The Soldier's Song (18 page)

They all knew damn well that it was suicide to attack before the barrage lifted, but the colonel wasn’t having any of it. He had his RSM arrested for trying to tell him the right time and then climbed up on the parapet himself and threatened the men with his revolver if they wouldn’t follow him. When they still refused to come out, he shot two of them and told the others they would get the same if they didn’t attack. They must have decided that they were safer out than in because the first few platoons got out of the trench and followed him into the fire. The captain on Metcalfe’s right contrived to knock down his trench ladders and saved his men that way. Metcalfe led his own men over the top but then signalled them to lie down a few yards out, with the barrage bursting all around. It seemed to bother him that he let the others go off ahead without following them, but I am sure he did the right thing.

As it was, he lost about half a dozen before the barrage finished right on time. But by then the two leading platoons had vanished and the attack was cancelled. Three men were brought back in that night, all badly wounded – and there was no sign of the colonel. Somebody came down from Brigade HQ to get Metcalfe’s statement so the colonel could be recommended for a medal and Metcalfe told him to get stuffed, whereupon he was deemed in need of a rest and sent here.

It’s just as well, because he really is worn out. His nerves are completely shattered; he jumps a mile when somebody lets off a bomb on the practice ranges, and if a door slams he is on the ground in an instant, covering his head with his hands. God knows what will become of him when they send him back to the line.

6 November 1916

Thank God I’m leaving here at last! I have transport papers to join the Second Dublins at Locre, near Ypres, and I can’t get away soon enough! It was bad enough when it was merely dull, but now things have taken a turn for the worse. I’ve been appointed to the court martial of a Private Kelly, who is accused of cowardice in the face of the enemy.

If he’s found guilty, the penalty is death. The penalty is death for most offences, but it is usually commuted for lesser crimes. Not this one, however. Depending upon the outcome of our deliberations, Kelly could find himself on the wrong end of a firing squad. The worst of it is that I suspect I’m only sitting on his case because he is Irish. Since the rebellion and in particular the execution of the leaders – the staff is terrified of a mutiny amongst the Irish regiments. It wouldn’t take much to set it off, because things are pretty glum after the Somme. So I suppose if they have to shoot another Irishman they are making damn sure to have one of his own pass sentence on him this time.

However, I’m hopeful it won’t come to that. It seems to me to be a pretty clear case of what they call ‘shell shock’. Metcalfe, who is also sitting, agrees with me. Kelly’s record was impeccable up to now and he saw some very hard fighting on the Somme. He was the only survivor of a platoon wiped out at Ginchy and I suspect his guilt at surviving preyed on his mind and eventually caused him to crack. I can sympathize with that. On a calm night like this, with no sound but the burr of the lamp and the quiet clinking of Metcalfe (he sleeps in full battle gear, with his steel helmet on and his gas mask clutched to his chest), I can somehow feel the presence of the dead men I commanded. Why them and not me? That’s the big question. How long can my luck hold? This afternoon Kelly gave evidence on his own behalf, telling how he hid amongst the corpses of his friends as the German counterattack washed over him. He was blubbing and crying and barely coherent, but I understood exactly what he meant.

10 November 1916

Tomorrow evening I leave for the front. The court martial has finished hearing evidence and all that remains is for the three of us to deliver our verdict. Metcalfe and I agree that Kelly is a genuine case and should be in hospital rather than on trial for his life. Unfortunately, the court president is not of the same mind. He is a curmudgeonly old swine who has probably never been in earshot of the front and he doesn’t believe in shell shock; says Kelly is only shamming. It sickens me to think this idiot could cost the poor man his life! We argued it out for hours this afternoon, but the old bugger wouldn’t budge an inch. We will reconvene again in the morning for another go, but unless we can bring the major around to our way of thinking, poor Kelly will be taken out and shot.

II
November
1916

I write this while I wait for the train to take me to Poperinghe. I’m commanding a replacement draft as far as the front and it is a relief to be on the move at last.

