In Distant Fields (53 page)

After which all he remembered was that he was on a ship, he knew it because he could hear the drone of the turbines, feel the motion of the vessel, and he could even hear seagulls. He never had liked their sound, but now he loved it, because it could only mean one thing.

He was going home to Blighty.

Over a mile down the line from where Tully and Sam had been hit, the men under the command of Major Cecil Milborne were fighting a losing battle as wave after wave of them were sent over the top to meet shells that either hit them directly, or killed them in groups, until finally Major Milborne was left with a handful of soldiers – two of them nursing the sort of
wounds that would induce another officer to call off the attempted assault.

Now they sat huddled in their trench as the bombardment seemed to increase in its intensity, staring at the major they had long ago nicknamed ‘Backside', since he was now infamous among the men for backing on to that particular part of his anatomy.

‘Right, you lot!' Cecil Milborne suddenly hollered, raising the whistle he blew to signal them over the top. ‘Over you go, and fast!'

He blew his whistle loudly. The men didn't move.

‘You heard me!' Cecil screamed. ‘Get going! Go on! Out!'

By what seemed suddenly to be tacit agreement not one of them moved.

Cecil undid his holster and in his customary manner went for his revolver, but he was too late. Before he had time to put a hand to his pistol, he was dead.

The man responsible looked round at his companions. As one they rose to stand beside him.

‘Pity about that. But if you will stick your head over the top that's what ‘appens, Major, that's what ‘appens, eh?'

They all nodded.

‘The way I feel about 'im he might as well be a Hun!'

One by one they took understandable pleasure in making sure that Cecil Milborne was dead.

The incident was reported quite simply. Major
Cecil Milborne was found dead in his trench from a rifle shot to his head – a sniper, naturally.

As for the soldier who shot him, as second in command, he led the rest of the men over the top, and by some miracle not only did they survive their passage through no man's land, but so did he, only to find himself on top of an enemy machine-gun position, a nest he cleared out single-handed with grenades, pistol and bayonet, before being blown unharmed by an exploding British shell into an enemy trench, which, as luck would have it, had just been taken by soldiers from his division.

For his heroism under fire, above and beyond the call of duty, Captain William Wilkinson was awarded the Victoria Cross.

Maude accepted all the sympathies extended to her for the loss of her husband, grateful for her friends' kindnesses while knowing that Cecil had been less than popular. She understood from his regiment that he had died in action at the Somme with a record of diligent if unremarkable service. ‘Backside' earned no medals, and went sadly unmissed.

But while there was sad news about her husband there was good news about Bertie, who had not only survived the horrors of the latest battle but had apparently distinguished himself and was now in line for an MC. When she learned the news Maude found it all too difficult to possess her soul in patience until they could see each other again. Meanwhile, Elizabeth and she clung to Pug's letters, unable to quite believe that he had somehow remained unscathed, as had Scrap, and the two hunters.

*    *    *

I cannot tell you all how ineffably drear it is staring at the same old roots and branches of these wretchedly blasted trees and the same vast potholes in the ground. Some say we're oh so lucky to be in a safe salient, if there is any such a thing, which I have me doubts! But I say socks to that – give a chap a new vista and a new set of blasted trees to stare at before he loses his marbles! I'm not complaining because I'm still here, and where you read how many who ain't any more, you must get down on your knees and thank the Lord above us. We have the odd flurry of activity every so often. We rush out, shoot a few trees, and rush back again – only joking – we actually took two Hun trenches last week with no losses, only to lose them again two days later with one loss. Seems Jerry can't stand his land being took – soon as you take a yard he comes and snatches it back and yells That's Mein! (Good joke, eh?) Other things happen too, like just along the line from us there are some Taffs, a fine bunch of lads who've seen a fair bit of fighting so far (lucky devs) and they got moved up closer to the fray a few days ago. It was the most amazing thing because someone said a lot of them had been in a choir or somesuch – although I think that's a bit of guesswork – but I do know why and so would you if you'd heard them up the road. All the way back we heard them – and that's a fair old way. It was a beautifully still day with what little breeze there was blowing our way –
and we saw them, marching off with rifles slung and they were all singing – not like our rum bunch who can hardly sing the National Anthem so as you'd recognise it (you should hear them after dark sometimes – groan). These Taffs were amazing. They were singing ‘Men of Harlech' and that other one – ‘Bread of Heaven'? No – ‘Guide me, O Thou Great Redeemer' to give it the proper name – and they were singing in this magnificent harmony. It just filled the air. I cannot describe what it was like. One of the men – one of the hardest men I've ever met and one you're
very
glad is on your side! – he was sitting there with these tears running down his stubble. He wasn't the only one. Up the road they went – and they ran into fire – maybe an ambush – I don't know what – and yet they were still singing – or so it seemed. This is a
very
rum business, this business of war.

