The Royal Welch Fusiliers’ austere nineteenth-century castellated Hightown Barracks is more like a prison block than a home from home for the Thomas boys. Used to their isolated cottage at Pentry Farm, amidst the rolling hills of Radnorshire, life in a large barracks room with scores of other men is alien to them; as are military discipline and routine. They do not find the regime physically demanding, but its rigidity and mind-numbing repetition is psychologically exhausting. Even so, they are exemplary soldiers.
Geraint and Morgan have been here since joining up at the beginning of September, in the aftermath of the scandalous revelation of their sister’s relationship with Philip Davies. Their older brother, Hywel, followed them to Highgate when he joined up later in the month, following Margaret Killingbeck’s visit to Presteigne in search of Bronwyn. Her visit partially rescued him from his melancholy, and he did what he said he would do: he closed up the cottage, let the land to a neighbour and joined Kitchener’s Army.
The 1st and 2nd Battalions Welch Fusiliers, which have been in France since August, have seen little action and suffered almost no casualties, other than the ill-fated Captain Davies. In stark contrast to so many other regiments, their only hardship has been the many pairs of blistered feet caused by ill-fitting new boots.
A draft detachment of around 100 reservists is being prepared at Hightown for the long journey to reinforce the 1st Battalion. They are the pick of the men in training; not only are they fit and ready to fight, their departure will create space for the new volunteers who are flocking to the recruiting offices.
The draft will be led by 2nd Lieutenant Francis Orme, a gangling 23-year-old from a renowned military family, who has only recently passed out of Sandhurst.
As news of an imminent departure for France spreads around the barracks, the three Thomas boys are summoned to the Regimental Adjutant’s office. With the senior officer are Colour Serjeant Major John Hughes and Lieutenant Orme.
The three boys march in smartly and salute. The adjutant smiles at them.
‘Stand at ease, Fusiliers. How is your training going?’
Hywel answers.
‘Very well, thank you, sir, but I’m a little behind my brothers.’
‘Well, all three of you are doing exceptionally well.’ He looks down at various sheets of paper in front of him on his desk. ‘You are physically strong, and your scores on the range are outstanding – especially yours, Fusilier Thomas, H. Your scores are as high as we’ve ever seen from a novice; you are a remarkable marksman. Indeed, were it not for the small matter of the war in France, we would be preparing you for the Regimental Shooting Championships at Bisley.’
Hywel looks distinctly self-conscious.
‘Thank you, sir. I’ve always enjoyed shooting on the farm.’
‘Now listen; you will have heard that Lieutenant Orme here is taking a detachment of men to France next week, probably on Wednesday. Altogether, one hundred and nine men have been chosen, all with some experience as reservists. All, that is, except six recent volunteers, all of whom show great promise. We have spoken to the other three, Fusiliers Jones, G. and Jones, E. and Fusilier Bennett.’
The Thomas brothers look at one another in amazement; they know what is coming next.
‘Yes, we have chosen all three of you to be part of Lieutenant Orme’s detachment.’
All the Thomas boys thank the adjutant in unison; there are smiles all round.
Before CSM Hughes dismisses them, Lieutenant Orme offers them some warm words of encouragement.
‘Delighted to have you in my detachment, Fusiliers Thomas, Thomas and Thomas. It will be my first posting as well. Perhaps we can help one another?’
Appreciative of the lieutenant’s words, Geraint answers this time.
‘Thank you, sir, we’ll do our best.’
CSM Hughes then takes them to the Regimental Quartermaster’s store, where they are issued with weapons and kit. It is a proud moment for them, and they find it hard to stop grinning during the whole process.
Finally, they are taken to the Orderly Room where their details are checked by the Regimental Clerk, a punctilious serjeant, who fires questions at them.
When it comes to the question about their next of kin, there is a difference of opinion. Initially, Hywel answers for all three of them.
‘None, Serjeant, both our parents are dead. There are just the three of us.’
Morgan disagrees.
‘I have a twin sister, Bronwyn.’
The serjeant looks puzzled.
‘Make your minds up. If one of you has a sister, then you all have a sister! Unless you breed differently in Presteigne. What’s her address?’
‘Don’t know, Serjeant.’
‘Then it isn’t much bloody use me putting her down, is it?’
The boys look at one another. They do not know how to answer.
‘Look, if you cop a Jack Johnson in France and you all go up in smoke, we have to send a telegram to someone. I need a name and address.’
Geraint, never afraid to ask an obvious question, asks the one that both his brothers want to ask.
‘What’s a “Jack Johnson”, Serjeant?’
The serjeant smirks.
‘It’s an exploding shell that gives off shitloads o’ black smoke.’
The boys still seem none the wiser.
‘Don’t you have newspapers in Presteigne? Jack Johnson is World Heavyweight Champion. He’s a bloody darkie, black as the ace of spades! Anyway, I need a name.’
Hywel comes up with a name.
‘The Reverend Henry Kewley, the Vicarage, St Andrew’s Church, Presteigne. Thank you very much, Serjeant.’
‘That’ll do. Now off with you! And try not to get in the way of a Jack Johnson in France … or a whizz-bang.’
‘What’s a “whizz-bang”, Sarje?’
‘Fuck off, you cheeky little bugger!’
That night, the Thomas boys are allowed to leave Hightown Barracks and go into Wrexham to celebrate their deployment. They do not go very far, just to the King’s Mill, a Banks’s pub a few hundred yards down the road. It is very much a soldiers’ haunt. Many men come up to them to shake their hands and congratulate them, and a few even buy them jugs of ale.
As they talk, Morgan takes the opportunity to get something off his chest.
‘Hywel, I know your opinion of Bron, disownin’ her an’ all that. But when it comes to our next o’ kin, shouldn’t she know if we get blown up by one of those Jack Thompsons?’
‘Yeah, one of those.’
‘I suppose so. But what do we give as her address? A dockside whorehouse in Tiger Bay, Cardiff?’
‘Perhaps that nurse who came to Pentry has found ’er and straightened ’er out?’
‘Not much chance o’ that, Morgan. There’s no way back from bein’ a tart in Tiger Bay.’
Geraint changes the subject.
‘I wonder what Tom’s up to?’
Hywel misses his boyhood friend. Tom has not been seen since the trauma over Bronwyn.
‘If he’s got any sense, he’ll be a long way away from Presteigne and will never go back.’
Morgan looks into the fire glowing in the hearth, then stares at the chestnut-coloured brew in his jug.
‘Bet they don’t ’ave Banks’s Mild in France.’
Hywel looks at his younger brother. Although he has felt much better since following his brothers and joining the Welch Fusiliers, he is still very raw after the ordeals of the summer. But he is putting on a brave face in front of Geraint and Morgan.
‘I’m sure they ’ave beer in France. And I’m sure it will ’ave the same effect as Banks’s.’
‘I ’ope so, Hywel! I do ’ope so, with all those darkie bombs goin’ off.’
Hywel smiles pensively and also stares into the fire. He is still thinking that a quick and painless death in France will be an appropriate end to a life full of sadness and with no prospect of respite.