The Care and Management of Lies (23 page)

“I’m no bloody lawyer,” said Wells, his
Field Service Pocket Book
open at the instructions for a Field General Court-Martial. “But I think I’ve got this right.”

To Hawkes, it seemed that Wells waved the book as if it were a household ledger. He was concerned by the speed with which the major wanted the hearing to be over, and his willingness to dispatch Private Brissenden to the firing squad. Barclay appeared less trigger-happy. Hawkes hoped he could persuade both officers that Tom Brissenden deserved an acquittal—if only on the grounds that he needed every man he could get his hands on for tomorrow’s assault on the German trenches.

“All right, let’s call Sergeant Knowles to bring in the accused and the witnesses, and get on with this, shall we?” said Hawkes.

A redcap on guard outside pulled back the tent flap as Sergeant Knowles led two more military policemen, who brought Private Tom Brissenden into the tent. His hands and feet were shackled, rendering him unable to move at more than a demeaning shuffle. Knowles seemed less than pleased by the line of four men who followed, and who took up their places alongside the flap, waiting for the call to give evidence.

Wells cleared his throat, announced that the court was duly constituted, and informed those present that the accused would be given the right of challenge, and that after the hearing the accused would remain with the escort and a permitted “friend of the accused.” He asked Tom to state his name, rank, and army number. Tom responded, his gaze directly on Wells. The fixed look seemed to shake Wells from his slouch, and he stood taller to ask Tom how he would plead. Tom met the eyes of each officer in turn, as if to ensure they heard every word. Hawkes watched, leaning forward on his elbows.

There was a pause. Tom stood tall.

“Not guilty.”

Hawkes sighed with relief and closed his eyes.

“Right,” said Wells. “That’s a start. No one will be getting out of here in a hurry. Sergeant Knowles, would you take your place. Identify yourself and give us your account of the accused’s guilt in this matter.”

Knowles stepped forward and snapped to attention, saluting the officers. He recited his name, rank, and army number, and for good measure gave his number of years in service. He took a short breath before beginning his evidence, telling a clear story of instructing Private Brissenden as to his duty as sentry, and informing him of the hour he would take up that duty. He described finding Tom on the trench fire step with his eyes closed.

“Captain Barclay, do you have a question for Sergeant Knowles?”

“Yes, sir.” Barclay turned from Wells to the witness. “Sergeant Knowles, how long had Private Brissenden been on duty at the time of the offence?”

“Five hours, sir.”

“Five hours? Please correct me if I’m wrong, but is not sentry duty limited to two hours to avoid the fatigue associated with nighttime duty in one spot, and in the dark, and following a day’s work in the trench?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then perhaps you would tell us why Private Brissenden was on the fire step for five hours.”

“Two hours is recommended, sir, but if needed, the sentry must remain in place until relieved. We’re short of men until reinforcements come up the line ready for the push.”

Wells looked at Hawkes, who confirmed in a whisper that new recruits were due to join the battalion within hours, as described by Sergeant Knowles. Wells nodded.

“Do you have another question, Captain Barclay?”

“No, sir.”

“Captain Hawkes?”

Hawkes stood up and faced Knowles. “I know this might appear an obvious question, but as Private Brissenden has pleaded not guilty, it must be asked. Was it dark at the time you discovered the offence?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Right. . . . And illumination?”

“We don’t want the enemy to see where we are, sir.”

“Yes, of course. As I thought. And this was at what time?”

“One o’clock, sir.”

“And Brissenden had been on duty for five hours?”

“Yes, sir.” Knowles paused. “As I have stated already, under oath.”

“Quite.” Hawkes took a breath. “So it was dark when you approached Private Brissenden.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I would like to know how you knew he was asleep.”

Sergeant Knowles looked at Wells, and cleared his throat. Hawkes could see his jaw tighten and his eyes turn cold. He knew Knowles hated him. It didn’t matter. At that moment he wasn’t striving for Knowles’ friendship.

“There was no movement coming from him, sir.”

