White Feathers (24 page)

This time Proffitt initiated the interview. ‘Private Villiers, do you understand the charge against Captain Murdoch?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Were you present at the time of the incident?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Tell us what happened please.’

Private Villiers looked thoughtful. ‘I was standing at the bottom of the trench waiting to go over and I saw Captain Tarrant roll in over the parapet, followed closely by Captain Murdoch. Captain Murdoch got to his feet and accused Captain Tarrant of murdering someone, then he yelled at him to go and retrieve the body.’

‘And did he? Tarrant?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Why not?’

‘Captain Tarrant was dead, sir.’

‘Dead,’ said Proffitt woodenly.

‘Yes, sir. It’s my belief he was shot on his way back into the trench.’

‘Shot by whom?’

‘Well, the Germans, sir. It happened to lots of our men during that assault.’

Proffitt gave Villiers a withering look.

Chapley said, ‘So you’re saying Captain Tarrant was already dead by the time he fell back into the trench?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘So why was Captain Murdoch yelling at him?’

‘I don’t know, sir.’

‘You’ve no idea at all?’

‘No, sir, except I suppose he might have been confused and thought Captain Tarrant was still alive.’

Chapley rubbed his temples where a headache was beginning to niggle. ‘Well, then, did Captain Murdoch shoot at Captain Tarrant’s corpse?’

‘No, not to my knowledge, sir.’

And so it went on. There were three further witnesses to follow, three more men who had been present at the scene and who swore that Captain Tarrant was already dead when he fell back into the trench. After the third witness Chapley stopped making notes, and when they’d all given their evidence he cleared the court of everyone except the panel and the court scribe.

‘Well, Lydon,’ he said, ‘you’ve gone rather quiet. Are you sure you weren’t mistaken when Murdoch confessed to shooting Tarrant? Was anyone else with you when he did?’

Lydon’s face held an expression of barely stifled rage. He admitted reluctantly through gritted teeth, ‘I had my batman with me, but then he disappeared somewhere. Murdoch had already admitted to the murder by the time my batman reappeared.’

‘Are you saying that in a busy trench, only a few minutes after the start of a major assault, there was absolutely no one else in the immediate vicinity?’

Lydon was compelled to tell the truth. ‘Yes, that’s right, sir.’

‘How damnably odd,’ said Proffitt, and there was a subdued mutter of agreement from the rest of the panel.

‘Yes, wasn’t it?’ mused Chapley out loud. He gathered up his papers and tapped them into a neat and tidy pile with the outer edges of his palms. ‘Right, well, what we have here is either a very unstable captain who thought he killed someone when he didn’t, or five consummate liars.’

‘I think they’re lying, sir,’ Lydon said quickly. ‘Murdoch has always been difficult, always going off and doing what
he
thinks is appropriate, despite my orders. I’ve never seen eye to eye with him.’

‘Yes, but you rarely see eye to eye with anyone, do you, Major?’ replied Chapley sharply. ‘Did he ever actually contravene or disobey your orders?’

Lydon opened his mouth and then shut it again. ‘No,’ he replied after a moment. ‘Not in so many words.’

‘Well, did he or didn’t he?’

‘No, he didn’t.’

‘Right. And Ron Tarrant, what sort of soldier was he, in your opinion?’

‘Very conscientious and committed.’

‘I gather he spent a significant amount of
his
time in his dugout or in a hospital bed. Is that right?’

‘I wouldn’t go that far, sir.’

‘I would,’ said Proffitt, sliding a sheet of paper down the table towards Lydon. ‘This is a summary of his medical record. The chap was sick and out of action more often than not, and there’s a discreet note here suggesting a possible unwillingness to fight. Is that true, Major? Based on your experience as his commanding officer, of course.’

Lydon sidestepped the question by blustering, ‘Look here, are you suggesting Murdoch should be let off Captain Tarrant’s murder
just because Tarrant’s service record was a little patchy?’

Chapley rounded on him. ‘And are
you
suggesting that Lieutenant-Colonel Proffitt is condoning the murder of an officer by a fellow officer?’

Aware he had overstepped the mark, Lydon back-pedalled immediately. ‘No, of course not, sir. It’s just that the man confessed. That seems to be clear evidence to me.’

