Blackstone and the Great War (2 page)

‘And how will you manage, once you're no longer earning a wage?'

‘I've got a bit of money put by,' Blackstone said.

But not enough – not nearly enough – because for most of his working life, half his wage had gone directly to the orphanage in which he himself had been brought up.

‘I had a grandson,' the General said, changing the subject. ‘He was my pride and joy.'

Blackstone, noting the past tense, said nothing.

‘He was killed on the Western Front, just a few days ago,' the General continued.

Blackstone nodded gravely. ‘War's always been a terrible thing, but from what I've heard, this one makes the one's we fought seem like a bit of harmless sparring,' he said. ‘God alone knows how many of our young men will die on the battlefield before it's finally over.'

‘Charlie
didn't
die in battle,' the General said, and there was a deep anger in his voice now. ‘If he'd been cut down doing his duty, I could have borne that. It would have been hard for me, yes, yet no harder than it has been for generations of my family who have gladly made the sacrifice. But he was never given the opportunity to give his life for his country – he was murdered.'

‘I'm sorry,' Blackstone said – and so he was.

‘I want you to find his killer,' the General said.

‘You want what!' Blackstone exclaimed.

‘I want you to find his killer,' the General repeated.

‘The military have police of their own.'

‘So they do. And they're usually very good at their job – but that job doesn't include tracking down murderers.'

This was insane, Blackstone thought.

‘I'm a civilian, now,' he protested. ‘I have been for over a quarter of a century. The military would never brook my interference.'

‘Of course they will, if I ask them to,' the General said, with an absolute certainty. ‘Besides, you've always had a strong belief in your own self-worth, and you're unlikely to allow any man in a fancy uniform to intimidate you.'

Blackstone walked over to the window, and looked down at the spot on which he'd been standing only a few minutes earlier.

He chuckled, and said, ‘I thought you might be behind it.'

‘Behind what?' the General asked innocently.

‘Behind the little charade when I first arrived. It was you who told the flunkey to bring me in through the servants' entrance, wasn't it?'

‘Is that what you really believe?' the General asked, curiously.

‘No, not when I stop to think about it,' Blackstone admitted. ‘You're much too subtle for that. So you didn't tell him to treat me like a piece of offal – but you knew that he would!'

Fortesque smiled. ‘I've always known how the men who served under me would react in any situation. A good commander has to – because there are no second chances in war. And Hopwood – that's my “flunkey's” name – has a very high opinion of himself, and fondly imagines that, one day, he'll be the butler at one of the finest houses in England.'

‘But he won't?'

‘Of course not. A butler in the making doesn't need to
act
as if he's superior – it's enough for him to
know
that he is.'

‘So you arranged the little skirmish with Hopwood to see whether or not I still had fire in my belly,' Blackstone said.

‘I had to be sure,' the General replied. ‘Thirty years is a long time, and men change. But you haven't lost your fire, Sam, and that's why I want you go to the Western Front as my representative.'

‘I don't even know how the modern army works,' Blackstone protested.

‘And that's why I want you to go to the Western Front,' the General repeated, and now his voice was so firm that, if Blackstone had closed his eyes, he could easily have imagined he was talking to a much younger man. ‘I could ask your superiors to order you to go – and they would. I could offer you money – and, indeed, if you bring my grandson's murderer to justice, I will give you five thousand pounds. But I did not call you here to either threaten or bribe you.'

‘No?' Blackstone asked, sceptically.

‘No,' the General said. ‘I asked you here so that I could plead with you – as an old comrade I would have given my life for back then – to do something which might perhaps ease an old man's suffering a little. Will you do this one thing for me, Sam?'

‘I'll do it,' Blackstone agreed. ‘You haven't left me much bloody choice, have you?'

The old train continued to rattle and groan. The young soldier was still staring angrily at Blackstone.

‘You shouldn't be here at all,' Mick said. ‘Matter of fact, when we stop again, I'm going to throw you off.'

