The Glorious Dead Read online

  ‘Elephants?’ She looks puzzled.

  ‘Aye, lass. Old sheets of iron just like them ones.’ He points to the ceiling. ‘I’m sure your pa will find a use for ’em. As well as all the other stuff.’

  ‘I can find a use for them,’ the fat man shouts, wiping his face on a handkerchief. ‘I can pay for them,’ he reaches in his jacket pocket for a wad of notes. ‘With this!’

  ‘They’re not for sale,’ Jack says.

  ‘Ha, Steenvan pays you in … beer, no?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Ah!’ He turns and winks at Katia. ‘Maybe la belle Katia is what you are after, eh?’

  ‘I’ve told you,’ Jack says, ‘they’re not for sale. ‘Not to you, anyhow.’

  ‘But, Jacques,’ Katia slowly shakes her head, ‘you don’t understand. Monsieur de Wulf is—’

  ‘Hey! Wat is er gaande? ’ Her father appears at the curtained door between the small kitchen and the bar. His dark eyes flit round the room before noticing the broken pottery shards on the bar.

  ‘Katia!’ he shouts. ‘Wat gebeurt er? ’

  ‘Het was een ongeluk, papa,’ the girl spreads her hands and shrugs. ‘An accident …’

  3

  ‘I thought we weren’t meant to be calling this place Cooler Cemetery no more?’ shouts Ocker as the men hurry up the road to the Minneplein a short time later. The sun feels surprisingly warm on their cheeks as they stride along the cobbles. Or is it the beer?

  Sergeant Townend is waiting, looking flustered, at the cemetery gates. ‘You what?’

  ‘Prison cemetery. I thought we was banned from using that name now?’

  ‘We are,’ says Townend as the men arrive.

  ‘Might as well be though,’ Ocker says. ‘Mightn’t it?’

  ‘Might as well be what?’

  ‘Might as well be a flamin’ prison.’ He nods at the rows of wooden crosses. ‘After all, these poor sods aren’t about to make a bid for freedom anytime soon, are they?’

  ‘Not,’ the chaplain interrupts, ‘until the Glorious Day of Resurrection, anyway.’

  ‘Sorry, Padre!’ Ocker smiles to himself. ‘Didn’t see you over there, what with your head buried in your book. Learning your words, are you?’ The other men laugh. ‘Though if you don’t mind my saying so’ – he grins at Jack – ‘I’d have thought you’d have your script off pat by now – you know, the number of times you’ve had to spout this mumbo-jumbo.’

  ‘Shut it, Gilchrist,’ says Townend, ‘and get digging.’

  ‘Right you are, Sarge,’ he says. ‘But why is the sky pilot here in the first place? Aren’t we just tucking these coves back in?’

  ‘It’s a committal service, isn’t it, you joker.’

  ‘Dunno, Sarge,’ Ocker shrugs. ‘Is it?’

  ‘I’m afraid it is.’ The padre closes his book and points to the row of stretchers by the wire fence. Slowly drying in the winter sun are the bones of over a dozen men of the Duke of Cornwall’s Light Infantry, alongside the bodies that Jack and his men have recently been exhuming. ‘I’m afraid none of these poor souls will have received God’s blessing,’ the padre goes on, ‘given—’

  ‘Given that they was buried alive in the crypt of the cathedral,’ Townend mutters.

  ‘I don’t know, Sarge,’ Ocker smiles. ‘I’d have thought that the cathedral would’ve been the best place for ’em, actually.’

  ‘Well, I’m afraid it wasn’t,’ says the padre sharply.

  ‘No, of course not,’ Ocker shakes his head. ‘Otherwise the Big Fella up there might’ve sorted His Almighty Flamin’ act out and seen to it to save these poor blighters – along with that fancy house of His.’

  ‘So they was trapped, then?’ Fuller whispers, looking at the sacks.

  ‘Aye, laddie,’ Mac nods. ‘And they’ve been stuck beneath the cathedral since 1915, when a Fritz shell brought it crashing down above their heads.’

  ‘The poor blighters!’ Fuller shakes his head. The chaplain is opening his mouth but letting out a sigh, rather than adding to the discussion. Townend clears his throat.

  ‘Right, now we’ve got that little bit o’ history cleared up,’ the sergeant says, swallowing hard, ‘do you think we can get started?’

  ‘What’s the hurry, Sarge?’ asks Ocker. ‘These fellas in some kind of rush for eternity are they?’

