The Storms of War (21 page)

He crawled through the mud, coming up against a tree stump and gathering himself over it. He could see two men on top of each other, crying out. ‘I’ll come back for you!’ he called. ‘Hold on, chums.’ Despite the cold, the mud and the stuff all over his shirt, the nagging pain in his knees and the weight on his back, he was feeling exhilarated. This was what he had come here for. Surrounded by bodies and machine-gun fire, he was
helping.
He was doing something, not just hauling rats out of the water in the trenches and pushing sandbags back in.

He tucked Glass’s body more securely on to his back and pushed forward, pulling himself along like a child on his hands and knees. There were bits of shrapnel and guns everywhere, metal. A dead sheep, legs in the air, a man who looked no more alive across it. He carried on crawling. He might even be going the wrong way. Dozens of men had got lost in no-man’s-land before. One chap from C Company had been found screaming ‘Where am I?’ after walking around for hours – and he had been only six feet from home position. You might think you were going in a straight line, but really you were heading to the side or backwards, going around in a circle, and
you had no idea.

Michael shook the thought out of his head. Of course he wasn’t lost. He was going forward. ‘All right up there, chum?’ he shouted. He could speak in any way he liked out here. No one was listening, commenting, saying
Witt doesn’t sound much like an officer.
No one could ask about his odd name, say,
What does your father do again?
This was fighting. This was war. He was bringing his comrade home. ‘Keep going!’ he shouted, aware even as he did so that he was bucking himself up as much as the man. ‘We’re
nearly there.’ In truth he had no idea where he was. The smoke was even thicker now. He only had the glitter of shell fire to guide him – which sparked so randomly, it hardly gave him anything.

He moved towards an area where the bodies were sparser, thinking that that was surely nearer home. Home! What a word for that jigsaw of mud. But still, that was what it was. He pulled his body on, sweating so much it was almost painful. The man on his back had calmed down, and was no longer crying out and groaning. He was hopefully thinking about Devon beaches. ‘Come on, old thing!’ shouted Michael. ‘End is in sight!’ He flopped forward, and felt a sandbag. His heart filled. He banged the edge with his hand, exhausted. ‘Is anybody there? Wounded man here!’ There was no reply. Where were they all? ‘Bilks!’ he cried. ‘Bilks, where are you?’

There was a scrabbling, and a man popped his head up. ‘Sir?’

‘Come on, man. Get a move on. I’ve got an injured man here. Get a stretcher-bearer.’

The man shouted down. ‘Ted! Stretcher-bearer!’ He turned back to Michael. ‘We don’t have too many, sir. Busy day.’

‘Now!’ shouted Michael, summoning the last of his energy. ‘Go!’ He rested his head on a sandbag. ‘Not long to wait, chum,’ he said. ‘Whereabouts are you from in Devon? My father took me down to the coast once.’ The man did not reply. ‘That’s right,’ said Michael. ‘Conserve your strength.’ A whizz-bang shot overhead. Sometimes, he thought, you might even pretend that they were fireworks, at a party for one of the royal family. ‘Can you hear them?’ he said to Glass. ‘That’s for Queen Mary.’

‘All right then, sir,’ came a voice. An MO, he supposed. Hands on his back. ‘We’ve got you now. Let’s take him.’ He could feel them cutting the strings loose.

‘Be careful,’ Michael said. ‘I think he got hit in the head.’

‘Come on,’ said the voice, gathering the man off his back. They moved him on to a stretcher.

Michael could barely lift his head. ‘You need to take him to the field hospital! He has lost a lot of blood.’

The MO crouched beside him. ‘I’m sorry, sir. He’s gone. I think we lost him an hour or so ago, to be honest.’

‘No!’ Michael rolled over. ‘It’s not true!’ He hauled himself to his knees, toppling. ‘He is alive, I tell you! I felt him breathing! I heard him speak.’ He grasped the nearer stretcher-bearer. ‘Take him to the field hospital! You have to! You cannot give up on him.’ The man’s blood was dripping through his hair.

