Chapter 7
In the end, my explanation for choosing Danny as my servant had to be postponed.
We’d reached the area where his company had been billeted when one of those sadistic training sergeants came storming over to us, demanding to know where this ‘sorry excuse for a soldier’ had been hiding all morning.
Danny tried to explain that he and his company had been told they were to enjoy a rest day before training recommenced, but the sergeant was having none of it.
He ordered Danny to join the other men at the barracks for an hour of square-bashing followed by an afternoon of bayonet practice under the blistering sun.
I tried to intervene, but as I hadn’t yet received the paperwork from Captain Beddowes to have Danny reassigned to my regiment there was nothing I could do.
I watched him march away, the still-barking sergeant at his heels, Danny giving me a cheery wave before they disappeared from view.
I wondered if he would still be smiling after a day in the Bull Ring.
I didn’t see him for the rest of the day, which I spent locating my new platoon and giving them the news that we’d soon be making our way up the line.
This was met with a mixture of relief and apprehension – relief that they would soon be away from the infamous base camp; apprehension that their time in the trenches was to begin a little earlier than expected.
Thirty-three men in all, they appeared at first glance to be a good bunch.
I took them out to the rifle range in the afternoon and found that most were fairly decent shots.
When one of them – a skinny, sandy-haired grocer’s boy from Salford called Percy Stanhope – managed a clean headshot, his mates erupted with loud cheers.
‘That’s it, Perce, blow that fucking Jerry’s brains out!’ Private Robert Billings cried, slapping Stanhope on the back.
Rifle butts slipped from the crooks of their shoulders as they turned to look up at me.
They were all laid flat on their stomachs on the summer-hard earth.
As my gaze passed between them and the tattered paper target now flapping in the breeze, all I could think of was the men who had come before them, laid out in pieces in a winter trench.
I managed an encouraging nod. ‘Good work, that man.’
They all seemed pleased with the compliment, especially Stanhope and Billings, who grinned at each other like kids celebrating a hattrick on the football field.
Right now, it was still a game to them, their enemy impersonal.
No more real than that tattered target or the bloodless dummies they plunged their bayonets into.
It’s easy to kill a man when all he amounts to is paper and straw.
In any case, the men seemed to like me. Just as with my old platoon, I was years younger than most of them, but my war wound counted for a lot.
Whereas when I had first arrived at the Front, I had been just what I appeared – a green schoolboy with only a few months’ training under my belt – now the evidence of a missing ear gave me credibility.
At dinner in the cookhouse that evening, I overheard hushed whispers that I’d been awarded the MC.
Fought off a Hun raid on one of our trenches, Percy Stanhope confided to his mates, while I sat at the head of the table, picking at what the chef claimed was a ‘meat pie’.
Drove the bastards back all by himself. Part of me wanted to stand up, right then and there, and set the record straight.
I had played dead for while, then taken a soldier by surprise and shot him.
If there was honour in that, I didn’t want it.
But I knew men must have confidence in their officers.
Both in the grinding tedium of the trenches, where nerves can easily snap, and in those heart-stopping moments during a gas attack or a raid, one steady presence can mean the difference between life and death.
I had learned that from the late Captain Phillip Danvers.
And so I allowed my unearned legend to be passed among them without correction.
Even when Stanhope called out a question from down the table, I didn’t put him right.
‘Begging your pardon, Lieutenant, but is it true what they say? That you took on a whole Boche platoon by yerself? And that they... Well.’ His gaze skated around the long table, looking for encouragement. ‘I mean, the story goes two of ’em pinned you down and used a bayonet to—’
I treated him to a stern look. ‘What the hell are you talking about, Private?’
Stanhope flushed red and the rest of the men suddenly became fascinated by their portions of pie.
‘I didn’t mean no disrespect, sir, I swear,’ Stanhope stammered.
‘Eyes forward, men,’ I commanded, and thirty-three heads were reluctantly raised and turned in my direction.
