Soldiers, like children, seek a moment of lightness in which they can have fun, hence the snowballs.
But stand too brought an end to the hilarity. A message delivered by the platoon sergeant brought back the story of the Cello patrol. It had been forgotten, though few things are forgotten by the soldier, merely put somewhere in the mind that won’t bring pain. “You gonna get a call to the CO’s orderly room, Corporal, have you heard?”
“About that stupid Cello person…?” replied the Corporal with a little nervous push back of his helmet.
“Yes, about the same person, that patrol you did… bit of a cock-up wasn’t it?” gloated the Sergeant.
But the Corporal objected somewhat. “No, Sarge it… wasn’t really…”
“But you didn’t bring all your men back did you?” The Sergeant leaned forward towards the Corporal’s back. The men were still on Stand Too, at the trench wall, ready for anything, not all looking over the top but ready. They weren’t proper trenches as this was a reserve position, but sand-bags were built up and the flatish ground was scraped into some defences where men could sit or crouch. But the inspection party, perhaps with some sort of bravado stood up and wandered around behind the men, as if they were immune to some stray shells being lobbed over.
The Corporal half turned. “But he chose to throw away ’is weapon, ’e chose to desert,” he pointed out, lapsing into some slurred words, not the customary careful ones of his previous pipe-smoking reflective demeanour. “And I reported ’im didn’t I?”
“Oh you reported him alright. And I reported him up the chain of command as well.” He puffed out his chest at his part of the reporting. The RSM encouraged the reporting of things like that.
But the Corporal seemed suddenly to draw back from the blame. “Well it was my job to report him. I ’ad to… You would have found out… in the end.”
“I would have found out very soon enough wouldn’t I then?”
“Oh yes you would, you would, ” agreed the subordinate.
Having come to a type of agreement that neither of them was to blame and that ‘reporting’ everything was their duty rather than snitching and that the Corporal had redeemed himself by making a full report, the Sergeant imposed the next part of his humiliation of the Corporal. “Well you gonna be needed for the CO’s orderly room like I said, and don’t think I will do it for you, cos you was in charge of that patrol, so you have to provide the evidence. You are the evidence.”
“Just give us the nod Sarge, I’ll be ready.”
“The nod, what ‘nod’? I’ll give you a fucking kick if you want, to make sure you’re up to the mark. I don’t want the RSM looking at us like we not up to it.”
There seemed no need for this outburst. It was as if the RSM’s spirit was possessing the Sergeant and speaking through him. Any bond, any respect between fellows of lower rank was gone. It was a step between Corporal and Sergeant, one stripe, but the stripe was like a wall between territories of dislike where hatred could be expressed. Hatred had replaced respect.
Something broke in the Corporal then, some resistance that had made him and kept him as he was, had gone, with the pipe; broken, trodden into the mud. So he would do anything, go anywhere. His compass was not pointing anywhere, it just went round and round. It reacted to a shout and a shot. Behind a rifle it was steady. Anywhere else it was wildly whirring and knowing nothing.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Logistic links
Cello had not lost his compass. Or he had found a deeper one. The depth was in the meaning of his music. The love had been there, but now he knew its purpose. He longed for it.
Those in the logistic detachment did not talk to him about his criminality or treachery. What was a deserter who had returned on his own? Was he still a deserter?
Soldiers in the rear area always thought themselves entitled to a bit of comfort. You had to take your luck when it was dished out, otherwise who was to know if it would come again. So they always found a barn or a cellar that was firstly dry and secondly could be made a bit comfortable. A fire brought comfort but usually was forbidden, too close to the front line. But there were the occasions when it was possible. Toilets were sometimes in the open, if they were far enough to the rear. Men sat together on a log over a trench full of disinfectant.
There were close to two hundred men of the headquarters and logistic elements of the battalion. Units of heavy machineguns, pioneers and mortars moved around the logistic area, although usually forward supporting the rifle companies, individually or in groups, known as strong points. Held back were the administration, transport, medical and logistic elements including stores people who brought forward the ammunition and food as well as those who dealt with records of the men and ensured that they were paid and their records of death, injury or illness kept.
Men coming forward to the front were the engines of information and communications, starting and spreading rumours of import to all the men about the future and the present. Often these were salted with details that enhanced the views already at the heart of the Battalion. Personalities such as the Colonel, the Adjutant or the RSM featured extensively in these communications.
There were many opportunities for these interfaces, bringing food and supplies up to the front were the main ones. Company Quartermasters came back to the logistic area. Transport went forward to deposit and collect. Some men did not wish to go forward. Others did. Risk taking, guilty shirking, blaming and accusations abounded.
Cello worked at separating ammunition into piles in response to requests from companies; individual uniform requirements and finding spare bits for weapons as armourer needs were many. He wanted to go forward. He wanted to find his section, for some reason he felt drawn to them.
But he was watched and guarded and he couldn’t defend himself with a weapon. What if they were attacked behind the lines or when moving forward. It could happen. So he couldn’t go.
