The Soldier's Song (32 page)

He read the letter twice, then sat for a while, staring at it. At once he wished there was more, but it was still more than he had hoped. What else could she have said? More than he hoped, and more than he deserved. A chink of light beckoning him on. He looked up from the page and shielded his eyes from the sun, feeling the warmth on his face. The tiredness was gone from his bones, misery lifting in the heat. Where was she now? Probably preparing her lectures, getting ready for the new term. He pictured some quiet room in the college, Lillian sitting at a desk, a picture of concentration as her hand moved gracefully across the paper. He sagged forward over her letter, his tired muscles unravelling, releasing the cramped tension in the pit of his stomach. He hardly moved when a hand touched his shoulder.

‘We’re going to have a bite of breakfast before we turn in,’ Nightingale said, and Stephen sat up and folded the letter back into its envelope. ‘Do you want to join us?’

‘Yes, yes, I will. In a minute. I’ll be along a minute,’ he answered, confused. ‘I think . . . I want to just write a letter first.’

‘All right.’ Nightingale still had his hand on Stephen’s shoulder. He leaned closer, concerned, Are you sure, Stephen? You look like you’ve had a shock. Not bad news, I hope?’

‘What? Oh, no, not at all. Not bad news.’ Stephen forced a smile as he wiped his eyes on his sleeve. ‘Just something . . . somebody I know. A friend from home wants me to write to her, that’s all. I’ll be along in a few minutes, don’t worry.’

The briefing took place in Wilson’s tent. Stephen and Nightingale sat on the edge of Wilson’s cot while Wilson sat in the chair. That was it: all the battalion’s surviving officers. The three of them were going to organize and lead an attack against a fortified blockhouse that had five machine guns.

Even after their first proper sleep in days, they were all still muzzy and weary. They had changed out of their filthy uniforms, but still managed to look scruffy and bedraggled. Nightingale was in his socks, hoping his feet might dry out a bit before he had to put his boots back on. He’d been to the doctor and shown him the damage – the swelling, the discoloration, the sloughing skin. The doctor gave him another bottle of gentian violet and told him to try and keep his feet dry.

When Wilson ducked in through the door, Stephen thought that, for the first time since he’d known him, he looked like an old man. Old and tired. They all were. Even Nightingale kept yawning and blinking and staring at the map that Wilson laid down on the floor.

Wilson himself never even referred to it. They all knew the ground, and the plan was simple enough.

‘The Ulster Division will be attacking on our left,’ he began, talking softly. ‘When they are fully engaged we will join the attack. Stephen, you shall take A Company up on our left flank and try to join up with the Royal Irish Fusiliers before pressing home your attack on the farm. I shall take C Company and try to get them up to the crest of the ridge before we come down on the farm from the right. If everything goes well, we should then be attacking from two sides.’

If, should, try.
The plan was simple, but it was peppered with all these hopeful conjunctions. Even Wilson didn’t believe in it – that was plain from his face as he finished talking, waited for a few moments, and then produced his pipe from his pocket.

‘Questions?’

‘What about the barrage?’ Stephen asked.

‘Well, the main barrage has been going on for a week, as we know. I think we all know how effective that’s been.’

No bloody use
was what they all knew. Every time there was a lull in the barrage those machine guns came up from their hiding place deep, deep underground. They had watched through binoculars, counting the grey helmets popping up under the heavy concrete slabs, and timing them to see how long they took to prepare their defence. It never took more than five minutes.

Wilson consulted his notebook before he went on.

‘They’ll be firing nothing but high explosive tonight,’ he said. ‘With any luck, the wire should be well and truly cut up by the time we get there.’

There it was again –
with any luck.
Meaning: not a chance in hell. What sort of luck had they ever had? Not that it made any difference. Before they even got to the wire there were five hundred yards of ground to cross – five hundred yards of sucking mud, knee-deep and worse. And five minutes after they started out, the machine guns would be up and sweeping down all before them.

