The Glorious Dead Page 5
‘Some men of the Tenth Battalion Gordon Highlanders are buried’ – Ingham pauses before jabbing his forefinger at a square on the map that indicates their ultimate destination. ‘Here!’
The men lean over the bonnet of the truck. The Albion is parked on the cobbles in the middle of the old Grote Markt. Behind them are the surviving walls of the old Cloth Hall and the rubble of St Martin’s Cathedral. Pillars and doorways are shored with timber buttresses; wooden scaffolding surrounds the remnants of the bell tower; grass grows from the tops of walls.
‘So it’s just a simple exhumation job this morning, eh, sir?’ Ocker says. ‘Dig ’em up and bring ’em home.’
‘That’s right.’ Ingham nods before correcting himself. ‘Actually, no – not “home”, Private Gilchrist. None of these men are going home.’
‘No, sir.’ Ocker picks dirt from underneath his fingernails. ‘A bit like us.’
‘According to our information’ – Ingham smooths the map again – ‘the men were killed during the initial phase of the advance to Pilkem Ridge and were buried here—’
‘—on July 31st 1917,’ Mac interrupts. ‘Aye, I know.’ The rest of the men slowly turn their heads.
‘Correct, Private MacIntyre.’ Ingham fakes a smile. ‘Of course, I should have realised.’
‘Realised what?’ Fuller whispers. ‘Realised what?’
Ocker shakes his head and holds a finger to his lips.
‘Anyway,’ Ingham carries on. ‘These men – these brave men – are to be transferred to White House Cemetery at St Jean. Graves have already been prepared for them in the concentration area – Plot Three. It’s a little higher than the battlefield burials, so it should be better drained.’
‘Which row, sir?’
‘Which row? Now let me see, Row … Row … Row H. Yes.’
‘And are they “known”, sir?’
‘I believe so, yes. Their details were recorded at the time by the battlefield burial party …’ Ingham looks across the bonnet of the truck. Mac is carefully filling his pipe. ‘And the graves have survived reasonably unscathed. Sergeant Townend and I located them while on reconnaissance the other day.’
‘Very good, sir.’
The men dismiss and begin gathering their equipment: sacks and shovels, petrol cans filled with cresol, seventeen canvas sheets, some ropes and stretchers, several pairs of rubber gloves. This is the kind of work they like: simple, clean, straightforward. Map references; digging, then reburying. Not the searching, not the wandering, not the constant prodding with probes improvised from old machine-gun cleaning rods, not the constant emptying of muddy pockets, rubbing filthy teeth to inspect for fillings and extractions.
‘Sergeant Townend?’
‘Yessir!’
‘You will supervise the exhumation. I will meet you at White House Cemetery at 1430 hours with the chaplain.’
‘Very good, sir.’
The men climb aboard the truck. Jack and Ocker load their bicycles on board, standing them between the wooden shelves that line each side of the wagon. There won’t be room on the return trip for all the living and the dead.
‘So, what was it like, Mac?’ asks Fuller as the truck bounces off along the cobbles. ‘Was it … did you? I mean …’
‘I know what you darn well mean, laddie,’ Mac growls. ‘And well, I’ll tell ye shall I? Shall I? D’you really want to know?’
Fuller suddenly doesn’t seem so sure. But it is too late now.
‘For once,’ Mac shuts his eyes, ‘on the morning of July the thirty-first, you might just have said things were going quite well. The bombardment had been good—’
‘That makes a change,’ chips in Ocker.
‘The weather was dry too, that first morning—’
‘Aye, but that was soon to change,’ says Jack.
‘Who’s telling this story?’ Mac glares.
‘Sorry, Mac.’
‘Aye, well. As I was saying, things started pretty well. We’d set off from Cambridge Road towards the Blue Line – we were just north of the railway – it was a misty old morning as I remember, and that did us no harm. These fellas …’ He jerks a thumb in Jack’s direction. ‘The Yorkies – well, they were on our left flank and on our right … oh, my, on our right – the Ninth Black Watch, the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders, the King’s Own Scottish Borderers, Scottish Rifles – the flower of Scotland.’
