He huffs. ‘Doodle, man. Doodle!’ He snatches up a pencil and mimes a scribble across the baize table. ‘Draw, sketch,doodle! I remember the fellow...’ He snaps his fingers and Beddowes whispers the late captain’s name again. ‘Yes, yes, Danvers. He told me once you were something of an artist. So?’
‘In my spare time, I suppose I still—’
‘Excellent. But you are accurate, yes? You can draw what is actually there and a chap with half a brain can recognise it for what it is? What I mean, Wraxall, is that you’re not one of these “Modernists” the Continentals love so much. Like that blasted dago who paints all the nude women with their heads turned about and their bits in all the wrong places?’
‘You mean Picasso, sir?’
‘That’s the dauber.’ The colonel bangs his fists on the arms of his chair, as if the master of Modernism had personally offered to paint him with allhisbits in the wrong places. ‘You know what I personally think about these oddballs?’ he says, staring about as if they could be listening in. ‘Pansies, the lot of ’em! Sodomites! Degenerates! Had more than a few limp-wristed blighters back at the old school. Took a good deal of caning to thrash that sort of thing out of ’em.’
I swallow hard. I saw such things in my old school too. Masters beating pupils who’d been found together in a moment of intimacy. Boys thrashed bloody for their sins. At least my father never raised his hand to me for my ‘impurity’ – only sent me off to war.
‘If I found one of the dirty devils in my battalion, know what I’d do?’ Gallagher continues. ‘Court-martial the filth on sight! Dig ’em out and have ’em shot at dawn, right in front of the entire company! Then wipe the killing bullet clean of his damned blood. None of this hard labour nonsense. Bullet, done. Can’t have sexual inverts in any decent man’s army, ain’t that right, Lieutenant?’
The colonel sits back, a little breathless from his rant, while Captain Beddowes casts me a cool gaze.
All I can do is nod. ‘Right you are, Colonel. Right you are.’
5
I walk with my head down, the sand from the dunes crackling around my boots. I have sent a runner to find Danny’s company and to ask him to meet me at the bridge. My mind flits between the idea of taking him on as my soldier-servant and what I have just seen and heard. The colonel didn’t explain why he was so interested in my drawing abilities. He simply said that I might receive further instructions when I returned with my new platoon to Albert, the main administrative town in our sector of the Somme.
I half wonder if it has anything to do with those papers and photographs I glimpsed on his desk. Reconnaissance pictures of Hun trenches and the memos with their chilling phrases:calculated risk, continuous bombardment, acceptable casualties. Some planned offensive, I suppose, but on what scale? Perhaps a few companies working together on a joint raid of an enemy position? A battalion or two scrabbling across No Man’s Land, all guns blazing. Something to break the stalemate of the past two years, during which hardly a yard of ground has been won or lost by either side. There have been rumours about some kind of push ever since last winter; perhaps the time for it is at hand.
Whatever the truth, my feelings are mixed. A large Allied offensive could mean the beginning of the end in this seemingly endless war, but it would also mean bloodshed. The question is, how much? And there is another thought that howls at me after that interview with the colonel. Commanders like Gallagher would happily throw all his men into the meatgrinder if it meant eventual victory. All except those of us he considersdegenerates. Our lives aren’t worthy of annihilation in the wastes of No Man’s Land. Such a death is too honourable. For us, if we are discovered, court-martial, disgrace and imprisonment with hard labour is a lenient punishment. For Gallagher, we deserve no better than an executioner’s bullet.
That’s the world I am fighting to save. Because have no doubt, when the guns fall silent and the dust settles over this devastated continent, it’ll be old men like the colonel who survive and remain in charge.
‘Lieutenant Wraxall! Um, any chance of some help here? Me and these fine gentlemen seem to be having a minor misunderstanding.’
I look up to find Danny with his back against the parapet of the bridge, the two guards from earlier – Dennis and Lionel, as I recall – pointing their rifles at his chest. Despite the fact that most other men in his position might be busy gibbering their apologies and excuses, Danny is grinning his broad grin and waving at me.
‘I’ve told ya, put yer bloody arms up! Unless ya want to be sent straight back to Blighty in a box,’ Dennis all but shrieks.
Danny winces at the sergeant’s volume. ‘Oh, but I bet you’re a hit with all the French girls, aren’t you, sir? A silver-tongued smooth-talker like yourself? They must be queueing round the barracks. And your friend here as well. Quite the charmer.’
The guards gawp, their expressions a muddle of rage and bafflement. ‘I said arms up!’ Dennis orders.
‘Allright,’ Danny sighs, raising his hands. ‘But as I’ve already told you, I’m here at the lieutenant’s request.’
‘And as I’ve toldyou,’ Dennis snaps. ‘That bit of paper don’t give you permission to cross my bridge. Over there is for gentlemen only, not the likes of you.’
He jabs the barrel of his Lee-Enfield Mk III into Danny’s sternum and Private McCormick winces again. But the kiss of the rifle doesn’t shake his smile for long.
‘You know, I bet there are some perfectly good Germans you could be threatening with that thing,’ he says. ‘Isn’t it too nice a day to be shooting men from your own team?’
I can tell by the twitch of Dennis’ jaw that it’s time I stepped in. ‘At ease,’ I say, moving over to the parapet. ‘This man is here at my order. Now, Private, apologise to the sergeants and we’ll be on our way.’
Danny leans across the barrel of Dennis’ rifle and gives the man’s shoulder a friendly pat. ‘I’m really sorry for not appreciating that this is your own special bridge and you’re naturally very protective of it.’
‘With respect, Lieutenant, get this cheeky little sod out of my sight,’ Dennis roars. ‘And if I see him again, I won’t need a gun. I’ll wring his neck with my bare hands.’
‘Noted,’ I say, and give Danny a gentle shove towards the Étaples side of the bridge.
We’re almost across when he pirouettes on his heel and, producing a handkerchief from nowhere, wipes his slightly grubby fingers with it. Then, balling it up, he sends it spinning with pinpoint precision at Dennis’ head. The sergeant manages to grab the soiled cloth before it hits him square in the face.
‘Thanks for the loan,’ Danny calls out, executing a theatrical bow. ‘And if you’re a good boy, I might even give you back your braces.’
While Lionel bursts into fits of laughter, the sergeant actually pats a palm across his chest, as if checking that his braces haven’t also magically vanished. I have to suppress my own smile as we walk away, the curses of Dennis ringing in our ears.
