After a billycan of bully beef with a plate of stuck-together beans and maggot-riddled potatoes, George was billeted in a tent with three fellow officers, all younger than himself. They had experienced varying lengths of service—one month, nine weeks, and seven months: the last, a Lieutenant Evans, considered himself something of a veteran.
The following morning, after George had devoured breakfast served on a tin plate, he was driven forward to an artillery post some four hundred yards behind the front line, where he was to relieve Evans, who was long overdue a fortnight’s furlough.
“It’s not all bad, old fellow,” Evans assured him. “It’s a damn sight less dangerous than the front line. Think of those poor bastards just a quarter of a mile in front of you, waiting for the sound of the lone bugle that will send them over the top, having spent months being stalked by death. Our job’s simple in comparison. You have a detail of thirty-seven soldiers under your command, and twelve howitzers which are hardly ever out of action, unless they break down. The senior NCO is Sergeant Davies. He’s been out here for over a year, and before that he served fifteen years with the colors. He began army life as a private in the Boer War, so don’t even think about making any sort of move until you’ve consulted him. Then there’s Corporal Perkins. The damn man never stops complaining, but at least his sick sense of humor keeps the lads’ minds off the Hun. You’ll get to know the rest of the squad soon enough. They’re a good bunch of fellows and won’t let you down when it comes to the crunch.” George nodded, but didn’t interrupt. “The hardest decision you’ll have to make,” Evans continued, “comes every Sunday afternoon, when you have to send three lads to our forward look-out post for the next seven days. I’ve never known all three of them to return alive. It’s their job to keep us informed of what the enemy’s up to, so we can range our guns on them rather than our own troops.”
“Good luck, Mallory,” the young lieutenant had said as he shook hands with George later that morning. “I’ll say good-bye, in case we never meet again.”
September 5th, 1916
My dearest Ruth,
I am stationed a long way behind the front line, so there’s no need to feel at all anxious about me. I’ve inherited 37 men who seem to be good chaps, in fact one of them you may even remember—Private Rodgers. He used to be our postman before he joined up. Perhaps you could let his family know that he’s alive and well, and actually doing rather well out here. He says he’ll stay on in the army once this war is over. The rest of the lads have made me feel very welcome, which is good of them, as they’re only too aware I joined up so recently. I understood for the first time this morning what my training officer back at meant when he said a week in the field will serve you better than a three-month training course.
I never stop thinking about you and Clare, my darling, and the world we are bringing our children into. Let’s hope the politicians are right when they call this the war to end all wars, because I wouldn’t want my children ever to experience this madness.
No man is expected to serve at the front for more than three months at a time, so it’s possible I’ll be home in time for the birth of Clare’s little brother or sister.
George stopped writing, and thought about his words. He knew all too well that the King’s regulations were regularly ignored when it came to granting leave, but he needed Ruth to stay optimistic. As for the reality of life on the Somme, he’d rather she didn’t discover the truth about that until he was able to tell her face to face. He knew the anxiety she must have been suffering, when every day could bring the telegram that began, It is with deep regret that the Secretary for War has to inform you…
My darling, our two years together have been the happiest time of my life, and I know that I always close my letters by telling you just how much I miss you, perhaps because never a minute goes by when you are not in my thoughts. I’ve received several letters from you in the past month, and thank you for all the news about Clare and what’s happening at The Holt—but there’s still no photograph. Perhaps it will turn up in the next post. Even more than your image, I look forward to the day when I will see you in person and hold you in my arms, because then you’ll truly realize just how much I’ve missed you.
Your loving husband,
George
“’Ave you got some sort of problem, Perkins?”
“Don’t think so, Sarge.”
“Then why is your unit taking ninety seconds to reload when the rest of the battery’s taking less than a minute?”
“We’re doing our best, Sarge.”
“Your best isn’t good enough, Perkins, do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, Sarge.”
“Don’t ‘Yes, Sarge’ me, Perkins, just do something about it.”
“Yes, Sarge.”
“And, Matthews.”
“Yes, sarge.”
“I’ll be inspecting your gun at twelve hundred hours, and if it doesn’t shine like the sun coming out of my arse, I’ll personally ram you down the barrel and fire you at the Hun. Do I make myself abundantly clear, lad?”
“Abundantly clear, Sarge.”
The buzzer sounded on the field telephone. George grabbed the receiver.
“There’s a heavy barrage coming from about a mile away, sir, eleven o’clock,” said one of the men manning the forward look-out post. “Could mean the Germans are planning an attack.” The line went dead.
“Sergeant Davies!” hollered George, struggling to make himself heard above the sound of gunfire.
“Sir!”
“One mile, eleven o’clock, Germans advancing.”
“Sir! Look lively, lads, we want to be sure to give the Hun a warm welcome. Let’s see who can be the first to land one right on top of Jerry’s tin helmet.”
George smiled as he walked up and down the line, checking on each gun, grateful that Sergeant Davies had been born in Swansea, and not on the other side of the Siegfried Line.