“No movement. I see. It occurs to me, you see, that a soldier used to the trench—and this was not Private Brissenden’s first sentry duty, nor his first visit to the front line—would be adept at being still. Watching and being still are part of the job of sentry duty. Forgive me for playing devil’s advocate, but a man’s life could be lost to a firing squad within the next hour and a half, and I think we should look at this with care. How did you know Private Brissenden was asleep?”

Hawkes was aware of Barclay leaning forward in his chair. He looked sideways. Wells was studying the pages on courts-martial.
He’s like the rest of us, learning on the job.

“He jumped when I touched him with my bayonet, sir.” Knowles reddened. Hawkes had set a trap, and he had fallen into it. He was humiliated.

“Sergeant, would it be true to say that being touched with the end of a bayonet would make any man jump? It tends to lead to death. Perhaps you would explain.” Hawkes felt confident now. He glanced at the witnesses. They were smiling.

“I have been a soldier in His Majesty’s army since our monarch was Her Majesty, and I know when I see a soldier sleeping on the job. It’s my job to know and to make sure there is punishment. The lives of all my men depend upon me doing my job.” Knowles seemed to grit his teeth again. “Sir.”

“Of course. Thank you, Sergeant Knowles. That will be all.”

Wells called the witnesses, one by one. Each man was required to swear an oath with one hand placed on the Holy Bible, then recite his name, rank, and army number. Wells sighed again and again as Barclay and Hawkes questioned the men in turn. Finally he held up his right hand, and once again Barclay and Hawkes looked at each other, and at the senior officer’s other hand, still clutching the manual open to the page that should have been guiding his every word and action.

“We have heard witnesses for defense, and for character. Personally, I would like to hear what the accused has to say before we adjourn the court for our consideration of findings.”

Throughout the trial, Hawkes had felt his animosity towards Major Wells building. They were all tainted by this war, but Wells had a flippancy about him, as if one more dead soldier were just one more dead soldier. He wondered if this was Wells’ way of retaining a distance from all that had come to pass, and all that would come to pass before the week was over. For Hawkes it would be one more day of preparation, one more day to make sure every man was ready, that—quietly, with compassion—every man had penned a letter to his family, and if he couldn’t write, because God love them, there were those who couldn’t, then men like Croft and Brissenden would write their letters and cards for them.

“Now then, Private Brissenden, you will give a full and truthful account of what had been happening up until and including the time you were charged with sleeping while on sentry duty.” Wells twisted a pencil in his fingers as he spoke. “Full and truthful.”

Tom Brissenden began. He told of taking up his duty at eight o’clock, and of the conditions at the time. He described hearing various sounds coming from no-man’s-land, and summoning another soldier at ten o’clock to listen, and they decided it was the rats. There had been some sporadic gunfire, which led him to believe a German sniper was taking aim at any noise he heard.

“Then you fell asleep?” asked Wells.

“No, sir.”

“Go on.”

“On sentry duty, sir, you have a job to do, and that is to protect the trench, to look out for any enemy movement, anything suspicious. That doesn’t mean to say you don’t think about other things, does it? Not when you’re out there for five hours.”

Hawkes looked at Knowles, and looked away again.

Tom continued. “I was awake. I had my eyes closed, but I was listening.”

“You had your eyes closed, Private?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you couldn’t see, isn’t that so?”

“I couldn’t see anyway, sir. It was pitch-black. You only need your ears when it’s like that, and your ears work best when your eyes are not trying to do the job as well.”

The three officers looked at each other.

“What were you thinking about, Brissenden?” said Wells.

“My wife. My farm. I was thinking how better my stomach would feel for a good meal in it. I was thinking what my wife would do if she had bully beef to cook with, and I was thinking of the dinner she’d just cooked for me.”

Edmund Hawkes looked down at the notes he’d scribbled. He felt the heat rush to his face.

“That she had just cooked for you?” said Wells.

“Yes, she cooks for me, sir. Even though I’m not there, she cooks the dinner and the tea and she tells me about what she’s put on the table. I close my eyes and I think of that food, sir. But I don’t eat with my ears, so I can still do my duty.”