At least Kelly’s court martial came out well. He has been sent home as medically unfit – not a very glorious end to his career but better than being shot. It was good old Metcalfe who carried the day. He went riding with the major this morning and brought him back much more amenable to our verdict. I don’t know what was said but I only hope Metcalfe didn’t threaten him with his revolver!

Another bright spot is the letter that came for me before I left camp. It’s from Lillian – I haven’t opened it yet, but I recognize her handwriting on the envelope. I’m saving it for later. This draughty bloody train station isn’t exactly the nicest of places, but I’m sure I’ll see worse over the next few days and I’ll probably need something to cheer me up.

It is getting cold now. Sitting on this blacked-out platform, it’s hard not to dwell on morbid thoughts. Dark questions chase one another through my mind. I wonder how well I will hold up against the line? How long will I last? How will it end? The odds are not good. Before this I managed not to think too much about death, but it seems much closer now. Hospital trains unload here and the detritus of war
fl
ows past us. They come packed in wagons marked
Homines 40 Chevaux 8
. Most are French, with their dull blue greatcoats draped over the stretchers and they look shattered; filthy, sunken-cheeked, and with deep black eyes that fix on us as they are carried past. I can’t help wondering if I will end up like that.

* * *

The train took all night and half the morning to reach Poperinghe. Then it was a convoy of rattling buses to the Sixteenth Division HQ in Locre, a few miles south-west of Ypres. Stephen watched the flat countryside out of the window. Belgium now, not France. The anteroom of the war: waterlogged fields dimpled with shell craters and every house turned into a billet or headquarters.

Locre was nothing but headquarters. Forms, paperwork, waiting. Evening was coming on when he finally got rid of his draft and got out. The wintry air pinched his face as he marched alone through the dusk. The sky was clear, turning gunmetal blue and starry and promising frost for the morning. Every few hundred yards he passed camouflaged artillery batteries that made the ground throb when they fired, and in the ditches between them were little groups of artillerymen living in ramshackle shelters, the smell of their evening brew wafting out on the still air.

Siege Farm loomed out of the dying light. Two big barns and half a farmhouse. A shell had demolished the other half and the remains had been picked clean for firewood. Even the farmyard gate had been pinched, though when Stephen reached the gateway he found a man sitting against the pillar, handcuffed to one of the hinge-pins. Despite the indignity, he had managed to make himself comfortable, with a folded gas cape to sit on and a mug of tea in his free hand.

‘Good evening to you, sir.’ He nodded, hastily setting down the mug and rattling his cuffs. ‘You’ll excuse me if I don’t salute.’

It took Stephen a moment to realize that this was field punish-ment number one in its humane form.
The prisoner shall be attached to a fixed object for two hours per day . . .
At Etaples it had been applied more rigorously, with the offenders spread-eagled across cartwheels or gun limbers for two hours at a time. The punishment was intended to humiliate rather than inflict pain, but here he detected only mild embarrassment. Still, he decided not to mention it.

‘Is this C Company of the Second Dublins?’ he asked, though he’d already noted the man’s Irish accent, and he couldn’t help thinking there was something familiar about his face.

‘It is indeed, sir.’ The prisoner jerked his free thumb over his shoulder, ‘You’ll find Captain Wilson around the back.’

Stephen thanked him and walked into the yard. He smelled the warm waft of fresh straw from the open barns and suddenly felt very sleepy. What he wouldn’t give to curl up in there for a few hours. He hadn’t slept more than three hours on the train, with endless stops in the middle of nowhere and so many changes in unlit sidings that he spent half the journey craning his head out of the window to make sure they were still travelling north. Nor had he had time to shave, and his only sustenance was the stale bread roll he had bought at Amiens.

There was an armchair set out beside the back door of the farm. Beside it stood a gramophone on an upturned crate, and beside that a coat-stand that leaned drunkenly against the wall because one of its legs was missing. An officer with captain’s crowns sat in the armchair. He appeared to be reading, but was slouched so low with his head bent over his book that he could as easily have been asleep. He did not stir at Stephen’s approach.

