Starshine (30 page)

Always, he looked around him with cold eyes for Company Sergeant Major Jack Flanagan but he found no trace of him. The 1st Warwicks were obviously in some other part of the line. It was of no consequence, he could afford to wait.

However, the letter he was awaiting, from Bertie, came at last. It had been held up with the rest of the mail because the battalion was engaged in non-stop fighting. It was scrawled in pencil and told him that the execution date had been fixed and that it was to be at 5.45 in the morning. ‘I shall never get up in time!’ wailed Bertie. He would not tell Jim the date for he did not want him to be distracted on that day. He had had a ‘wonderful letter from the lass’, which gave him strength. He was reconciled to death and was looking forward to ‘a lovely bit of starshine’. He loved Jim and continued to pray for his safety and long life after the war.

He ended it, ‘with so much love from your old friend, comrade and champion marlie player …’

Hickman read it crouched against the side of a crater, just below the final ridge that was Passchendaele. Tears poured down his cheeks and his shoulders heaved but no one noticed because it was, of course,
pouring with rain and, once again, they were being shelled.

Jim’s company was among the Canadians who, on 10th November, finally entered the battered ruins of the village. It had taken 156 days, from that great explosion at Messines, to reach this objective, with the Germans fighting heroically all the way. The Third Battle of Ypres, as it came to be called, had cost thousands of lives – post-war estimates put them at up to three hundred thousand. The truth was that it was impossible to count all the dead for so many of them had literally disappeared into the mud. Certainly, as Hickman looked around him on that November morning, he hardly recognised anyone left of the company with whom he had left Pop six weeks or so ago.

They were relieved, at last, and trudged back down again through the black, stinking cemetery that the Salient had become. Waiting for him at the relief camp were four letters. The first was a cryptic note from an ADC to Field Marshal Haig, rebuking him for bothering the commander-in-chief at a critical moment in the war on a matter which had already been dealt with ‘satisfactorily’. The second was from Horatio Bottomley MP, sympathising with him over the fate of Corporal Murphy but saying that he could not possibly intercede on individual cases. However, CSM Hickman would be glad to hear that he, Bottomley, had every intention of calling in the House of Commons for an official commission into the workings of courts martial once the war was over.

The third, at last, was from Polly, from whom he had not heard since her letter of despair. He opened it with trembling figures, for he was sure that her silence meant that she had not forgiven him for not protecting Bertie. It was a poignant, if short, missive. She apologised for not having written for so long and hoped – oh, how she hoped! – that he was alive and well. She had felt just too upset to write to anyone. Of course, the MP had declined to help because he,
too, could not interfere in individual cases. Now, however, she had become reconciled to Bertie’s fate (he had written her a heart-rending letter just before the end) and she was writing now to say that she in no way blamed Jim for their friend’s death and that she loved him desperately and prayed for him every day.

Jim kissed the letter and folded it carefully and put it into his wallet. Then, puzzled, for he did not recognise the handwriting, he opened the fourth letter. It was from a Sergeant Martin Burgess, of his old company in the 1st Bn Warwicks – ah, yes. The schoolmaster! He had obviously been promoted.

Burgess began by sympathising with Hickman for Bertie’s death, for he knew – as did everyone in the company – how close they had been. He, Burgess, had been wounded and on recovering miles behind the lines at a place called Oostbeke, had been ordered – with other recovering men – to form part of the twelve-man squad to end the life of a condemned deserter. To his shock he had found that the man to be executed was Corporal Murphy. He had tried to fall out of the detail on compassionate grounds but was refused. So he had been there when Bertie had died.

Jim took a deep breath and looked away from the letter for a moment. Then he regained his composure and returned to it. Burgess was writing, he emphasised, to reassure Hickman that his old friend had died ‘splendidly – head up and refusing the blindfold’. He had even been singing when the bullets struck home: ‘something about falling in love at seventeen with eyes of tender blue …’

Shoulders heaving, Jim crumpled the letter and put it in his pocket.