“Well done, Rodgers,” said Davies. “First into action again. Keep this up and you’ll be a lance corporal in no time.”
Even George couldn’t miss the less than subtle hint as to who he should be considering for the next promotion.
“Well done, Perkins, that’s more like it,” said Davies a few moments later. “Needn’t start unpicking your stripes just yet.”
“Thanks, Sarge.”
“And don’t ever thank me, Corporal. Wouldn’t want you to think I’m going soft.”
“No, Sarge!”
“Matthews, don’t tell me you’re going to be last again.”
“My loading spring’s busted, Sarge.”
“Oh I am so sorry to hear that, Matthews. Well then, why don’t you run along to the ammunition store and see if you can get yourself a nice shiny new one—sharpish, you bleedin’ halfwit.”
“But the depot’s three miles behind the line, Sarge. Can’t I wait for the supply truck in the morning?”
“No you can’t, Matthews, because if you don’t get moving, by the time you get back the fuckin’ Germans—excuse my French—will have joined us for breakfast. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, Sarge.”
“On the double, then.”
“Yes, Sarge!”
October 14th, 1916
My darling Ruth,
It’s been another one of those endless days, with both sides pounding away at each other, while we have no way of knowing who’s getting the better of this war. A field officer occasionally turns up to assure us that we’re doing a first-class job and the Germans are on the retreat—which raises the question, then why aren’t we advancing? No doubt some German field officer is telling his men exactly the same thing. Only one thing is certain, they can’t both be right.
By the way, tell your father that if he wants to make a second fortune, he should open a factory that makes ear trumpets, because once this war is over they’re certain to be in great demand.
I’m sorry, my darling, if these letters are becoming a lit
tle repetitive, but only two things remain constant, my love for you and my desire to hold you in my arms.
Your loving husband,
George
George looked up to see that one of his corporals was also scribbling away.
“A letter to your wife, Perkins?”
“No, sir, it’s my will.”
“Isn’t that a little pessimistic?”
“I don’t think so, sir,” Perkins replied. “Back on civvy street I’m a bookie, so I’m used to havin’ to weigh up the odds. Men on the front line survive an average of sixteen days, and I’ve already been out here for over three months, so I can’t expect to buck the odds for much longer.”
“But you’re in far less danger back here than those poor devils on the front line, Perkins,” George tried to reassure him.
“You’re the third officer to tell me that, sir, and the other two went home in wooden boxes.”
George was still horrified by such casual references to death, and wondered how long it would be before he became just as hardened.
“The way I see it, sir,” continued Perkins, “is war’s like the Grand National. There’s lots of runners and riders at the start, but there’s no way of knowing which of them will finish the course. And in the end there’s only one winner. To be honest, sir, it’s not a racing certainty that the winner’s going to be an English nag.”
George noticed that Private Matthews was nodding his agreement, while Private Rodgers kept his head down as he cleaned the barrel of his rifle with an oily rag.
“Well, at least you’ll be getting some leave soon, Matthews,” said George, trying to steer the conversation away from a subject that was never far from their minds.
“Can’t wait for the day, sir,” Matthews said as he began to roll a cigarette.
“What’s the first thing you’ll do when you get home?” asked George.
“Bang the missus,” said Matthews.
Perkins and Rodgers burst out laughing. “All right, Matthews,” said George. “And the second thing?”
“Take my boots off, sir.”
December 7th, 1916
My dearest Ruth,
Your photograph has just arrived in this morning’s post, and as I write this letter from a trench just outside, it’s balanced on my knee. “Quite a looker,” I heard one of the lads say, and I agree with him. It won’t be long before our second child is born, and I’ve been promised compassionate leave some time in the next three months. If I can’t make it home for the birth don’t imagine, even for a moment, that you are ever out of my thoughts.
I’ve been at the Front now for four months, and the new second lieutenants arriving from Blighty look younger by the day. Some of them treat me as if I’m an old soldier. Once this war is over, I’ll spend the rest of my days with you at The Holt.
By the way, if it’s a boy, let’s call him John…
“Sorry to disturb you, sir,” said Sergeant Davies, “but we’ve got a bit of a problem.”
George immediately leaped to his feet, because he’d never heard Davies utter that particular word. “What kind of problem?”
“We’ve lost communication with the lads at the forward look-out post.”
George knew that lost communication was Davies’s way of saying that all three of the men had been killed. “What do you recommend, Sergeant?” he asked, recalling Evans’s advice.
“Someone’s got to get up there, sir, and sharpish, so we can restore contact before the bloody Hun trample all over us. If I may suggest, sir…”
“Please do, Sergeant.”
“I could take Matthews and Perkins, and see what can be done, then we’ll report back to you.”
“No, Sergeant,” said George. “Not Matthews. He’s due to go on leave tomorrow.” He looked across at Perkins, who had turned ice white and was trembling. George had no need to consult him about the odds of any of them reporting back. “I think I’ll join you for this one, Sergeant.”
