As the Crow Flies (11 page)

“By
the way, that was no German bullet,” choked Tommy as a trickle of blood began
to run out of his mouth. “So just make sure you get the bastard if I’m not given
the chance to do the job myself.”

“You’ll
be all right,” said Charlie. “Nothin’ and nobody could kill Tommy Prescott.”

As
a large black cloud covered the moon, a group of men including two Red Cross
orderlies who were carrying a stretcher jumped over the top and ran towards
them. They dropped the stretcher by Tommy’s side and dragged him onto the
canvas before jogging back towards the trench. Another volley of bullets came
flying across from the German lines.

Once
they had reached the safety of the dugout, the orderlies dumped the stretcher
unceremoniously on the ground. Charlie shouted at them, “Get ‘im to the ‘ospital
tent quickly for God’s sake, quickly.”

“Not
much point, Corp,” said the medical orderly. “‘E’s dead.”

“
H
Q is still waiting for your report,
Trumper.”

“I
know, Sarge, I know.”

“Any
problems, lad?” asked the color sergeant, which Charlie recognized as a coded
message for “Can you write?”

“No
problems, Sarge.”

For
the next hour he wrote out his thoughts slowly, then rewrote the simple account
of what had taken place on 18 July 1918 during the second battle of the Marne.

Charlie
read and reread his banal offering, aware that although he extolled Tommy’s
courage during the battle he made no mention of Trentham fleeing from the
enemy. The plain truth was that he hadn’t witnessed what was going on behind
him. He might well have formed his own opinion but he knew that would not bear
cross-examination at some later date. And as for Tommy’s death, what proof had
he that one stray bullet among so many had come from the pistol of Captain
Trentham? Even if Tommy had been right on both counts and Charlie voiced those
opinions, it would only be his word against that of an officer and a gentleman.

The
only thing he could do was make sure that Trentham received no praise from his
pen for what had taken place on the battlefield that day. Feeling like a
traitor, Charlie scribbled his signature on the bottom of the second page
before handing in his report to the orderly officer.

Later
that afternoon the duty sergeant allowed him an hour off to dig the grave in
which they would bury Private Prescott. As he knelt by its head he cursed the
men on either side who could have been responsible for such a war.

Charlie
listened to the chaplain intone the words “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,”
before the last post was played yet again. Then the burial party took a pace to
the right and began digging the grave of another known soldier. A hundred
thousand men sacrificed their lives on the Marne. Charlie could no longer
accept that any victory was worth such a price.

He
sat cross-legged at the foot of the grave, unaware of the passing of time as he
hewed out a cross with his bayonet. Finally he stood and placed it at the head
of the mound. On the center of the cross he had carved the words, “Private
Tommy Prescott.”

A
neutral moon resumed that night to shine on a thousand freshly dug graves’ and
Charlie swore to whatever God cared to listen that he would not forget his
father or Tommy or, for that matter, Captain Trentham.

He
fell asleep among his comrades. Reveille stirred him at first light, and after
one last look at Tommy’s grave he resumed to his platoon, to be informed that
the Colonel of the Regiment would be addressing the troops at zero nine hundred
hours.

An
hour later he was standing to attention in a depleted square of those who had
survived the battle. Colonel Hamilton told his men that the Prime Minister had
described the second battle of the Marne as the greatest victory in the history
of the war. Charlie found himself unable to raise a voice to join his cheering
comrades.

“It
was a proud and honorable day to be a Royal Fusilier,” continued the colonel,
his monocle still firmly in place. The regiment had won a VC, six MCs and nine
MMs in the battle. Charlie felt indifferent as each of the decorated men was
announced and his citation read out until he heard the name of Lieutenant
Arthur Harvey who, the colonel told them, had led a charge of Number 11 Platoon
all the way up to the German trenches, thus allowing those behind him to carry
on and break through the enemy’s defenses. For this he was posthumously awarded
the Military Cross.

A
moment later Charlie heard the colonel utter the name of Captain Guy Trentham.
This gallant officer, the colonel assured the regiment, careless of his own
safely, continued the attack after Lieutenant Harvey had fallen, killing
several German soldiers before reaching their dugouts, where he wiped out a
complete enemy unit single-handed. Having crossed the enemy’s lines, he
proceeded to chase two Germans into a nearby forest. He succeeded in killing
both enemy soldiers before rescuing two Fusiliers from German hands. He then
led them back to the safely of the Allied trenches. For this supreme act of
courage Captain Trentham was also awarded the Military Cross.

Trentham
stepped forward and the troops cheered as the colonel removed a silver cross
from a leather case before pinning the medal on his chest.

One
sergeant major, three sergeants, two corporals and four privates then had their
citations read out, each one named and his acts of heroism recalled in turn.
But only one of them stepped forward to receive his medal.

“Among
those unable to be with us today,” continued the colonel, “is a yourrg man who
followed Lieutenant Harvey into the enemy trenches and then killed four,
perhaps five German soldiers before later stalking and shooting another,
finally killing a German officer before being tragically killed himself by a
stray bullet when only yards from the safety of his own trenches.” Once again
the assembled gathering cheered.

Moments
later the parade was dismissed and while others returned to their tents,
Charlie walked slowly back behind the lines until he reached the mass burial
ground.

He
knelt down by a familiar mound and after a moment’s hesitation yanked out the
cross that he had placed at the head of the grave.

Charlie
unclipped a knife that hung from his belt and beside the name “Tommy Prescott”
he carved the letters “MM.”

