One Good Turn (6 page)

Ransom had been given a lantern, a meal and a Bible. He sat in a pool of light, trying to read the words, but finding no comfort. It was all so wrong and he felt so helpless.

His hopes rose as he heard the scrape of the bolts sliding back and saw the big shape of the sergeant major against the light.

'Any news, Sergeant?' he asked.

'No news. All telephone lines are cut. A mortar landed near the telephone exchange. We've taken back Glencorse Wood, which is odd because we were meant to have taken it a week ago. Still, don't suppose you want to know that. Can I do anything for you?'

'No thanks, sir.'

'Just remember, son. We all have to die. It's the way we choose to do it that makes the difference.'

'With all due respect, sir, that's bollocks.'

'Probably is. Well, good night.'

As the sergeant closed the door, he thought that the man – Stubbs or Ransom – was right. The only way to die was to be certain you weren't going to. Then you'd die ignorant but happy.

He glanced up at the sky. It was cloudy. Dawn would come late.

Ransom could not believe that he had slept. One moment he had been staring up at the airbrick, looking for the first, slight hint of light. The next, the door was opening and half a dozen soldiers were tramping down the cellar stairs.

Breakfast was French bread and English tea. The bread was like glue in his mouth; the tea like hot iron filings. He put them both to one side.

'Sorry,' he said. 'Can't eat a thing.'

Feet shuffled.

'Is the padre here?' Ransom asked.

'No. Sorry. Word is, he didn't come back last night.'

'Right. I just thought . . .' Ransom realised that he had been hanging on to a slim thread of hope. Somewhere deep down, he thought that what he had said to the padre might have made a difference.

'Do you want . . . ? There's a chaplain. He's French.'

Ransom shook his head. 'What's the point?' he said.

He could barely get the words out. His throat felt as thin as a straw. He couldn't stop thinking of home and suddenly he just wanted it over so the dreadful pain he was feeling would go away.

The padre had a problem. His watch said three o'clock in the morning, and dawn could not be far off. He had been told that he could not wake the patient under any circumstances, but he knew that, if he didn't, all hope of getting to the truth would be lost.

He watched the patient's eyelids like a hawk and when he saw them flutter, he took him by the arm.

The eyes opened slowly. The patient made a noise that sounded like 'Where am I?' He had bandages around his shoulder and bandages around his jaw.

'In hospital. They've just operated on you.'

The patient's eyes slid round and took in the dog collar. 'Don't worry,' the padre said. 'I'm not here to help you towards a better place. You might say I'm here on a mission of mercy. Water? You want water?'

The man drank greedily.

'You're Captain Stokes?'

'Yes.' He could talk. That was something.

'I've got a rather odd question for you,' the padre said. 'It's a matter of life and death.'

The sky was heavy with dark clouds and full of rain as they led the prisoner out of the cellar. Even that gloomy light made him blink. He looked up and down the corridor, as if help might magically arrive. The corridor stayed empty.

He was marched out of the front door, then round the back to a village of deserted farm buildings. They marched him down a cobbled street of empty stables, and into a farmyard with a long black wall running down one side.

The sergeant tied Ransom's hands behind his back and then fixed them to a metal hoop in the wall.

The major who had led the court martial walked down the street, pulling on his gloves. He had shaved and his heavy face glowed in the dull dawn. The firing squad of eight men moved from foot to foot.

'Ready, Sergeant Major?'

'Ready, sir.'

'And one of the rifles is loaded with a blank?'

'That's right, sir.'

'And no one knows who's got it? Good. Time to hood the prisoner.'

The last thing that Ransom saw before the hood went on was an ambulance passing by at the head of the little street. He wondered if it was for him. He heard the sergeant call out 'Ready', but his mind was racing. He thought, wildly, that maybe, just maybe, they had found the injured captain and had brought him all the way to the headquarters to save his life. That was it. He was going to be saved.

He could finally take the leave that was owed him and go back home. He imagined relaxing in the carriage as the train from Paddington rushed towards Exeter. He'd be impatient as the little local train went slowly along the slopes of Dartmoor until it reached his village. But he'd enjoy every tree and field and blade of grass he passed. His father would be waiting at the station with the horse and trap. His mother would be waiting at the old farmhouse door. He could picture the dogs playing round his feet. He could smell his favourite meal cooking. Everything was going to be –

The firing squad was well trained. After the first command they followed the sergeant's hand movements, so the prisoner would not know when the fatal shots were coming. And, because bullets travel faster than sound, Ransom didn't hear the shots from the firing squad and he didn't feel them smash into his chest.

For the padre in the ambulance and the wounded officer lying on a stretcher in the back, the sound of the shots was shocking and obscene. They knew it could mean only one thing.

Hearing horses' hooves on cobbles, the major turned round and was amazed to see an ambulance rushing towards him. He went up to the driver.

'Who the devil's this for?' he asked.

'Officer in the back, sir. Mission of mercy, as it were.'

The major walked round to find the padre helping a heavily bandaged man down the flimsy wooden steps.

'This is Captain Stokes, sir,' the padre said. 'He might have a story to tell about the . . . prisoner.'

'Just let me see him,' the wounded officer said.

The sergeant major had cut him down and he lay, half on his side, slightly curled up.

'Take his hood off, Sergeant,' the padre said. 'If you wouldn't mind.'

The padre didn't look at the dead man on the ground. He watched the face of the wounded officer. When the hood came off the officer flinched as if he had been struck. Then he composed his face and said: 'That's him. That's the man who saved me. Poor fellow deserved a medal, not a firing squad.'

The padre stood back and took a deep breath. What could he say?

'You tried to do the right thing by coming here.'

'I know. This is a dreadful injustice. There must be an inquiry. But, whatever else, I will tell his family of his bravery, and I'll make sure he's not forgotten.'

I hope that no one reading this is trying to find a message. Messages are everywhere in the modern world and we probably think too much of them.

This account was written by me, Captain Bertram Stokes, after the war was over. It was a long time before I could bear to think about it and even longer before I could bring myself to put pen to paper. The whole bloody war was like that scene in the crater. Good men killing bad men. Bad men killing good men. Cowardice and courage. Selfishness and sacrifice. But war is like a big machine that devours everything with equal relish: the good and the bad, the weak and the strong. It's only the lucky that get out.

For years I struggled to set the record straight but I failed. I should never have said that Ransom was a hero. If officials refuse to admit that these kangaroo courts martial were wrong to sentence poor shell-shocked boys to death, they'll never admit that they shot a hero by mistake.

No, once a man is dead, that is that. The events are carved into the record as clearly as those hundreds of thousands of names are chiselled into stone memorials from Flanders to small villages all over these islands. Perhaps one day, someone will see this story and help set the record straight. One good turn deserves another but sometimes the debt is so great it can never be repaid. Only remembered.

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