Easterleigh Hall (42 page)

By, his homing birds would do well for the army, and those that survived would be home by Christmas, along with everyone else, or so his da said. Jack squeezed his way along the ferry, listening to the singing, seeing some men playing cards, some writing letters home already, some just talking, sitting on the deck propped up against their packs. At the prow the officers were assembled, clustering around the colonel.

Jack stood quietly watching them, rolling another cigarette, lighting it behind his cupped hand. Such fancy clothes these professional soldiers wore, like those who had already gone to fight, and die. What the hell was going to happen to make it stop by Christmas? He looked back again at his own platoon, all previously Territorials. They were considered trained. Bollocks. They knew nothing of war, any more than he did. He smoked his cigarette down as far as he could, before pinching it dead. Dead. Words could take on different meanings, he thought.

As they approached the French coast at Boulogne the men crammed the rails, peering through the Channel mists at the marquees on the clifftop. They stretched along the cliffs and straggled up the slopes of the hills.

‘That's where we're headed, is it?' Bernie was pointing to the encampments.

‘Ours is not to know, or to reason why, lad,' Martin said, his colour on the verge of coming back now that the end of the torture was in sight. Behind them Jack wondered if this was where Grace would end up, because some marquees bore the sign of the Red Cross. It gave him comfort to think that she'd be there, safe but near.

‘Ours is just to do or die,' Bernie finished for Martin.

They left port immediately, heading they knew not where, knowing that they just had to put one foot in front of the other and march along the slippery smooth cobbles out of the port and through one village after another, twisting their ankles and suffering huge blisters, feeling the sun beating down, stepping aside to let pass the London buses, London taxis, lorries and carts which were travelling back towards the coast with the injured.

They passed roadside cafes but didn't enter, and on the second day they entrained into a cattle truck and the old steam engine clunked them along for thirty miles, and they all slept. Jack dreamed of forming fours, right wheels, left wheels, and excavating trenches, and marching, marching until they thought as one. With one exception: Roger still wheeled right when everyone wheeled left, with a pigeon in each pocket. Jack woke with a start as the train pulled into a siding, glad to be awake, glad that Roger stayed near Brampton, as a valet should. What a world, that a servant came to war with his master.

They slept in a barn that night, ignoring the rats and shovelling down bully beef. Towards the end of the next day they slogged through Frameries, and the townsfolk cheered them. They were to sleep in another barn and Jack watched as Captain Williams gathered the officers together, and they all handed over cash. They bought a barrel of beer for the men, and for a moment Jack felt he would follow the beggars to the ends of the earth and through whatever was thrown at them.

The field kitchen made soup and on top of that they had bully beef again. Their blisters tended, they were on the road again the next day and could hear the guns, and the firing. Not long now, then. Jack and Martin exchanged a look. Around them stood slag heaps with the sun turning them to gold. ‘Just like home,' Jack murmured. Simon called, keeping in step as he looked back, ‘Where're we going, Jack?' Jack increased his pace and caught up with the front ranks. ‘Not sure the officers know, so why should I?'

They stopped at another village that night, and the officers were treated to smacking kisses on either cheek, courtesy of the hairy mayor. In return they stepped back a pace and shook hands firmly, well out of reach of such foreign behaviour. The men laughed, though they did it quietly.

In response to an order from Captain Williams Jack told the men to dig trenches on the far side of some unused rail tracks, though exhaustion was dragging at them. ‘Come on, we're getting closer to wherever it is we're going. You can hear the big guns, so who knows what's going to happen? Get digging.'

Some villagers came to help as Brampton inspected the work so far. Jack said politely,
‘Merci, mais non.'
He explained to them in French that they must not assist the men, for if the Germans came they could be shot as
francs-tireurs
.

Brampton listened closely, and when the villagers returned to their houses he said, ‘Your French is very good, Forbes.'

‘Aye, me sister taught me. She needs it for menus, and recipes, doesn't she, and her . . . Well, she just needs it. Grace Manton taught her. She's almost fluent.'

