, Jacques.’
Jack shuts his eyes, tight. ‘Aye,’ he says. ‘I did. I do. I wished, I wish …’
‘Be careful what you wish for, Jacques …’
The voice trails off. Jack’s head is pounding, heavy artillery thudding through his skull. He feels sick. Hours pass. And then the guns stop. Silence. A breath, held. Then suddenly a rattling of gassed lungs, coughing you could see but couldn’t hear; a shining whistle pinched between the subaltern’s cracked lips flares briefly as it catches the sun; the officer’s startled, hare-eyed gaze is fixed upon the second hand of his pocket watch.
The ground beneath Jack’s feet is still. Everything is still. Above his head, the air is blue, the sky clear. And up there, high then higher in the clear air, a bird – a lark, skylark – rising, singing, piping, flapping, fluttering, fluting, climbing higher, clawing and singing its way to heaven, rising almost vertically above the trench. Facing the enemy.
Suddenly a heavy hand is slapping him. He holds the ladder. Then he is following the boots in front, one rung at a time, hands and feet rising as if pulled by a puppeteer’s strings. And then he’s up, head above the parapet. There’s a shock of crimson running down the chalk in front of him. He grabs the foliage at the edge of the trench for extra leverage. A handful of poppies come off in his grasp. He looks down. Is still. Then a bump as the man behind, head down, reaches the top of the ladder.