SEVENTEEN

 

‘Look at this!’ Bilks threw aside the Daily Mirror, beaten limp after passing through ten sets of fingers. ‘Very little action on the Western Front. It’s disgusting that they say that. Plenty of action, if you ask me.’

‘I expect they think we re sitting about in deckchairs,’ said Pie. ‘Ma does, anyhow.’ He was sorting through his box of souvenirs, three more German badges after the battle four nights ago, along with assorted bullets, belt buckles and scraps of shrapnel.

‘Just because we haven’t moved forward very much. I’ve half a thought to write to them and give them a piece of my mind. And you, Pie, you watch it with those things. The COs are searching bags for that sort of stuff.’

‘When we return, only army property allowed,’ Michael recited. Bilks had said Pie had a German watch in there, but Michael hadn’t the heart to remove it. The man had been fond of Andrews; they all had.

‘This is army property,’ said Pie. ‘My army property, anyway.’

‘Not even any action at Loos reported?’ demanded Cook of Bilks, waving at the newspaper.

‘Well, a little on that. But they say it was a failure and we haven’t moved.’

‘Well, we ain’t moved, have we?’ said Pie. ‘What do they know? Don’t think it would go down too well if they said, another ten thousand men down, Field Marshal French’s washstand no further towards Berlin.’

‘His washstand won’t be anywhere, if you ask me. He’ll be for the chop after this fiasco.’

‘Reckon he has been ever since the King fell off his horse in front of everybody. Georgie can’t forgive him seeing that,’ said Pie.

Michael knew he ought to stop them. But why should I? he wanted to shout. Fair enough officers setting an example, guiding the men, holding the line. But trotting out the usual story that they were better than the Germans, had more troops, what was the point of that? He gazed down at the pile of biscuits on the table. Andrews and Baker were dead, Weaver and Tiller missing, and still their rations were coming through. They had more biscuits than they could eat – more so because Pie refused to touch them, said he had no truck with eating dead men’s food.

Post here!’ cried a voice. Meadows came around the corner dragging his heavy sack. ‘Some good stuff for you lot.’

He doled out the letters. ‘Ooh,’ said Bilks, patting his parcel. ‘Looks like Mrs B’s been knitting again. See if she’s managed not to put a hole in it this time.’ He always joked that his wife sent scarves with ready-made rat bites, just in case. A thin letter for Michael. He recognised the handwriting. Celia. He stowed it in his pocket. He promised himself he would write back to this one.

‘A soldier stuffed this in my hand for you too, sir,’ said Meadows, holding out a letter. Tom’s handwriting. He put that in his pocket as well. ‘Oh – and I almost forgot this one. Another parcel.’ He passed it over. Michael looked down at it, his heart sinking. He knew that looping, untidy writing too. It was Andrews’ girl, Betty.

‘Want me to do it, sir?’ said Bilks, seeing his face. Michael shook his head. He took his penknife and cut open the paper. Soap, a long letter, a large box. He opened the box, hoping it would be a personal present he could send back, like a scarf. Inside was a cake. A somewhat squashed and mangled but still nice-looking iced fruit cake. He’d never known Betty send a cake before. He looked down at the letter. I have been saving up to make you this, she wrote. Got the ingredients from Macys. Best fruit to be found, he said. I hope you like it – you can share it with the other boys if you like. You mustn’t think about Ernie, it’s just you and me. I wanted to tell you that, in case you didn’t know. I know we used to be friends, but I told him we had to stop it. You’re my man!

Michael folded the letter. He picked up the cake. It was already melting on to his hands. Their orders were to send letters and items back, but to eat any perishables. He stared at the icing on the top – an attempt to spell out ‘John’. He took the cake and threw it at the wall of the trench.

‘Nice for the rats,’ said Bilks.

‘Did you want it?’

Bilks shook his head. Michael put his head in his hands.

‘Good morning, sir.’ A soft voice came over the side of the trench. ‘Are you Corporal Witt?’

Michael looked up. A slim, blond-haired man was standing at the top. He was smiling. ‘I heard you lost some men in the push. I have been sent down to join you.’

‘Good morning to you,’ said Bilks. ‘What is your name?’

‘Stuart Wheeler, sir. From C Company.’ His accent was slow, country, Michael thought. Norfolk maybe.

‘Well, come down here, why don’t you? We are reinforcing the walls.’

Michael stared at Wheeler. The skin on his face looked soft. The blue of his eyes was very pale against the bright October sky. ‘Actually, we need to collect some more wire from the stores. Wheeler can come with me.’ He clambered up the side of the trench. ‘Let’s go.’

