A Cellist Soldier

by Robert J. Fanshawe

  Ben saw that there were other desks and booths. But these did not have any occupants. There was a main door which seems to be guarded by two corporal MPs. Another MP hovered in the aisle between two sets of wooden benches. These were unoccupied.

  There was some coughing and further hurried whispers among the officers before the President finally straightened himself and indicated that proceedings were ready. He had his blue paper in front of him and his cap was on straight, along with his Sam Browne, slightly shining in the weak afternoon sun. “Bring in the prisoner would you,” he said.

  It made Ben sit up, though he had been expecting something like this. The main door was opened and Cello was marched in and straight up to the dock. The court officers watched him. He was shuffled into the position.

  In a real court of law everything would be set before the judge entered. These were not judges; they were officers.

  Cello stood in the dock.

  “This is an arraignment only, you will be identified, the charges read and your plea taken. Your trial will be… set for…” He looked up to the two MPs standing in the gap between the benches, still empty. “You will be informed in next day or so… Is that clear?”

  Cello nodded. He hadn’t looked at Ben on the way in.

  “Are you soldier number one three two one six private Marcus Harris of the Worcestershire Regiment?”

  “No I am from the Artists’ Rifles seconded to the Worcesters.”

  “Oh,” said the officer drily. He made a mark or correction on the form in front of him and showed it to the other members of the court who nodded. “But you are private Marcus Harris of that number.”

  “Yes,” said Cello.

  “You are charged with; when on active service on the second of April nineteen hundred and seventeen you did shamefully cast away your arms in the face of the enemy. Do you understand that charge?”

  Cello paused. Then he nodded.

  “How do you plead to that charge?”

  Cello was looking straight ahead and standing to attention. “Guilty,” he said in a very clear voice.

  The officer made a mark on his form. He looked up. “You are further charged that on the same day you did desert His Majesty’s Service by leaving a patrol of which you were part of. Do you understand that charge?”

  Again Cello nodded.

  “How do you plead to the charge?”

  “Not guilty,” stated Cello.

  The court stood still and the President seemed to look up towards the ceiling. Then he looked to his left but didn’t confer with either of the other two members of the court. He looked back to Cello. “You don’t have a defending officer.”

  Cello seemed to relax, back to the young man on the bed, which Ben had seen after his cello playing. “No I don’t,” he said in a conversational manner.

  The officer stared at him for a very brief moment then looked down at his papers.

  The court waited. The President spoke. “As I mentioned at the outset, this is merely an arraignment, which I now think is concluded. You will be informed of your trial date, which I’m sure will be in the next few days.” He addressed the Orderly Corporal. “You may take the prisoner down.”

  And so it went. After Cello had departed the three officers shuffled about, then rose and without a glance towards Ben they also left. The second lieutenant who was sitting almost opposite Ben did look at him, with large frightened eyes. Then he too departed, almost in a run.

  Ben wondered whether the officer had ever been in the trenches.

  So Ben left as well on his own, heavily.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Controlling the process

  There was a word not noticed by Ben, not even thought about. A word exchanged between the members of the court, or rather passed on by the President, who was only a major and not really in full control of the process. ‘Witnesses?’

  When the army wants to move quickly it can. It can certainly move a word quickly down the chain of command and get a reaction. Words had even been sent down from Army HQ, the fifth Army and communicated to every man within a couple of days.

  So the ‘witnesses’ message about a specific subject on an urgent ‘disciplinary matter’, could easily go from Corps to Division to Brigade and thence to Battalion in less than a single day. So it was. It happened to reach the ear of the RSM. It happened that the Brigade Commander was visiting the battalion on that day, at that time.

  The message was conveyed via messenger. Radio communications were in place and telex machines similar to telegrams could be sent; which was done. On this occasion it was deemed that it should also be delivered by a messenger, who rode a horse and who didn’t get blown up on the way but arrived safely and on doing so and seeing the RSM considered that his hands would be safest to receive it.

  The RSM was momentarily diverted from the conversation he was having with the Brigadier outside the HQ. The Brigadier was curious to know the contents of the message since it had obviously come from higher formation. He was the higher formation commander.

  The RSM told him the whole story of Cello. When he heard about the German Red Cross apron he exploded. “Good god. He actually arrived at your trenches wearing the damn thing!”

  The RSM enjoyed affirming the fact, mentally noting the sub-unit that had brought Cello in and from whom someone might need to be sent post haste to corps as a witness for the Court Martial.

  The Brigadier in his turn confirmed the fact. “Get someone; at least a Corporal, up to that court; TONIGHT. Where will the witness come from?”

  “The man’s section sir; the Corporal who took the patrol.”

  “Get him up there! Now.”

  “Yes, SIRR!” The RSM, like a puppet, who had his instruction and was away on his mission.

