A Whispered Name (9 page)

‘A
final word of advice … and some encouragement,’ said Glanville. ‘The advice:
remember what I said earlier; don’t think about the ultimate sanction. That’s
none of your concern. Your job is straightforward: find out what happened
according to the evidence. Parliament wrote the law; all you have to do is see
if the lad fits the bill. Now the encouragement: if the offence is proved, then
there will be a sentence, like day follows night — and if it’s death, then it’s
someone else’s job to decide whether it’s the right thing to do or not. Your
hands are clean either way. It’s nothing to do with you. For what it’s worth,
most of them get reprieved. Now, let’s do our duty.’

Chamberlayne
opened a pair of double doors and they all passed into the improvised court.

2

A table for the court had
been placed centrally between two windows. Upon it was a pile of paper, a
pencil, a large red book (the
Manual of Military Law)
and a small black
book (the Bible). To one side was a smaller table for Chamberlayne. The room
was high and airy with a fireplace in the corner. Wood panelling shaped like a
Greek temple rose from the mantelpiece to frame a cracked mirror. School desks
lined a wall as if they were seats for the jury. A chair had been placed in the
centre for the accused. At a signal from Glanville, an escort of two soldiers
marched Private Joseph Flanagan into the room.

He was
a slight man of average height. Sandy hair with a gentle wave had been neatly
parted, revealing a high, smooth forehead. His fine mouth gave the hint of a
natural smile, suggesting approachability and an easy temper. Raised eyebrows
disclosed the vulnerability of the trapped. To Herbert, he looked vaguely
familiar, though he couldn’t place any specific meeting. The soldier’s eyes
flicked over the officers that would try him with an expression of knowing
dread … like Herbert had seen upon the face of Quarters. With that thought he
felt again the kick of the rifle, deep in his shoulder. A flash of mud blanked
out the sockets and his mind escaped into darkness.

‘I’m
Major Robert Glanville. On my right is Captain Herbert Moore. On my left is
Lieutenant Graham Oakley Do you have any objection to being tried by any one
among our number?’

Flanagan
made no response. Glanville repeated his question.

‘None,
Sir,’ said Flanagan. The Irish accent was very strong, the intonation musical. ‘Thank
you, Sir.’

‘Private,’
said Glanville, ‘it’s not your fault, but you are wearing a belt. That is
against King’s Regulations during a court martial. I let the matter pass, but
it is the only irregularity I will countenance.’

His
authority on procedure thus stamped, Glanville thumbed through the red book
till he found the relevant passage. He placed his right hand on the black book
and, in a low monotone, eyes on the red book, he swore to try the accused
according to the evidence, without partiality, favour or affection, to never
divulge the sentence until it was confirmed, and to never disclose the vote or
opinion of another member, unless required in due course by the law, ‘So help
me, God: Glanville passed the books to his right and Herbert made the same
oath, hardening his voice to hide the fear. His heart was beating out of step.
He felt queasy again. The books moved left and Oakley like a man on the touchline,
almost bellowed his promise. He, too, was afraid.

Glanville
then stared at Flanagan, rumpling his nose and upper lip as if his moustache
were itching a nostril. The pause gave density to the three yards between the
accused and his tribunal. Peering down at a small sheet of paper torn from an
exercise book, Glanville read out, ‘Four-eight-eight-eight Private Joseph
Flanagan, eighth Service Battalion, Northumberland Light Infantry … you’re
charged with … when on active service, deserting His Majesty’s Service in
that you, on the twenty-sixth of August nineteen seventeen, absented yourself
from the said eighth Battalion until apprehended at Elverdinghe on the
twenty-seventh of August nineteen seventeen.’ He crumpled his moustache again.
‘Do you understand what I’ve just said?’

‘I do.’

While
the charge was being read out, Flanagan had looked slightly over Herbert’s
right shoulder. His gaze had become fixed. Gradually the expression of dread
had been replaced by a striking image of resignation, immobility and
attentiveness, as one might find on an ancient icon. His skin had acquired the
same subdued patina.

