IT WAS 15TH August, a week after the men had left, and a beautiful day. The Forbes relatives were quiet as they clambered into the train that would take them from Gosforn to Newcastle to say goodbye to their men. Lady Veronica travelled in First Class, of course. Evie nudged her mam. ‘There are advantages to being downstairs staff, at least we’re all in this together.’ Her mam raised a smile, and clutched Tim to her. He reached for the balls Millie was juggling. Evie had never been able to juggle, no matter how many times Jack had shown her, and she felt a shaft of jealousy that he had done the same for Millie.
Millie snapped, ‘Leave it, Tim.’ She dropped a ball. ‘Bugger it.’
‘Not before the bairn,’ Mam urged.
Millie sighed and passed one of the balls to her son, who tried to throw it across the carriage. Grace who was sitting opposite, caught it one-handed before it fell to the floor, and threw it to Evie, who threw it in turn to Alec, Simon’s father, who tossed it to Da. A laughing Tim received it from Da and gave it to his mother, who smiled and threw it to Alec and so it went on, and soon they were all laughing, and booing those who dropped it. It was as though they were on an outing.
Outside the countryside flashed by. Wives, brothers, sisters and parents got on at the next station where the engine shrieked, blew off steam, and the wheels ground on the tracks as doors banged shut until finally they were moving again. The men gave up their seats to some new arrivals and moved to the corridors, leaving the women in possession of the carriage. Evie and Grace looked at the ball. Should they, shouldn’t they?
‘Here, give it to me, for Pete’s sake,’ Millie said, taking the ball and tossing it to one of the new arrivals who blinked, came alert, caught it and on it went. Anything was better than thinking that their men were embarking.
Men were embarking.
Men were embarking.
The wheels drummed it again and again, and not even the ball-throwing stopped it going round and round in Evie’s head. She could tell from every face in the carriage that their feelings were the same. It was too hot. Surely it was? She pulled on the leather window strap and lowered the window two holes. The wheels thumped over the points, the train shrieked as it went under bridges, the smuts blew in. Grace waved them away but they’d already landed on her face.
‘Evie, shall we put the window up?’ she suggested.
Evie grinned. ‘Sorry about that.’ She did so, and the noise abated. ‘Here, lick this.’ She held out her handkerchief. Grace grimaced. Millie called, ‘You’re not in your kitchen now, Evie Forbes, keeping everyone spick and span for the bosses.’ Evie looked at her. What had a kitchen to do with handkerchiefs? She supposed it was Millie’s way of keeping her in her place in front of strangers. They were looking at her now, realising she was in service.
Grace was dragging out her own handkerchief. She licked it and handed it to Evie. ‘Do the honours please, Evie, I can’t look like a grubby schoolchild. And don’t forget, Millie, Evie is doing a training for much greater things, sensible girl.’ So stick that in your pipe and smoke it, Evie thought as she rubbed at the greasy smuts ineffectually.
Her mam said, ‘Away with you pet, give it to me.’ She handed Tim to Evie. ‘I brought soapy flannels for the bairn, and they’ll do faces better than lick and scrub.’
By the time they drew into Newcastle Central station Grace was restored to her former glory, or so Evie said as they exited their train to be greeted by a cacophony of shrieking whistles, gasps of steam, shouts, clangs, chaos. Their little group was borne along by a crowd that was rushing to the platform which held what seemed like hundreds of khaki-clad soldiers, and on the way they passed Lady Veronica standing to one side, looking lost. Evie and Grace struggled against the tide back towards her. Grace gasped. ‘What’s happened to her face?’
Evie shouted into her ear, ‘She bumped into a door a week ago, or in other words Bastard Brampton hit her, just like he hits Auberon. It’s the same bruising, the same split lip. She hasn’t said, of course, but I’m sure. It looks a damn sight better than it did.’
They were being knocked by the passengers rushing towards the troops. ‘Your Ladyship,’ Evie shouted, ‘come with us if you wish, you’ll get trampled in the rush on your own.’ She saw Lady Veronica smile carefully. ‘How kind, I was momentarily confused and Grace, you’re here. I heard that Edward was indisposed and was hoping you could come in his place. I’m sure it’s a great comfort to everyone.’