‘The “Yorkies”?’ Fuller shrugs.
‘West Yorks Regiment,’ Jack says.
‘So you was there as well?’ He turns to Jack.
‘Not personally,’ says Jack. ‘Second Battalion. Regulars, like Uncle Mac here.’
‘Good soldiers,’ Mac says. ‘In front of our own lines, too. At Birr Cross Roads, between Railway Wood and Zouave Wood. Not that we could tell where they were. Or where we were, for that matter.
‘Why not, Mac?’
‘Och, man,’ Mac shakes his head. ‘The guns blasted just about every last feature from the landscape. The maps might as well have been some fantasy world for all their likeness to reality. Dakar Farm – not even a ruin; Verlorenhoek – no more a village than a brick-stained puddle in the mud. Our guns had rubbed out the lot and blown the tops off the trees and torn the branches from the trunks and split whatever was left down the middle.’
‘Blimey!’
‘Aye, son. And there were times I wished that “He” had done just that.’
The rumble of the Austin motor rises from beneath their feet, filling the silence between each new reminiscence.
‘So you was all attacking? This was the big ’un?’
‘Heck, no,’ Jack laughs. ‘This was just the … hors d’oeuvre as they’d say round here.’
‘The or – what?’
‘Starters, lad. This was just the prelude, the first act, the warm-up. This wasn’t “it”. This wasn’t top of t’bill. This was what you did first, in order to be in with a chance to go for the big ’un later on,’ Jack says. ‘If you was lucky,’ he adds, quietly. ‘Or unlucky.’
‘The trials, mate,’ says Ocker, looking up. ‘To see if they’d make the first eleven.’
‘We were all supposed to leapfrog from one objective to another,’ Mac continues. ‘First, the blue line – that was Fritz’s front-line trenches – then, the black line …’
‘The Albrecht-Stellung.’
‘Aye, and then on beyond their third line of defences to the green line.’
‘It was a grand plan,’ Jack says.
‘Oh, it was that all right,’ Mac nods. ‘Daddy Plum at his very best. Do you remember those great big relief maps he’d had made of the ridge?’
‘No, Mac, that wasn’t this time,’ Jack says. ‘That was later.’
‘Was it?’
‘Aye, much later. That was after old Gough had been sacked.’
‘Sacked, was he?’
‘Probably when the butcher’s bill got too big,’ Ocker adds. ‘Even for him.’
‘Aye, well …’ Mac’s voice trails off. Gears grind as the truck slows behind a farm cart, then accelerates again to overtake. Tyres swish through puddles and the truck steers sharply round surviving shell-holes.
‘So it didn’t go too well then?’ Fuller asks.
‘It was hailed as a great success,’ Mac says. ‘If you call jumping off at ten minutes to four in the morning in the dark with the dawn barely visible into a hail of machine-gun bullets a success.’
‘Hadn’t the artillery barrage destroyed them all?’
‘Oh aye, laddie – of course it had! And there was dancing to the bagpipes as we skipped across.’
‘To be fair, Mac, they’d done a pretty good job that time.’
‘Well, I suppose …’
‘But you can hardly blow up everything …’
The truck’s exhaust backfires suddenly and the men lurch forwards then recoil back, bumping into one another. Skerritt, having tumbled from the bench, is frantically wrestling Jack’s heavy bike back upright.
‘Where?’ Fuller looks round quickly.
‘Right here,’ says Ocker, grabbing Fuller’s head and planting a loud smacking kiss on his left ear.
‘You bloody barmy sod … you nearly deafened me.’
‘Come on, lad.’ Jack lifts the big black bicycle and helps Skerritt back to his feet. ‘You’re fine, lad. No harm done.’
‘Hey, that was right on bloody cue, that bang,’ laughs Ocker. ‘Pity your guns couldn’t get their timing right a little later, in September, when you had us lot taking Polygon Wood.’