A
fortnight later one thousand men, with a thousand legs, a thousand arms and a
thousand eyes between them, were ordered home. Sergeant Charles Trumper of the
Royal Fusiliers was detailed to accompany them, perhaps because no man had been
known to survive three charges on the enemy’s lines.

Their
cheerfulness and delight at still being alive only made Charlie feel more
guilty. After all, he had only lost one toe. On the journey back by land, sea
and land, he helped the men dress, wash, eat and be led without complaint or
remonstration.

At
Dover they were greeted on the quayside by cheering crowds welcoming their
heroes home. Trains had been laid on to dispatch them to all parts of the
country, so that for the rest of their lives they would be able to recall a few
moments of honor, even glory. But not for Charlie. His papers only instructed
him to travel on to Edinburgh where he was to help train the next group of
recruits who would take their places on the Western Front.

On
11 November 1918, at eleven hundred hours, hostilities ceased and a grateful
nation stood in silence for three minutes when on a railway carriage in the
forest of Compiegne, the Armistice was signed. When Charlie heard the news of
victory he was training some raw recruits on a rifle range in Edinburgh. Some
of them were unable to hide their disappointment at being cheated out of the
chance to face the enemy.

The
war was over and the Empire had won or that is how the politicians presented
the result of the match between Britain and Germany.

“More
than nine million men have died for their country, and some even before they
had finished growing,” Charlie wrote in a letter to his sister Sal. “And what
has either side to show for such carnage?”

Sal
wrote back to let him know how thankful she was he was still alive and went on
to say that she had become engaged to a pilot from Canada. “We plan to marry in
the next few weeks and go to live with his parents in Toronto. Next time you
get a letter from me it will be from the other side of the world.”

“Grace
is still in France but expects to return to the London Hospital some time in
the new year. She’s been made a ward sister. I expect you know her Welsh
corporal caught pneumonia. He died a few days after peace had been declared.

“Kitty
disappeared off the face of the earth and then without warning turnd up in
Whitechapel with a man in a motorcar, neither of them seemed to be hers but she
looked very pleased with life.”

Charlie
couldn’t understand his sister’s P.S.: “Where will you live when you get back
to the East End?”

*
* *

Sergeant
Charles Trumper was discharged from active service on 20 February 1919, one of
the early ones: the missing toe had at last counted for something. He folded up
his uniform, placed his helmet on top, boots by the side, marched across the
parade ground and handed them in to the quartemmaster.

“I
hardly recognized you, Sarge, in that old suit and cap. Don’t fit any longer,
do they? You must have grown during your time with the Fussies.”

Charlie
looked down and checked the length of his trousers: they now hung a good inch
above the laces of his boots.

“Must
have grown durin’ my time with the Fussies,” he repeated pondering the words.

“Bet
your family will be glad to see you when you get back to civvy street.”

“Whatever’s
left of them,” said Charlie as he turnd to go. His final task was to report to
the paymaster’s office and receive his last pay packet and travel voucher
before relinquishing the King’s shilling.

“Trumper,
the dory officer would like a word with you,” said the sergeant major, after
Charlie had completed what he had assumed was his last duty.

Lieutenant
Makepeace and Lieutenant Harvey would always be his duty officers, thought Charlie
as he made his way back across the parade ground in the direction of the
company offices. Some fresh-faced youth, who had not been properly introduced
to the enemy, now had the nerve to try and take their place.

Charlie
was about to salute the lieutenant when he remembered he was no longer in
uniform, so he simply removed his cap.

“You
wanted to see me, sir?”

“Yes,
Trumper, a personal matter.” The young officer touched a large box that lay on
his desk. Charlie couldn’t quite see what was inside.

“It
appears, Trumper, that your friend Private Prescott made a will in which he
left everything to you.”

Charlie
was unable to hide his surprise as the lieutenant pushed the box across the
table.

“Would
you be kind enough to check through its contents and then sign for them?”

Another
buff form was placed in front of him. Above the typed name of Private Thomas
Prescott was a paragraph written in a bold large hand. An “X” was scrawled
below it, witnessed by Sergeant Major Philpott.

Charlie
began to remove the objects from the box one by one. Tommy’s mouth organ, rusty
and falling apart, seven pounds eleven shillings and sixpence in back pay,
followed by a German officer’s helmet. Next Charlie took out a small leather
box and opened the lid to discover Tommy’s Military Medal and the simple words “For
bravery in the field” printed across the back. He removed the medal and held it
in the palm of his hand.

“Must
have been a jolly brave chan, Prescott,” said the lieutenant. “Salt of the
earth and all that.”

“And
all that,” agreed Charlie.

“A
religious man as well?”

“No,
can’t pretend ‘e was,” said Charlie, allowing himself a smile. “Why do you ask?”

“The
picture,” said the lieutenant, pointing back into the box. Charlie leaned
forward and stared down in disbelief at a painting of the Virgin Mary and
Child. It was about eight inches square and framed in black teak. He took the
portrait out and held it in his hands.

He
gazed at the deep reds, purples and blues that dominated the central figure in
the painting, feeling certain he’d seen the image somewhere before. It was
several moments before he replaced the little oil in the box along with Tommy’s
other possessions.

Charlie
put his cap back on and turned to go, the box under one arm, a brown paper
parcel under the other and a ticket to London in his top pocket.

As
he marched out of the barracks to make his way to the station he wondered how
long it would be before he could walk at a normal pace when he reached the
guardroom he stopped and turned round for one last look at the parade ground. A
set of raw recruits was marching up and down with a new drill instructor who
sounded every bit as determined as the late Sergeant Major Philpott had been to
see that the snow was never allowed to settle.