Soldier's Valentine (2 page)

The warning of an offensive came at four in the morning.

‘Over the top. First light. At my whistle.’

The message was passed from one soldier to another. Some spat at the news, others gave no sign they’d heard anything, their glazed eyes staring into the distance, their minds trapped in terror.

One or two, the veterans who had been in the thick of the battles of the preceding two years, who’d seen the worst of it, adopted a black sense of humour that some of the newcomers, and even the officers, didn’t find funny at all.

Henry Randall was one of these. He’d joined up before the war seeing service in the Middle East before this present conflict had kicked off. The younger men looked up to him and his best mate, Lewis Allen.

They’d been together through it all. ‘Brothers in arms’ their officer called them.

‘What does ’e know,’ Henry had growled in response. ‘Just a bloody toff who likes drawing pretty pictures in his off moments.’

His pal, Lewis Allen, didn’t respond. Lewis hadn’t been himself for the past few days and Henry was worried.

Lewis had already had a bit of an affray with the same officer who was rousing them to orders now. The officer had kicked him awake just before they were about to go over the top. ‘Come on, Allen. No time to sleep.’

Lewis had gone haywire, leaping to his feet brandishing his rifle over his head as though he was going to brain the man. And what he hadn’t called him! Well, those words just didn’t exist. Henry judged his friend was near to cracking, a time bomb waiting for the right moment to explode.

On that occasion, Henry and a couple of other infantrymen had managed to restrain the flailing arms, grabbed the rifle and calmed him down.

The men of the battalion were all from the West Country, mostly from Bristol and the South Gloucestershire area. There was a bond between them and no doubt when they went home they would all meet up again seeing as their neighbourhoods were not far apart.

In the faint yellow of a war front dawn, the order went down the line to make ready. The young officer in charge of Henry Randall’s section was as well liked as any officer could be, not that Henry Randall gave him the time of day. All officers were scum as far as he was concerned. He’d seen too many men dead of incompetence to chance trusting any of them.

Dark figures, roused from sleep and smelling of mould and stale sweat, got to their feet, hugging their rifles while coughing into their frost-covered mittens and what remained of their frostbitten fingers. All except Lewis.

Henry, who was regarded as having nerves of steel, reached down and shook Lewis’s shoulder. ‘Come on, old pal! Time to do our duty.’

The thing was that no matter all the death and destruction around him, Henry had never been so happy since joining up. His own father had been a brute of a man, his mother a worn-out drudge before she turned forty. Joining up had been the right thing to do. He could be proud of himself now and do as he liked. He’d never returned home not even to his mother’s funeral. If he had done, he feared he might have beaten his old man senseless. The bastard deserved it – too fond of swinging his fists at his defenceless family. Well, one of that family could now swing back. Henry had vowed a long time ago never to be defenceless again, never to be taken advantage of, never to be taken for a fool. It never occurred to him that perhaps he was turning out like his father. Unchecked, his aggression could easily spill over and woe betide anyone who got in his way.

Henry looked down at his very best pal, touched by the way he was curled into a foetal position, the collar of his greatcoat pulled up closely around his head. Lewis had a sensitive side, unlike Henry, who declared he didn’t have a sensitive streak in his body.

Henry gave his pal’s shoulder another shake, rougher this time than before. ‘Come on, mate. Come on, old chum. Do you want to get us both shot?’

Worried eyes looked their way, emptied themselves of emotion and empathy, and looked away. There were more ways of dying than at the hands of the enemy.

All the men in the trenches were aware that at any sign of cowardice, the officer in charge had the right to pull his pistol and shoot the soldier dead. Everyone had heard of it happening. Some had witnessed it.

‘Get him up, Randall.’

Henry glimpsed the warning look on the young officer’s face. Most would already have pulled their pistol from its holster. Lieutenant Ross was giving him a chance – though it wouldn’t last. He had his orders.

Henry tried one last time. This time it worked, Lewis roaring like an animal as he sprang to his feet.

