Starshine (29 page)

‘I took over, did I not, because you were demoted to sergeant and transferred to another company?’

Williams banged the table. ‘Now stop right there, Hickman,’ he shouted. ‘I warned you that you must not denigrate the witness. He is not on trial. Murphy is. Stop that line of questioning.’

‘But, sir—’

‘No. Flanagan arrested this man walking away from the line while his regiment was engaged with the enemy. The accused said he would not return to the line. Are you disputing those facts?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Then, Sergeant Major, you may return to your unit.’

‘Sir.’ Flanagan stamped an about-turn, leered at Hickman and marched out of the court. Jim looked in appeal at the young lieutenant but he was doodling with his pencil on the pad before him.

‘Get on with it, then, Hickman.’

‘I wish to call Captain Simmons, the officer commanding A Company in the 1st Battalion of the Warwickshire Regiment.’

Simmons, now with his arm unslung, answered Hickman’s questions languidly. Yes, Murphy had been a competent soldier, as far as he could say, but then he didn’t know the man well, having only been brought into the battalion a month ago, with Colonel Cox. No, he did not seem unduly slow or tired in the line. Most of them were. Nor had he shown any signs of subversion. Jim realised that, by attacking Cox’s ability to know Bertie because of the colonel’s brief time in command, he was also, for the same reason, undermining Simmons as a definitive witness of good character. With a sigh, he let Simmons go.

‘I trust there are no more witnesses, Hickman?’ Colonel Williams’s voice was now overlaid with sarcasm. ‘No? Good. Do you or the accused wish to make a
final
’ – he emphasised the word heavily – ‘statement in his defence?’

‘Yes, sir. I will speak on behalf of the prisoner.’ Jim took a deep breath and looked hard at the board. Only Williams was looking at him. The other three officers were doodling on their pads, their heads down, seemingly disinterested.

He began: ‘Bertram Murphy has served continually – except for short periods of well-earned leave – in Flanders and on the Somme for three years now. He was not called up but joined the army of his own accord because he wished to serve and fight the Germans.

‘He was gainfully employed in Birmingham, in the company where I worked, and he was of good character in that he was never in any way in trouble with the police. He was promoted in the field after a sharp engagement in the second battle of Ypres and, until he was apprehended behind the lines, he served well as a front-line soldier, as I can testify as his company sergeant major.

‘However,’ Hickman gulped here, for he seemed to be making no impression on the board, ‘he had been in the line under constant shell, rifle and machine-gun fire for nearly three weeks without relief. It is my belief that his mind cracked at that point under the strain …’

The lieutenant looked up. ‘Has a doctor reported this?’

‘Er … no, sir. I understand he was examined but no conventional illness was discovered. But I believe that it is very difficult to establish shell shock without considerable—’

‘Ah, shell shock!’ Williams’s voice was full of derision. ‘We’ve all got that.’

Hickman continued, stoically. ‘I believe that this man is ill, sir. He is no coward, as I can testify, having gone over the top with him many times. As a soldier of a civilised country, he should be sent to hospital for examination and treatment, not to a firing squad.’

The young lieutenant raised his pencil. ‘Yes, but is Murphy happy to return to the line, then?’

Blast! The question he dreaded. ‘I believe that Corporal Murphy is not capable of answering that question properly, sir.’

Williams sprang into the opening. ‘Well, I believe it is our duty to ask him that question ourselves.’ He directed a withering glare at Bertie. ‘Corporal Murphy.’

‘Yes, sir,’ answered Bertie dreamily.

‘Will you go back into the line?’

Bertie shook his head. ‘Ah no, sir. I believe that it is wrong for us to go on fightin’ and killin’ without gettin’ any result. The good Lord does not want us to do that. I know.’

Williams nodded slowly and turned his head triumphantly to his fellow judges. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘I think we have our answer, gentlemen.’ Then to Hickman. ‘Do you have anything further to say
of relevance
in mitigation?’

Jim shook his head. ‘No, sir. Except that he’s a good man, a sick man, who should not be shot out of hand.’

‘Humph. There is no question of anything being out of hand in this matter, I will have you know. That is what this court is about.’ He turned back to his colleagues. ‘Now, gentlemen. Is there any need for us to retire?’

