Tom moved, and in the flickering candlelight, he looked Hawkes in the eye. “I was dreaming of my wife, sir, but I don’t believe I was asleep. Simple as that. But if I have to die, I don’t want her to think me a coward.”
Hawkes turned away, folding his arms. “I am sure Mrs. Brissenden knows only of your bravery, Tom—she married a man of integrity.” He paused, then stepped forward to face the accused man again. “You were one of the first from the village to enlist—and you, a married man with a farm to run. Everyone would have understood if you’d remained at home and taken care of your land and your wife. When the time comes, I will speak of your love of your country, and I will point to the swift actions that led to your mention in dispatches—I won’t see you taken blindfold before the firing squad, not like this.”
Tom frowned and gave a humorless half smile, as if he were having to repeat himself to a fool. “I didn’t do any of it for my country, sir—that’s not why I went to enlist. I did it for the village, because men from my farm had gone already. We’ve always looked after our own, at Marshals Farm, and the people of Turndene and Brooksmarsh stick together. It’s how it’s done, isn’t it? But the lads who came before me are all gone now—dead over here and buried in foreign soil.” He spoke as if he had indeed been woken from a dream, and shrugged as he continued. “But farm boys buried on farmland seems just about right. I reckon it’ll go back to being fields and grazing as soon as all this is over, this fighting.” He paused for a few moments, seeming to stare into the darkness. “So if I die with them, then I won’t die a poor man, and I’ll be buried deep in a farmer’s ground, which is not a bad way to leave this world, for a man who made his living on the land. And I have the love of a good wife to remember, don’t I? But the way it’s going, to my mind there won’t be anyone marching back to Kent, will there? Or anywhere in the world, I shouldn’t wonder. We’ll all be here, dying in bloody France, and most of us wondering why.”
Hawkes nodded and looked towards the canvas flap, the opening into the trench. “They’re here—the MPs.”
Tom stood to attention. Hawkes picked up his cap and checked his uniform. He sighed and shook his head. “How long were you out there, Tom—on sentry duty?”
“Five hours.”
“Five hours? You’re only meant to do two hours. That’s why there’s a limit, because men get bloody tired. For God’s sake—why did he leave you so long?”
Tom looked Hawkes in the eye without flinching. He said nothing.
“I’ll be bringing that up, make no mistake,” said Hawkes.
Sergeant Knowles entered the dugout.
“Sir!” He stood to attention. “The MPs are here, sir.”
Hawkes nodded. “Very good. And the officers?”
“On their way.”
“Right you are. Yes. All right.” Hawkes nodded and clasped his hands behind his back so his trembling fingers would not be seen. “I have one more question for Private Brissenden, then he may go.”
“Sir, with respect—”
“Thank you, Sergeant Knowles. I don’t think Brissenden is about to run anywhere, not with two hefty redcaps waiting with shackles.”
“Sir.” Knowles tendered his salute and left the dugout.
Tom looked at Hawkes, his stare steady, calm. There was no sign of fear, no twitching lip or eye revealing terror or nerves. “Yes, sir?”
“Tom . . .” Hawkes paused as if to frame his question, again barely realizing he had addressed this man he had known almost from childhood by his Christian name. “Damn this, I’ve taken enough bloody liberties here already. They’ll be court-martialling me next.” Another pause. “Look, Tom, what went through your mind on that day? When you took aim and killed each member of the German reconnaissance party?”
“I never wanted to kill a man,” said Tom. “It never even occurred to me that I would, in my whole life. And it’s funny—even though I enlisted to go to war, I never really thought about raising my gun and aiming at another human being. I’m a farmer—I’ve only known the land, really. I never took the life of more than a rabbit, a pheasant, or a chicken. And to be honest, I don’t even like to see my livestock being slaughtered either, but it’s what the farm’s for, raising animal and vegetable, and harvesting both so people can eat. But when I caught sight of those soldiers, I knew they would see us or hear us as soon as we moved, and I knew they would take aim and fire, and I reckoned them to be good shots. I always said to myself, ever since I came over here, that I had to consider the enemy a good shot. But all the same, I reckoned I’d have to be better if I was to go home to my farm in one piece.” He shook his head. “Funny that, having two ideas about war at once, that you won’t have to kill, but you have to shoot to stay alive. And I am a good shot, Captain Hawkes. I’m very good. Always have been. So I knew it was either them or us, and if we let them go on with setting their sights on us, it could be the end for all the lads in that camp, and I wasn’t going to let it happen, was I?”
