Private Christopher Webb was having a late night stroll. It was almost ten; lights out would be in a few minutes. His platoon was half way through a six-day rest and stationed in a couple of billets a few miles south of the village of Saint Omer. He and his fellow privates had spent an exhausting day clearing the local road of mud following a forty-eight-hour downpour. But after four p.m. each day, the men had the evenings to themselves. Dinner had been a couple of hours ago. Back home, Webb had always been partial to an after dinner walk. The big guns had fallen silent and the evening was wonderfully still and quiet. The two adjoining billets backed onto a small forest and Webb breathed in the smell of the fir trees. In three days’ time, the platoon was due to go on another tour. The prospect didn’t worry Webb unduly because, assuming he survived it, he was due his first bout of leave since arriving in France ten months previously. Webb was thirty-five years old, a veteran of the Boer War, married with three children. How he longed to see his family again. The youngest would have almost doubled in age since he last saw him. He appreciated that he would be a stranger to the little chap, but he still couldn’t wait to hold him.
Webb had just lit a cigarette when he became aware of a figure coming up the track towards him. At first, he assumed it was one of the men returning to the billet after a more adventurous late night walk than his own. But there was something in the way the man slouched that made Webb realise that this was a stranger. For a fleeting moment, he thought it was a German, but then he saw the khaki of the British uniform. The man seemed to be heading straight towards Webb but his head hung low and Webb reckoned the man hadn’t yet realised he was standing there. The stranger was muttering to himself. With barely ten yards between them, Webb called out. Immediately, the man stopped and looked up at Webb, clearly surprised to have bumped into anyone. The two men stood in silence gazing at one another, each suspicious of the other, each wondering what to do or say next.
Webb could see that the stranger looked filthy, exhausted and cold, and was panting heavily. He also appeared frightened, his eyes began darting this way and that, as if looking for an escape route. He was young, perhaps not yet twenty. He was short, his slouched posture emphasising his lack of height, and he had dark, almost black, unkempt hair. His eyes however, looked anything but young; they looked bloodshot, thought Webb, lined and weary. He had no helmet or hat and, Webb noticed, no rifle. In his arms he cradled his greatcoat which was wet and splattered with mud. His face and hands were almost black with grime; his trouser leg ripped in the right leg. His puttees looked ragged and his boots misshapen by layers of dried mud. The man looked as if he’d just come back from the front, thought Webb.
The stranger spoke. ‘I’ve gotta get back.’
‘Back?’
‘Yeah.’ He paused for a few moments, trying to catch his breath. ‘Have you got any water?’ he panted.
‘I think you’d better come in, mate,’ said Webb nodding his head towards the billet.
‘No, gotta...’ He bent forwards and put his hands on his knees, his breathing still laboured. He muttered something, but Webb didn’t catch it. Then, suddenly, the man fell to his knees, looked up momentarily at Webb, and collapsed in a heap.
Throwing away his cigarette, Webb sprung forward and felt for the man’s pulse. It was still strong, very strong. He concluded that the man had simply collapsed from exhaustion. He noticed a wound in the shoulder; a large damp patch of blood stained the back of his tunic. Webb ran back into the billet and headed for the communal room, which was a hive of men chatting, laughing, and drinking and smoking. A crackly record played in the background. Webb recognised the tune as ‘Come Under My Umbrella’. Near the door sat three men playing cards. Webb beckoned them and urged them to come outside and give him a hand to ‘carry in some bloke who’d appeared from no-where and just collapsed’. In no time, the three soldiers were up on their feet, following Webb outside to where the stranger lay. They each took a limb and heaved him indoors, laying him on the floor of the hallway to catch their breaths and to decide where to put him. Webb remembered there was a spare bed in the downstairs dormitory, near the kitchen. They lugged him through, thankful not to have to carry him upstairs, and laid him on the bed.
‘He’s just a boy,’ said one. Webb sent one of the men to fetch the captain while he stayed with the stranger. A few minutes later, the gaunt-looking Captain Ellis appeared. Webb told him his story of how the stranger had emerged from nowhere. Ellis listened intently and then sent someone off to find the first aider. With the help of the others, Captain Ellis propped the man up on the bed and removed his boots and rotting socks. His tunic gave no clue as to what regiment he belonged to – the buttons having been replaced by pins. He searched his pockets for the man’s papers, but all he found was a half-full pack of cigarettes, a box of matches and a photograph of a young girl. Pretty thing, he thought, young, probably late teens, nice eyes. While no one was looking, he slipped the photo into his pocket.
The first aider appeared and made Webb repeat his story while he checked the man over, checking his feet for trench foot and carefully inspecting the wound in the shoulder. ‘He’s all right,’ he declared while rubbing the circulation back into the feet. ‘Looks like he got caught by a piece of shrapnel, painful, but he’ll live. Better get him to a CCS tomorrow and meanwhile I’ll disinfect it.’
Webb addressed the captain: ‘Do you reckon he’s a deserter, sir?’
Captain Ellis rubbed his chin and watched as the first aider did his work. ‘Yes, first thing I thought of, Webb, but no, thinking about it, I don’t think so. Firstly, he wouldn’t have come here, would he, and he would have been more on his guard. And secondly, or is that thirdly, you say he said he wanted to get back somewhere.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘So, presumably he got sent out on some errand, got lost, wandered round a bit and ended up here, hence his need to get back. I’ll question him first thing tomorrow, find out where he’s meant to be and get him sent up to the CCS.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Webb. ‘Do you think someone oughta go with him, in case he gets lost again?’
‘What, and have one of you fools get lost as well?’
‘Well, sir, we could vouch for him, in case they think he deserted.’
‘Hmm, I’d thought of that, Webb.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘He looks young, doesn’t he? I found no identity papers, which seems strange.’
‘What about a photo? His sweetheart perhaps.’
‘No, no photo.’
‘But he’s no deserter, is he, sir?’ said Webb.
‘No, not this chap.’
The first aider had done his work quickly, cleaning the boy up and applying a dressing to the wound. ‘That should do him,’ he said.
The captain looked around at the little congregation of men. ‘Well, nothing more we can do for him now, might as well leave him to it.’
‘Sir, do you think we oughta put a guard on him, you know – just in case.’
‘Yes, I thought of that too, but no, probably no need to – look at him, he’s out for the count. He won’t be going anywhere.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The men turned to leave. Private Webb took a final look at the mysterious wanderer. Somehow, he knew this boy had a story to tell, but they would have to wait until morning to find out what it was.