At the camp, Hickman was awarded fourteen days’ leave. He could have used it for a return home, but, on reflection, he decided against crossing the Channel. Firstly, he felt apprehensive about meeting Polly just yet. He yearned to see her (lusted?) but, although he knew it was irrational, he knew he could not face her yet. Bertie’s death was too close and the wound was still open. It was a risk not returning when he had the chance, for, despite her assurances, there might be other men back home who had come into her life or might still do so. After all, it had been almost a year since they had last met. Yet he knew he must take the risk. Let things settle, he reflected.

The other, more compelling reason, was that he had things to do in Belgium.

He had always worried about how the news would reach Bertie’s father. Polly, he knew, did most of his reading for him. It was likely, then, that when the formal letter informing Mr Murphy of his son’s
death had reached him, she would have intercepted it. What would she have done? She had made no mention of it in her letters since. There might still be time to retrieve the situation. He made his way, therefore, to the tent that was battalion headquarters and, casually walking by, established that its only occupant was a clerk, pecking away at a noisy typewriter. Good. The colonel and the adjutant were away.

By this time, Hickman had established a reputation in the battalion as a fearsome fighter and a man not to be trifled with, despite his age. The clerk looked up, then, a touch apprehensively. ‘Mornin’, Sarn’t Major.’

‘Morning, Jones.’ Jim gave him a warm smile. ‘Are you in the market for earning ten francs on that bloody machine?’

‘Wouldn’t mind, sir. Wouldn’t mind at all. Is it legal?’

‘Perfectly legal. Bit of private business that’s all. Bending the rules slightly but you will stay out of it. Look. I would like you to type this letter. Don’t use battalion notepaper – even if you’ve got it, which I doubt. No. Just type on plain stuff, typin’ the battalion name on the top. I’ve scribbled out what I want you to say.’ He pointed. ‘Put lst Battalion, Royal Warwickshire Regiment on the top, with “somewhere in Flanders” as the address. Date it a month ago. It’s to go to Mr P. Murphy, number 62, Turners Lane, Aston, Birmingham 6. Here, I’ve written it out but I’ll read it to you in case you can’t read my writing.’

Jim took a quick look to make sure that no one was approaching the tent and read:

‘I’ll sign it. Do the envelope and I’ll find the stamp.’

Jones’s jaw dropped. ‘Ooh, Sarn’t Major,’ he said, ‘I’m not sure I should do this. It’s impersonatin’ an officer, ain’t it?’

‘No, it’s not, because Captain Smith doesn’t exist. Look, Jones, this bloke was my mate. They shot him a month ago for desertion. He was not a coward, he was just ill. I don’t want his father – who can’t read or write – to know about the way he died and I am gambling that I can get this letter to be read to him by a neighbour before the real one gets there. But for God’s sake don’t tell the colonel or the adjutant or we shall all be in the shit. Can you do it today?’

A smile crept over the clerk’s face. ‘Yes, sir. Colonel and adjutant won’t be back until late this afternoon.’

‘Good lad. Here’s the ten francs. You might have saved an old man’s tears. I’ll be back at three. Get typing.’

Hickman then walked to the railway station and bought himself a ticket to Oostbeke and scribbled a letter of explanation to Polly to cover the fake letter about Bertie’s death. He just hoped that she had intercepted anything that had come earlier and could make the substitution. It was worth a try. Later that day he picked up Jones’s effort, impeccably typed, and slipped it into the letter to Polly and posted it.

The journey to Oostbeke did not take long – nowhere did in Belgium – and he found it to be a small village, near divisional headquarters, with a large military police presence. Could it be the centre for executions? He thrust the thought aside. For God’s sake there couldn’t be
that
many surely? There did seem, however, to be an army padre in residence, who turned out to be Roman Catholic.

A small man with a gentle manner, he had officiated at Bertie’s death, giving him the last rites and praying with him right to the end.

‘He was your friend, Sergeant Major?’ he enquired.

‘My dearest friend. He should not have been shot. He was not a deserter or a coward, he was ill. But the army felt it had to kill him.’

