A Song in the Night (40 page)

Zillebeke February 4th 1917

I killed a man today, Em. In stone-cold blood, I killed him. Of course he’s not the first I’ve done for since I’ve been out here. Grenades, Mills’ bombs, rifle bullets – we don’t send them over for fun. But this was different. I was different …

The German bombardment had been going on for what felt like hours. It had been a long, testing day. For those in the allied front line, it was a case of sitting tight until the firing eased up. Then it would be full alert. The Bosch usually tried a trench raid after a pounding like this.

“Glad we’re not up front for this one.” Twinny One dragged on his cigarette and breathed smoke into the frozen air. Their unit was positioned in the support lanes a short distance behind the front line. “Bet it’s been a blood bath up there. They haven’t stopped all afternoon.” He cursed and stamped his feet against the cold.

Sam sighed. Why couldn’t they all just go home? Surely everybody had had enough by now. Why drag the thing out any longer? Sometimes, the temptation to turn round and walk away from everything was almost overwhelming. It was an idea which seemed to present itself most strongly when the weather was particularly cold, or particularly wet, or when they all felt particularly hungry because the rations hadn’t come down. Extreme conditions always addled the brain more than normal – made it hard to think straight.

Walking away was a stupid idea of course. Totally impossible. If any man was foolhardy enough to try a stunt like that, he was signing his own death warrant. The army didn’t have room for deserters and cowards. But for Sam at this moment in time, cowardice didn’t come into it. He was, quite simply, fed up.

Darkness fell, and with it, the temperature. Sam tried to think of things to take his mind off the cold. He thought about Boxer and Twinny Two in hospital somewhere. He thought about home with its warm, welcoming fire, and the family singing songs around the piano. And he thought about Emily. He pictured her standing by the roadside that day, waving to the new troops as they’d set off from their villages. How beautiful she’d looked. His mind had sealed that vision like a photograph. One that he looked at a thousand times a day, one that kept him focused when everything else seemed hopeless.

“Sam!” Jimmy’s voice hissed through the blackness. “
Stand to
, mate. What’s up – you dropping off or something?”

Sam hadn’t heard the order. Neither had he realised that the German guns had fallen quiet for the first time in hours.

Twinny One sniggered. “It’s alright, Sam. We’re not expecting any action this far down. You go back to sleep, pal.”

Ignoring his sarcasm, Sam readied his rifle. He felt embarrassed. He’d been in a world of his own. Somehow, since his sickness, he seemed to be finding life out here twice as exhausting as before.

Twinny One’s gruff laughter rippled through the trench as he shared a joke with the man next to him. “Hope they come over to say hello. This beauty’ll give ’em a tickle they won’t forget!” Defiantly, he ran his finger over the topside of his rifle blade.

Sam shuddered as he fixed bayonet. Sometimes he heard a callousness amongst the men which scared him. It was one thing to be forced to kill one’s fellow human beings. But to actually relish the idea – to gloat and boast and make distasteful jokes about it, surely that bordered on barbarism. Sam hated bayoneting. He’d hated it ever since he’d been in training camp. It was something he found hard to bring himself to do. Whenever he’d been picked to go out on trench raiding parties, he’d always been selected for bomb throwing. There was something detached about that. Like shooting. But bayoneting, that was personal. Your brute metal strength against another’s soft flesh. If the war were to continue for another twenty years, Sam doubted he could ever get used to bayoneting.

The time dragged slowly as the night air became colder and colder. Apart from the occasional thunder of heavy artillery much further up the line, all was quiet. Men stamped their feet and blew on their hands. It felt as if the very blood had frozen in their veins.

It had reached about two in the morning when Sam heard movement. The sound of light scuffling seemed to be getting nearer and nearer. Rats probably, coming straight from a big feed if the earlier bombardment was anything to go by. He certainly wasn’t going to stick his head out to check.

Next to him, Jimmy frowned. “You hear what I hear?” His voice had dropped to a whisper.

Sam nodded. Two men at the side of them seemed to be dozing. They were standing with their backs against the trench wall, heads lolling forward and eyes closed. It was an easy thing to do. Sam had dropped asleep on route marches before now. How much easier tonight when the air was cold enough to stultify your brain. Sam and Jimmy stood stock-still as they tried to focus on the direction of the approaching sound. A sudden, agonised scream pierced the darkness, and then the noise of grappling. An enemy trench raid.

