A Whispered Name (10 page)

‘Where
were you on the twenty-sixth of August?’

‘The
battalion was in action near Black Eye Corner: He stood to attention, his face
expressionless, his battledress limp and stained. ‘I was with a section that
included Private Flanagan. We’d settled into a captured German bunker for the
night, Sir.’

‘Did
you have reason to speak to the accused?’

‘I did,
Sir.’

‘What
did you say?’

‘Major
Dunne, the Company Commander, had been seriously injured, Sir. He’d lost his
nose and eyes in the same shell blast that’d killed Mr Agnew, the leader of
Flanagan’s platoon. I’d put a couple of field dressings on the Major’s face and
told Private Flanagan to take him back to the Regimental Aid Post … I know it
wasn’t the done thing, Sir, but no stretcher-bearers had been seen for hours
and what with the major’s eyes all gone, I was worried he might lose too much
blood, and anyway we’d have to leave him if the fighting heated up—’

‘No one’s
questioning that decision,’ said Glanville.

Listening
to the narrative had calmed Herbert, though he seemed to be floating apart from
his own heavy guts. Blood throbbed in his veins but he was detached from the
pulse.

‘Thank
you, Sir,’ said Joyce. ‘Well, it was dark and the guns had quietened down a
bit, so I thought Flanagan had a fair chance of making it and getting back
before dawn, Sir.’

‘What
exactly did you say?’

‘Something
like, “Take Mr Dunne to the RAP” I confess, I swore a bit, Sir.’

‘I’m
sure you did. And then?’

‘Flanagan
piled his kit in a corner and put his arm under the Major’s’ — he demonstrated,
suddenly hunching himself to take an imagined weight — ‘and off they went, Sir.’

‘What
time was this?’

‘Shortly
after midnight, Sir.’

‘Which
would be the morning of the twenty-sixth?’

‘Yes,
Sir.’

‘How
long would you expect the journey to take?’

‘Well,
Sir, the weather was grim, but in our sector a track had just been laid by the
engineers … so I’d have said about an hour or two, because Major Dunne could
walk.’

With a
nod of thanks Chamberlayne sat down.

Neither
Herbert nor Oakley could think of a question. Mr Glanville, however, glanced
over his transcript and said, ‘Please repeat the exact order you gave to the
accused, along with the verbs and adjectives you have so kindly suppressed.’

‘Sorry,
Sir?’

‘The
swear words.’

‘Ah.’

The RSM
obliged and the president checked each word he’d written with an ostentatious
tap of the pencil. ‘Quite novel, and remarkably clear if I may say so. He was
to come back immediately That was the gist?’ Quietly he added, ‘Please remember
your oath.’

Joyce blinked,
his chiselled face livid and suffused with emotion. The temerity and respect
had been swamped. Flanagan’s life hung on the reply All Joyce had to do was
lie, but his sunken eyes sought out the black book on Chamberlayne’s table. ‘I
think so, Sir. Yes. But there was still some noise … shells …’

‘Thank
you.’ For everything, Glanville seemed to say: for your loyalty to your
regiment and your vagueness to the court. Appraising the accused, he added, ‘Private
Flanagan, do you wish to question the witness?’

‘No,
Sir.’

‘Be
very careful,’ said Glanville. He spoke with suppressed tension, with the same
false calm used to encourage the boys before the whistles blew ‘You heard
Joyce. If you disagree with anything he said, now is your time to tell us.’

‘He’s a
good man, is the RSM, Sir.’

Flanagan
kept his eyes fixed on the spot somewhere over Herbert’s right shoulder. He
remained mysteriously calm and detached from the proceedings, as if he were
watching another drama of greater significance. The more Herbert examined his
simple, clean features, the more he was sure that they’d met … maybe just
once.

