A Song in the Night (9 page)

Pozieres (trenches) August 5th 1916

Just grabbing a few minutes to get this down before I get hauled off to do something else. What a time we’re having of it, Em. We’re in close support at the moment, bringing up bombs and ammunition to the line. There’s been no let-up in the shelling and strafing the whole time we’ve been here …

Sam felt exhausted. They’d been lugging stuff around for hours now, in full kit and with their throats parched from lack of water. It was a wearying business.
Shreeee-bang!
They heard a shell come down further up the line. Horrible screams, then shouts of
“Stretcher! Stretcher!”
Some more poor wretches blown to shreds no doubt. This noise was terrible – enough to drive a man mad. But it was all they’d heard all day. It was beginning to make everyone nervy.

“Poor sods,” Harry commented grimly as they picked their way back through the communication trench. “Wonder how many that one got.” His voice gave way then and he began to cough. Within moments he was doubled over in a paroxysm of choking. Sam put a hand on his mate’s shoulder. He was worried about him. Harry had been coughing and wheezing like an old engine for the last few days. Sam was sure he’d caught something nasty. “You need to get yourself off to the MO,” he’d suggested. “See if you can be put on something lighter.” But Harry, stubborn old mule that he was, wouldn’t hear of it. “We have to stick together, don’t we?” he’d protested between coughs. “How we ever goin’ to clobber the Germans if everybody buzzes off the minute they get a sniffle?”

That was one of the good things about this war, Sam had to concede. Mates looking out for each other. His mind went back to the previous night. They’d lost a chap from the platoon, out on a working party. His mate had come back to the trench covered in his blood and crying like a baby. Said there wasn’t enough left of him to give him a decent burial. Harry had nudged Sam. “You can bet the officer’ll write to his widow and concoct some cock ’n bull story of his funeral service.”

Sam knew he wasn’t being cynical. It wouldn’t do for the folks back home to know what really went on out here. But back home, they wouldn’t understand the comradeship either. The way men stuck together, risked their own necks at times to help a friend. It was a thing peculiar to war.

Not that you didn’t want to get out of it sometimes. The last couple of days had been atrocious. Sam certainly didn’t envy the poor beggars who’d been right up front. The stretcher parties had been struggling to cope with the high casualties, and because a number of communication trenches had collapsed with the shelling, some stretcher bearers had found themselves having to transport their patients overland to the aid posts. Sam had seen fellows blown off stretchers before now …

At times like this, you find yourself wondering when it’s going to be your turn. A sorry kind of fatalism, but one has to be realistic. I suppose the best a man can hope for is a nice, neat wound that’s bad enough to get you sent home, but not that bad that it maims you. Oh dear, Em, it feels rather grim to be thinking like this. But I have to say, if it’s all the same to the Germans, I’d rather like to keep my arms and legs, thank you very much. Lieutenant’s approaching – back to work.

Behencourt (billets) August 8th 1916

I write with a sad heart, Em. Harry’s war is over.

Heavy attacks were launched yesterday on Torr Trench. Several killed and many wounded, though none from our unit. Last evening, after dark, a few of us from the platoon were out on a working party doing repairs …

No one liked being on working parties. It was a dangerous job; you were just too obvious to the enemy. There was one thing worse than being in a trench, and that was being up in front of one, on the perilous edge of no man’s land. And then, as if being stuck out in full view of the whole world wasn’t bad enough, if a bullet or two
did
happen to come over, you were supposed to stand stock still and pretend to be a tree, if your nerves could hold out. That way, the enemy might think he’d been mistaken and lose interest.

Tonight the group had been given the task of shoring up the trench and re-laying the barbed wire in front of it. They were working as quietly as possible, not easy when one’s hands were being ripped to pieces. A sudden Very flare lit up the sky. Harry swore. “If I’d wanted my picture takin’, I’d have worn my best clothes,” he hissed.

“
Freeze!
” came the sergeant’s order. The group froze, their hearts pounding as a clatter of machine gunfire sounded through the night. A shell exploded close by and someone cried out.

“They’ve spotted us – get down!” the sergeant yelled.

Everyone hit the ground. There were a couple of big shell holes in the area they’d been working, and each man had the same idea – to crawl over to the nearest one and get hidden. Shells came in useful for some things.