‘Well, it doesn’t to me. Captain Murdoch is clearly not in his right mind at the moment. In fact, his medical notes suggest he’s been mentally unwell for some time now, even though he’s still managed to perform reasonably successfully. And while he may have confessed to a murder, I don’t think, especially in the light of the five eyewitnesses who have all given evidence to the contrary, that we can make any assumptions. As far as I can see, there is no clear evidence of murder.’ He turned to Proffitt. ‘What do you think?’

‘I agree, although I suspect there is more to this episode than meets the eye. However, we can’t condemn the man on the evidence presented today, and I vote we acquit him, but I also strongly recommend that he be removed from duties and sent somewhere well away from the front where he can get some rest. I’m not entirely convinced about this shell shock business myself, but if anyone is genuinely afflicted by it I’d have to say it’s Murdoch. The fellow can barely sit upright in his chair, for God’s sake!’

‘Yes, it’s rather awful, isn’t it?’ agreed Chapley. ‘He’s a mere shadow of the chap he was when we first arrived in France. And he showed so much promise. So, are we all agreed then? Acquittal with a recommendation of removal from the field for appropriate rest and medical treatment, with a possible view to retirement on medical grounds if things don’t work out for him?’

Although the two other members of the panel gave their assent, Lydon’s petulant silence was conspicuous.

Chapley repeated, ‘Major Lydon? Are we agreed?’

Lydon looked as if he wanted to say no.

Proffitt said then, ‘I’d also like to add a recommendation that the performance and welfare of commissioned officers at the forefront of active service be monitored more closely from now on. From the rank of major down, let’s say. If Tarrant
was
a bit on the windy side and no one picked it up, he could have been a real danger at some point. I’d hate there to be other officers out there now in the same position, unable to carry out their duties to the standard required, I mean,’ he added, looking pointedly at Lydon.

The major collected his papers and stood up. ‘The aforementioned recommendations all have my official support,’ he said stiffly. Then he saluted and walked out.

James, Ben and the remainder of the court were called back and the verdict and recommendations pronounced.

Ben shook James’s hand in hearty congratulation, but the arm flopped up and down as if it belonged to a rag doll. Ben took his friend’s elbow instead and whispered, ‘Come on, old chap. You can get some real sleep now.’

When the room had emptied and they were alone, Proffitt turned to Chapley. They were old army friends and knew from long experience that whatever they said would remain between them.

He asked thoughtfully, ‘Do you think he did it?’

‘I’m not prepared to say, Victor. It wouldn’t surprise me, judging by the state he’s in, but the evidence just wasn’t there.’

‘But it’s inconceivable they’d
all
lie for him. Isn’t it?’

Chapley shrugged and pulled a face. ‘Tarrant was rather unpopular, I gather. I didn’t have much to do with him. Unlike Murdoch — the men think he’s marvellous. There’s incredible loyalty in the trenches, you know.’

He tapped his pencil on the table, as if debating something with himself. ‘I’ve never liked Lydon much. He has a style of command
that doesn’t inspire a lot of confidence. Time he was moved on, I think.’

‘
Was
Tarrant windy?’ Proffitt asked.

‘One certainly heard rumours.’

‘Well, for God’s sake, why wasn’t something done about it then?’

Chapley sat back in his seat. ‘I assume because he fell through the cracks, and as you well know, Victor, there are some bloody big cracks in this army. Plus he was the golden-haired boy. Tragic, really, for both of them. There’s no bringing Tarrant back, of course, and the Murdoch boy’s military career is in tatters.’

Proffitt sighed. ‘Been a thoroughly unpleasant business all round, this, hasn’t it?’

Thomas returned to his unit later that evening. James had been shuffled off to the field hospital and admitted for further assessment and to await his transfer to a facility in England, possibly Hornchurch near London, then perhaps on to the convalescent home for New Zealand officers at Brighton. Thomas would check on him in the morning in the hope that his acquittal might have bucked him up a little, but he had seen the flat emptiness in James’s eyes, and knew its significance only too well. He wondered how he would break the news to his parents.