The
next witness was 3939 Private Frederick Elliot. His face had burns across one
cheek. Out of deference to the court, he’d shaved the other side. After being
sworn he explained that he was in the same platoon as Flanagan, but not the
same section. He’d been injured and was waiting for treatment at the RAP In
this way he saw the accused with a mug of Oxo while talking to one of the
chaplains, Father Maguire. This would have been about 1.45 a.m. on the 26th. ‘After
the MO, Mr Tindall, had bandaged up the Major, he told the accused to guide him
back to the stretcher—bearers, and then get back to his unit. He gave Joe a
couple of field dressings, and off they went, Sir.’

‘Who,
might I ask, is Joe?’ asked Glanville, his lips thinned and white. He was a big
man and became threatening simply through the intake of a breath.

‘Sorry …
Sir, I mean the accused.’

Quickly
Chamberlayne tossed the witness a closing question. He, too, had felt the heat.
‘What time was it when you saw him leave?’

‘About
two o’clock in the morning, Sir.’

Glanville
wrote the words down, his head lowered. He stared at them as if they were of
immense importance, but his eyes didn’t move, because he wasn’t reading.
Various emotions played with his mouth and eyes, the minute movements revealing
a struggle between rage — presumably towards Flanagan — and … Herbert thought
it might be a very private anguish. Gradually Glanville’s features became
still. He breathed out slowly and said, apologetically ‘Thank you very much,
Private. You’ve been a great help.’

Chamberlayne
sat down and Flanagan shook his head, indicating that he had nothing to say At
Glanville’s invitation, Herbert then spoke. ‘How were you injured, Private?’

‘With a
flare, Sir.’

‘One of
ours or one of theirs?’

‘Ours,
Sir.’

‘That
was unfortunate.’

‘Yes,
Sir.’

‘How
did one of our flares strike your cheek?’

‘Mr
Hoskins fired it, Sir. I was crouched in front, Sir, and I stood up, Sir, and …
it grazed me, Sir.’ Sweat above the burns made Elliot’s skin shine.

‘That
was unwise, wasn’t it?’

‘It was
an accident, Sir.’

‘Did
the medical officer discuss with you the mechanism of this accident? The how
and why?’

Herbert
already knew the answer. Tindall had recounted the incident while dealing with
Herbert’s arm. The MO had been most unhappy about the affair because it didn’t
appear to be the usual kind of self-inflicted injury: ‘Sounds more like he was
trying to finish himself off. What a way to try, though.’ Duggie decided to let
the matter drop.

‘I told
him what happened, Sir,’ said Elliot.

‘Private,
has anyone suggested that you injured yourself on purpose?’

‘No,
Sir.’ Elliot seemed to sink beneath some waves in his mind.

‘Well,
let me. Did you?’

After a
pause Elliot whispered, his face suddenly dark, ‘No, Sir, I did not.’

‘You
are sure of that?’

‘Yes,
Sir.’

‘As
sure of a Medical Officer’s order sending this man back to the front?’

‘Yes,
Sir.’

Glanville’s
pencil scratched on the paper as he mouthed Elliot’s reply Looking up, he
observed, ‘Dismiss, Private.’ The dismissal was wholly polite, as might
announce an exile.

Herbert
knew that this attack had been brutal and probably futile. But Elliot was the
last witness to see the accused: he’d heard the order sending Flanagan back to
his unit. If his evidence could be muddied in any way it might help this
strangely distant man who, so far, had done nothing but support the witnesses
brought against him. But Herbert still felt aged and soiled, for he pitied
Elliot’s desperation, only he couldn’t say so … he could never say so ….

The
door clicked shut and Chamberlayne said, ‘My last witness is Captain Maurice
Sheridan.’

The
sentry marched out of the room and returned with the officer moments later. His
uniform was clean, his buttons shining. Herbert knew that the captain’s batman
had spent a day getting his master’s gear into this condition. Similar measures
had been taken for Herbert, Oakley and Glanville. The filthiness of war went
very deep, though; and Herbert felt dirty. He was a greased cog in a machine
that couldn’t stop, because he was part of a force that moved while being
moved. This was military duty: to go through the motions without thinking. And
Herbert did not want to think. What did he want? To be back in Keswick as a boy
long before the move to Northumberland; long before failure had a claim upon
him. The days of kites and Dandelion and Burdock.