Wheeler nodded and followed him. Michael felt almost too shy to look at him. They walked to the stores, silently. Overhead, birds sang. You might think you were back in England. They stood in line, collected the wire, started walking back. Ten feet or so from the trenches, Wheeler dropped to his knees. ‘Look at this!’ Michael squatted next to him. There was a line of beetles trundling along, walking in strict formation, scrambling over a small mound of earth. ‘Splendid, isn’t it, sir? The way they all march so tidily, despite the mess around them. Like us.’

Michael watched the insects. The front one, the biggest, was actually rather beautiful, with its shiny armour reflecting rainbows of sunlight. After marching some way over the mound, it stopped and looked around. Its antennae waved.

‘He’s trying to decide where to go,’ said Wheeler, entranced. ‘He’s got to lead them and he must get it right.’

At that moment, the beetle seemed to look up at the two men. Then it nodded and led its band on. ‘He was trying to decide if we were predators,’ said Michael.

‘I think so.’

‘We should send them over to the German side.’

‘They could probably get better information than our current lot. I reckon our spies wouldn’t even find the trenches – ridiculous. They arrested an old Frenchwoman over on our side for waving her washing about on the line; they thought she was signalling to the Germans.’

‘Washing?’ Michael could not help but smile. ‘Come on, Wheeler, we should get back.’ He watched the beetles trotting along and turned away. He found himself – inordinately, illogically – hoping that they would not be shelled. The other man walked on.

Michael hurried after Wheeler. ‘What were you doing before signing up?’ he asked.

‘I was training to be a schoolmaster. I had done my college time and I was working in a school in Norfolk. Country school, had to give them all a week off every September to go to the ploughing competition. I had been reading them a lot of history.’

‘That sounds interesting.’

‘It was. Then the army came blowing their trumpets and looking for men. I thought I would be back in time to see the older ones finish school. Now I don’t know.’

‘Fingers crossed.’

‘Yes.’ Michael was grateful that Wheeler did not call him sir.

In the days that followed, machine-gun fire strafed through the rain and there were constant gas warnings. Michael woke in his dugout and thought about seeing Wheeler. He went to sleep thinking of his smile. He tried to find ways of standing by him and walking with him to the stores. He asked him to accompany him on visits to other captains to discuss practicalities – a job that Bilks was happy to give up because he wanted to be with the men.

Every time they left the trenches, Wheeler found something else new to show him: a spider crawling up a tree, a pair of birds hopping for worms, a weasel hunting her prey. Michael remembered being like this as a child, gazing intently at one thing, forgetful of the world outside. He’d once stared for hours at a robin in their Hampstead garden. Now, his head spun with a hundred thoughts. He tried to follow Wheeler, pick out the tiny markings on a bird, the circles of age on a worm.

It rained every day, and Michael wondered if the powers-that-be were holding off on another offensive until the weather improved.

‘Fighting is summer work,’ said Wheeler, when they were shovelling mud out of the trench. He had been teaching the older boys in his school about the Boer War.

‘You’re a one,’ said Pie. ‘What are we going to do until the summer? Sit about here?’

‘Probably. Or they might send us off for training, running up and down some French hills.’

‘What’s the point of that? We might as well go home.’

‘Then we’d be giving in, wouldn’t we? We’re a human barrier.’

It was yet another conversation that Michael knew he really shouldn’t have been allowing. But what was he supposed to tell them to talk about? The football or cricket news that got to them weeks late? Their families? That upset them more.

‘Not long till Christmas, lads,’ he said, hating his false jollity. ‘The Queen might give us a present.’

‘Hmm,’ said Bilks. ‘That was last year. Unlikely.’

Last year, presents from Princess Mary had arrived, to be distributed on 23rd December. Cigarettes, tobacco and bars of chocolate. One of the BEF officers told Michael about the privates trotting off over to the other side in truce, one coming back saying they’d met a German who’d been a barber in Walthamstow. ‘Never again,’ he said. ‘The papers didn’t like it.’

This year, they huddled in their trenches, afraid of another gas attack, masks – useless as they were – to hand. The men swapped Christmas cards to make them feel as if they had more. Michael read his letter from Celia, even though he could hardly bear to. Things are well. We are very well, she wrote. Happy Christmas! It was littered with exclamation marks, like a sky with stars. It hurt him how hard she was trying to be happy. Still, at least she’d be able to read in the newspapers some guff about how the men on the Western Front had had a ‘happy Christmas with an excellent dinner’. Bilks whistled ‘Hark the Herald Angels’ to keep them amused.

