The flap was opened and a red-cap in full uniform with a white belt looked inside. Cello still held his box. Ben sat alongside him and the escort sat opposite. “What do we have ’ere then, prisoner, escort, friend… and a rather large parcel. We’ll need to look at that. Got your kit as well I assume?”
“Yes…” replied Ben.
“Yes Sergeant, if you please.” The man tilted his arm so that they could see the whole of his stripes.
“Yes sergeant,” said Ben.
“Well we got a cosy little cell for you mister, er…” He consulted a paper in his hand, “Harris… So you can follow me please. You as well Private…”
“Routledge, Sergeant.”
“But you will be billeted back in the logistic area. This is just for Court Martial personnel. You can of course spend time with… Private Harris and you will be here for the… proceedings as well.”
Ben nodded. They stood outside for a moment. Ben registered bars on the windows of the rooms that surrounded the little courtyard. It looked like some kind of prison yard.
The Sergeant led the way. “Worcesters again I see. You like sending your men up here don’t you. I know it’s been a while but I do recall the five,” he said over his shoulder.
Ben and Cello didn’t respond.
Then the Sergeant briefly addressed the escort and driver. “Thank you men, you can return now. Job done.” They faded backwards to start up the tender and leave.
A door was unlocked and a dark corridor revealed. It had several cells leading off. They walked down and some soldiers looked out indifferently. “Just a few occupants at present,” commented the Sergeant.
They rounded a corner and were met by another red-cap, a Corporal at an open door. “This is your one,” he said. It had bars like the other doors and bars on the windows.
There seemed an efficiency about the place where everyone knew what was to happen.
Cello and Ben didn’t know what was in store.
“Right; first the parcel. Let’s open if you please.”
There was a bed with folded blankets and a chair. The box was placed on the chair.
The brown paper came off eagerly. But there were several layers of it. Finally a dark brown box was revealed. The Sergeant jumped a little as perhaps he expected some kind of explosive device. But Cello turned to him then and spoke. “It’s my cello, Sarge!” He found a catch in an instant and opened the lid of the box.
The Sergeant removed his cap which was probably something he didn’t often do in that place. “Well I’ll be damned,” he said as he looked down at the jumble of things in the box, which were clearly not of a war-like nature. Then he put his head back and let out a belly laugh. “Ha ha ha, music is it. You gonna give us a concert then?”
“Yes, that’s why we called him Cello,” said Ben, released by the Sergeant’s reaction.
Cello was gingerly taking out the pieces of his instrument from the box. “It’s gonna take me a while to fit it all together and tune up,” he said.
The Sergeant was a different man without his cap, not so tall and with almost a genial appearance. He had lost quite a bit of hair from the front of his head and wisps of the remaining locks were distributed unevenly over both sides. But then he remembered himself and covered the untidiness with the cap. “Well you got your play thing and I think we can allow that, but keep it hidden mind when the court officers are about. Now Corporal could you explain the routine to our new guest and I’ll let you go down to the log area Private… to report to the orderly room there and get your billet. You can come back afterwards.”
“Yes Sergeant,” said Ben. He looked at Cello and nodded slightly. Cello had a mysterious look in his eyes and nodded also.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
A concert in a cell
Ben came back to a strange sound. He knew what it was and he smiled to himself when he heard it, because the first sounds were incongruous. It wasn’t music as he remembered it. But then he had never heard a cello being played. There were low rumblings and then it opened up to some sudden high-pitched shrills and a little warbling as if some gigantic bird had been set free in the prison complex.
The door was opened for him and the music became louder as he walked down the corridor. One might have thought that the other prisoners would react, maybe shout in joy. But they didn’t. They had come to the door of their cells and one seemed happy. “Come for the sing-a-long pal,” he said to Ben.
“No just for the playing,” Ben heard himself say.
The Corporal stood grinning at the cell door. But Cello stopped playing when Ben appeared there. “Welcome,” he said smiling.
He laid aside his bow. “Some people don’t like the cello, but the staff here seems to approve.” Cello had brightened. He sat on his bed. The cello was completely assembled and on the floor between his legs. Its box was part of the instrument, a sort of echo chamber as all such instruments had. An arm ran upwards along which the four strings extended and secured at the top. Cello was already tightening and tuning them with some pegs, pulling the bow that must also have been in the box, gently across with his ear turned down to listen to each low sound. “Got to keep it tuned up all the time, but that’s not easy as I don’t have the right tools. Just got to hope I don’t break a string and the tighteners work,” he said.
“They look pretty tight to me,” said Ben looking at the white piece of wood that held the strings taught above the box.
Suddenly Cello launched into a tiny play. It started with a deep long mmmmm, a moan. Cello’s right hand carved into a block of blue. Ben felt himself falling and being lost in the blue and dark. He shivered without cold. Cello’s head was back and forward while he played. Then he changed. Little plucks higher on the strings caught Ben and petals of pink and yellow fell around him. Then a call, high from a far mountain, a child in white singing a high note.
Cello stopped. His concert lasted but a minute. It was a minute which took them away; perhaps each to a different place. The men were silent in stillness after the music. No one needed to say anything.
