Easterleigh Hall at War (28 page)

Jack dusted off his hands and grinned at the others, who were standing on the lip while he hunkered down beside Mart on the floor of the cave. ‘You best get off now. We'll follow in a month or two.'

Auberon looked at Jack. ‘By then it will be October, cold, frosty and not a lot of food, if any.'

Charlie gazed around. ‘We're in a wood, I'm a gamekeeper familiar with the ways of the poacher. I reckon I'm staying and that you, Jack, need to stop making decisions for me. I'm a big lad now.' He slid down into the cave, dragging his bag behind him.

Auberon said, walking away, ‘I'm on watch and I make my own decisions. I'm a boss, remember.'

Dave just said, ‘Too much bloody talking, bonny lad. Shove over. I'll take me watch in a couple of hours.'

They waited throughout the rest of August and into September, their beards growing long, wondering if the others had made it, and hoping they'd contact their families for them. They told Mart that they would actually strangle him if he apologised again.

Charlie honed his poacher skills, choosing dry days to snare rabbits and a woodcock, which was bony but tasty. On these occasions, needing to cook, they risked a fire, which burned brightly with little smoke. Only once were they disturbed, hearing guttural voices off to the left, while Aub was on watch to the right. They kicked out the fire and slid down into the cave, holding their breath but what good would that do? The voices faded and Aub emerged from the right, covered in leaves and dirt from digging in under the shrubs. They decided to put two on watch from then on.

Steadily throughout September they had accumulated enough food for two weeks of travelling, and during that time Auberon identified their forest from the map all the escapees had copied from the official one, brought into camp in the lining of a Canadian's uniform. They agreed the route. By now Mart was able to walk, leaning heavily on a thick pine branch cut down and shaped by Dave. On the night of 30th September they set off. They took turns supporting Mart when the going got tough, leaving the forest behind at the end of the first day, and travelling through the night, guided by Auberon's compass readings, illuminated by the hunter's moon. They rested during the day.

After two weeks they reached the River Ems, which ran for two miles on their side of the border. There were barbed-wire entanglements on the riverbank, and guards patrolled infrequently, though one was permanently stationed at the head of the track, which ran to what had presumably once been a ferry point.

Mart said, ‘With the best will in the world, lads, I can't hop over that canny wire.' He was thin and gaunt and his beard was long and straggly, but he was not alone in that. They lay in cover, a gully at the side of the bank. Beyond the entanglements, on the other side of the river, the land was flat and exposed. ‘I can't run either, so at this point, you lugheads, you really should leave me.' Mart turned on his back and stared up at the sky. ‘Some of us must make it, and we're so starved it has to be soon, or we'll all stay this side of the wire for ever, six feet under.'

There was silence as the others stared at the wire, looking along the length of it either way. Auberon whispered, ‘The only gap is at the head of the track and that's where one of the sentries stands, permanently.'

‘Did you hear me?' hissed Mart.

Jack said, ‘We need our jackets to sling over the barbs, then we'll toss Mart.'

‘Good idea,' agreed Auberon. ‘Even if he lands on his bonce, his skull's so thick it won't hurt.'

Charlie pointed to the left of them. ‘Look, a rubbish tip from the farmer's field. I'm going to scout and see what he's chucked.'

He did so, with Dave. Jack watched them, zigzagging, doubled over, towards the rubbish which none of the others had noticed, so distant was it. A sharp-eyed sniper Charlie was, and a poacher. Jack smiled, and murmured to Auberon, ‘You could do worse than to employ that lad as gamekeeper. He'll know all the tricks and he's bloody fast.'

‘My thoughts exactly, Jack.'

Dave and Charlie were at the tip, rooting about. Their journey back was much slower, and they were dragging something. Jack and Auberon kept a lookout for the guards and saw one coming, but the two foragers had seen them too, and fell to the ground. They arrived back with an old torn tarpaulin, which was far better than their jackets.

They waited until darkness fell before Charlie was given a leg up and over the entanglements, then Dave. Jack and Auberon heaved Mart over. He landed in Dave and Charlie's arms. It was Jack and Auberon's turn, but Charlie hissed, ‘Get down.'

