1916 Angels over the Somme (British Ace Book 3) (29 page)

“It is food and it will keep us going. We will have steak pie when we get home.”

He grinned, “Now you are talking sir.  With gravy and mashed potatoes!”

The thought of hot, rich food sent me to sleep. Hutton let me sleep for four hours and shook me awake. “It’s getting warmer sir. I had to leave the shelter sir. Sorry but I have the shits.”

I nodded, I had expected this. “Drink plenty of water.”

“What if we run out?”

“We will get some more.”

We left at dusk. I took a circuitous route to avoid the farm.  As luck would have it I found a trail which appeared to head north. I risked a match to look at the compass and saw that it did lead north.  It was not the direction I had intended to take but it would do.  It was slower going than I would have liked but I could not see us meeting anyone. The path led across fields and through pieces of scrubby woodland.  We were passing some cows when I saw some rabbits gathered close to the herd. They were getting milk.

“Hutton, come with me.  Drink the last of the water. You need it.”

The rabbits fled but the heifer continued to chew contentedly.  “Give me the Dewar Flask and hold her head.  Hum to her. They like that.”

“Hum what sir?”

“Just a song, sergeant.  I am going to milk her.” It had been some time since I had milked a cow but you never forgot and we soon had a flask full. I poured a cup for Hutton and I drank some from the flask. I refilled the flask and we left across the field.  The milk would counteract the effects of the fruit as well as providing nourishment.

We scurried through Quesnoy in the dark of night only pausing to grab a handful of water from the water trough.  We were back on the road once more and, although we were making better time, we had to be more vigilant.

We were a few miles from Dadizele, our next stop when disaster struck.  Perhaps we were overconfident or just careless; I don’t know. We had left the road, which turned west towards the front, and were heading on a small narrow trail which led north. We were just negotiating a rocky downhill section of the path when I heard a sudden noise and a cry.  I turned and saw Hutton sprawled at my feet. He was clutching his ankle and in some distress.

“Sorry, sir, I slipped on the rock and twisted my ankle. You leave me.”

I shook my head.  I told you Sergeant Hutton we do this together. This is not the spot to examine your injury.  We will find some shelter.  Here, I will help you up.  You can lean on me and use the rifle as a stick. Go steadily and don’t put any weight on that ankle. Your boots will stop it swelling.”

We hobbled, gingerly down the slope.  It seemed to take forever. I heard the intake of breath from Hutton when he caught his trailing ankle on the ground. We would be caught in the open soon. I saw that we were travelling over what must have been a farm at one time.  There were field boundaries and walls but it was overgrown. It looked to be an enclosure for animals but there was no animal waste to be seen.

We followed the contours of the land and headed down.  As the first faint rays of sun appeared I saw what looked like the deserted farm building. It looked to have a roof and a door.  We had struck lucky once more.

The door was just ten yards away and a sanctuary beckoned. “Nearly there, Lumpy.  Just grit your teeth and think of England.”

“Funny sir I remember saying that to a girl once.”

Just then I heard a growl followed by the ominous clicking of a double barrel shot gun being cocked.

Hutton looked at me and I felt a barrel tap me on the shoulder. I turned and saw an old man, pipe jutting from his mouth and he was pointing his shotgun at me. There was a sheep dog at his feet growling and looking ready to take a lump of English flesh from my leg. “English! We are English airmen.”

The barrel lowered a smidgeon and he said, “Anglais?”

I nodded vigorously and said, “Oui.” I mimed an aeroplane flying and then crashing.

He lowered the gun and smiled, “Avion?”

“Yes, an aeroplane,” I pointed to Lumpy’s leg.  “He is hurt.”