Evie urged her forward. ‘We need to keep up with the flow, and we don’t want to be late. It’s our last chance to see them until . . . Well, until.’ Grace tucked a hand in each of their arms. ‘Until they arrive home safely,’ she said, drawing them into the constant stream of tense relatives.
They made their way over to the far platform, which was the longest at the station. Above the melee they spotted a placard waving aloft, painted with the words 4th Battalion North Tyne Fusiliers, C Company. Lady Veronica whispered to Evie, ‘They could learn a bit from our placard-painting, couldn’t they, Evie?’
‘Aye pet, that they could.’
Lady Veronica smiled. ‘It’s so good to be called pet.’
They were forcing their way through the crowds in the direction of C Company. The embarkation train was already huffing and puffing, but it couldn’t leave, not yet. ‘Not yet,’ Evie said aloud.
Lady Veronica said, ‘It wouldn’t dare, Evie, it would have you to reckon with.’
The three women grinned at one another. ‘Us,’ Evie said. ‘Us to reckon with, the monstrous regiment of women.’ Grace squeezed their arms and together they marched abreast and it was as though the sea parted, because suddenly they were there with the placard propped up on one of the Victorian pillars and the men searching for their loved ones. Where was Mr Auberon’s platoon? Where?
She saw Jack with Tim in his arms, and Millie, her face flushed, looking around while hanging on Jack’s arm. Martin was with them, and his mother too. Millie smiled at someone as he called to her. It was Roger. Evie watched as he came towards Millie and Tim, his son. Her brother stared at Mr Auberon’s batman, daring him to lay claim to the child he, Jack Forbes, held in his arms. There was no way the child should grow up being influenced by such a person, or so Jack had told Evie the last time she had seen him.
Her da was just behind him, but moved to place himself between the two men. Her mam was off to one side, listening gravely to something Captain Williams was saying.
‘I must go, Jack might need me.’ Evie darted forward, but Simon emerged from the milling crowd. Grace held her back. ‘I’ll do it, you go to Simon.’
Everything else was forgotten as she ran and stumbled in between everyone else to reach him, just as he was trying to reach her, and then she was in his arms and he held her, burying his face against her hair. Where was her hat? What was it about hats? What did it matter?
His khaki was rough. It felt so strange. Everything was so terribly strange. All these men leaving, going to fight, but they’d be safe, because they were strong, brave pitmen. But no, Simon wasn’t a pitman, he was a singer and a gardener, and he was gentle. He said, ‘I love you, I love you.’ Again and again, and she was saying it too. His lips were on hers, their eyes fixed on to one another, her arms locked around him, and his around her.
Jack was here now. ‘Let her go for just a moment, Si. A brother has some rights and the lass has to breathe.’
It was Jack who held her now, so big and strong. ‘I’ll take care of him, bonny lass,’ he said. ‘Never fear, I’ll take good care of him.’ Her mam came up, tapping her shoulder. ‘Let your mam give Jack a cuddle now, Evie.’
Evie stepped back and saw Grace on the other side of her mother. She saw the love shining from her. Over her mam’s head Jack was looking at Grace, and his love matched hers. Evie ached for them, but now there was someone by her side.
‘May I speak to you, just for a moment?’ It was Mr Auberon, or rather, the Rt Hon. Lieutenant Brampton. Evie was impatient. She wanted to be with Simon. She looked for him but he was with his father and mother, so she swung back to her employer. ‘Yes, Mr Auberon, just for a minute though.’
He looked older, stronger. The sun had tanned his face. His eyes were a deeper blue. How sad that he had no one to wish him goodbye except for a sister. She softened. ‘I wish you well, Mr Auberon. I truly do.’ And she did.
Everything was in the past and though Timmie had died, he’d died with his family around him, whereas if . . . She swallowed. His smile was strained. He bent a little closer, saying quietly, ‘Please, I ask you to be my sister’s support. You attended the same meetings, you both sided with the socialists. If you can bear to do it for a Brampton, please be her support, or even her friend.’ He touched his cheek, then his lip. ‘Teach her to protect herself. Forgive me asking. I have no right, but you’re a wonderful woman, Evie Forbes.’