  ‘Very funny, Gilchrist,’ Townend smiles, twisting his face with what in anyone else would be pleasure. ‘Although you’ll be laughing on the other side of your ugly Antipodean mug when you find out what the hurry is.’

  ‘I’ll bet.’

  ‘Truth is,’ Townend goes on, ‘there’s a bit more work for you lot than you might have been expecting.’

  ‘C’est la vie,’ says one of the men.

  ‘C’est la guerre,’ says another.

  ‘Say what you bleedin’ well like,’ says Townend. ‘But the graves ain’t been dug yet.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘No! So you’ll be needing these.’ He starts handing out the pickaxes and spades.

  ‘As if we haven’t dug enough holes in this flamin’ country,’ says Ocker.

  ‘Just stop moaning and get digging!’ Townend snarls. ‘Look sharp and you might even get to dig yourself a fuckin’ tunnel to Australia.’

  ‘I’d stand a better chance of getting back home if I did,’ says Ocker. ‘And it’d probably be a darn sight quicker, too.’

  ‘Quicker than waiting for Ingham to get around to sorting out your demob, son, and that’s a fact,’ adds Mac, picking up a shovel.

  ‘Too right, mate. Anyway, Sarge’ – Ocker winks at Jack and puts on his most innocent expression – ‘I thought it was the coolies who were meant to be digging the graves?’

  ‘They was,’ says Townend. ‘That’s the change of plan.’

  ‘Yeah, the coolies got a Blighty one, didn’t they, Sarge?’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘And meanwhile we get their fatigues,’ says Fuller. ‘In addition to our own. Well, I ain’t here to dig no graves.’

  ‘Look, Fuller,’ Townend takes a step in the boy’s direction. ‘Cut the fuckin’ crap before I put my boot up your FUCKIN’ clacker.’ Fuller trips and falls over a freshly filled grave mound as he backs away. Laughter.

  ‘Don’t waste your breath on him, Sarge,’ says Ocker. ‘He’ll not end up digging any more than a worm’s tucker anyway.’

  ‘I bloody well will!’ Fuller pauses for a moment. ‘A worm’s … what?’

  ‘Never mind, son. Oh, and another thing, Sarge.’

  ‘What is it this time, Gilchrist?’

  ‘Don’t go and waste a decent banjo on this fella, either.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘No – give him the entrenching tool. Or better still a flamin’ toothpick,’ Ocker laughs. ‘In fact, why don’t you send him back out fossicking in them fields again, the flamin’ fairy. He’d be a lot more use to us out there than he will be here.’

  ‘Just ’cos I didn’t spend four years hiding in a fucking funk hole in case a Jerry took a fancy to me hat.’ Fuller bares his teeth.

  ‘Cut it out, lads. We’ve got work to do, in case you hadn’t noticed.’ Jack unrolls the cemetery plan, anchoring the corners on the ground with stones. ‘And a sight more work than we’d intended.’

  Ypres Prison Cemetery, south of the Leie Kanaal and opposite La Plaine d’Amour, already contains well over a thousand graves. The remains of the old field ambulance depot and the casualty clearing station are still visible by the road. The pockmarked walls of the town’s old prison still rise over the field, battered but reasonably intact. Couldn’t knock that over, could yer, eh, Fritz? The land is slowly being cleared to make room for men buried at several smaller graveyards – Broadley’s Cemetery and The Esplanade – nearby, as well as casualties like these from the town of Ypres itself.

  ‘Right, that’s our plot over by the road.’ Jack points to a vacant area in the farthest corner of the graveyard. ‘Plot V, row AA. One Five
Three Company seem to have commandeered the rest of t’blinkin’ cemetery, don’t they, Sarge?’

  Townend nods absently, then turns to light a cigarette. ‘Mm.’ He shakes the match out. ‘Right, then. Fuller?’

  ‘Yes, Sarge?’

  ‘Go and fetch the corner flags from the truck, will you?’

  ‘Yes, Sarge.’

  ‘And don’t forget the football, neither!’ The men laugh. ‘Playing the stiffs this afternoon, are we, Sarge?’

  ‘It’d be the only chance you lot’d have of winning anything.’

  ‘Sergeant Townend!’ The chaplain thinks he’s heard enough. ‘A word if I may, please. With the men.’ Townend frowns, then nods. Ocker rolls his eyes. ‘Let’s just remember where we are, shall we?’ He pauses, looking at each of the men in turn, before he goes on. ‘And why we’re all here.’

