by Tim Atkinson
‘Done WHAT?’ screams Ingham.
‘Hold yer horses. I have disobeyed orders only because I felt it was my duty to a high and noble cause …’
‘My God!’
‘That’s reet, isn’t it, Ocker lad?’
‘That’s what they said. The cause of returning a fallen comrade to his native soil – back to the dust that bore him.’
‘That’s what who said?’
‘I don’t know – Rupert Brooke wasn’t it, sir? I’d have thought you’d have known that, sir. Being an officer.’
‘No, don’t be stupid. I mean—’
‘Who told us about yon goings on?’
‘About your little deals?’
‘About the empty graves?’
‘And missing bodies?’
Ingham nods slowly.
‘Well, sir, little Fuller told us quite a lot, before he went west.’
‘Always wondered why he suddenly had that “accident” when he did, sir.’
Ingham’s hand begins to tremble as it stiffens round the handle of the door. The tense muscles in his left arm twitch and his thighs, too, braced with his feet pressed hard against the floor, begin to shake uncontrollably.
‘But what you didn’t know, sir,’ Jack says, ‘is that he told us first.’
‘Yeah,’ Ocker continues. ‘Doesn’t paint a pretty picture does it, sir? Which brings us back to the letter.’
‘Ah yes,’ Ingham grits his teeth, ‘the letter.’
‘We knew you were t’kind o’ chap to write one,’ Jack says.
‘After all, very handy with the little brown envelopes.’ Ocker nudges him. ‘Aren’t you, cobber?’
‘Still, we know how busy you’ve been just lately, sir.’
‘Can’t be easy, secretly shipping the odd body back to Blighty.’
‘Aye, an’ making sure the locals get a good deal on ex-Army scrap.’
‘I’m not the only one, you know, who—’
‘No, sir.’
‘Course not, sir.’
‘So anyway, we thought we’d save you the bother.’
‘Bother?’
‘We’ve written t’letter for you.’
Ingham suddenly releases his grip on the door and holds his hands to his face. ‘It was never meant to …’
‘Meant to ’appen? I’m sure it wasn’t, sir.’
‘But it did, didn’t it?’
‘And now it’s only right that you should make amends.’
‘Yeah, sir. Put things right.’
‘Which is why we’ve concocted this little letter to your mother—’
‘In case anything should happen.’
‘Happen?’
‘Yes, sir. Happen. To anyone else.’
‘Like us, for instance.’
‘Aye, we thought a signed confession – to be opened only in the event of my death – would do the trick.’
‘That’s enough!’ Ingham says. ‘I’ve had enough.’
‘There is,’ Jack says at last, ‘another option …’
Ingham’s shoulders gently heave with the sobs he is trying to hide. ‘Give me the gun,’ he whispers at last.
‘I think you mean the pen, sir.’
Ingham takes the papers passed to him by Jack and reads, hurriedly. He scribbles what he hopes the men think is his signature as tears begin to smear the ink, then hands the letters back.
‘Thank you, sir. Do you want to keep a copy for yourself or shall we … ?’
Ingham shakes his head, calm now in the face of the inevitable. But Ocker seems to have relaxed his aim and moved the gun slightly to give Ingham room to sign the letter. He can’t see the pistol in the darkness; he knows the muzzle is only a matter of an inch or two away from his head. But he calculates that the distance might be just enough to give him one final, mad chance. Whatever he does, he’s doing it head-first.
‘Thank you, sir.’ Jack takes the letter and places it carefully back in the envelope. ‘There really wasn’t any alternative, sir. I’m sure you understand.’
‘And no one – not the colonel, not your dear ol’ mum – need ever be any the wiser.’
‘Provided this repatriation nonsense stops.’
‘Remember, sir. We’ve got a signed confession.’
‘And you, sir, you’ve got an honourable way out, should you ever need to take it.’
‘Just couldn’t stand it any more, could you, sir? The strain, the bodies, the memories. At least this way we’ll be the only ones who know the real reason.’
‘Glad you saw it our way in the end, sir,’ he adds. ‘There really is no alternative.’