He straightened now, his colour heightened. He reached for her hand, held it, bent over it, kissed it. He straightened, gave her a half-salute and then he was gone into the melee and the whistles were blowing, the steam was gushing from the boilers and the men were dragging themselves from all they had known. Where was Si? Here, here. He held her, kissed her, but Jack was pulling him away, his sergeant’s stripes coming into play. Martin, too, was playing his corporal’s role to the full. They were going, piling into the train, hanging from windows. Evie, her family, Simon’s family and Grace stood together looking for their men, but then Evie glanced around. Where was Lady Veronica?
She saw her standing back near the placard, quite alone, and hurried to her, taking hold of her arm because she looked so frozen, so pale. ‘Come with me. You’re not alone, we’ve all got one another.’
Lady Veronica turned then. ‘I couldn’t let my husband kiss me. I couldn’t.’ She touched her bruises. ‘The poor beggar,’ Evie said. ‘You can do better than that, he’s not the one who clobbered you, for God’s sake. Pull yourself together, he’s a good man.’ She walked Veronica over to their group. ‘You can blow him a kiss,’ she said. ‘He’s there, on the carriage step.’
Captain Williams was looking along the train, checking that all the doors were shut. The guard was waving his flag. Suddenly Lady Veronica called, ‘Richard, Richard. Be careful, please.’ He couldn’t hear. Evie joined in, then Mam, then Grace. ‘Richard, Richard, this way.’ He looked towards them at last and Lady Veronica blew a kiss. ‘Be safe,’ she called. ‘Just be safe and come home.’
He was scrambling into the carriage as the guard slammed the door but he leaned from the window, waving. He returned the kiss and his face was alight with love. Evie put her arm around Lady Veronica, whose face contained something, but what? Simon was leaning out as the train shunted forward, screeching and grinding, and then he was gone, pulled back because another man leaned out, waving, and then he was gone, and another took his place.
Veronica felt the pressure of Evie’s arm and made no attempt to move away from this group, from their friendliness, their warmth. Everything was different now; nothing that was ‘proper’ seemed to matter. Britain was at war, her brother was gone, Richard too.
She watched the train leave, smelt the coal, heard the steam, and the crying around her. ‘You need a friend,’ Aub had said.
‘Esther is living in London. Margaret used to be a friend but she came to us only to burn us down. How could she?’ she’d replied.
‘You have Evie. You think the same, you go to the same meetings, so make her a friend, Ver, at least for the duration of the war, and never be alone with him again. Never.’
On 18th August, after laying over at Folkestone for several days, Jack herded the platoon on to the cross-Channel ferry which was to take them across to France. Their packs were a damned nuisance and all sixty pounds of them dragged at their shoulders and banged into the bloke behind, or swung into the bloke beside them if they turned. ‘Down packs,’ he ordered. They did so, Martin digging him in the ribs and saying, ‘I’d rather be in the pit than slopping about on the top of this great bloody sea. Makes you feel right queer, man.’
Jack squatted down, dragging out cigarette paper and tobacco from his pocket. ‘Get down, out of the wind, and there’s a bucket over there if things get bad.’
Simon was leaning on the rail, enjoying a last look at Blighty. The blokes were singing, ‘Who’s your lady friend?’ and he joined in. Jack strung the tobacco along the paper, rolled it, licked it, smoked it. Who was his lady friend? And did she love him? He knew she did. After the station, she knew he did. He had withdrawn after Timmie’s death, because she had told him she no longer needed his help to dig, his help for anything. Why? If only he’d not listened, gone with his gut. One day he would ask her to be his love, somehow. But what about Millie?
He exhaled, the wind snatching at his breath. He owed Tim the chance of a decent life, and if Roger ever approached the boy again he’d kill him. He took a drag at the cigarette, the tobacco burning red. He’d made that threat before about Brampton and had done nothing, but there was still time and Roger was different, anyway. He wasn’t a fool or a bastard, he was just evil, a snake.