‘What about me?’ Nightingale asked, ‘What do I do?’

‘You will hold B Company in reserve, Mr Nightingale. I will transfer what remains of D Company to your command as well.’

‘But—’

Wilson held up his hand. ‘No buts, lad. We must have a reserve. You will bring your men up and push through when we take the strongpoint.’

Nightingale opened his mouth to protest again but thought better of it. It was a reprieve – they all knew that.
When
we take the strongpoint? Wilson was only trying to sweeten the pill.
Not that it needs much sugar!
But Stephen didn’t begrudge Nightingale his good fortune. He would have to hold the line if the Germans counterattacked, and even if they didn’t they were bound to shell the bejesus out of the British line to break up reinforcements. But by that time he’d probably be past caring.

There were no more questions. The three of them sat there in silence for almost a minute, feeling the heat of the sun through the heavy white canvas. Stephen’s hand moved to his tunic pocket and patted the letters. There were two of them now. He’d been thinking about changing what he had written, but now he decided to send it as it was. It might be a bit raw, but it was true. It said what he wanted to say. He looked at his watch. Mid-afternoon – suddenly time was pressing. He’d have to drop it off with the clerk before they went back up.

Wilson might have been reading his mind.

‘I’m sure you’ve both got things to do,’ he said, taking his still-unlit pipe from his mouth. ‘I for one have some writing to do. So if you don’t mind . . .’

‘Very good, sir.’ They both rose and put their caps on, saluting awkwardly under the conical roof of the tent. Wilson didn’t look up as they walked stiffly out into the sunshine and left him to his letter.

They managed to get back up the line without losing any more men. It helped that it was dark, though they ended up cursing the night as they got closer to the front and found themselves stumbling and slopping through the cratered ground like blind men or drunks.

They had marched through Ypres itself, with its tottering cathedral and mounds of shattered bricks. Somewhere around Hellfire Corner it started raining again and by the time they turned off the Menin road they were soaked through once more. An Irish bloody bog in Belgium, Stephen thought, looking at the low line of the Frezenberg Ridge that crossed the sodden sky before him. Only in Ireland it wouldn’t have been sparking with the orange flashes of bursting shells.

It was almost midnight before they were back in their position. The same waterlogged dugout with the leaky roof, the same plank benches, and the same rats. Only they were even saucier in the dark: Stephen had to kick one off the bench before he sat down. The water was higher than he remembered. The three of them had to sit with their feet on the benches, knees up under their chins, like survivors in a sinking lifeboat.

Once they were settled in, there was little to do but wait. The shelling was sporadic and light, waiting for the break of day to begin in earnest once more. They drank whiskey to ward off the damp, and Stephen read Lillian’s letter over and over again by the light of a candle that bobbed around the floor in the upturned lid of a dixie. Wilson took out his tattered copy of Hopkins, but instead of reading it he kept it clutched to his chest, like a keepsake. The rain pattered and dribbled into the puddle on the floor.

It was surprisingly peaceful. Now that he had time to reflect, Stephen realized he wasn’t afraid of what the morning might bring. In some way, he recognized that he belonged here. He’d only had two fits since he came back to France, and both of those were while he was in the rear areas. It seemed that the closer he was to the front, the less chance there was that he would lose a grip on himself. Maybe because there was more at stake. Maybe because he knew all the others were in the same boat. Whatever it was, he was here now, and he was not afraid. He’d sent his letter, and when he read it through in his mind’s eye, he was satisfied. It was a good thing. If this was to be the day, then at least he would have set things right. He was happy with that at least.

Wilson was also in a peculiar mood. He hummed a tune to himself for a while, and then he suddenly lifted his head and asked Nightingale, ‘Did you ever hear the stories of Cuchulain?’

Nightingale looked bemused and shook his head.

‘Cuchulain? I can’t say I’ve heard of him. Was he an Irish fellow?’

‘He certainly was. In fact, he was the greatest warrior Ireland ever knew – he was an Ulsterman like myself.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Stephen laughed and rolled his eyes to the roof.

