‘I didn’t mean no disrespect, sir, I swear,’ Stanhope stammered.
‘Eyes forward, men,’ I commanded, and thirty-three heads were reluctantly raised and turned in my direction. I put down my fork and pointed to the lumpy flesh of my wound. ‘You’re right,’ I told them. ‘They cut it clean off and then one of the buggers managed to escape with it in his pocket. Took it all the way back to Berlin where it now hangs as a trophy in the Kaiser’s war room. But little doesheknow that it’s still working and that I’m listening in to all his schemes.’ I tapped my nose. ‘But that’s classified information, gents, so keep it under your hats.’
They all exchanged glances. Then, as I dug back into my pie, laughter shook the air.
‘Good one, sir!’ Billings cackled, giving Stanhope’s shoulder a rough shake. ‘You really had us going for a minute there.’
I smiled. A touch of dark humour told by an officer at his own expense can go a long way. Still, I wasn’t one to joke. Not recently anyway. Maybe Danny’s example was rubbing off on me.
Sitting back in my chair and looking them over, I thought they’d make a decent enough platoon. Most of them had been well-trained back home and probably didn’t need the mental and physical torment of another couple of weeks in the Bull Ring. Those who required a little extra tuition, I could bring up to standard myself, either on our journey down to the Somme or during rest periods away from the Front. Some of them might not even live long enough for it to matter, of course. I remembered a private who was in the trenches less than an hour before a German sniper picked him off, neat as you like.
Anyway, I sensed that Danny would fit in well with them. And it wasn’t as if him coming from another regiment would matter. Gone were the days of old Pals Battalions, when men from the same town would make up a platoon that stuck together throughout their training and service. After nearly two years of slaughter, most of those had been obliterated, at the battles of Mons and Marne, at Ypres and Aubers Ridge. Pals scattered the length of France, buried in mass graves. Now regiments like mine might be called the ‘Manchesters’, but they drew their recruits from far and wide. A London accent among these men wouldn’t be commented on.
Despite keeping an eye out for him all that long sweltering day and the next, it isn’t until the following evening that I encounter Danny again. He comes striding into our hut, holding out an official-looking document and grinning as he salutes. He looks a little sunburned from his time performing drill in the barrack yard and there’s a whopper of a bruise blooming under his right eye. I glance down at the document – his regimental transfer papers, signed by Captain Beddowes.
‘I was starting to get concerned,’ I say. ‘We’re supposed to be marching south at dawn and I hadn’t heard a word from Lieutenant-Colonel Gallagher.’
‘I know. I was getting a bit worried myself, sir. I didn’t...’ Danny hesitates, his voice dropping a little. He touches the purple patch under his eye and grimaces. ‘I didn’t fancy another fortnight in this hellhole. I’m not sure these people like me very much.’
‘Your natural charm, I’m sure. Have you had dinner? Checked your kit is ready for the off tomorrow?’ He nods. ‘Good. Then let’s take a walk. I’ll fill you in on your new duties and then introduce you to the rest of the lads.’
There really isn’t much else to do. I’ve already carried out my inspection of the platoon’s uniform and supplies. The main thing now is to allow the men to rest as much as they can before we set out at dawn. And so we wander together through the camp, Danny telling me of his recent adventures. Apparently, a firearms instructor on the rifle range hadn’t appreciated tuition from an uppity private about how he might improve his aim. Hence the black eye.
Eventually we come to the river and sit together on the bank. It’s dusk and the heat of the day is slowly ebbing away. Frogs burble in the bullrushes below and make me think of Lieutenant-Colonel Gallagher muttering into his brandy. From somewhere in the hedgerows breaks the song of a nightjar.
‘So,’ Danny sighs. ‘Before we were so rudely interrupted yesterday, I think you were going to tell me why you had me transferred?’
I take a deep breath. ‘My old platoon are all dead and I don’t know anyone much at the Front any more. I needed to choose someone to be my servant...’ I see that look of distaste cross his features again. ‘All right then, Private, what word would you prefer?’
He considers for a moment. ‘How about “squire”?’ he says at last, looking pleased with himself. ‘Yes, I’ll be happy to take up your very generous offer of cleaning your uniform and heating up your rations on the condition I am known as Squire Daniel McCormick.’
‘Squire?’ I frown. ‘And that’s better than “soldier-servant”?’
‘It sounds more... artistic,’ Danny nods. ‘Like the character from that book about the crazy knight who goes on a quest to fight windmills.’
‘Don Quixote?’ I laugh. ‘To be fair to him, he thought the windmills were giants.’
‘Oh well, that’s completely understandable then. Anyway, he has a squire, right? A loyal sidekick who looks out for him. Like a comrade-in-arms.’
Kamerad.That word again, haunting my mind.
‘Fair enough,’ I say. ‘Squire it is.’
‘Good. But with all due respect, sir, you still haven’t answered my question. Why do you wantme? You could have chosen someone from your new platoon. I know most of them are northerners, but there has to be one chap among them that would do.’
I falter for a moment. ‘You were kind to me,’ I say at last. ‘In the train at St Pancras. You were a stranger, but you seemed concerned that your friend’s words might have upset me. You were kind when you didn’t need to be. That’s a rare thing these days.’
‘Is it?’ He looks genuinely bewildered.
‘I think it is. Anyway, you’re also a crack-shot, and that’s something any officer wants at his side when the balloon goes up.’
‘Then I’ll be there,’ he nods.
Darkness is deepening around us, night bedding its velvet shadows into the bends and creases of the estuary.
‘Can I ask something else, sir?’ Danny says. ‘That drawing you did on the train. The one of the boy. It might sound strange, but it reminded me a bit of my mum. The way she used to sing and it would go straight to the heart of you—’
‘What’s your question, Private?’ I ask, my mouth suddenly dry.
