Jack woke up. The dull pain in his shoulder ached but the thought occurred to him that, for the first time in weeks, he had slept soundly and in a proper bed, without the routine scourge of a nightmare. He had no idea where he was or what time it was. It was dark, although a dim light shone through a slightly ajar door next to his bed. Around him, he could hear the comfortable snoring of men and smell sweat and dirty feet. He guessed he was in a dormitory, probably in a billet behind the lines. Slowly, it all came back to him. He remembered the bombardment on the ridge the previous night, the terrifying feeling of exposure, squirming in the shallow ditch at the side of the road. Jack trembled at the thought. He vaguely remembered the blast that sent him flying and knocked him for six, and then waking with the pulsating pain in his shoulder. He’d staggered for what seemed like hours in a sort of daze. No one stopped him or asked him where he was going. He remembered at some point asking for the nearest aid post, and trying to follow the confusing directions and getting hopelessly lost. And then of course, bumping into the soldier outside the battered-looking house. Jack had said something to him but he couldn’t remember what.
He began to panic. What should he do next? Should he stay put and rejoin his section the following day? But what if someone had seen him walking away and reported him. He felt hot, suffocating under the blanket, breaking out in a sweat. He thought of Sergeant Wilkins, if that bastard didn’t have him up for desertion, then he’d have him for every raid and patrol going. His hands started shaking, the sound of the shells pounded in his head. Visions of men torn apart, of blood flowing in torrents swamped his mind. And in the midst of it, came Wilkins’s face, contorted with venom: ‘I’m going to break you.’ He couldn’t face it, he wanted to go home, he wanted to see Guy, to see Mary and her sister. Jack sat bolt upright, his heart pounding with panic; his breath coming in short bursts. He wasn’t going back.
He crept out of bed, wincing with the pain in his shoulder, and followed the dim light, half expecting there to be a soldier standing at the doorway. To his surprise there wasn’t. He went into the hallway and peered up and down. The corridor stretched out to the left, but to his right, just a few feet away, was a glass-fronted door. The hallway light shone through the glass and, stepping up to it, Jack saw that this was the door to the kitchen. He realised how hungry and thirsty he was. Quietly, he turned the doorknob and thanked his luck that it wasn’t locked. He sneaked in and noticed the large stove, the generous sink and the backdoor with the pantomime-sized key still in the lock. Carefully, he opened a few cupboards; there was just enough light from the hallway to make out the shape of tins, bottles and containers. He found some bread and hurriedly broke off a chunk and ate it. He found a beaker and drunk a cup of water. How pure this water tasted, he thought. He’d become accustomed to the taste of water tinged with the repugnant hint of fuel having been carried to the front in petrol cans. Jack then returned to the dormitory. The man sleeping in the bed next to him stirred. Had he opened his eyes, Jack would still have been OK. He could have simply told the truth – he was hungry and had gone off in search for food. The sleeping soldier stirred again, and in doing so, he’d repositioned himself in an odd position, his head resting to one side, missing the pillow entirely. It was then that Jack had the idea. He crept over to the man’s bed and carefully removed the warm pillow. As he stepped back, Jack kicked something soft at the end of the bed. Jack knelt down to feel it, perhaps it was a spare blanket he could use in his deception, but no, it was an empty canvas haversack; equally, if not more, useful.
Jack returned quietly to the kitchen and stuffed the bag full of bread and various tins, including a half-full tin of Golden Syrup. He opened a few drawers, hoping to find a tin opener. In one of the drawers, he found a heap of entangled kitchen utensils, but Jack was too worried about the noise to rummage through them. Instead, he opted for a sturdy-looking butcher’s knife, and, for good measure, a spoon. Next to the sink, he saw a half-full bottle of red wine, its cork pushed part of the way back in. Pulling out the cork, Jack took a few sips of wine and drained the rest away into the sink. He refilled the bottle with water, gently running the tap, and finally pushed the cork back into the bottle.
By now, Jack was almost ready and itching to make his exit. Leaving the haversack on the kitchen floor, he crept back into the dormitory, pushing the door slightly further ajar to allow more light in. He found his trousers and greatcoat draped over the end of his bed and his tunic hanging on the bedpost. He slipped on his trousers and then his tunic, noticing the large bloodstained rip in the right shoulder. He couldn’t, however, find his boots, despite groping around in the darkness under the bed, but in the shadows, he saw the outline of a pair of boots next to his neighbour’s bed. He moved over, picked them up, and noticed that a sturdy pair of socks had been stuffed inside. He put on his greatcoat, which was still wet and heavy. He thought about finding another one, but that seemed too low; he felt bad enough taking a valued pair of boots, without adding further to the crime. Then, carrying the boots, Jack returned again to the kitchen and picked up the haversack, swinging it over his shoulder. He gently turned the chunky key in the backdoor anti-clockwise and carefully pushed open the heavy wooden door, cursing the creaking noise of the hinges. Not wanting to open the door more than necessary, he squeezed through holding his breath, and stepped out into the night, gently closing the door behind him.
Once outside, Jack noticed that dawn would soon be upon him, the stars were fading. It was already just about light enough to make out the outline of the shrubs and bushes in the garden, the wall at the end of it, and the tops of the trees beyond. He sat down and put the socks and boots on. They were a good size too big for him, but still preferable to his own knackered pair. Bracing his shoulder, he climbed over the six-foot-high wall, something he couldn’t have done before six months of training, and jumped over onto the other side, letting out a little groan of pain as his right leg landed heavily on the damp earth. Ahead of him lay the forest. He started walking, the dim dawn light disappearing as he entered the canopy of trees. His wounded shoulder ached, but the adrenaline of escape dulled the pain, his heart beating with a mixture of exhilaration and trepidation. For the first hour he made slow progress, tripping over roots or fallen branches, stumbling into small holes and indentations in the soft ground. He stumbled onwards. But then daylight permeated through the trees and Jack kept going, his sense of urgency pushing him on.
Finally, after two hours of solid walking, Jack stopped. Exactly where he was, and where he was heading, he had no idea, as long as he was a safe enough distance away from the billet. He circled his shoulder; the pain had dulled but its presence was still there.
The soldiers would be up by now, he thought, and they would know he had done a runner. Jack reckoned that even if they did send a search party out, they’d have too much other work to do to worry about him for long. He decided to camp down and get some sleep. He opened the haversack and fumbled around inside and wondered why everything felt sticky. The stickiness seemed to have spread everywhere – onto the bread, the bottle of water and the tins. Jack smelt his fingers – it was the Golden Syrup. He removed the syrup tin, flung it to the ground, and sucked his fingers clean. From the haversack pocket he took the butcher’s knife and stabbed it into the top of a baked bean tin. After a few minutes of jabbing, the tin finally buckled and Jack poured small amounts of beans onto the syrup soaked bread. It made for an unusual mixture, but not altogether unpleasant. He found a small hollow in the ground lined with damp moss and laid his greatcoat on top of it. He gathered a few branches, snapping them into smaller pieces, and collected large handfuls of leaves and placed them on top of the coat. He then slid himself carefully under the coat, trying not to disturb his crude attempt at camouflage, and settled down. It took a while to get used to the dampness of the moss, but there were times, Jack thought, when he would have given anything for a bed as comfortable as this. Soon fatigue overcame the damp discomfort and Jack fell into a deep sleep.