My Dear I Wanted to Tell You (11 page)

‘I will never make love to you,’ he said suddenly. ‘I won’t corrupt you, and leave you with a taste for it, tainted goods, so if I’m killed no one will have you. I’m not like Burgess . . .’ The rigidity in his body as he said it was harsh and familiar to him: the result of the constant stand-off between a man’s instinct and what is required by those around him whom he respects and on whom he depends. Instinct – to make love to the girl you love, to survive, to go home.

What is required – to tear yourself away from the girl and throw yourself in the path of bullets shells mortars bombs and poison gas.

‘Who’s Burgess?’ she said, but that was not what she meant.

He stared at her. ‘I want to do everything right,’ he said, just standing there in the dark, in his coat, his arms hanging by his sides.

Tread carefully
, she thought.

‘No one can expect that of you when the entire world is doing everything wrong,’ she said. ‘Anyway, your coat is covered in bits of grass.’

‘I expect it of myself,’ he said. ‘It’s not a free-for-all. Good and evil still exist, don’t they?’

‘It means we have to work things out for ourselves, doesn’t it?’ she said. ‘Find our own route through the chaos.’

‘Well, that’s my pattern,’ he said. ‘My attempt. Even if you were to . . . I won’t. Listen, you’re the only woman I want to do it with, and I can’t do it with you – it’s too strange even talking about it with you, and you wouldn’t do it anyway, and I can’t ask you to marry me, yet, because – everything – and I can’t make you promise me anything, and I . . . but unless we’re married, if we can marry, and that would be after the – if it ever ends . . . but I’m not going to do it with anyone else . . .’

She wrapped herself very gently around him, slid her arms inside his heavy coat, put her face by his, breathed very gently.
Here, alive, love.

Chapter Nine

Near Hébuterne, France, June 1916

Here, alive, love

Be of good cheer
We’re very proud of you, Riley

Purefoy was pretending not to notice Private Burgess, at the corner of the reserve line of Edgware Road, as they had christened this one, in conversation with a boy called Dowland, one of the new conscripts, a useless, terrified little creature. Purefoy was hoping that what he was seeing was not what he was seeing. He saw Burgess see him, see that he might be being seen. He saw Burgess, carefully casual, not break off from the conversation. He saw Dowland move away. Five minutes later, he saw Dowland heading for the latrines. Ten minutes after that, a figure approached them from the far side, against the evening light.

Purefoy hoped that it was not Burgess.

It was.

What am I meant to do about this?

No question: report them both.

And then what? Reporting these things puts the men at risk of death by firing squad. They’re at risk of death every day and night anyway. Hun bullet; British bullet. So what?

But come on, there’s no proof.

That’s because you’ve avoided looking for proof. Or looking
at
it, when it was in front of your nose.

No, you can’t leap to conclusions on something like this.

No, you ignored it because you didn’t want to face it. You ignored it because the moral dilemma it presented was unanswerable.

How very rational you’re being today, Riley. ‘The moral dilemma it presented was unanswerable.’ Honh hee honh hee honh hee honh – how the men would laugh in their cod French accent at that. It’s because you don’t want to see the look of disgust, the accusation of treachery in Burgess’s eyes. You don’t want to hear him say, ‘Your dad must be so proud of you, Riley.’ It’s because of some old Paddington-boy loyalty; it’s because Burgess’s dad was your dad’s mate.

A big cheese had sent round a memo: ‘We face enormous challenges. In the weeks and months to come, every man will be required to do his utmost. With the dedication, courage and self-sacrifice of the British soldier and his colonial allies we will overcome all obstacles . . . There has been a tendency among a very small minority to attempt to avoid the patriotic duty of every man. This cannot and must not be allowed to continue. Any attempt to “Swing the Lead”, or to put oneself at risk on the battlefield in hope of injury, must and shall be punished to the limit of the law . . .’ Or words to that effect.

Purefoy could not, as he wished to, release his anger at this by saluting and saying, ‘None of my business, SIR, if the poor fuckers have lost their mind to such a degree that they do handstands on the fire-step hoping some friendly sniper from the enemy lines will shoot them through the foot, or that their right hand of its own accord shoots a bullet through their left, and they can’t find their mind to stop it doing so, because in my opinion the whole damned war is Suicide by Hun, SIR, and if the men are individually taking it on themselves to imitate unilaterally the multilateral action of the policy-makers, then who am I, SIR, to stand in judgement upon them?’ He was astounded, sometimes, by the fluid articulacy of his own fury. In his mind, at least. He did not ever
speak
like that.

Suicide by Hun: if he could interpret the internal motive of every private in the dark of the morass as the bullets whistled and the artillery rained down and the thunder burst your ears and the star shells flew so beautifully overhead, like Tinkerbell at the Christmas matinée . . . interpret their motives? He couldn’t even remember their names. Bloom, Burdock, Lovall, Bruce, Wester, Atkins . . . um . . . Merritt . . .