‘You should save your rage for the enemy,' Blackstone told him. ‘And even then, you should have it under control.'

‘Or maybe I won't even
wait
until we stop!' Mick said, infuriated by his calmness. ‘Maybe I'll throw you off right now.'

‘I wouldn't do that if I was you,' Blackstone advised.

‘Oh wouldn't you?' Mick scoffed. ‘Well, you're
not
me, are you? I'm a young man, and you're just a useless old fart.'

He stood up, and reached across for the lapels of the old fart's jacket. Blackstone grabbed his wrist, found the pressure point, and squeezed tightly.

Mick's face went white as he fought the urge to scream, but it was already a losing battle, and as Blackstone maintained the pressure and forced him to his knees, the young soldier gave a gasp of pain.

‘The first thing you need to learn is never to get into a fight unless you absolutely have to,' Blackstone said. ‘And the second is that if you
do
get into a fight, never underestimate your enemy.'

Mick was biting his lower lip, and searching in vain for the strength to fight back.

‘I'll let you go if you promise to sit down and be quiet,' Blackstone said. ‘
Do
you promise?'

Mick nodded his head. ‘Yes,' he said, in a wheeze.

‘I'm telling you all this for your own good,' Blackstone said, as the boy returned to his seat and gingerly massaged his wrist. ‘With the attitude you've got now, you won't last a day at the Front.'

But even as he spoke the words, he knew Mick probably wouldn't listen. That was the trouble with lads like him. And that was why – though they didn't even realize it – they were already walking dead men.

TWO

A
t a speed which would have made a lethargic snail ashamed, the train chugged through the flat French countryside.

The view from the window offered little in the way of distraction. Occasionally, there would be a gnarled old peasant leading a nag which was all skin and bone. Once in a while, the train would pass through a small station, and offer a brief glimpse of the village, battered by war, which lay beyond it. Other than that, the locomotive could have been travelling through a land which the world had quite forgotten.

This total lack of any sort of drama – this absence of anything to fire the gung-ho spirit – soon began to have an effect on the young soldiers, and their animation drained away, to be replaced by a kind of bored stupor.

That was what war was like, Blackstone thought, observing them. It could be excruciatingly painful, and it could be bowel-movingly terrifying. It could even – when you realized that there was a good chance you were not going to die that particular day – be a joyous experience, an orgasm of relief. But mostly, as these lads were starting to discover, it was mindlessly boring.

They reached the railhead – a shabby little station which, pre-war, would have been lucky to see a dozen passengers a day – as darkness was falling. A couple of the boys stood up with obvious relief that the cramped journey was finally over, and stepped out into the corridor to stretch their legs, but a bellow from one of the sergeants posted there soon had them scurrying back to their seats.

Another half an hour passed painfully slowly before the sergeant opened the door.

‘If you look out of the window, you'll see half a dozen sergeants standing on the platform holding up paraffin lamps,' he said. ‘You're to muster in front of the third lamp from the end. Got that?'

‘Yes, Sarge,' the young soldiers said, in unison.

The sergeant turned to Blackstone. ‘You're being met,' he said. Then, out of deference to the fact that the man he was addressing was a civilian – albeit a middle-aged one in a shabby suit – he added, ‘Ain't that right,
sir
?'

‘That's right,' Blackstone agreed.

‘Well, the best thing you can do is to try and keep out of the way until your liaison makes himself known to you,' the sergeant said.

‘He'll recognize me, will he?' Blackstone asked, with a smile.

‘You'll stick out like a vicar in a brothel,' the sergeant said, flatly.

Yes, I suppose I will, Blackstone thought.

The sergeant turned smartly on his heel, and left the carriage.

‘I never thought it would be like this, Sid,' Mick said to his pal, then glanced quickly at Blackstone to see if he had somehow managed to cause offence.

‘No, I'll bet you didn't,' the Scotland Yard man agreed.