The field ambulance had been withdrawn from the Somme with the rest of the New Zealand Division, and was now preparing to move north to the Sailly sector not far from Armentières. The weather was packing up and winter proper seemed to have arrived, bringing with it icy rain and bitter wind.

Thomas had been in France for six months, which made him an experienced veteran, and he’d been in the line almost constantly during that period. At Trentham training camp back home, he’d been given a deliberately hard time because of his stance as a
conscientious objector, but the taunts and attacks had subsided somewhat since he had begun work as a stretcher bearer. He wasn’t the only conchie in the Medical Corps, and he soon found a cadre of men who held similar beliefs and with whom he had become firm friends. He ignored the jibes that did come his way with patient stoicism.

He found, somewhat to his surprise, that he was good at his work, and not just because of his medical training: he had adapted quickly to the appalling conditions and horrors of the battle field. In many ways his duties put him at even more risk than the average infantryman — retrieving the wounded from the very heart of the fighting and delivering them to the nearest advanced dressing station regardless of the intensity of enemy fire.

He had been extraordinarily lucky. On many occasions he had run, or trotted — it was very difficult to run carrying a man on a stretcher — through a solid hail of German bullets and emerged without even a scratch. He had been blown into the air by artillery shells and walked away without so much as a concussion. He was aware he was regarded by his unit as someone who had somehow attracted divine protection, and as such he was never short of colleagues volunteering to be on the other end of his stretcher, convinced that his immunity would also extend to them.

He had become incredibly superstitious himself, which quietly amused him. He insisted on wearing his lucky socks day in and day out, pulling the reeking, barely recognisable tatters of the first pair he was ever issued on over his newer ones. He accepted that his behaviour was highly irrational but at the same time was convinced that if he didn’t wear them, something terrible would happen to him.

He had been promoted to lance-corporal after three months in France, then to corporal six weeks ago. This wasn’t as auspicious as it sounded — stretcher bearers weren’t renown for their longevity.
His senior officer, however, had gone to lengths to explain that his rapid promotion was a consequence of his performance, not because of holes in the ranks. Thomas had been grateful for and even proud of the compliment, and felt the good work he was doing justified his decision to enlist.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTEEN

England, April, 1917

K
eely stamped her foot. ‘I don’t care what you think, Erin. I’m going!’

Erin replied calmly, ‘Don’t you think it’s time you grew up?’

Right now, her cousin, standing in her underwear with her hands planted firmly on her neat hips and a filthy expression on her face, looked exactly like Aunt Tamar on the rare but memorable occasions she lost her temper.

Keely said petulantly, ‘You’ve changed, ever since Joseph, and I don’t think I like it.’

‘I know. You’ve said that lots of times already.’

‘Well, it’s true! You’ve gone insufferably holier than thou! Just because you’ll be getting married the minute you get home doesn’t mean
I
have to act like a nun, does it?’

‘No, but it doesn’t mean you have to act like an empty-headed schoolgirl, either. Or a tart.’

Keely’s mouth fell open. ‘What a rotten thing to say!’

They’d been arguing in this vein for weeks now, ever since, in fact, Doctor Ross McManus had arrived at Brockenhurst, the home of No. 1 New Zealand General Hospital.

They had been at Brockenhurst since June of the previous year
when the New Zealanders had assumed responsibility for the hospital. In practice it was more like several hospitals: a main section known as Lady Hardinge Hospital, plus two large hotels nearby named Balmer Lawn and Forest Park, which had been converted for the duration, and several smaller auxiliary units, all of which could together accommodate 1500 patients at a time. Keely and Erin were based at Balmer Lawn and, after Egypt, their work had seemed almost leisurely until September when the flood of casualties from the big push on the Somme had begun to arrive. The pace had never really let up since and now, eight months later, they were still frantically busy. Time off was scarce, and to be made the most of.

Erin was content to spend her precious free hours writing to Joseph or daydreaming about him, or catching up on her sleep, but Keely was bored and, she insisted, socially deprived. She went into Southampton as often as she could with a group of other New Zealand nurses who found it easier to unwind away from the hospital. Lately, though, her companion of choice had been the dashing Doctor McManus, and Erin didn’t approve.