  A sudden chorus of coughs is accompanied by a shuffling of feet on the gravel path. Townend idly rolls a ball of phlegm around his mouth; Ocker absent-mindedly brings a cigarette to his lips.

  ‘There’s a time and a place, you know, soldier,’ the chaplain says, stuffing the fag into Ocker’s tunic pocket.

  ‘Sorry, your honour.’

  ‘And our duty here this afternoon’ – he turns to the rest of the men – ‘is to give these fine, brave soldiers a decent Christian burial.’

  The brief, uncomfortable silence is broken by the sound of Fuller’s boots crunching on the gravel path on his way back from the truck, carrying the flags.

  ‘Pardon me, your reverence, but …’ Ocker rolls the extinguished stub of his cigarette between his finger and his thumb, before putting it back to his lips.

  ‘What is it, son?’

  ‘Well, I was just thinking …’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I was just wondering … how do we know that these coves was actually Christian? I mean, some of the fellas we dig up hardly even look human, the state they’re in.’

  ‘Quite!’ The chaplain looks down, briefly. ‘No – that’s a very good question.’

  ‘Is is, sir?’

  ‘But you know, I don’t think they’ll mind too much, Private Gilchrist.’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose you’re right, Padre,’ shrugs Ocker. ‘I’m not sure they care much either way in their condition.’

  ‘What I mean, Private Gilchrist, is that they’ll not mind being mistaken for good Christian gentlemen.’ The chaplain closes his eyes. ‘In fact, come the Dreadful Day of Judgment, I rather suspect that they’ll consider it to be something of an advantage.’

  ‘You think so, sir?’ says Ocker, staring at the muddy bundles laid on stretchers at their feet. ‘I reckon these poor fellas have already met the Dreadful Day of Judgment, if you ask me.’

  ‘Pardon me, sir,’ Townend interrupts, his hand half-raised as if he’s unsure whether he should be seeking permission. ‘But the dreadful judgment that awaits us’ll be jankers if we don’t get a shift on digging these graves. So, if you don’t mind …’

  ‘Of course.’ The chaplain waves a hand.

  ‘Right then, you lot …’

  ‘You talking to us, Sarge?’ Ocker nods towards the row of stretchers. ‘Or to them?’

  ‘Just get this fuckin’ trench dug,’ Townend says. ‘And get these fellas laid down side by side.’

  ‘As opposed to upside down or standing on their heads, eh, Sarge?’

  ‘Oh very funny. Very amusing.’

  ‘We’re doing it, sir,’ Jack salutes.

  Once the ground is marked, the spadework starts. Solid, brown-green shovelfuls of soil are stacked like bricks as the trench grows deeper. One of the men starts humming to the regular rhythm of the digging. Within minutes, the men are whistling. Then singing.

  Digging, digging, digging, always flamin’ digging.

  Digging all the morning, and digging all the night.

  Digging, digging, digging, always flamin’ digging.

  Roll on till my time is up and I shall dig no more.

  War Diary or Intelligence Summary:

  Army form C. 2118

  1919

  DIVISION MAIN DRESSING STATION—Remy Siding Map Sheet 28; Grid reference: L.22 d.6.3

  March 8th – Salvage and clearance operations continued with C and D Coys both receiving drafts from other regiments. Cpt. MORRIS, Lt. DEWHURST, Lt. BRADLEY and 23 Other Ranks left for demobilisation.

  March 10th – Drill and P.T., with kit inspection by R.S.M. YARDLEY. Battalion selected to send one officer and 20 other ranks for duties in connection with Paris Peace Conference.

  March 11th – Inspection by C.O. and selection of other ranks eligible for Army of Occupation. 2/Lt C.S. MURRAY M.C., D.S.O. selected to lead.

  March 12th – 2/Lt. INGHAM and 23378 Sgt. TOWNEND organise training for burial party. Remainder – P.T. and route march.

  March 13th – Drill. Paris Party special programme of training.

  March 14th – Lt. Col. C.E. ATKINSON awarded CROIX DE GUERRE avec Etoile en Argent; Capt. S. KINSELLA awarded Belgian Decoration Militaire.

  March 15th – Arms saluting and Platoon Drill.

  March 16th – Church parade held in YMCA Hut No. 2.

  March 17th – 2/Lts. JENKINS, DOUGLAS and 16 Other Ranks left Battalion for demobilisation.

