Chapter 11
The village appears to be nameless. It had a name once, clearly, but what locals remain here seem unwilling to speak it, as if the memory of their community is too painful for them to bear.
My guide steers me along broken pavements, past a church with a hole cratered out of its side, into a street where all the east-facing buildings have been completely obliterated.
Ladder-ribbed dogs run riot in the ruins, scattering a nest of rats that flow like black oil into the mouth of an open cellar.
Meanwhile on a doorstep that has no house attached, a cat watches us pass with a gaze of idle interrogation.
‘You’re in luck,’ my guide tells me. ‘There is a fine villa on the Rue Saint-Denis that is still more or less in one piece. We can accommodate you and some of your brother officers there. For a small fee, of course.’
‘You can take that up with the quartermaster,’ I tell him.
‘Naturally, naturally,’ the man nods. ‘And if Monsieur le Capitaine wishes for any extras, well that can be easily arranged. Some wine and good cheese, perhaps? Apples from my orchard? A little brandy, maybe? Or perhaps something even better to warm your bed?’
We have reached the end of the street he named: a collection of what must have been fashionable villas only a handful of years back.
Now they lie in silence, their brightly-painted shutters locked against the world.
I look up between gutters swagged with vines.
A summer night sky, still blue and cloudless, soiled by smoky smudges drifting in from the Front.
‘Where did these families go?’ I ask.
The man puffs out his chest. He has told me that he is the local baker, though these days he has various jobs, mostly servicing the needs of any passing regiment.
When I led my men into the village an hour earlier, the baker had been on hand to greet our platoon with a tray of lemonade.
A bill was produced as we took our final sip and I paid it from my own wallet.
Now he tugs self-importantly at the lapels of a threadbare jacket, as if he were the mayor of this abandoned place.
‘Most fled to Paris when the Germans crossed the Marne in September of fourteen,’ he says.
‘The rich had other houses there, you understand? No need for them to return, even after Ypres when we held back the Hun and all this trench madness began. Though I must tell you, the son of the family that lived in this house?’ He glances at one of the darkened buildings.
‘I knew him well, little Raoul Letardeau. He was a good child and grew up to be a brave man. You know he left his family and their fine house in Paris and took a taxi to the battlefield at the Marne so that he might fight for his country. Imagine that! The government had abandoned the capital, but a young knight rides a taxi into the heat of war. Ah, it’s a good story, though the ending is not like a fairy tale.
Raoul was cut to pieces on his first day.
Not enough of him left to fill even half a coffin. ’
What was I doing in the September of ’14, only two years ago?
I try to think. Games of clock golf with friends in our garden, long evenings drawing in the summer house, getting my uniform ready for the new school term.
The war had begun to intrude upon us, of course.
A few masters had signed up and marched off heroically, some of the older boys too.
We expected them home by Christmas. My mother fretted and my father prayed over the unimaginable casualty lists that were reported in the papers.
But then the slaughter after Marne became too immense for any newspaper to contain and, nameless, the dead lost some of their reality.
The only truly troubling thought I had known back then was the certainty that I was not made like other boys. I could appreciate the prettiness of the village girls, but those weren’t the figures that came to me in my dreams. And I lived in fear of being found out.
‘So, what about it?’ the baker asks.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Any extras I can get for you? Food, drink... some company?’ He clucks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. There are hundreds of officers in town and he has many such calls to make. ‘Let me know, Monsieur le Capitaine, and I’ll jot it down in my little order book.’
He takes out a wad of yellow paper and slides the stub of a pencil from behind his ear. ‘Nothing, thank you,’ I tell him. ‘And it’s Monsieur le Lieutenant. Anyway, here’s my squire, he can get me anything I need.’
‘Squire?’
The baker glances at the solid form of Danny striding down the street. In his arms he bears my writing case, its top protected with some kind of cloth on which sits a steaming covered bowl.