Wells turned to Hawkes, and spoke, his voice low but intemperate. “This is turning into a bloody farce. I’ve a good mind to send this joker out there now with a dozen guns facing him.”

“He’s an honest man, sir. I will vouch for him.”

“Impartiality’s not your strong point, is it, Hawkes?” He looked at Barclay. “You’d better continue with this before I take out my pistol and put a bullet in his head and in that sergeant’s head along with him.”

Barclay stood up, clearing his throat as he looked at the sheet of paper in front of him, then at Tom.

“Private Brissenden, you were one of the first from your village to enlist, is that correct?”

“All the lads from my farm, bar two, went before me, sir. I couldn’t see them go unless I enlisted.”

“Good man.” Barclay blushed, rustling the papers. “Now, Brissenden, my fellow officers and I are rather intrigued by your ability to hear more than anyone else.”

Hawkes looked up at Barclay.
Christ, now he’s trying to get clever, like Wells.
He looked away, towards the witnesses, each of whom had described the night when Knowles had made Brissenden crawl out of the trench beyond the parapet for his hours of sentry duty.

“Could you explain, Private Brissenden?” Barclay looked at Tom.

“Just as well this lad wasn’t planning on being a solicitor, don’t you think, Hawkes?” Wells leaned towards Hawkes, whispering with whisky breath.

“I’ve been a farmer all my life,” said Tom. “You get used to listening. I can be fast asleep at home, in my bed, and I’ll know if one of my cows is in trouble, or if a fox is about. Part of me’s always awake, you see, even when I’m asleep.” He looked at the officers before him and added, “Like a mother with her baby.”

There was silence in the room, and Hawkes imagined that each man felt a warmth rise within him, and a memory, perhaps not quite forgotten, of his mother’s embrace.

Wells coughed, then stood up. “Stand down, Private Brissenden. I think we have enough evidence with which to embark upon a consideration of findings with regard to this Field General Court-Martial.” He nodded to the redcaps, who had been standing by the tent flap. “Please escort the prisoner to safe quarter, and Sergeant Knowles, you may march the men outside, where they must remain at attention.”

“Yes, sir!” Knowles led the soldiers out, following the military police.

Wells leaned back in his chair. “Gentlemen, now we must decide upon Brissenden’s fate. Guilty. Acquittal. Or if we can’t get that far, we refer the case to a General Court-Martial under special circumstances. Personally, I don’t want a bloody colonel breathing down my neck because he’s got better things to do than listen to a farmer who can hear a pin drop in his sleep and thinks his wife is cooking for him. Remind me to ask him if she’s got a recipe to make bully beef less likely to turn my stomach to water. No wonder the latrines are overflowing.” He paused. “Right, then. Let’s get on with it—the Hun’s not likely to wait for us, so we’d better cast our votes. It’s almost dawn, so we don’t have much time. Five minutes, I would say.”

Hawkes leafed through his
Field Service Pocket Book
, the guide to how to be a soldier in a time of war. He was tired, worn down by the trenches and by trying to do the right thing when death exhaled its fetid breath at them every single day. He thought how ridiculous it was, how incongruous, that this one book—no bigger than the Book of Common Prayer his mother took to church on Sundays—should have directions on sanitation, on first aid, and on cooking, on marching orders and on the care of horses, along with instructions for sending a man to his death. He flicked through the damp and yellowing leaves of small, almost unreadable print, and came upon a simple diagram. It illustrated the correct way to secure horses by means of linking. The horses stood side by side, touching nose to tail, the bridle of one looped around the saddle of the other. They could not move forward or backwards. They were stuck in one place. And at that moment, studying the diagram, Edmund Hawkes felt as if he were one of those horses, trapped by the circumstance of war. He was stuck in the middle, tied in a godforsaken place.

Chapter 17

CHARGES. Sec. 6 (1K) When a soldier acting as sentinel on active service sleeping on his post. Maximum punishment—Death.

