One Good Turn (4 page)

'Got a decent arm on you, have you, sir?' Stubbs asked. 'First eleven were you, sir?'

'As a matter of fact . . .' Something in the blank tone of Stubbs's voice must have got through to him. 'I say, are you taking this seriously? Because I can assure you, you're in enough trouble as it is.'

'In trouble?' Stubbs said. 'With you?' His voice dripped with contempt. 'We're drowning in mud. There's a machine gun wants to kill us. Bombs are dropping everywhere and you want me to be polite?'

'I want you to show respect. It's a matter of discipline,' the captain said. 'Now, where's your rifle?'

'Lost it, sir. It came off when I was trying not to drown.'

The captain looked at him closely. 'Listen to me, man. I'm going to be frank with you. This is your only chance to wipe the slate clean. I know there's a good man in there, Stubbs. I'm going to trust you. I'm going to give you my Webley pistol. Now it kicks like a mule, but it can stop an elephant. What do you say? Do you think you can repay my trust and be the man I know you can be?'

Stubbs looked into the captain's eyes. 'You're right, sir. This is my chance. Let me prove to you what sort of chap I really am.'

'I knew I could count on you,' the captain said. 'Well done. Are you clear what you've got to do?'

'Yes sir.' The captain handed Stubbs the Webley, crawled to the top of the crater, while Stubbs slid about ten feet away.

'When I shout "Now".'

The officer laid his hand grenades out in front of him, pulled the pin out of one of them and shouted, 'Now!' Stubbs watched him stand, pull his arm back and lob the grenade. When the bomb was in mid-air, Stubbs shot him.

The captain had not been exaggerating. The kick from the pistol almost broke Stubbs's wrist, but the captain was knocked back a good two feet as the blunt lead bullet, almost half an inch across, slammed into him. Half a second later the grenade exploded and the machine gun fell silent. Stubbs waited, then pushed himself up, inch by inch. Black smoke was still drifting from the slit in the pillbox, and the gun's barrel was pointing limply at the ground.

Stubbs took a deep breath. 'Your luck's turned, Johnny boy,' he said to himself. The captain's last act would make his escape that much easier.

But now he had to get busy.

At the bottom of the crater, half in the water, his feet pointing at the sky, was a dead British soldier. With extreme care, Stubbs lowered himself down the side of the crater until he was on a level with the dead man's trouser cuffs. Then he started to haul him up. It seemed to take forever, because it was almost impossible to drag him up without slipping down. In the end, he took off his tunic, tied one sleeve to a tree trunk, looped the other round his wrist and was able to drag the body up the slope one-handed. Then he wedged the dead man's boots into a knot of tree roots to stop him slipping down again.

Now for the hard bit.

The body had no head. Stubbs closed his eyes and started to feel around the neck for his identity tag. Where was it?

His fingers scrabbled more desperately, cutting themselves on the man's broken spine. It was gone! The bastard's ID tag had slipped off.

Stubbs swore loudly. The tag was the first thing he needed if he was going to change identities. Still, all was not wasted. He needed another tunic, one without a sodding great white C painted on it.

His numb fingers started to work at the dead man's buttons.

The sounds of battle had moved away by the time Stubbs had finished. The other guy's tunic was a bit tight across the chest, but then you can't have everything. He looked at the captain and patted his chest. His fingers told him there was a nice fat wallet in there.

Stubbs's heart lifted, and he took this as a sign that Lady Luck was smiling on him again. But just as his fingers closed on the fine leather of the wallet, he felt the captain's hand grip his wrist with horrible, desperate strength.

'So, you're a thief as well.'

His words were distorted. Stubbs thought he had hit him in the chest, but the bullet must have been deflected upwards by something and smashed into his jaw. That's why the bastard wasn't dead. Stubbs tried to wrench his hand away but the wounded officer hung on.

Stubbs had been brought up on the streets, though. He brought his mouth up to the captain's broken jaw, bit down and started to worry it like a dog.

The captain screamed and let go. Stubbs pulled himself up on top of the officer, put his knees on his shoulders and started to smash his fists into his head.

It was pitch black in the cellar, but at last Private Christopher Ransom heard footsteps cross the room above him, and saw light appear in the gaps between the floorboards.

Ever since he had remembered who he was, he had been trying to attract someone's attention. Now he felt his way to the cellar steps, climbed them and started banging on the door with his fists.

Light appeared underneath it and a voice said: 'Stand back from the door or I'll shoot you.'

Ransom backed down the stairs. The door opened a chink, then wider. He saw the shape of the sergeant with a revolver in his hand.

'Bring that light!' he ordered.

Ransom saw the mud on his uniform and his drawn exhausted face. He seemed to be swaying from side to side.

'I'm sorry, Sarge,' he gabbled. 'I've been waiting all day and no one was here. I know who I am. I've remembered.'

The sergeant's eyes seemed to focus for the first time.

'What?' he asked.

