The Soldier's Song (19 page)

‘I believe he was a Jesuit, sir. Hopkins, I mean, not the bird. It wasn’t a metaphorical bird.’

Wilson’s smile faded and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Even if he wouldn’t talk about religion, it was clear enough where he stood.

‘Aye, he was that,’ he said, and Stephen was relieved to see Corporal Power wafting smoothly out of the kitchen, carrying an empty ammunition crate with two mugs of tea and a plate of bacon sandwiches cut in triangles. He set it down between them.

‘We have no sugar, just at present, sir.’ He spoke studiously to the air between Stephen and Wilson. ‘But the milk is fresh this morning and I have put up the rest of the bacon to bring with us.’

‘Very good, corporal. You may pack up the gramophone as well when you finish in the kitchen.’

Power vanished back inside and Wilson took one of the triangular sandwiches, holding it up for Stephen’s inspection. It was an immaculate creation of fine white bread and pink bacon, with the crusts neatly trimmed off.

‘Power worked at the Savoy Grill before the war, lieutenant. His value is above rubies.’ Popping the tiny sandwich into his mouth he asked, ‘You think we are a little eccentric, lieutenant? Not quite as you had expected?’

‘It is not exactly what I am used to, sir.’

‘Aye, well, I find it’s best to make use of what little advantages present themselves – there’s no point in going about a thing half-arsed.’

They sat contentedly for a few moments until there was a rushing sound through the air over their heads, and then the distant crump-crump-crump of shells landing somewhere down the road. Stephen looked in that direction for a few moments, then returned to his tea.

‘Counter battery fire,’ Wilson observed. ‘Their artillery shells our artillery. No doubt we’ll return the compliment in a few minutes.’ He gave Stephen a knowing look. ‘Since it doesn’t appear to disturb you much, I dare say you’ve seen action before.’

‘Yes, sir, I was at Suvla Bay with the Seventh Battalion.’

‘Were you, by God?’ Wilson suddenly became animated, leaning forward with his eyes blazing, ‘You fought against the Turks?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Some people thought they wouldn’t put up much of a fight, but I reckon you know different. Would I be right in that, lieutenant?’

‘Yes, sir. They fought like blazes. We lost a lot of men.’

‘Aye, aye. I dare say you did. And how come—?’ Wilson broke off and cocked his ear to one side. ‘Here they come.’

He leapt out of his chair and Stephen stood up beside him, even though he could neither see nor hear anything. But then he heard it – the rhythmic crunch of many feet marching in step. Looking down the road, he saw a dim shape moving along it, and this gradually resolved itself into a tight phalanx of men that wheeled into the yard, bringing the faint smell of soap flakes and DDT. The two officers who stood at the head of the column came over and saluted Wilson. One wore glasses and the other didn’t, but apart from that Stephen thought they might have been twins. Very young, very eager.

‘Good evening, gentlemen. All went well I trust,’ Wilson said, returning their salute.

‘Yes, sir. All washed and deloused and ready for action,’ said the one with glasses.

‘Very good. Allow me to introduce Lieutenant Ryan. He will be taking over Mr Ingram’s platoon. Mr Ryan, Lieutenants Hollis and Gardner.’

Stephen made a mental note. The one with the glasses was Hollis, the other one Gardner. From the ‘How do you do’ as they shook hands in turn, he gathered that they were both English.

‘Is Mr Devereux not with you?’ Wilson asked mildly.

‘Devereux?’ Hollis and Gardner both blushed, and Stephen realized he wasn’t far behind them. At first he wondered if he’d heard right. Then, could it really be him?

‘Er . . . no, sir.’ Hollis answered at last, ‘I’m afraid we parted company. Mr Devereux gave us to understand that he had some business to attend to at Division and that he would return here directly.’

‘Probably hob-nobbing with that bloody infernal uncle of his,’ Wilson growled, rolling his eyes. Stephen was certain of it now, but still he said nothing. Better to see which way the wind was blowing first.

‘Well, we cannot afford to wait for him. Let the men have something to eat and be ready to march in . . .’ Wilson looked at his wristwatch by the light from the kitchen window, ‘. . . one hour. Mr Hollis, kindly show Mr Ryan where his platoon is quartered. Mr Gardner, have that villain Kinsella unlocked from the gate and bring him to me.’

