Blackstone and the Great War (7 page)

So even here, there was no respite from the war, Blackstone thought. Even here, where the weary and disillusioned men should have been able to snatch a little rest, they were being put through pointless drills which would be of no use to them at all, once they came under the deadly scything action of hot machine-gun fire.

Shaking his head, Blackstone slowly walked up the steep cobbled street which led to the church. The houses he passed were all half-timbered, and several of their lower floors had been converted into quaint business premises – a bakery, a butcher's, a pharmacy, a doctor's surgery, and a modest cafe – though all of them were now empty.

Several of the houses had all but been destroyed by shells fired in earlier battles, and even those that remained standing were pockmarked with bullet holes. And there were no civilians to be seen – no pretty girls, no gnarled peasants, no crafty shopkeepers – just men in khaki uniforms who wandered aimlessly, finally free of their pointless duties for a while, but with no avenues open to them to really enjoy that freedom.

At the top of the street he reached a square, with the church on one side of it, and the
mairie
– which was now flying the Union Flag instead of the Tricolour – directly opposite.

But it was not the
mairie
– nor the church – which immediately captured his attention. Instead, his gaze was drawn to the two-wheeled cart at the centre of the square – next to the village fountain – and to the soldier who seemed to have almost become a part of it.

The cart, known in military parlance as a limber, had been designed for moving heavy artillery, and so its wheels were over six feet high. And it was against one of these wheels that the man had been spreadeagled, his wrists tied to two of the upper spokes, his ankles to two of the lower ones.

‘Drunk and disorderly?' Blackstone asked, as he approached the man.

‘That's right,' the soldier agreed, and he grinned sheepishly, though he was obviously in some discomfort. ‘Still, there's worse things than Field Punishment Number One, ain't there? Hanging here's not so bad, once you get used to it – and they could have made the case for having me shot, if they'd been of a mind to – so I've no complaints. And they'll be cutting me down in a few hours.'

‘And tying you up again tomorrow morning,' Blackstone said.

‘That's the way it goes,' the soldier said philosophically, and if he'd had sufficient freedom of movement to shrug, he would probably have done just that. ‘Twenty-eight days, they gave me. I did three days before we went down to the front line, and I've done another six since we got back here. So, if they don't send us into the trenches again, I've got another –' he did a quick calculation – ‘another nineteen to do. Course, if they
do
send us back – and I get killed – the army will just have to whistle for the rest of the punishment.'

There was a part of Blackstone that admired the man for his spirit of endurance, and part of him that was furious at the soldier's casual acceptance of the brutality meted out to him. But there was no point in expressing either of these emotions – because this was not
his
army or
his
war.

‘Can I get you anything?' he asked.

The soldier grinned again. ‘A pint of best London bitter would be much appreciated,' he said, ‘but I'll settle for a drink of water from the fountain.'

‘Get away from that man!' screamed a voice behind them, and turning around, Blackstone saw a redcap corporal standing in the doorway of the
mairie
.

Blackstone laid his carpet bag on the ground, walked across to the fountain, scooped up some water in his cupped hands, and returned to the man on the wheel.

‘Didn't you hear me?' the redcap bawled as he strode furiously across the square. ‘I told you to get away from that man!'

Blackstone held his hands up
,
and the man on the wheel drank greedily.

The redcap had drawn level with them now.

‘Can't you understand the King's English, you ignorant bloody Frog?' he demanded. ‘You shouldn't even be here in this village – let alone be making contact with the prisoner!'

He gave Blackstone a rough push, and seemed surprised when the other man held his ground.

‘Now listen,' he continued, raising his fist threateningly, ‘if you don't do what I say, you could get hurt.'

Blackstone balled up his own fists.

‘Touch me again, and I'll break your nose,' he promised.

Perhaps it was his tone of calm confidence that caused the redcap to lower his arm, or perhaps it was simply the fact that he realized he was dealing with a fellow countryman.

‘You're English!' he said.