As the men settled down for the night Auberon sat outside the officers' billet in the local chateau having a last cigarette and watching the flashes from the guns, and listening to the distant thumps. He thought of all the secrets he and Ver had discussed in the kitchen at Easterleigh, and ran his hand over his face. It had never occurred to him that kitchen staff would understand French. Presumably Mrs Moore had knowledge of the language too, as she had also been inherited from Miss Manton.

He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, looking out at the trees in the distance. What colossal arrogance to assume that those downstairs, and miners and soldiers, knew nothing. He ran his hand through his hair. Had Evie fed Jack news of Auberon's response to potential strikes? Had she told of their father's behaviour? Was it she who had learned from Roger about the intended purchase of the Froggett houses? He started laughing now, softly. What a bloody amazing girl.

They marched a further five miles the next day into Belgium, towards the sound of artillery fire, leaving the trenches unused. It was 23rd August and they stopped in a village for a break. The villagers brought out bread and oil, with tomatoes. The town ahead was Mons, the mayor told Jack. It meant nothing to him. The men thanked the villagers and Jack sprinkled salt on the oil, squinting against the sun. Had there ever been such a wonderful summer? The fields were full of butterflies and heavy with wild flowers, scabious, cow parsley and poppies, such a profusion of poppies. Whatever was to come, it didn't half knock working at the coalface into a cocked hat.

He dug in his battledress pocket for the stub of a pencil he carried and wrote a quick note to Evie, telling her that he'd dobbed her in: Auberon knew that she spoke French. He told her that he loved her and to give his love to Tim, Mam and Da, and Millie, of course. He crammed it back into his pocket as Brampton approached. ‘Tell the men to prepare for action, Sergeant.'

There it was, straight out of the blue. Jack stared again at the butterflies flitting from flower to flower, weaving in between the long sun-baked grass, at the new green growth showing amongst the stubble of the more distant cornfields. He sprang to his feet. ‘Yes sir.' His salute was smart.

They deployed immediately, marching from the village towards the heavy guns which were firing rapidly now. German shells were landing half a mile in front and they kept moving towards them. ‘Steady,' called Lieutenant Brampton, taking the lead. Ahead Captain Williams led the 4th Battalion, sitting astride his horse as though he was taking a stroll in Hyde Park. Lieutenant Brampton walked. He wouldn't bring Prancer, Jack had heard, in case he was hurt, but he'd been taken anyway. The talk was the daft beggar was trying to find him.

They passed a private leading a pack mule laden with ammunition. Two minutes later a shell landed. The mule and the man were gone. The blast caused them to stagger and duck. Shrapnel spattered. ‘Steady,' roared Jack and Brampton together. Martin, marching at Simon's shoulder, called, ‘By, lad, we could do with more than this beggar of a cap. A saucepan would be a grand idea.' He was humming, just like he used to in the cage.

Jack grunted. ‘One day they'll think of something better, probably when the whole bloody thing is over.'

The incoming shells were slower than those of the British artillery, which was equipped for rapid firing. They were trotting now, their packs banging against their backs, until they flung themselves into the shallow trenches that fed into those of the 5th Battalion's. ‘Took your bleedin' time,' a private said, ducking as more shells went over. Somewhere a church bell was ringing.

Jack and his platoon prepared to fire, lying across the front of their trench, elbows propping them up, rifle butts on shoulders. ‘Hold your fire,' came the order. They held as the first patrol of German cavalry they had ever seen charged out of the wood to the left of them towards the line. For a moment it seemed like a storybook come to life, unreal, but then fear drenched Jack like nothing he had ever known, his mouth dried, his fingers froze. Closer they came. Closer. ‘Fire,' Brampton screamed and now Jack was pressing the trigger.

These were men he was firing at. Living breathing men, and horses, but they were charging him and his marras. He pulled the trigger again, felt the recoil. Again and again he fired and wondered how he could live with the guilt of killing, but by the end of an hour that guilt was gone. It was survival that mattered. All day they fought, their barrels red-hot, as the Germans came across in waves only to be repulsed.

The battalion had been trained in rapid rifle fire and the rifles sounded more like machine guns. There was smoke, the sound of trains roaring through the air which were in reality shells. There were the screams, the neighs of horses. A British shell landed on a charging line of Hun cavalry. Carnage ensued. The cavalry gave way now to infantry who were approaching across the open ground only to be mown down, but there were so many, far too many.

