A Whispered Name (35 page)

The old
man looked at Anselm, head lifted back to get his focus right.

‘I have
listened to all kinds of misconduct, but until today I’ve never met anyone who
accused themselves so wrongly’

The old
soldier squeezed Anselm’s wrist with affection and pity, saying, ‘You were
right, Father, you don’t know what war is like. Thank God, that’s what I say It
brutalises a man. And though the peace comes, you remain brutalised. You bury
it from shame, but it’s always there. And the remorse is all you have to show
that you’re still a human being.’

It was
not quite a reproof. But Mr Shaw had showed him the true weight of a veteran’s
burden. It wasn’t all about minnies and trench foot and bloated rats. The men
who’d marched every November to the cenotaph had carried stories that didn’t
quite fall into step. There’s a romance to hardship and patriotic suffering,
but the idea of a concealed self—disgust that won’t abate … well, it ruins
the ending. It takes away the jubilation of winning; it gives sorrow a seat
beside remembrance. It darkens a life.

‘Let
there be shame, and remorse, then,’ replied Anselm, feeling an enormous
privilege for having met this man. ‘But let there be peace of heart, also.’

As if
it were a deal, the old soldier shook Anselm’s hand.

The gardener had put away
his rake, and the light had begun to fade.

Mr Shaw
leaned back, hands folded on his chest in a habitual gesture of contentment. He
talked fondly about his wife, Nora, who’d been a nurse at a Casualty Clearing
Station. They’d fallen in love as he recovered, he said. She’d changed his
dressings. Brought him this and that. He’d given her a right old run around.
When he was much better she pushed him here and she pushed him there. It was
only as the conversation progressed that Anselm realised Mr Shaw had no legs. A
coal-box had hit him and his pals in the summer of 1918. Above-knee amputations
had been carried out in the field. He should have died but he didn’t, thanks to
the doctors. And Nora, who told him he was still a man. Anselm smiled at
photographs of his children, and their children, and their children. In many of
them Mr Shaw was seated, his heavy medals pulling his dark suit out of shape.

The
nurse who had made the tea led Anselm to the front door, singing the praises of
their oldest resident. He was a sprightly soul, wasn’t he? Full of fun. Cheered
up the place when it rained.

Chapter Forty-Five

Who Did We Bury?

1

Herbert’s arms were
wrapped around a tree, his face pressed against the ivy. He watched the firing
party about turn and head back down the track, followed by Tindall, his face
ashen. Four men emerged from the trees on the far side of the clearing. Two of
them were carrying a stretcher, the other two had spades. Huddled around the
chair, they loosed the knots at the feet and hands and the body slumped on to
Father Maguire, who laid it gently on the straw One of the soldiers cut off the
gas mask and threw it aside. The chaplain then knelt with a purple stole around
his neck, his thumb turning in a silver pot of ointment. Slowly he marked
Flanagan’s forehead while the OC Firing Party stared down at his boots.

Herbert
stepped into the clearing and approached the group around the body.

‘I’ll do
the formalities, he said quietly.

The
officer didn’t raise his head. Under his breath he just said, ‘Five forty-six
a.m.’ With a turn of the heel he marched away from the splattered chair and the
heap on the wet straw Father Maguire rose at once, looked at the body for a
long moment, and then went after the firing party. Even in this place of utter
abandonment, thought Herbert, awed, the chaplain remains anxious for the
living.

Under
the gaze of the burial party, Herbert knelt down, his hands open on his thighs.
Blurring his eyes, he fixed his attention slightly to one side, using
peripheral vision to guide his hands. Mechanically he unhooked the envelope
flap from the chest pocket. Faltering and feeling dizzy he reached towards the
neck and felt for the identity discs. He pulled the cord free from the shirt
and raised his gaze, staring savagely at the rich green of the woods. After a
few gentle tugs — excruciating because Herbert felt the weight of Flanagan’s
head — the tags came free. In a trouser pocket he found three small shells.

