A Song in the Night (7 page)

Then suddenly it had occurred to him. He would use the book to write a journal. A record of these peculiar times. He would scribble down his thoughts and make believe he was sharing them with Emily. It would be like a letter. One that he would never send of course. Yet one that they might read together some day, when they were older and times were kinder. And if, heaven forbid, he should find himself among the fallen, at least she would know something of the lad who’d thought the world of her these many years. Of course, he’d have to be careful. It wouldn’t do for anyone to know what he was up to. The officers weren’t too keen on diaries and the like. Too much secret information should a chap be taken into enemy hands. Anything deemed sensitive material would no doubt be confiscated without a second thought. Still, it was worth a shot. This war had silenced too many already.

On the mattress next to him, Harry Burton was trying to snatch a bit of sleep. Harry and Sam had been thick as thieves from the time they’d met at a training base in Kent and gone on to find themselves in the same platoon. That had been over a year, and many weary travels ago. Now their company had just arrived in new territory. They’d been drafted in from Bethune to help support the depleted 11
^th
Battalion stationed in the area of the Somme Valley. After suffering heavy losses in recent action at Contalmaison, the 11
^th
were being rested for a couple of days.

“Rest …” Harry yawned, stretching his arms till his joints clicked. “I remember rest. That was when you had Sundays off and you could go to sleep whenever you felt like it. You didn’t have to worry about dodgin’ shrapnel or some blinkin’ sergeant barkin’ orders at you.”

Sam grinned. “What’s up with you? At least we’re still here, aren’t we? Still here and in the pink, mate. That’s more than can be said for a lot of our lads.”

He became thoughtful. Everyone knew about the horrific slaughter of British troops that had been going on in the area for the last three weeks. This so-called Somme offensive had begun with a massive preliminary bombardment of the German lines. The gunners had been full of it. They were going to smash the enemy front line trenches to smithereens, cut to shreds the barbed wire in front of them, and let the infantry stroll over and capture the German lines. “It’ll be a picnic for you lot by the time we’ve finished,” they’d joked. “The Bosch’ll come out of their ’oles beggin’ for mercy!”

The initial bombardment had been planned to last for five days, but had been extended a further two because of bad weather. So terrific had the firing been, everyone had been confident that the follow-up attack would be a walkover. In the lead up to zero hour, infantry troops had been given the order that they were not to run, but to
walk
steadily towards the enemy front line. Word was going round that some had even been given footballs to kick through no man’s land, just to keep themselves focused.

The big battle had begun just over three weeks ago, on the morning of July 1
^st
. When the whistles had blown at 7.30 a.m., thousands of men had climbed the scaling ladders and gone over the top, believing the thing was as good as in the bag. They couldn’t have been more wrong. The British artillery bombardment had made little more than a dent in the enemy defences. What was supposed to have been a walkover had in fact been a massacre. German machine-guns had mown down wave after wave of advancing infantrymen. Sam wasn’t sure of the figures, but he knew it ran into thousands – and that just on the opening day. The slaughter had been going on every day since.

He turned over on his bed. It was a discomfiting thought to imagine that they might be next. Still, there was no point brooding on it all. It wasn’t good for morale. He looked down the hut. The platoon had been reorganised since their arrival, and there were a number of new faces. Amongst a small group playing cards at the far end of the building were two lads who were identical twins. Sam gestured to Harry. “Reckon we’ll have some larks with those two.”

“Yeah,” Harry nodded sleepily. “Thought I were seeing double at first.”

Sam closed his eyes. At least they were still under Lieutenant Colton. Sam had a lot of time for him; decent chap, not afraid to muck in with the rest of them. His head began to swim as a regiment of faces marched through his mind. Company officer, Captain Brierley. Sergeant Jack Fogg, Foggy to his men. Poor old Corporal Wilkie wounded back at Souchez …

Oh Emily, it doesn’t do to get too attached in this game. We’re back to the line tomorrow. Peake Wood – sounds glorious.

____________

Beth rolled onto her back, her mind trying to digest the lines she had just read.
1916? Somme Valley?
That could only mean one thing. This guy had to be writing from the Western Front. It was almost unbelievable. She read on.