'I know who I am. You remember, Sarge. At the trial they said I was John Stubbs or someone, but I'm not. I'm Private Christopher Ransom, Number 3 Section, B Battery, the 4th Artillery Brigade.'

'You know what?' the sergeant said.' I've just come back from Polygon Wood. They reckon 20,000 men have died there this summer and no one knows what their bloody names are. What makes you so special?'

'I know, sir, but –'

'Shut it, Private. If you can find out what happened and prove it, maybe you'll get the court to change its mind, but don't count on it. And don't think anyone's going to do anything about it tonight.'

And he slammed the door.

Ransom sank back onto his metal bed frame. For a minute despair overcame him again. The sergeant was right. With all that killing going on, why would anyone care about a case of mistaken identity – even if it was a matter of life and death. A rat ran across the floor and knocked against his foot. He made as if to kick it, and then stopped himself. No. The rat had as much right to life as he did.

What had happened? What had happened to Chris Ransom to turn him into John Stubbs? He forced his mind to go back in time.

He remembered being back in the stables after he had led his team back from the field guns. He had been badly shaken up by the events of the morning – the noise of the shells, the broken bodies and his own narrow escape – but he found comfort in brushing down the horses. This was not really his job, but the grooms were happy for him to do it. As Ransom brushed the mud from a horse's flanks, he felt as if he were cleaning his mind of the memories. He leaned his head against the great beast's chest, felt its warmth against his cheeks, heard the huge double drumbeat of his heart.

That was how Sergeant Mitchell found him.

'You got back, sir,' Ransom said.

'I got back. I had to shoot four horses: two wounded, two in the mud. I've got some good news for you though. Leave's been granted and I've got your pass.' He held up the sheet of paper. 'Yes, it's real. Better take it. Starts tomorrow – from noon on, you're a free man. Who knows, by the time you get back, the war might be over.' But instead of wheeling smartly and marching out, he stayed, shuffling from foot to foot.

Ransom felt he knew him well enough to ask: 'Everything all right, sir?'

'Not exactly. The water mains have been blown to buggery again and there are lads out there who haven't had a drink all day. Two days for some of them. There's a wagon hitched up to a couple of mules, but no one to drive it. The transport crew's all shot up and their replacements are tied up behind the lines. I'll not beat about the bush. It's unfair, what with leave coming up and all that, but I don't think there's another man in the company who could get our long-eared chums to the front through all this.'

Ransom noticed that he had not been asked in so many words if he would volunteer.

'Mules, Sarge?' If horses were called long-faced chums, mules were long-eared chums and much hated by one and all. Stubborn, stupid and slow, they made their drivers' lives as miserable as possible.

'That's the way it is.'

'That's a cruel twist of fate.'

'For someone.'

'Permission to volunteer, sir.'

'There's no . . . You don't have to . . .' For a second, the sergeant seemed lost for words. Then his spine stiffened. 'Permission granted, Private. Now listen. There's the big tank, and then we've added about fifty canteens of water on top. Get it to the front, unhitch it and come back. It's not your job to give the water out. You're more use here. Understood?'

'Yes, Sarge.'

'And don't be a hero, right?'

'Right, Sarge.'

To be honest, the mules weren't too bad. The lead one was saddled, but Ransom knew that they preferred to be led. Like men, if mules were asked to go somewhere, they wanted proof that the person doing the asking was prepared to make the effort.

For the first quarter-mile or so, the road was well protected by a low bank to the right. After that, it was in full view of the enemy, but with any luck, they'd be fully taken up dealing with the attack that was still going on. A bit of ground had been gained to the north of the bulge, and in the damp, still air ragged drifts of shell smoke wandered the landscape like ghosts.

Rain did not so much fall as drift around, as if it did not want to touch the ground. It gathered on the ears of the mules and on the rim of Ransom's helmet. He passed a long, straggling line of soldiers on their way back to barracks for a rest. Some of them asked for water, but were told to pipe down by their mates. 'Plenty where we're going. You get as far forward as you can, mate. The lads at the front need all the water they can get.'

He trudged on. Shells from British field guns screamed low overhead. Shells from German guns shot back. Ransom put his head down and tramped on.

The next thing he knew, he was off the road, and flat on his back. It felt as if two bricks had clapped him on both ears. He couldn't hear a thing and his brain felt like jelly.

There was a mule moving weakly underneath him, and that was the only thing that stopped him from sinking. The other beast was lying on the duckboard, torn apart by a shell. He rolled over and launched himself across the mud towards the wagon. He just managed to grab hold of a wheel spoke and pull himself up.

His rifle was still in the wagon. He fed a round into the breech, shot the drowning mule, then wondered what to do – until he heard a little voice in his head.
The lads at the front need all the water they can get.

He loaded himself with canteens, first over one shoulder, then over the other. Then he headed down the road.