“I met a Hun patrol. At that time I was without my rifle,” he argued with one of the Quartermaster’s SNCOs.
He looked at Cello, from under his cap. He didn’t wear a helmet as he was mostly working among piles of stock, tunic off, vest sleeves rolled up. “You can’t go up without a weapon.”
“Where’s your rifle Colour?” The man was a Colour Sergeant, the same rank as the Company Quartermaster Sergeants. Cello felt empowered to be cheeky. He could see that the organisation around the NCO was breaking down. He was constantly overwhelmed by mountains of boxes of equipment. Yet if a Company asked for some needed thing which prevented them from carrying out their duties, often it could not be located. Paperwork, stock-sheets, receipts and demands were mixed and muddled together. Often forms and control sheets were not completed.
Logistics did not happen automatically. Requests from the companies had to be made for everything. Stock was carried at battalion level but only for a day or so. In turn it had to be resupplied by higher formation, Brigade and Division and above.
Certain activities happened at higher formations where staff officers were in abundance and they made sure their living was more comfortable and the stocks more plentiful. They did not move as the battalions did, in and out of the trenches. They occupied large houses and buildings and civilians often ventured back into these areas where food and even money might be made.
For women there was often regular employment in the brothels and further back, music and dance halls had even opened up where cities were not so destroyed.
“How can I carry my rifle when my hands are full of… all this?” The Colour Sergeant threw his arms around the chaos.
Outside the barn the sound of horses and men cursing their obstinance added to the situation.
Cello was not a horseman. But he had to work with them as they all did.
The Colour Sergeant looked up and his arms hung down, muddied from sacks of potatoes, not the dried mud of the trenches. “You set for Court Martial then?” He looked directly at Cello.
“I do
n’t know,” said cello.
“You gonna need a friend you know?”
“A friend?”
“Yes an accused’s friend, or a defending officer.”
“Defending officer?” Cello had not thought this far.
The Colour Sergeant peered at him intently, as the world teetered around him. “You do want to be defended, don’t you?”
“Well I think a friend would be a good idea.” He knew the friend he wanted.
“So you need to get one.” He turned to the next pile. “Get those uniforms out into the Alpha stack.”
“That’s where I want to get too, Alpha.”
“Well you had better take control of the stuff and make sure it all gets to them then hadn’t you?”
Cello saw this as permission, but he knew a fight would be on with some regular storeman who usually looked after Alpha’s needs. He had probably met him already. Most were suspicious and taciturn, while others tried to talk, but perhaps it was to mock.
He didn’t care about mockery. He clung to tiny victories, like the sympathy shown by the Colour Sergeant, which he could then use. “The Colour Sergeant said I should stay with Alpha’s stuff.”
Transport was the key to every movement behind the lines. It seemed only that the poor bloody rifle companies marched. But in the marching was at least a coming together, a closeness where more than the man next to you could be your best friend as was the case when you attacked and inevitably got separated into pairs, if you did not become a corpse. Or those closest to you could be enemies. Cello had spoken to some men, but there was a suspicion in the bodies of those who grunted around the horses and boxes and piles of hessian and sand-bags and crates and the smell of hessian and cordite and horse manure and sweat. Looks were not given generously, eyes were down and whispers were kept for alliances between two men who shared the halter of a horse or box of ammo.
Not many shared a box of ammo with Cello so he laboured on in isolation. But non-enemies could be cultivated, of these the Colour Sergeant was the most important.
The Company Quartermaster Sergeants came back at different times. Their stuff had to be ready to go. Cello guarded Alpha Company equipment well, while he was guarded on and off by the Colour Sergeant. They were in a large barn, a beautiful vaulted one with a massive wood-beamed roof which was mercifully totally intact. The walls, great rough blocks, seemed at odds with the intricacy of the roof which defied any bomb to splinter it. The beams looked unbreakable and the grooving and slotting of the lighter supports too clever, the final cane-like wands on which the tiles were arranged, too lucky to be destroyed. Some men referred to it as a ‘tithe barn’, which dated back to medieval times. Instead of farm tithes to the church, the barn was now used for the individual company ‘piles’ of equipment.
Alpha Company Quartermaster Sergeant came in the evening. He was directed in through the dust and grit and stacks to where Cello sat on his charge. “Can I come with you Colour?” he asked.
“I don’t think so,” replied the man, fresh from the front with mud and a loaded rifle. But he was very tired and could do with the extra hands. He had heard about Cello but didn’t realise that he was supposed to be under ‘house arrest.’ He was another pair of hands. “Well alright then, get this stuff loaded.” He had to collect pre-cooked food and rum as well.
Cello used the horse to shield himself from others and soon they were ready. Feeling guilty Cello caught the eye of his Colour Sergeant, opened his hands and mouthed that he would be back tomorrow. The Colour Sergeant threw his head up and gave a brief nod. He knew that Cello would be under somebody’s eye and he did not fear the RSM. He had a job to do, a never-ending job, without rest.
