No one knew the Lieutenant Colonel’s excuse but the certainty that he had one for being there was accepted.
The moment came when he sat at the table with its red cloth after a nod to the other members of the court and the Convening Order was in front of him, neatly handwritten and signed by the brigadier, probably with his own fountain pen.
The Lieutenant Colonel had no fountain pen, no pen at all. In front of him, laid out assiduously by one of the MPs was a pile of finely sharpened pencils and sheets of average quality foolscap. There was an India rubber there also and a pencil sharpener next to the red Manual of Military Law, should he need to consult it.
He looked at the Convening Order and was suddenly a tad nervous. A Lieutenant Colonel should have his own fountain pen. He had a revolver and a scabbard for his sword on the Sam Browne belt which accoutrements made movement in his chair a little difficult. It was not all meant to be worn sitting down. He needed a pen however. For as he had heard or read somewhere; ‘the pen is mightier than the sword’. It certainly was more useful when sitting at a desk or table on which this convening order needed amending and where the details of the court proceedings would need to be written down.
Written down and recorded.
Gingerly he turned the blue page of the convening order. The amendment could wait until tomorrow or whenever the completion of the court would be. By that time he could have acquired a pen. Meanwhile… He picked up a pencil and laid a couple of sheets of paper onto the back cover of the convening order, neatening it together. “Uhhhum.” He cleared his throat. The court waited. “Prosecution?” He looked at the court from his central seat. He had already acknowledged the members of the court sitting to his left and right. They were officers who would do as he directed. They would interpret the movement of his body and the intonation of his voice to ensure they complied with every rule of procedure and every due process.
But the other speaking parts of this theatre were more important.
“Yes sir.” A captain stood from the desk to the left of the long table.
“The witnesses are ready?”
“Yes sir.”
“The accused is arraigned?”
“Yes sir.”
The escorts and court orderly were standing at expectant distances, at the door and a small table respectively; all Military Police NCOs; all smartly dressed. This was the parade ground, not the trenches. There was certainly no smell of the trenches, the only smell was old wood and leather.
He began to take control; to settle into his surroundings, which were not unfamiliar, being a lawyer himself.
“Right march in the accused, when you are ready Corporal.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
What did you want to hold?
Cello was marched in with a whirlwind. The ‘left right, left righting’ was overemphasised. Then the court of law took over.
He was escorted to the dock but allowed to take his place with dignity, unruffled by a parade ground semblance of discipline.
There was no oath to be taken by the accused. It was the job of the President and his board of officers to ensure that the truth will out. That was the purpose of the trial.
The charges were read again and the pleas were read again. Guilty to the charge of ‘shamefully casting away his arms;’ not guilty to the charge of desertion.
The President looked at Cello during the reading process, noting that he did not move or flinch or look at anyone else. The President let his eyes stray to the one occupier of the ‘public’ benches; a private of dark hair and striking pale features who yet seemed more uneasy than the accused. Ben’s eyes did not catch any other person in the room.
After the recapture of the arraignment, the President tapped his pencil on the foolscap in front of him, as yet still virgin white. He gave a brief nod to the prosecution, who stood and took two strides into the centre of the room. Then as a sort of afterthought, the President stopped him in mid-stride. “The charge of ‘casting away his arms’ does not concern us at the moment. You will bring evidence for the desertion charge will you not?”
The prosecuting officer nodded. “Sir, the evidence in this case… err the case of desertion, is clear. Private Harris… on the evening of the second of April, this very month, was tasked as part of a patrol into No Man’s Land. This was a routine activity to dominate the area in preparation for what might have been further operations by the Battalion.” He named the Battalion. “The patrol was led by Harris’s section Corporal…” Again he gave the name.
The President cut across his bows, making his judge-like presence felt again. “Do we have Corporal…?”
“Yes sir, he will be called.”
“Let’s call him.” He seemed anxious to get on with the proceedings.
The previously pipe-smoking Corporal was marched in. He did have to take the oath, which was duly administered by the court orderly. Then nervously he looked out at the court, without his eyes appearing to fall on either Cello or Ben.
The prosecuting officer took the floor again. He began by verifying the identity of the Corporal; Frederick Ives; yes. Then he mentioned the charges facing Cello. Then he started his direct questions. The President had his pencil poised. “Did you lead a patrol out into No Man’s Land on the night of the second of April?”
Yes.
Was Private Harris a member of that patrol?
Yes.
Tell the members of the court what happened on the patrol.
The Corporal turned slowly towards the row of seated officers. He raised his head on which his hair, unlike that of Cello or Ben, appeared to be thinning somewhat. His face was also thin and clean shaven and the upper lip seemed to lift, momentarily revealing a very discoloured tooth. Then he sniffed loudly. “Well sir… sirs. I took the patrol out from our own trenches into No Man’s Land…”
The President interrupted him. “May we know the purpose of the patrol, the mission if you will?”