Edmund Hawkes nodded.
“But I want to know something,” added Tom. “If this here court-martial goes against me, I want you to swear you’ll get men who are even better than me to do the shooting.”
Diary, March 8, 1915
Hilary and I have been moved to another location this morning. As volunteers without official military approval (though we’re subject to their orders as to where we can best serve), we seem to be shunted from place to place, according to where most wounded are expected to fall and need transport to the hospital. I’ve been told we are close to a place called Neuve Chappelle today, though half the time I don’t know if I’ve been told the truth, because some of these towns aren’t standing any more. I haven’t heard from Tom, but I wonder if he is near here, as so many columns of men seem to be marching towards the front.
Thea shook her fountain pen onto the square of blotting paper next to her diary.
“Bloody ink!”
“Now what is it?” Hilary looked up from her book, illuminated by a lantern hanging from a tentpole.
“I think they’re watering down the ink—probably to make supplies last. One minute I have watery blue handwriting, and the next, it’s gummed up.”
“Try a pencil.”
Thea sighed. “I know—it would be the obvious thing, wouldn’t it?”
She adjusted her lantern and continued writing.
I wouldn’t say our previous quarters were palatial, but the farmhouse was warmer, and we could boil up water for a wash—not that there was much time to wash. Sometimes I have a pang of nostalgia for the dreadful bathroom at my lodging chambers. At least the WC was inside, though—a far cry from the farm. I must say, I was surprised that Kezia has managed to get on so well, but on the other hand, I’ve known her for so long now, and I should have remembered she’s like one of those toffee éclairs; you can sink your teeth in and then you hit something hard that doesn’t give. If I care to admit it, I think Tom saw that more than me. I wish I hadn’t given her the book. It wasn’t given in kindness. It was a spiteful gesture, and she knew it. And it was a far from loving welcome into the family—well, family such as we are, now.
She paused, chewing the end of the pencil she had taken up at Hilary’s suggestion.
“You’ll get splinters in your stomach if you do that,” said Hilary, turning a page.
“Old wives’ tale,” replied Thea.
“Where do you think the splinters go, then?”
Thea stopped chewing and, after a moment’s thought, began writing again.
I admit, I was jealous. It seemed I had not really become used to the idea that Tom had chosen Thea, and that they were walking out, then suddenly, before I knew it, he had asked Reverend Marchant for her hand. We Brissendens were never churchgoers. The farm was hard enough, without leaving Sunday’s jobs until Monday morning. But I should be grateful, because if it hadn’t been for Reverend Marchant, I might never have gone on from Camden to the college. I don’t know what he said to Father, but he c
hanged his mind. Jack Brissenden could barely see the point of Camden, let alone me becoming a teacher-woman. That’s what he called me—a teacher-woman. In any case, I will have to make amends to Kezia. I owe so much to her and her family, and I have realized I love them as if they were my own, if I can admit such a thing.
“Better get some shut-eye, Thea,” said Hilary. “There’s a lot to do tomorrow. I’ve heard that Wednesday will be the start of a long few days. We’ve a couple of tin ladies to oil and check, and we’ve got the best record for having no breakdowns, you and I, so we’ve got to keep it.”
“You’ve had a bet with someone.” Thea closed her journal, stowed it in her small wooden trunk, and stepped towards her cot. She reached down to unlace and remove her boots, then slipped off her trousers and her thick green cardigan, followed by her woolen blouse. She would sleep in her liberty bodice with the cardigan wrapped around her, and she would keep on the men’s long underpants that kept her warm in the ambulance. Her socks remained too, though she wondered if she would ever feel her toes again.