The old man nodded and he opened the door. He went inside and turned up the lamp.  I could see, as soon as we entered that this was not a deserted ruin, it was his home. He had a room just like ours on the estate.  There was a simple pot bellied stove, a table with three chairs and a bowl with a pitcher next to it. The chairs neither matched each other nor the table. He gestured towards the chair and, after uncocking his shotgun placed it in the corner. I noted that.  He kept it loaded. Hutton sat down and I saw the relief on his face. I looked around the room and saw that there were just some family photographs and curious mementoes but the place above the fire was dominated by a picture of the Belgian king.  This man was a patriot and that gave me hope that he might be on our side.

He barked a command at the dog which went outside. He poured some water into a pail and handed it to me.  I took off the boot very carefully. I could see the pain which Lumpy had to endure. I dreaded taking off his sock and finding the ankle broken. I slowly peeled back the sock. I held his foot by the heel.  It was visibly swelling and very red but it did not seem broken.  I knew how to test for a broken limb but that would have to wait for a while.  We needed the swelling to go down first.  I lowered the injured foot into the water and the relief on Hutton’s face was clear.

The old man nodded and took a frying pan. He began to carefully carve some thin slices of ham which he threw into the pan.  He disappeared out of the back door.

“Do you reckon this is safe sir?”

“As safe as anywhere behind enemy lines is likely to be. You just rest.  We take each day one at a time and deal with whatever we have to.”

I glanced around and saw a photograph of the old man when he was younger.  He was wearing a uniform of some kind.  There was one of him and who I took to be his wife on their wedding day and there was a much more recent photograph of a young man holding a shotgun in one hand and a brace of rabbits in the other. The old man returned with a basket containing a clutch of eggs.  He saw me looking at the photographs and continued to the stove.  The smell of the frying ham made me begin to salivate.

The old man turned the ham and cracked a couple of eggs into the sizzling pan. He glanced at me; I pointed to the photograph I had just been looking at. “Your son?”

He looked puzzled and I struggled for the French word. “Er fils, votre fils.”

He nodded and, after taking out the ham, cracked another two eggs. He looked at me with the saddest look I have ever seen. “Il est mort.” He said it slowly so that I could understand.  I nodded. “Boche!” He mimed shooting and spat into the open fire.

I wondered if he had been a soldier too. It answered one question, however, the man was no friend of the Germans which made him our friend.

He took two old and slightly cracked plates from the dresser and put ham and eggs on each one. He placed them before us and took a stale piece of baguette.  He tore it in two and gave it to us. He mimed eating and said, “Mange!” He took two bent knives and forks from a drawer and handed them to us.  I wondered if he would eat too but I was too hungry to be polite and so I tucked in. There is something about the flesh of the pig which, when cooked, is almost divine.  The yolk on the fresh eggs was the brightest yellow I had ever seen and oozed across the plate. The bread was stale but I didn’t care and I mopped up every last piece of fat and yolk.

I sat back and noticed that the old man had been cooking some acorns on the stove top.  I was curious.  He took them off the heat and put them in a mortar and pestle.  He began to pound them into a powder.  He took the kettle which had boiled and poured it on the powder in the pan. Leaving the pan he took his own plate and sat down. He ate slowly and deliberately.  He was not hungry as we were. It seemed to be something he felt he ought to do. There appeared to be little enjoyment.

When he had finished he stood, collected the plates and put them in the sink.  He poured the hot liquid from the ground acorns into three mismatched and chipped cups. He handed them to us.

“What is it sir?”

“I have no idea but it is wet and hot.  We should be grateful for small mercies.” I sipped it.  There was a slightly bitter taste which was not unlike coffee. “It won’t poison you, Hutton, drink it.”

He pulled his face when he sipped it but, like me, he soon became used to the taste. The old man mimed leaving and, what looked like, digging.  I nodded.

“Nice old bloke sir.” He pointed to his ankle which was still in the water. “Sorry about this sir.”

“It can’t be helped and we dropped lucky here.  I reckon I’ll give the old boy a hand.” I took off my tunic and shirt.

“You ought to rest sir.”

I shook my head, “You will not be going anywhere for a day or two. We will be sleeping here tonight.  It is dry and warm. I’ll see if I can talk to him.”