Stumbling
backwards, he let the burial party get to work. Two of them put the body on the
stretcher and moved it a few yards away while the others piled up the straw
with their feet. The NCO in charge, a Corporal, struck a match and tossed it on
the pile. The flames rose quickly black smoke rising high out of the clearing.
It woke Herbert to the moment: the birds were singing. He had no recollection
of them having stopped or having started again. Lowering his gaze, he fell into
an anaesthetic trance: the chair kept its shape while the fire raged. It was as
though it refused to burn, or could not be burnt. Flames licked up the legs and
ran along the back struts. The wood blackened and the varnish boiled. But the
chair kept its shape. Of a sudden, the Corporal brought a spade crashing down
on to its spine. The blaze made a gust of success and Herbert covered his face.

Herbert hadn’t noticed
that the other three soldiers were marking out a plot on the ground. They were
planning to dig a hole right there in the middle of the clearing, at the site
of execution.

‘What
are you doing?’

The
three Privates looked at each other uncertainly ‘We’re going to bury him, Sir.’

‘Not
here,’ replied Herbert hotly ‘There’s a cemetery down the road, and a church.
Dear God, man, where’s your humanity?’

The
Corporal came over, opening a sheet of paper. ‘Sorry, Sir, orders is orders: He
started to read. “‘Retrieve mask. Burn straw and chair. Grave to be four yards
distant. Depth—’

‘To
hell with your orders,’ snapped Herbert, snatching the paper and tossing it on
to the fire. ‘Tell whoever wrote this that I wouldn’t allow it:

‘But he’s
a Major, Sir:

‘I don’t
care if he’s the angel Gabriel.’

‘Where
do we put him then, Sir?’ asked the Corporal. He was unshaven. Stubble covered
his face up to his eyes. His breath stank of rum. The other three stared with
their mouths open, not from surprise but as if they were dumb beasts. These
weren’t the funny grave diggers who turned up in school plays. They were
haunted men.

Herbert
looked around. The gas mask glared at him from the trampled grass. This place
is contaminated, thought Herbert. It has been fouled. ‘In the trees,’ said
Herbert sharply.

‘I beg
your pardon, Sir?’

‘Among
the trees:

‘But
trees have roots.’

‘Yes, they
do, Corporal. Cut through them. And go deep … very deep into the land. Is
that clear?’

‘Well,
yes, Sir:

The
Corporal drew his men away for a smoke while Herbert went back into the woods.
He found a place between three different trees that vied for the light. There
he sat on the ground and waited for Father Maguire. Leaning back, eyes closed,
he noticed that the bells of the abbey were ringing. A single toll that sounded
over the wheat fields.

2

Chamberlayne may have been
sober by late morning but the consequent hangover was very much in evidence.
When Herbert told him Brigade hadn’t provided a cross, despite their
manufacture in the thousands on site, nor consecrated ground, he reached for
the phone intent upon another conversation with Ashcroft at Brigade, and a
swipe at Murray who would probably answer the call. Herbert, however,
disconnected the line with a tap of his fingers on the stand. ‘It’s better this
way’ he said. ‘Don’t ask me why but Flanagan would prefer the anonymity of a
forest.’

Herbert
drew up a chair to the corner of Chamberlayne’s desk and borrowed his ink pen.
Without hesitating he began to endorse the Army Form A3. The anaesthesia
induced through watching a chair among flames was still effective. Herbert
could feel nothing. He wrote a legal-sounding phrase to the effect that the
sentence had been carried out at 5.46 a.m., adding, ‘without a snag’. The
burial party had cursed him quietly as they’d hacked at the thick roots and the
tight soil.

As
Herbert returned the pen to its tray Tindall kicked open the door. He stamped
across the room clutching a piece of paper.

‘No one
told me I had to provide the target.’ His face was contorted with accusation.

Chamberlayne
glared back at the RMO, his fists clenched and white.

‘Here’s
the bloody certificate.’ Tindall threw it on to the desk. The final sentence
read: ‘Death was not instantaneous.’ The ‘not’ underlined three times.

Chamberlayne
picked up the chit as though it were a stray sock. ‘Do you have to be so
precise, doctor?’