They didn't argue, but lay flat on the ground, hoping the tarpaulin wasn't visible, as the moon was high. They saw what Charlie's keen eyes had spotted: a guard lighting a cigarette, strolling towards them. Jack saw Dave tense, ready to spring, but a fish leapt from the water, catching the gleam of the moon. The guard stood watching, and smoking, his rifle slung over his shoulder. No one moved. The guard tossed his stub into the river, turned and strolled back towards the track.

Jack whispered in Auberon's ear, ‘Over you go.'

Auberon shook his head. ‘Boss goes last, Jacko.'

Jack looked at him for a moment, and smiled. Auberon hoisted him up and over. He landed silently, took Mart's stick and held it over the top of the wire. ‘Jump for it, Aub,' he whispered. Auberon did so, and Jack hauled him over. After dislodging the tarpaulin they slid down the bank and into the water, swimming as silently as possible, Jack and Auberon dragging Mart. They clambered up the opposite bank, keeping low at the top, then doubled over, going as fast as they could. It took them two hours to reach the border. Again they waited, watching the patrolling German and Dutch guards until they could cross unseen, unsure if they'd be interned by the Dutch.

Once over the border they walked for three days, keeping out of the way until they reached a small town. They cut one another's beards as close to the skin as possible, with the knife that Jack had used to break through the surface of the field, and dusted off their clothes. Auberon looked at the compass in his hand, then took off his wristwatch and replaced his compass. ‘I'd rather sell the watch,' he said. He took it into the town while the others waited on the outskirts. He came back with money, a cheap replacement, and food, enough to get them to Rotterdam. They reached it two days later, having jumped a goods train. Exhausted, they trawled the docks, and finally found a ship that would take them to France and the North Tyne Fusiliers.

At the port they reported to the military. After debriefing and form-filling, with Auberon having to write his reasons for surrendering, they were allowed to telegraph home, Mart was checked out and declared fit enough to kill, the MO said, laughing. Mart wanted to kick him in the balls, he told them as they headed for the showers. Jack telegraphed Grace and received a reply from Rouen to say that she was ecstatic. They were given passes to entrain to their regiment's position, travelling together, then marching with the guns growing louder and louder until they reached Rouen, but there was no time for Jack to see Grace. They travelled further south to Amiens, where C section was in deep reserve. ‘Home from bloody home,' murmured Mart as around them the guns crashed, the night sky flared with star shells, the ground shuddered. Yes, they were home, and there were only five former comrades to greet them. The rest had perished on the Somme. Six of their fellow escapees had reached safety and were back in the front line. There was no news of anyone else, including Major Dobbs.

Leave was not a possibility. They were not yet ready to be parted and must renew the battle, if they were to hold up their heads.

EVIE READ GRACE'S
letter as she leaned against the cedar tree in her post-breakfast break. Beside her Ron Simmons smoked his pipe. He had discarded cigarettes on his engagement to pretty little Posie Ringrose, a VAD from Lancashire. She didn't mind whether he had a nose or not, but she would not allow cigarettes, so these had gone. Ron was also leaning against the tree, resting his leg as he did when his stump was sore, though he never mentioned the fact. ‘It's going well, Commandant Evie.' He raised an eyebrow at her. She grinned. ‘Acting only. Veronica had to choose between the acute ward and bossing people about.'

He placed his finger over the bowl and sucked. ‘The Hall's solvent, partly because you're managing the shortages. We've all dropped our wages, and Sir Anthony's syndicate have upped their support.'

‘Let's not forget Harry's honey,' Evie reminded him, folding the letter. ‘Matron is on top of the dressings situation with the sphagnum moss, and we're doing a roaring trade supplying Fenton House, near Newcastle.'

They both peered up through the cedar's branches. The squirrels were leaping about, and somewhere the dogs were yapping. ‘Oh God, Ron, I thought America's entry would wriggle the war along.' Evie's voice was flat. In her letter Grace said that she'd seen Jack in the few moments she'd had to spare from the huge influx of wounded from Nivelle's disastrous attack along the Chemin des Dames, and he'd been well. Evie should have been glad, and of course she was, but she wished it had been her seeing Jack the lad she loved more than anyone else in the world, except for Si, of course. But Si had sacrificed his chance to escape, and was safe, and she couldn't remember what he looked and sounded like, and the feel of his arms around her, his lips on hers. She pushed the letter deep down in her pocket. Ron was engaged, Lady Margaret had a lovely little girl, Ver a chubby young lad, even Millie had Tim. What the bloody hell had she?

