Easterleigh Hall at War (15 page)

‘Talking of time, which we weren't altogether,' said Lady Margaret, looking at her watch, ‘I need to get back to my patients, I really do. It's the dressings, you know. The moss is helping the pain of their faces but they like people with whom they are familiar to attend them, especially Major Granville.' She flushed.

Evie's mother was now pouring tea, using the best china. ‘There is time for a cup of tea, and don't fret, all will be well,' she said. Everyone laughed but they were all so far away, Evie thought, and drifted now, down into the water, searching.

Veronica received Auberon's kit on 28th April, the same day that letters arrived telling the enlisted men's families that they were missing in action, presumed dead. Their kit accompanied the letters. Lance Corporal Samuels took control at Easterleigh Hall and carried Auberon's kit up to Veronica and Richard's suite. He said nothing, just saluted, and left.

Veronica insisted that it was she who unpacked. Her fingers struggled with the cracked and dried leather straps. The dirt of Neuve Chapelle fell on to her carpet. She took out Auberon's spare uniform, his boots. They smelt of war, and filth. They were lice-ridden. Why? No one had worn them recently? His letter to her, written on the eve of the battle, was here. It had not been posted. So no one thought he was dead? Or had it simply been overlooked?

She read it. He spoke of Wainey, their nanny, and their mother, how he had loved them, how he had learned at last their lessons of fairness, of responsibility. He spoke finally of his love for her, his hope that she would find happiness with Richard, who was a good sort. He ended, ‘Your ever-loving brother, Aub.'

Right at the bottom, alongside his scarf knitted by Annie, and a pair of spare socks Veronica remembered Evie wrestling with, was his diary. She looked at Richard, who said, ‘It is up to you.' While she read his last entry aloud Richard checked Auberon's boots, pulling at the heels, which did not move. He seemed pleased. He said, ‘He's got his compass, otherwise it would be in one of these heels. He stands a chance of getting back if . . .'

Veronica interrupted. ‘Listen, Richard. Listen to this. “Of course, the sun rises and sets with her but as long as she is happy and loved by him, then what more is there? I suppose this is the height of love, something that does not require fulfilment of self. Please God, he lives through this mess, and that I can help in that objective. For her sake.”'

Richard reached across and took the diary from her. ‘I think we must not read any more. It is not ours to know.' Veronica stared at her hands, at the dirt that engrained her skin. She hadn't cried for some days, but now she did.

JACK AND AUBERON
shambled ahead of Roger and Simon. The German uhlans, cavalrymen who seemed to have misplaced their horses, had cut their packs from them, and all their webbing, including their belts and chucked them into a pile. Captain Brampton had retained his leather straps and belt as behoved an officer, and as such to be respected, or was it feared? The Germans had ripped watches from the enlisted men's wrists, but Auberon still had his.

The rain drizzled down as it had when they were captured a few hours ago; kicked to consciousness around the edge of the shell hole, up to their bloody eyes in mud and guts, with the noise of the flies, gorging on the bodies, overhanging everything. Jack had thought for a moment he was in amongst a meadow of bees. Hadn't Evie talked of bees in a letter? Something about honey sponge? Another kick had brought him back to the noise, and stink.

A guard menaced them with his rifle as they kicked up mud, the noise of battle still all around, the artillery pounding, the machine guns chattering, ‘
Schnell
,' he bawled, hate in his eyes. Well, who wouldn't menace the enemy who had sent over a barrage for hours and then advanced, death and hate in
their
eyes. When you thought of it, they were bloody lucky they hadn't been run through where they'd lain. Jack wiped his mouth with the back of his hand; they damn well would have been if Auberon hadn't shouted, ‘Throw away your weapons. Do it now, Jack, or I'll shoot you myself.'

Jack asked him now, as they were jeered by other Huns weighted down by their packs, marching to the Front, the dusk lit by great balloons of orange, the ground shuddering beneath their feet, ‘Would you, Aub, would you have shot me?'

‘Of course I bloody would. Right through your heart, you bloody fool, Jacko.' He was grinning. Jacko? Jack realised then what he'd called his captain. ‘Sorry, sir, can't think straight. Won't happen again.' He snatched a look around, but no one had heard, they were too busy stumbling along, either side and in front and behind, a lot of Tynesiders amongst them, some Indians, poor buggers. Too bloody cold for them. Too bloody cold for any of them.