The priest gave a sigh. ‘Ah yes, my son. I can see you are angry. But so many men meet their maker unjustly in this war. At least Corporal Murphy met his with equanimity, with great faith and fortitude.’

Hickman resisted the urge to shout ‘Balls!’ and asked, ‘Can you show me where he is buried?’

‘Yes. I’m afraid it’s not consecrated ground. But it’s a charming little glade just outside the village. We use it for … er … this sort of thing. I can take you there now.’

It was, indeed, a quiet spot, which, in summer, must have been gently shaded and green. Now, it merely looked sombre. Seven or eight mounds of earth, topped with plain wooden crosses, were tucked away in one corner. The priest took Jim to one with freshly turned soil.

‘This is your friend,’ he said. ‘I’ll leave you alone for I’m sure you’ll want to pray quietly. You can find me back in the office if you want me.’

‘Thank you, Father.’

But Jim did not pray. He stood looking down for more than a minute, then scuffed the earth with his boot. ‘We’ll soon have you out of here, son,’ he said.

Back in the village, he found that there were two churches, both Catholic, of course. The first was red-bricked, huge and gloomy and it gave out an image of respectability and religious rectitude. He walked on until, at the far end of the little community, he found a smaller church, built of stone and looking as though it had been aged when the Conqueror sailed for Hastings. It had a tranquil churchyard fringed with yew trees and containing many headstones. The heavy wooden door to the church yielded to the latch and Jim entered. It was, predictably, dark but, even on this autumn day, quite warm and welcoming. It was also empty.

Outside, a noticeboard gave the name of the priest as Georges Picard but no address for him. And would he speak English? Hickman accosted a passing woman and, pointing to the notice, asked, questioningly,
‘Le père. Monsieur Picard?’

Puzzled, she nodded in acquiescence, then, realising the point of the question, indicated a house that stood by the churchyard. Luckily, Father Picard
was
at home and, even more fortunately, he spoke English.

‘Come in.’ He waved Hickman towards an overstuffed armchair, selected a much more austere seat for himself and leant forward. ‘How can I help you?’ The priest had a long, thin face with jowls that reminded Jim of a worried hound, but his eyes – as blue as Bertie’s – were kind.

Hickman had long since decided that he would not dissemble but rather tell the story of Bertie in some detail and then make his request as a logical sequence at the end. He did so now: ‘You see, Father, he has been buried, without a headstone, in unconsecrated ground in a wood not far from here.’ He slapped a finger into the palm of his hand to emphasise his last points. ‘He was, first of all, not a coward or a deserter, merely a sick man. Secondly, he was a good Catholic –
the army priest will verify that – and it is not right that he is buried in unconsecrated ground.’

The priest’s lugubrious face broke into a smile. ‘And thirdly, he was your friend. Yes?’

‘We grew up together and this would never have happened had I been with him when he cracked. But I was wounded and out of the line and was not there to help him.’

‘Hmmm. And what do you want of me, my son?’

‘Father, I would like to … er … dig up my friend and have him buried in your lovely churchyard here, with a proper headstone erected above his grave. And I would like you to conduct a proper Catholic burial service for him. I will pay all costs. I have money. I have been saving from my army pay. Here.’ He took out his wallet and put one hundred and twenty francs on the table. ‘I hope this will pay for moving my friend and his reburial. I will send more money to you for the headstone. Please, Father, say that you will help me, because I know that the army authorities will not do so and I would wish it to be done quickly before my leave expires.’

Father Picard was silent for a moment, his hands folded on his lap, and Jim’s heart fell. He realised that what he was asking was difficult. It would demand the priest’s intrusion into the affairs of the British army, which at this place, was virtually an occupying force.

‘I think,’ mused the priest, ‘that this … er … removal would have to be done at night, so that we do not upset my colleagues in your army.’ He gave a sudden, disarming grin. ‘We would be grave robbers in the dark, eh?’

Hickman grinned back, in huge relief. ‘Yes, but Bertie would see the joke,’ he said. ‘Father, would your local gravediggers do this, do you think? I would be with them, of course.’