And what was my motive? Oh, yes – to escape the great shame of having enjoyed a French lesson from a boy. To let Mr and Mrs Waveney succeed in denying their daughter the man she loves. To prove I was a man when I clearly wasn’t. Jesus Christ, what reasons to pile yourself in blood and misery. And what is my motive now? To do my bit to help the lads to not go mad and to win the war . . .

Being a good soldier was harder to hold on to now his conscience was disoriented.

Dowland left the latrines first. Purefoy wondered what Burgess had given him. A cup of petrol? Tobacco or pepper, to give a convincing performance of conjunctivitis? Dowland was green enough that he would probably pay for the information and the technique. Or something more esoteric? A lad called Baker had been sent back a few weeks ago with a kind of cancerous seeping blob in his neck, a swelling with some kind of life of its own. He’d admitted injecting paraffin wax ten months before.

There went Burgess, back the way he had come.

Poor little Dowland was scurrying like a rabbit, down this way. Jesus, he deserved better. Burgess was gone, out of view. Riley tipped his helmet back and put his leg out to park his boot on the opposite wall of the trench, blocking the way.

*

Dowland shuddered to a halt. Pulled himself together, saluted.

‘What did he give you, Dowland?’

Dowland started to shake.

Purefoy looked at him kindly.

Dowland couldn’t speak.

These boys are no use out here. Why send them? Why not recognise that cowardice is a fact and most cowards wish they weren’t, and it’s not their fault and it’s not under their control, and keep them the hell out of our way while we get on with it?

‘
Come on, lad, it’s not the end of the world.’

‘Don’tknowwhatyou’retalkingaboutsir,’ Dowland said. ‘Sir.’

‘Did he tell you to open a .303 cartridge and chew the cordite? The MOs know about that one. If you turn up with a temperature and an erratic heartbeat, that’ll be their first assumption. Puric acid? They’re on to that too. Everyone knows puric acid is easier to get hold of out here than real jaundice. Or was it caustic black on a needle, to put through the back of your knee? What was it? Tell me.’

The boy was blinking madly. No courage in him at all. No strength. He crumpled. ‘He can get me tuberculosis, sir, if the big push holds off. He’s got a friend at the CCS. Or an injection of paraffin wax. Or condensed milk, sir – excuse me, to put up my thing and it looks like VD. I can choose.’

He couldn’t pronounce it properly. Ta-berckle-osis.

Well. Tuberculosis was a new one. And if it were true, unanswerable. Real tuberculosis would indeed get you off duty. Paraffin wax would give you an abscess – and quite possibly a cancer. But VD? That baby?

‘Well, don’t go for the condensed milk, lad. No one will believe you,’ Purefoy said.

‘Sir?’

‘They won’t believe you’ve had relations with a woman, Dowland,’ said Purefoy, clearly.

‘Sir?’ Dowland repeated.

Purefoy took hold of him by his skinny shoulder, and leant in close. ‘Soldier,’ he said quietly, in his ear. ‘Do not take or do anything Burgess tells you to take or do. If you want to half kill yourself, let the Hun do it for you, for free. And don’t ask Burgess for your money back.’

Dowland stepped back and looked at him. His nose was red. ‘I can’t stay out here, sir. I can’t. I can’t.’

Purefoy said: ‘Yes, you can.’ He sighed, and smiled. ‘Yes, you can, Dowland. It’s easy. Just do as you’re told.’

*

Burgess had been doing well with his sideline in the past weeks. Something big was coming up. Hordes of conscripted men were being shipped in. Streams of experienced soldiers were arriving from up and down the line. They lay around in the sun in piles, smoking, wearing their patience like regal gowns. It put the wind up everyone. The cavalry was there, utterly grand. After the barrage, the men would tear holes in the German front lines, and then the cavalry would gallop through them and finish the war.

God knew how the word spread, but men – seasoned soldiers, mainly – had started to appear on Edgware Road, looking nonchalant, happening to run into Burgess, happening to take a little stroll. It was far too late, as Burgess had whispered, regretfully.

Look at him now, tucked down on the fire-step rolling a cigarette in the dark, hissing sideways to a lad called Yellerton, who had a ribcage like a ladder and had been in a complete funk since that animated equestrian statue had made his speech.

‘Tomorrow,’ Burgess was saying, ‘I bet you I get back alive.’

‘Cocky,’ said Ainsworth, who was staring through the periscope, watching rolling clouds of light and dark chase each other to and fro over the German line.

‘I bet you,’ said Burgess. ‘How much?’

‘Tempting Fate,’ said Ferdinand, who had himself been breathing shallow for a week now. Purefoy wondered if it was just terror, or if Ferdinand had been chewing cordite.

‘Five bob?’ said Burgess to Yellerton. ‘Five quid?’

Purefoy smoked quietly. A low wind was teasing the glowing ember of his fag, smoking it for him and carrying away the frail twist of grey.

