We saw no sign of Captain Beddowes during all this, but Lieutenant-Colonel Gallagher was on hand, puffing and panting across the model battlefield, bellowing out instructions and predicting victory.
‘Kill all you can, lads, and don’t take any prisoners! Remember, the only good Hun is a dead Hun!’
He waddled obliviously across the field, crushing carefully-constructed miniature buildings, until at last one of his staff officers summoned the courage to ask him to watch where he trod. ‘Oh, yes, haha! Well, you can’t blame an old warrior for wanting to obliterate the enemy, even if it’s only in spirit. But let me tell you something, boys!’ He fixed the whole company with a triumphant glare. ‘Thisis how easy it’s going to be. On the morning of the push, you will climb out of your trench and, with bayonets fixed, walk side by side to glory! There must be no running, mind. No turning back, no lily-livered retreat! You will march in calm and perfect formation across No Man’s Land and mop up whatever resistance you find – a few frightened Jerries, throwing up their hands in surrender. Our bombardment begins very soon now and, let me tell you, after days of non-stop barrage, not only will all their barbed wire be cut, most of the blighters will be blown to smithereens!
‘However.’ He drew himself up and, with his forefinger, swept every face before him. ‘You should also know this: if you’re wounded during the assault, that’s your look-out. No fighting soldier is to hesitate in his march to victory. Should you see your comrade fall then you must leave him for the RAMC and the stretcher-bearers to pick up when they’re able. Your first duty is to your country, not your pals. And let’s get one thing straight right now – if any of you so much as think of turning back during the push, youwillbe shot. Not by the Germans.’ Gallagher moved to within a few feet of me during this speech and I suddenly felt his sweaty hand slap my shoulder. ‘But by your commanding officers!’ The colonel didn’t ask permission. He grabbed the revolver from my belt and pointed it randomly at members of my platoon. It rested for a moment on Danny, and it was all I could do not to snatch the weapon from the old bastard’s grasp. ‘You have been warned,’ he croaked, then laughed, thrusting the revolver back into my holster. ‘But why am I wasting my breath, eh? There are no conchies nor shirkers here, ain’t that right, Captain?’
Jackson, who’d been at my side during all this, said in a neutral voice, ‘My men will do their duty, sir.’
‘Stout fellows!’ the colonel nodded. ‘Every one of ’em!’
The rehearsal hadn’t only been monotonous but also somehow revolting. In those cut-up fields under the hot sun, we had made a pantomime of war, men pretending to creep out of furrows in the ground only a couple of inches deep and then marching as if on parade, bloodless bayonets gleaming, boots kicking up the dust of this playground No Man’s Land. Occasionally a staff officer would shout ‘Boom!’ or ‘Rat-a-tat-tat!’ and the platoon would duck make-believe bullets. A hop and a skip over a knee-high stretch of barbed wire and they were in the enemy trench. There a skirmish took place, as ludicrous as any battle I’d seen acted out on a school stage, soldiers miming death and collapsing into heaps.
Echoing my thoughts, Danny murmured, ‘Can you believe this?’
The awful thing was Icouldbelieve it.
In any case, it didn’t seem that much of the information we’d gathered had been taken into account. The generals probably thought that narrow scoop of ‘German’ trench where Spud and Taffy play-acted at combat was not much shallower than the real thing.
Now, on the terrace of battalion HQ, I take out my watch and check the time. Five to seven. Only a few minutes until the performance begins. At the bottom of the long, sweeping garden, a makeshift theatre has been set up. Empty ammunition boxes sanded down and nailed together to form a stage; a pretty decent proscenium arch constructed over the past couple of days by Robert and Percy out of whatever they’d found lying around in the cellar of the old villa. A carpenter back home, Robert had shown that he wasn’t all crude comments and off-colour jokes. His skill can be seen in a single smiling cherub that peeks out from the fresh-cut wood. Even Lieutenant-Colonel Gallagher has got into the spirit things, loaning the crimson drapes from his bedroom for a curtain.
