Gallagher twirls his riding crop in my direction. ‘Wraxall, there you are. Did you know about this?’
I come to stand beside Percy, who either through fear or exhaustion is trembling in his boots. ‘I’ve been tending to one of my men, Colonel,’ I say. ‘Private Oliver Murray. He is in desperate need of medical attention.’
‘Oh yes, Colonel,’ Beddowes says, leaning over in his saddle. ‘A little bird has informed me that Wraxall has disobeyed your orders and placed Private Murray in a cart, for his comfort. A direct challenge to your—’
‘I’m not interested in some half-crippled boy,’ Gallagher bellows. ‘It’s this flagrant breach of military law that I want addressed.’
Percy turns to me, his eyes shining with tears. ‘We didn’t know it wasn’t allowed. All we wanted was to take a few snaps to send home. We ain’t neither of us been abroad, you see, and I said to my Ead that I’d post her a pic or two.’ He looks up at Gallagher. ‘I’m really sorry, guv.’
‘Guv?’ Gallagher blinks, as if the snivelling soldier has just slapped him with a wet haddock.
Meanwhile Danny leans over and whispers: ‘What’s this all about, Perce?’
In answer, Robert Billings hands me a small, black compact device. I recognise it straight away and my heart drops. To confirm what it is, I pull out the lens on its folding struts from the main body of the camera. A Vest Pocket Kodak, possibly the worst thing these men could have been carrying. I think back to that little encounter I witnessed last night in the square between Percy, Robert and the baker. So this had been their purchase.
‘Caught ’em taking pictures of the bloody scenery!’ Gallagher exclaims. He sweeps the immediate area with his riding crop, Beddowes ridiculously following suit with his own swagger stick. ‘Including every bloody platoon and piece of equipment we have here!’
‘I’m sure the boys acted innocently, sir,’ Spud Pearson puts in. ‘There’s not a bad bone between them.’
‘We didn’t mean any harm, honest,’ Robert murmurs.
‘Harm?’ Beddowes raises an eyebrow. ‘My dear fellow, ever since Christmas nineteen-fourteen, it’s been illegal for a soldier to carry a camera. What if your “holiday snaps” got into the hands of a German agent, eh? That would be vital information passed on to the enemy.’
‘By God, I could have you up on charges of treason!’ Gallagher fumes. ‘In fact... Yes, you men, follow me. At the double!’
The Toad turns his horse and begins to canter back along the column, Percy and Robert having to run to keep up. I exchange a quick glance with Danny before we start sprinting after them. Beddowes falls in alongside us, his mare snorting at my shoulder.
‘What’s he going to do to them?’ I call up to the captain.
That serpentine grin beams down at me. ‘Oh Lieutenant, can’t you guess?’
14
Christ isn’t the only one to be crucified along the sun-jewelled roadsides of the Somme. Less than a mile from the spot where Gallagher called a halt, we had passed other figures, life-size this time and breathing, their outstretched arms lashed to a rickety fence. Half a dozen men in thick woollen khaki, their capped heads wilting in the heat, their lips almost white with thirst. One or two had called out to us as we marched by, begging a sip of water. When the soldier guarding them had screamed for silence, Danny had gripped his water canteen and made to break rank. It was only a sharp word from me that had kept him in place.
‘What have they done to deserve that?’ Ollie had asked in a wondering voice.
I had turned to the cart rolling along beside us and to the grimacing boy propped up in its bed. ‘Being drunk on duty, being absent without leave, being—’
‘Nothing,’ Danny had interrupted. ‘No man deserves the pain and humiliation of that, no matter what he’s done. But then I suppose these are the rules you rate so highly, sir. The ones that keep us all safe.’
I’d let it go. Perhaps because I was starting to agree with him.
Now, as we run behind Gallagher’s horse, my worst fears are realised. Out of the swirling chalk kicked up by the stallion’s hooves, six crucified men swim slowly into view. One rolls his ashen face to the sky, as if to pass the time with the hungry sparrowhawk that circles high above. Of course, I’d already guessed what the colonel intends for Percy Stanhope and Robert Billings, but still my heart shudders.
‘Halt!’ Gallagher bellows and we all come to a stop, drawing ourselves to attention. All except Beddowes, who remains in his saddle, smiling gently down at us. Meanwhile the colonel points at the soldier standing guard over the suffering men. ‘You there, what’s your name and regiment?’
The soldier salutes and beneath the shadow of his cap, I see a creased bulldog of a face, all blubbery lips and loose jowls. A North American drawl answers our battalion commander. ‘Second Lieutenant Malcolm Rivers, sir. Of the Royal Newfoundland Regiment.’
‘Canadians, eh? You boys are mostly stationed around Auchonvillers, correct?’
‘Ocean Villas, that’s right, sir,’ the soldier nods, giving the nickname that the British Tommies have bestowed upon the French commune.
‘Good man,’ Gallagher grunts. ‘And I see you’re doing a fine job here guarding these reprobates. How long have they got left today?’
The man consults the watch strapped around his wrist. ‘Forty minutes, give or take.’
‘Please,’ one of the men pants. ‘Water.’