Cello commanded the room as he would a hall. “They’ve told me where the CM centre is,” he said with a small glee in his voice.
“Have they given you food and drink,” asked Ben? It was his job to look after his ‘friend’. He did know that much.
“Yes the prisoner has had his evening meal,” said the Corporal.
Ben looked at Cello. He took his cue. “Is it possible for us to be alone for a few minutes Corporal?”
“Umm right ho. I think so, but I will be in earshot, so no plotting if you don’t mind.”
“What would we plot. You got things pretty well organised here against all plots.”
They laughed. Though it was a prison, there was a kind of feeling of release inside it, seemingly.
They were left on their own and Ben asked about the ‘CM centre’.
“Yes it’s in another building but quite close. All red table cloths and silent chairs. We had a look around.”
“You seem…” Ben couldn’t find the words.
“I want to get this thing over.”
They both laughed. Was there an ‘over’ to this thing. Was there an afterwards?
“Yes but do you know… when?”
“Mine is scheduled for two days’ time. There will be some senior officers gathering for the trial. I won’t have a defending officer as such…”
“Do you know that…”
“Well I already pleaded guilty to one charge and that’s pretty…”
“You pleaded guilty to…”
“At the COs… Colonel’s orderly room. Pleaded guilty to throwing away my rifle… Also charged with desertion.”
“But you came back.”
“But I did desert. You can’t say, oh I’m going now for a few days with the Germans – then I’ll come back, therefore I never went. Doesn’t make sense.” He spoke to his cello. Head down, hair hanging, clean hair hanging.
“You s
till went at the time, you mean.”
“I went… I threw away my rifle and went.”
He gently began to strum the strings of his cello with his thumb. Dung, dung, dung, drummm, drum drum. Dung dong dung, dung, dung. He plucked individual strings.
He stopped and they listened and heard nothing. No sound of guns, no screaming of casualties, or whining of horses, or firing of rifles.
Had the war ended?
It was eerie, the silence.
Ears breathed; around the corner ears, down the corridor ears; down the windy corridors, through the locked doors, with their open bars; round the corner to the Court Martial centre. Ben hadn’t been there. He did not know the process of the Court Martial. It was a different war there in a court.
They looked at each other and smiled. Words used as weapons in court might fall on ears that would not hear them. So they were powerless to change anything. They fell always, for or against ‘due process’. The music however was more than words. It was about something that awakes within us, connecting with our very deepest being, Cello said.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Ready
Ben walked from his billet to Cello’s prison the next morning, after a meagre cook-house breakfast. He did not hear the cello. He did hear and sense activity. There was a shout and the sounds of ‘prisoner and escort’, type of goings on; cell doors banging, quick marching boots. Perhaps the Military Police were taking the prisoners on exercise?
Ben was allowed in. There was activity in Cello’s cell. An officer was there. Ben approached the door but stayed out of sight. “Your arraignment has been brought forward,” he heard the officer say.
Cello did not reply.
“It will now take place this afternoon. Is that clear?”
Again Cello did not reply.
The man cleared his throat. Ben had assumed he was an officer. “You have not requested defence… Have you?”
“I have a friend,” said Cello quietly, almost inaudibly to Ben.
“Right… Is that friend here?”
Ben was mechanical now. “Yes here.” He raised his voice then entered.
Uniforms filled the cell. The officer was a captain, uniform straight, pressed and immaculate, Sam Browne polished and flashing slightly as he turned towards the door. Cap on.
“Ahh.” The eyes narrowed. “Private…?”
“Routledge… sir.” He held his cap in his left hand and saluted. The rule was ‘no cap, no salute’. But he did. If the cap had been in his right hand he might not have saluted. He felt foolish.
The officer did not return the salute. Being an illegitimate salute he probably saw no reason to. He narrowed his eyes as if trying to pierce Ben with them.
There was also the Corporal in the room. His red cap was firmly in place.
“Right, I’m the adjutant of the centre, but anything you need just ask the Corporal here… You may attend the arraignment. You won’t need to say anything.”
Ben felt himself relax. Cello looked down. He was standing, not to attention, just in a relaxed way.
“Right!” He seemed to like this word. “Two o’clock sharp. You Routledge make your way to the Centre by 1345, all seated by then… Clear?”
“Yes sir.”
‘Due process’ was making its way. The wheels were grinding. That was the way things were, here, as well as in the trenches.
The officer paused, matter-of-factly. “Staff on hand to support you, medical and… there’s a chaplain.”
Cello looked up for the first time, but his eyes were unfocused. Ben tried to catch them, but there was no meeting of eyes, or exchange of glances.
“Carry on Corporal,” said the officer.
“Very good sirrr.” The Corporal did salute. This time the officer returned the salute, casually; then left.
After a glance, a slightly malicious one towards Ben, the Corporal also left.
Ben and Cello sat down slowly on bed and chair. “It’s come quickly, I didn’t…” Ben began.
Cello held up a hand. “I’m ready.”
Ben didn’t really know what he meant. So many questions hung there, unformed into words. So what was he ready for? One thing seemed unapproachable; the reason they were here; the real reason they were here.