They trudged up to the front with Cello separating, walking alongside the horse, who seemed calm and without fear. This was part of the reserve area and other horses were around and the barrage was not heavy so there was nothing to make the horses really afraid.
Towards the battalion things thinned out. Logistic elements faded away somewhere. Occasional shells drummed and boomed in the distance; perhaps not so distant.
Cello knew he wouldn’t need his rifle. Even if the artillery came close, a rifle round would not stop the shells falling. He had been in the middle of a bombardment at the German hospital and had no rifle then. Having his hands free helped treat the casualty. A rifle was a restriction which may have forced him to defend himself when at first confronted with the German patrol. That would have almost certainly led to his death. Now he was alive… and also free. Well, free to be stripped naked by the RSM on parade, then detained in just his underwear in a sort of prison.
But the freedom was a sort of mental thing. Standing with only a blanket around him before the Quartermaster’s NCO, standing without shame against the looks of the logistic men, had given Cello a sort of pride. In a way he was commanding the NCO to find him a uniform and if he hadn’t, then the blanket would had sufficed, impractical, but sufficient.
They got close to Alpha Company and stopped in a sort of crater. Night was due but somehow the evening’s progress lingered. Platoon sergeants had been warned, they wanted food and ammunition and other things that had been ordered. The horse was quiet and the only sounds were the breaking open wooden boxes of ammo, to be dished out and the food containers.
Rendezvous were essential for communications and logistic delivery, but difficult to make in a land devastated and unrecognisable. A jerrycan placed on a junction of beaten foot tracks, a tiny plank bridge, sometimes floating, over a horrible pool of gunge, were the landmarks. In this reserve area, metal roads were closer and Cello had heard that some men considered crawling onto one of these and high-jacking at the point of the .303 a truck along the road into Cambrai, which apparently was not damaged like Arras and might even have young women still living there. But which way was it?
Guides had brought the men together. Some men knew their ground, by instinct. They might have been storemen, or officers’ batmen; the soldier helpers to officers who cooked for them and helped pack and even carry their kit. Messengers, sometimes included both of these categories, or men in platoons who were willing not to stay cowering in bunkers.
The real communicators, sending electronic messages by wire were there, not always seen, but their wire was seen, though much of it was underground. At track junctions, wires popped up and were linked to junction boxes on stakes. Nobody touched these, but they used them for RVs.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Nominating a friend
A meeting which is wanted and needed can also bring a levelling of conflict, a looking beyond the unstated and even unrecognised lump that separates and prevents men from sharing something that is in their hearts; from even revealing that they have a heart. This is because the meeting usually brings a benefit; food and drink being the favourite.
So Cello was allowed to go to his Platoon, the one he had previously been a member of.
He made his way as a kind of bringer of something to those in need, supper and rum.
They brought the metal containers and rum flagons that were like biblical jars, brown and corked. They were probably the ones whose contents Jesus had changed from water to wine, or rum in this case. They lugged them in carrying nets across craters while night fell. Cello’s hands were needed, to carry things. Lights and sounds of heavy hard things knocking together did not seem to matter. They were the reserve battalion, one of them. In front of them was still No Man’s Land, a nothingness which Cello knew about, though this No Man’s Land was a different to the one he had inhabited; the one where he had buried John Thomas Wall. But that was not really No Man’s Land as it was within the German trenches.
“So, the cello player is it, the bringer of food and drink now, is it?” The sergeant shone a flashlight into Cello’s face.
“Yes Sarge,” replied Cello. He had no fear. He felt nothing. He knew the worst sneers would come not only from this man. “Let me take the food to my section sarge?”
�
��Your section, your section is it?”
“It was yes.”
The sergeant looked into Cello’s face, at very close range. Cello’s thoughts went back to the RSM’s face on the parade ground when he had ordered him to strip to his underwear and stand on the edge. He hadn’t recoiled. He hadn’t backed away. He didn’t do so now. He sort of absorbed everything. But how many knives of hate could he take?
Where did it come from, that hate? He was not a hateful person.
He knew one person wouldn’t hate him. He thought he knew.
So he dragged the food, the corned beef stew now cold from its tin container being dragged across the mud and the flagon of rum, to the entrance to the trench in which his section whiled away the time, trying not to wait for the rum. But jack grabbed it. Behind him Cello saw Ben. “Can I ask you…?” he started. “Ben…?”
“Ask me…?”
“Yes.”
Jack just glanced at them as he disappeared into the bunker.
They stood in half light, statues of the moment, statues that could carry the war away with them, like generals without rank, without weapons as Ben had momentarily put his rifle somewhere, perhaps the bunker. Cello without weapon did have a helmet which the Colour Sergeant had found for him.
The helmets tilted together. “I want you to be my friend… at my Court Martial…”
“Friend!” Ben glanced sideways from under his helmet. He complexion was dark. He had a Woodbine between his lips which opened allowing the fag to wag up and down around the word to show a hint of teeth which were surprisingly good. Many men’s teeth were broken and black. Dental care of the army was not a high priority and many men joined with teeth already beyond repair.
A Cellist Soldier Page 16