  March 19th – Lt. Col. GOODLAND, Army Directorate of Graves Registration and Enquiries and Imperial War Graves Commission, dined at HQ Mess as guest of the C.O.

  4

  ‘Busy in here tonight.’ Ocker is standing in the food queue, mess-tin at the ready, back at Remy Farm HQ. The railway sidings where supplies of men and horses used to be unloaded daily are much quieter now. Goods trains no longer carry guns and shells; the wagons, when they come, are filled with spades and pickaxes and wheelbarrows.

  ‘Busy? You should have seen it back in Seventeen, laddie!’ Mac laughs. ‘Why, this place is no more than a tenth of the size it used to be.’

  ‘Which is why we all get plenty o’ space in our billets,’ Jack chips in.

  ‘Yeah – we could ’ave a hut each if we wanted to, Jack, couldn’t we?’ Fuller says as the queue shuffles forward. ‘Why don’t they give us a hut each all to ourselves, eh?’

  Mac turns and stares at Fuller. ‘Perhaps they think we need to keep an eye on certain members of this platoon, eh? Maybe they’re worried that some of us …’ he pauses. ‘Well, let’s just say that now you’re here, son—’

  ‘At long last.’

  ‘—now you’re here we’d hate it if anything happened to ye.’

  ‘Yeah, it’d be an awful shame if you’re demob came up before you’d ’ad a chance to get to know the place.’

  ‘It’d be a criminally negligent act if yon mammy’s boy went home even a day before the rest of us.’

  ‘Look, ’s not my fault they took so long getting round to me call up, is it?’

  ‘Perhaps not, son, perhaps not. But then—’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘What stopped you from enlisting, eh?’

  ‘This ain’t fair. Tell him, Jacko. He’s always getting at me, is Jock.’

  ‘Mac.’

  ‘Always on at me for not being here sooner, not getting sent out quicker. But I’m here now, ain’t I?’

  ‘Now there’s no more fighting to be done.’

  ‘At least I got a gun. At least I’d do some fighting if there was any to do. Why does no one ever have a go at Blakey. He’s a fuckin’ conchie!’

  ‘Aye, and a conchie with the DCM an’ all.’

  ‘The DC what?’

  ‘Distinguished Conduct Medal, sonny. He might not have carried a Lee Enfield, but he carried plenty of wounded men back from no-man’s-land on a stretcher.’

  Skerritt suddenly grunts, jabbing a finger at his chest.

  ‘Brought you back too, did he, Skerritt? Well, we’ll not hold that against him, shall we?’ Ocker slaps him on the back. ‘Seeing as he brought the pretty ’uns as well.’

  ‘Aye, and brought most of ’em back here to Pop
an’ all,’ Jack says. ‘On his little ambulance.’

  ‘No wonder he knows them roads like the back of his hand.’

  ‘And drives the wagons so well.’

  The mess queue shuffles slowly forward. No one speaks for a moment. Fuller is unsure whether to let the matter drop or try to change the subject.

  ‘So who turned up here first then, Mac?’

  ‘The French, of course, son. Back in Fifteen.’

  ‘Chose a decent spot for it, didn’t they?’

  ‘Aye, of course – out of range of the guns—’

  ‘Most of the time!’

  ‘Right next to the railway, too.’

  ‘And no more than half a mile from Pop!’

  A short distance south-west of Poperinghe on the road to Steenvoorde, close to the hamlet of Lijssenthoek, the hospital and now battalion HQ has seen many changes. As the war ebbed and flowed, and the site dipped in and out of range of enemy guns, the base has variously been a dressing station, a field hospital, or a field ambulance HQ. But throughout the war its strategic location endured, and the camp is now a small town in its own right, with hard paving, electric lighting, its own water supply and a vegetable garden.

  ‘Watch out.’ Jack nudges Ocker as the others join the queue at the canteen. Skerritt stares at the quartermaster, busy ladling out steaming hot, thick brown stew into a line of proffered mess-tins. The CO strides over, inspecting rations and talking to one or two of the men as they wait in line for the food. At the far end of the hut a brazier spits with flame as someone adds more wood. ‘Summat’s up.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘The CO’s being friendly, that’s what.’

  Major Rennard is moving slowly along the line. The major’s eyes, nose, and mouth – his entire expression – seems to be puckering in the centre of his face. Thin lips twist into a smile beneath a clipped moustache like a flattened toothbrush.