Chapter 5
I walk with my head down, the sand from the dunes crackling around my boots.
I have sent a runner to find Danny’s company and to ask him to meet me at the bridge.
My mind flits between the idea of taking him on as my soldier-servant and what I have just seen and heard.
The colonel didn’t explain why he was so interested in my drawing abilities.
He simply said that I might receive further instructions when I returned with my new platoon to Albert, the main administrative town in our sector of the Somme.
I half wonder if it has anything to do with those papers and photographs I glimpsed on his desk.
Reconnaissance pictures of Hun trenches and the memos with their chilling phrases: calculated risk, continuous bombardment, acceptable casualties.
Some planned offensive, I suppose, but on what scale?
Perhaps a few companies working together on a joint raid of an enemy position?
A battalion or two scrabbling across No Man’s Land, all guns blazing.
Something to break the stalemate of the past two years, during which hardly a yard of ground has been won or lost by either side.
There have been rumours about some kind of push ever since last winter; perhaps the time for it is at hand.
Whatever the truth, my feelings are mixed.
A large Allied offensive could mean the beginning of the end in this seemingly endless war, but it would also mean bloodshed.
The question is, how much? And there is another thought that howls at me after that interview with the colonel.
Commanders like Gallagher would happily throw all his men into the meatgrinder if it meant eventual victory.
All except those of us he considers degenerates.
Our lives aren’t worthy of annihilation in the wastes of No Man’s Land.
Such a death is too honourable. For us, if we are discovered, court-martial, disgrace and imprisonment with hard labour is a lenient punishment.
For Gallagher, we deserve no better than an executioner’s bullet.
That’s the world I am fighting to save. Because have no doubt, when the guns fall silent and the dust settles over this devastated continent, it’ll be old men like the colonel who survive and remain in charge.
‘Lieutenant Wraxall! Um, any chance of some help here? Me and these fine gentlemen seem to be having a minor misunderstanding.’
I look up to find Danny with his back against the parapet of the bridge, the two guards from earlier – Dennis and Lionel, as I recall – pointing their rifles at his chest. Despite the fact that most other men in his position might be busy gibbering their apologies and excuses, Danny is grinning his broad grin and waving at me.
‘I’ve told ya, put yer bloody arms up! Unless ya want to be sent straight back to Blighty in a box,’ Dennis all but shrieks.
Danny winces at the sergeant’s volume. ‘Oh, but I bet you’re a hit with all the French girls, aren’t you, sir? A silver-tongued smooth-talker like yourself? They must be queueing round the barracks. And your friend here as well. Quite the charmer.’
The guards gawp, their expressions a muddle of rage and bafflement. ‘I said arms up!’ Dennis orders.
‘All right,’ Danny sighs, raising his hands. ‘But as I’ve already told you, I’m here at the lieutenant’s request.’
‘And as I’ve told you,’ Dennis snaps. ‘That bit of paper don’t give you permission to cross my bridge. Over there is for gentlemen only, not the likes of you.’
He jabs the barrel of his Lee-Enfield Mk III into Danny’s sternum and Private McCormick winces again. But the kiss of the rifle doesn’t shake his smile for long.
‘You know, I bet there are some perfectly good Germans you could be threatening with that thing,’ he says. ‘Isn’t it too nice a day to be shooting men from your own team?’
I can tell by the twitch of Dennis’ jaw that it’s time I stepped in. ‘At ease,’ I say, moving over to the parapet. ‘This man is here at my order. Now, Private, apologise to the sergeants and we’ll be on our way.’
Danny leans across the barrel of Dennis’ rifle and gives the man’s shoulder a friendly pat. ‘I’m really sorry for not appreciating that this is your own special bridge and you’re naturally very protective of it.’
‘With respect, Lieutenant, get this cheeky little sod out of my sight,’ Dennis roars. ‘And if I see him again, I won’t need a gun. I’ll wring his neck with my bare hands.’
‘Noted,’ I say, and give Danny a gentle shove towards the étaples side of the bridge.
We’re almost across when he pirouettes on his heel and, producing a handkerchief from nowhere, wipes his slightly grubby fingers with it.
Then, balling it up, he sends it spinning with pinpoint precision at Dennis’ head.
