‘Right then,’ said Ernest. ‘You’ll need your writer’s name; you can’t be Raymond Mann, even though that’s a very good name. Did you ever have a pet?’
‘Yes, I had a dog. Dougal. She was great but we couldn’t train her and she kept running away.’ He smiled as he remembered.
‘She?’
‘Yeah, well, we got her from Petticoat Lane Market in London and the man told my dad she was a cairn terrier and a boy. It turned out she was a Heinz 57 and a girl; we didn’t know much about dogs,’ he said sadly, shaking his head.
Raymond glanced at Ernest, who was trying not to laugh. He lost the battle and an explosive chuckle burst from his clenched lips.
‘Right, that’s your first name,’ said Ernest composing himself. ‘Now, what was your mother’s maiden name?’
‘Hyland,’ said Raymond.
‘Perfect – your writer’s name is Dougal Hyland.’ Ernest raised a chocolate biscuit in salute. ‘May we welcome Dougal Hyland to the pantheon of writers who have moved and astounded us, made us think, taken us away from our daily drudgery, and with just a pen and paper changed the world.’ He tapped his biscuit against Raymond’s and laughed.
Spellbound, Raymond could only sit and stare at the tiny yellow crumbs that fell from the biscuits and bounced on to the coffee table.
‘Right, I suppose you want to hear some more of my story. Remind me, where was I?’
‘Well, you’d just left on the lorry and the sergeant was none too pleased.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Ernest. ‘Well, we didn’t know it at the time but we were heading for a town called Bailleul, which we’d occupied since 1914. It had become an important hospital centre where the casualties went before returning home to England.’ He settled back on the sofa and closed his eyes. ‘Bailleul had also become our headquarters and a rather dashing chap called General Babcock-Billiaire felt his war efforts should be captured on film for the nation.’ Ernest chuckled. ‘My camera, rather than me, was closest to him so that’s why they wanted me there urgently. The town was near the front, but it hadn’t seen action for a while and many of the local women were still working the fields. That’s how I met Mira.’ He smiled and turned his head towards Raymond. ‘But before I carry on, let me get us some tea.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Ernest’s Story (Part Two)
1917
The green lorry bumped along the winding track; its tiny tyres and inefficient suspension gave the men little protection from the ruts in the road. Frequent groans splintered the silence as potholes jarred their backs and bounced them off their seats. A trail of red dust marked the vehicle’s progress and mingled with the cloudy white exhaust fumes that pumped into the air with each misfire.
Bill and Ernest were still in a state of euphoria, buoyed by their good fortune. Time and again their eyes met and they fell into fits of laughter, much to the bemusement and annoyance of their travelling companions.
The truck followed the narrow road through seemingly never-ending fields of vibrant blue and gold. Small dirt tracks led to long abandoned farmhouses and vast untended cornfields. Bright sunlight shone through the trees, dazzling the men as the thick branches momentarily caged then released the rays. Occasionally they would meet a column of soldiers or another truck heading in the opposite direction. Raucous jeers and obscene waves would ensue, but apart from those brief interludes, Bill and Ernest found themselves lost in the rhythm of the lorry, and the morning crawled into the afternoon.
The truck slowed and then tipped as it traversed a small humpbacked bridge. The men looked down over the stone parapet into the crystal-clear water of a fast-flowing stream, the reflected light etching their half-closed eyelids with silver sparkles.
The truck reached the apex and began to tilt the other way. Happy childlike groans filled the air as the soldier’s stomachs fluttered. On the other side of the bridge, a group of women laundered clothes on the far bank of the stream, their long skirts tucked into waistbands. Soap bubbles billowed around them and bobbed down the river, occasionally floating into the air, the only clouds in a clear blue sky.
Ernest raised his hand to shield his eyes. Its shadow settled on his face and the dazzling light relented. One of the women stopped her scrubbing and looked up at him. She’d tied back her long dark hair, but a few strands had fallen over her cheek and she brushed them aside with a wet hand. Her white shirt was open and Ernest saw perspiration glistening on her neck. She smiled, stilling the world. Ernest watched breathless, aware that any movement would break the spell.
