A Cellist Soldier

by Robert J. Fanshawe

  “Give us it here mate,” said one of the men. Gently he took the mug and held it for Cello to drink.

  Cello dropped his useless shaking hands and surrendered, taking a longer draw on the mug. “Take it… its yours,” he said, motioning the mug back to its owner. His mouth and throat warmed.

  “You’re alright mate, take it as you want.”

  “Thanks.” Cello held the mug gratefully.

  Cello was gaunt. Three days had seen his body lose some of its fat, lean though it had been before. They looked easily into each other’s eyes and found a sort of patience as well as a little humour.

  Both the men began a ghastly smirk. “Fuckin’ German medics apron… You look a fucking idiot, you know that.”

  Cello too couldn’t help but smile. “Yes I do.”

  The Corporal was eyeing them by this time. Then he approached. “Alpha Company is it?… Deserter ain’t yur?”

  “He’s no harm Corp, let the lad have some tea.”

  “Water you asked for, here it is.” He waved a bottle at Cello.

  “But with this weather, tea would give him…”

  “Not sure the RSM would even allow water, leave alone tea.”

  “Couldn’t we just smuggle him back, you know. At least he came back on his own.” The soldier who had given Cello the tea looked pleadingly at the Corporal.

  “Smuggle him back, smuggle him back, past his Sergeant-Major, his Sergeants, Corporals? They going to let him go back without saying nothing?”

  “Sergeant John Thomas Wall, do any of you know him,” asked Cello interrupting? Even a Sergeant, had seen injustice, or the threat of injustice, despite being a casualty. So what hope for him.

  “John Thomas Wall… What Company?” asked one of the men.

  That startled Cello. “I didn’t even ask him that,” he regretted.

  “You were with him. You buried him. You didn’t know what company he came from.” The Corporal was astonished.

  “It was not important, we were alive and we sort of celebrated that, until…”

  “How did he die?” The men who shared the tea were more curious about him than the Corporal.

  “Died of his injuries.” Cello’s head was bowed, to avoid the curious eyes. But the fact that they were curious, perhaps suspicious gave him hope. “But he was in the regiment.” That fact he did know.

  “We are going back for some rest,” said the Corporal as if mention of the regiment had brought him to his senses. “You couldn’t be smuggled back to whatever trench you came from.” He had joined in the sharing of tea. “Back there you will get some new kit and… meet the RSM.”

  That meeting had to be done but no one relished it.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Going back to rest

  The rain was intermittent but hopelessly heavy when it came. Men woke soaked from the trench floor to seek some shelter but they found none and stayed propped miserably against the trench wall, trying to imitate the tea drinkers. The man on the step slept on, his cape soaked and glistening as brown water ran off it.

  A sergeant decreed that Cello should be ‘held’.

  Where would he go? Back to the German side. There was no ‘holding’. He didn’t have the inclination to run. But he would have liked some warmth as he became very cold in the rain. There was no bunker as such but a kind of indented shelter. The trench had a latrine in a wood-lined slot, no bigger than a man with nowhere to put feet, and just a wooden bar to sit over, supported by sand-bags. You could fall in. Perhaps the builders had a sense of humour. Falling backwards into the stinking hole full of blue, eye-watering disinfectant was perhaps another way to die.

  But as they went back there was a need for ‘holding’. Military police had been called for but they were somewhere in the rear areas, investigating whatever crime might be committed there. Perhaps a bottle of whisky stolen from the Officers’ mess. Or guarding whatever was to be guarded from desperate civilians who clung to life there and sought to steal anything.

  At the front everything was down to NCOs and those soldiers who might be designated as guards to men under punishment. Working parties they were called. ‘Work’ could constitute anything from bringing up supplies which would be a good scam, as it might involve nicking something extra for the rucksack; to tying a man onto a wagon wheel; the punishment that Cello had witnessed with his Sergeant; or clearing rotting bodies from a trench. That was joyless work, but it had to be done.

  So Cello was guarded by men whose opinion on his guilt was not sought, who were not briefed of the possibility of his guilt. But by the implication of his coming through the trench wall without a weapon and seemingly without a story; had demonstrated that some sort of guilt must exist.

  It was the tea-drinkers, one of whom had been like a Samaritan to Cello. They had to watch and be with him every step of the withdrawal. In a bit of a cruel twist the Corporal did not allow the removal of the apron. He was thus signalled out, for derision if nothing else.

  The relief in line has to be controlled well by NCOs, otherwise it becomes a rush to the rear. You are not allowed to leave your trench until relieved and even then you may wait at an assembly point, bitterly complaining about the danger of being caught there in a bombardment. Routes should have been laid and marked by tape which has a shine about it at night. But sometimes it is broken or lost or trodden into the mud. Men, in files; blindly dragging back; thinking only of food, rest, dry clothes and a bit of peace; are lost and wandering and bump together into groups which curse and grow and turn to chaos.

  The routes taken are not the same as men might be used to, in their journeys around the front line on working parties and messenger duties. The relieving unit must not get mixed with the one going back. Another chaos would result from this. Hence the tape on a pre-planned route.

