‘Good man,’ Gallagher nods. ‘Beddowes, see to it that this Murray fellow is well looked after once we reach Authuille.’
The captain fixes me with a strange look. ‘Of course, Colonel. I’ll ensure that Private Murray gets all the attention he deserves.’
15
Only one man remains, crucified on the fence, his scarecrow shadow lengthening across the road as the day dies around him. Fat flies bob about his sweat-soaked face but he can’t swat them away. They crawl in the chestnut gold of his hair and dance upon his freckled cheeks. Loosely bound, his outstretched arms quiver either side of him. Occasionally, he will allow his wrists to rest in the noose of the loops attached to the fence, but mostly it is his own force of will that keeps his arms suspended. I wonder why. Is it to make a point, and if so to whom? To show the colonel and Captain Beddowes that he can’t broken? But they are not here to witness his defiance. Or is this display of suffering to prove to me how absurd all my rules and regulations are? If so, I wish he would stop. It’s too much to bear.
I take out my watch for the twelfth time and check the hour. Almost eight o’clock. A little under twenty minutes left. It seems to me that the other six men were cut down days ago. I think of them leaving the roadside and heading back to their trenches, bent double, hugging their screaming arms to their shoulders. And then I think of Ollie and his tortured feet, all the fault of some irresponsible training segreant who neglected the welfare of his men. Isn’t it enough that we force these poor bastards into the meatgrinder? Do we have to half-kill them ourselves first?
Suddenly Danny’s laughter cuts through the silence.
‘I swear to G-God, Perce, if you apologise one more time, I’ll get down from this bl-bloody post and th-throttle you. This was my choice. I don’t bl-blame you or R-Robbie for... for...’
I look up. A twist of pain has gripped Danny’s features. He starts to splutter and cough.
‘For Christ’s sake, let me give him some water,’ I call out to the guard.
Lieutenant Rivers is standing with his back against the fence, yawning into his fist. Adjusting the rifle strapped to his shoulder, he shakes his head. ‘Against my orders. You heard what the colonel said. Anyway, it’s only a touch of cramp, it’ll pass.’
‘Gallagher isn’t even your commanding officer,’ Percy objects. ‘You belong to a completely different regiment, you... you... you fucking sadist.’
Rivers unhooks his rifle just as I grab Percy by the arm and drag him away. ‘You will apologise to the lieutenant, Private Stanhope,’ I tell him. ‘Insulting a senior officer is a serious offence and I won’t have it in my platoon.’
Percy’s face is scarlet with rage. When they finally come, his words are muttered at Rivers through clenched teeth. ‘I’m sorry,sir.’
I nod, ushering him back to stand with Robert in front of the punishment fence. Then I turn to the grinning guard. ‘But as I am of equal rank to you, Lieutenant, I can be both insulting and unoriginal. You are indeed a fucking sadist. And now, whether you like it or not, I’m going to give Private McCormick a drink.’
As I unclip the canteen from my belt and approach the fence, I hear the click of a rifle behind me. ‘Step away from that man, I shan’t ask you again.’
I catch movement from the tail of my eye – Percy and Robert snatching their own rifles from their shoulders and aiming them at Rivers. A startled cry escapes the guard, though he keeps his weapon trained upon me as I unscrew my canteen. Up close, I can see how parched Danny is, the corners of his mouth blistered and swollen. Still he manages one of his carefree grins as I lift the canteen to his cracked lips.
‘What about the rules?’ he croaks.
I nod. ‘Damn the rules.’
And I mean it. All my life I’ve been hemmed in by them, guided and restricted. The bible-black rules of my father, the meaningless traditions of school, the cruel regimes of the army. Many of them inhuman and senseless. Yet I followed like an obedient child, afraid to challenge them. Perhaps because my very nature – my ‘degeneracy’, as both my father and Lieutenant-Colonel Gallagher would call it – was breaking one of the most fundamental rules of all. Well, I refuse to stand by now and continue to watch Danny suffer.
He closes his eyes when the tepid water hits his throat. His chest shudders with relief, his fingers clench and unclench, his long eyelashes quiver. I see a tear roll from the corner of his eye and I quickly reach out and thumb it away; he would hate Rivers to see any weakness, I know. As I do so, Danny pulls back from the canteen and gasps. He runs his tongue across his lips, smiles again.
‘Thank you, sir,’ he says. Then in a whisper, ‘Thank you, Stephen.’
‘I’ll have every one of you up on charges for this,’ Rivers bellows at us. ‘Disobeying orders, threatening a fellow officer, bloody mutiny! Gallagher won’t just have you court-martialled with hard labour.’ He thrusts the barrel of his rifle at Percy and Robert. ‘He’ll have you all shot.’
‘Oh well,’ I say to Danny with a wink. ‘In for a penny, then.’
And taking out the sheath knife from my belt, I cut away the rope binding him to the fence. He stands upright for a moment, perfectly still, kept in place by the extraordinary willpower that has seen him through almost three unbearable hours. Then, as I’m freeing his ankles from the post, I see his legs shiver and his knees buckle. All at once, he falls, his body folding in on itself, a hoarse groan coming from some place deep inside. I catch him as best I can, taking him under the arms and hugging him to me. And suddenly in my mind, I’m picturing a painting that hangs in my father’s study back home. A print of Rubens’Descent from the Cross, the ivory-white body of Jesus being lowered by his followers to the ground after his crucifixion. It’s an image I have copied many times in my sketchbook – the blood-smattered shroud, the weeping wound at his side, the long flowing hair of the Saviour, a russet shade similar to the short curls that now brush my cheek.
‘Are you all right?’ I ask him. ‘Danny, answer me.’
Percy has shouldered his rifle and come forward to help support his friend.
‘No,’ I say, as he tries to drag Danny’s arm over his shoulder. ‘Don’t bend his arms, not yet. The muscles and tendons need time to adjust.’
‘I’m all right,’ Danny says at last, and I feel a kind of resurrected strength pulse through him. His legs straighten and, although he still needs us to support him, he manages to walk away from the fence to the roadside.
‘What abouthim?’ Robert asks. He still has Rivers in the sights of his rifle.
I glance over to where the guard stands fuming, his own weapon trained on Danny’s back. ‘It will be our word against his,’ I say. ‘In any case, the usual period for field punishment is up to two hours a day. Private McCormick has already served that time and more.’