Auberon slipped on the mud. Jack caught him, shouting as the guns became rapid, and vicious. ‘Because I called you, well, you know. Aub. It's just that . . . Oh, I don't know, I don't get knocked off me feet by a shell every day and kicked awake to find a bayonet pointing at me gut.'

‘It's not a problem, Jack, good to have friends from home. Best not in front of the other men, though, eh?' Jack felt blood trickling down inside his collar. The shell burst had created shrapnel that had sliced above his ear, and he had shrapnel splinters along his arm, back and ribs as had they all, he reckoned. What was more, he'd lost time, they'd all lost it when the blast knocked them down like bloody skittles, ripping their clothes and flesh and sending them into the land of Nod. But at least they weren't dead, as those who had been to the left were. No, they were disgraced, they were cowards, they'd surrendered. Jack felt sick.

‘
Schnell
,' the elderly soldier said again, hitting Jack with his rifle butt. Jesus, it hurt. There was shrapnel in that shoulder, too. ‘Jack,' warned Auberon. ‘Do nothing. Just keep going.'

Each step hurt, jogging his wounds, light though they really were, and his head felt full to bursting. He glanced over at Simon. ‘You doing all right, lad?' Simon was helping Roger, who was limping and groaning. Jack dropped back, took Roger's weight. ‘Go ahead, stay with the boss.'

He heard Auberon's laugh as Simon nodded. ‘Aye, bloody heavy, he is. Almost a dead weight, but when isn't he? How much of it is real, Lord knows, but he'll be stabbed if he falls.'

Jack grunted. ‘Don't tempt me.'

They struggled on, mile after mile, and three of the Lea End lot were here too, Jim, Dave and Mike, and they took turns to help lug the batman along, soon to be joined in the effort by Auberon, which astonished the uhlans. It astonished the prisoners too, the long stream before and behind them. Roger seemed almost unconscious, though there were few visible wounds. As their sergeant, Jack shouldered the lion's share of the waste of space. It seemed a good penance for capture. The shame of his surrender hurt him more than the shrapnel.

On they slogged, through the dusk and into the night, and now Roger was a dead weight, requiring two to drag him along. Jim and Jack took their turn as the guards alongside were joined by horse-mounted uhlans now with lances, who jostled them as they marched, the bits and bridles jingling in the pauses between shells. ‘Jack,' warned Auberon, as he lifted his free arm to beat back a lance. He continued to put one foot in front of the other but his stomach thought his throat had been cut, so hungry was he, so thirsty too.

He hitched Roger up, but young Dave had caught him up. ‘Give over, Sarge, I'll have him for a bit. Mike'll take over from Jim.'

Jack slipped back one pace, keeping his eye on the uhlans, easing himself out just a foot so that he'd be nudged by the bloody great horse, not the lad. On they plodded, lit by just the moon. He could hear the clink of the horses' bridles, the guns, coughs, curses, a muttered conversation. Jim behind him was saying, ‘Never thought I'd be here. Thought I'd be in bits, or home. Not this.'

Jack hadn't thought it either, he'd
known
he'd die fighting, but to be lying there in mud and stink, looking up into the eyes of the enemy holding a bloody great bayonet at his throat . . . Why hadn't he fought, God dammit? He'd done nothing except shake his head, try to make sense of it, his ears whooshing, his head thick and stupid. He'd done nothing except struggle up, then look around, and finally his hand had gone to his knife. It was then Auberon had given his order. It had been the right one. The Huns would have killed the lot of them.

Soon he took over with Roger again, and Si took the other side, but Auberon dropped back, his face drawn in the weak moonlight, the snow falling. ‘I'll take him now.' He pulled him from Jack. ‘Never thought this would happen. Never, ever.'

‘You heard my thoughts, Aub.' He walked alongside his officer.

‘That's right, Jacko.' They laughed quietly. The marching didn't stop. The prisoners opened their mouths, letting the sleet, for that was what it was now, moisten their throats. At last, at midnight, they were halted and herded into a wheatfield, its emerging shoots and soil chewed by stray shells. There were shadows in the distance, probably trees. There was barbed wire, higher than a man, being snagged on to makeshift posts by the guards to corral the column.