‘Well, it’s true!’ Wilson answered tartly. ‘I don’t remember hearing of any heroes who came from Dublin!’

Nightingale’s interest was piqued now. ‘Who did he fight, then?’

‘Everybody,’ muttered Stephen, thinking of the long roll of feats and battles he’d been forced to memorize at school. He hated it: could hardly pronounce the names, still less remember them. But that was no use to Brother Michael, who patrolled the classroom with the leather strap hanging from his belt, and God help those who couldn’t name all the sons of Queen Maeve.

‘There were many battles.’ Wilson paused to gather his thoughts, ‘My favourite is the battle at the ford. You see, Queen Maeve sent her six greatest champions to fight Cuchulain and he beat every one of them. So she summoned Ferdia, who was Cuchulain’s best friend, and poisoned his mind against him. She appealed to his pride by telling him Cuchulain couldn’t be bothered fighting him since he’d already seen off six of the best. So the two of them met at a ford and fought it out as a matter of honour, even though neither of them really wanted to fight.’

‘So who won?’ Nightingale asked, clearly less than impressed with Wilson’s storytelling.

‘Why, Cuchulain did, of course. But it wasn’t who won that mattered, it was the way they fought. They were such great friends and warriors that they fought all day and then ate and drank and tended their wounds together at night. But on the third day—’

‘Three days? They fought for three days? You’re pulling my leg!’

Stephen laughed at the disbelieving look on Nightingale’s face, ‘It’s only a legend, a fairy tale!’

‘—But on the third day they were both nearly worn out. They were both wounded and battered, but neither of them was able to strike a killing blow. Ferdia realized he was doomed. He knew his friend was stronger than he was, and if he got even the smallest chance he would win. But there was nothing he could do because he couldn’t end the combat and keep his honour. So they fought on and on until Ferdia pierced Cuchulain’s breast with his sword. Then Cuchulain flew into a rage and killed him stone dead with his spear. His best friend, whom he loved like a brother. He wept.’

‘Oh,’ Nightingale said, shocked at the abrupt end of the story, ‘that’s very sad.’

‘All war is sad,’ Wilson replied, looking at Stephen, and they both nodded.

* * *

BRITISH OFFICIAL –
16
August
1917

At 4.35 this morning Allied troops attacked again on a wide front north and east of Ypres. Steady fighting is taking place and progress is being made on all points in spite of stubborn resistance on the part of the enemy.

* * *

In such murky weather there was no sunrise. At around four the sky started to lighten and a milky mist gathered low on the ground. The artillery barrage suddenly doubled its intensity, and as the British bit harder, so the Germans bit back. Three salvoes rained down on them in as many minutes and after the third they sat uneasily in their waterlogged hole, gas masks at the ready, waiting for the next one.

But suddenly it stopped. As if a switch had been thrown, the sky fell silent and there was no sound but the drip-drip-drip of settling rainwater. Then, in the distance, there was a crackling volley of rifle fire. The Ulster Division was starting its attack. The Dublins knew their objectives as well as their own: Iberian Farm, Somme Farm, Hill 35. After a few minutes the clacking of machine guns started up, followed by the pop of trench mortars and underscored by the rumbling artillery.

‘God speed, boys,’ Wilson murmured, and the others nodded silently.

An hour later Wilson went off to Brigade HQ and Stephen looked to his men. Whatever the shortcomings of his shelter, they had had none, and lay in the open, wet and bedraggled in their gas capes. But as he crept from one crater to the next they welcomed him with muddy grins.

‘Any sign of the fleet, sir?’ they asked. All week it had been a standing joke that if this rain kept up, the North Sea Fleet would support their attack.

‘It’s not deep enough yet for the Dreadnoughts,’ he joked back, trying to be more reassuring than he felt. Just after he left the dugout the noise of firing from their left had started to die away and now had finally fallen silent. He doubted it was because the Ulster Division had taken all their objectives.