Martin was hanging over the bucket now, poor beggar, but it wouldn’t be long.
Lieutenant Brampton was moving between his men, returning their salutes, saying, ‘How are you? No one too sick?’ Doing his duty, Jack grinned, but he looked right poorly himself. He got to his feet as Brampton reached him. ‘Everything all right, Sergeant?’
Jack saluted, pinching out the remains of his cigarette. ‘All present and correct, sir. We’ve a few not so well but a bit of solid ground beneath their feet will work a treat, either that or a good slab of fatty pork in between some bread.’
He kept his face still as Brampton’s face paled even further and he rushed away. Bernie called across, ‘You’re a heartless beggar, Jack Forbes, with a cast-iron stomach.’ Jack watched Brampton proceed, keeping in contact with the men, smiling, joking when all he must have wanted to do was vomit. He hated himself for admiring the bastard.
Above them the gulls were wheeling. Would Da still go sea-coaling? Yes, of course he would. Would he grow his leeks? Probably even more seriously than ever, with the war on. Would the pigeon fledglings he’d bought off Alec survive? Of course, if his da had anything to do with it.
By, his homing birds would do well for the army, and those that survived would be home by Christmas, along with everyone else, or so his da said. Jack squeezed his way along the ferry, listening to the singing, seeing some men playing cards, some writing letters home already, some just talking, sitting on the deck propped up against their packs. At the prow the officers were assembled, clustering around the colonel.
Jack stood quietly watching them, rolling another cigarette, lighting it behind his cupped hand. Such fancy clothes these professional soldiers wore, like those who had already gone to fight, and die. What the hell was going to happen to make it stop by Christmas? He looked back again at his own platoon, all previously Territorials. They were considered trained. Bollocks. They knew nothing of war, any more than he did. He smoked his cigarette down as far as he could, before pinching it dead. Dead. Words could take on different meanings, he thought.
As they approached the French coast at Boulogne the men crammed the rails, peering through the Channel mists at the marquees on the clifftop. They stretched along the cliffs and straggled up the slopes of the hills.
‘That’s where we’re headed, is it?’ Bernie was pointing to the encampments.
‘Ours is not to know, or to reason why, lad,’ Martin said, his colour on the verge of coming back now that the end of the torture was in sight. Behind them Jack wondered if this was where Grace would end up, because some marquees bore the sign of the Red Cross. It gave him comfort to think that she’d be there, safe but near.
‘Ours is just to do or die,’ Bernie finished for Martin.
They left port immediately, heading they knew not where, knowing that they just had to put one foot in front of the other and march along the slippery smooth cobbles out of the port and through one village after another, twisting their ankles and suffering huge blisters, feeling the sun beating down, stepping aside to let pass the London buses, London taxis, lorries and carts which were travelling back towards the coast with the injured.
They passed roadside cafes but didn’t enter, and on the second day they entrained into a cattle truck and the old steam engine clunked them along for thirty miles, and they all slept. Jack dreamed of forming fours, right wheels, left wheels, and excavating trenches, and marching, marching until they thought as one. With one exception: Roger still wheeled right when everyone wheeled left, with a pigeon in each pocket. Jack woke with a start as the train pulled into a siding, glad to be awake, glad that Roger stayed near Brampton, as a valet should. What a world, that a servant came to war with his master.
They slept in a barn that night, ignoring the rats and shovelling down bully beef. Towards the end of the next day they slogged through Frameries, and the townsfolk cheered them. They were to sleep in another barn and Jack watched as Captain Williams gathered the officers together, and they all handed over cash. They bought a barrel of beer for the men, and for a moment Jack felt he would follow the beggars to the ends of the earth and through whatever was thrown at them.
The field kitchen made soup and on top of that they had bully beef again. Their blisters tended, they were on the road again the next day and could hear the guns, and the firing. Not long now, then. Jack and Martin exchanged a look. Around them stood slag heaps with the sun turning them to gold. ‘Just like home,’ Jack murmured. Simon called, keeping in step as he looked back, ‘Where’re we going, Jack?’ Jack increased his pace and caught up with the front ranks. ‘Not sure the officers know, so why should I?’