Anyway, enough for now. My love to everyone – especially you Bethy, and Mamma.

Your devoted

Pug

There was news about Tully too – more news about the state of his injuries after Jossy had learned that he had been hit.

‘And lucky to have survived and all,' he told Partita and Kitty when the three of them were catching up on the news with Jossy in the old tack room. ‘Good thing is he's not lost no limbs –
least not yet, though they think he might have a bit o'gas gangrene in one of his legs. We'll see. He says t'medics are A1 and should have medals – and I must say I agree, havin' been to see him – and don't ask me ‘bout London because I'll only tell you – except for that hospital. But I think he's done with scrappin' now. Leastways I ‘opes so. Now there's only young Ben to fuss me head about.'

‘And how is Ben, Jossy?' Partita wondered. ‘Last heard of, he was doing great things with some gunners or other, was he not?'

‘He is that, Lady Partita,' Jossy said. ‘And just like Tully now, he's doin' his bit, he's seein' to the ‘orses.'

‘Tully seein' to ‘orses? Some things never change,' Partita remarked, as they walked back to the house.

‘Thank heavens,' Kitty said, adding with a smile, ‘the more things that don't, the happier we will all be.'

‘Nice day, Mamma. No one we know in the lists this morning,' Partita told Circe a little later.

Circe continued filling in patients' records without looking up. She was all too aware that Partita and Kitty were in the habit of keeping the morning newspapers from her until they had read through the lists for themselves, just in case. It was quite touching really, if a little exasperating, because she knew they were only trying to protect her, that they didn't want her perhaps finding out about Gussie that way.
Really no point in telling them it was quite unnecessary; she would always know if Gussie was dead. A mother always did know about her children without being told.

‘How long when someone's missing, Papa, before they presume – you know – that the person is not coming back?' Partita asked her father the following week when he returned to Bauders for what he was in the habit of calling ‘a bit of a refill'.

‘Indeterminate, I am afraid, Partita,' he replied, carefully folding over his newspaper to study the accuracy of the war reportage. ‘I am inclined to think they gallop at it. Son of a friend was reported missing the other week, then declared ‘presumed dead' about a week later, only to be found to be still alive when a member of his family noted from his bank statements he'd just cashed a cheque the week before. Dash of a thing! He'd been taken prisoner and needing some things, cashed some money. Fair enough, but the WO still haven't made his survival formal, even though the family have had a letter from the poor chap from some camp or other. So all in all, no real answer to that, my dear. How long's a piece of string really.'

‘You're thinking there's still a chance that Peregrine may be alive, aren't you, darling?' Circe wondered, looking up from her knitting, an art at which she now quite excelled, turning out socks and gloves by the half-dozen every week.

‘Don't see why we should abandon all hope,' Partita replied. ‘And it's funny really, because I had this dream last night – a really strange one.'

‘Do tell.'

‘Other people's dreams?' Partita smiled. ‘Best way to put your audience to sleep.'

‘Nonsense,' Circe said. ‘Look at us rabbits.'

‘Rabbits?' Kitty wondered.