The truck trundled on and the bridge receded but Ernest’s gaze remained towards the stream, his face aglow and his smile endless. Bill dug him in the ribs.
‘Hey, Ernie, what a woman. And someone to do your washing too.’
The men laughed and Bill waved his hands, whistling and shouting.
Woken from his reverie, Ernest stood and grabbed Bill’s arms to stop him drawing the women’s attention, but Bill playfully pushed him aside just as the truck turned a corner. Ernest overbalanced and fell headlong to the dusty wooden floor. On all fours amongst a multitude of legs, his embarrassment doubled as laughter pealed from his companions. He took a deep breath and, with only his head visible above the tailgate, he dared to look back at the stream before the bend in the road obscured his view forever.
To his astonishment and joy, the woman was still looking and still smiling.
The scenery changed and grey roads and dark broken dwellings replaced the green fields and red dirt tracks. A thoughtful silence descended within the lorry as it reached the outskirts of the town, but the men’s mood lifted as the buildings became brighter and in better repair. It soon became clear that this was a lively place with lorries arriving and departing every few minutes, depositing stretchers outside impressive premises adorned with huge Red Cross signs. Civilians mingled with the military, and nurses hurried about their duties in twos and threes. Laughter and the low murmur of conversation emanated from the buildings. Bill and Ernest looked upon the town with interest – it was so different to the one they’d left with its broken blackened husks.
The lorry slowed and came to a juddering halt outside a large building that might once have been the town hall. Palatial steps led up to solid wooden doors and a large Union Jack fluttered above.
The men lowered themselves from the truck, dusted their uniforms with enthusiastic slaps and stretched their aching limbs.
A corporal ran down the steps and into the melee of men.
‘Who’s the photographer? Who’s the photographer?’ he shouted, pushing through the crowd. He wore a resigned expression as if expecting his question to be met by silence.
‘That’s us,’ said Bill, grinning. ‘We’re ready to create our masterpiece.’
The corporal stopped and looked at Bill and Ernest; he exhaled and seemed to grow taller, as if a great weight had been lifted from him.
‘Really?’ he said. ‘Right, this way. Follow me.’
‘Hold your horses,’ said Bill, putting his arm around Ernest and straightening him. ‘Ernie here is your artistic type. He’s a bit sensitive, and after that long trip he’ll need a bath and something to eat before he can think about photographs.’
‘Well, good luck with that,’ said the corporal, hurrying ahead. ‘I’ll let you tell the general, but my orders are to bring you to him as soon as you get here and this is the third bloody lorry you’re supposed to be on, so you’re already late. I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.’
The corporal led the way up the steps and through heavy wooden doors. Although the town was busy, Bill and Ernest were not prepared for the pandemonium that greeted them inside the building. Officers dodged and jostled as they endeavoured to get to their destinations.
There were maps everywhere – large ones hung on every inch of wall, while smaller charts had been spread over desks surrounded by a huddle of men moving dark blocks and identifying places of interest with long wooden pointers. T
he tobacco smoke from what seemed like a thousand pipes and cigarettes was funnelled into grey columns by the shafts of sunlight that shone through the tall windows.
They followed their guide through several rooms and up two flights of stairs until they reached a dark oak door at the end of a long corridor. The corporal knocked twice.
‘General Babcock-Billiaire, sir, the photographers are here.’
Bill and Ernest looked at each other and mouthed the general’s name. Ernest put his hand over his mouth to stifle his laughter. The corporal saw the gesture and gave an urgent and barely perceptible shake of his head.
‘Enter.’ A loud confident baritone boomed from the room.