‘Oh yes, there bloody well is!’ Ingham is suddenly swinging open the door, diving from the truck with the aim of rolling in the darkness down the railway embankment. A fraction of a second later Ocker’s brain registers the movement and he fires, putting a neat bullet hole through the cab door as it swings back.
‘Oh dear,’ Jack smiles. ‘Taken a tumble, sir? Let me help you back up into the wagon.’ Only then does Ocker see the spur glinting in the torchlight and Ingham’s boot caught on the running board of the truck.
‘Blimey, Jacko, you were the coolest thing unhung back there I reckon,’ Ocker says as they hand Ingham’s stretcher over to the medical orderlies back at Remy Farm a little while later.
‘Didn’t feel much like it at the time,’ Jack frowns. ‘In fact, when Ingham tried to do a runner and you fired I was shit-scared that we’d be t’ones who’d end up getting hung,’ he says.
‘Scared?’ Ocker rubs the palms of his hands. ‘You, Jacko? Reckon they’ll be bottling your blood, mate, before long.’
‘Aye, well,’ Jack shakes his head and smiles. ‘Thank Christ you’re such a bloody bad shot!’
War Diary or Intelligence Summary:
Army form C. 2118
1921
DIVISION MAIN DRESSING STATION—Remy Siding Map Sheet 28; Grid reference: L.22 d.6.3
July 19th – Lt. G.R. Ingham admitted to hospital with accidental gunshot wounds. Parades held under Coy Commanders.
July 21st – Lt. G.R. Ingham transferred to hospital in England. Band of 8th Battalion, West Yorkshire Regt. gave concert in the afternoon. Baths parade, Poperinghe.
July 23rd – Three Officers and 23 O.R.s (CADRE ‘A’) to Concentration Camp for dispersal. Of the party for dispersal on this date, one Officer and five Other Ranks detailed as Colour Guard and charged with handing over King’s Colour to the authorities at Catterick Garrison.
July 25th – Lt. G.R. Ingham retained at hospital in England for medical board and struck off strength of Battalion.
July 27th – Battn now reduced to CADRE ‘B’ plus one officer and 6 O.R.s of No.1 Labour Company. Equipment guard of Battalion proceeded to Dunkirk. Colour Party to England via Calais leave boat. Remaining personnel henceforth to come under the command of 34th Battn Royal Bucks Fusiliers while awaiting further instructions for departure.
28
‘So the British Army has at last decided that the war is over, has it?’
‘Reckon so, mate. Only three bloody years late – typical of your flamin’ artillery!’
‘Come on, chaps,’ says Blake, putting his arm round Ocker’s shoulder. ‘No fighting. Not today. This is our Armistice Day. Our, er …’
‘Victory parade?’
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ Blake nods. ‘Although I don’t really approve of “victory” as a concept.’
‘You wouldn’t, would you!’
‘There are no winners, are there,’ Blake says, ‘in a war like this?’
‘Aye, laddie, especially for those like you who wasnae fighting the darned thing in the first place!’
‘Just a shame ol’ Ingham couldn’t stick around long enough join t’party, eh?’
‘Don’t feel sorry for him, do you, Jacko?’
‘For Ingham? Christ, no!’
‘Good. ’Cos if anything, I reckon we was too soft on him.’
‘Aye, well …’
Jack pats his tunic pocket. ‘We’ve still got that signed letter, though, ’aven’t we?’
‘Quiet in the ranks!’ The men on the parade ground gradually fall silent.
‘I have called you here today,’ the CO begins, shuffling papers in his hands, ‘because I have what I am certain will be very welcome news for you all.’ The men stare impassively. The CO’s idea of good news isn’t usually what they want to hear. ‘You have served your King and Country with diligence and patience for three long years following our glorious victory over the enemy. Many of you have nobly assisted with some of the least welcome but nevertheless essential tasks facing our victorious army, and it is thanks to you men in particular that our brave fallen comrades have in so many cases been found and laid to rest.’
Cheers ring out across the parade ground.
‘Our orders today are to begin immediately with arrangements for the dispersal of what little remains of the Battalion. Those men who have already indicated a desire to remain in the King’s service have, as you know, been transferred already to other units. The rest of you will shortly be returning home – home to families, to loved ones, and home, of course, to a grateful nation.’
‘Home! D’you hear that, Jacko?’