‘He looks a good-enough dogsbody, I suppose,’ the baker grunts. ‘Well then, you just push open that door, Lieutenant, and find yourself a place to sleep. There’s nothing worth stealing, so we don’t worry about locks.’
With that, my guide bustles off, treating Danny to a sullen glare as they pass each other.
‘Was it something I said?’ Danny asks, joining me on the step of the villa.
‘He thinks you did him out of a coin or two,’ I say.
‘Really? What was he selling?’
‘Booze and girls.’
In the near distance, the machine guns start up and we both turn towards the eastern sky. A red light flowers there, probably some building near the Front hit and ablaze.
‘Well, I won’t be much help with the girls,’ Danny says. ‘But I might have a bottle or two we can share.’
The door proves stubborn but after a shove and a kick, we step into the web-strewn gloominess of the villa.
Open doorways lead off the hall into a pair of reception rooms while a dusty staircase clambers to a second storey.
It looks as if the family whose son taxied his way to an early grave stripped the house bare before they left.
‘I wouldn’t,’ Danny says when I place my boot on the first stair. He gives the riser a knock with his foot and the wood crumbles like a bad bit of trench wall. ‘Eaten through with rot. Let’s try in here.’
He leads the way into one of the reception rooms, where we find three iron cots with mattresses set up in front of an empty fireplace.
Despite the reek of decay, this must have been an impressive space once upon a time.
Now its past grandeur is only hinted at in the tongues of rich wallpaper lolling to the floor and the intricately-carved fireplace, wooden wildflowers cut out of the walnut mantelpiece.
Danny discovers a rickety table in the other downstairs room and carries it, together with my writing case and my dinner, to the space between the beds.
There he sets the table, spreading the white cloth I’d glimpsed earlier and pulling some cutlery from his pockets.
‘Feels dry enough,’ he says, testing one of the mattresses with his palm. ‘No chairs though, so this will have to do as both your bed and somewhere to sit.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, taking my seat. ‘So what’s on tonight’s menu?’
‘Curried mutton.’ He indicates the still-steaming bowl in front of me. ‘Best the field kitchen had to offer. I’ve already had mine and it was passable. I didn’t lose a tooth anyway. Oh, and as promised...’
From inside his tunic, he brings out two bottles of beer, which he uncorks and sets on the table.
‘Got ’em for a couple of pennies off an old girl in the marketplace.
She looked like she could do with the money more than that dirty old pimp that brought you here.
No, no,’ he says when I reach for my wallet. ‘My treat, sir.’
‘That’s very generous of you, Danny. And perhaps as it’s just the two of us here...’ I take a breath. ‘Why don’t you call me Stephen?’
‘Stephen,’ he echoes, that infectious smile spreading across his face. ‘Are you sure? Maybe these walls have ears.’
I can see he means it playfully. ‘I’m sure. As long as we keep it between ourselves. Out there,’ I gesture towards the door, ‘I’m still Lieutenant Wraxall. And while we’re at it, I think I owe you an apology.’
‘For what?’ he frowns, his smile broader than ever.
I shrug. ‘For being a bit out of temper earlier.’
‘No harm done,’ Danny says. ‘I understand that you were only trying to protect me. It was kind of you. But then kindness seems to come easily to you. You were very gentle with Private Murray earlier.’
‘I’m angry that his training sergeant has been so careless with him.
’ I put down my spoon for a moment as the memory of Ollie Murray’s tortured feet comes back to me.
‘Some of these bloody instructors. All they do is scream and shout at their men, believing that instilling terror is somehow fulfilling their duty. They don’t understand the responsibility that comes with asking a man to fight for his country.
The duty you have towards their welfare. The... What? Is something funny?’
Danny is looking at me, that impish grin on his face. ‘Not funny at all. I’m just glad you’re proving my point.’
‘What point?’
He picks up his bottle and chinks it against mine. ‘Second Lieutenant Stephen Wraxall is a very kind man.’
I take a sip of the warm oaty beer and wonder: if Danny is right, if I am kind, should that worry me? It was the kindness of Captain Danvers that got a man killed.