The corporal opened the door and ushered in the two dusty men. It was like stepping into an English stately home; large pictures of heroic soldiers on horseback adorned the dark, wood-panelled walls. Chairs and tables of different sizes, shapes and shades filled every open space and ornaments and table lamps cluttered the room further. A large oblong rug depicting an African hunting scene was just visible on the floor; it led to an impressive desk behind which sat a soldier of over-stated importance. He wore a full-dress uniform, the scarlet bright against the dark of the room. Across his chest a row of overlapping medals added to the pomp. The golden waistband, tassels and scrambled-egg piping around the sleeves and shoulders of the uniform complemented his slicked-back chestnut hair. He was well built and strong, though the buttons on his tunic struggled over a growing paunch and the pink tinge of his nose and cheeks betrayed a love of good food and wine that his small greying moustache failed to hide.
Ernest and Bill walked up to the desk and saluted.
‘Afternoon, gentleman. I’m so pleased to see you. I can’t tell you what a bloody bore it’s been waiting around in this godforsaken town.’ The general spoke with an upper-class and privileged accent. He ran his fingers through his oily hair. ‘What a command to get … casualties! Can you believe it? Me, General Babcock-Billiaire, having to sort out a bunch of cowards who shot themselves rather than fighting the bloody Hun. I can’t even remember the last time I sent my boys over the top – that’s what they love, you know.’ The general waved his hands and his face reddened. ‘Honour and sacrifice – my boys wouldn’t have ended up here. Well, apart from bloody Wilkins, but we shot him ourselves, anyway.’
The corporal glanced at Bill and Ernest and widened his eyes.
‘Right, now, as you can see, I’m dressed and ready for action. I’ve been waiting here for bloody ages.’ The general stood and straightened his jacket. ‘Let’s take some pictures. We’ll show those blasted pen-pushers back home I’m still a bloody hero.’ The general walked past the three men. ‘The Hun has given us an opportunity to capture – in a simple but glorious photograph – all the qualities that make our nation great. I shall be centre stage, of course, standing astride a trench, or perhaps lending a hand to a fallen comrade, or pointing my rifle at the Bosch or’ – the general’s voice rose with his increasing excitement – ‘or staring majestically into the sky, thinking of home.’ He looked heavenwards.
‘Or on horseback, sir,’ said Bill.
‘What?’ The general’s small, beady eyes settled on Bill.
‘Look at all these pictures on your walls, sir, and think of those magnificent statues in London. All the great men are on horseback; you’ll be continuing the tradition, but in a modern way. Ernie here is an artist – he can do anything with a camera.’
The general was silent for a few moments as he considered the proposal.
‘Yes, yes, yes!’ He banged his fist on the table, making Ernest and the corporal flinch.
‘I knew this was the right decision. You see what I mean, Corporal? These men are professionals.’ The general strode past them. ‘Right, when can we start? I’m ready now. Corporal, get me a horse! NOW. What are you waiting for, you lazy bloody idiot?’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, sir,’ said Bill.
‘Yes, yes, what is it, man?’
‘Well, it’s Ernie here, sir. He needs to prepare his, er, plates. That’s right, Ernie, isn’t it?’
Ernest looked at the floor, feigning interest in the carpet. ‘Um, er, yes. I have to get the plates ready,’ he mumbled.
The general stopped in front of them, irritated. ‘Well, how long? When can we start?’
‘It’ll take two or three days I reckon, sir. Isn’t that right, Ernie?’
Ernest had not looked up.
‘Um, yes,’ he said again, quietly.
The general huffed, making no effort to hide his agitation. ‘What’s the matter with you, man?’ He raised his voice and looked at Ernest. ‘Can’t you speak?’
Bill stepped forward. ‘Like I said, sir, he’s an artist – a little sensitive. His last mission was behind enemy lines, taking pictures of the trenches; he barely got out alive. He broke his camera on a Hun’s head.’
Ernest’s own head jerked up and he stared at Bill in disbelief, but Bill was in full flow.
‘What he needs, sir, is somewhere quiet to prepare his photographic plates. And he hasn’t eaten for two days because of his experiences. Look, his hands are shaking through lack of food and that’s no good for a photographer, you know. Show the general your hands, Ernie.’
Ernest looked imploringly at Bill, his eyes wide. He mouthed a small no.
‘That’s it, Ernie. Don’t be shy.’
Bill coughed, though Ernest wondered whether he wasn’t suppressing a laugh.