  But plans invariably go wrong. One small delay somewhere may affect the whole operation.

  On this night streams of men went missing or became entangled with others. Companies got muddled and ended up missing their times for passing through rendezvous points. Cello’s apron shone in the night and as he waited with his escorts at one track junction to join up with the rest of his new company; Alpha Company, his original unit, passed through. They were more orderly and seemed to be moving more smoothly. They moved in file, in pairs.

  Cello waited disconsolately in his section group. He was chilled and beyond shivering, just listless, the body allowing the cold and rain to just go through it. He attracted the sniggering attention of passers. However exhausted, soldiers’ humour will always draw some sneer but when his own section with Jack and Ben passed they did more than snigger.

  It gave reason to stop. “What… It’s that fucker Cello. Look that silly fucker. What the fuck does he think he’s doing?”

  “Keep going, don’t stop you fuckers. Keep going.” There came an immediate rebuke from NCOs. But a group rapidly formed. “Sarge, look that deserter. You gonna charge him?”

  “Deserter?”

  “Yes, like we told you, from that patrol.”

  Men shuffled off the track, glad of a temporary diversion of interest. A sergeant came up from further down the line, their platoon Sergeant with the youthful face and blond moustache. His face lit up like a beacon in the night. “Ah, so there you are.”

  Cello looked ahead of him, not at the Sergeant. The noises and movement of the night, might take this away from him perhaps, this moment. The men, the mud and the movement, equipment piled on backs and strapped around and around the bodies until they thought nothing more could be set on them. But they did weigh more stuff on them. Then on top of everything came the brown respirator haversack, the gas mask. It should be on the front, sitting across the chest, like a nosebag on a horse, but not for food.

  Men were locked into this task of carrying, of dragging their loads back, not the sometimes-neat bundles they started with. These were dumped together and humped by exhausted and sometimes-bandaged bodies.

  But Cello had not
hing, nothing at all to carry, not even a gas mask. That set him apart. It made men stop and take note. So the moment could not be lost. He was different from them. If gas came they would watch him die from the relative safety of their own masks.

  “Well what do you have to say for yourself… eh? Deserter!”

  ‘Deserter.’ The word was whipped away by the night but it turned eyes momentarily. Most of them were dull and without due regard. They only had thought for the end of the journey.

  Cello’s head remained bowed but he did mutter something.

  “What did you say eh, what?”

  “He said he isn’t a deserter Sarge,” said one of the escorts.

  “Oh he isn’t and what would you know, you his friend now are you?”

  “No we are just taking him back to rest.”

  “Taking him back… to rest. Won’t be much rest for him where ‘es going. Feet won’t touch the ground. I say feet won’t touch the ground; not when the RSM gets to see ’im anyway.”

  The conversation was shouted above some din from artillery that had started. Though no one seemed very bothered by it. It wasn’t very close or the din would have been deafening.

  “You hear that Mister Cello,” added Jack who had taken up a place next to the Sergeant, pointing and gibing. They were sitting now and easing loads off backs. The rain didn’t bother them as they knew there would be fresh clothes where they were going. They leaned back and the two groups looked at each other across the track junction.

  Then an officer came wandering up out of the night. “Come on you men, get up, no time for shilly-shallying, get along.”

  So they all joined up together and after a conversation between the two platoon sergeants, Cello got handed over, like a commodity. The two escorts, the original tea drinkers, did seem a little regretful at this. Particularly when the new Sergeant grabbed Cello by the arm and dragged him up, then turned him over to Jack. Then he hesitated. “No you shouldn’t go with your section.” He waited a few moments by the track and another small file of men appeared through the night. “Here number three section. This man is a deserter and you are going to be his escorts back.”

  He thrust Cello at them. They were a tightly packed little unit. One man carried a Lewis gun over his shoulder, which he took down and prodded Cello into their midst with it before they trudged on without a word.

  Cello had almost to stumble along to keep up with them. The pace was set by the Lewis gunner who was tall and being close to him, Cello could see he was wearing a leather jerkin. These items were prized and usually only procured by the strongest characters in the section as there weren’t enough for each man. There was never enough of the attractive items of equipment; only the very basic and unwieldy items were plentiful. His boots were probably comfortable and solidly leather as well.

  Boots were a constant source of discussion and envy. Some officers had riding boots with breeches above them. This precluded the need for the long puttees which were both a curse and a god send. New recruits struggled over their entanglement when trying to put them on. But they made very good bandages. Once properly on, men often did not remove them for days, or the boots below them. A tight seal around the ankle was necessary to keep the feet dry. But once that individual haven was breached and a foot or feet were wet, drying them out was almost impossible, while the whole thing of puttee and boot was assembled.

  Cello looked down at the man’s boots. They were solid, general issue ones. Every man was supposed to get two pairs when he started training but their solid leather soles and metal studs supposedly to make them withstand everything, made them no good for keeping out trench foot when the cheap leather became soaked and the stitching finally gave way. So brown leather handmade boots of the finest quality were the ones men craved, but few could get hold of. The ‘cardboard’ leather of the general issue ones was the fall-back. They went white after repeated soaking and part drying and dubbin could never be procured. Solid looking on the parade ground when newish, they rotted on men’s feet quickly in the mud of the trenches.