I put down my fork and pointed to the lumpy flesh of my wound.
‘You’re right,’ I told them. ‘They cut it clean off and then one of the buggers managed to escape with it in his pocket. Took it all the way back to Berlin where it now hangs as a trophy in the Kaiser’s war room.
But little does he know that it’s still working and that I’m listening in to all his schemes.
’ I tapped my nose. ‘But that’s classified information, gents, so keep it under your hats. ’
They all exchanged glances. Then, as I dug back into my pie, laughter shook the air.
‘Good one, sir!’ Billings cackled, giving Stanhope’s shoulder a rough shake. ‘You really had us going for a minute there.’
I smiled. A touch of dark humour told by an officer at his own expense can go a long way. Still, I wasn’t one to joke. Not recently anyway. Maybe Danny’s example was rubbing off on me.
Sitting back in my chair and looking them over, I thought they’d make a decent enough platoon.
Most of them had been well-trained back home and probably didn’t need the mental and physical torment of another couple of weeks in the Bull Ring.
Those who required a little extra tuition, I could bring up to standard myself, either on our journey down to the Somme or during rest periods away from the Front.
Some of them might not even live long enough for it to matter, of course.
I remembered a private who was in the trenches less than an hour before a German sniper picked him off, neat as you like.
Anyway, I sensed that Danny would fit in well with them.
And it wasn’t as if him coming from another regiment would matter.
Gone were the days of old Pals Battalions, when men from the same town would make up a platoon that stuck together throughout their training and service.
After nearly two years of slaughter, most of those had been obliterated, at the battles of Mons and Marne, at Ypres and Aubers Ridge.
Pals scattered the length of France, buried in mass graves.
Now regiments like mine might be called the ‘Manchesters’, but they drew their recruits from far and wide.
A London accent among these men wouldn’t be commented on.
Despite keeping an eye out for him all that long sweltering day and the next, it isn’t until the following evening that I encounter Danny again.
He comes striding into our hut, holding out an official-looking document and grinning as he salutes.
He looks a little sunburned from his time performing drill in the barrack yard and there’s a whopper of a bruise blooming under his right eye.
I glance down at the document – his regimental transfer papers, signed by Captain Beddowes.
‘I was starting to get concerned,’ I say. ‘We’re supposed to be marching south at dawn and I hadn’t heard a word from Lieutenant-Colonel Gallagher.’
‘I know. I was getting a bit worried myself, sir. I didn’t...’ Danny hesitates, his voice dropping a little. He touches the purple patch under his eye and grimaces. ‘I didn’t fancy another fortnight in this hellhole. I’m not sure these people like me very much.’
‘Your natural charm, I’m sure. Have you had dinner? Checked your kit is ready for the off tomorrow?’ He nods. ‘Good. Then let’s take a walk. I’ll fill you in on your new duties and then introduce you to the rest of the lads.’
There really isn’t much else to do. I’ve already carried out my inspection of the platoon’s uniform and supplies.
The main thing now is to allow the men to rest as much as they can before we set out at dawn.
And so we wander together through the camp, Danny telling me of his recent adventures.
Apparently, a firearms instructor on the rifle range hadn’t appreciated tuition from an uppity private about how he might improve his aim. Hence the black eye.
Eventually we come to the river and sit together on the bank. It’s dusk and the heat of the day is slowly ebbing away. Frogs burble in the bullrushes below and make me think of Lieutenant-Colonel Gallagher muttering into his brandy. From somewhere in the hedgerows breaks the song of a nightjar.
‘So,’ Danny sighs. ‘Before we were so rudely interrupted yesterday, I think you were going to tell me why you had me transferred?’
I take a deep breath. ‘My old platoon are all dead and I don’t know anyone much at the Front any more. I needed to choose someone to be my servant...’ I see that look of distaste cross his features again. ‘All right then, Private, what word would you prefer?’