Sam and Jimmy readied their rifles, their hearts pounding. There was a lot of shouting now, some of it in German. Foul words and dull, ugly thuds seemed to fill the trench. In the dark it was hard to make out what was happening. A voice rang out. “Take ’
im –
he’s the one with the bombs – don’t shoot the bag whatever you do!” A single shot followed by a groan. “There – got ya! Nice of you to call, Kamerad.”

There was more scuffling, and then a man broke free into Sam’s view. He was large and heavily set, and almost fell towards Sam in his bid to escape being taken. For a split second, his wild eyes rolled in confusion as he tried to work out his next move. He glanced at Sam, then turned his attention to one of the men who had been dozing only minutes previously. Sam shouted out to the Tommy but it was too late. His reactions were groggy and slow, and Sam could see it was about to cost him his life. The German thrust his bayonet clumsily into the other’s chest. Twinny One’s voice screamed down the trench. “Take ’im, Sam! I got my ’ands full up this end.”

Sam felt panic rising in his throat. The young Tommy was still impaled on the German’s gun, his face crumpling with the realisation that it was all over for him now. For a moment his gaze met Sam’s, and the look in his dying eyes hurt like nothing Sam could ever remember. The German’s teeth were clenched with effort as he tried to wrench the weapon free.

In that small second, Sam felt a surge of furious hatred he’d never known before. As the German turned to face him, Sam rammed his own bayonet full force up into the man’s diaphragm. He pulled out quickly and thrust in again. The German’s harsh expression seemed to melt into a look of surprise. He staggered forward putting his hand out to steady himself and, in doing so, caught hold of Sam’s arm. For a moment they stood there, eyes locked, each searching the other’s face. Then, with a gurgle of blood oozing from his mouth, the German soldier fell heavily into the bottom of the frozen trench …

For some reason the thing has really troubled me, Em. Just before he fell, when we were standing face to face, I realised he reminded me of someone. Then it came to me. You remember Mr Trippett who owned the post office in the village? He was his double. Fred Trippett, with his wife and four children. This man could have been his twin. When I looked through his pockets, I found a photograph of a lady and three little ones. I feel like a savage. I keep thinking of the telegram going home to his family – ‘You’ll never see your beloved husband and father again because some butcher of a Tommy made sure of it.’

The thing that really scared me, Em, was the rage I felt when I did it. Usually I feel some sense of remorse when we find ourselves in confrontation. Some kind of common humanity. I almost want to apologise for what I’m doing. But today, something in me had snapped. For an awful moment I felt real hate. I could have stabbed him over and over again. It wasn’t till I looked into his eyes that I came to my senses. Something had made my brain mad, Em. Perhaps the cold, or the dead Tommy – I don’t know. I wish I understood. But one thing I do know; I don’t like what this war is doing to me.

It all happened in the early hours of this morning, and though I’ve tried to grab a bit of sleep since then, my mind won’t stop tormenting me. Jimmy told me he felt the same when he shot the German boy at Le Sars. That was ages ago, but it seems that certain ones stick in your mind. Jimmy said Boxer had told him something that had really helped him. That Jesus will forgive us for anything, no matter how awful, so long as we’re truly sorry and willing to accept his forgiveness. Well, Em – Jesus might forgive me, but I don’t know how long it will take before I can forgive myself.

In the days that followed, Rosie did her best to adjust to life without Ciaran and Beth around. She spoke to them most days on the phone or texted Beth with funny snippets from the nursery. It wasn’t the same as being able to see them whenever she wanted, but it was contact. She continued to e-mail Jonathon too, assuring him that she was coping well on her own, and updating him with instalments from the diary. The diary seemed hard going at the moment. Rosie could sense the oppression of Sam’s situation with every page she turned. As the Flanders’ winter continued in its icy bitterness, Sam seemed haunted by guilt at the momentary hatred he’d felt for the German soldier. His preoccupation with the matter seemed to fill his writings. Rosie made a flippant comment about it in one of her e-mails to Jonathon.