“I stand to make a few francs. That American Red Cross driver, the one with the fair hair and the blue eyes, he said Mildred was an old jalopy and would grind to a halt this week. I tell you, over my dead body will Mildred be allowed to falter.”
Thea laughed. “Gertie is as solid as a railway train.”
“Well said. Now then, lights out.”
Chapter 16
Discipline is a moral force. It is not a natural quality, and can only be acquired by careful training. It is not too much to say that its value in warfare is even greater than courage, for discipline will enable men to conquer fear and do their duty in spite of it, while courage alone without discipline may avail little in battle. Discipline is absolutely essential for the existence of an army in peace and war.
—INFANTRY TRAINING, 1914
Edmund Hawkes sat in his dugout with his head resting in his hands. Sporadic gunfire peppered the night, expletives from the men in the trench salting their artillery response. One man called out, asking whether Fritz wanted to get any bleedin’ sleep that night or not. A call came back, a taunt in perfect English from the German trench. “You need your beauty sleep, Britisher?”
From the time Tom Brissenden was brought to him, Hawkes had felt every sense in his being come to attention. He could discern each component of the stench around him—men who had not bathed in two weeks, overflowing latrines, decomposing flesh and blood leeching into the mud, seeping into the swamplike trench. And rats. Christ, those rats stunk to high heaven. He could smell his own body, thick with dried sweat he imagined to be green, as if he were coated with mold; crawling with lice he could barely feel any longer, lice that ran along the dark seams of his clothing and into his hair, the folds of his skin, places he would scrub until raw when he saw a bath again. If. If he saw a bath again.
It amazed him that at no point following his arrest was Tom Brissenden anything other than respectful and calm. He could have called Hawkes by his Christian name, Edmund, or Mr. Hawkes, as if they had passed on the road to Turndene, yet though they had known each other years—not as friends, admittedly, but that was only due to station and, as they both well knew, family history—Tom let nothing slip. There was pride in his demeanor, though no sign of insolence. That must have taunted Knowles, thought Hawkes. To Private Tom Brissenden, here, in France, even in private conversation, his commanding officer was Captain Hawkes. Sir. And the ingrained self-respect and the straight line he walked seemed to elevate the farmer more than it had either a sergeant from the regulars to whom he’d offered his salute, or the village squire, in whose hands his life was now held.
Hawkes began making notes for the court-martial. If there was to be a capital punishment following the hearing—and he hoped to God it would not go that far—then it would take place at dawn. The firing squad always went about their work at dawn. The hearing would be held as soon as a minimum of three commissioned officers were present. Were there witnesses? Who would speak in Tom Brissenden’s defense? How could he help Tom make his statement of character, or a statement of mitigation, without demonstrating his lack of impartiality? Of more import, how would Brissenden plead? Hawkes thumped the table with the flat of his hand. And above all, was he telling the truth? Had the man been awake or asleep?
One thing in the accused man’s favor was that at this point there were no commissioned officers more senior than a major within a reasonable radius. And the officers Hawkes had summoned were close to their men, not colonels or generals who might be spending their days cushioned in comfort peering at maps amid a self-congratulatory remembrance of fighting Boers on the Veldt, or dealing with native uprisings in India, where a wound might be from a sword, or a knife, or if it were from a bullet, there was a round hole, the blood easily staunched. These men had not seen, could not comprehend, the way a man could be cut in two by rapid machine-gun fire, or how a shell could mutilate a soldier beyond all human recognition. He would have felt nothing. Death came in an instant. And the noise, the incessant noise, thumping into the skull, shaking the teeth, and making the heart lose its rhythm; no, they never came close enough to those feverish sounds, so couldn’t comprehend how very beyond tired a man might be to fall down and sleep, perhaps even more so in the hours before dead of night, a time when the armies on both sides felt their spirit wane, like a candle flickering before the flame vanishes. It was a wonder they had not all descended into lunacy. Hawkes sat up and shook his head. Perhaps they had.