‘Please
record a plea of “Not Guilty” on the schedule to Army Form A three,’ said
Glanville.

He then
squared off the pile of paper in front of him. The top sheet already carried
the date, names and regimental details of everyone present (in Chamberlayne’s
hand) . After a glance at his pocket watch, Glanville licked the point of his
pencil and added at the top of the page: 10.04 a.m.

‘When
you’re ready Mr Chamberlayne,’ he said.

Chapter Nine

According to a scrap of
paper hanging from a frayed piece of string, 6890 Private Doyle’s papers were
to be lodged with those of 4888 Private Flanagan, ‘pending resolution of the
latter’. A resolution that had never taken place. The Doyle file contained an
uncoordinated assortment of memos, telegrams and letters between different
administrative and active units within the army Doyle’s inglorious life was
pretty much covered from enlistment onwards. Anselm began by isolating material
relevant to Flanagan’s trial.

In
short order, Owen Doyle was a Private in the 1/29 (City of London) Battalion,
London Regiment (Lambeth Rifles). On the 26th August his regiment was waiting
to join the attack on the Passchendaele Ridge. At or about 1.00 a.m. Doyle’s
section leader reported his absence. Shortly afterwards, at 3.49 a.m., Doyle
was registered as
injured
at another regiment’s Aid Post — the regiment
to which Flanagan and Herbert belonged, the Northumberland Light Infantry. It
seemed that Doyle had simply drifted across an inter-battalion boundary. That
assumption was short-lived, because thirteen hours later two soldiers were
stopped by the military police at Étaples on the French coast. One was Joseph
Flanagan, the other was Owen Doyle. Both men escaped ‘after a brief altercation’.

It was
at this point that Anselm was obliged to shuffle the papers and check the dates
and times, because a most peculiar resolution of the affair took place.
Flanagan was eventually arrested at a village named Elverdinghe. A lawyer of
some kind at Division HQ subsequently provided the following advice:

The two military
policemen who apprehended 6890 Pte Doyle and/or 4888 Pte Flanagan have provided
unreliable evidence as to identity. Proceed therefore with Pte Flanagan’s court
martial without reliance on the Étaples material. The charge should simply
cover the period of absence from 26.8.17 until his arrest at Elverdinghe on
27.8.17. We understand, in any event, that Flanagan denies being in Étaples at
the alleged time. It is recognised that the exclusion of the incident from the
trial is a boon for this soldier, but there is no way around the matter.

So much for Flanagan. He’d
run, he’d been caught and he’d been tried. Not so for Doyle. According to a
letter from Brigade HQ, Doyle was killed in action on the 15th September
northwest of Glencorse Wood. In other words, Doyle had somehow rejoined his
unit, escaping the legal process that had crashed into Flanagan. He would die
within weeks, in the very manner he’d sought to avoid.

How
did you get hold of Doyle’s tags, Herbert?
thought
Anselm, climbing back into the battered Cortina. Dead leaves fell like feathers
in his mind.
Why did you wear them?

There
were so many names and places and ranks in the file that Anselm couldn’t impose
any order on the material. Abruptly he picked up the telephone and dialled 48.

‘Martin,
I need some tools.’

‘Go on.’

‘First,
a map covering Étaples to Ypres showing the position of each man’s unit on the
night of the twenty-sixth August nineteen seventeen.’

‘That Won’t
take long.’

‘Second,
it would help if I could see how the key players and their regiments were
related to one another in the army … a sort of family tree.’

‘That
is to hand.’

Prepared
for Kate Seymour, thought Anselm, but he said, ‘Finally I’d like to explore
Joseph Flanagan’s war experience prior to his desertion … something that
would give me a handle on to why he might commit a capital offence?’