‘Very good sir!’

Hollis led him towards the larger of the two barns. He didn’t say anything, but Stephen could feel his eyes on him as they crossed the yard. The options for small talk were limited, and even though he could feel one question burning in his mind, he decided to ask the more conventional one.

‘What happened to Ingram, my predecessor?’

‘Johnny? Oh, he was shot by one of our lot,’ Hollis answered cheerfully. ‘It was dreadfully bad luck, really. Ingram was an awfully nice chap. He took a patrol out one night but when the sentries changed they weren’t told we had men out. One of them saw something moving and, well, that was that. Got him through both legs. Still, it’s for the best if you ask me. He had a wife and a little girl, so he’s better off out of it. He’s back in Blighty now, and he probably won’t have much of a limp.’

‘And what about Lieutenant Devereux?’ he asked diffidently, ‘I used to know a Devereux, back in Dublin.’

‘Oh really? Our Devereux’s from Dublin. Stocky chap? Rugger player? Engaged to a girl, oh, what’s her name . . . ?’

‘Mary?’

‘Yes, that’s him. Is he a friend of yours?’

Stephen smiled to himself. ‘I wouldn’t say that.’

‘Well, that’s probably just as well, because the boss
hates
him.’

Here we go again.

It was the same, only different. The same slightly nauseous feeling – what he had thought was seasickness before. Butterflies in the stomach, cold feet, a nervous tension that heightened the senses. The same look in the men’s faces.
They feel it too.
But everything else was different. No sun helmets or shorts here. It
was
cold, and their breath clouded the air above them as they formed up in the farmyard. He saw woollen caps, scarves and sheepskin jerkins. They were used to this. They’d lived this life for months – years, some of them. But they still got that feeling.

‘All present and correct, sir,’ Sergeant Curtis informed him, saluting nervously in the light of the storm lanterns. He was a young man, and seemed so uncertain of himself that Stephen wondered if he was new to the job.

‘Very good, sergeant.’ He picked up one of the lanterns and made the rounds of his platoon. They looked lived-in, worn – downright shabby in places – but he was perfectly satisfied. No blanco, no brass, and God knew what he would find if he looked in their haversacks – but they were ready to fight.

He stopped in front of Kinsella, the man who had been chained to the gate when he arrived. Of all of them, he looked the least nervous. If anything, there was a savage glint in his eye. Gardner had warned Stephen about him when he went back to the farmhouse kitchen to sort out his kit.

‘That Kinsella is an awkward bugger,’ he’d said. ‘You’d do well to keep your eye on him.’

Stephen looked him over carefully. An awkward bugger, yes – but there was something about him that he couldn’t put his finger on. He had a muscular frame, a thick neck and dark, heavy features. Nothing remarkable about his face except that it was maddeningly familiar. The other details were more telling. There were the ribbons of the Military Medal and the Distinguished Conduct Medal on his left breast, and three wound stripes on his cuff. His sleeve showed the double chevrons of a corporal, but above them a lighter patch where the third chevron had been.

He’d been degraded fairly recently. No wonder Curtis was so nervous, standing in his shoes.

‘What are you under punishment for, corporal?’ he asked.

‘Drunkenness, sir,’ Kinsella admitted, without a hint of resentment. No doubt when he got drunk, he did it in style.

Stephen just nodded. No point in moralizing – it wouldn’t get him anywhere. He had seen men like Kinsella before: nothing but trouble when they were out of the line, but hard as nails at the front. The sort you hoped you never ran into on the other side. The sort who went out on patrol at night and came back with ears.

He handed the lantern to Curtis.

‘Thank you, sergeant,’ he said, and went over to the kitchen door to report his platoon ready to Wilson. Hollis and Gardner were already there, but Wilson stood a little apart from them, his teeth clenched on his pipe and his face like thunder. There was still no sign of Devereux.

‘Very good, Mr Ryan.’ Wilson nodded, and as he glanced towards the gate his face darkened even further. Stephen turned and saw a shadowy figure stumbling into the farmyard. His Burberry coat swung open as he steadied himself against the pillar and there was no mistaking his powerful frame. It was Devereux all right and, even though he had been expecting it, Stephen was shocked to see him. But shock quickly turned to disbelief when he realized that he was very, very drunk indeed.