‘How is Private Murray?’ I ask.
‘Better,’ Danny says. ‘He’s eaten anyway.’
‘That’s good. We’ll check his feet again in the morning. It’ll be a tough day tomorrow but if we stay vigilant he should be all right.’
We lapse into silence as I eat. The mutton is tough but far from the worst meal I’ve had out here.
Meanwhile Danny moves about the villa, finding a couple of old Tilley lamps and a canister of oil.
He soon has the place dancing with light and is unrolling my sleeping bag onto one of the other cots.
He glances at the third bed and I surprise myself by snapping at him.
‘Those will be taken by officers. I mean—’
‘It’s all right,’ he says, turning away. ‘I didn’t expect to sleep here. I’ve got myself set up in a tent with Ollie Murray and Percy Stanhope. Thought I should keep an eye on the boy tonight anyway.’
‘I didn’t mean—’ I begin, but he cuts in again.
‘I said it’s fine.’ He goes to the window and rattles the shutters as if testing the bolts. ‘Would you like the fire lit?’
‘No. It’s warm enough.’
A brittle silence follows. Then: ‘Were you all right on the train earlier?’ he asks, the words tumbling from his lips in what feels like an impulsive rush.
He turns and I find myself suddenly fascinated by the dull brown bottle in my hand.
‘It’s just, I was worried. The others told me about you winning the MC.
They don’t hand those things out like prizes on a coconut shy, so I know you don’t get the wind up easily, Stephen.
But on the train when you were trying to get out of that compartment and you froze. ..’
‘What about it?’ I ask tetchily.
‘Nothing, I suppose. Except, if you ever wanted to talk about what happened...’
I feel my free hand wandering to the side of my face.
To that disfigured portion of flesh blasted by enemy shrapnel.
It takes some effort to force it into my tunic pocket instead.
There I touch the crinkled print of The Fighting Temeraire, given to me by this sensitive, captivating boy. Beside it I find my woodbines.
‘Care for one?’ I ask, taking out the tin.
‘Never smoked in my life,’ he says.
‘Really? Why not?’
Without asking permission, he comes and sits beside me on the bed.
‘My mum. Most doctors’ll tell you that smoking is good for your lungs.
They say it clears your airways. She never believed a word of that.
“Those nasty wee sticks don’t only ruin a singer’s voice, they can kill her stone dead.
Mark my words, we’ll find out one day what a curse they are. ” That’s what she said.’
I put down the unlit cigarette. ‘Well, I don’t know about that, but your mother clearly knew her stuff when it came to singing. And it seems that she passed on her talent to you.’
He blushes. ‘She taught me how to hold a tune, I suppose.’
‘I’m not sure modesty suits you, Danny,’ I grin.
His blush deepens. ‘It’s nothing compared to your drawing, but I—’
‘But nothing. Danny, your voice is beautiful.’
For once, he appears at a loss for words.
‘I... Well... Thank you. I’m glad you like it.
In fact, I was going to ask if you wanted to hear some more?
The boys and I have found this pub in the village.
It’s run by the old woman I met in the square and it has a piano that still works.
Percy says he can play a little and we thought we might bring Ollie along too.
We thought a distraction couldn’t hurt.’
‘He shouldn’t be on his feet,’ I say. ‘And you all ought to be getting some rest. It’ll be a hard day’s march tomorrow.’
‘We’re going to carry him between us,’ Danny says.
‘Although I reckon that big bugger Taffy could carry the kid all by himself. And we’ve agreed to be back in our tents by ten.
So what do you think? We’d all love you to come.
’ He pauses. His strong hand lies flat on the mattress, an inch from mine.
I can’t seem to look anywhere else. ‘I’d love you to—’
‘Sounds like a fun evening, but I’m afraid Lieutenant Wraxall will be much too busy.’
We both turn like guilty children discovered after lights out. There, standing in the doorway, smiling his oily smile, stands Captain Beddowes.