—
FIELD SERVICE POCKET BOOK
,
1914

R
everend Marchant had woken early and was now in his uniform, seated at a wooden desk in his tent, his arms folded and his chin down, as if he had lapsed back into sleep. Yet exhaustion had not claimed him again. He was deep in thought, considering his role as an army chaplain. He shifted his weight in the chair, raising his head and looking at the center of the canvas in the predawn lamplight, casting his eyes up to a series of triangles joined at the top of the tentpole. He lifted his hands to his face and rubbed his eyes, then sighed, stood up, and began to pace. Marchant had wanted to prove something to his parishioners and to himself by volunteering for service. At the declaration of war, he had received word from the diocese that there should be support for the government, and that it would be policy to encourage enlistment among young men in the parish. And at that moment, in the shadow of war’s engagement, it seemed to Reverend Marchant that it was the right thing to do, if in his own way.
Onward Christian Soldiers. God is on your side, boys.
He had considered it best to walk the path of balance, so in truth he had not encouraged enlistment, as such, though he had supported local boys who stood up to be counted.

It wasn’t long before a trickle of the buff-colored envelopes began to arrive in town.
We regret to inform . . .
They seemed to come in on a tide—there would be a week with one or two, and then a flood, which diminished to a trickle again before the next run. And his daily round became more urgent, more troubling. He was turned away from as many bereaved homes as he was ushered into, and at once his sermons felt flimsy, as if they were made of gauze that flapped in the wind rather than the fabric of truth, strong, impermeable. A conversation about planning for the Christmas services and the school Nativity play seemed lacking, and his sense that there was something wanting within him came to a head during a discussion with Mrs. Fordham, who complained about rice strewn across the churchyard following a wedding—another hurried wedding before a young man left for France. He realized that he cared little for the rice, and even less for discussion about the positioning of flowers for evensong. After much meditation and a good deal of prayer, he decided to offer himself to the army. He had given war his blessing, and now he would take that blessing to war. But what had he expected?

Being referred to as “padre” was at first unsettling, and seemed to define how his role had changed.
Padre?
Though it smacked of Rome to an Anglican, he felt comfort in the word
. Father.
And had he expected a more enthusiastic greeting for a man of the cloth from the soldiers? His Sunday services at home drew a scattered congregation—perhaps only fifteen, twenty, at best—but he thought the fire and power of battle might bring a man to prayer. He soon discovered he had made an error in his assumption, though the soldiers were always cordial, and would welcome him when he went up the line to the trenches—and increasingly he went up the line with the men, and found that God worked through him just as well when he was helping a man write a letter, or listening to him talk about his young lady at home, or his work, or family. Kezia—bless her—had sent him a cake, which he cut into as many pieces as he could without it crumbling and took to soldiers in the front-line trenches. To a man they commented that they had never tasted rosemary in a cake, and it wasn’t half bad. He discovered why those telegrams came in fits and starts—that all the men from a single town could be lost in a “big show” when they went forward into the cannonade as one. In between the battles, there were the boys who were picked off by snipers or raiding parties. It all became so clear once he was in France.

Reverend Marchant had earned respect, for he had shown his bravery in the heat of battle, when he crawled onto no-man’s-land to offer succor to the dying, to give the last rites to one soldier after another. He accompanied men to the casualty clearing stations, and if a doctor shouted an instruction, then Reverend Marchant did as he was told, and on more than one occasion discovered himself to be at the center of a battle to save a life, rather than bear witness to its ending. Now, on this day, in the grainy darkness, he felt himself doubting not only his calling but his place in the midst of war. Who should he be? What would God expect of him?

Marchant drew back the tent flap and walked towards another tent where he knew he’d be able to get a cup of tea, and perhaps even a bacon sandwich—though the bacon was crisp enough to break a tooth, and the bread would crack any that the bacon hadn’t damaged. The men called it the “refreshment tent.”

“Reverend Marchant! Reverend Marchant!”

Kezia’s father turned and squinted in the half-light. “Dorr—I mean, Thea—is that you?”

“Yes, it’s me. How lovely to see you!” And forgetting all propriety, Thea held out her arms to the man she had clearly always respected, but knew best through the love and regard of her friend. She looked as if she had never felt so happy to see someone. “I heard you’d come out to France, Reverend Marchant, but I never expected our paths to cross.”