  The Brigadier, who had suspicions about the battalion, particularly as the absence of the adjutant was unexplained and there seemed a general air of uncertainty and lack of confidence about the decision making; was happy that the RSM was there. He would keep them steady, discipline wise at least. But a German apron! What were these men coming to?

  An example needed to be set.

  He journeyed back to his HQ by horse determined to see this one through.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Lullabies

  “Berceuse,” said Cello.

  “What?”

  “French for lullaby. That’s what I was playing.”

  “Oh.” Ben could still hear the echoes of the cello, soft but low, like a vibration of his heart, a deep heart. He looked up towards Cello. “That’s deep.”

  “Yes of course and that was the purpose of a lullaby, to lull you to sleep. The cello is so good for that because it vibrates you and makes you full.”

  “Yes I feel it in my heart… I had better go and sleep then.” He stood up, still with the heaviness from the court in his body.

  “See you tomorrow.”

  Ben left.

  He was free; to walk and move around, walk out of the prison. Yet he felt trapped.

  The barred door clanged behind him. Prisoners had eyed him as he walked the corridor. They wanted to go out like him. The music had silenced them as it had him. It would send them to sleep.

  He had mentioned his heart; the feeling in his heart. Instantly he had wanted to brush over that word. He had wanted to leave because of mentioning it. He felt for his Woodbines. The hand was shaking. You are free. After this you will be free. After this…

  Ben smoked as he walked, paying no heed to the sights and sounds of the area. A dark-haired soldier walking, smoking, thinking.

  He coughed suddenly, from his stomach, not heart. The stomach, the arse and the shit coming from it, the mouth for food, cigarettes, rum and the insults and screams and shouts. These were the parts of a soldier. The eyes, one closed with .303 butt in the shoulder; squeezing and then the small jump as the round was delivered. Hold it tight to reduce the jump. More, more, more rounds. Fuck that; the entrenching tool, hand groping for it
. Fuck that, ahhh fuck; chop it down on the neck, fuck fuck; desperate. Kill kill kill.

  Or be killed.

  The heart would stop. Stop its pumping, because the pumping hurts.

  But this heart vibrating, moaning!

  The music!

  The dragging on the ’bine stopped the coughing. Ben spat. His mouth and lungs and teeth were dirty; like the pit of a trench. You didn’t look into another man’s mouth in the trenches. The smell and sight would be too horrible. Sometimes in death they would be cleaner. Corpses didn’t need food, rum or ‘bines. Still their mouths were often agape, as if wanting those things.

  “Your mouth is like shit,” was the oft repeated comment.

  “Certainly got shit coming out of it.”

  It was always shit – the words.

  After Cello played his music he didn’t talk.

  There was no need for it.

  There was the lulling, but no talking.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Convening

  Signatures, from senior fingers, had more power than a rifle. One started the rot, in this case the Brigadier. That gave the document a power to complete its purpose. It enabled others to add their signature without wondering about the detail, like falling plates, tumbling justice. A signature setting responsibility meant agreement was easier than dissent. It didn’t even require investigation. A nod went politely to chummy ones, perhaps cricketing respect, playing the honest game, with possible school alumni in mind.

  That was the power of the pen in the hands of members of a club.

  The Convening Order of the Court Martial had already been signed. The blue army form A3 authorising a ‘Field General Court Martial’ in this case was done by the Brigadier having been told about it by the Colonel. The FGCM could be conducted by a court consisting of three officers where the senior one could be a major. For the General Court Martial the President was required to be a Colonel. Pinning one such officer down, was never easy, but staff officers of major and captain were plentiful at the various headquarters.

  The form had made its way back to the Corps level where some ink stamps made it even more official. The officers had been informed and the arraignment had been done and now the witness was making his way.

  But there were words of encouragement needed to provide urgency.

  The story of the apron would do that.

  It found its way, as stories always did, especially from those who demanded respect; up the line.

  That gave urgency and some rearranging of order of the various Courts Martial took place.

  Prisoners were waiting in cells, waiting their fate. But they could wait longer.

  Cello was the one to be dealt with.

  There was a banging of doors and raised voices. “Private Harris!”

  A head came round the door. “Tomorrow!” Followed by a smile; a sickly smile.

  The staff of the Court Martial Centre didn’t have a say, they smiled as men went to be shot. They had no free will, no independent thought or opinion.

  Some of the staff Corporals, who changed every two days, seemed to have that sickly smile.

  The cello was put aside and then slide under the bed. It was a real bed, off the floor, so something could be put under it.

  Tomorrow! What is tomorrow? What shape will tomorrow take? How will the stomachs be; sick like the smile?

  In the trenches, tomorrow could have a shape, even if it had no plan for activity in the mind. A soldier has no plan, how can he have? He can’t have hope for the next day, in case that is cruelly snatched away. He can hope for a dry day or more rum, or a night’s sleep at the end of it, or a letter or marching back to rest. He might know which of these may come according to the prophesy of his seniors or the rumour of brothers. This is the limit of his knowledge; though none of these that he has perhaps been told about, may actually happen.

