A Cellist Soldier

by Robert J. Fanshawe

  “Yes.” Cello glanced away to try to find words to explain better without passing his oppression onto Ben. “I won’t be defended but I can have a friend and I want you to be my friend.”

  The words didn’t stand up as earth-shattering. They fell down into the trench. No words could take them away from the trenches they were in.

  “I will,” said Ben without hesitation and without knowing what it meant. “What have I got to do?”

  “I don’t know yet. But they have to give me this, it’s part of the ‘due process’. I must have someone on my side.”

  “I won’t be much good to you will I?”

  Ben was just a common soldier. He had not met Sergeant John Thomas Wall. He did not realise the comradeship that the Sergeant had given Cello, even in his death.

  “Yes you will,” replied Cello.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  A table

  They were interrupted and Cello was taken away for duties elsewhere, another platoon needed feeding. But on returning to the logistic area some news was imparted to him by the Colour Sergeant. “You are to go before the Commanding Officer tomorrow. The CO gonna come down here to do it.”

  Cello knew that he didn’t need Ben yet. The Corporal would need to come back to give his evidence, then he would be remanded and go back, under escort, for a Court Martial, somewhere further back than he had been. In a way he relished this. Perhaps there would be some sense amongst people who inhabited that area. Though none of the men in the front line would have given that thought credit. The disdain shown for those generals and their staff knew no bounds.

  Empty sand-bags formed a better bed than ever you could get in the trenches. Life in the logistic areas always attracted envy. Buildings provided cover, although earth was a better protector in a bombardment. But no one would prefer a trench if they were offered a building, even though a bomb through the roof could do more damage.

  So they settled down for the night, with sentry duty within the building. The smell of hessian filled their throats. It was like dry mown grass in the summer which had lain in the sun, Cello thought; a comforting and homely smell. He had been drawn into Sergeant John Thomas Wall’s farm world. The barn they were in was part of a farm, many farms. But the tithes had long since been taken away and replaced by these war offerings. The animals which would have loved the comfort of the barn had been slaughtered in bombardments, been driven or run scared and screaming.

  People came and went within the barn, searching some stores item which would need to be burrowed for. The Colour Sergeant got up, responded, went back to bed, got up again, returned to his sand-bag bed again. Horses whinnied outside, vehicles whined.

  As so often, deep sleep came only in the dead hours just before dawn so that when the light came, men roused themselves exhausted from interrupted sleep rather than refreshed from a long one.

  Dawn had only a few choices for its face; rain, dull cloud or occasionally sun. But the activity had many faces; Stand Too was no longer done as they were in a logistic area. Activity just gave up on sleep and exploded with a shout. On this morning the arrival of the RSM brought a shout. “HAAARP.”

  This was different from the greeting to the battalion on parade. But the RSM’s eyes were focused on Cello, who was already standing up. The eyes were small, screwed smaller by fat cheeks, unadorned by whiskers, shaved and polished almost to a shiny surface, unlike any of the other men. Slowly he took his eyes away from Cello, who seemed to meet his gaze with a raised head.

  He was looking for something which wasn’t in the barn. His eyes darted about then fell on the Colour Sergeant, “Table, table Colour…”

  “Sir?” queried the NCO, who didn’t have his braces up. His uniform tunic, hat and equipment lay somewhere. His rifle was not in evidence. The absence of these seemed to take away his confidence.

  This time the RSM used his hands, laying them in front of him and jutting his head forward. “Table, we need one…” Then he addressed Cello. “Get this… Man… out of here while preparations are made. Get some MPs here… I want him detained until called, as per normal… Colour.”

  A table! Had the Colour Sergeant had one he would have used it for his accounts and books which he had somehow to keep up, though whether anyone audited them and held him responsible was another matter. The Quartermaster nodded in on his account keeping now and again. But he also doubled as the Headquarters Company Commander and was constantly pulling together so many different groups, and the administration of the whole battalion. Letter-writing to the bereaved, the effects of the deceased and the burials of them, were often the things that occupied him. He was not due to attend this event. Had there been a table he would have probably laid hands on it for these managerial tasks.

  So the table took over the war and had to be found while the RSM stood and twitched and turned around as if he was still on the parade ground. He wore a pistol, like an officer and a sort of Sam Browne belt. From somewhere, the Military Police who always seemed to hover around the RSM, ushered Cello away to the back of the building out of sight of the space which the table, when one was found, would occupy.

  It would have been better had the Colour Sergeant been fully dressed. He could do his logistic job in his braces or even without them. But now he was the RSM’s ball boy. He did not have the confidence for that.

  The farm square was a place for animals and animal food, not office work. However eventually a kind of work-bench was carried in for approval. It was too low and the RSM sniffed as it was set out. However he opened his small backpack and took out a big red book; The Manual of Military Law; to place on it.

  Time jumped! There came a croaky hoot from outside. The Commanding Officer had found a staff car somewhere and commandeered it to bring him to the logistic area. He did not bring the adjutant with him.

  Adjutants, always of captain rank, were a sort of lynchpin of a battalion, or should be; more than a ball boy to the commanding officer. Care was taken over their selection. An officer was needed who maintained the heart of the battalion, whatever that should be. Some saw it as iron discipline.