Becourt Wood July 29th 1916

After limited action at Peake Wood, we moved here and have been in close support these last days. Two caught out by a sniper, one rather badly, I’m afraid. It’s not that we didn’t warn him …

Sam had already told the boy several times to keep his head down. That was the trouble with these young ones. Far too scared of missing something. Things had been pretty quiet for the last couple of hours, and the lad seemed to be getting restless.

“He’s a right twit that one,” Harry muttered, drawing on his cigarette. “You watch. Somebody’s goin’ to do for him if he’s not careful.”

The boy shinned up onto the fire step. “D’you think they’ve retreated? They’re not making much noise.” His voice came out as a loud, rasping whisper. Harry looked over at Sam and rolled his eyes. Some of these new lads were just plain stupid. Suddenly, the temptation was all too much for the boy. He bobbed his head above the parapet.
Bang!
A sniper’s bullet whistled through the air. The boy fell backwards into the trench, landing heavily on top of Sam.

Harry was on the scene in a second. “Come on, you idiot –” He pulled the boy over onto his back. Slightly winded, Sam scrambled to his feet. He looked down at the lad who was screaming and holding the side of his head. Harry bent down to get a better look. “Keep still, will ya?” Knocking the boy’s hand out of the way, he swore. “They’ve taken his ear off. We’ve got to get him seen to.”

Sam could see that the whole of the boy’s left ear had been blown away. An inch further over and he’d have been a goner for sure. “You’re alright, mate,” Sam tried to encourage him. “We’ll get you to the dressing station.” He pressed a piece of rag to the wound and they hauled the lad to his feet. They moved down the trench, dragging him, almost carrying him as he became weaker and weaker. It wasn’t long before the rag was dripping with blood. It ran between Sam’s fingers, down his wrist, soaking into his sleeve. The lad was near collapse. His war was over for sure.

Sam found himself thinking about Emily again. Poor girl. She was nursing out here somewhere. She must see this kind of thing all the time. He hated to think of her exposed to such awful sights, even though he knew she had the courage for it.

They stumbled round a bend into the next bay. The twins were there, counting out ammunition. They looked sympathetic as the injured boy staggered past them. Seeing their faces, Sam found himself remembering a funny incident from the day before.

The previous day, things in the sector had been fairly quiet since early morning. Just after noon, the men had been sitting around eating their midday meal. It had been the usual stuff; stew and army biscuits,
‘iron rations’
as they were affectionately known in the ranks – no tooth was safe near them. Suddenly Twinny Two had arrived back from taking a message to Captain Brierley. Unfortunately for him, it was twenty minutes after everything had been dished out. Even more unfortunate was the fact that the cook on duty was a recent arrival to the company – Paddy O’Heany, a sour-tempered, vinegar-faced character who could make grown men squirm as though they were Oliver Twist asking for more. Paddy had glared at Twinny Two’s apparent impertinence, adamant that he’d already fed him. Twinny Two had stood there, dish in hand, desperately trying to convince the antagonistic cook that he’d got him mixed up with his brother. Twinny One, meanwhile, had been doubled up with laughter in a dugout some yards down the line. He’d been just about to come clean when suddenly they’d heard the dreaded sound of a stray whizz-bang. Dishes had gone flying as everyone had dived for cover. Sam could remember the rush of adrenaline surging through his body as he lay sprawled across the ground. The confounded thing had come to rest in a small crater about five yards from where Paddy and Twinny Two had been arguing. For quite a few moments, everyone had lain there, frozen in their positions. But incredibly there’d been no explosion. The thing had been a dud. Sam smiled as he recalled Paddy scrambling to his feet. ‘Don’t you worry, lad,’ he’d promised the Twinny. ‘I’ll make sure you get something.’ He’d been so relieved to be in one piece, he couldn’t do enough for him all of a sudden. Ironically, by this time, the remains of everyone else’s food was strewn across the ground in the aftermath of the failed shell. There was one small consolation. At least the biscuits had managed to stay intact …

As Harry’s fond of saying, Emily, sometimes it takes a strong stomach to dine at the line. Someone suggested we tie fuses to the biscuits and use them instead of Mills’ bombs. You have to keep your sense of humour, Em. You’d go quite mad if you didn’t. Good job there are plenty of comics in our platoon. I hope for Paddy’s sake that the incident has softened him a little. I can’t see how he can continue to take his high-handed attitude with everybody and not end up with a stew pot on his head. Well, we’ll see.