‘Mr Devereux!’ Wilson barked, and Devereux bucked at his name and walked as steadily as he could into the circle of lantern light.

‘Good evening, sir,’ he said slowly, but not slowly enough to avoid slurring the words, and apparently unaware that his cap was pushed right back on his head. But he was determined to get out the speech he had memorized. ‘I must apologize for my lateness. I’m afraid I was summoned to Divisional HQ while we were at the baths.’ He shot an angry glance at Hollis. ‘While there I was unavoidably de-detained by Brigadier— Good God! Reilly? What on earth are you doing here?’

Stephen looked at him coldly. ‘My name is Ryan.’

‘Yes, yes. Ryan, of course. The sizar man. Well, well! Still trying to pass for a gentleman? Eh? Jolly good! Well, don’t worry, old man, your secret’s safe with me!’ He gave a monstrous wink and swayed on his feet as he cackled with laughter, but Wilson cut him off.

‘Lieutenant Devereux!’ he shouted the name with enough force to still the muttering that had started amongst the assembled soldiers. Devereux blinked and tried to focus his gaze on the furious, shockingly pale face of his company commander. Wilson was shaking with rage, but by gritting his teeth and exhaling a long breath through his nose, he managed to master himself. ‘I will deal with you later, Mr Devereux, when I have the leisure to hear your explanation for this outrageous behaviour. For the moment you will march with your platoon. You will keep up and you will keep quiet or I will have you cashiered for drunkenness. Is that clear, lieutenant?’

‘Yes. Yes, sir,’ Devereux stammered, shaken, slack-jawed.

‘Mr Gardner, your platoon will lead the way.’ Wilson spoke without taking his blazing eyes off Devereux, ‘I believe we are late and will have to double part of the way if we are to make a good relief. Mr Ryan, you would do well to stay close to your men until you are familiar with the lie of the land.’

‘Very good, sir!’ They saluted and less than a minute later the company had wheeled out of the yard and was marching in artillery formation towards the white flashes on the northern horizon.

His impressions of that first night were like a jumble of photographs; little scenes etched in his mind by the flash of a shell. He had hardly any sense of the wider landscape, just the men near him and passing things in the dark. There was no talk, only the constant rumble of artillery and the steady tramp of boots. Sometimes, when a flare went up, he saw the wider scene cast in a sharp blue-white relief that showed it weird and harsh – lumpy earth nailed with fence posts and fingers of brickwork sticking up.

As they got closer to the front line the earth seemed to swallow them up. The way grew narrower and he was aware of wooden walls and sandbags on each side. He reached out his hand and his fingers brushed corrugated iron and telegraph wire. Underfoot, his boots found slippery duckboards and sucking mud, and as they picked their way past dugouts with light glowing greenly behind the gas curtains, he realized they were in the reserve trenches. It couldn’t be far now.

Suddenly the sky flashed white, there was an almighty bang, and gobs of mud rained down on them as they dropped to the bottom of the trench.

‘Fucking rum jars,’ Kinsella whispered at Stephen’s elbow, before they got up and crept forward again, crouching now, one eye to the night sky. They passed an alcove where a doctor was bending over a stretcher by the light of a candle lantern.

‘A rum jar, corporal?’

‘Gerry trench mortar, sir. We calls ’em rum jars ’cos that’s what they look like. There!’ He pointed into the sky ahead and Stephen saw a black oblong shape about twice the size of a rugby ball sailing through the air, sparks fizzing from its tail. Another flash and a deep percussive bang and Kinsella’s teeth gleamed as he grinned. ‘Ain’t nothing but an auld barrel full of dynamite and scrap iron. They’re better ’n shells ’cos you can see them coming – but God help you if you’re in the way when they land!’

A few yards further on they reached a wider trench running perpendicular to the one they were in. There was a step at the front, a couple of feet off the bottom, and earth buttresses twenty yards away in either direction. When Kinsella lit an acetylene lamp Stephen saw corrugated-iron and timber revetments, all topped by tiers and tiers of sandbags. He saw men too, shadowy shapes filing quietly past and disappearing down the communication trench.