‘You're as sharp as a needle aren't you?' Blackstone asked.

The redcap frowned. ‘You're not that copper from New Scotland Yard, are you?' he asked, incredulously.

‘Yes.'

‘I expected somebody a bit smarter-looking.'

‘If you were expecting me, I assume that makes you the welcoming committee,' Blackstone said.

The redcap's frown deepened. ‘I'm Corporal Johnson, the bloke what's been ordered to show you your billet, but you ain't welcome in any shape or form,' he said. ‘The MFP are the law out here on the Western Front, an' we don't like no civilian coming in and telling us how to do our job.'

Blackstone ran his eyes quickly up and down the other man. Johnson was around twenty-three or twenty-four, he guessed. He was of average height and had the sort of face which would not stand out in even a small crowd. His eyes suggested steadiness, but no great intelligence. He was someone you could put in charge of any routine task with confidence – but if you were expecting any leaps of imagination from him, you were almost bound to be disappointed.

‘Did you hear what I said,' the corporal repeated. ‘We don't want no civilians coming in and telling us how to do our job.'

‘You do
know
that your superiors are trying to pin Lieutenant Fortesque's murder on one of your own people, don't you?' Blackstone asked.

‘One of my own people?' the corporal repeated, as if Blackstone had suddenly switched to a foreign language. ‘What do you mean by that?'

‘They want to put the blame on someone from the ranks.'

‘And how are they
my own people
? I'm no common soldier – I'm a corporal,' Johnson said, tapping his stripes with two fingers, in case Blackstone hadn't noticed them. ‘These mean that I'm a non-commissioned
officer
.'

‘And your old man – or is it your uncle? – is a porter at Billingsgate Fish Market,' Blackstone said.

Johnson looked thunderstruck.

‘Who told you  . . . how did you know  . . . ?' he began.

I know because your accent gives you away, Blackstone thought – because there are just a few nuances in it that pin you down to Billingsgate, and if that's where you're from, it would be a bloody miracle if somebody in your family
didn't
work in what's possibly the biggest fish market in the world.

‘Having been given the right to sew two stripes on your sleeve doesn't cut you off from the lads you grew up with – not unless you let it,' he said.

But Johnson had stopped listening to him, and was clearly turning over in his mind something he'd heard – but not fully understood – earlier.

‘Hang on,' he said finally. ‘If you think they want to
pin
the murder on one of the enlisted men, then that means that you
don't
think it was an enlisted man that did it.'

‘I knew you'd get there in the end,' Blackstone said.

Johnson's brow furrowed again, as if so much thinking was starting to hurt his brain.

‘But if it wasn't one of the men who killed Lieutenant Fortesque, then it has to be  . . . it has to be  . . .'

‘There's a good chance it was one of the officers,' Blackstone supplied.

‘But it can't be!' Johnson protested.

‘Why not?'

‘Because  . . . because they're all gentlemen.'

It was terribly sad when a man chose to betray his own class in return for a few scraps from his master's table, Blackstone thought.

But it was more than sad when the man accepted the mythology that the master used to justify his own privilege.

In fact, it was bloody tragic.

‘I'd like you to show me to my billet,' he said.

‘It's this way,' Johnson said sullenly, turning to cross the square.

‘My bag, man!' Blackstone barked in his best sergeant's voice. ‘Pick up my bag!'

Johnson turned again, confused.

‘Uh  . . . sorry, sir,' he said, bending down to pick up the bag.

And that made Blackstone feel sadder still – but at least it seemed to have amused the man strapped to the wheel.

They passed a smithy – its forge stone-cold, its anvil silent – and a dress shop inhabited solely by lonely naked mannequins.

They turned a corner, and saw at least two dozen soldiers lined up impatiently outside an otherwise nondescript house.

‘That's the local knocking shop,' Johnson said.

Blackstone smiled. ‘Really?' he asked. ‘If you hadn't told me, I'd never have guessed.'