The four of them leant together and conferred in low tones for some minutes. Then Williams nodded in satisfaction and then sat back and addressed Bertie: ‘Corporal Murphy. You have been found guilty of desertion in the face of the enemy, with no mitigating circumstances. You are therefore sentenced to death by firing squad at a place to be arranged. A report of this court martial will be submitted to the Judge Advocate General’s department and, for approval of the sentence, to the brigadier commanding this brigade and thence to the Commander-in-Chief, Field Marshal Haig. That will be all. Take him away.’

Hickman watched in despair as Bertie was led away by the MPs. He turned to catch the eye of any member of the board, but they all disappeared through a back door and he and Prentice, the prosecuting officer, were left standing together.

The lieutenant offered his hand. ‘I’m terribly sorry, Sarn’t Major,’ he said. ‘I think you put up a magnificent show in here and you are quite right. The man should be sent to hospital, not back to jail.’

Hickman felt his temper rise. ‘That’s all bloody well. But they’re going to shoot the poor little fucker. And you helped to do it. Upper-class shits. All of you.’ He realised that tears were running down his cheeks.

Prentice bowed his head for a moment, then he lifted it. ‘This is a terrible war, Hickman,’ he said. ‘Good men are being killed all the time. You have my condolences.’ Then he turned and walked away.

On a sudden impulse, Jim turned and ran to the door through
which the officers had disappeared. He was just in time to see the young cavalry lieutenant mounting a smart grey.

‘Excuse me, sir.’ He put up a hand to the rein.

The young man looked down on him with a cool gaze. ‘There’s nothing more to be done about this, you know,’ he said.

‘Look,’ Jim’s grip tightened on the rein. ‘You are an intelligent and well-educated man. You’re going to be a lawyer, if you get through this. You must know that what happened in there was a travesty. It was … it was … unjust. That’s what it was. Unjust.’

‘No it wasn’t, and say “sir” when you speak to me.’

‘Why wasn’t it unjust, for God’s sake?’

‘Because the man was caught fleeing from the front line without his weapons. If he had admitted that he was confused and immediately said that he would return to the line, I for one would have opted for a reduction to the ranks and three months hard labour. But, as it was …’ He shrugged his shoulders.

Hickman looked up at the face above him. The young man’s cheeks were pink and his brow unlined. His eyes were steady and they revealed that he was very, very sure of himself.

‘Have you ever been in the line?’

The man jerked his horse’s head round sharply, taking the rein away from Jim’s hand. ‘How dare you speak to me like that,’ he said. ‘If you continue in that fashion, I will have you on a charge, DCM or no bloody DCM. Now get out of my way.’

He dug in his heels and cantered away. Hickman watched him go with hate in his heart. Then he turned and walked towards where Bertie was being held. There was no avoiding it, he had to go and see him.

This time the sergeant MP gave him a nod and, speaking strictly to attention said, ‘Bloody well done, Sarn’t Major, back there. The little bugger doesn’t deserve that sentence. Do you want to see him?’

‘Yes, please.’

‘Stay as long as you like.’

It was clear that, once again, Bertie had been crying, but he rose with alacrity and embraced Jim. ‘Thank you very much, Jimmy, for tryin’ so hard for me. The best lawyer in the land – and I include Ireland – couldn’t have done better, for sure.’

Hickman sank onto the bottom of the bed. ‘Sorry, Bertie, I think I buggered it up by taking on that shit of a colonel. I got up his arse and he was determined to sink you. I don’t know whether there’s a chance of a formal appeal but I’ll have a go.’

‘Och, no son. I’ve had enough, one way or another. I’m happy to go and see what Jesus has got to say to me. A bit of perpetual starshine would be nice. Oh, I could see they’d made up their minds to shoot me. It’s just …’ His voice tailed away.

‘What?’

‘Well,’ he sniffed and took out a filthy handkerchief and wiped his cheeks and eyes, ‘it’s just me dad and Polly. I’d hate them to think of me as a coward.’

Jim seized his hand. ‘There’s no question of that, lad. I promise. I will explain everything to Polly. I’ve already written to prepare her a bit and I will write and explain everything properly as soon as I get a chance. As for your dad. Well – he can’t read, can he?’

‘Not a bloody word.’

‘Right, then … er … when the time comes, I will get a nice company letter done by the clerk saying what a bloody fine soldier you’d been and … er … you know.’

‘Now that would be nice of yer, Jimmy. Yes. I must write to Polly meself, of course, now I know what’s going to happen.’