Ron was tapping his pipe on the huge trunk of the tree. ‘The Americans need to build up their army and the Germans will be pushing hard for a victory before they arrive, so it's looking a right bloody-knife edge out there. We'll be busier still at Easterleigh, I fear.'

Evie watched the ash as it fell from the bowl of the pipe. Ron couldn't get the wretched thing to light properly, ever, no matter what he did. Perhaps it was as well, as Dr Nicholls would say. She asked, ‘What will happen to the prisoners if they win?'

‘The Germans will collect them up, kick us out perhaps, and . . .'

‘No, what will happen to ours out there, to Si?'

He looked at her, his nose completely rebuilt now. Work was almost complete on the new Cambridge Military Hospital in Aldershot where Harold Gillies, the facial surgeon, worked. ‘I'm sorry, Evie, how foolish of me. The fact is, I don't know. I would imagine they'll be repatriated. Don't worry, he'll come home, with all his bits.' He smiled, then sobered. She knew he was thinking of Jack, Mart, Dave and Charlie and Auberon, who all, so far, remained intact.

‘All is not lost,' he said, shoving himself upright and putting his weight back on to his wooden leg. ‘Things could swing back our way and until then we go on.'

The German POWs were arriving on the lorry as they walked back across the lawn, ten of them, to work on the vegetable gardens, the pigs and wherever else needed help. Jack had said that the mines had been a home from bloody home, when he'd written. Some of the German POWs felt the same, obviously. Even Mrs Moore talked kindly to them at lunchtime, except for Heine. Neither she nor Evie could abide the blond-haired, blue-eyed, broad-shouldered young man who was from Munich and knew everything, it seemed, while they, mere women, knew nothing.

Evie and Ron walked across the grass, spongy from last night's rain. Evie waved at the guards, and the prisoners. Ron said, ‘Is the strike settled, or perhaps I should say strikes?'

Evie laughed, she couldn't help it. Suddenly something was funny, and her spirits lifted. ‘I gather so, and the Bastard has had to up his wages to the prisoners at Auld Maud, Hawton and Seaton, not to mention the steelworks. The union wasn't having peanuts paid to them. They're not monkeys, Jeb told me when I met him at the co-op.'

They were on the drive now, and she could tell from his frown that Ron's stump hurt as the gravel resisted, then slipped and slid beneath his false leg. He said, ‘It's remarkable that they care about the enemy at a time like this.'

Evie slipped her arm through his, to steady him as much as anything. ‘Oh, thee of a simple mind, they don't, what they care about is that their own men aren't done out of a job and their wages. If Bastard Brampton and other owners can get away with paying practically nothing, how long will our own workers be employed?'

They were in the stable yard now, and Heine was ahead of them, entering the stables, his jacket slung over his shoulder. Several patients were strolling about in their uniform blues, some carrying pigswill in buckets from the kitchen. Millie was heading into the stables after Heine, a bucket in either hand. Stupid girl.

Evie had stopped worrying about it, because if it wasn't him, it would be someone else, and as Millie now wrote to Jack regularly, took Tim to school before work, helped Evie's mam with the chores at home, and had even stopped glaring at Evie as though she would do her harm, what could she say? Would it be a disaster if she found someone else, anyway? After all, there was Grace waiting for Jack in France, but there was still Tim, and Millie would take him, and that would break Jack's heart, but only if he survived. She shut her mind on the old familiar circle, because it went nowhere.

Ron slipped on the cobbles. Evie took his weight for just that moment. One of the POWs passed, and paused, his hand out. She smiled and shook her head, saying, ‘Thank you, but we are all right.' Ron righted himself. ‘Have you given more thought to your hotel, Evie?'

They were at the kitchen steps now. ‘On and off, but it's pointless. What if we lose?'

‘Is that you, Evie? We haven't all day.' Mrs Moore's roar reached them.

They both laughed now, hurrying down the steps and into the kitchen. Today for lunch it was to be chestnut soup, using chicken stock and all the bacon rinds from yesterday, plus the outside leaves of vegetables, onions, apples, even leftover crusts. The soup would be removed by squab pie with a little mutton, apples, onions, and potatoes, covered with a potato crust. It was a favourite. It would be removed by gooseberry crumble, the crumble a mixture of barley and wheat flour with some sugar, liberally dribbled with honey.