He took another sheet of paper, and began to write. He would not wait to send this letter; it must go by the soonest mailbag. He would send a runner if necessary. He gave thanks for the speed and efficiency of the army postal service—a letter could reach its destination in England within two days, even from the front, and could be received from home with equal speed. The words he penned came with ease. They had been formed over the weeks since Tom Brissenden joined his battalion, and during the interludes when he read the letters to and from the farmer and his wife, peering over the fence into their union. He wanted this letter to arrive before any other letter he might be required to compose, or any telegram issued by the authorities. He knew of no other way to return Kezia’s husband to her side. And he understood that he could no longer assuage his loneliness by imagining her as his own beloved wife.
Dear Mrs. Brissenden,
I beg your forbearance in reading this letter, which I am taking the liberty of writing and sending to you. I wish to tell you that your husband, Private Thomas Brissenden, is a very brave man. He is a man who has already been mentioned in dispatches, and he is a man of valor.
Since I enlisted and came to France, I have seen men kill each other for perhaps three or four feet of land, and I confess it has altered me. My men are valiant warriors, and I am proud to stand among their number, and honored to lead them. In my opinion, every man who has fought for his country is owed his country. He is owed the very earth of our Kingdom under his feet.
God willing, Tom will return to Marshals Farm, and before long he and I will walk together across our Wealden pastures in the warmth of a Kentish summer, while jawing about the harvest and the price of cattle.
Yours, with my utmost sincerity,
Captain Edmund Hawkes
Hawkes called for Pullings, who was never far from his commanding officer.
“Yes, sir!” Pullings saluted and stamped his feet to attention.
“Pullings, I want to speak to Private Croft. And Pullings, I want you to do some detective work. Find anyone who was within earshot of what went on while Private Brissenden was on sentry duty. I want to know what time he commenced his duty, what was said to him—and I want to know any other tales of discord between Sergeant Knowles and Brissenden.”
“Yes, sir!”
“One last thing—try to do it on the QT, Pullings. It’s not a simple task, but Brissenden doesn’t have much time.”
Edmund had confidence in his batman. He might be a you
ng lad, but he was from Brooksmarsh, and he knew the Brissendens and he knew the village. He would not want to see a Kentish farmer sent before his own country’s guns.
Kezia could not sleep. Wind was howling across the roof and under the eaves. As the windows creaked in the darkness, she nestled down farther under the covers, burrowing into her loneliness. How would she ever keep the farm running? What if Bert were ill? Danny had been talking about enlisting—not for the army; his lameness meant he was considered unfit for service—but as an orderly at the hospital in Maidstone. He wanted to do something, he said, for his country. Bert had told him his country needed to be fed, so it was just as well he was on a farm. She turned again, stretching out her legs to unlock the cramp, her feet lingering on the cold part of the sheet for just a few seconds before she brought up her knees, huddling to make herself warmer. She wondered what time it was. Two o’clock? Three o’clock in the morning? Why lie awake at three o’clock, when there was never enough time to sleep anyway?
Kezia’s mind turned, her thoughts picking up speed. Perhaps when this was all over, when Tom was home and the fighting was done, perhaps she would look back and see her life as being divided into three. There would be Before The War, During The War, and After The War. She could imagine women in the shop, still wearing fresh mourning, talking about things that happened before the war, or how they did this or that during the war. And then they would say, After the war, when everything went back to normal . . . But would anything ever go back to normal? Perhaps normal would be like a town visited on holiday; once seen and vaguely remembered in a haze of sunshine. Normal was when we did this or that. Normal was when we were married. Normal is Tom, sitting at the table to eat his dinner. Normal is going into London to linger in Hatchards, or to have a cup of tea with Thea. Normal is turning the pages of a book, or making a cup of her precious coffee; tending the kitchen garden or driving the gig into the village.