Ernest raised his hands, all the time staring at Bill, and began to shake his fingers slowly.
‘Good God, man, what you must have been through. Behind enemy lines, you say?’ The general patted Ernest on the back so hard that he had to take a step forward to keep his balance. ‘You see, Corporal? These are real men not bloody secretaries; they have the hearts of lions.’
The corporal looked at Bill and Ernest, barely disguising his anger.
The general scratched his chin. ‘You must tell me more about these adventures over dinner. In the meantime, Corporal, see that these men are billeted in suitable officer accommodation and make sure they receive all they need; I’m holding you personally responsible for his shaking hands. They need to be still by the time he takes my photograph.’
‘B-But, sir—’
‘Dismissed. I’ll see you in three days.’ He turned back to his desk. ‘And, Corporal, find me a bloody horse. I’m a superb rider but it needs to stand still for the photograph so you’d better make sure it’s bloody placid.’
Bill and Ernest followed the corporal down the wide flight of stairs, through the gaggle of officers and out on to the street. The bright sunshine left them stunned after the dark, smoke-filled rooms, and Ernest could barely stop himself from leaping in the air. His stride resembled a hop as he bounced along the pavement in excitement.
‘What do you mean, sensitive artist?’ he said.
Bill laughed. ‘I’ve got to look after you, Ernie boy. You’ve been behind enemy lines. Look at your hands shaking.’
Ernest raised his hands and chased Bill down the street, arms outstretched, zombie-like. He aimed a kick but Bill dodged and ran ahead.
‘I told you, stick with me, Ernie, and you’ll be okay,’ said Bill, waving the camera bag.
The corporal turned around sharply. ‘Stop arsing about,’ he said crossly. ‘I’m already in enough bloody trouble cos of you two dingbats. We’ve got to get to a farmhouse before nightfall or I’ll never find my way back. And for Christ’s sake, look after your camera. The general will have me shot if this goes wrong.’ He shook his head in exasperation as Bill and Ernest continued to chase each other. ‘And you think I’m sodding joking, you bloody idiots!’ he shouted desperately.
Ernest and Bill sheepishly fell back in line. The three men continued in silence down the street until they reached a large town square surrounded by tall, imposing buildings. A group of Australian soldiers were playing football in the centre, chasing a heavy leather ball. Their tanned bodies
and unfamiliar accents seemed strange and out of place in the quaint market square. A few British soldiers were watching the match, leaning against the statues, their trousers and shirt sleeves rolled up, enjoying the last of the sun’s rays. They offered the players ever more obscene advice as the game progressed and their raucous laughter echoed around the buildings along with the thud of the ball.
‘Bloody Aussies,’ said the corporal. ‘I hate ’em, big-headed bastards. They got a casualty-clearing centre up by the railway and they still come down here to our patch to play. They got it easy.’
A shrill windy whistle cut through the air and a plume of dirty white smoke rose above the buildings. A train pulled into the town station. A few minutes later the chug and strain of another, heading in the opposite direction, momentarily drowned out the shouts of the footballers and their spectators.
‘Poor buggers,’ said the corporal. ‘Probably half-dead but at least they only copped a Blighty and can get home now.’
The streets narrowed and the shadows lengthened, but the town remained a bustling hive of activity, with lorries and horse-drawn carts coming and going in quick succession. The Red Cross had commandeered many of the buildings as holding areas for the wounded before their transfer back to England and stretcher-bearers jogged down side streets, taking short cuts to speed their journeys. Columns of men waited patiently to be called to the station, their faces masks of uncertainty, not sure where the next train would take them.
Despite this, Bill and Ernest felt relaxed, and they strolled along the walkways as if on holiday, taking in the scenery and breathing the cool dry air, so different to the clogging damp of the front-line trenches. They remained oblivious to the corporal’s tuts and constant efforts to speed them up.
As the orange glow of twilight descended over the town, the paved walkways gave way to dirt tracks. The men arrived at a rickety wooden gate blocking the path to a neglected thatched farmhouse.
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