But then it started again on another higher stairway, pulling at hearts, unable to be imprisoned. Music could never stay in a cell. It vibrated out. It burst out. Cello and Ben laughed as they knew it would be heard outside, but didn’t know how far it would reach.
In fact it reached the courtroom. The President had slumped into his seat. In a very correct procedural manner, a jug of water and an actual glass had been placed on the table. This was a life preserver for he reached for it, poured and drank heavily as if he was already at the officers’ mess bar refreshing himself after a hard day. He had had a day of sorts, a strange day, which was far from over yet.
The other members of the court, sat down gingerly. The President looked at the youngest member, the second lieutenant who was probably no more than twenty-one. The President seemed to retrieve some composure. He looked across at the young man and nodded. “You can go,” he said.
The young man got up and clicked his heels together. He saluted, turned and left without a word.
As if the opening door had let in the sound of the cello it could be heard as the officer departed. But the closing of the door behind him did not close the sound off. In fact it came from small open windows high in the wall behind the table where the three Court Martial officers sat. But it didn’t come in thinly, it came in strongly even though from a distance. It filled the court room immediately. There was no other sound on this seemingly quiet day of staff and logistic work. Only an occasional distant boom gave a reminder of where they were.
The music gave a different reminder perhaps to the President and he seemed transported to that place. Slowly he got up. At the low notes he did a little bobbing bow and at the high ones as the music climbed an invisible stair he reached his head up, as if looking towards some distant horizon, a distant green pasture. A small smile of recognition played at the corners of his mouth.
He walked around the table listening. “Number one in G,” he said now facing the other two officers. “It happens to be my favourite.”
They stood up, stood still, not moved in a bodily way by the music as the President seemed to be.
“What do you think?” The President wanted some fellowship in his transportation.
“… Colonel!” One was trying to bring perspective. This was bizarre, not at all the time or the place.
The president was getting deeper into it. “Oh I know, not appropriate, but its beautiful don’t you think? Imagine, a cellist, playing Bach right here, right here and now, in this… in this…” He seemed unable to continue.
The music did continue. It seemed to take control where he could not. It rose again on its vibrating stairway and he looked higher, weaving his head a little this way and that at the backward and forward quickening movement of the bow, which he could not see but with eyes part closed could imagine and follow.
Suddenly the President did something strange. He unbuckled his pistol holster. His face was red and he continued to have some motion about him but he was smiling and he seemed jolly. Perhaps it was all a joke. There was no buckle on the holster, just a leather flap with a hole to fit over a metal stud. He had got that flap open.
In the officers’ mess holsters were opened on many occasions, pistols were drawn and brandished. Shots were also fired, perhaps in some game or prank, or in frustration. So the unbuckling of the holster was only strange given the formal environment of the court.
But still the other officers of the Court Martial board remained in their spots. He was after all two full ranks senior to them and a Lieutenant Colonel, who could be the Commanding Officer of their battalion, was a revered figure, an all-powerful one.
By now the President had got the revolver out and some brandishing was being done, but he still seemed to be transported by the music and so the weapon became a sort of conductor’s baton.
His mood changed and he stopped his little prance. He levelled the revolver in the direction of the other members of the Court Martial. “Why are we killing men like this. Why are killing soldiers… cellists?” He pointed his weapon at first one and then the other of the officers standing in front of him. His voice became more unreasonable and higher pitched. “Think of that… Listen to the music.”
One of the officers did now begin to move. “Colonel he is a soldier!”
“Yes but… its wrong, don’t you think.” Now his voice had gone. It had become a sort of whine.
The other officer raised his voice. “Colonel it doesn’t matter. That is not our concern.”
“But it is dear boy, don’t you see?”
Suddenly the music reached a crescendo as if at the top of the stairs it opened to a wide vista of joy and freedom in the music of a shrill dancing bow, backwards, forwards, up and down the scale. “Oh god!” And the President did actually himself begin a sort of dance; a hop and step to the rhythm, then a hop step on the other foot. Then he went too far. “Chaps it’s time for us to take control, it’s time for a… mutiny I think.” Her waved his revolver wildly.
The captain acted. “Colonel NO!” He jumped over the table and trying some sort of restraining move caught the President with an outstretched arm.
It was too late, the revolver went off with a crash, muffled a little, caught as it was somewhere between the officer’s Sam Browne belt and his tunic.
The captain stepped back. The President slumped down and blood began seeping onto the courtroom floor.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Another outburst
A page turned but the story stuttered and missed a beat. The original Court Martial President arose from his bed and the ailment that had laid him low the previous day had left him. He nodded to the other two Court Martial officers at breakfast but discussing the case was not permitted. However another staff officer quietly mentioned to him that the CAG would like a word.
He arrived at the senior staff officer’s desk before zero nine hundred hours.