Picard picked up the money. He selected a few of the notes. ‘For
twenty francs – not all this money, my son – they would do anything.’ He slapped his knees and roared with laughter. Jim offered up a silent prayer that he had found probably the only grave-robbing priest in the whole of France – and one with a sense of humour!

He offered the remaining notes back to Hickman. ‘You keep this for the moment – no, I take another ten for the offertory box – and, when the stone is cut and erected you will send what is necessary to me to pay the mason. We have a good man in the village but you must tell me what it is you want to put on the … er … tablet, eh?’

Jim fumbled in his pocket. ‘I have it here,’ he said, ‘laid out as I would like it. Here.’ He handed it to the priest, who read it out aloud:

‘In Loving Memory of a Brave British Soldier

Bertram Murphy

1896–1917

Still Alive in Our Hearts’

‘
Ah oui,
’ muttered Picard. ‘Very fine.’

Hickman picked up the remaining notes and handed them back to the priest. ‘But you must keep these for the stone,’ he said. ‘I am due to return to the front soon. I have been lucky for three years but this luck is due to run out and I could be killed. You must have this to pay the mason. Will you need more, do you think?’

‘I think not. But I tell you if it is necessary.’

‘When can we do the … dirty deed?’

The priest roared with laughter again. ‘Ah, it should be when the moon is – what do you say in English? – riding high in a black sky. No, no. We must joke no more. This is not something funny we do. The good Lord would approve, I know. You do this in his name, my son, I know that. Now, I think, perhaps tonight. Where do you sleep?’

‘Nowhere at the moment.’

‘There is a good auberge at the end of the lane that goes by the side
of the church here. Go there and say I sent you. They will probably double the price then,’ the great roar of laughter came again, ‘but they will find you a bed. I will send you a message when I have talked to my gravediggers.’ Then he slapped his knee. ‘Ah, I am a poor host. I did not offer an Englishman tea.’

Hickman rose. ‘No thank you, Father,’ he said. ‘I have already taken too much of your time. I cannot say how much I am grateful to you—’

The priest interrupted. ‘Too early for thanks yet. We may end in jail first.’ And he laughed again.

Jim found the inn, a tiny building with an old sign showing a keg of ale hanging outside its entrance. The bed was found and he ordered ham and bread and a flagon of light Belgian beer and thanked his lucky stars again that he had found Father Picard, surely the only priest who would contemplate opening up a grave in the middle of the night and dodging the British military police in moving the body elsewhere. Yes. How Bertie would have chuckled – and Polly, for that matter!

The message came at six o’clock. Jim was to rendezvous at the church at 8 p.m. Moving a body after midnight, obviously, was rather too much of a risk for the priest. And so it proved.

‘We cannot move at night,’ he explained when they met, ‘because it is – what you say? – the criminals’ hour. But at eight or nine, we could be moving chairs for the church meeting tomorrow. I do not mind if we lie. God will understand we do it for one of his good servants. Here, the men have already dug a grave. I show you.’

They picked their way through the dark churchyard to a corner, near where a lilac tree would bloom in spring. The diggers had dug out a deep grave, piling the earth to the side. It was an ideal spot for a man deserted by the army for which he had fought. Hickman was satisfied.

As the church clock struck eight, half a dozen old chairs were loaded onto a cart pulled by a sad old horse and covered in tarpaulin. Then they set out for the glade, the two diggers in their corduroys, woollen jackets and berets riding on the cart, the priest and Jim walking by its side. Picard wore his wide-brimmed clerical hat and a black raincoat over his cassock and Hickman his uniform greatcoat and army cap. He had brought mufti with him but had decided against wearing it. If they met the military police, his warrant officer’s crown could be useful.

The night, indeed, was dark, if not stormy, and black clouds raced across the sky. It was, Jim reflected, the right sort of conditions for exhuming a body on one side of a village and reinterring it on the other. A shiver ran through him. But it would be worse on the return journey, he knew. No one spoke until they entered the glade.