He considers for a moment. ‘How about “squire”?’ he says at last, looking pleased with himself. ‘Yes, I’ll be happy to take up your very generous offer of cleaning your uniform and heating up your rations on the condition I am known as Squire Daniel McCormick.’
‘Squire?’ I frown. ‘And that’s better than “soldier-servant”?’
‘It sounds more... artistic,’ Danny nods. ‘Like the character from that book about the crazy knight who goes on a quest to fight windmills.’
‘Don Quixote?’ I laugh. ‘To be fair to him, he thought the windmills were giants.’
‘Oh well, that’s completely understandable then. Anyway, he has a squire, right? A loyal sidekick who looks out for him. Like a comrade-in-arms.’
Kamerad. That word again, haunting my mind.
‘Fair enough,’ I say. ‘Squire it is.’
‘Good. But with all due respect, sir, you still haven’t answered my question. Why do you want me? You could have chosen someone from your new platoon. I know most of them are northerners, but there has to be one chap among them that would do.’
I falter for a moment. ‘You were kind to me,’ I say at last. ‘In the train at St Pancras. You were a stranger, but you seemed concerned that your friend’s words might have upset me. You were kind when you didn’t need to be. That’s a rare thing these days.’
‘Is it?’ He looks genuinely bewildered.
‘I think it is. Anyway, you’re also a crack-shot, and that’s something any officer wants at his side when the balloon goes up.’
‘Then I’ll be there,’ he nods.
Darkness is deepening around us, night bedding its velvet shadows into the bends and creases of the estuary.
‘Can I ask something else, sir?’ Danny says. ‘That drawing you did on the train. The one of the boy. It might sound strange, but it reminded me a bit of my mum. The way she used to sing and it would go straight to the heart of you—’
‘What’s your question, Private?’ I ask, my mouth suddenly dry.
He turns to me, and in the dying light I see there’s a shimmer in his eyes.
‘It’s not a question. Not really. Only, I suppose I wanted to know the man who could draw like that.
That’s why I called out to you that night in Folkestone.
It was you up at the bandstand, wasn’t it? Why didn’t you answer me?’
I shake my head and look out at a swell of black clouds massing on the horizon. ‘You need to be strong, Danny. Stronger than you’ve ever been in your life before. That’s how you’ll survive what comes next. Only at the same time, you must try to hold onto who you are. Don’t lose yourself.’
He looks a little startled, but then nods. ‘I know what I’m getting into. I’ve heard the stories.’
At his words, something like anger flickers inside me. ‘Stories are one thing,’ I say. ‘Living it is different.’
‘Sir,’ he speaks very gently, his gaze roaming to my ruined ear. ‘What happened to you?’ When I don’t answer he places his hand on my shoulder. ‘Listen, if you—’
‘It’s over. Finished,’ I say. ‘All I need you to realise is that what’s coming is going to be tough. Tougher than you can imagine.’
‘I know tough, Lieutenant Wraxall,’ he says slowly. ‘Believe me, I do. And you know something else? I’m a survivor. Always have been. I think you are too.’
‘You’re impossible,’ I tell him.
‘It’s been said... Oh, but wait a bit, I’ve got something for you.
’ He slides his hand into his tunic pocket and brings out a square of paper.
‘I saw you looking at it in the cookhouse yesterday morning before Captain Tiny ’Tache showed up.
You seemed fascinated by it somehow. Anyway, after you left, I cut it out. Thought you might like to keep it.’
He passes it to me and I unfold a crinkled page to reveal the copy of The Fighting Temeraire from the back of the magazine.
It strikes me again, Turner’s melancholy image of the old warship: a proud survivor of so many battles, still unable to escape her final destruction.
Not at the hands of a foreign enemy in the heat of war, but under the smashing hammers and ripping crowbars of her own countrymen.
I look up at Danny and murmur my thanks, slipping it into the same pocket that contains my grandfather’s watch.
‘Well, don’t look so sad about it,’ he says lightly, and when I return his grin, he laughs. ‘Keep smiling, sir, it suits you.’