“… Unfortunate incident.” The full colonel, the Corps Adjutant General, looked up into the cigar smoke halo that was collecting over his head. He got the cigars from a friend in the industry. Rather proud of it he was. He ended the brief account of the previous day’s events. He hadn’t mentioned the music playing. “Need to get this wrapped up though, today if possible, clear?” The other officer was after all only a major.
“Do me best Colonel,” responded the new President instantly.
“Good, good. General seems to be rather keen to get this one out of the way, not sure why. Here’s the convening order, no changes made, so you’re still the Pres…” He handed over the blue document.
The major left the office, or the church hall it seemed to be and began his walk to the Court Martial centre. He was passed by Ben going towards Cello’s cell. Ben saluted, his arm quivering; to which the major merely waved his gloved hand towards his cap in acknowledgement. Ben frowned to himself. He recognised the man and his stomach somehow told him what was afoot. In the back of his mind had lain the possibility of some sort of reprieve. But the purposefulness of this officer quelled that.
On reaching Cello’s cell his stomach churned further. Cello was already on the point of being escorted out. He smiled at Ben secretly. Don’t worry, said the smile.
Ben followed.
For the resumption of the trial no chances were being taken and the court was assembled before the board entered.
On arrival the major had been shepherded to a back room which would have been used by the French law makers and judges. That law seemed to have fallen under layers of dust in the room which had not been included in a sprucing up by some working party from the logistic area. The board members stood in the middle without disturbing the dust. Their Sam Browne belts shone. The President also wore his medals and a sword. To complete that regalia required sword gloves.
Mention was made of the music but the captain who spoke, also the one who had tried to restrain yesterday’s President, made Cello and his music playing out to be some sort of renegade act, one of d
efiance; and the President’s ‘heart attack’, as just a natural and highly unfortunate occurrence.
They went through the statement made by the witness and the pencil written notes made of it and the major decided that this would suffice to take proceedings forward.
It was time. A knock on the door told them that the court was assembled.
They emerged from their lair. All clear. Their shoes heralded the approach and arrival in court. Chairs grated on the wooden floor. They sat down with the President making sure he did not sit on his sword, the sword frog held it, but only so that it could hang down the flank of a horse.
The others had revolvers like the previous President, as was normal for staff officers.
This President looked directly ahead. “Good morning, please relax and stand at ease… Uhhum.” He placed the convening order on the table in front of him. “With regard to this hearing… It will continue. There has been, a slight hiatus… but the evidence presented yesterday in front of the members of the board here,” he indicted the two captains sitting to his side, “still stands, as part of the prosecution case.”
He turned to the prosecutor. “So um… do you have anything to add to your case?”
The prosecuting officer who had sat, on the instructions to rest at ease, stood briefly. “No sir, not at this stage.” He knew he would get a chance to fire some more bullets into Cello.
The President, like the turning of a weathercock without wind assistance, focused on Cello. “At this stage you have the chance to make a statement, explain yourself if you like… Whenever you are ready.”
“Is there justice in war?” Cello spoke suddenly, in a low voice. His head was slightly bowed, his hair hanging down.
The court stood still.
“Sorry could you say that again?”
Cello lifted his head this time and looked straight at the President. “I said, is there justice in war?”
The President sat back in his chair. “No this is your opportunity to speak about the case, about yourself if you like and anything that has a bearing on it.”
“I know, this is part of my statement. Let me put it another way. Maybe in a way you might find in a dictionary. Is there the quality of being morally just or righteous, or the observance of any divine law, which says; thou shalt not kill? In war killing is a righteous act, justice is therefore overturned. Or justice is void and shamed under a new law, giving the hand of freedom to those who might become murderers, judge, jury and executioners in the vacuum; holding up a sneering excuse of a noble cause… IT IS NOBLE IS IT NOT?”
There were statues in the courtroom, everybody was still for just an instant
Cello did not wait though for an answer to his amazing speech. “Your silence gives the lie. Or I know you won’t reply, it is not in the… procedure. Noble or not matters little, for to kill is righteous and that requires the production of killing machines. The rifle is a killing machine, to discard it is an act of cowardice even though doing so might show the quality to be morally just and righteous… I am a just and righteous person!”
The members of the court moved. There was a visible sigh, though the audible side of it was not detectable.
“No one is doubting this,” blurted out the President.
“But acts of wilful cowardice in the face of the enemy are punishable by death. To kill in war is righteous.”
There was no answer to this.
“SO DO IT. YOU HAVE WEAPONS, SOMEONE SHOOT ME.” He pointed first vaguely towards the sidearms of the board. Then he held up his hands, very steadily searching the major’s face.
The President’s face grew red, starting with small spots on his cheeks. He looked affronted. Suddenly he was not a soldier you may have encountered in the trenches. He was a logistic man. A major from the base, grown a little fat. In some way he despised those who were constantly in action. He didn’t call for that. Yet he had not avoided it either. Because of his age he fell easily into the staff-officer mould. Younger and leaner he could have been a battalion second in command, perhaps ready to assume command if his commanding officer should become a casualty.