He needs to get over it, don’t you think? What are soldiers supposed to do anyway? I always thought that sort of thing was part of the job. I don’t know why he’s making such a deal out of it. He’d have been better staying home and knitting socks for the troops.

Jonathon’s response had been enigmatic.

I think he’s having a reality check. Guess there comes a time in all our lives when we’re suddenly confronted with ourselves. Haven’t you ever had one of those scary moments?

Rosie was vaguely baffled.

Scary moments? Not sure I’m with you. Please be good enough to explain …!

Jonathon had promptly obliged.

You know – when you come face to face with your own demons. Might be when you see something about yourself that you didn’t realise was there. Could be anything. In a case like Sam’s, might be something that scares you – makes you wonder what you’re actually capable of, given the wrong set of circumstances. But it could be anything. Shall we call it ‘a moment of personal revelation’?

Rosie felt slightly ill at ease after reading Jonathon’s reply. The whole banter had started with a couple of throwaway comments. From her angle, only half serious comments at that. But Jonathon’s message had been unexpectedly sober in tone;
‘a moment of personal revelation’
he’d called it. She’d had more than her fair share of those recently. She’d come close to feeling she was starting to lose the plot. Surely that was more personal revelation than anyone would want. For the time being, though, she’d managed to pull things round. She was coping – and she wasn’t about to let anybody start psychobabbling their way through
her
scary moments. Her face was set with determination as she quickly punched a message into her laptop.

Hey, mister ‘electronic shoulder to cry on’ – don’t go getting all serious on me! You’re supposed to be cheering me up, remember? The last thing I need right now is to discover that deep down inside, I’m some weirdo wannabe axe-murderer. I really think that would be the last straw.

PS – I’m hoping to try and get up for a weekend visit on Friday 24th Feb, so go easy on me or I might just change my mind …!

Miles away in Ridderch Standen, Jonathon smiled to himself as he typed his reply. He assured her he hadn’t meant to upset her and that in future, he would try his best to keep his philosophical opinions to himself. He was thoughtful as he clicked on the send icon.
Poor Rosie. Something tells me I’ve touched a raw nerve with you.

____________

“You cold?” Gavin’s arm was around Rosie’s shoulder as they made their way back to his car. His breath was visible in the freezing night air and the pavements glinted with frost under the full moon. They’d been to see a film and now he was taking her home. Rosie shivered slightly in reply to his question and he pulled her closer to him. She nestled into his hold. It felt solid and warm, and she realised that over the last couple of weeks she’d been finding Gavin’s presence increasingly strengthening. He’d certainly gone out of his way to soften the blow of Beth and Ciaran’s departure. Phone calls every day, flowers, meals out, and now a film. She really couldn’t have asked for more. Gavin was giving her TLC by the bucket load, and Rosie was beginning to enjoy it.

They reached the car and Gavin opened the passenger side for her. “Give me a minute. I’ll have to de-ice the windscreen.” As she climbed in, he gently pushed her long coat clear of the door and kissed her softly before closing her in. Rosie hugged herself against the cold as she sat listening to him scraping at the window. She felt strangely happy tonight. Her mind went back to their evening at the cinema. It had been a nice film. Nothing embarrassingly raunchy, but a heart-warming romantic comedy with a real feel-good ending. It had been Gavin’s choice.

“You do know it’s supposed to be a chick flick, don’t you?” she’d asked when he’d first broached the idea.

“What’s up – don’t you like chick flicks?”

Rosie couldn’t tell if he was teasing her. “Hey, I’m not fussy. I work with kids, remember. I get excited watching the Tweenies. I was thinking about you.”

Gavin had smiled then – that gorgeous, winsome smile that Rosie had noticed made other women drool. “Rosie,
I’m
thinking about
you
. I read the reviews and I think you’d enjoy it. I reckon a bit of daft escapism would do you good – it’d do us both good in fact. I have to be careful this time of year. My seasonal affective disorder starts playing me up.”

For a moment she’d glanced at him questioningly.
Seasonal affective disorder?
He was the picture of healthy, suntanned perfection – looked like he spent every weekend on the Côte d’Azur. He had to be kidding her. As their eyes had met, she’d realised he was.