‘I beg your pardon, sir.’

‘Aye.’ The single syllable was drawled without looking up, but Stephen sprang into his salute in any case.

‘Lieutenant Ryan, reporting for duty, sir.’

‘Is that a fact?’

The officer turned a page and twisted the book to try and catch some of the yellow lantern light that spilled out of the window above his head. He still had not looked up. Stephen studied him carefully as he waited, standing stiffly to attention. The most conspicuous thing was the purple and white ribbon of the Military Cross on his left breast. Apart from that, it was hard to make anything out. His face was half hidden under the brim of his cap, but he appeared older than Stephen, perhaps forty or so. He was very slight, with bony hands and long fingers, and what hair he could see was jet black. Was that an Ulster accent? It was hard to tell.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Do you like poetry, lieutenant?’

Definitely an Ulster accent. But he still hadn’t looked up. He was poring over the page intently.

‘Poetry, sir?’ Stephen gingerly brought down his saluting hand. ‘A little. I can’t say I know much about it. Mathematics is more my line.’

‘Mathematics?’ At last, he looked up from the book and Stephen found himself fixed by a pair of lively brown eyes set deep in a sallow face and shaded by bushy black eyebrows. He stiffened automatically as they looked him up and down attentively. ‘Sure wouldn’t some people say that’s just poetry with numbers?’

A good analogy, he had to admit. Stephen warmed to him. ‘Yes, sir, I suppose it is.’

‘Well, you’re very welcome, lieutenant. Mervyn Wilson, at your service.’ He extended a bony hand that felt like a bundle of wires, then turned and roared into the empty doorway, ‘Corporal Power! A chair for Lieutenant Ryan!’

A wizened little man with a leathery face and iron-grey hair slicked to his skull came silently out of the doorway carrying a kitchen chair and, without a word or a look at either of them, placed it behind Stephen. He was on his way back inside when Wilson stopped him with an upraised finger.

‘A pot of tea and a sandwich for the lieutenant, please, corporal, and you may pack up when you’re done.’

‘Very good, sir,’ Power murmured, bowed and vanished back inside.

‘The company’s gone to the divisional baths,’ Wilson said, producing a pipe and stuffing it from a leather pouch. ‘But they’ll be back in a wee while. We’re going back up to the line tonight, so you should make the best of your sandwich.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ Stephen said, and sat down uncertainly.

‘Your accent tells me you’re from Dublin, Mr Ryan. Am I right?’

‘Yes, sir. Born and bred.’

‘Indeed? Were you there for the rebellion?’

Well, that was blunt. He had his cap half off his head and tried to marshal his thoughts as he set it in his lap. Dangerous waters. He wondered how much Wilson already knew.

‘Yes, sir, I was there.’

‘What did you make of it?’

‘I think it was a mistake, sir.’

‘Hmm.’ Wilson nodded and carefully lit his pipe, puffing contentedly for a few moments.

‘I want to say, sir—’ Stephen began, but Wilson held up his hand.

‘Say no more, lieutenant. Politics and religion are the surest ways to a disagreement around here, and I’ll not have them bandied around. Our fight is with the Germans, not each other, and I advise you to keep it that way or we’ll end up with anarchy on our hands. Is that clear, lieutenant?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘You said mathematics is more your line. Did you study it in Dublin?’

‘I did, sir. At Trinity College.’

‘Trinity?’ Wilson nodded slowly, as if this fact was significant, but then his face brightened and he held up the book he had been reading. ‘I like poetry myself. It’s a passion I share with my wife. She sends me books from time to time, to try and alleviate the horror, as she says. This one is by a chap called Hopkins. Have you ever read anything by Hopkins, Mr Ryan?’

‘The poet Hopkins, sir? I believe I did. Something about a bird, as I recall.’

‘Ah yes, “The Windhover”.’ Wilson nodded and smiled, as if the name alone was enough to conjure up the fondest recollection. Stephen thought it safe to offer up the only other thing he knew about the poet Hopkins.