‘Water? For the wounded?' Sergeant Major Dawson asked. The guard shook his head. ‘
Nein
.' The prisoners sank down into the dank earth. Near Jack there was a youngster, his head on his knees. His sniper's badge was visible in the moonlight. Jack inched across and ripped it off. The lad jerked awake, his face tear-stained. ‘Hey,' he yelled. Jack hissed, ‘If they see that, they'll more than likely shoot you. Spread the word. Machine-gunners, snipers, hand-bombers, get rid of the badges.' The lad was no more than eighteen, if that. Jack pressed his shoulder. ‘Poacher back home, eh, got a few rabbits with an airgun? Did well myself. Stay with us. It's better in a group, always. Where's your section?'

The lad inched back with Jack and settled down next to him. ‘Overrun. Charlie's my name. I'm a gamekeeper, well learning to be. B section, North Tynes.'

Some of the men had carried injured pals on groundsheets. Auberon asked for water. Two buckets were brought, having been filled from the animal trough. There was nothing else, except the water that would have been present at the bottom of the shell holes, and God knew what else was down there, or who else, or how many. Jack looked round: there must have been over eighty men in the field. Auberon was sitting nearby with Simon. Roger was lying at their feet. Jack said, ‘Had to be a boss who got us water.' Auberon laughed. ‘Just open your mouth, Jack, and let something in, instead of letting moans about the bosses out, just for a change.'

Simon laughed. ‘That'll be the bloody day.'

Roger moaned. Auberon sighed. ‘Where are you hurt?'

Roger muttered, ‘It's my feet, I've got blisters.'

At this no one said a word, but when they were rousted again at dawn Auberon ordered that he walked, or he fell. ‘It's up to you, Private.' They marched, or straggled, along straight roads, with poplar trees and grazing land either side. As they fell out at midday, another group of prisoners caught up. A voice called, ‘If it isn't the poor bloody infantry.'

‘It's Tiger, and more from the North Tynes. Over here lads, let me make sure you behave,' Jack called. Tiger was ragged, bloodstained, and it was clear he had fought well. Only four out of thirty of the Lea End Lot were prisoners, or at least, prisoners here. Some might have survived and be back at the lines. God, Jack hoped so.

After two days of being jostled repeatedly by the uhlans who rode the line, pushing in with their horses and lances, they were herded into a barbed-wire square in a field so far behind the lines that it was untouched by shells, and the sound of war was quieter. Not quiet, but quieter.

Here, as on the last two nights, teams were organised on Auberon's orders to dig latrines. Who wanted typhus to add to the situation? As the men dug, supervised by the sergeants, who were supervised by Sergeant Major Dawson, they were gawped at by German soldiers on their way to the Front, poor buggers. Jack could barely look them in the eye, so deep was his shame. As he supervised the men on fatigues he pulled out his tin of roll-ups which he'd managed to shove into a rip in his waistband just before he was searched. He smoked as the men dug. ‘I thought I'd die fighting,' Dawson laughed grimly. ‘Never thought I'd be here, like this. Glad I haven't a mirror, couldn't look myself in the face, I couldn't, but the missus'll be happy.'

Jack had been trying not to think about home, Mam and Da, Evie, Tim, Millie, and especially not about Grace. They would know nothing, or perhaps they would have been told they were missing presumed killed in action.

He dragged the smoke down into his lungs, and looked up at the sky as he exhaled; the stars were bright, there was little cloud. Where was Grace? He heard Simon singing. ‘
Nein, nein
,' came the order The singing stopped. Near the far end of the field he could see the officers grouped together. Some men were walking the wire, searching for weaknesses, but there was no way out, Jack and Auberon had already checked.

‘Dismiss,' Dawson ordered. The latrines were finished, and the men limped back, their shoulders slumped in exhaustion. Jack walked the wire again. A German soldier patrolled, coming towards him. He gestured with his rifle. Jack stepped back. The soldier beckoned him forward. Back and forward again. He laughed. Jack didn't. He was gestured back again. Jack stood still. The soldier lifted his rifle, cocked it. Jack still stood. Auberon appeared from nowhere, standing in front of Jack, saying in German, ‘I am his superior officer, you will withdraw, you will show this sergeant the respect his rank deserves.' For a moment none of the three men moved, then the German walked on.