Chapter 28
It’s late in the afternoon when the package arrives.
Danny and I have returned from another scouting trip to find most of the platoon sitting on the ground (after a few sunny days, the trench is as dry as a trench ever gets) all cross-legged and passing around parcels like kids on Christmas morning.
There’s the typical high spirits and ribbing that accompany a delivery from home.
Spud unwraps a box of shortbread and blesses his granddaughter; Percy holds up a brand new photograph of his sweetheart Edith, blushing as the wolf whistles echo around him.
Catching sight of us, the men wave and welcome us back.
‘Good to see you, sir!’ Robert shouts. ‘You too, Danny boy. Been out galivanting again with the local widows?’
I sigh and shake my head. ‘Keep a civil tongue in your head, Private.’
‘My tongue’s not been anywhere else, Lieutenant,’ Robert grins. ‘What about yours?’
The platoon give out a collective ‘Ooooo!’ and I tell Robert to watch himself.
His cheek is close to insubordination but there’s no malice in it and his crude comments are in some ways a relief.
If the general suspicion is that Danny and I are ladies’ men, then all to the good.
The laughter and teasing is only cut short when everyone notices the unopened package in Taffy’s lap.
He runs his palm almost reverently across the brown paper.
‘For Private Oliver Murray,’ he says softly, reading the label. ‘From his mother.’
‘Must have been sent before she got the news,’ Danny murmurs. ‘Poor woman.’
Silence settles over the men. Those small treasures despatched by loved ones that had given such joy a moment ago now lie around them, forgotten.
They stare at the parcel, no doubt thinking of the boy left behind in Authuille.
The first of them to fall. Will similar belated gifts arrive for them one day, carefully wrapped and addressed by mothers who never dreamed that they might outlive their sons?
‘You can open it,’ I say. ‘Share out whatever she’s sent him. I’ll write to her and wire some money if there’s anything valuable.’
‘But, sir, it’s...’ Taffy shakes his head. ‘It’s Ollie’s.’
‘And he’d want his friends to enjoy it. I’m sure Mrs Murray would feel the same. And after all, there’s no point sending her back stale cakes and biscuits.’
The words come out a little harsher than I’d intended and Danny blinks at me.
It’s just, at that moment, I’d thought of Michael’s mother.
I know she sent him treats almost every other day.
He’d joked about it in his letters: Mam bakes like an angel, that’s what my captain says.
It makes me popular among the lads, anyway.
Slowly, Taffy unties the string and starts unpacking Mrs Murray’s final gift to her boy: a tin of Fry’s chocolate, half a dozen currant cakes, a copy of The Union Jack magazine with heroic detective Sexton Blake on the cover, a fresh pair of socks.
The other men take their share, nibbling a corner of chocolate like it’s the hardest tack biscuit they’ve ever tasted.
‘All right then, you miserable lot,’ Taffy says, coughing the hoarseness out of his voice. ‘Don’t munch on that stuff like it’s ashes in your mouth. Ollie’s mum will have saved up a long time to send him those treats.’
Percy wipes his eyes and grins. ‘He was a soft sod, was Ollie. He told me on the boat over that his old mum thought her currant cakes were the best in the village. He only used to eat them to keep her sweet. Said they was as hard as hobnails.’
Taffy nods, his teeth clamped around an example of Mrs Murray’s baking. ‘The bugger was right ’n’ all.’
We all burst out laughing.
And then a familiar voice cuts us dead. ‘What a cheery scene. It warms the heart, doesn’t it, sir? Men with time to sit around and enjoy a joke, while there’s a war going on.’
There’s a bustle of bodies, a straightening of uniforms, a rustle of paper as letters and packages are tidied away.
Then each of us execute a salute to welcome our unexpected guests.
Lieutenant-Colonel Gallagher moves warily across the duckboards, Captain Beddowes a step or two behind.
The captain looks around himself with obvious disgust, as if we had deliberately constructed this maze of mud to offend him.
Gallagher at least pretends to be at home, slapping a meaty palm against a dirt wall before dusting off his hands.
‘At ease, men. At ease.’
At that moment, Captain Jackson emerges from our dugout, a razor in his hand, his jaw soapy. Beddowes curls his lip. ‘Rather late in the day to be grooming yourself, isn’t it? What kind of operation are you running here, Jackson?’
Gallagher glares at his adjutant. ‘Never interrogate an officer in front of his men, Beddowes? Apologise at once.’
Jackson waves his hand while Beddowes turns bright crimson. ‘No need, Colonel. Fact of the matter is, I took a turn at watch last night and only got to bed an hour ago. I’m sure Captain Beddowes understands.’
The Toad sneers at the Snake, apparently forgetting his own rule about not berating fellow officers in front of the men. ‘I wouldn’t bet on it. All Beddowes knows about this war is which café behind the line serves the best Chateau Lafite. Ain’t that right?’
‘As you say, sir,’ Beddowes agrees meekly.
‘I do say it,’ Gallagher grunts. ‘But back to business. Thought it was about time we had a nosey around. Inspection and all that.’