‘It’s
what happened.’

Chamberlayne
crumpled the certificate into a ball and threw it into a bin at his feet. ‘Try
again, I suggest.’

‘No, I
bloody well won’t.’

The
door smashed shut and Chamberlayne looked wearily at Herbert. Together they
listened to Tindall’s angry retreat. Someone must have stopped him because he
suddenly yelled out, ‘You’re normal, man. Get back to your Section. You’re just
bloody NORMAL. Like me. So get used to it.’

Chamberlayne
held out a languid hand and said, ‘Can I have the tags, please? This wretched
business isn’t quite over yet.’

Herbert
drew them out, catching sight of the name as they swung towards Chamberlayne. ‘Hang
on a moment.’ He drew them back and stared at the stamp on the disc: 6890 Pte
Owen Doyle. ‘What’s Flanagan doing with these?’ he whispered.

It was
obvious really thought Herbert, sinking inside himself they’d swapped
identities. Doyle was still on the run. If the Military Police stopped him, he’d
say he was Flanagan: he had the tags to prove it. Herbert gazed ahead, feeling
a shudder of sadness and grief.

No
one was looking for Flanagan any more.
He’d
returned to almost certain death, banking on a drinking defence, never really
believing it would help him. He’d worn Doyle’s discs because he’d taken Doyle’s
place.

Chamberlayne
reached over and read the name. ‘He’s the one who should have been shot.’ He
sighed as if an opportunity had been lost. ‘Wishful thinking. It’s the only way
to survive, that’s what I say’ He gulped some water. ‘I’ll need them anyway.

‘No,’
replied Herbert firmly ‘I want them.’

‘So do I.
They go to the grave people.’

The
exchange with Tindall had sharpened Chamberlayne’s temper and he, too, was
distressed. He was seeking another fight.

‘But
they’re not Flanagan’s,’ said Herbert, his limbs taut, his neck lowering in an
animal posture of readiness.

Chamberlayne’s
eyes roamed around, seeking a weaker target. He picked up the Form A3 and read
out Herbert’s endorsement on the execution. He looked further up the page, back
two weeks to Glanville’s entry of ‘DEATH’. Purposefully — and to Herbert’s
complete amazement — he crumpled the paper into a tight ball and threw it in
the bin along with Tindall’s death certificate. ‘A cat among the pigeons, as my
father used to say.

‘What
are you doing?’

‘More
wishful thinking, old son,’ replied Chamberlayne, reaching for the glass of
water, his eyelids dark and swollen. ‘When this file gets to the Judge Advocate
General’s office, all they’ll see is what should have happened: the
recommendation of General Osborne: a reprieve: some bloody mercy among the
havoc of retribution. And on that note, I think I’ll have another drink. Hair
of the dog and all that. Care to join me?’

Chamberlayne
drained his glass and then poured them each a large tot of rum. Then, like an
afterthought, he added, ‘I’ve a confession to make, Herbert.’

‘Yes?’

‘I’ve
got a cushy job at Division. It’s pure nepotism and it’s shameful. My brother
pulled a string.’ He drank deeply ‘I can’t take much more of this war. We shoot
people for that, you know’

3

Herbert left Chamberlayne
to his paperwork. Walking to his billet, he put Doyle’s tags around his neck,
conscious that they would confuse matters if he was found dead in the weeks to
come. But that was not a consideration that remotely troubled him. He’d kept
the letter, too, being absolutely certain that Harold Shaw, the poor kid who’d
handed it over, would not be anxious to get it back. The three shells were like
boulders in his pocket.

There
is no grieving in the army Let loose, it is a species of sentimentality that
weakens the moral fibre of a unit. In an officer it would further demonstrate a
want of good upbringing. One gets on with one’s duty. So the morning was spent
rehearsing for the coming battle, and the afternoon was devoted to the usual
round of drill, bayonet practice, musketry and marching. Only the football
practice was cancelled. Throughout, the sky carried unimaginable quantities of
pots and pans, as Joyce called the barrage. The men were used to it now.