‘Three pox-ridden whores servicing the whole bloody army,' Johnson continued. ‘None of them ever last more than a couple of weeks, and they must have insides like an infantryman's boot to be there for even that long, because sometimes they work round the clock.'

‘Have you ever taken the opportunity to visit the place yourself?' Blackstone asked casually.

‘Me? Go in there? No!' Johnson said vehemently. ‘Like I told you, I'm a non-commissioned officer.'

And once more, he could not resist the temptation to touch his stripes.

‘Never been there yourself,' Blackstone mused. ‘Yet you still know there are
three
prostitutes inside. I suppose that's because you've inspected the place as part of your official duties.'

‘That's right,' Johnson agreed – far too eagerly.

‘Or could it be that when there's a troop rotation going on – when you know there's no chance there'll be any enlisted men there – you take the opportunity to slip in yourself?'

Johnson sniffed. ‘Most of them
are
pox-ridden whores,' he said, ‘but there's just a few – now and again – who are very nice girls.'

The house in which Blackstone had been assigned his billet was at the end of a steep cobbled street, almost at the point at which the village petered out. None of the houses close to it showed any signs of habitation, and he thought it was more than likely that this one had been chosen because it was as far away from the officers' billets as it was geographically possible to be.

Blackstone's room was furnished with a camp bed, two army blankets, an oil lamp, an enamel bowl and jug, a table and two rickety chairs.

‘It ain't up to the standard of the Ritz – but then neither are you,' Corporal Johnson said.

‘Just put my bag on the bed,' Blackstone told him.

Johnson looked down at the carpet bag in his left hand, and a puzzled expression came to his face – as if he were suddenly asking himself how the hell it had ever got there in the first place. Then he dropped the bag on to the floor, and a cloud of dust flew into the air.

‘Are all the surviving members of Lieutenant Fortesque's platoon in St Denis?' Blackstone asked.

‘As far as I know, they are,' Johnson replied, indifferently.

‘I need to talk to them,' Blackstone told him. ‘I'd like them brought here within the hour.'

‘Would you now?' Johnson asked. ‘Well, it can't be done – not without Captain Huxton's permission. And he doesn't like making hasty decisions. Sometimes, he'll think about them for days.'

‘In other words, he'll block me any way he can,' Blackstone said.

‘We'll
all
block you any way we can,' Johnson replied. ‘I told you before, we don't want you here.'

‘You are aware that I'm the personal representative of General Fortesque, aren't you?' Blackstone asked.

‘I did hear something about that.'

‘And that if I have to send a telegram to the General, there'll be consequences.'

Johnson chuckled. ‘The General's not as powerful as you might think,' he said. ‘Captain Carstairs will jump through hoops for him – because they're from the same regiment. But Captain Huxton works for the Provost Marshal's office, and he's not quite so easily bullied. He might have to give way in the end, but he can stall for days, if he has to.'

‘Ah, I see!' Blackstone said, as if he'd suddenly realized there'd been a misunderstanding. ‘You thought the telegram that I'd send would be about Captain Huxton.'

‘Wouldn't it?'

‘No, it would be about
you
.'

‘Me?'

‘That's right. I'll say that you haven't been cooperating with me, and ask him to use his influence in the War Office to have you transferred from the redcaps to something a little less pleasant – say, the sanitary engineers.'

‘You wouldn't!' Johnson gasped.

‘I would,' Blackstone countered. ‘And do you seriously think that there's anybody in the War Office who's prepared to stand up to a general, just to save an insignificant little corporal from spending the rest of the war shovelling shit out of cesspits?'

‘I  . . . what if the captain finds out?' Johnson asked worriedly.

‘He won't find out,' Blackstone assured him. ‘He's the kind of man who couldn't find his own arsehole, even if you gave him a map.'

‘But if he
does
find out,' Johnson persisted, ‘you will tell him I had no choice in the matter, won't you? You'll say that you
ordered
me to bring the men to you?'