‘There’s still a chance, Bertie. The brigadier and the big man himself, Haig, has got to approve it. They could well look at your
record and say “this bloke’s been a marvellous lad and there’s no way we’re going to shoot him”.’

Bertie forced a smile. ‘I don’t think so, Jimmy. I really don’t. Apart from anything else, them fellers don’t like the Irish after what happened in Dublin last year. They think we’re all goin’ to talk the blokes in the front line to give it up. And, if I got back, I’d probably have a go at it, I would so. No. Let it be.’

They were silent for a while. ‘Yer know,’ Bertie continued, ‘gettin’ shot like this is very clean, ain’t it? I mean it’s a good, clean way to go. None of this horrible shrapnel stuff cuttin’ you up in little pieces. I wouldn’t want me good looks spoilt now, would I?’

Then it was his turn to lean across and take his friend’s hand. ‘The other good thing is that it leaves the field clear for you with Polly.’ He held up a hand as Jim opened his mouth to remonstrate. ‘No, no. It’s better all round. You’d make a much better husband than me and we couldn’t go on embarrassin’ the dear thing any longer with the two of us mopin’ after her and she having to make up her mind now, could we? I’ll be writin’ to her to tell her that.’

Jim shook his head but couldn’t speak.

‘Now, how’s your shoulder?’

‘Oh, I should have this dressing and sling off within a few days. I kept it on deliberately in the hope of getting a bit of sympathy from the board today. Waste of bloody time.’ He grinned. ‘Should have known better.’

They chatted for a time in a desultory fashion, then Jim got up to go. ‘Is there anything you need?’

‘Ah well, I’d love a run down the bars of Pop with you one last time before I go, but I doubt if they’d allow that, would they now?’

They embraced once more and Jim left, his eyes moist. He returned to his billet and sat on his bed, staring at the wall unseeingly. There
could be no hope for Bertie, he knew that. The French mutinies, Bertie’s Irishness, the need in the middle of this most horrible of battles to ‘encourage the others’, all militated against the verdict being overturned further up the chain. He also knew that there could be no formal legal appeal, the adjutant had told him that. What a travesty! What a bloody travesty!

He lay back on the bed and closed his eyes and tried to think. A letter, perhaps to his MP back home? He couldn’t even remember his name, but he could get it. Or – what was the name of that journalist bloke who edited
John Bull,
the weekly magazine? He was also an MP. He was supposed to be the soldier’s friend. Bottomley, that was it. He pulled a sheet of paper towards himself and began writing. He described the court martial and the prejudice of the chairman of the board and of Flanagan. Ah yes, Flanagan! There would be a score to pay there later!

He finished the letter, addressed it to ‘Mr Bottomley, Editor of John Bull Magazine, Fleet Street, London, England’, and posted it. One last hope! Was there anything more he could do? A personal appeal to the commander-in-chief, Field Marshal Haig, was probably hopeless. What could a humble warrant officer grade II say to a field marshal that could possibly have any effect? But it might be worth trying. He sat at the table again with pen and paper and made his appeal, on the grounds that Bertie had a good record and was undoubtedly ill. He had no idea where Haig was based but addressed the letter to him at ‘British Army Headquarters, France’ and hoped for the best. He sat back – that was the best he could do. Bertie was now in the hands of his God. The thought made him kneel and offer up a prayer, clumsily pleading for whoever was up there to intervene for his old friend. Then he slumped back onto the bed. He felt useless. What was he now? No longer a skilled craftsman who could set a diamond proudly
onto a gold or platinum base, but a crude killer of men. That’s what he was good at now. Better get back to it and get on with it. It didn’t matter now if he was next in line for a shell or a bullet.

The next morning, Hickman went to see the army doctor who had been treating his shoulder and requested that he be signed off and allowed to return to the line. The man examined him thoroughly and then reluctantly agreed. He was to report back to his battalion in three days’ time.

The following morning, however, an official army letter arrived. It told him that he had been posted to a battalion of the Suffolks that had limped out of the line after a thorough mauling up on the ridges and was now, in the well-practised manner, having its holes plugged with new recruits and men, like Hickman, who had recovered from wounds. Jim smiled at it. It was perfectly clear. Williams had reported back to Colonel Cox and the latter had acted quickly to get rid of him. A bad influence! Shovel him off to another regiment, but keep him in the dreaded Salient until that final bullet or shell found him. The smile hardened. Well, he didn’t fucking well care! But he had to see Bertie again before the end. He had two days more before he was due to report.