The show was mostly Danny’s idea. He’d come clattering up to the attic, his face flushed with excitement. ‘The boys and I have been chatting about something we could do to lift everyone’s spirits,’ he panted. ‘A show. A sort of one-act variety thing featuring anyone who wants to take part. Perce would play the piano and do a skit or two with Robert. Some of the other boys said they might act out a bit of a play or recite a poem. Although I told them, nothing too long and nothing about the bloody war. I swear, if I hear one more verse about a gas attack, I’ll march into the garden right now and drown myself in that shell crater.’
I glanced quickly into the empty corridor before pulling him into my arms. ‘You’ll do no such thing.’
We’ve managed to steal a moment or two like this over the past few days. Just the odd quick kiss behind closed doors, nothing that might arouse suspicions. Because even if Captain Jackson is on our side and the whole platoon seem to like us, a whispered innuendo could still be dangerous.
‘So what do you think?’ he asked, resting his forehead against mine. ‘Jackson’s on board. He said he’d swing it for us so that we can stage the show on the last night before we head back to the Front. He might even get us permission to perform in the grounds of the chateau at Bécourt.’
‘And let me guess, you’d be the headline act?’
He fluttered his eyelashes. ‘Who else?’
‘All right,’ I laughed. ‘Only promise me one thing.’
‘Anything.’
‘You’ll be careful. Nothing too...’ My mind flew back to that tiny pub in the unnamed village we had passed through. To Danny at the piano, his gestures bold, flamboyant, feminine. I hated the word I was about to say, but I had to say it nonetheless: ‘Suggestive. We need to be careful.’
He’d nodded his agreement but still I saw the hurt in his eyes.
Now I snap shut my watch, irritated with myself. Why did I have to upset him? What the hell did the danger of our relationship really matter when in a few short days we might be cut to ribbons or else blown off the face of the earth?
‘Shall we take our seats?’ asks Captain Jackson, appearing at my side. We haven’t spoken any further about Peter, the man he loved and lost. Sometimes words are too painful to bear.
We walk together down the steps of the terrace and across the lawn. A waft of bean blossom blows in from a neighbouring field, the woods beyond shimmer with butterflies. The folding chairs set up in front of the stage are almost all full, our own platoon joined by men from other companies. There’s a skittish, slightly tipsy atmosphere, although no one has been drinking. It strikes me as the high spirits of men determined to enjoy themselves one last time. I spy Lieutenant-Colonel Gallagher at the centre of the front row, chortling next to a thin-lipped Captain Beddowes who continues to cradle his healing hand.
Suddenly Percy steps out from between the curtains and a hush descends. He ostentatiously cracks his knuckles and then manages to trip over on his way to the piano. Whether this is planned or not, the audience hoots its approval.
The next hour passes in a chaotic blur of accordion and banjo recitals, poetry readings, scenes fromKing LearandHenry V, and a comedy skit involving Taffy and Spud as competitive zookeepers attempting to wash an invisible elephant and ending up drenched from head to foot (this even gets a genuine titter from Beddowes). Then, as the day darkens and torches are lit at the front of the stage, Danny appears from the wings.
My breath catches. He wears his uniform, his cap tucked under his arm. No theatrical make-up, no special costume, and yet as he steps confidently forward, Danny commands the stage radiantly.
With a nod to Percy at the piano, he starts to sing. Each tune is performed differently, comic numbers like ‘After the Ball’ and ‘Knees Up Mother Brown’ sung while parading around the stage, throwing his hands out to the crowd; then a quieter, smaller, sweeter approach to the sentimental ballads of ‘Goodbye Dolly Grey’ and ‘By the Light of the Silvery Moon’. Percy pounds the keys and Danny shouts for the men to join in with the penultimate number, ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary’. By the end, everyone is up on their feet, whistling and shouting for more. I’m among them, beaming and hollering my praise.
At last Danny is persuaded back on stage for a final encore. His cheeks are flushed and he’s grinning from ear to ear. Then his confidence appears to falter. His gaze sweeps the audience and, finding me, he offers a nervous smile before walking over to Percy. They exchange whispered words and the pianist nods. Returning to centre stage, Danny holds up his hand for quiet.
‘All right, you lovely lot, just one more and then it’s chucking-out time. But before I get started, I want to say one thing.’ He hesitates, taking in every face. ‘Good luck to you all for the days ahead.’