‘Aye, lad, I do. Just a pity I don’t know where the bloody hell it is any more.’
Ocker tries not to laugh as the CO finishes his speech. Eventually, the men let out a cheer. Caps are thrown in the air. Even the sergeant major manages a smile as the men line up to sign their discharge papers and to collect travel warrants and other documents.
‘Patterson, Gilchrist, MacIntyre?’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Not so fast. Look at the dates on those travel warrants o’ yours.’
‘Oh, sir!’ Ocker says. ‘Three more days in camp? You shouldn’t have!’
‘All heart, the Army,’ Jack says.
‘That’s right, Patterson. And while you’re waiting you can report to Captain Harris. If you look sharp there’s just time for a bit more digging.’
‘Oh great!’ says Ocker. ‘Flamin’ marvellous.’
‘Come on, lad.’ Jack puts a hand on his shoulder. ‘At least you know now when you get to go back down under.’
‘Suppose so,’ he mutters, looking at his discharge papers. ‘Should be back in time for summer.’
‘Nice.’
‘Maybe.’
All over the parade ground men are shaking hands, slapping backs, saluting, smiling. Jack and the others stand huddled in a corner, talking.
‘You don’t seem very keen, lad’ – Jack puts a hand on Ocker’s shoulder – ‘now that the big day’s finally arrived.’
‘Truth is, mate,’ says Ocker, chewing his lip. ‘I’m not so sure I am any longer.’
Jack takes two cigarettes from his tunic pocket, offers one to Ocker and lights the other.
‘Cheers, mate.’
‘So, what’s the problem?’
‘Look, mate’ – Ocker closes his eyes and slowly exhales a lungful of tobacco smoke. ‘I know I’ve been bangin’ on about getting home for years.’
‘I’d never have noticed.’
‘But I could’ve caught a bloody banana boat back before now if I’d wanted to,’ he says. ‘With or without this bit of paper. The bloody British Army wouldn’t have stopped me.’
‘I’m certain of that,’ Jack laughs.
‘And they’d never be able to find me once I got back home, neither.’
‘No?’
‘No, mate. Big country, Australia. Plenty of room for a fella to go missing. Plenty of folks who aren’t going to ask any bloody silly questions.’
‘So … what’s the problem then?’
‘Dunno, mate.’
Jack smiles. ‘I do,’ he says. ‘I know.’
‘Do you? Do you really, mate?’
‘Aye, lad. Why d’you think I’m still here?’
Ocker laughs, takes a long drag on his Woodbine, then sits on his haunches and draws patterns in the gravel with a stick. ‘Truth is,’ he says, pausing once more to exhale. ‘Truth is, mate’ – he shuts his eyes – ‘truth is, I’m not sure what I am any more – without a war. I mean, well … That’s the only reason that I’ve stayed on here, I suppose … I dunno. I am someone. For the first time in my life I know who I am, why I’m here.’
‘Aye,’ Jack nods.
‘It’s like this is, well … like it’s the only life I’ve led. There is no family down under …’
‘No?’
‘Nah. No one. Brought up by a bunch o’ bastard priests in Wagga Wagga once me mother died.’
‘You actually went to school, did yer?’ Jack raises his eyebrows.
‘If you can call it that. Flamin’ prison camp, more like. Orphanage, to be precise, where the fuckin’ holy Joes could play at dispensing Christian charity – which in their case seemed to consist of beating the living daylights out of anything that spoke—’
‘Not that you do much o’ that, eh, lad!’
‘—and buggering everything that moved. Anyway,’ he goes on, ‘I didn’t stay there long.’
‘No?’
‘Nah! Legged it as soon as these’ – he pats his thighs – ‘was long enough to sprint faster than the flamin’ Holy Fathers.’ Ocker looks down at the floor, then smiles. ‘But not before I’d given the worst of ’em a damn good walloping.’
‘What? You hit a priest?’
‘Didn’t just hit him, mate. Near as dammit killed him.’
‘Bloody ’ell.’
‘Oh, mate, he deserved it. You … well, you don’t want to know what he did.’
Jack stares across the camp. Steam hisses and spits as a train departs with one of the last batch of men to be demobbed. Carriage couplings clang and the iron wheels screech on rusting rails.