When George had been at Winchester, on sports day he’d covered a quarter of a mile in under a minute, and at the end of the race he wasn’t even out of breath. He never knew how long it took him, Davies, and Perkins to reach the front line, but when he threw himself into the trench he was exhausted and terrified, and all too aware what the men at the Front were being asked to endure every minute of the day and night.
“Keep your head down, sir,” said Davies as he studied the battlefield through a pair of field binoculars. “The look-out post is about a hundred yards away, sir, one o’clock.” He passed the binoculars across to George.
George refocused the lenses, and once he’d located the post he could see exactly why communications had broken down. “Right, let’s get on with it,” he said before he had time to think what it was that he was meant to be getting on with. He leaped out of the trench and ran as he had never run before, zigzagging through waterlogged potholes and treacle black mud as he charged toward the forward look-out post. He never looked back, because he was sure that Davies and Perkins would only be a stride behind. He was wrong. Perkins had been brought down by a bullet after only a dozen paces and lay dying in the mud, while Davies had managed almost sixty yards before he was killed.
The look-out post was only twenty yards ahead of George. He had covered fifteen of those yards when the mortar shell exploded at his feet. It was the first and last time in his life that he said fuck. He fell on his knees, thought of Ruth, and then collapsed facedown in the mud. Just another statistic.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
THE REGULAR FLOW of letters suddenly dried up; always the first sign, all too often followed by an unwelcome telegram.
Ruth had taken to sitting in the alcove by the drawing room window every morning, hands clasped over her ever-growing belly; thirty minutes before old Mr. Rodgers cycled up the drive. When he came into view she would try to fathom the expression on his face. Was it a letter face, or a telegram face? She reckoned she would know the truth long before he reached the door.
Just as she spotted Mr. Rodgers coming through the gates, Clare began to cry. Did she still have a father? Or had George died before his second child was born?
Ruth was standing by the door when Mr. Rodgers stopped pedaling, put on his brakes, and came to a halt by the bottom step. Always the same routine: dismount, rummage around in his post bag, extract the relevant letters, and finally walk up the steps and hand them to Mrs. Mallory. It was no different today. Or was it? As Mr. Rodgers mounted the steps he looked up at her and smiled. This wasn’t a telegram day.
“Two letters today, Mrs. Mallory, and if I’m not mistaken, one of them’s from your husband,” he added, passing over an envelope that bore George’s familiar handwriting.
“Thank you,” said Ruth, almost unable to hide her relief. Then she remembered that she wasn’t the only person having to suffer like this every day. “Any news of your son, Mr. Rodgers?” she asked.
“’Fraid not,” replied the postman. “Mind you, our Donald never was much of a letter writer, so we live in hope.” He climbed back on his bicycle and pedaled away.
Ruth had opened George’s letter long before she’d reached the drawing room. She returned to her seat by the window, sank back, and began to read, first quickly and then very slowly.
January 12th, 1917
My dearest one,
I’m alive, even if I’m not kicking. Don’t fret. All I’ve ended up with is a broken ankle. It could have been much worse. The doc tells me that in time I’ll be right as rain, and even able to climb again, but in the meantime they’re sending me home to recuperate.
Ruth stared out of the window at the Surrey hills in the distance, not sure whether to laugh or cry. It was some time before she returned to George’s letter.
Sadly, Sergeant Davies and Corporal Perkins were struck down in the same action. Two fine men, like so many of their comrades. I hope you’ll forgive me, my darling, but I felt I had to drop a line to their wives before I got down to writing to you. br />
It all began when Sgt. Davies told me that we had a problem…
“I’m going to recommend that you are discharged in the next few days, Mallory, and sent back to Blighty until you’re fully recovered.”
“Thanks, doc,” said George cheerfully.
“Don’t thank me, old fellow, frankly I need the bed. By the time you’re ready to come back, with a bit of luck this damn war will be over.”
“Let’s hope so,” said George, looking around the field tent, full of brave men whose lives would never be the same again.
“By the way,” the doctor added, “a Private Rodgers dropped by this morning. Thought this might be yours.”
“It certainly is,” said George, taking the photograph of Ruth he’d thought he’d never see again.
“She’s quite a looker,” mused the doctor.
“Not you as well,” said George with a grin.
“Oh, and you’ve got a visitor. Do you feel up to it?”
“Yes, I’d be delighted to see Rodgers,” said George.
“No, it’s not Rodgers, it’s a Captain Geoffrey Young.”
“Oh, I’m not sure I’m up to that,” said George, a huge smile appearing on his face.
A nurse plumped up George’s pillow and placed it behind his back as he waited for his climbing leader. He could never think of Geoffrey Young as anything else. But the welcoming smile on his lips turned to a frown as Young limped into the tent.
“My dear George,” Young said, “I came the moment I heard. One of the advantages of being in the Ambulance Auxiliary Service is that you get to know where everyone is and what they’re up to.” Young pulled up a small wooden chair that must have previously been used in a French classroom and sat down beside George’s bed. “So much news, I don’t know where to begin.”