But Cello seemed to be giving Ben reassurance, against his uncertainty. Then he leant back on his bed. “Did you like my playing yesterday?”
“I did, I… Are you going to play again?”
“Not now, not before… the arraignment.” He smiled like a youth who knew no boundaries, anticipating some excitement. His elbows supported him behind on the bed and he put his head back flicking his hair carelessly.
Ben had seen men with one too many rums act the same. They would usually be smoking deeply. He had his Woodbines in his uniform pocket but knew smoking was prohibited in the cells. “Don’t want no one setting fire to their beds now do we?” the Corporal had said.
Cello didn’t smoke anyway. They were allowed to smoke during the exercise period in the yard on the far side of the cells, on the way towards the ‘Centre’.
Time weighed them into their places and they jumped at sounds in the corridor and from outside.
“Do you want to go back to the billet?” asked Cello.
“Not really, only sit there wondering.”
“Yes… Thank you very much for smuggling the cello out for me. I know it wasn’t easy.”
“Some people are on your side, like the orderly sergeant.”
“Of course, some people…” He paused. “What about the Court Martial people, what will they be like?”
“I’ve no idea,” said Ben. He really did need a smoke. “Can I go for a smoke… Do you mind?”
“No Ben you go. Just ask the Corporal at the other end of the corridor. The door brings you out to a courtyard. The Court Martial centre is right opposite.”
“I’ll take a look then.”
Ben went out. The Corporal, a different one, looked at him strangely, aggressively.
“Just going for a smoke,” he said.
“Stay in the yard. I’ll be watching you.”
Ben thought; I am not the prisoner. His hand was shaking as he took out his woodbines and lit one. I am not! But perhaps they all were. He wanted rum. It was about the time for a tot. it usually came up in the evening but sometimes, if the weather was bad, they had a lunchtime nip. He drew heavily and held the fag tightly in his lips.
Prisoners!
They still got paid, a few shillings for smokes and to barter for extra rum. Some sent their money home. Some said money was all they were there for. Saving up – for a rainy day. Pretty fucking rainy here and now. It was not actually raining but the clouds looked threatening, as they always did.
You had time to think when you were out of the trenches; perhaps too much time.
Why had Cello asked him here, to be his ‘friend’? Suddenly he felt a pang of loneliness. He couldn’t play the cello or be anything; other than a soldier. That’s all he could do. So why was he a ‘friend’?
Yet he was drawn to Cello, like a prisoner might be to a free man on the other side of a wire cage. But with him as the prisoner.
He took out another Woodbine. His fingers were stained with tobacco. The hand had stopped shaking. ‘I’m ready.’ What did Cello mean by that? As if he had control.
The walls of the cell block stood like trench walls, but not as protection. What was there to protect them now. The ‘yard’ was small. On the far side was a wall, which looked less foreboding. Its door was not barred like the cell block door. It was wooden. Brown paint had long since peeled away and given up its coverage. Must be the Court Martial centre. The door through which they would pass.
Maybe it was nearly time. In the trenches they would have slept until someone told them it was time… Time to do something. Time for Stand Too.
They did not control time. They did not control their own time. Without planning for the future, even for the future of the next few mom
ents, you could have a bit of a carefree attitude about the possibility of death arriving. ‘That one’s not got your name on it, you’re all right until the next one comes over.’ There might not be a next one.
But Cello somehow controlled his time. ‘I’m ready.’
‘Ben are you ready?’ Ready for what? To try to play a cello, or a fucking violin.
Vehicles and activity happened on the other side of the Court Martial centre. The prison cell was at the side. It was a court house. Suddenly there was activity at the front. Very soon it would be time!
Ben retreated and asked the Corporal what was happening. Don’t worry; soon they will be ready and I will call you, he was told. ‘Soon they will be ready’.
Cello was ‘ready’. But Ben, his friend didn’t know what he should be ready for.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The arraignment
Suddenly there seemed to be more reinforcements to the prison and its Court Martial centre. Prisoners arrived and staff arrived. Shouting and marching came along also.
Ben was escorted out of Cello’s cell. He had to be in place fifteen minutes before the prisoner was marched in. Everything had to be timed precisely. He didn’t have time for more pondering. He wasn’t frog-marched ‘eft ight eft ight’ style. He was delivered.
Through the paint peeled door they went, down another corridor and then halted outside a rather better maintained door from which the paint was not peeling. The Corporal’s bustling stopped and he gingerly opened the door. From within Ben could hear some officers speaking in their customary manner. The Corporal held the door open and indicated to Ben some seats against a wall. Ben slid in.
The room opened up to him. It was a proper court room, with a high long desk decked with a blood-red cloth on Ben’s left. Three officers sat behind it on high-backed chairs. A fourth officer, much younger, probably a second lieutenant though with his hands under the table top, this could not be verified, sat at a small table on the far side of the room. The three officers Ben noticed were a major, seated in the middle, flanked by two captains. The three had been in discussion but as Ben entered they looked quizzically towards him. They instinctively raised their heads as a sign of their superiority. They looked at one another to confirm Ben’s identity, one of them whispered across and the major in the middle nodded. Then he opened a folder in front of him.
A Cellist Soldier Page 18