“I’m not surprised to see you, Thea—you’re a brave young woman. But what are you doing here at this time in the morning?”

“Oh, we had to bring supplies in for the big push tomorrow. And there are some patients to take back to the field hospital who couldn’t be moved yesterday. We need to make room for a big influx of wounded, so there’s a lot to do today.”

“Have you had word from our dear Tom?”

Thea shrugged. “I’m his sister—so not only am I probably the last person to whom he would write, but I’ve moved on from my last billet, so my post hasn’t caught up with me yet, and I’ve not heard from him in a couple of weeks. I’ve had a letter from Kezia though, and she says she’s had communications from Tom—he writes regularly.”

“Good. I’m glad to hear it—and I hope he’s well.” Marchant looked down and stamped his feet to ward off the sudden chill that seemed to envelop his body.

Thea shivered. “It’s colder today, isn’t it? At least I’ve got a cake from Kezia back at the billet.”

“She’s become a very good cook, I must say,” said Marchant.

Thea nodded. “Better than anyone expected.”

“Yes, and finding out what it means to be a farmer’s wife—and probably more farmer than wife, now Tom’s away. I’m just realizing what it takes to run a farm, from her letters.”

Thea blew out her cheeks. “Well, I’d better get on, Reverend Marchant.” She held out her hand. “I do hope we see each other again—I’m sure we will.”

Marchant watched Thea walk away, back to the motor ambulance parked outside the main operating tent, then turned back in the direction of the refreshment tent.

B
y the time Kezia heard the clatter of hobnail boots on the path, she had been up and about for some time. She had just taken fresh bread from the oven, along with a batch of currant scones. A spoonful of dripping was sizzling in the frying pan, ready for the bacon. Ada had taken a dozen fresh eggs from the chicken house, so breakfast would be on the table almost as soon as the men had washed their hands and dried them on the cloth already placed on the draining board. She might be tired, but Kezia had let nothing slip. The only difference between this day and a time before the war was that the farmer’s wife was not wearing one of her day dresses, but was once more clad in a pair of Tom’s corduroy work trousers, topped with a flannel shirt and a brown pullover. A tweed jacket had been hung over the back of her chair, along with a plain felt hat.

“That fair makes my nose ache and my stomach rumble—it’s beautiful, that smell of bacon and egg. Nice to start the day with a full belly,” said Bert.

Danny stepped into the kitchen and removed his cap, nodding at Kezia. She wondered if he would ever get over his shyness with her. It seemed to her that when he came to the house, Danny tried his best to become smaller, as if he were a shadow who could hide behind Bert. Perhaps she could tempt him out of his shell.

“I know you like your eggs poached instead of fried, Dan, so I’ve put a saucepan of water on to simmer.”

“Oh, no, Mrs. Brissenden, you don’t have to do that.” Danny turned around as he rolled his sleeves and stepped alongside the sink. “I like eggs any way they go on my plate.”

“Well, come and sit down then, won’t you? The bread’s still warm from the oven—Mr. Brissenden loves it like that, spread with butter and jam.”

There was a bustle as the two men took their seats, and Kezia went from stove to table, then to the sink, where she left the pans soaking in water. She was about to turn and pull back her chair when she looked out of the window and saw Constable Ashling escorting the young German prisoner of war along the road to the farm.

“Oh, it looks like Frederick is here a bit early today. I wonder if—”

“I’ll tell them he can wait outside until we’ve finished in here,” said Bert, standing up.

Kezia watched the two men come closer, and it seemed to her as if they were like father and son on a walk, the older man listening, the younger telling a story, perhaps, and then the older one waving a hand to press a point. For a moment she thought she might invite the policeman and his charge to come in for a cup of tea on this, a cold, cold morning, but Bert’s interruption made her think better of it. Even though something had softened in Bert and Danny towards the prisoner, she would not want to embarrass them. It was cold outside, though.

“Bert—it’s chilly out there. Do you think the prisoner would want a cup of tea?”