But no, he did what he could in his staff job. Touching soldiers where he had too, usually on paper. But now, something aroused his anger. A tent-peg carefully malleted deep into the ground to achieve a military encampment of purpose; had been ripped from its moorings.
Cello’s outburst was extraordinary also to Ben who couldn’t take his eyes off his cellist.
But Cello seemed to sag. The energy had left him.
“I’ve never heard such disgraceful nonsense,” the President eventually managed to ejaculate.
But it wasn’t, thought Ben. If Cello was to be sentenced, why not carry it out here and now.
“You don’t have the courage.” This was delivered quietly but firmly by Cello. As if he, who was a coward to cast away his rifle, knew exactly what courage was all about.
This must have done it for Cello. He was clearly some sort of subversive. The major quickly leant over to fellow board members, one after the other. The second lieutenant, sitting apart was not involved in these exchanges.
The President turned to the prosecuting officer and asked mildly; “Do you have anything to add on the prosecution side.”
That officer, probably thinking that Cello had sealed his own prosecution, said. “I don’t believe there is any need sir.”
The President looked down at his papers, then up again abruptly. “This court finds you guilty on all charges and sentences you to death. The sentence is subject to confirmation by the convening authority of this Court Martial and the General Officer Commanding the expeditionary force of His Majesty’s Armed Forces in France. This court is adjourned.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
The bare cell
The shock of everything left Ben speechless. He smoked with a Woodbine hanging from his lips in the corridor outside Cello’s cell adding some yellow wispy stains to those already making the walls a dirty brown. With his outburst Cello had made himself a hero of the prison. Everybody heard about it very soon and prisoners set about calling out from their cells. Some even clapped.
Ben and Cello hadn’t heard what had happened the afternoon before. They knew nothing of the ‘suicide’. The clearing of the court by the then President and this new departure with the ‘old’ President had a stink about it. That much was clear.
But Cello’s challenge to the court might have sealed his fate. At least that is how it looked from the faces of the MPs who escorted them back to the cells with an air of finality. The rapid completion of trials was not so normal. But some expected more anger in answer to Cello perhaps a banging of the table and an order to ‘handcuff the prisoner’, to prevent him pointing and gesturing. Even though those gestures had ended in a sort of surrender. The words did not concur with that body language.
Cello sat on his bed, intent on his instrument. He forced out a comment. “You are not surprised Ben, are you?”
“Are you though?”
“I suppose not… In view of…”
“What you said.”
Cello looked up as Ben stood at the door. He was almost smiling. “Yes in view of what I said.”
“But you don’t regret saying it.”
Cello did do a sort of laugh then. “No, no I don’t regret it.” Then his face turned serious. “Why do you think I shouldn’t have said it?”
“Well… Not in your character. Never seen you like that before. No… I mean; yes, you should have said it.” Ben was learning. He had not been out in No Man’s Land with Cello and Sergeant John Thomas Wall where they had learned a sort of independence.
Though Cello was now realising that even with this independence he could not fight the system, the ‘due process’, at least not with any hope of victory.
So the victory would need to be a personal one. He knew he would have to prepare for that.
Ben was still confused and needed clarification. “What happened yesterday, to th
e old, well yesterday’s President, you know the Lieutenant Colonel?”
“Ask them,” Cello tipped his head up. Behind Ben unheard above the noise of other prisoners, an MP Corporal had appeared.
The MP Corporal cleared his throat. “Yesterday… was a day like we’re never again gonna see ’ere I wouldn’t think.” He was all official and tall, though there was a softness to his voice.
“So what did happen… I mean after the President…”
“Didn’t you lot ’ear the shot?”
Cello looked up. “SHOT!”
Yes ’e shot ’imself, poor sod.”
“The cello… so loud,” said Ben, as if in apology.
“Yes… it was during… the noise. We rushed in when we heard the shot. ‘Course we was closer, just outside the door… There ’e was… shot ’isself.”
Cello looked at Ben, a look which held no guilt, only curiosity.
Then Ben’s thoughts went back to his salute to today’s President as they passed on the way to the Court Martial centre and Cello’s cell respectively. The purposefulness in the officer’s stride brought forth his dread, a feeling that everything had been decided.
What did they expect? Cello hadn’t expected anything. Once his treatment by the RSM had started he knew how things might turn out. But he had the satisfaction of delivering his partially prepared speech; perhaps a little earlier than previously he had thought. But the satisfaction was still there.
Ben still held a confused view of things. No one had told him what his job was to be. No one had given him orders. He understood that perhaps there should have been something for him to do beyond any orders. He had waited for an opportunity to do something, which had never come. Now it was too late.
And his dread now was that Cello didn’t need him as a ‘friend’ any longer.
But he needed information, where Cello seemed to have accepted something…inevitable. “What is going to happen now then, Corp?”
A Cellist Soldier Page 21