‘Corporal …’

‘I’m ordering you! Take him to the hospital. I brought him all the way back! I ignored other men. He’s alive!’

‘Corporal …’ The medical officer put his hand on his shoulder. Michael shook it off. ‘I will report you! I will report you all! You will be court-martialled. You are failing in your duty!’

‘You must calm down. You should rest.’

Michael dragged himself forward through the mud. ‘If you will not take him, I will put him on my back and go myself!’

One of the stretcher-bearers backed away – and that was his moment. He lunged towards him, grasped Glass by his arm. The stretcher-bearer jumped, the other fell back and the stretcher bounced on to the ground. Michael threw himself over Glass’s torso. He landed on the wetness of his shirt, grappled around and pulled at it, trying to tear it open so he could feel his heart. One of the stretcher-bearers was trying to drag him off; he punched him away, grasped Glass’s face. It was cool. There was no breath coming from the mouth. He straightened so that he was kneeling over him, listened again. No breath. He ducked to the man’s heart. Nothing. What was it you did? One of the men at barracks had tried to teach them: pumping the chest, one, two, three. He dipped his head to Glass’s mouth, did it again, pumping once more. Nothing. ‘You have to help me!’ he was crying as the MO hauled him off.

‘Come on, soldier,’ he was saying. ‘We have injured men to tend to. Let us do our work.’

‘But he’s alive!’ Michael shouted. A bomb exploded above him, a screaming, hysterical whizz-bang. In the light of it, he saw them hurrying the stretcher away. ‘I’m going back for those men now!’
he cried. He tried to stand but his legs failed him, threw him back into the mud. He lay there, weeping, like a child.

That was where Bilks found him, two hours later, after searching, he said, up and down the trenches for him. ‘Pie said he thought he saw you coming in. I’ve been looking for you, sir. You look pretty done.’

Michael lifted his head, dropped it again.

‘Bad news, I am afraid, sir. We’ve lost Andrews, and Baker was with the padre when I saw him last. Weaver and Tiller are still out there. Injured, probably. They’ll send clearing parties out to get them in the morning.’

Michael rolled on to his back. Perhaps Weaver and Tiller had been out there, begging for help, while he had staggered past. ‘I hate them,’ he said. ‘I hate the Germans. I want them all to die.’

‘Well, that would certainly speed matters up. Mind you, Kitchener might not be too pleased if they all just keeled over; wouldn’t give his boys much of a triumph. Come on, sir, let’s get you some tea.’

‘Look at this!’ Bilks threw aside the
Daily Mirror,
beaten limp after passing through ten sets of fingers. ‘Very little action on the Western Front. It’s disgusting that they say that. Plenty of action, if you ask me.’

‘I expect they think we’re sitting about in deckchairs,’ said Pie. ‘Ma does, anyhow.’ He was sorting through his box of souvenirs, three more German badges after the battle four nights ago, along with assorted bullets, belt buckles and scraps of shrapnel.

‘Just because we haven’t moved forward very much. I’ve half a thought to write to them and give them a piece of my mind. And you, Pie, you watch it with those things. The COs are searching bags for that sort of stuff.’

‘When we return, only army property allowed,’ Michael recited. Bilks had said Pie had a German watch in there, but Michael hadn’t the heart to remove it. The man had been fond of Andrews; they all had.

‘This
is
army property,’ said Pie. ‘My army property, anyway.’

‘Not even any action at Loos reported?’ demanded Cook of Bilks, waving at the newspaper.

‘Well, a little on that. But they say it was a failure and we haven’t moved.’

‘Well, we ain’t moved, have we?’ said Pie. ‘What do they know? Don’t think it would go down too well if they said, another ten thousand men down, Field Marshal French’s washstand no further towards Berlin.’

‘His washstand won’t be anywhere, if you ask me. He’ll be for the chop after this fiasco.’