Brampton came along the trench, panic writ large on his face, his hands shaking. He ran crouching towards Jack. ‘Hold the line, I'm going for help, Sergeant,' he yelled.

Jack turned from his firing position to block his path. ‘No you're not, sir. You can send someone else, but you mustn't leave the line.' He could smell the terror of the man, almost taste it. It was contagious. If he ran, some of the men would run. Brampton hesitated, a shell crashed to the rear, a rifle shot zipped past their heads. ‘Get down, you silly beggars,' shouted Martin, lying on his side, reloading before flinging himself back on to his belly again, and firing, firing, firing, and humming.

Brampton still hesitated, as pale as a ghost. He tried to sidestep Jack. ‘Please sir. No,' Jack said firmly. For a moment neither man moved, and then Brampton nodded, his eyes on Jack. ‘Thank you, Sergeant, you're quite right.' He ran back, crouching low, calling encouragement to the men. ‘Hold firm. C Company will hold until we are told otherwise.'

They waited for orders and still the firing continued, still the mules arrived with ammunition, still the shelling continued, and the screaming of the injured, men and beasts. ‘All well, Sergeant?' Brampton asked as he doubled over checking the line, slowly this time. He turned at a cry. ‘Stretcher-bearer here,' he called. Charlie, Bernie's cousin, was hit.

‘Everything's bloody marvellous, sir,' Martin panted, grinning at Jack, his face smudged with sweat and dirt.

All day the call went out for stretcher-bearers. All day they held the line and those that were pitmen stayed calm because they were used to living with injury and death, and this in turn helped others. With the evening the order came, at last, for them to retire. ‘Overwhelming forces but we've diverted some attention from the French, which was the aim,' Brampton murmured to Jack as they slipped out of the trench after dusk had fallen, their legs like shaking dead weights.

Jack led one faction while Martin held the Germans in a rearguard action. In their turn, Jack's men set up their position and gave covering fire while Martin's unit leapfrogged it, running at a crouch, their faces dirty and exhausted. Again and again they did it, leapfrogging, running and then holding the Germans. They stumbled over the dead, and dragged along a wounded private until they reached the road and heaved him into a London taxi that raced off. At last the Germans faded as the British artillery roared and smashed and held them. Jack's platoon rallied in the village where they had eaten bread and oil and tomatoes a lifetime ago, shaking themselves down as though they were dogs, and now there were refugees passing them, streaming west, mingling with the soldiers while Jack hunted for Martin.

He couldn't see him. He chased from man to man. ‘Where's your corporal? Where the hell is your corporal?' He gripped one man. It was Bernie. ‘Where's the daft beggar?'

Bernie looked at the ground, his shoulders slumped. ‘Shell took his head, Jack. There were two others killed. It was bedlam. Nothing we could do.'

‘Don't be so bloody daft, now's not the time. Where's the bugger?' Jack looked around, searching for Martin. Bernie grabbed his tunic. ‘He's dead, man. He's bloody dead.'

He wouldn't be dead. He couldn't be. They were marras. He ran from group to group, until Simon found him near the barn going from man to man. He held him while he struggled. ‘He's gone, Jack.'

Jack wrenched free and started to run back to the crashing guns, to the frontline, skirting around the barn, heading off down the cobbled street alongside which men were sitting, hunched over Woodbines, or asleep, just for a moment, as total exhaustion took hold. Simon was hot on his heels, so close but he couldn't stop because Martin was out there. He swerved to get to the field, tucking in behind a broken cart, but then he was brought down by a thump on his back. He'd been charged, damn well charged by someone, but he had to get to Martin.

It was Simon who had charged and now he grabbed Jack's legs as he tried to scramble to his feet. The spokes of the cartwheel were broken. Some bugger should mend them. He lifted his fist to beat Simon from him, but Brampton's voice ground out from behind him. ‘Enough, Sergeant. Get back to the men, Simon.' Brampton grabbed Jack, who was pulling away. ‘Stand,' he hissed. ‘Stand, man. You have to leave your corporal, we have witnesses to his death. He'll be buried.'