  This adjutant was not able to hold himself in any discipline, let alone an iron one. He shook a lot and had to make a supreme effort to control that, especially when he didn’t have access to a whisky bottle. Prior selection of the adjutant appointment was not able to foresee the breakdown.

  As to the iron discipline, the RSM was of course in control of that department, in the Adjutant’s absence. So there was a coming together of dirty heels and a quivering puffing out of chests as the Commanding Officer entered the barn. The Colour Sergeant had even hurriedly thumbed his braces up. The RSM screeched out one of his expletives having had the hooted warning.

  The Colonel sauntered in, touching his helmet with a leather cane acknowledging the attention of the men, though the Colour Sergeant quickly scrambled out of the way to stand near the door ensuring no disturbance. In a sudden moment of panic he wanted to check that the Corporal, who had been summoned from his trench, was actually there.

  He was; standing alongside some of the men outside, near the staff car, which had become a bit of a thing of interest. His mouth, without pipe was slightly downturned in nervous anticipation. He had his helmet on and rifle, chest slung. Equipment had been placed down beside him. Detail like whether to keep his rifle when standing before the colonel was not known or briefed down. But as Cello had been charged with throwing his rifle away the Corporal, almost without thinking, knew to have his round his body.

  “Ah Corporal… you are here. What’s your name?” enquired the Colour Sergeant.

  “It’s…” He stuttered a bit in getting it out.

  “Right are you set for this? You’ve done a CO’s before haven’t you… Know what you have to do?”

  “No I haven’t but… Yes I believe I know what to do.” His mouth was on the point of quivering.

  “Very well chap, just be ready here and the RSM or me will call you in. Just give us some
few minutes and we’ll be set.”

  The Colour Sergeant disappeared inside and found things shaping up. The Colonel was standing behind his ‘desk’ and the RSM was leaning over from the front to have a few words. A sheet of paper, the charge sheet on the relevant Army form was in front of the Colonel. The RSM turned around, his face red; “Got the witness eh colour?”

  “Yes sir all ready.”

  “Good… well I think we’re ready to go sir, if you’re…”

  “Yes let’s get this over with,” moved the Colonel, bracing up for his task.

  The RSM was back on his parade ground. “MARCH IN THE PRISONER!”

  From the depth of the back of the barn came a command; “PRIVATE HARRIS QUICK MARCH LEFT RIGHT, LEFT RIGHT, RIGHT WHEEL; LEFT, RIGHT; HALT.”

  The RSM cleared his throat. “Sir, private Marcus Harris here is charged with throwing away his rifle in the face of enemy and desertion, SIR.”

  The Colonel cleared his throat. “Are you…?” He confirmed the number and name of the accused reading from the charge sheet.

  Cello nodded, then spoke. He was that man.

  The Colonel read the charges, the very serious charges. Did Cello understand?

  He did.

  And how did he plead?

  “I plead guilty to the charge of casting away my rifle and not guilty to desertion.”

  The RSM stiffened. He didn’t know what the pleas would be. Perhaps he hadn’t considered that Cello might have feelings and thoughts or had made plans for what he would say, including the possibility of a ‘not-guilty’ plea.

  “Right-oh!” The Colonel stammered a little. “Shall we take the charges one at a time?”

  The RSM leant forward. “The evidence is the same for each sir. So…”

  The Colonel tripped over himself a little, perhaps realising the seriousness of the charges. “Yes well… as you have pleaded guilty to the first charge we do not need to hear the full evidence… But you might want to say something in your… On your own behalf. Or… we could hear the evidence as to the second matter…” He seemed unsure.

  Cello seemed untroubled by the fact that he had been given a choice, although the RSM at his side snorted a disapproval. “I wish to hear the evidence on the second charge and I will reserve any statement until the end,” Cello said calmly.

  The only shuffling came from others, not him. He looked above the Colonel’s head; being quite tall he was able to do that with ease.

  “Let’s hear the evidence then,” blurted the Colonel somewhat hurriedly.

  Shouts from the RSM summoned a stumping Corporal, a quick marching Corporal with an exaggerated parade-ground stamping halt and a rigid longest way up, shortest way down salute which slapped dust from his trousers. He gushed into a prepared speech about who he was and about to launch into his story…

  But the Colonel held up his hand. “Corporal let me read the charges first.”

  The Corporal stopped, mouth open.

  After the reading he continued, recounting the patrol quickly and the order given to Cello, his throwing away his rifle and his refusal to return to his own lines.

  It was brief and the RSM gave a kind of approving grunt under his breath when it was complete.

  The Colonel seemed at a loss for a moment then did, timidly it seemed; pose a question. “The purpose of the patrol Corporal?”

  “Clearance patrol sir… No Man’s Land.”

  “I see…” He looked around then seemed to focus on an idea. Before him stood the RSM, a Corporal witness, the accused a private and in the background a Colour Sergeant who now had his full uniform on. “Do we have the Platoon Commander at all RSM?” The Colonel was short of officer support. He was aware of the predicament of his adjutant, but he needed… something perhaps more.