‘Reckon he has been ever since the King fell off his horse in front of everybody. Georgie can’t forgive him seeing that,’ said Pie.

Michael knew he ought to stop them.
But why should I?
he wanted to shout. Fair enough officers setting an example, guiding the men, holding the line. But trotting out the usual story that they were better than the Germans, had more troops, what was the point of that? He gazed down at the pile of biscuits on the table. Andrews and Baker were dead, Weaver and Tiller missing, and still their rations were coming through. They had more biscuits than they could eat – more so because Pie refused to touch them, said he had no truck with eating dead men’s food.

‘Post here!’ cried a voice. Meadows came around the corner dragging his heavy sack. ‘Some good stuff for you lot.’

He doled out the letters. ‘Ooh,’ said Bilks, patting his parcel. ‘Looks like Mrs B’s been knitting again. See if she’s managed not to put a hole in it this time.’ He always joked that his wife sent scarves with ready-made rat bites, just in case. A thin letter for Michael. He recognised the handwriting. Celia. He stowed it in his pocket. He promised himself he would write back to this one.

‘A soldier stuffed this in my hand for you too, sir,’ said Meadows, holding out a letter. Tom’s handwriting. He put that in his pocket as well. ‘Oh – and I almost forgot this one. Another parcel.’ He passed it over. Michael looked down at it, his heart sinking. He knew that looping, untidy writing too. It was Andrews’ girl, Betty.

‘Want me to do it, sir?’ said Bilks, seeing his face. Michael shook his head. He took his penknife and cut open the paper. Soap, a long letter, a large box. He opened the box, hoping it would be a personal present he could send back, like a scarf. Inside was a cake. A somewhat squashed and mangled but still nice-looking iced fruit cake. He’d never known Betty send a cake before. He looked down at the letter.
I have been saving up to make you this,
she wrote.
Got the ingredients from Macys. Best fruit to be found, he said. I hope you like it – you can share it with the other boys if you like. You mustn’t think about Ernie, it’s just you and me. I wanted to tell you that, in case you didn’t know. I know we used to be friends, but I told him we had to stop it. You’re my man!

Michael folded the letter. He picked up the cake. It was already melting on to his hands. Their orders were to send letters and
items back, but to eat any perishables. He stared at the icing on the top – an attempt to spell out ‘John’. He took the cake and threw it at the wall of the trench.

‘Nice for the rats,’ said Bilks.

‘Did you want it?’

Bilks shook his head. Michael put his head in his hands.

‘Good morning, sir.’ A soft voice came over the side of the trench. ‘Are you Corporal Witt?’

Michael looked up. A slim, blond-haired man was standing at the top. He was smiling. ‘I heard you lost some men in the push. I have been sent down to join you.’

‘Good morning to you,’ said Bilks. ‘What is your name?’

‘Stuart Wheeler, sir. From C Company.’ His accent was slow, country, Michael thought. Norfolk maybe.

‘Well, come down here, why don’t you? We are reinforcing the walls.’

Michael stared at Wheeler. The skin on his face looked soft. The blue of his eyes was very pale against the bright October sky. ‘Actually, we need to collect some more wire from the stores. Wheeler can come with me.’ He clambered up the side of the trench. ‘Let’s go.’

Wheeler nodded and followed him. Michael felt almost too shy to look at him. They walked to the stores, silently. Overhead, birds sang. You might think you were back in England. They stood in line, collected the wire, started walking back. Ten feet or so from the trenches, Wheeler dropped to his knees. ‘Look at this!’ Michael squatted next to him. There was a line of beetles trundling along, walking in strict formation, scrambling over a small mound of earth. ‘Splendid, isn’t it, sir? The way they all march so tidily, despite the mess around them. Like us.’

Michael watched the insects. The front one, the biggest, was actually rather beautiful, with its shiny armour reflecting rainbows of sunlight. After marching some way over the mound, it stopped and looked around. Its antennae waved.