The sergeant manages to grab the soiled cloth before it hits him square in the face.
‘Thanks for the loan,’ Danny calls out, executing a theatrical bow. ‘And if you’re a good boy, I might even give you back your braces.’
While Lionel bursts into fits of laughter, the sergeant actually pats a palm across his chest, as if checking that his braces haven’t also magically vanished. I have to suppress my own smile as we walk away, the curses of Dennis ringing in our ears.
‘Quite a talent you have there,’ I say. ‘I assume you took his handkerchief when you clapped him on the shoulder?’
Danny arches an eyebrow. ‘A conjuror never reveals his methods.’
‘Is that what you were back home, then?’ I ask. ‘A stage magician?’
‘No, but I learned from some of the best.’ He flourishes my note. ‘But here I am, sir, reporting for duty.’
I shake my head. Danny’s manner borders on cheekiness, perhaps even insolence. There are rules out here, ways things must be done, and yet I can’t help warming to him.
There isn’t much in the way of shade on the exposed dunes of étaples and under that fierce early morning sun, my uniform is already becoming stiff and uncomfortable.
At my suggestion, we head down to a munitions dump by the beach.
There, behind an old limber awaiting repair, we find a scrap of shadow and sit with our backs against the cart’s broken wheel.
A dozen yards away the green sea laps lazily against the shore.
Danny draws his hand through the sand, finding pebbles which he sends skipping across the water.
Then, tongue between his teeth, he launches a stone at a tin signpost so far along the beach I can’t make out its wording.
A split second later, we hear a bright ching.
‘You’re a good shot,’ I observe.
‘Sign of a misspent youth,’ Danny says, then considers. ‘Well, not misspent. That wouldn’t be very grateful of me.’
‘On the fairground, you mean?’ He gives me a questioning look. ‘Your friend from the train. Davey, was it? He said I’d make a fine exhibit in one of your freakshows.’
Danny blushes. He scrabbles his fingers through those short chestnut curls.
‘I’m sorry about that, sir. Davey isn’t the full shilling, but he’s not a bad lad.
I think he was just playing the fool to take the edge off, if you know what I mean?
We were all so full of nerves that day, the jokes started to become a bit out of hand. Does that make sense?’
I nod. ‘It does.’
‘I hope you weren’t too offended.’ The smile slides easily back across his face. ‘I tried to make it right at the time, but I’m not sure you appreciated the effort.’
‘Yes, well I’m sorry about that. What I said to you was unkind,’ I say. ‘Ungracious, anyway.’
‘Apologies accepted all round then. And just so you know, I don’t actually own or run a freakshow.
Don’t like ’em, if I’m being truthful. Nasty way to earn a living.
’ I can feel his gaze focused on the side of my face, the place where a shard of hot shrapnel tore away most of my ear.
I glance away as he says, ‘Davey is an idiot. There’s nothing that you should be ashamed of. ’
A beat. And then suddenly he leaps to his feet and spins around to face me.
‘What are you doing?’ I ask.
He straightens his spine and, wiping the grin from his lips, offers me a sharp salute. ‘Second Lieutenant Wraxall, sir! Private McCormick, reporting for duty.’ He slumps back down again, bumping his shoulder against mine. ‘See, I can do it properly.’
‘With a little effort,’ I agree.
He blinks at me. His eyes are deep blue in the shade thrown by the limber.
The blue of cornflowers in a dusk-dark meadow.
My gaze drifts to his hands, now clasped together in his lap.
Strong hands, rough-skinned and powerful.
The hands of someone who has worked all his life.
He’s still smiling, though the smile now seems thoughtful and slightly sad.
‘You ought to be careful, Daniel.’
‘Danny,’ he whispers back.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Danny. Only my mother called me Daniel.’
‘Danny. Yes, well...’ I cough. ‘Mocking a superior officer is a disciplinary offence. And the way you spoke to those sergeants back there? The way you sometimes address me—’
‘What isn’t a disciplinary offence out here?’ he asks plainly. ‘It seems a man like me can’t even cross a bridge without getting into trouble. Doesn’t that seem stupid to you?’
It does. Of course it does.
‘And I’ve never once mocked you, Lieutenant. I swear, I’d never do that.’
We look at each other for a while, the murmur of the sea filling the silence between us.