‘Your prerogative, Colonel,’ Jackson nods. ‘If you’d just give me a moment, the men and I will be at your disposal.’
That almost provokes a bitter smile but I manage to keep a straight face.
We are very literally at the colonel’s disposal.
In fact, in nine days’ time, many of the men here will almost certainly be disposed of, more than likely in bits and pieces strewn across that patch of No Man’s Land immediately above us.
Unless Danny and I can take this opportunity to try to limit the casualties.
While Gallagher, Beddowes and Jackson pass from soldier to soldier, inspecting rifles, uniforms, kitbags and living quarters, I ask Danny to fetch my writing case containing the copies of our reconnaissance reports from my dugout.
I then join our visitors as they arch their nostrils over a selection of boots.
‘Not as shiny as I’d like,’ Gallagher complains.
‘Indeed, sir,’ Jackson says. ‘It is difficult to keep parade ground standards when half the time we’re knee-deep in mud, but we do our best. Perhaps if Captain Beddowes could give us a bit of notice next time, I’d try to ensure the place was in better order.’
That hilarious little moustache quivers with irritation. ‘You should always keep yourselves in readiness for an inspection, Captain.’
‘Quite right, Beddowes,’ Jackson agrees. Then, under his breath, ‘And I ought to have known you might be paying us a visit, what with our sector being so quiet lately.’
This time I can’t hide my smile. The top brass only ever venture out to the Front if there’s been a long lull in the fighting.
‘What’s that?’ Gallagher looks up from the boot presented to him by a nervous Taffy. ‘Don’t start muttering like an old woman, Jackson, I get enough of that from my staff officers. Got something to say, say it full-throated, that’s the British way.’
I step forward. ‘In that case, sir, might Private McCormick and I have a confidential word?’
The Toad blinks at me from under a slab of warty forehead.
‘Ah, Wraxall. Hero of the trenches? I recognise that ear.’ He reaches out and snatches Beddowes’ swagger stick from under his arm, waving the nub at the side of my face.
‘Or rather, I recognise what’s left of it.
’ Beddowes titters while the colonel barks out a laugh that isn’t shared by the men around him.
Oblivious to their disapproval, he continues, ‘A word, eh? By all means.’
Beddowes scurrying in his wake, the colonel stomps across the trench to our dugout, throwing aside the gas curtain and descending into the earth. Meanwhile Jackson accompanies Danny and me, giving a friendly warning as we enter. ‘Play your hand carefully, Lieutenant.’
We discover the Toad at our table, his knees popping like rifle shots as he eases himself onto an old ammo box.
Meanwhile the Snake casts a narrow gaze around the place.
I’m not sure what he expected to find in a ditch cut into the Somme, yet it seems our neat but modest hole in the ground is a disappointment.
‘Can I offer you some coffee?’ Jackson says. ‘Unfortunately, Private McCormick hasn’t been able to work his usual miracle today with the machine gunner’s bucket, so there’s no boiling water, though we do have fresh sugar to disguise the taste of the chlorine.’
Gallagher looks appalled. ‘No, thank you. We need to be heading back to HQ soon anyway. So, Wraxall, out with it.’
I take my writing case from Danny and use the silver key to unlock the box.
Setting it on the table, I then pull out the bundled copies of our reports, which lie in front of Gallagher.
‘I’m not sure if these have reached you personally, Colonel, but I hoped that, while you’re here, we might have a chance to give you more information on the reconnaissance you requested.
As instructed, for the past week, Private McCormick and I have been making excursions up and down the line.
From positions at listening posts far out in No Man’s Land to areas on hillsides and ridges overlooking the battlefield, we’ve made detailed notes, maps and sketches.
As you can see...’ I take out diagrams and reports and draw my finger across relevant sections.
‘...we’ve observed fresh trench workings on the German side, their machine gun positions, the regularity of patrols, ground details of No Man’s Land, including any obstacles our troops might face. But what concerns us most is this.’
I come around the table to stand beside Gallagher, directing his attention to our report from the first day.
‘If we’re right about the depth of the enemy trenches, then the push on the twenty-ninth might need to be reconsidered.
Our observations suggest that the Germans are bedded in and their dugouts lie very far underground. ’
Danny breaks in. ‘If that is the case, sir, then you can bomb them till kingdom come and you’d only scratch the surface of their defences.’
I unfold a large map, taped together across several foolscap pages.
‘And that isn’t all. Look at the size and complexities of these entanglements.
Can we be certain that a bombardment will accurately cut through all of this?
Because if it doesn’t then our men will be marching into a forest of barbed wire. ’
Jackson stirs. ‘If they are right about the German trenches, sir, then that won’t be all we’ll be marching into.
Fritz will be back up in their machine gun nests as soon as our guns fall silent.
’ Danny and I look over to the captain, whose face is as stern as I’ve ever seen it. ‘It will be a massacre.’
Gallagher’s gaze plays across our maps, diagrams and reports. He sniffs, drums his sausage fingers on the table, and finally glares up at his adjutant. ‘Most interesting, wouldn’t you say, Captain Beddowes? So tell me, why am I only just seeing all of this now?’