The next day another letter arrived, the envelope this time carrying his address in Polly’s much loved, precise handwriting.

It was clear that she was distraught. What, she demanded, had happened? Bertie could not possibly be a deserter or a coward, nobody could possibly convict anyone with his engaging personality – his innocent blue eyes and curly red hair. He was only a child, for goodness’ sake. What was Jim doing to help? Could she have the details? Was it true that soldiers who deserted while on active service could be shot? She had tried to gain permission to travel to Flanders but had been told that the region was closed to anyone outside the serving forces.
What could she do? What about writing to her MP, would that help? She had written to Bertie at his old battalion address. Would that get through to him? She would not mention anything to Bertie’s father at the moment … And so it went on.

Jim’s heart sank. It was clear that she loved Bertie dearly, much more than she loved him. Then he felt ashamed at the thought – a narrow, self-centred thought. She wanted to
do something
. Perhaps the plea to the local MP would help. So, wearily, he picked up his pen again. This time he explained to her all that had happened at the court martial and all that he had tried to do. Yes, he wrote, an appeal to her local MP might be of use. But there was little time. The army acted quickly on these things.

He sealed it sadly. Perhaps this was the end of whatever she had felt for him – perhaps, in her heart, she was blaming him, for she knew he had always felt paternal about Bertie and attempted to shield him from the miseries of life. He sighed. Then he remembered that he had forgotten to tell her about his wound. That would explain why he was not there to look after Bertie. He opened the letter again and added a PS – a seeming afterthought of no real importance and clearly not seeking sympathy.

The following morning, the last day of his sick leave, he walked to see Bertie again, confident that his new friend the redcap sergeant would allow him to visit. The sergeant was there but Bertie was not.

‘’E’s gone to a place with one o’ them unpronounceable names, sir,’ he said. ‘I know it because … well … others ’ave gone there. It’s called Oostbeke – dunno where it is, though. Somewhere back in Belgium, I think.’ He felt in his breast pocket. ‘’Ere’s the address. I thought you’d be over so I wrote it down.’

Hickman frowned and accepted the paper. ‘Why would they send him there?’

The sergeant looked embarrassed. He lowered his voice. ‘I think it’s where they send ’em off – you know, early in the mornin’ like.’

‘Oh God!’ The army was rushing it through, sweeping the execution away so that no further trouble, no possible last-minute embarrassment, could be caused. He thanked the sergeant and strode away. The thought of not seeing Bertie again, of not being able to comfort him, of giving him some hope – Haig, Bottomley, the local MP – before the end, was intolerable.

His new battalion was resting at Pop, so he found his new adjutant and requested two days’ further leave so that he could visit Bertie.

‘Sorry, Sarn’t Major,’ said the officer, a tough-faced veteran with the ribbon of the Military Cross pinned to his tunic, ‘we’re going up the line again the day after tomorrow and we need you pretty desperately. In your company, we’ve got four sergeants and they’re all under twenty-one. Can’t spare you, I’m afraid. You’ve got to knock these lads into shape. I shall expect you at eight ack emma in the morning.’

And so Jim Hickman went into battle once again but this time without his old comrade, except for the memory of his tear-stained face which sat atop the battle pack on his back as heavy as three extra entrenching tools. He scribbled a note to Bertie – the last one? – telling him about the appeal to Bottomley, Haig and the local MP and that Polly and he were thinking of him and urging him to keep up his spirits. He would write again from the line as soon as they had moved in.

It was now mid October and the seemingly constant summer rain had been replaced by early autumnal storms. But the British had fought tenaciously up the series of ridges to the point where they were just below their precious target: the iconic village of Passchendaele, which had given its name to the battle that had raged since 31st
July. Jim was now fighting like a machine: snarling at his men when they were slow to move, demanding constant watchfulness and combativeness and prowling the succession of craters that made up the line like some black-faced creature from Hades, calling for ‘one last push’ as though he was Haig himself.

The truth was that now Hickman did not care if he was wounded or killed. He led every attack across the morass personally, perfecting a technique of firing his rifle – he was entitled to a revolver now, but he scorned it – from the hip accurately as he squelched, often thigh-deep, from one shell hole to another. Although men fell all around him, miraculously he survived.