‘So, then, well – I’m living rough, doing odd jobs on the ranches, bit of this, bit of that, in return for a place to sling a hammock and a crust of bread, y’know?’
‘Aye, I do. Did pretty much the same myself back in Yorkshire. Well, wi’out t’hammock, obviously. Bit cold for an ’ammock up on the moors.’ They laugh.
‘And then along comes the war and, well, to be honest, Jacko, it was such a bleeding brilliant opportunity.’
‘Aye,’ Jack says. ‘I know.’
‘I enlisted as soon as I could get to the nearest town, travel warrant to Liverpool for training, then eventually a troopship, bloody great thing – the Wiltshire – setting sail from Sydney harbour on the greatest adventure ever.’
‘And now it’s over.’
‘D’you know, we had the time of our bloomin’ lives on that voyage? Didn’t know what a bloodbath our fellas were going through at Pozières, of course.’
‘If you had have done, you might have jumped ship.’
Ocker stares into the distance for a while. The sidings are empty now and the rest of the camp is silent. ‘All the time our chaps are going through hell here while we’re marching through bloody bunting and streamers and behind the bands and being kissed by all the sheilas and with the old blokes chucking coins at us. Didn’t even stop once we was aboard, when the gangplanks were lifted and when we were nosing our way out of Sydney harbour.’
‘What – all swim after you, did they?’
‘Wouldn’t have put it past a few of ’em,’ Ocker laughs. ‘Nah, great load of porpoises swam alongside the ship, though. And then all the little boats, filled to the brim with folks waving and cheering and all the rest until the boats stop, passengers still waving their bloody arms off, and we sail on to Melbourne, Adelaide, Fremantle, picking up a few hundred more coves at every port.’
‘Did they say where you was heading?’
‘We thought we were heading up to Suez until the bloody ship goes and takes a left turn and we’re off instead to Durban, so they say.’
‘Why was that then? Enemy action?’
‘Dunno, mate. No one told us. Jerry warships, someone says, another says we’re off to A
frica to kick the arse of Fritz there.’
‘Most likely U-boats,’ Mac says, joining them. ‘They were probably just trying to stop you having to swim here.’
‘So, what did you get up to in Durban then, lad?’
‘Nothing much. Ship took on coal, that was about all.’ Ocker shakes his head slowly, then suddenly lights up in an enormous grin. ‘And if you believe that, mate, you’ll believe anything!’
The men laugh.
‘Giving Australia a bad name, eh?’
‘Not half,’ Ocker smiles. ‘Although we can’t have been that bad,’ he goes on. ‘After all, they let us go ashore again when the boat docked in Cape Town.’
‘They must’ve been mad.’
‘Oh, mate, we sure as hell gave Australia a bad name there,’ he laughs.
‘I’ll bet,’ says Jack. ‘Then on to Blighty I suppose?’
‘Yeah,’ says Ocker. ‘But you know what?’ He shakes his head. ‘Could never quite understand why if you lot was so desperate for us to join the party here, you put us down at bloody Plymouth, rather than dropping us straight off in France. Jeez, we was all ready for a bit of a fight by then, I can tell you.’
‘I’ll bet you didn’t have to wait long,’ says Mac.
‘Not exactly. Just a pity first real scrap we got into was against a bloody Pommie canary at the Bull Ring. Wouldn’t have minded,’ he goes on, ‘but they’d sent us to Boulogne in a bloody rowing boat.’
‘Get away!’
‘Felt like it,’ says Ocker. ‘We’d done twelve thousand flamin’ miles across the sea without a murmur and suddenly we’re all having a perk over the rails and the bloody cattle boat stinks of sick.’
Blake appears carrying mugs of tea. ‘That’s the Channel for you. Gets to everyone, even those with the strongest sea legs.’
‘Cheers, lad.’ Jack wraps both hands round the mug.
‘So, what are we discussing?’
‘We was just reminiscing, actually – well, Ocker was – about enlisting.’
‘Not something you’ll have a tale of your own to share, eh, laddie?’ Mac begins to fill his pipe.
Ocker sucks on his tiny remnant of a cigarette before resuming his story. ‘There was this one cove in charge of bayonet drill,’ he says.