He should have headed for a ladder that would take him over the top of the trench to fling himself at the enemy. Instead he flung himself at the officer, knocking him off his feet. Before Henry could stop him, Lewis was on top of the younger man.

For a moment there was mayhem, a skirmish of men’s boots crunching through the ice and churning up the mud.

One shot rang out, hardly distinguishable from the volleys being fired out on the battlefield.

Henry knew what had happened. The officer had managed to draw his pistol close against Lewis’s gut.

With a look of surprise twisting his boyish features, Lewis stumbled through ankle-deep mud and ice the few feet to his friend. Finally, he slithered to the ground, his hands like claws running down the front of Henry’s battledress.

No frost, no icy cold could have made Henry Randall feel colder than he already was. He stood there, frozen to the spot, staring down at Lewis’s dead body, which was now crumpled over his feet.

He thought of all the times they’d had together since joining up. If he’d had the time, his body would have been racked with sobs. As it was he wasn’t given the time.

‘Get going Randall! Get going! That’s an order!’

Although jerked back to his senses, Henry Randall was smitten with a terrible resolve; he would kill that bloody officer. Damned right he would and a battlefield was just the place for an accident to happen.

His resolve solidified as, grim-faced, he clambered over the top, following all the others who were likely to get killed this day.

The firing of artillery exploded across the dawn sky. Men ran forwards all around him, and he ran with them, firing all the way, waiting for the right opportunity to do more than kill the opposite side.

Would he get away with killing an officer? He thought he probably would. In the midst of battle nothing was for certain.

He charged his way forwards, though never veering too far away from the track the young officer was taking. All around him, men cried out in terror and in pain. He kept going, sure of his aim with both cartridge and bayonet. Bodies and bits of bodies littered the ground
around him and still the enemy came forwards, but always, always, he kept the officer in his sight.

It was like a dream or a wish come true when he became aware of the lieutenant running parallel with him on his right side. He was also aware of figures emerging from the gloom – German soldiers, their weapons primed and ready to kill.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw that his officer was in the thick of it. He also saw the weak side, a place where he could barge through and support the man. Normally, he would have relished doing that, surprising the enemy with the sheer aggressiveness of his skill, the man who was born to be a warrior.

But not this time. This time the vision of Lewis Allen’s hands clawing down his uniform intervened. Lieutenant Ross had killed his best friend. So let him die, but let the Germans do it.

He heard him cry out, saw the bayonets piercing his body again and again until he slumped to the ground, indistinguishable from the mud, the enemy figures all shrouded with the blackness of night.

He had his revenge, but gained no great joy from it. The dark deed was done. His beloved friend was dead. Once again he was totally alone.

Mary Anne felt as though her flesh had turned to stone. The telegram lay in her mother’s hands. Mary Anne hadn’t been able to read it. Her mother had intervened, her hands shaking because they both knew it did not bring good news.

It was short and to the point.
The War Office is sorry to inform you …

Edward was dead. One of many thousands killed in a big push. There would be no wedding, but he had left her with a problem.

‘We have to decide what to do,’ said her mother. She was sitting in her favourite chintz-covered armchair in front of the fire. Her father was sitting in the opposite chair; Mary Anne sitting on a stool between them.

‘We have to think of her future. There is no question whatsoever of keeping the child. The matter must be kept secret. Arrangements must be made for her to go away to have it, somewhere far away from here.’

Mary Anne, numbed at the terrible news, felt as though she were nothing but an empty shell, as though she no longer had a place in the world.

They’re discussing this as though I’m dead too, she thought, listening to their plans without comment. There again, I might just as well be. Edward is dead. I’m expecting his baby. My life is ruined.

Her mother was adamant. ‘She can’t keep it of course. We’d never live down the shame of it.’

‘You mean give it up for adoption? I quite agree. Best for the child,’ stated her father, who was dipping in and out of a sermon he was writing, correcting the odd word, refilling his pen in the moments when he couldn’t think of anything to say or nothing in front of him to edit.