The truck rumbles on along the Menin Road. Seen through half-closed eyes, the open tailgate of the wagon looks strangely like a stage: loose canvas curtains at the sides, a hooped proscenium arch framing a cinematic reel of black-and-white film running backwards. Ypres retreats into the distance; sunlight flares briefly on a tangled remnant of the pre-war tramlines by the roadside; black stumps of trees rear out of nowhere like the remnants of some shattered regiment before slowly retreating back into the distance; a flash of white dazzles as the bleached bones of a dead horse catch the sun. And like roadside markers, the skeletal remains of gun limbers, water carts, supply wagons and camouflage screening pass before the eye has time to notice.
For a long time no one says a word. The only sound above the engine noise is Skerritt, still moaning quietly in the corner with his hand over what remains of his mouth. Soon afterwards, the truck pulls off the road and the engine shudders to a standstill.
‘Right, you lot!’ Sergeant Townend calls out from the front. ‘We’re here. Journey’s end. Come on – shake a leg.’
‘Want to sit this one out?’ Jack puts his hand on Mac’s shoulder. ‘We can manage, you know.’ The others are already jumping down from the truck and unloading the tools.
Mac turns and looks at Jack in silence for a moment. ‘Not on your life, son,’ he says quietly. ‘Not on your life.’
The tallest things remaining in Wild Wood are the rough crosses marking out the men’s graves. The ground is wet and marked with puddles but the graves are relatively unscathed. Even the great tidal wave of the German spring offensive in the year following this forgotten, futile forward movement seems to have had little impact on this tiny corner of a foreign field.
‘Right, let’s get on with it then,’ Mac says, taking a shovel and striding purposefully towards the farthest grave. ‘Spread out that tarpaulin here,’ he calls to Fuller. ‘The rest of ye – get digging.’
The graves aren’t deep. None of these hasty battlefield burials ever are. Unless men were laid to rest in an old trench or a recent shell-hole, battlefield graves are as shallow as decency – and enemy gunfire – will allow.
But the men dig carefully, each shovelful of earth releasing the now familiar wet scent of cordite and decay. The first of the bodies lifts easily, the remains of a waterproof groundsheet holding the bones together. Skerritt has been silently sprinkling cresol over each of the canvas shrouds and uncoiling the ropes. As each of the remaining bodies is exhumed, the remains are carefully laid out for inspection.
‘You know’ – Jack straightens up, wiping a filthy hand across his brow – ‘I sometimes reckon these lads’d be better off staying put.’
‘What? And do us out of a job?’ Ocker looks up from the black remains of the ID bracelet he’s examining.
‘There’s too many of these tiny battlefield cemeteries,’ Townend says. ‘And your friends’ – he turns to Jack – ‘they want their country back.’
Scattered randomly across the Salient, cemeteries like these prove no more than temporary resting places. Some effort at concentration and consolidation is essential. Belgian farmers need to put the soil to use. The returning population needs feeding. Fields have to be cleared, roads restored, and the bodies tidied away to cleanse the stench of war that rises out of the poisoned fields with the water. The living matter more now than the dead.
‘Anyway,’ Mac says, ‘the lads deserve better than this.’
Shortly before midday the last corpse is lifted. Townend records the particulars in the large, leather-bound ledger, examines the identity disc and satisfies himself that this wet, black mix of soil and what was once a man is who it is supposed to be. Or was.
Standing staring at the slimy, blackened carcasses, one by one the men remove their caps. Ocker crosses himself casually, peels the rubber gloves from his hands, then quickly lights a cigarette. The noise of the match striking the side of his box is the loudest sound for miles around.
‘You were asking what it was like?’ Mac turns to Fuller. The boy can feel hot tears pricking at the corners of his eyes.
‘Well, son … now you know.’
6
At the British Tavern near the railway station in Ypres, Jack and the others are busy singing, drinking, laughing, forgetting. The unexpected personal links to Wild Wood have made them more aware than usual of what they’re doing – as well as who it is they might be lifting and reburying. Such an awareness, as always, takes several hours – and a great many more pints – to erase.
If the sergeant drinks your rum, never mind.
If he kicks you up the bum, never mind.
He’s entitled to a tot, but not the bleeding lot.
If the sergeant drinks your rum, never mind.