‘Family for all ears,' Partita told her. ‘All right. Very well. See what you make of this. I dreamed Valentine was putting on a play but it wasn't here. In fact it wasn't in England at all. It was in this big white room that looked like a hospital ward except it wasn't, because all the people in the beds weren't
in
the beds but sitting on them, or lying on them, all fully dressed. Not in uniform, but in all sorts of costumes. Then Valentine was there and they all clapped him. He was completely disguised in some sort of dusky makeup and pirate clothes, would you believe? And he opened this trap door and Peregrine popped up – as someone would on a stage – and he was carrying a big heavy bag on his back that turned out to be coal. I know that because he asked me if I'd like some coal, and I said yes – more than anything. Then there was Harry, somewhere completely different, toting some sort of klaxon in a large bus that had a Red Cross on the side and he leaned out and shouted that everything must be written down – don't ask me why – but he kept insisting, shouting everything! Everything! Then Peregrine got on the bus, paid
Harry a fare and waved at me through a window.'

‘What an extraordinary dream,' said Kitty, after they had all listened in silence. ‘I wonder what it means?'

‘It could mean that Peregrine is coming home,' Partita said, trying to sound as off hand as possible. ‘Or not – I don't know.'

‘Always stumped by dreams myself,' the Duke remarked, ‘what they're trying to tell us – because they must be trying to tell us something – and where all the people come from. All these people one dreams up. You end up wondering who the devil they all are, really you do.'

‘So let's just keep hoping, shall we?' Circe said. ‘And praying. I still have every hope.'

‘Not like Peregrine's mother,' Partita said gloomily. ‘I hear she's now gone into official mourning.'

‘Then she'll have to come out of it, won't she,' the Duke stated, returning to his newspaper, ‘when young Peregrine comes marching home.'

At the end of the following week a letter addressed to ‘The Lady Partita Knowle' arrived from abroad, not from any of the usual correspondents but in a hand that no one recognised.

‘It could be from one of our guests, I suppose?' asked the Duchess.

‘It's not what Al used to call a “greeny” – an uncensored letter – and it's not been through the
censor either. In fact, it hasn't a military mark on it. So it must be from a civilian.'

‘Abroad?' Kitty wondered.

‘I know,' Partita said, looking deliberately mysterious. ‘It's an ardent admirer, someone who doesn't wish to be known!'

‘Well?' Circe demanded after Partita had opened the letter and was seen to be staring at it in some amazement.

‘It is actually anonymous,' Partita told her. ‘Signed “
A wellwisher
”.'

‘I wonder what this wellwisher wants?'

Kitty looked from Partita to the Duchess. ‘It must be from one of the patients, surely?'

‘Looks like it's someone who's off his chump,' Partita replied. ‘It's all just gibberish.'

At first it appeared to be just two pages of absolute nonsense, yet it was all carefully set out in backwards-sloping writing and set in paragraphs as if it all meant something.

‘Which it obviously does not,' Kitty put in, confirming the thought expressed by all three of them. ‘So I suppose it's some sort of a joke.'

‘D' you think so?' Partita wondered, taking the letter back to study it closely. ‘Because I don't. Why would anyone go to the trouble of writing pure gibberish as a joke? Or even as an offence? If they wanted to be rude they'd just be rude, as it's anonymous; or if they wanted to be funny, there'd be some point. But for someone to send an absolutely
pointless
letter can only mean one thing – that it has a point, perhaps an important one.'

‘So what do you think, darling?' Circe wondered.

‘I think,' Partita said slowly, examining the letter even more closely, ‘I think it's in code. Not only that – I think it is written in the dot code.'

They all looked at each other excitedly, while Partita fetched a pencil and pad from a desk, before explaining what the code was, and how it worked.

‘Almeric taught me about codes years ago, and so did Perry,' she explained. ‘Al learned it at Eton from a master who'd served in the Boer War and used to use it in his letters home. Apparently, some spies somewhere or other belonging to some country or other – Russia, I think it was actually – used it all the time till we cracked it. It's very simple – even simpler than the substitution code, you know – rot thirteen?'