‘I have had it with this,’ Pie said. ‘I might just go for a short walk. They’re not going to order us out at Christmas, are they?’

Bilks looked up briefly. ‘Sir?’ Michael nodded. ‘Okay, chaps. A quick breath of air. Keep your heads down going up. And wish any farmer you see a …’ He turned to Michael.

‘Joyeux Noël, monsieur.’

‘That’s it. Joyeux Noël, monsieur.’

They chorused it in reply. Even Bilks was hauling himself over the side. ‘Just off to have a look, sir,’ he said. ‘Better check the locals don’t bite on Christmas Day.’

Michael nodded. ‘Have them back within two hours, Bilks.’

He settled back. Wheeler was standing there. ‘I don’t need to go, sir,’ he said. ‘I’ll stay and keep you company. It is Christmas, after all.’

Michael smiled. ‘Thank you.’

Wheeler sat beside him. ‘Tell me about your family, sir.’

‘Call me Michael.’ He saw the surprise on the other man’s face. ‘Just for today, at least.’

‘Tell me about your family – Michael.’

‘My father was in business. Pretty normal, really. Tell me about yours. I’d really like to hear.’

Wheeler started to talk about his widowed mother in Norfolk. As he did so, he snaked his hand over to Michael’s and clasped it. Michael felt his face colour. Wheeler’s skin was soft in his hand. Stuart, he let himself think. Stuart.

Bilks’s cheery face peered over the lip of the trench. ‘Good—’ His mouth dropped open. Michael and Stuart hastened to move apart, but it was too late. Bilks’s eyes were glued to their hands. He stood at the edge. ‘All going well up there,’ he said, his voice forcedly cheerful. ‘Pie found a frozen pond, they’re skidding around like a set of fools.’

‘They deserve some cheer,’ said Michael, faintly. Wheeler had moved his hand but his body was still close. Michael could feel the warmth of it through his shirt.

The three of them stared at each other in an awkward silence.

‘I say, old chap!’ Captain Derreny-Mills put his head over the side. ‘Happy Christmas and all that. It’s quiet in here. You’re not watching your men, Witt?’

‘No, no. Bilks was with them,’ he said, trying to make his voice loud.

‘I came to beg a favour. Sorry to ask, but one of my boys has just told me he had some bad news from home in his Christmas letter. Wife expecting, not well at all, in hospital, and of course he can’t have any leave yet. He’s not really up to much but he was supposed to be doing sentry duty tonight. All the others have been drinking rum, sorry to say. You don’t have anyone who might be able to step in?’

‘I’m afraid they’ve all been drinking rum too,’ Michael said.

‘No they haven’t,’ came Bilks’s voice. ‘Wheeler hasn’t, have you, Wheeler? You could take the job.’

Michael stared. He wanted to overrule – but Bilks was correct. Wheeler stood up. ‘Of course, sir. What time should I begin?’

‘Six, please. Thank you, old chap. And you, Witt. Good day to you. Make sure you get your men in soon. They’ll start the whizz-bangs again at five, I hear.’

That night, Michael waited in his dugout, listening to Worth singing, Pie chattering about his father meeting Marie Lloyd and the other men telling them to be quiet. Finally, at half eleven, they were all snoring. He listened out for the sound of Bilks grinding his teeth – a sure-fire sign that he was asleep. After it had been going on for a good twenty minutes, he stood up. He was dressed, with his boots on – they all slept like that in case of enemy action – so it was easy to slip out and towards the fire step at the end of the trench.

He crawled along the trench, past groups of men slung over each other, fast asleep. One was lying awake, staring ahead, but did not see him. No matter; no one would challenge an officer. At the end of the trench, he pulled himself up. The land was painfully clear, lit up by whizz-bangs. Last month, one of the sentries had been taken by a German night patrol, or at least that was what they thought, since his relief had found nothing there but his badge on the fire step – they supposed he’d been fiddling with it to keep himself awake.

Wheeler was standing straight, looking outwards at the dark mass of nothing. ‘Psst!’ He did not turn around. ‘Psst!’

He turned. ‘Sir?’

‘Thought I would come and see you,’ said Michael, feeling shy. ‘To find out how you are.’

‘Not bad, thank you, sir. It seems rather quiet out there.’

‘Michael.’

‘Michael, then. I can’t really see much, to be honest. A few of our officers walked past and that was it.’

‘I am very glad to hear it is quiet. I brought you some chocolate.’

‘Did Princess Mary send us some after all?’

‘Sadly not. Cheap stuff I bought in the shop here.’ Michael sat on the fire step. The cool air, the stars, the lack of people felt like a kind of freedom – the first he had really felt since that night at Stoneythorpe when he and Tom had discussed leaving. ‘Happy Christmas,’ he said, holding out the meagre bar.