They stopped at another village that night, and the officers were treated to smacking kisses on either cheek, courtesy of the hairy mayor. In return they stepped back a pace and shook hands firmly, well out of reach of such foreign behaviour. The men laughed, though they did it quietly.
In response to an order from Captain Williams Jack told the men to dig trenches on the far side of some unused rail tracks, though exhaustion was dragging at them. ‘Come on, we’re getting closer to wherever it is we’re going. You can hear the big guns, so who knows what’s going to happen? Get digging.’
Some villagers came to help as Brampton inspected the work so far. Jack said politely, ‘Merci, mais non.’ He explained to them in French that they must not assist the men, for if the Germans came they could be shot as francs-tireurs.
Brampton listened closely, and when the villagers returned to their houses he said, ‘Your French is very good, Forbes.’
‘Aye, me sister taught me. She needs it for menus, and recipes, doesn’t she, and her . . . Well, she just needs it. Grace Manton taught her. She’s almost fluent.’
As the men settled down for the night Auberon sat outside the officers’ billet in the local chateau having a last cigarette and watching the flashes from the guns, and listening to the distant thumps. He thought of all the secrets he and Ver had discussed in the kitchen at Easterleigh, and ran his hand over his face. It had never occurred to him that kitchen staff would understand French. Presumably Mrs Moore had knowledge of the language too, as she had also been inherited from Miss Manton.
He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, looking out at the trees in the distance. What colossal arrogance to assume that those downstairs, and miners and soldiers, knew nothing. He ran his hand through his hair. Had Evie fed Jack news of Auberon’s response to potential strikes? Had she told of their father’s behaviour? Was it she who had learned from Roger about the intended purchase of the Froggett houses? He started laughing now, softly. What a bloody amazing girl.
They marched a further five miles the next day into Belgium, towards the sound of artillery fire, leaving the trenches unused. It was 23rd August and they stopped in a village for a break. The villagers brought out bread and oil, with tomatoes. The town ahead was Mons, the mayor told Jack. It meant nothing to him. The men thanked the villagers and Jack sprinkled salt on the oil, squinting against the sun. Had there ever been such a wonderful summer? The fields were full of butterflies and heavy with wild flowers, scabious, cow parsley and poppies, such a profusion of poppies. Whatever was to come, it didn’t half knock working at the coalface into a cocked hat.
He dug in his battledress pocket for the stub of a pencil he carried and wrote a quick note to Evie, telling her that he’d dobbed her in: Auberon knew that she spoke French. He told her that he loved her and to give his love to Tim, Mam and Da, and Millie, of course. He crammed it back into his pocket as Brampton approached. ‘Tell the men to prepare for action, Sergeant.’
There it was, straight out of the blue. Jack stared again at the butterflies flitting from flower to flower, weaving in between the long sun-baked grass, at the new green growth showing amongst the stubble of the more distant cornfields. He sprang to his feet. ‘Yes sir.’ His salute was smart.
They deployed immediately, marching from the village towards the heavy guns which were firing rapidly now. German shells were landing half a mile in front and they kept moving towards them. ‘Steady,’ called Lieutenant Brampton, taking the lead. Ahead Captain Williams led the 4th Battalion, sitting astride his horse as though he was taking a stroll in Hyde Park. Lieutenant Brampton walked. He wouldn’t bring Prancer, Jack had heard, in case he was hurt, but he’d been taken anyway. The talk was the daft beggar was trying to find him.
They passed a private leading a pack mule laden with ammunition. Two minutes later a shell landed. The mule and the man were gone. The blast caused them to stagger and duck. Shrapnel spattered. ‘Steady,’ roared Jack and Brampton together. Martin, marching at Simon’s shoulder, called, ‘By, lad, we could do with more than this beggar of a cap. A saucepan would be a grand idea.’ He was humming, just like he used to in the cage.
Jack grunted. ‘One day they’ll think of something better, probably when the whole bloody thing is over.’