  No army is ever happy with its boots. Army authorities inevitably took the cheap, mass-produced option.

  As with everything else, they endured.

  “What you looking at?” asked the Lewis gunner as they marched along.

  “Your jacket.”

  “It’s a lot better than yours.”

  “Mine’s not a jacket.”

  “Not arf it’s not. Not even close to a jacket… So what the fuck is it?”

  “German Red Cross apron.”

  “Ahh, well the Hun does make some good stuff, but I don’t think that apron is one of them.”

  It was quite difficult to conduct an in-depth conversation in the circumstances but the gunner seemed willing to try.

  “Where did you procure it then, a Hun trench?”

  “Hospital.”

  “Of course, it would be a hospital – What are they like, Hun hospitals?”

  Cello needed a moment to consider this. “They treated me,” he said simply.

  “So I would hope,” said the gunner.

  Cello looked at him and knew by his words that he had in him a natural compassion which had not been destroyed by their situation.

  “But I’m fit now,” said Cello. Their conversation came in a sort of marching rhythm.

  “Yes and you got nothing to carry, so do you want the Lewis.”

  “Well I…”

  “Go on Mister Deserter. It’ll make you feel better.”

  It did.

  Cello did feel a little privileged. Gunners usually never give up their machineguns. They guard them like children and look after them in the same way.

  “Thank you,” said Cello after a few moments of walking.

  The man smiled down at him. He was taller, which was unusual as Cello had the height advantage over almost everyone he knew.

  When they reached the end of that section of their journey however the Sergeant took charge again. “What are you doing giving that deserter a weapon? He threw away his rifle. Why you giving him another one, a more powerful one?”

  “Maybees he had reason to throw it away,” said the gunner.

  The sergeant went close to the gunner and looked up into his face. He could not be dominant though over someone so tall. He could not use his voice to reach the man’s height. So he shied away from the confrontation, but then snatched the Lewis from Cello. “Maybe you are not fit to carry this either,” he said to the gunner. Then in the dim light, he noticed the Lewis gun badge on his sleeve. And with that the man just took it off him without a word. The rest of the section looked on approvingly. They knew who should carry it.

  The ground became less pockmarked. Some grass appeared. They couldn’t see it at night. The track on which they marched was still a mud path. At the next rendezvous there was a larger group and the battalion seemed to be reforming into its component sub-units.

  “Alpha Company over ’ere.” A shout greeted the marchers. Men huddled towards other grey figures who steamed with sweat and recent rain and moved with the rattle of carried war detritus.

  It had become war rubbish. The enthusiasm for battle was gone.

  Then there was another sound. Sealed food boxes were sprung open and the insulated lids removed. A heavenly smell exuded. Well it was heaven enough for that moment.

  “Line up in platoons.”

  But the gaggle could not be forced into that. They were of one mind. “Just fucking serve it up.”

  “Come on,” Shouted those unfortunate enough to be at the periphery of the gang.

  Dead men cannot be fed. But their numbers were never known until after the sub-unit chefs had prepared the food. Some quartermasters regretted the subsequent grabbing of double rations by some. Those serving it, soldiers on working parties, storemen or some with walking injuries, could be easily intimidated, especially by tall, badged gunners.

  Cello also was lent a mess tin and spoon by the gunner.

  He s
at and slowly ate. He didn’t see the buildings that stood waiting for them just off the track.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  A letter

  With a full belly a soldier will sleep anywhere. This night there was a degree of luxury few could have imagined. A school had given up its pupils. Education, like cello playing, was a forgotten art in the war zone and the children had been returned to whatever homes still existed or to move far away to relatives or refuge, if there was any, or to live out towards peace; If such a thing was to ever come again. At first it would have given the children joy. Then boredom would have set in, and a strangeness without the aid of school to move their lives forward. The occasional dose of terror was also present as bombardments came close, then went away, then came back. The search for survival and peace from the shells finally created an enmity against the war which became life, with nothing outside it.

  For soldiers there was new life; taken first in sleep, where all are equal, with uniform discarded and some weird underwear or even pyjamas dragged out of blanket roles, amazingly. “Just kept ’em for this moment, bin treasuring ’em since me mum sent ’em,” said one small man, pulling out the striped set seemingly in pristine condition.

  “How did you keep them so dry?” asked Cello.

  “Being careful, that’s ’ow. My mum always told me, look after your stuff. She always kept a tidy house, everything neat and tidy, polished every week, no dust. I’ve got to write to her about some more stuff I need as well.”

  That brought Cello back to his goal, back to music that was somewhere in his mind; in the movement of his hands and arms and in the way of thinking. It was a fall-back in his mind, a final rampart of hope. So suddenly he was given a lifeline of thought. He had to write a letter. “Yes I need to write to get something from home as well. Any chance…?”