Corporal Ives quickly looked at the prosecutor, who took the cue away from him. “It was a routine clearance patrol of the sort carried out on a nightly basis with the aim of dominating No Man’s Land and gathering intelligence for future operations… sir.”
The President nodded and then turned to Corporal Ives. “Was that your understanding Corporal?”
The question hung as Corporal Ives adjusted his feet. Then he swallowed visibly. “Yes… but…”
“But?” asked the President.
“Well we ’ad another job, which was… we were supposed to find a casualty.”
It was not clear whether the Corporal would dance to whatever tune he thought the court wanted or whether he would find some words of his own and how far he would take those words.
The prosecuting officer took over again. “And did you find the casualty?”
The court waited as the witness shifted on his feet and sniffed again and put his hands on the witness stand frame. They were very white. “No sir.”
There was an intake of breath, just audible, from Cello. Though he did not move.
That seemed to spur the Corporal into a new memory. “We did find one… dead man, sir, already dead.”
The court seemed to settle its attention back to mild interest. After all there were many dead men out in No Man’s Land; lying waiting to be discovered; or not waiting.
“Did you think this was likely to be the casualty you sought,” asked the prosecuting officer, feeding words to the Corporal which did not require a discomforting recall of memory to respond.
“Yes.”
Ben’s interest was more than mild. Something had been missed. But he thought ‘due process’ might fill in any gaps of detail in the account. He did not know whether he would be called to speak. In this court where the officers seemed to be talking things out in a reasonable way, his confidence was restored. This was not like the trenches. There was no RSM here.
Calmly the prosecuting officer took over again. “And what happened then Corporal?”
/> “Well we ‘ad already been gassed see and I was worried that we might be discovered by a German patrol or we might give ourselves away some’ow.” He reverted to the dialect of his upbringing although the men under him previously had all thought he was refined with a degree of worldly wisdom. Perhaps that had come from the pipe; whose wisdom was now wanting. “So I ordered that the patrol should be ended and we should return to our own lines.”
“And what did Private Harris do?”
“’E threw down his rifle and said he wasn’t going back.”
“He cast away his rifle?”
“Yes sir… sirs.”
“And what did you then do?”
“I orrrdered ’im to pick ut up and come with us, several times I did.”
“And what was his response?”
“’E said he weren’t comin’ back, and ’e didn’t pick up his rifle.”
“And what happened then?”
“We all returned without ‘im. And one of the other members of the patrol carried his rifle back.”
The President had been listening and shifting occasionally in his chair whose worn leather upholstery allowed him manoeuvre. It was a chair, with arms to get comfortable in. But now he felt the need to intervene. “Corporal did you know that the definition of desertion is that a soldier is said to have deserted only if he has the intention of not returning.”
“Urmm.” The Corporal was a bit lost now.
The prosecuting officer helped him out. “It is understood that Private Harris did subsequently return.”
The Corporal was ready for this. “Yes sir ‘e did and what’s more ’e came back wearing a German medics apron.”
Had there been a public gallery full of spectators this might have been the cue for some sort of reaction, a gasp perhaps, or even a laugh.
Nobody in the court reacted. There was no intake of breath. Cello looked straight ahead.
A defending officer might have objected to the fact that the Corporal was giving evidence on aspects which he did not witness personally as Cello had not returned into his piece of the trench system. But this was not perhaps appreciated by the court and the Corporal was not about to correct them on the technical aspects of hearsay and actual evidence. Besides he had seen Cello during the journey back, after they had been relieved that time.
The prosecuting officer wasted no time to further besmirch Cello. “if I may, we have heard that Private Harris mentioned that he had been with the German forces, even wearing uniform given by them when he returned.”
“I hardly think that a medic’s apron could be classed as uniform, but I take your point; the act of joining the armed forces of another country, particularly the enemy, is an indicator of the intention of not returning at the time of absenting himself.”
“Thank you, sir.” The prosecuting officer smiled at the President.
The President leant back in his chair. It appeared that the case had been made and of course there had already been a guilty plea to ‘casting away the rifle’.
The witness waited. The prosecutor waited. The President leant forward perhaps in a moment of decision, over the desk. “Do you have any further questions for the witness?”
“Just the one I think sir… Corporal, did Private Harris mention to you or any that you heard from, about his time with the Germans?”
The Corporal looked around and swallowed. He did not look at Cello. “He said he was doing a much more worthwhile job there… ’E said that he had come back for the Court Martial only, otherwise he would have stayed with the Germans.”
The members of the court did react to these words. Their bodies assumed postures of suitable reprove, a look, a frown, a cough, a movement which was as good as a full stop.
“Job, he was doing a job, what precisely?”
The prosecutor did not bother to refer this to the witness. “I understand it was as a medic sir, hence the medic’s apron.”
The Corporal nodded. He was dismissed and there being no one else to meaningfully address, the president turned towards Cello. The Court Martial changed gear.
Ben’s mind burnt with the things that had not been mentioned.