The incoming shells were slower than those of the British artillery, which was equipped for rapid firing. They were trotting now, their packs banging against their backs, until they flung themselves into the shallow trenches that fed into those of the 5th Battalion’s. ‘Took your bleedin’ time,’ a private said, ducking as more shells went over. Somewhere a church bell was ringing.
Jack and his platoon prepared to fire, lying across the front of their trench, elbows propping them up, rifle butts on shoulders. ‘Hold your fire,’ came the order. They held as the first patrol of German cavalry they had ever seen charged out of the wood to the left of them towards the line. For a moment it seemed like a storybook come to life, unreal, but then fear drenched Jack like nothing he had ever known, his mouth dried, his fingers froze. Closer they came. Closer. ‘Fire,’ Brampton screamed and now Jack was pressing the trigger.
These were men he was firing at. Living breathing men, and horses, but they were charging him and his marras. He pulled the trigger again, felt the recoil. Again and again he fired and wondered how he could live with the guilt of killing, but by the end of an hour that guilt was gone. It was survival that mattered. All day they fought, their barrels red-hot, as the Germans came across in waves only to be repulsed.
The battalion had been trained in rapid rifle fire and the rifles sounded more like machine guns. There was smoke, the sound of trains roaring through the air which were in reality shells. There were the screams, the neighs of horses. A British shell landed on a charging line of Hun cavalry. Carnage ensued. The cavalry gave way now to infantry who were approaching across the open ground only to be mown down, but there were so many, far too many.
Brampton came along the trench, panic writ large on his face, his hands shaking. He ran crouching towards Jack. ‘Hold the line, I’m going for help, Sergeant,’ he yelled.
Jack turned from his firing position to block his path. ‘No you’re not, sir. You can send someone else, but you mustn’t leave the line.’ He could smell the terror of the man, almost taste it. It was contagious. If he ran, some of the men would run. Brampton hesitated, a shell crashed to the rear, a rifle shot zipped past their heads. ‘Get down, you silly beggars,’ shouted Martin, lying on his side, reloading before flinging himself back on to his belly again, and firing, firing, firing, and humming.
Brampton still hesitated, as pale as a ghost. He tried to sidestep Jack. ‘Please sir. No,’ Jack said firmly. For a moment neither man moved, and then Brampton nodded, his eyes on Jack. ‘Thank you, Sergeant, you’re quite right.’ He ran back, crouching low, calling encouragement to the men. ‘Hold firm. C Company will hold until we are told otherwise.’
They waited for orders and still the firing continued, still the mules arrived with ammunition, still the shelling continued, and the screaming of the injured, men and beasts. ‘All well, Sergeant?’ Brampton asked as he doubled over checking the line, slowly this time. He turned at a cry. ‘Stretcher-bearer here,’ he called. Charlie, Bernie’s cousin, was hit.
‘Everything’s bloody marvellous, sir,’ Martin panted, grinning at Jack, his face smudged with sweat and dirt.
All day the call went out for stretcher-bearers. All day they held the line and those that were pitmen stayed calm because they were used to living with injury and death, and this in turn helped others. With the evening the order came, at last, for them to retire. ‘Overwhelming forces but we’ve diverted some attention from the French, which was the aim,’ Brampton murmured to Jack as they slipped out of the trench after dusk had fallen, their legs like shaking dead weights.
Jack led one faction while Martin held the Germans in a rearguard action. In their turn, Jack’s men set up their position and gave covering fire while Martin’s unit leapfrogged it, running at a crouch, their faces dirty and exhausted. Again and again they did it, leapfrogging, running and then holding the Germans. They stumbled over the dead, and dragged along a wounded private until they reached the road and heaved him into a London taxi that raced off. At last the Germans faded as the British artillery roared and smashed and held them. Jack’s platoon rallied in the village where they had eaten bread and oil and tomatoes a lifetime ago, shaking themselves down as though they were dogs, and now there were refugees passing them, streaming west, mingling with the soldiers while Jack hunted for Martin.