The soldiers picked up their kit, climbed out of the carriage, and lined up in front of the third lantern from the end.

Blackstone followed, feeling odd that he should be a part of all this, and yet, strictly speaking, no part of it at all.

Once the men were in more or less orderly lines, a sergeant major who had been observing the whole spectacle blew his whistle, and the men fell silent.

‘You will be marched out to the reserve trench, where you will be issued with gas masks and rations!' he barked. ‘Any questions?'

‘Could we please have something to drink, Sergeant Major?' one of the soldiers murmured.

‘What was that, lad?' the sergeant major asked, rounding on him.

‘It's  . . . it's just that we haven't had anything since we left the port,' the soldier told him.

‘Is that right?' the sergeant major asked. ‘Well, you poor lad! That's such a touching story that I'm finding it hard to fight back the tears!'

‘I only wondered  . . .' the soldier said weakly.

‘It's not your job to
wonder
!' the sergeant major said harshly. ‘It's your job to
obey orders
.' He ran his eyes over the ranks of recruits. ‘You're in the army now. You eat and drink when you're given the opportunity, and you don't whine when you're not.' He paused for a second, then added, ‘Any
more
questions?'

And the silence which answered him was almost deafening.

Looking along the platform, Blackstone saw a small group of officers who had arrived on the same train, and who had been met by a young second lieutenant. The officers, he noted, were not asking for something to drink. But then they didn't need to – because an orderly, with a tray of drinks in his hand, had already satisfied that requirement.

The second lieutenant – who couldn't have been more than twenty or twenty-one – noticed Blackstone standing there, and detached himself from the group.

‘Are you the chap from Scotland Yard?' he asked, brusquely.

‘Yes, I'm the “chap” from Scotland Yard,' Blackstone agreed.

The lieutenant seemed outraged by the response.

‘I'm the chap from Scotland Yard,
sir
!' he barked.

‘Are you?' Blackstone asked, in a bemused tone. ‘I thought
I
was the copper. Still, I do get confused easily, so you're probably right.'

‘Now listen here, my good man  . . .' the lieutenant blustered.

‘And there's no need to call me “sir”, even though, strictly speaking, I probably hold a higher rank in the police than you do in the army,' Blackstone interrupted him.

‘I  . . . I  . . .' the lieutenant began.

‘Are you my escort?' Blackstone asked.

‘Your escort?' the lieutenant repeated, as if he could hardly believe the cheek of the man. ‘You don't have an
escort
. You're to march with the men to the reserve trench, and once you get there, you're to find an officer to report to.'

Well, that certainly put him in his place, Blackstone thought.

Following the bobbing paraffin lamps which the sergeants held up in front of them, the new arrivals marched through the dark suburbs of the town and soon were out in open countryside.

For the first mile or so, they heard little but the tramp-tramp-tramp of their own boots, though occasionally one of the men would cough or whisper something to the man nearest to him. Then, as they got closer to the front, they heard a low rumbling sound – the sort of noise a great beast might make as it lay there, slowly dying.

They marched on, and the sound grew louder and angrier, and now there were sudden flashes of light exploding through the darkness.

The sergeant at the head of the column stopped, and turned around.

‘Ten minutes tobacco rest!' he bawled.

Some of the young soldiers took off their packs before sitting down, but the majority simply sank awkwardly to the ground with the packs still in place.

They had already learned a second important thing about war, Blackstone thought – it wasn't just the fighting which was exhausting, it was the whole bloody business!

He was lighting up a cigarette when he heard a voice to his left say, ‘I'm sorry about what happened earlier. I should never have been so bleeding rude to a man who could probably half-kill me without even breaking into a sweat.'

‘You should never be so bleeding rude to anybody at all, Mick,' Blackstone said.

‘You're right,' the young soldier admitted. ‘But it was the way you were looking at me in that carriage that got me all upset, you see.'