“Is he French sir?”

I shrugged, “He could be French or Belgian but they speak their own dialect up here so my French which isn’t brilliant to start with may not be much use. You keep your foot in the water.”

I went down the short, narrow passage.  I glanced to the left and right and saw two bedrooms.  One looked to be the old man’s and in use.  The other had more photographs of the dead son and I assumed that had been his room.

When I stepped out into the light the dog growled.  The old man snapped at him. He put his spade into the ground and reached into his pocket.  He brought out some pork rinds.  He gave me one and mimed giving it to the dog. Remarkably the dog sat and held out his paw. The old man smiled for the first time and I gave the pork rind to the dog.  I knew from the estate dogs that I was now a friend.

The old man was digging out some potatoes. I saw a digging fork and I picked it up.  I pointed to myself, “Je m’appelle Bill.” I put my hand out.

He took it and shook it, “Albert.”

I set to helping Albert.  He watched me for a few moments to ensure I knew what I doing and then he jabbed his spade into the ground and began to pick some early sprouts.  It looked like we were gathering dinner.

It had been some years since I had worked in a garden but I thoroughly enjoyed it.  It was as though the war was on hold. I felt neither danger nor stress as the two of us toiled in the small holding.  I could now see why we thought the farm had been derelict.  The barn’s door was hanging off.  There were tiles missing from what had been the sty and it was only this side, hidden by the house, which had been tended.  He had a good supply of crops.  He even had a few tomatoes left. I could see where he had used the plants and there were winter cabbages and cauliflowers in the newly cleared ground.  The chickens clucked away happily in their hen house.  He had given up on the world but not life.

He nodded happily and took the fork from me. We returned inside. The kitchen was immaculate.  Hutton had cleaned it and washed all of the pots as well as the pans. He must have just sat down when we re-entered.  Albert was moved and he shook Lumpy’s hand.

“Lumpy, this is Albert.  Albert, Lumpy.”

Albert tried to pronounce Lumpy and it came out
Looompy
.  We both laughed. The old man said, “Mange?”

Lumpy looked at me. “He asked if we are ready to eat.”

Hutton grinned, “Always.”

Instead of using the old bread, the old man went to the front door and there were three fresh baguettes there. While Albert took them in I said, “Did you hear anyone come and knock?”

“No sir.  Sorry. I was busy washing up while you and the old boy were working in the garden.”

“We were there three hours; we have been lucky. Someone came and they could have peered in and seen you. We had best stay out of sight.”

The table was soon laid with a third of a baguette each, some cheese and some tomatoes.  He picked up three ancient and huge glasses and a large stone jug.  He poured out three healthy slugs of wine. He held his glass up, “Salut! Bon Appétit!”

The cheese was homemade goats’ cheese and was delicious.  The tomatoes were big, beefy and tasty.  The wine was a little rougher than I was used to but was a perfect accompaniment to the cheese. After we had eaten he took out his pipe.  I had not had the chance to smoke mine since the crash.  I took out my pipe and offered him my tobacco. He chuckled when he saw the picture of the baby on the tin. He filled his pipe and we lit them with spills from the fire.

Lumpy lit a cigarette and looked longingly at our pipes.  “I have always fancied smoking a pipe sir and looking at you two, well you look sort of matey.”

“You are right, Sergeant and when I smoke mine with my dad I always feel close to him.  Smoking his tobacco here with old Albert does the same.”

“When we get back to Blighty I shall get one.”

“We are going to get back then?”

“Of course sir.  I was just feeling sorry for myself when I hurt my ankle.”

Albert and I smoked our pipes in companionable silence. When we had finished he said, “Lapin?” and mimed shooting.

“What was that sir?”

“He wants to go rabbit hunting.” I nodded.  “Oui, Albert.”

He picked up his shotgun and carried it open in the crook of his arm. He went to a cupboard and took out a single shot shotgun and offered it to me. I shook my head and picked up the Lee Enfield instead.