But Sam soon realised Harry was missing. They’d been standing near to each other when the firing had kicked off. This hole had been by far the closest to their position, and Harry wasn’t in it. For quite a few minutes, the machine guns raked the ground relentlessly. Sam kept his head down, willing them to stop. Was Harry the one who’d cried out? It was more than likely. Sam felt sick. He dreaded to think what he might find.

When the firing had eased off a bit, he stuck his head out of the hole and looked around. He spotted Harry’s crumpled form lying some twenty yards to the left of them.
Time to find out what I’m really made of …

With his heart thudding uncontrollably, Sam scrambled out of the hole. His mind began to play tricks as he imagined the whole German line with their guns trained on him. Muffled voices sounded in the darkness. “He’s gonna get ’is ruddy head blown off,” someone muttered. “Yeah, but it’s ’is best mate,” came the reply. Sam was fairly sure it was the Twinnies.

He suddenly realised that someone had crawled out of the hole behind him. The two of them slithered along on their stomachs through the blackness, Sam hoping beyond hope that they wouldn’t draw enemy fire. Harry was moaning faintly when they reached him, his right leg blasted to ribbons. Sam looked around. It was no use waiting for a stretcher. There wasn’t a bearer in sight, and Harry was in a bad way. Trying not to think about the vision of mangled pulp in front of him, he slid his hands carefully under Harry’s legs and signalled to the other fellow to grab him under the arms. They had to get him to an aid post, and fast.

Sam was glad for the other chap’s help. He recognised him, though they’d never spoken more than a few words to each other. He was big, strongly built – and Sam was glad of it. Harry was a dead weight. Sam realised now he could never have managed him on his own.

Another spatter of machine gunfire. They’d been spotted. Sam’s heart pounded fiercely as the air began to bristle. Surely it was only a matter of time – seconds even – before they went down. “I don’t think I’d do this for anybody else, mate,” he muttered under his breath. “This is practically suicide …”

There was a saying among the men;
if a bullet’s got your number on it, there’s nothing you can do about it.
Fatalism. It was the only way to cope with the inhuman demands of trench life. But somehow it seemed the Germans were struggling to find
their
numbers tonight. They were certainly wasting an awful lot of ammo trying. Minutes later, as he helped lower Harry into the trench, Sam could hardly believe that nothing had hit them. It was almost as if they’d been invisible.

Harry was barely conscious by the time they reached the aid post. The MO, a kindly man who looked to be in his late forties, patted the back of his hand. “You’ve got yourself a Blighty there, lad,” he said gently. But Sam could see the sadness in his eyes.

“Will he make it?” It was a question he hardly dare ask.

The MO shrugged, an incredible tiredness etched on his face. “We’ll get working on him straightaway – see if we can get him moved tonight. We’ll do our best …”

I was choked, Em. We’ve been together in this thing from the start, Harry and me. I can’t imagine it without him around. You’re not just mates out here, you’re more like brothers. As we were leaving, H. rallied slightly and whispered, ‘Thanks pal.’

It cut me up saying goodbye. With all my heart I hope he does make it.

____________

What a waste.
Beth put a bookmark in the diary and laid it on top of the duvet.
What a terrible waste of young lives.
She thought about Ciaran. Twenty-six years old; he would have been called up for sure. It was hard to imagine a beautiful, gifted man like Ciaran being sent away to war. How did they cope with it, the women who were left behind? The girlfriends, the wives – her hands instinctively went to her stomach –
those with child
. What a horrible thing, to have the one you love torn away from you. To be left with just memories; at best, a tiny face with features so achingly familiar. She sat up in bed, rocking gently backwards and forwards, trying to quell the mixed emotions that were mounting within her. The bathroom was beckoning. Everything inside her began to churn. She felt scared, guilty, confused. She had to get this thing over with.

A sudden noise at the front door made her jump. Her eyes shot to the clock.
Ten twenty-five?
It couldn’t be …

But it was. She heard a few sounds from downstairs in the kitchen. A couple of minutes later, Ciaran bounded up the stairs and came into the bedroom.

“You’re early.” Beth’s heart had quickened. This wasn’t quite how she’d planned it.