  “Gone on leave sir… yesterday.”

  The Colonel sensed some possible looming officer breakdown. He knew that the previous RSM, the Old Man, held the officers together as well, like some kind of fulcrum, balancing everything. In his absence there was a need for discipline to be maintained. “I see… well… Private Harris you have heard the evidence I believe you have something to say, bear in mind that you have already pleaded guilty to the charge of casting away your rifle…”

  Cello needed no second bidding. “It was not a clearance patrol sir. We went to find a casualty who we had heard crying in No Man’s Land… We found one… But he was already dead… But at that moment we heard the cries of the original casualty and I said we should continue to try to find him. The Corporal said no… So I cast away my rifle and refused to go on with the patrol… I mean go back with the patrol.”

  “You cast away your rifle and refused to go back with the patrol?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “You know there is a possible third charge here of disobeying a lawful command.”

  Cello said nothing at first. But then he did look at the Colonel, straight at him. “But I have something to say about what happened after…”

  But the Colonel held up his hand. “We know about how Private Harris returned don’t we, a couple of days later?”

  The RSM was back to his normal self. “Yes sir, all recorded, witness statement taken… As one has been taken from the Corporal… here.”

  “Good, good.” He seemed more relaxed. “Well private Harris I think you will have to keep any further deputation for a superior authority.” He raised his voice. “REMANDED FOR COURT MARTIAL.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The arrival of a box

  The army form was written up and signed by the Colonel. The pleas recorded. The statements would be included. This was the smoking fall out of the orderly room event. On the army forms it all seemed clear and proper. Sighs of relief could be made, though they weren’t recorded. No bombardment provided the church bells to announce the happy event. It was happy for the RSM.

  “You’re needed at HQ.” The Platoon Sergeant summoned Ben in another part of the battalion area.

  “HQ?” Ben was bemused.

  “Yes Battalion, get your shit together. It’s your friend.”

  “Arhhh.” Ben acknowledged the secrecy of the friendship, something despised by the Sergeant.

  “Report to the orderly room so they can record you. Don’t need a guide do you?”

  “Well I…”

  “You’re not getting one. Take your stuff and get going.”

  Anyone going back for legitimate reasons, without injury, brought jealousy, translated into animosity. ‘Cushy sod’ was the politest of the possible send offs always accompanied by an invitation to ‘fuck off’.

  Ben was an experienced soldier. He did find the orderly room without guidance. It was in a part-broken hovel, part-tented complex at the road-side where a small motor tender was waiting. “Luxury for you and your prisoner friend today, you gonna get a ride. Only because he’s a prisoner, wont get it when you come back.” The Orderly Sergeant grinned. Then he ticked Ben off his list or recorded him as ‘away on duty’.

  Then his demeanour changed. “Oh and while you waiting for your… friend, to get escorted out, you might as well take charge of this.” He extracted a large box from under his makeshift counter. His face was somewhat furtive. “It came for him but I didn’t want to take it to ’im, you know with the RSM…” He made an attempt at a wink. “But actually, let me give you this first, the return label came adrift.”

  He passed over a slip of reinforced paper on which was written:

  SENDER; MRS ROBERT HARRIS,

  HARTWELL

  COLEY AVENUE

  READING, BERKS

  “Best put it away, y’know a bit sharpish.”

  Ben stared and without asking further, stuffed the paper into his uniform pocket. “What is it?” He managed to ask. But the Orderly Sergeant put a finger against his lips. He bundled the box back under the counter. “Wait! let me see whether he is ready yet, sharnt be a mo’.” He had the demeanour of a bustling shopkeeper anxious to make a delivery somehow
without the prospective owner knowing about it, perhaps a surprise present. He bustled out of his hovel.

  Ben waited. He heard the prisoner and escort parade, almost at the double; “’EFT ’IGHT, ’EFT ’IGHT, ’EFT, ’IGHT; HAAAAALT. PRISONER EMBUS.” There was a scrambling sound as boots unfamiliar with the metal of the lorry bed, trampled up onto it.

  The Orderly Sergeant literally flew back into his domain. He grabbed the box and shoved it into Ben’s hands. “GO!” he looked wild.

  Ben had his kit on and his rifle slung. He went out onto the road. A canvas flap was held open at the back of the lorry which was already murmuring and thumping. The other red-cap escort was inside. Opposite him, hunched, long-limbed, without puttees and thinner than Ben remembered, head down; was Cello. His hair was clean and naked. He looked up and his face came alive. Ben pushed the large box in and scrambled after it. “What is it?”

  Cello had his arms around the box. “Cello,” he said.

  After a grinding of gears they choked and whined away.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  A prison

  “Couldn’t let the RSM get his peepers on that, wouldn’t allow.” Was all that was said by the one escort on the entire journey to the Court Martial centre at Corps HQ. Eyes acknowledged that even some Military Police were actually human.

  They arrived at some logistic area. They could hear shouts and more vehicles than had ever been at the battalion locations. The driver had a word through his window and they droned on a little to where it became quieter. The three in the back were denied any view by the canvas loosely flapping but tied at corners. The driver spoke for moments again with some sentry then the engine was killed.