‘Thanks, sir. I was almost dropping off out here. Not that you heard me say that, of course.’ Wheeler’s breath came out frosty, little clouds in the darkness. Michael wanted to reach out and capture them in his hands.

‘Of course.’

‘Do you have a cigarette?’

‘For you, of course.’ Anything, Michael wanted to add, but just at the moment of speaking, he felt too shy. He took a cigarette from his packet and passed it up to Wheeler. Stuart, he wanted to say. Can I – may I – call you Stuart?

‘Could you light it for me?’

Michael had to breathe in to feel the weight of what Stuart had asked. Light it. ‘Of course!’ he said, too brightly. The match flickered in the darkness. Stuart leaned in, sucked. Oh God. ‘Let’s try and ignite some German shells,’ Michael said, too quickly, stumbling over the words as he took his fingers away.

Stuart blew out smoke and laughed a little. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Michael. Please.’ He could hear the begging note in his voice as he said the words.

‘Michael. Michael and Stuart. Has quite a good sound to it, don’t you think?’ Wheeler blew out a smoke ring.

‘Come and sit by me?’ The words hung in the air.

‘That would be breaking the rules. They could court-martial me.’ ‘I’m your officer. I’ll tell them not to.’

That laugh again. Oh God. ‘Well, if you say so. Michael.’

Stuart sat down beside him, not half a foot away, but right beside him. Michael could almost feel his flesh through his coat. He couldn’t speak. His hands were sweating, even though the air was freezing. Tiny flares sparked up over the land in front. He stared at them, trying to see them and nothing else.

‘You know, I quite like the army, never thought I would.’

‘Oh?’

‘The other fellows are good sorts. Beldon, in my last company, was telling me that the food is better than he can afford at home. Says that often he and his wife give their little boy the meat and they have the water it’s cooked in.’

Michael looked at the chocolate in his hand. ‘There is certainly food, that’s true.’

‘Honestly, I think it’s the first place I have ever really fitted in. I wouldn’t say boo to a goose as a kid. I wasn’t much of a teacher. My mother wanted me to do it but the older ones ran rings around me, girls as well as boys.’

‘I’m sorry to hear it.’

‘Oh no, don’t be sorry. I wouldn’t want to be one of them, working and the pub and then marrying some poor girl round the corner and giving her six kids. I like being different.’ He blew out smoke and turned to look at Michael. His eyes shone in the gloom. A flare shot up nearer to them. ‘Like you, sir. Don’t you like being different too?’

Michael felt himself go scarlet. Thank God it was so dark. He started to speak but it came out as a stammer. Breathe, he told himself.

‘I’m not wrong, am I? You are?’

Michael coughed, tried to speak. Then tried again. ‘I don’t know,’ he managed, his voice strangled.

‘I knew from when I was very small. But I had to find the right person. I did – for a while. An older fellow, new to the village. We used to meet near the canal boats, hide in the trees. Stan, his name was. Then his parents came to visit, he got scared and before you could say lickety-split, he was back in his old town and married to a cousin. I was pretty angry, you can imagine. But I think now he must be more unhappy than me.’

‘Did you ever hear from him?’

‘Oh, I had two letters. One telling me the news and thanking me for my friendship and telling me to be happy as a friend. Then a year or so later he wrote again, just pally, asked how I was. I wasn’t going to answer. I didn’t.’

‘No. I can – er – see that.’

‘It only makes you unhappy if you don’t live for what you really want, I think, sir,’ he said. ‘Don’t you agree?’ He blew out another smoke ring. Michael stared at it, floating up to the sky. A flare rose beyond it.

Michael felt something. It was … it was Stuart’s hand on his knee. Put yours over it, he willed himself. It was down by his side. Do it. He couldn’t. Oh God.

‘You know, sir,’ Wheeler’s voice was soft, his mouth very close to Michael’s ear, ‘if there is something you want to try, you should. Life’s too short. Our life is too short.’

Michael edged his own hand on to the outside of his leg. That was all he could do. The land ahead of him had blurred, as if he had put on a short-sighted man’s glasses.

‘Anything you might like to try.’ Wheeler’s voice was still close to his ear. Michael closed his eyes. He could feel the other man’s breath on his skin. His hand on his leg. He opened his eyes, turned his head. The space glittered in between them. And then Stuart moved his face closer and the shock ran through Michael as he felt the chapped patches on the soft wetness of the other man’s lips, the coolness of his cheeks. He opened his mouth and let Wheeler in.