Applause marks the end of each verse as the few locals sitting huddled at the tiny round tables nursing their petit blancs or swirling chipped tumblers of rosé eagerly anticipate the end of each song. But most of the time the men sing on, adding new verses and getting louder all the time.
When this lousy war is over, no more soldiering for me,
When I get my civvy clothes on, oh how happy I shall be.
No more church parades on Sunday, no more begging for a pass.
You can tell the sergeant-major to stick his passes up his arse.
The more they drink, the more inventive they become. The more explicit too. But as the evening wears on and the strong Belgian beer begins to take effect, the men’s repertoire dwindles to the few familiar, oft-repeated marching songs, songs that echo to the tread of boots, songs that send a sharp reminder of the blisters burning holes in the soles of your feet and songs that can still make you feel the cold trickle of rain dripping down your neck.
It’s a long way … tramp!
to Tipperary … tramp!
It’s a long way … tramp!
to go … tramp! tramp!
It’s a long way … tramp!
to Tipperary … tramp!
to the sweetest girl I know … tramp! tramp! tramp!
Good-bye … tramp! Piccadilly … tramp! tramp!
Fare-well, Leicester Square … tramp! tramp!
It’s a long, long way to Tipperary,
But my heart … tramp!
Lies there … tramp! tramp!
‘You know,’ Jack shouts above the din, ‘I never really liked that bloody song. Where the bloody hell is Tipperary anyway?’
‘It’s in Ireland, Jacko, you peasant.’
‘So nowhere near t’bloody fighting then?’
‘Aye well.’ Mac leans across the table. ‘That’s where we all thought it was going to be.’
‘Thought it was where what were going to be?’
‘The fighting, laddie.’
‘Oh, aye?’
‘I was garrisoned there myself for a time. If there was going to be trouble, it was going to be Ireland. That’s what they’d all told us.’
‘Yeah,’ Fuller slurs, ‘and Ireland kept its fackin’ … English g-g-garrisons too, didn’t it? Full o’ regulars like Mac here, while the likes of us …’ He burps, and wipes his wet lips across his tunic sleeve. ‘The likes of us gets posted to the battlefield whether we likes it or not.’
‘Aye, lad. Turning ploughshares into Lee Enfields, eh?’
‘Ha! Ploughshares to Lee Enfields. Ha. I like it, Jack. I like that … what is a ploughshare anyhow?
Ingham was going on about ploughshares the other days. Shw— shwer, – swords! Yeah, that’s it! Swords into …’
‘Bloody hell!’
‘The Irish fought too, y’know, laddie. Enlisted, many of them, unlike some here that I could mention.’ Mac raises his eyebrows.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Fuller tries to sit a little taller in his seat.
‘Ah, ye know well enough.’
‘Personally’ – Jack glances at Mac and tries to change the subject – ‘personally I preferred “Goodbye-ee”, me. Aye, that were my favourite.’
‘But it ain’t though, Jacko. Is it?’
‘Isn’t what, lad?’
‘It ain’t goodbye-ee. Not for us, anyway. We’re still stuck ’ere, ain’t we?’
Fuller has by now draped a heavy, sweaty arm across Jack’s shoulders in an effort to stay on his seat. He is shouting above the noise of the bar directly into Jack’s left ear. ‘You’d think the coolies could have done this, Jacko, wouldn’t you? You’d think the Chinks could’ve dug these graves and buried these fackin’ corpses. Not us.’
Jack smiles, wipes his ear and sucks hard on his cigarette.
‘I mean, that’s what they was brought here for – to dig; to fetch and carry; bury. But not us. We’re soldiers, Jack, you and me. We’re fighting men we is, fighting men, ain’t we – fighting for the King and fighting for our country?’
‘Oh my God, come on, lad, let’s get you home.’
‘No no no, Jack. No. I’m fine. Honest. Hon—’
‘Ocker. OCKER!’
‘What is it, mate?’
‘Come over here, will yer? Help me get Fuller back to camp. He’s gone. Look at ’im.’
Ocker slides his hands underneath Fuller’s arms and lifts him back to his feet. The two men then take an arm each and wrap it round their necks and slowly drag the lifeless body out through the door of the bar.