Bert shrugged. “Well, I suppose it wouldn’t hurt. He minds his p’s and q’s, and he puts his back into the job—and he’s respectful, I’ll say that for him. If you wouldn’t mind, I’ll get him settled on cleaning the leathers ready for the horses. Old Mr. Brissenden—not Mr. Jack, but Mr. Benjamin before him—well, he always said that even if the work is dirty, once you let the tools go and don’t bother to clean off the muck, then you might as well see the whole farm slip through your fingers.”

“I’m sure that’s good advice. I’m taking Mrs. Joe into the village for the milk round, and Danny’s taking Ted so he can do his duty with the coal deliveries this morning. Make sure Frederick knows that everything must shine. If we keep up appearances, it makes people feel better. I’ll put some tea in a flask for him, and a knob of bread and jam.”

Kezia busied herself making the flask of tea and wrapping a bread and jam sandwich in a square cloth, which she handed to Bert. “There’ll be a fresh pot of tea here when you get back,” said Kezia.

Bert left the kitchen, and Kezia watched as he lifted his cap to greet the policeman, while the German prisoner bowed to Bert and smiled. She turned back to see Danny standing, craning his neck to see out of the window. He sat down as Kezia joined him at the table.

“Is everything all right, Dan? Would you like more tea?”

The young man lifted his mug and set it down again, his manner troubled.

“I know I should hate him, the German. But I don’t. And I heard some of the women saying the same thing the other day, that they were ready to make his life a misery at first, but there he was, polite and nice, and opening a gate for them. And he sings while he’s working, songs that no one understands, but you reckon you know all the same. I don’t get it, because part of me thinks I’m being a traitor for not hating him. But it’s plain from what he’s said to Bert that he didn’t want to go to war. I reckon the lads from the village were up for a fight more than him. He’s glad he got caught, and all he wants is for all this to be over so he can go back and get on with what he was doing before it started.”

Kezia sighed. “I suppose he’s more like us, then, isn’t he?”

“And he told Bert and me something else the other day.”

Kezia looked at Danny, setting her cup down in the saucer. “What was that?”

“He’s been getting letters, you know, from home—they come in through the Red Cross, according to Constable Ashling. Turns out his older brother was killed in France. And he was a doctor, the brother—well, training to be one, when he had to go into the army. So he’s lost his brother, and Bert reckons they must have been very tight, because Frederick was full up, you know, as if he would start weeping any minute. Bert said he looked as if he could do with his mother to put her arm around him. I never thought of them as crying, the Germans. I don’t know what to think, really.”

“No, neither do I, Dan. Perhaps I should tell Bert to ask the constable if Frederick can come in for breakfast in the morning.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t go that far, Mrs. Brissenden. Not with Mr. Tom over there fighting them.” He shook his head. “But none of it makes any sense to me now, none of it at all.”

W
hen everyone had left the tent, only Edmund Hawkes, Major Wells, and Captain Barclay remained. Hawkes was concerned. Wells should take the lead. He should call them to order, even though they knew each other, and even though this was a tent and not a proper courtroom. The court was the process of executing military law, and Hawkes wanted to do all he could to make sure the law was on Tom Brissenden’s side.

“Major Wells? I think we should consider the arguments and come to a decision.”

Wells was slouched in his chair. He pulled his greatcoat around him. “It’s bloody cold in here. You can never get away from the bloody cold, can you? I can hardly believe that just before war was declared, I was in the bloody south of France on my first bloody holiday in years.”

Hawkes caught Barclay’s eye, and the other man shook his head as if he too was flummoxed by the more senior officer. He decided to take another tack.

“What were you doing, before the war—what was your profession?” asked Hawkes.

Wells looked up. “I worked for my father-in-law—stocks and shares, that sort of thing. And in case you want to know, I enlisted because my wife’s family were all for it, what with my bloody interfering mother-in-law saying it was the job of men to go to fight. And my wife agreed, and everyone thought it was a jolly good thing, so the next thing you know, here I am, in a uniform and promoted every time another commanding officer is killed. Terribly proud of me, they are.”