‘He’s trying to decide where to go,’ said Wheeler, entranced. ‘He’s got to lead them and he must get it right.’

At that moment, the beetle seemed to look up at the two men. Then it nodded and led its band on. ‘He was trying to decide if we were predators,’ said Michael.

‘I think so.’

‘We should send them over to the German side.’

‘They could probably get better information than our current lot. I reckon our spies wouldn’t even find the trenches – ridiculous. They arrested an old Frenchwoman over on our side for waving her washing about on the line; they thought she was signalling to the Germans.’

‘Washing?’ Michael could not help but smile. ‘Come on, Wheeler, we should get back.’ He watched the beetles trotting along and turned away. He found himself – inordinately, illogically – hoping that they would not be shelled. The other man walked on.

Michael hurried after Wheeler. ‘What were you doing before signing up?’ he asked.

‘I was training to be a schoolmaster. I had done my college time and I was working in a school in Norfolk. Country school, had to give them all a week off every September to go to the ploughing competition. I had been reading them a lot of history.’

‘That sounds interesting.’

‘It was. Then the army came blowing their trumpets and looking for men. I thought I would be back in time to see the older ones finish school. Now I don’t know.’

‘Fingers crossed.’

‘Yes.’ Michael was grateful that Wheeler did not call him sir.

In the days that followed, machine-gun fire strafed through the rain and there were constant gas warnings. Michael woke in his dugout and thought about seeing Wheeler. He went to sleep thinking of his smile. He tried to find ways of standing by him and walking with him to the stores. He asked him to accompany him on visits to other captains to discuss practicalities – a job that Bilks was happy to give up because he wanted to be with the men.

Every time they left the trenches, Wheeler found something else new to show him: a spider crawling up a tree, a pair of birds hopping for worms, a weasel hunting her prey. Michael remembered being like this as a child, gazing intently at one thing, forgetful of the world outside. He’d once stared for hours at a robin in their Hampstead garden. Now, his head spun with a hundred thoughts. He tried to follow Wheeler, pick out the tiny markings on a bird, the circles of age on a worm.

It rained every day, and Michael wondered if the powers-that-be were holding off on another offensive until the weather improved.

‘Fighting is summer work,’ said Wheeler, when they were shovelling mud out of the trench. He had been teaching the older boys in his school about the Boer War.

‘You’re a one,’ said Pie. ‘What are we going to do until the summer? Sit about here?’

‘Probably. Or they might send us off for training, running up and down some French hills.’

‘What’s the point of that? We might as well go home.’

‘Then we’d be giving in, wouldn’t we? We’re a human barrier.’

It was yet another conversation that Michael knew he really shouldn’t have been allowing. But what was he supposed to tell them to talk about? The football or cricket news that got to them weeks late? Their families? That upset them more.

‘Not long till Christmas, lads,’ he said, hating his false jollity. ‘The Queen might give us a present.’

‘Hmm,’ said Bilks. ‘That was last year. Unlikely.’

Last year, presents from Princess Mary had arrived, to be distributed on 23rd December. Cigarettes, tobacco and bars of chocolate. One of the BEF officers told Michael about the privates trotting off over to the other side in truce, one coming back saying they’d met a German who’d been a barber in Walthamstow. ‘Never again,’ he said. ‘The papers didn’t like it.’

This year, they huddled in their trenches, afraid of another gas attack, masks – useless as they were – to hand. The men swapped Christmas cards to make them feel as if they had more. Michael read
his letter from Celia, even though he could hardly bear to.
Things are well. We are very well,
she wrote.
Happy Christmas!
It was littered with exclamation marks, like a sky with stars. It hurt him how hard she was trying to be happy. Still, at least she’d be able to read in the newspapers some guff about how the men on the Western Front had had a ‘happy Christmas with an excellent dinner’. Bilks whistled ‘Hark the Herald Angels’ to keep them amused.