He was not sure where he was. Occasionally he came across street signs, crudely painted on scraps of wood: Park Lane, Piccadilly, Hellfire Corner. He came across bodies, some old and some new. He came to a ladder and climbed it, then immediately fell up to his knees in mud. He waded on. Bullets zipped past him, sending splatters of water into his face. Suddenly he realised that the strange, muddy shapes that broke up the surface of the mud were bodies. He went from one to the other. Not one was alive. The canteens weighed him down, making progress even harder. He saw a concrete pillbox in front of him. Its gun was silent. He was looking at it so hard that he almost fell into a large crater.

There he saw the strangest sight. In the crater were two living men, fighting hand to hand in the mud. They were British soldiers.

'Hey!' he shouted. 'Hey! Stop that.'

A bullet whizzed past his ear like a very fast wasp. He slid down into the crater, and began to work his way round towards the two men. By the time he reached them, one was definitely winning. He had climbed onto the other and was slamming his fists into him.

Ransom tapped him on the shoulder. Bloodshot eyes looked out from a blackened face.

'You don't want to do that, mate,' Ransom said.

The soldier tried to punch him. Ransom dodged easily and knocked the man to one side. The man fell into the mud, slid down into the water and started to try to crawl out. Ransom thought that was the best place for him, for the time being.

He turned the other man over, and cleared the mud from his mouth and nostrils. His mouth seemed to go halfway round his face in a terrible open wound. Ransom poured half a canteen of water onto it to get it clean, then lifted his head as gently as possible. He was concentrating so hard, that he did not notice that the other soldier had crawled out of the water and was now crouching behind him.

Ransom had just got some water into the wounded man's mouth, when the other soldier hit him on the back of the head and a black starburst exploded in his brain.

Stubbs looked at the soldier he had just hit. He was covered with canteens. Seeing them reminded him just how thirsty he was. He pulled one free, drank deeply and felt life coming back into his limbs.

How did that funny old poem go that he had been forced to learn at school?

But if it comes to slaughter You will do your work on water, An' you'll lick the bloomin' boots of 'im

that's got it.

The poem was all about a faithful water carrier called Gunga Din, who died saving the life of a British soldier somewhere out in the Empire. Stubbs, however, was not the type to do any boot-licking. He sat down with a canteen, drank again, and thought about stealing the young captain's dog tag, but rejected the idea. There was no way he could pass himself off as an officer. Officers were in a sort of club where everyone knew everyone else, and he would be found out really quickly.

That left the other guy. He squatted over his chest and pulled his ID free. Ransom. Private Christopher Ransom. He'd have to remember that.

He started going through his pockets. When he pulled out the leave pass, he thought he was dreaming.

This was his big chance! No, this was more than his big chance! This was a sign! This was where his life started all over again!

With a leave pass, he didn't need to rejoin his old unit – or the other poor bastard's old unit. With the pass in one pocket and the officer's cash in the other, he could go back from the front, back through the lines and straight to a French hotel. He'd seen their hotels while he'd been on the march, seen the soldiers eating outside on small metal tables. He thought of beer, steak, a nice pile of spuds done the French way in little crispy strips. He thought of bottles of wine. Christ, with the money he had he could even afford champagne, a bath, a young lady . . .

Funny how life turned out, he thought. He took another swig of water before emptying the rest onto the head of the water carrier. Then he snapped off his identity chain for good measure.

'You're a better man than I am, Private Ransom,' he said. 'But that doesn't count for anything out here.'

He patted his pockets and looked up.

You couldn't mistake a German coal-scuttle helmet, and there were four of them on the rim of the crater with real German faces underneath. They were no more than fifteen feet away and they had spotted him. One of them pointed. Stubbs searched around for a weapon. Then he noticed something that made his blood run cold.

Three of the Germans were carrying rifles. The other was holding a long thin pipe with flame dripping out of the end. Two canisters were strapped to his back and made his shape seem lumpy and ugly.

A flame-thrower! After gas, that was every soldier's nightmare. The German flamethrower units had a death's head patch sewn to their uniforms. It was an act of bravado. If they were captured, they were shot on the spot.

Stubbs saw fire spurt from the flame-thrower, and then go out. It had misfired. He looked for the revolver. It was there, on the other side of the officer. But just as he grabbed the gun, someone tugged on his leg. He looked over his shoulder. The water carrier had come round and he was hanging onto his ankle grimly.

Stubbs tried to stand. The water carrier would not let go and came up with him. Above him, on the rim of the crater, he saw the flames shoot out again and then again.

The German pointed the thrower down the crater as the other soldiers aimed their rifles. They all fired together just as Stubbs, with a huge effort, hauled the water carrier to his feet and forced him round so he formed a living shield. The flames enclosed them. Stubbs felt his hands cook as the burning oil hit them. He screamed and whirled round. A bullet hit him in the leg. Another took him in the chest. Then the flames were all around him and the pain flashed into a bright cloak of horror as his nerve endings fried.

This is so unfair, he thought. So unfair.

And he died.