He couldn’t see him. He chased from man to man. ‘Where’s your corporal? Where the hell is your corporal?’ He gripped one man. It was Bernie. ‘Where’s the daft beggar?’
Bernie looked at the ground, his shoulders slumped. ‘Shell took his head, Jack. There were two others killed. It was bedlam. Nothing we could do.’
‘Don’t be so bloody daft, now’s not the time. Where’s the bugger?’ Jack looked around, searching for Martin. Bernie grabbed his tunic. ‘He’s dead, man. He’s bloody dead.’
He wouldn’t be dead. He couldn’t be. They were marras. He ran from group to group, until Simon found him near the barn going from man to man. He held him while he struggled. ‘He’s gone, Jack.’
Jack wrenched free and started to run back to the crashing guns, to the frontline, skirting around the barn, heading off down the cobbled street alongside which men were sitting, hunched over Woodbines, or asleep, just for a moment, as total exhaustion took hold. Simon was hot on his heels, so close but he couldn’t stop because Martin was out there. He swerved to get to the field, tucking in behind a broken cart, but then he was brought down by a thump on his back. He’d been charged, damn well charged by someone, but he had to get to Martin.
It was Simon who had charged and now he grabbed Jack’s legs as he tried to scramble to his feet. The spokes of the cartwheel were broken. Some bugger should mend them. He lifted his fist to beat Simon from him, but Brampton’s voice ground out from behind him. ‘Enough, Sergeant. Get back to the men, Simon.’ Brampton grabbed Jack, who was pulling away. ‘Stand,’ he hissed. ‘Stand, man. You have to leave your corporal, we have witnesses to his death. He’ll be buried.’
‘But not by me and I’m his marra,’ Jack shouted, struggling free, only to be grabbed again. ‘I gave him the order. I could have given it to someone else.’
Brampton had his shoulders now in a hard grip, forcing Jack to face him. Brampton was saying, his voice almost drowned by the rushing in Jack’s head, ‘You did your duty. He did his. You must come with me now.’ Jack hit him then, on the jaw, so hard that the shock shuddered up his arm and into his shoulder.
Still Brampton did not alter his grip, though his lip split and his eye almost instantly swelled. ‘You must come with me now, Sergeant.’
‘Yes, so you can have me shot.’ His knuckles ached, the wind was blowing and Martin was out there, on his own.
‘No, not to have you shot, but so that you can rest like your men. No one saw you strike me. You made a mistake just as I did earlier. It’s what we do until we learn, and then we make some more. Now we’re going to move on, we have to.’ It seemed as though everything had gone silent. There was no gunfire, no birds, no clatter of horses. ‘Now, Jack. Now we move on.’
Jack knew he was talking of more than soldiering, knew from the intensity of his eyes, from the way he brought his head so close. But he was right. It had to be over, because he couldn’t have the hell of this hate towards Brampton inside him as well as the hell of war all around, but the hate was such a part of him and he didn’t know if he could let it go.
Around them shells were thumping, men were marching, scuffing their feet as they retreated. In the distance slag heaps reminded him of home, but his marra was dead. Quite dead. He nodded at Brampton. ‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir, but who’ll watch me back? You see, I didn’t watch his. I’m his marra and I didn’t.’
He shrugged free and struggled towards his men, feeling as though each step required too much effort. Brampton walked a pace behind. ‘We’ll all watch one another’s backs for that’s what soldiers do, and sometimes even that’s not enough. It’s not your fault and it won’t be the last time, damn it to hell.’
That evening there was a scratch roll call held in the village. So this was war, Jack thought, as he called out the names of the men in his platoon and too few answered. He could almost hear Martin saying, ‘Like the bloody pit, eh. It’s a home from home, lad.’ He could hear his laugh, here in his head, where it would always stay. Aye, man, just like the bloody pit. Blood on the coal, eh?
He reported the figures to Lieutenant Brampton. ‘Very good, Sergeant. Lead the men off. We have a long way to go.’
Auberon stepped back and watched the company march away. He stood straighter. He moved his jaw. He had been hit by a better man than his father would ever be, and he had stood his ground.