‘The
best place to look would be his battalion War Diary. This records the
day-to-day activities of the unit. I’d also check the War Diary of the Adjutant
and Quartermaster General for his Division. It covers disciplinary matters. I’ll
get them for you now’

Anselm
put the telephone down, asking himself whether Martin had made those last
suggestions once before. He wasn’t sure. And he didn’t have time to dwell on
the matter because the door opened and Martin stepped inside, holding out a
sheet of paper. As Anselm tried to take it, Martin held on to his end, causing
a slight tug between them.

‘This
is simply a .bare diagram,’ he said, with a note of warning. ‘It shows where
each man stood in the army of August nineteen seventeen. You wouldn’t know that
Major Glanville’s brother had been killed in the battle Flanagan tried to
avoid. Or that Father Moore’s regiment had all but ceased to exist. Or that the
average age in the court was twenty-six. Or that no one was a lawyer. In fact,
that’s about all we do know The full picture is out of reach, now, and has been
since the war: with the exception of Moore and Chamberlayne, none of the men
involved in the trial survived longer than six weeks. Neither witnesses nor
members. They were all dead by mid October.’ He let go of the paper. ‘It
probably wasn’t the most impartial tribunal. But this was war and everyone was
a bit too busy I’ll get to work on that map.’

Anselm
could have easily argued about the basic requirements for justice, either in a
field or a temple built for the purpose. Instead his mind went numb and he felt
a surge of melancholy in his stomach. He experienced it sometimes at the
funerals of people he did not know, or when examining a photograph of someone
he’d never met, wondering at the familiar pain in the face. He stared at the
papers spread across the table. They were like messages from a graveyard.

Look
for something that even now might bring life to Joseph Flanagan,
the Prior had urged.
Read warily.

Anselm
studied Martin’s diagram, prepared in all probability for Kate Seymour. He’d
asked for it because he’d hoped — no doubt like Kate — that it might add some
detail to the context of the trial. And it did, as Martin well knew. Every
member of the court martial was in the same division as Flanagan. Not one of
the officers was an outsider. The honour of the family was to be judged by
three men who were already guardians of its reputation. They’d seen monumental
casualties only the week before; and they were each of them wounded in so many
ways, ways beyond the skill of any Medical Officer. On 1st September l917 Joseph
Flanagan’s chances of acquittal were almost non-existent.

Read
warily.

Anselm
picked up the transcript of the evidence. Closing his eyes he tried to picture
4888 Private Joseph Flanagan before a court in Flanders but no face would grace
his imagination.

Chapter Ten

The Case for the Prosecution

Captain Chamberlayne stood
behind his small table, hands behind his back. For some reason he addressed
himself to Herbert. ‘The case, I submit, is straightforward. The accused,
four-eight-eight-eight Private Joseph Flanagan of the eighth Service Battalion,
Northumberland Light Infantry, absconded on the twenty-sixth of August. He was
arrested the next day Between times his unit was engaged in a special or
dangerous duty. I will argue that the accused deserted His Majesty’s Service
contrary to Section twelve-one-a of the Army Act eighteen eighty-one, as
amended.’

‘Thank
you, Mr Chamberlayne,’ said Glanville with a slow nod of the eyelids. ‘Call
your evidence.’

Bile
touched Herbert’s throat as a sentry by the door marched outside, his boots
ringing on the flags. He came back moments later followed by a short,
square-faced Regimental Sergeant Major. Stamping his way forward, the witness
came to a louder halt, facing the prosecutor, midway between Flanagan and the
three members of the court. Chamberlayne retrieved the black book from
Glanville and held it before the witness. The RSM duly swore to tell the truth,
the whole truth and nothing but the truth, ‘So help me God.’

‘Your
name?’ asked Chamberlayne, returning to his place.

‘Three-four-three-four
Regimental Sergeant Major Francis Joyce, Sir.’ He rattled off his unit details.
His voice was unnaturally subdued, as though he were alert to a drastic change
in his ordinary circumstances, such that he couldn’t shout and curse.