‘Five bob!’ said Yellerton, gamely, because – just like Couch and Bowells in the early days – he wanted to smother his innocence and fit in.

Couch, now an old-timer, rolled his eyes, and Burgess yelped: ‘You’re on!’ before Yellerton had a chance to back down.

‘How’re you going to get your money, Yellerton, if he does go west?’ Purefoy murmured, and everyone started laughing at Yellerton, and Burgess looked Purefoy straight in the eye, then pretended he hadn’t. For Burgess, Purefoy was a danger: dormant, evidently, but a danger. That Purefoy had done nothing about him yet did not mean that Purefoy would never do anything about him.

But what can I do?
Purefoy could find no logic in punishing a man for enabling other men to make desperate stupid attempts to save their own lives by endangering their own lives, when their lives were in greater danger all the time, from the very people who would seek to punish them. There was no logic.

But tuberculosis?

A burst of action: Yellerton, humiliated, awash with fear of the morrow and a toxic admiration for the soldiers he found himself among, punched Burgess hard in the face, as if to give him his own ticket out, a tidy little broken jaw.

‘Yellerton!’ Purefoy barked. ‘Burgess!’

Yellerton, little-boy tears on his soft scarlet cheek, restrained himself, settled, stood to attention. Burgess touched his chin, and tried to look as if he had hardly felt it.

Purefoy said. ‘Report to Major Locke at dawn.’

‘We’ll be otherwise engaged at dawn,’ said Burgess. ‘Sir.’

‘Then report to him now,’ said Purefoy, who had long before learnt not to rise to Burgess’s insolence.
I’m not going back to the ranks for you two. Burgess, Burgess, you fool – if I don’t, someone else will, and then they’ll want to know why I didn’t . . . After this is over, after this offensive, I’ll face up to this, and I’ll deal with you. I have to. I have to.

‘He’s otherwise engaged now,’ said Burgess. ‘Sir.’

‘Then go and wait for him,’ said Purefoy.

Burgess smiled. Waiting outside the officers’ dug-out was a lot cosier than waiting here.

And then the Allied shells, as if they had taken their deep breath now, started again. Yellerton shrieked, against the wall like a dog, his legs quivering.

‘But they’re nearly at breaking point, aren’t they, sir?’ he shouted.

They’ve been nearly at breaking point for about a year and a half now, Yellerton, Purefoy didn’t say. There had been eight days of this bombardment: three thousand guns along twenty miles of front would do it, destroy everything, and tomorrow we go over the top . . .
Well, well. I’ve done it before; I’ll do it again. I’ll do my best. It’s all I can do.

*

The next morning the sky was high and pale and blue, the rain light, the air cold. For a moment, Purefoy thought:
It’s only countryside.

The whistle went for the first wave.

Purefoy didn’t see the first wave going over. He was praying, and when the whistle went for the second wave,
us
, he stopped praying, and he looked to his own men.

Locke shouted.

Burgess spat.

Couch said, ‘Thank you, Mother.’

Ferdinand tried to say something about unto something we commend but forgot the words.

Dowland and Yellerton both had their eyes closed.

Purefoy and Locke and Ainsworth scrambled over side by side, which created a bond between them that could never be broken, and a wall around them that would probably never be breached. Walk, they had been ordered. Follow the first wave and back them up. The enemy has been destroyed by the barrage of the past days. Approach slowly and steadily.

They walked.

Gunfire.

There wasn’t meant to be gunfire.

The gunners were supposed to be dead, and their guns blown up. It poured, like horizontal rain. A storm; a deluge.

Walk? Into gunfire?

Dowland looked to Purefoy. Purefoy looked to Locke. Locke looked for a signal.

There was no other signal.

Orders were orders. What was held to be the case was not the case, but the men had to proceed as if it were.

They proceeded.

It was very soon apparent that eight days of bombardment had stirred up old corpses and mud, reburnt old burnt trees, reshaped existing craters in new and more cavernous forms – but the barbed wire was fine. As were the bunkers. And the machine-guns. And the artillery.

Couch fell, into the mud, three feet out from the parapet, face down, among others.

Ferdinand collapsed into the German wire that wasn’t meant to be there: landed on his knees and fell no further because the wire held him up. He looked as if he was praying, his head falling forward, his knees on a hassock of mud. He was not praying alone.

Do we assume there’s a plan? Do we just . . .?

Proceed.

The word ‘attrition’ entered Riley’s mind, like a quick little worm, and ran round and round. He hadn’t known what it meant. It meant going on grinding them down until they had to give up. Grinding down by pure manpower and steelpower and explosive power.
Grinding who?
Purefoy thought.
Grinding us? Why aren’t we all dead? Or are we dead?
And then in a single psychic movement his entire self curled up and retreated, swift as a bird flying over a copsed hill into the sunset, and he was in the very small place at the back of his skull. Outside passed along, like underwater. He heard his breathing in his head, felt his heartbeat fill out the empty space, racketing, roaring.