“So Private Harris; of course you have pleaded guilty to the charge of casting away your rifle and I would firstly like to hear from you, why exactly you did that?”
This might have been the time for those things to come out. Ben waited
“I didn’t want to hold it any more.”
“But you are a soldier… So what did you want to… hold?”
“My cello.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Bach is announced
Had the President worn glasses he would have removed them. Without them he screwed his fists into his eyes, to try to change the view in front of him perhaps. But it was the word that had struck him like a… like some sort of warlike projectile. “So you play, but what are you…?” He faltered.
“I’m in the Artists’ Rifles. I was apprenticed to the ENO… English National Opera orchestra and they… well a lot joined up.”
“ENO, yes I am familiar, loved classical music all my… So what are you, were you… What’s your favourite…?”
“I was working towards a recording of J S Bach’s solo Cello Suites when we were… I was… I joined up.”
Suddenly as if released like a boy from boarding school, the Lieutenant colonel shouted. “JOHANN SEBASTIAN BACH… German… Yes, wonderful, English player doing a recording, German composer. Wonderful.” He stared forward moving his eyes away from Cello, he seemed… changed. “You seem too young. How old…?”
“Twenty-three.”
“Ahh yes, your date of birth is here, silly of me. But there is no mention of your… vocation… Cellist. No mention of it.” He searched around for some excuse for his foolishness at not knowing he was in the presence of someone who perhaps could be a great musician.
“Here, I am a private in the Artists’ Rifles.”
“You are!” His eyes stayed on Cello, in lingering agreement, as if he were looking at his son, or a potential son; not a soldier who had pleaded guilty to a heinous crime, a crime created by the war.
As a cellist he would never have cast away his cello. And as to a rifle he would never have held one. How could a cellist hold a rifle? His cello was far more important than a rifle. Had he picked up such an item in the orchestra pit instead of his cello, yes he would have cast it aside, of course he would.
The Lieutenant Colonel trembled a little, unsure at first what he should do. The papers in front of him could not tell him. The orders of the Brigade Commander could not tell him. He had no way of consulting that officer for clarification. He had to decide for himself. “I am going to adjourn for today,” he said, quietly at first. “Orderly please clear the court.” Nobody moved. As if the order was to be complied with automatically, he continued. “I want the board to remain for a moment please.” He looked at his fellow board members. There was a stillness in the room.
The normal procedure would be for the board to leave first. But nobody knew what to do with this unexpected order. So the Lieutenant Colonel exploded and shouted it. “I SAID CLEAR THE COURT, ORDERLY, NOW!”
The escort to the accused standing at the door would not normally have responded to an order, other than being told to march the accused out. So he blurted out. “I’m not an orderly… sir.”
The Lieutenant Colonel lost something in his reply, as if he had suddenly gone under the table to find a deeper self. “YOU, YOU ARE AN ORDERLY.” He trembled somewhat. “FOR THE PURPOSE OF THE CLEARING OF THE COURT YOU ARE AN ORDERLY.” He was screaming now, in an uncontrolled manner not befitting of the haloed place that those present stutteringly knew they were in. “NOW DO YOU THINK YOU CAN DO IT, CAN YOU CLEAR THE COURT?”
He didn’t need to because he was an escort so he marched up to the dock and met Cello who stepped down from it and with the other escort stumbling forward from the door, they all joined together. They didn’t put their han
ds on the prisoner. He was not handcuffed. He was not a reluctant criminal. He was marched from the Court
The President was unsure whether he was a criminal. How could he be a cellist and a criminal?
As to clearing the court Ben quickly made the door, the prosecutor almost ran after the accused but turned the other way once outside. The Court Martial board remained. They stood but didn’t walk. They looked ahead woodenly, as if turning to the President would be an anathema.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Bach comes in
They banged back through echoing doors, Ben catching up with Cello. They had to be together. Ben did not hesitate or allow any separation. He wanted to swear; fucking hell, he wanted to say. He wanted a smile to be on his face because he sensed a victory.
At his cell, Cello was not smiling, not celebrating. He went straight, head down, hair dropping over his eyes, to his bed and drew out from under it, slowly and with intensity, his instrument. He flicked his hair back from his face. Once he held it, he did smile, very slightly, for he was a serious young man. A man for whom being a soldier was a temporary existence and one which he never fully embraced.
However with the cello, it could be instantly seen, that this embrace was a familiar and expert one. Ben did see it. He watched in awe.
The player tweaked and strummed and listened and turned the strings tight, holding his ear down. Then applied the bow to make a few little moans with it.
“Bach,” smiled Cello a little more broadly.
“Who is this Bach and why did the President…?” He couldn’t finish, for the bow hit the strings and his friend came alive. A great deep-throated draw filled the world. It didn’t seep out of the cell, it blasted. At first the sequence started rumblingly low but notes rainbowed out climbing stairs, climbing and climbing in a sort of uncontrolled reaching for a sky of colour and joy; yes joy.
A Cellist Soldier Page 20