After
taking the oath and identifying himself, Sheridan said, ‘On the twenty-seventh
August I was on horseback, riding from Brielen to Elverdinghe. To my left I saw
a local … a peasant or something … a farmer waving his arms in the air. I
couldn’t follow a word the fellow was saying, but he was frantic and kept
winking: In one hand Sheridan held a pair of thin leather gloves. While he
spoke he lightly tapped his trouser leg. ‘I told him to pull himself together
and he pointed towards a barn. I dismounted, withdrew my revolver and
approached the building, and all the while this farmer fellow was whispering
and jerking his thumb towards his mouth as though the hand were a jug. The next
thing I know the accused is there before me, standing in the open gate. He was
soaking wet and covered in slurry. He had no kit whatsoever, Sir.’

‘Did
you say anything?’

‘I
asked his name, which he revealed, along with his army number and unit details,
Sir.’

‘Go on.’

‘I then
asked him why he wasn’t with his Company Sir.’

‘And
his reply?’

‘He
said he’d brought a wounded officer back to the reserve trenches and had then
set off to rejoin “his people” — I think that was the phrase. However, because
of the rain and the dark and the shells, he’d got lost. He’d wandered all night
until he’d found shelter, Sir.’

‘What
time was this, please?’

‘Approximately
five p.m. in the evening, Sir.’

‘Did
you notice anything about the accused’s demeanour?’

‘Yes.
He smelled strongly of alcohol. To be precise, wine. I found two empty bottles
in the barn and a third half consumed, Sir: The tone suggested weary contempt,
a familiarity with the grubby doings of people who always wore the same pair of
shoes.

‘And
then?’

‘I
checked his pockets, confiscated a penknife and placed him under arrest, Sir.’

‘Thank
you, Captain.’

Glanville
jotted down each word, his lips thin and white once more. He sat high in his
seat, elongating his neck as though to get a better view of the evidence.
Drunkenness was a common feature in courts martial. All Divisions kept a keen
eye on its prevalence —along with sloppy saluting and VD.

Oakley
coughed and said, ‘Did he have any field dressings with him?’

‘No,’
replied the Captain, mystified. ‘As I said, he had no kit, which is why I
searched the barn in the first place, Sir.’

Glanville
smiled indulgently as if Oakley had managed to stay on a bicycle for the first time.
Looking left and right, he invited further clarification from the court before
leaning forward to say ‘Do you wish to cross—examine this witness, Private
Flanagan?’

‘No
thank you, Sir: His gaze remained firmly held by that other drama behind
Herbert’s shoulder. While apparently impassive, his breathing began to stagger.
We have met,
thought Herbert.
In the rain
…

‘That
concludes the case for the prosecution,’ said Chamberlayne, sitting down.

There
was a long pause. Far off the guns boomed and clacked. In that strange quiet
captured by a classroom without children, Herbert understood that Flanagan was
windy — Herbert knew the feeling; it was awful; you never got used to it — but
he’d taken a grip on his terror: it was a decision. Flanagan was smiling at an open
grave. Herbert could just make out the whisper of air being drawn and pushed
through his teeth.

Chapter Eleven

The Case for the Defence

‘Do you wish to call any
evidence in your defence?’ asked Glanville after he’d found a clean sheet of
paper.

The
heavy sound of marching floated on the air. A battalion was on the move,
heading out of the village. Maybe they were going to relieve the Lancashire
Fusiliers, thought Herbert. They were due out of the line and the Lambton Cup
was up for grabs. Flanagan’s staggered breathing seemed to enact the fear that
bound them all together.

‘Evidence,’
repeated Glanville, kindly ‘Do you wish to call any?’

‘No,
Sir, I don’t.’

‘Do you
wish to give evidence yourself?’