Don’t know how the injured boy went on. I just hope he didn’t bleed to death before they got him off the field. If he survives, they’ll no doubt be sending him back to Blighty for good.

Talking of Blighty, I’ve heard nothing from home this week. Was rather hoping to, it being my birthday and everything.

____________

Beth closed the book and sat up. She reached for the phone extension on her bedside table, her hand trembling with excitement.

“Hello?”
On the other end, Rosie’s voice sounded uptight, almost suspicious. She always answered the phone like that.

“Ros – it’s me!” Beth could hardly contain herself.

“Oh, hi you.” Rosie’s tone relaxed. “To what do I owe this honour?”

“Ros, you’ll never guess what I found in that case. Y’know, the one the old man gave me the other day …?” Beth was trying not to race her words.

“Hmm, I wonder. A
bomb
?” Rosie found Beth hilarious sometimes.

Beth ignored her sarcasm. “It’s a diary! Looks like it belonged to a soldier in the First World War. How incredible is
that
, eh?” She waited for a response, but was rewarded with an unintelligible mumble from the other end. Had Rosie heard her right? She tried to press the point again. “I’m pretty sure it’s written from the Western Front. Y’know, Ros – the
trenches
– the First World War
trenches
! Museums and war buffs go crazy for this kind of thing.”

A slight pause. “Worth a bob or two then?”

Beth tried to hide her exasperation. “I’m not thinking of
selling
it, Rosie. It’s a fascinating document. Some people would give their right arm for something like this.” Another pause. Beth couldn’t help feeling a squeeze of disappointment. She’d hoped to find her friend slightly more enthusiastic about the whole thing. After all, Rosie had been there when the old man had given her the case.

Rosie’s voice came on the line again. “Sounds great. I’ll have to take a look next time I’m over.”

Beth realised Rosie was trying her best. Obviously military memorabilia didn’t tick any boxes for her. They spoke for a few minutes more and then said goodbye. Beth came off the phone slightly bemused. What did it take to get some people excited? Glancing at the clock, she decided to tidy away all the stuff she’d been looking at earlier. The place was a tip and Ciaran was due home any time. Looking down, she spotted the folded composition that had fallen out of the diary when she’d first opened it. She picked it up and went over to her violin case. Flicking it open, she slid the sheet behind her violin. It seemed as good a place as any to put it for now. As she closed the case, she suddenly heard the sound of the front door opening. There were footsteps on the stairs and a moment later, Ciaran stepped into the bedroom.

“Hello beautiful.” He slipped his arm around her waist and kissed her. He looked tired.

“Shall I make you something to eat?” She smoothed back the unruly hair from his forehead.

He flung himself back on the bed with a sigh. “No, I’m okay. I grabbed a burger on the way home. But I’d love a cuppa tea, Bethy. Big one.”

She kissed him and went downstairs. Minutes later when she returned with his drink, he was almost asleep. “Come on,” she coaxed, “get ready for bed. You’re shattered.”

He responded with weary obedience, trudging into the bathroom in zombie fashion. Beth knelt down and began to tidy up the remainder of the books. There was no point telling him about the diary tonight. He had to be in Croydon by eight the next morning – she’d probably end up with an even less enthusiastic response from him than she’d had from Rosie.

As she stretched over to pull together some of the music sheets, a searing flash of pain shot down through her stomach. It was all she could do to stop herself from calling out. Holding herself, she got up from the floor and went over to the bed. She fell onto it and hunched over. There came a surge of nausea, and with it, a new, strange sensation. A deep burning which seemed to creep through her insides as though her guts were being punctured with red-hot needles. Groaning quietly, she willed Ciaran to hurry. She had to get to the bathroom, and fast. Just then, he came back into the room. To her relief, he seemed not to notice her discomfort. The last thing she needed right now was to start launching into explanations.

“I’m terrible tired tonight, Bethy,” he muttered as he began to undress. “I’ll be glad when this fortnight’s over.”