‘I have had it with this,’ Pie said. ‘I might just go for a short walk. They’re not going to order us out at Christmas, are they?’

Bilks looked up briefly. ‘Sir?’ Michael nodded. ‘Okay, chaps. A quick breath of air. Keep your heads down going up. And wish any farmer you see a …’ He turned to Michael.

‘Joyeux Noël, monsieur
.’

‘That’s it.
Joyeux Noël, monsieur
.’

They chorused it in reply. Even Bilks was hauling himself over the side. ‘Just off to have a look, sir,’ he said. ‘Better check the locals don’t bite on Christmas Day.’

Michael nodded. ‘Have them back within two hours, Bilks.’

He settled back. Wheeler was standing there. ‘I don’t need to go, sir,’ he said. ‘I’ll stay and keep you company. It is Christmas, after all.’

Michael smiled. ‘Thank you.’

Wheeler sat beside him. ‘Tell me about your family, sir.’

‘Call me Michael.’ He saw the surprise on the other man’s face. ‘Just for today, at least.’

‘Tell me about your family – Michael.’

‘My father was in business. Pretty normal, really. Tell me about yours. I’d really like to hear.’

Wheeler started to talk about his widowed mother in Norfolk. As he did so, he snaked his hand over to Michael’s and clasped it. Michael felt his face colour. Wheeler’s skin was soft in his hand.
Stuart,
he let himself think.
Stuart.

Bilks’s cheery face peered over the lip of the trench. ‘Good—’ His mouth dropped open. Michael and Stuart hastened to move apart, but it was too late. Bilks’s eyes were glued to their hands. He stood
at the edge. ‘All going well up there,’ he said, his voice forcedly cheerful. ‘Pie found a frozen pond, they’re skidding around like a set of fools.’

‘They deserve some cheer,’ said Michael, faintly. Wheeler had moved his hand but his body was still close. Michael could feel the warmth of it through his shirt.

The three of them stared at each other in an awkward silence.

‘I say, old chap!’ Captain Derreny-Mills put his head over the side. ‘Happy Christmas and all that. It’s quiet in here. You’re not watching your men, Witt?’

‘No, no. Bilks was with them,’ he said, trying to make his voice loud.

‘I came to beg a favour. Sorry to ask, but one of my boys has just told me he had some bad news from home in his Christmas letter. Wife expecting, not well at all, in hospital, and of course he can’t have any leave yet. He’s not really up to much but he was supposed to be doing sentry duty tonight. All the others have been drinking rum, sorry to say. You don’t have anyone who might be able to step in?’

‘I’m afraid they’ve all been drinking rum too,’ Michael said.

‘No they haven’t,’ came Bilks’s voice. ‘Wheeler hasn’t, have you, Wheeler? You could take the job.’

Michael stared. He wanted to overrule – but Bilks was correct. Wheeler stood up. ‘Of course, sir. What time should I begin?’

‘Six, please. Thank you, old chap. And you, Witt. Good day to you. Make sure you get your men in soon. They’ll start the whizz-bangs again at five, I hear.’

That night, Michael waited in his dugout, listening to Worth singing, Pie chattering about his father meeting Marie Lloyd and the other men telling them to be quiet. Finally, at half eleven, they were all snoring. He listened out for the sound of Bilks grinding his teeth – a sure-fire sign that he was asleep. After it had been going on for a good twenty minutes, he stood up. He was dressed, with his boots on – they all slept like that in case of
enemy action – so it was easy to slip out and towards the fire step at the end of the trench.

He crawled along the trench, past groups of men slung over each other, fast asleep. One was lying awake, staring ahead, but did not see him. No matter; no one would challenge an officer. At the end of the trench, he pulled himself up. The land was painfully clear, lit up by whizz-bangs. Last month, one of the sentries had been taken by a German night patrol, or at least that was what they thought, since his relief had found nothing there but his badge on the fire step – they supposed he’d been fiddling with it to keep himself awake.