  “This is it then?”

  “This is your time… Your time to shine!” Another sickly smile from the Corporal.

  Ben couldn’t speak. Cello could. But that was all he said. “This is it.”

  They were suddenly both on edge, ready to leap up, ready for now.

  No, tomorrow. It will start tomorrow. It’s not time yet.

  Oh so we have one night until… Ben couldn’t focus his thoughts. After tonight. Who knows? What tomorrow may bring.

  A soldier couldn’t change his future.

  Perhaps they were paralysed in the knowledge of that; a soldier’s future is always in the hands of someone else. You wait for orders. But then you were always shouted at to make you react. If you died you would be shouted at. So you reacted to stay alive. You could change that perhaps. But then there was the very strong feeling that if there was a bullet that had your name on it. It would get you anyway, whatever you did.

  But there were other things that were out of all their hands. On the next day; the day on which orders had been given for the Court Martial to take place; the officer designated on the Convening Order to be the President was violently ill. He was unable to rise from his bed, except to vomit. It was a comfortable bed in the accommodation designated for the staff officers.

  Servant soldiers scurried around seeing to the officer’s needs; polishing Sam Browne belts and shoes. Shoes were the order of dress for staff officers, not boots and puttees. Some wore riding breeches, but not riding boots. They were left at the side of beds against the need for some visit further afield than the desks of the headquarters. Most did not get out. The commanders needed to do that, while the staff officers sweated over movement orders, logistic plans, reinforcement numbers and the preparation and passage of operational orders.

  But this major would not be at his desk and he could not reach the Court Martial centre either.

  Word went up to the office of the CAG, Corps Adjutant General. The department covered the administration of personnel, from pay to death. Casualty figures and the follow-up, which included the stopping of pay, sending of telegrams, burial and the recording of graves and the effects of the deceased, were part of their job. Courts Martial were also their responsibility.

  There was always a daily issue to be sorted, as there was for the operational departments of the headquarters. “We need a Court Martial President to stand in pretty sharpish,” said one of the junior captains hovering around the group of desks, pushed together with papers and files and signed forms, spilling over each desk. Clerk soldiers and another captain stood, rather than sat at the desks. They had taken over an office in the village. It might have been the mayor’s office, not the mayor’s council chamber which had been taken over by the artillery control centre, which had wires everywhere. The CAG department did not need instant communications. They did sometimes need instant decisions or instant answers.

  “I’ll do it.” A voice came from behind.

  “Colonel?” The captain turned. “You…”

  “I’ve just arrived yes and well I haven’t got a job yet.”

  “But you have…” The captain was taken off guard by the fact that this Lieutenant Colonel had no desk.

  “Well I will be taking over one… soon.”

  The captain didn’t want to make himself out to be ignorant of some senior officer joining his department, otherwise why would he be there.

  “Well the Convening Order will need amendment at the Court Martial Centre.”

  “That’s quite close isn’t it.”

  “Yes sir, it’s about five minutes’ walk down the high street, the old French court house.”

  “How very appropriate.”

  The Lieutenant Colonel was fully dressed for the occasion, with polished Sam Browne and some riding breeches and boots. He hadn’t yet settled into the relaxed routine of shoes and negative Sam Browne. The abundance of leather was completed by a polished pistol holster on the right front of his Sam Browne belt. He checked the jutting black handle of the pistol occasionally with his left hand as the pistol butt peeped out towards that hand.

  “Co
nvening orders gone down there, MPs’ll look after you… sir.”

  Somehow it seemed too easy. The Convening Order was the main piece of the jigsaw to be completed. That was out of the captain’s hands, although normally he would have sweated over its preparation and the procuring of the signature of the relevant senior officer, usually the brigade commander of the accused soldier.

  The Lieutenant Colonel was untroubled. Not for him the mundane amendment needed to the relevant form. He marched the high street with his head held high, or tipped up a little more if some questioning eyes, perhaps of fellow staff officer, caught his; aware but perhaps ignoring that he was in an alien environment. The captain hadn’t noticed but the senior officer was all too aware, of the lack of a single medal ribbon on his tunic. The war was over half way through its third year. But he walked as though he had served in every theatre in those years, with a jaunty confidence, waving his cane to passing individuals, NCOs and groups who chucked him up a salute. “Cheerio, chaps.”

  All would be well in the world.

  After this job he would have some medals on his chest.

  On reaching the Court Martial Centre like a sort of messiah, he breezed up to the Red Cap on the main door. “The er… Private Harris Court Martial, I’m the… President.”

  “Yes sir, the new President, this way sir, right now, just in time sir.”

  He waltzed past the other sentries and red caps standing their ground. This was their ground, but the convening order was not for their eyes or their responsibility, unless some discrepancy invited their attention. But any alleged falsehood could invariably be filtered by something such as the glaring eyes of an RSM or the authority of some senior officer, even if he had only a cricketing excuse.