Mary Anne heaved a big sigh. ‘We were going to get married.’

She jumped when her father slapped his chair arms with his meaty hands.

‘Well, that’s not going to happen now. We have to make the best of things. We have to do what’s best for the child. Have you any idea how children with no fathers are picked on by children who have a normal father and mother?’

Mary Anne wanted to say that she was a normal mother too, but she could see that their minds were made up.

‘The thing is,’ said her father, finally placing his pen down on his paperwork, ‘we have to insist for your own good that you put the child up for adoption. I know some very good
organisations. The potential parents will be properly vetted and the child would be guaranteed to have a good home. It’s the only solution. If you refuse to go along with this …’ He paused, his bushy brows almost meeting with the severity of his frown. ‘Then you are no daughter of ours. You will be on your own.’

Stunned at this statement, Mary Anne gasped. She even fancied the child inside her jumped in alarm.

Having risen from her chair, her mother patted her shoulder.

‘It’s for the best, dear. Surely you must see that? Every child deserves a father and a mother. It’s what makes them grow up whole.’

The baby was born on 14 February, St Valentine’s Day. Mary Anne cried. Today was the date Edward and her were to marry. No need for a pretty card and romantic poetry; their wedding would have been enough. They would have loved forever. She was sure of it.

The nursing home was private and many miles away from prying eyes in rural Wales.

Her heart almost broke in two at the sound of her child’s – her and Edward’s child’s – first cry. She half rose from the pillow, trying to peer at the small bundle being taken away from her. All she saw were two tiny hands waving as though saying goodbye. The baby was taken away.

She wailed for it to be brought back to her, thrashing from side to side in her bed, until a nurse came and requested she be quiet.

The moon shaped face of the matron hovered over her.

‘Your parents decided it better you knew nothing about the child and didn’t hold it. It’s best that way, otherwise you may get fond of it. They’ve dealt with the paperwork.’

Mary Anne lay back, her head hot upon the pillow, her belly still pulsating. Was the baby a girl or a boy? Somehow she knew they wouldn’t tell her. The baby was no longer hers. He or she belonged to someone else.

She looked towards the window. The bottom panes were whitewashed. She presumed this was to stop the expectant mothers looking out, or was it to stop the outside world looking in?

Above the whitewashed panes the bare branches of trees, dripping with rain, swayed as though they were weeping. Mary Anne wept too.

Her parents made sure that nobody knew the true reason for her being away. They’d let it be known that Mary Anne had gone travelling with one of her father’s aunts around Europe. It was well known in the local vicinity that her father came from well-to-do stock, who owned and farmed half of Lincolnshire – at least it sounded like that the way he told it. It
was not beyond the bounds of disbelief that he really did have a rich aunt off travelling around Europe. Actually she lived in Norwich, over a hundred miles to the east but her mother was paranoid that nobody would ever know where she really was. The lies rolled off her tongue.

‘Mostly the South of France and Italy,’ he told anyone who questioned the wisdom of wandering around a war torn Europe. ‘The war’s in the north. The south of France is a very different place hardly touched by any of the carnage. Thanks be to God,’ he’d explained jocularly in the mission hall on a Sunday morning.

Henry Randall was one of the congregation listening to what the preacher had to say about war, life and the predilection towards gossip and lies rather than truth.

He’d taken to attending a service on a Sunday morning in order to refill his soul with something that had been lost on the Somme and all the other battlefields he’d fought on. The mission hall was a calm place and the good words, the familiar passages from the Bible, helped him cope though not forget the terrible scenes he’d witnessed, the wounds, the horror of a war it was hoped would end all wars. He hoped it wouldn’t. He firmly believed that it was only in the heat of battle that boys really did become men.

He joined in the hymns, not really making a sound, but just opening and shutting his mouth while his thoughts wandered.

Since leaving the army he’d gone from job to job, his only relaxation the demon drink. Beer was something you could drown your sorrows in, though no amount of drinking would consign his old friend Lewis to memory.