Ciaran grinned. “We got away quicker than I thought.” He sat on the bed and loosened his tie. “Glad we did. My brain’s ready for exploding, Bethy. I was on keyboard all afternoon, then accompanying on piano all evening. I’ve got a shorter day tomorrow though. Violin taster session – starts at twelve thirty. Then first round of the choir competition at half four. We’re hoping to be done by eight, once we’ve got everything tidied away. Half eight at the latest.”

“That’s good,” Beth commented absently. She’d hardly taken in a word he’d said. What was she supposed to do now? Did he have any idea how psyched up she’d got herself?

Ciaran’s chatter interrupted her thoughts. “Hey, you’ll never guess who was there today with some of his singing pupils.”

Beth looked blank.

“Dave Marchant … y’know, the guy who dropped out of my year. The one who was dating the American girl.”

Suddenly Beth did remember. She tried to appear interested, her mind struggling to tear itself away from the lure of the bathroom.

“They got married, y’know,” Ciaran continued. He shook his head. “Poor guy. They’ve not been wed five years and she’s expecting their third child anytime now.”

Inwardly Beth recoiled. “Why poor guy?”

Ciaran ran his fingers through his hair. “Bethy, he looks terrible. He’s real overweight now and he’s got this permanently stressed-out look on his face. To see him, you’d think he was in his forties. He’ll be working till he’s seventy-five, the way they’re going. They’re gonna end up with their own football team.”

Beth swallowed hard. “Didn’t make you feel broody then?” She tried to make light of it, but her heart was pounding.

Ciaran shook his head again. “Can’t say it did, Bethy. Poor old Dave’s not a very good advert for family life.” He stood up then, stretched and went over to the door. “Anyway, we’ve plenty of time for all that. We’re still young. Who wants to be forty in their twenties?”

He winked at her and disappeared into the bathroom. Beth looked down at her hands. They were trembling. She felt sick, but she knew this time the sickness wasn’t physical. This was turning into a nightmare. She lay down and stared up at the ceiling, hot tears pricking her eyes. Surely Ciaran didn’t really feel that way. So what if Dave Marchant
was
a lousy example of fatherhood? Surely there were plenty of young dads around who seemed happy enough. She thought about Mrs Marchant. Had her American dream exploded in the midst of an endless round of sleepless nights and dirty nappies? Beth shivered as she tried to imagine a baby in their own domestic scene. It wasn’t easy. Economically, Ciaran was the main breadwinner. The orchestra aside, he was involved in numerous strands of work. Private tuition, peripatetic tuition, funded projects like the music marathon, even the odd private gig – the avenues were many and varied. For Beth herself, the focus was narrower. Apart from a few private lessons a week, the orchestra had her full attention. Since the time Emmett Mallory had first pointed out her potential for solo, she’d given up all her peripatetic work and devoted the extra time to rehearsals and private practice. Ciaran had insisted she give the thing her best shot. “Live your dream, Bethy,” he’d said. “I’m gonna help you live it.” Ciaran had high hopes for her. So had Emmett Mallory. “I guess we won’t have you long,” he’d joked. “Once you get noticed, someone’ll come along with bigger bucks than I’ve got. Remember me when you’re a star.”

Where would a baby fit into the equation? She closed her eyes against the tears. There simply wasn’t room.

Ciaran came back in then. He set the alarm and climbed into bed. “Love you, Bethy.” His voice was a soft whisper as he reached for her.

Beth froze as his fingers began to caress her neck. Without thinking, she reached for the diary again. “I think I might read for a while. I’ve felt a bit off it tonight.” She hoped he wouldn’t notice her damp eyes or pick up on her misery.

He looked momentarily hurt, but smiled then and stroked her cheek. “I haven’t been looking after you, have I?”

Hearing the kindness in his voice, Beth hated herself for her dishonesty. “I’ll feel better in the morning. Probably just tired.”

“You
will
feel better in the morning.” Ciaran’s voice was gentle, reassuring. “Because I’ll be at home to spend it with you. I don’t have to go in till just before lunch; that should give us a good couple of hours together.” He kissed her then turned over. “Night, sweetheart.”

“Night … .” Beth turned over to face the bedside lamp. She opened the diary and forced her eyes onto the page.