Swearing Allegiance (The Carmody Saga Book 1) Page 24

  Danny slept like a baby, covered up with a blanket and with Edna watching over him. Anna was in the kitchen making a lunch of cheese sandwiches, pickled eggs, and a pot of tea. Outside in the hallway, Arthur, Dai, Harold the policeman, and Dr Williams came to important decisions regarding Danny’s fate. They all agreed that it wasn’t feasible to move him in his condition and that he was not a danger to Britain’s security or to society. Arresting him was not a good idea either, Harold pointed out. That would mean having to fill out a lot of paperwork on a charge that probably wouldn’t stick. Dr Williams added, to everyone’s annoyance, that Dai had unlawfully run Danny over, and that if Danny was charged with a crime, for whatever, Dai could also be arrested for assault. Harold was adamant that he wasn’t going to lock Danny up in a cell. He was the only policeman in the village, and incarcerating someone was far too much work. He was getting too old for that sort of carry-on, he stated.

  Dr Williams, who appeared to be the only man there with any sympathy for Danny, suggested that the young Irishman be allowed to stay on the couch until his head, ribs, and bruised hip mended enough to send him packing on the train back to London.

  Arthur was appalled, and he said so. Dai, still looking shamefaced for his part in the drama, suggested that there wouldn’t be any harm done should they allow Danny to stay for a few days.

  “Da, Ma can look after him. We’ll throw him out on his ear as soon as he’s able to walk.”

  Nodding begrudgingly, Arthur said, “Right then, that’s what we’ll do, as long as you make sure our Anna doesn’t go anywhere near him.”

  “I won’t let her out of my sight,” Dai promised.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  A week had passed since Jenny had been forced to look at herself. That had been a rotten day, one she wouldn’t forget in a hurry. But after going through a gamut of emotions, she now found herself wanting to gaze in the mirror. Every morning, afternoon, and evening, she studied each scar, lump, discolouration, and amount of hair growth. Soft auburn spikes were gradually getting longer and covering more and more of her head. She might be imagining it, but she was sure that the circumference of the bald patch around her ear was decreasing. Even the dreadful-looking scar at her hairline didn’t seem as blatantly visible as it had the previous week.

  She was still coming to terms with her condition, but she didn’t believe she was the grotesque creature that had haunted her imagination. How she looked was not even her biggest concern. It was the length of time she had spent confined to the house. Everyone kept telling her that she should go out, but she was afraid that she’d never find the courage to leave the house again. Why she was scared of the outside world, she didn’t know, but the panic and breathlessness that came over her when she imagined herself walking down the street was very real.

  For the first time since leaving the hospital, she made the effort to go downstairs for dinner with the family. A small quantity of coal had been delivered at last, and the parlour had a cosy and welcoming feel to it. A book sat on her lap – a gift from Dr Thackery, who had paid a surprise visit to the house three days previously. Jenny absently turned the pages of A Christmas Carol, by Charles Dickens, but her eyes kept wandering to the window and what lay beyond.

  She closed her book, finding it disheartening. The previous Christmas, her father had given a party in the Dublin house for over forty affluent people. Champagne, luscious food, and desserts had been served to guests by servants. She had been dressed in a brand-new gown sewn together with gold thread, and she’d worn a gold and black band around her forehead, with golden feathers sticking out of her mass of curls. John had danced with her until the early hours of the morning. Kevin had also been there, and she hadn’t given him the time of day – she longed to know if he was safe and well. She supposed he must be. Patrick surely would have found out if something terrible had befallen his best friend. Kevin had surprised her again. He had not written to her since leaving the country. She couldn’t blame him, she supposed. Why should he? She had not replied to him, and he was probably under the impression that she was still going to marry John.

  She placed the book on a side table. Why the hell should she want to read about an old man called Scrooge, who had so much money he didn’t know what to do with it? Her family were now like the poor mob he was callously treating like lower-class waifs and strays in the book. She felt like the little crippled boy in the story – what was his name? She couldn’t think of it. That’s how much she appreciated the stupid tale!

  She looked up. Mam, darning socks with a dreamy look on her face, quite often went off into a world of her own for an hour at a time. But she seemed more on edge than usual. Patrick had been ordered to report to the War Office in Whitehall. Mam was probably worried about him. He’d be anxious as well, waiting to find out where his next posting was.

  The Times had just arrived from next door. It was usually handed down neighbour to neighbour, starting off at the house on the corner, belonging to the Gilberts. They were the only family in the street who could still afford a few luxuries in life. Jenny knew the well-to-do eldest son quite well. He’d been a cocky boy growing up, and once he’d dared to kiss her on the cheek when they were in the park. Years previously, he bought a run-down shell of a factory, and when the war came, he leased it to the government for a substantial sum of money.

  Minnie was reading it first, as always. Jenny wished her granny would keep the news to herself, but she always insisted on sharing every little detail with whoever was in the house. By the time the newspaper got to other family members, there were no surprising articles left to read.

  “Judging by this announcement from the government, next year’s going to be even worse than this one,” Minnie said, as though she’d read Jenny’s mind.

  Jenny rolled her eyes at her granny. She had only held the grubby newspaper in her hands for five minutes and was already starting her running commentary.

  “Why’s that, Granny?” Jenny asked anyway.

  “Well, for starters, at the beginning of nineteen seventeen, men and women without limitation of age will be told what the government needs them to do to help win the war. Whatever that means. The Times is calling it the mobilisation of a nation. And we’re promised all sorts of drastic measures. There’s going to be great restrictions on railway traffic and an increase of fifty per cent in fares.”

  “Oh no, how’s our Danny going to get back?” Susan said worriedly.

  “Same way as he got to Wales, no doubt. By deceit and thieving,” Minnie grumbled.

  “Now, Mother, we said we wouldn’t talk about that again.”

  Jenny hadn’t been too surprised when she’d learned that Danny had run up to Wales. He was a bit dim at times, but no one could say he wasn’t a passionate man.

  “What else are they saying?” she asked, just to put a halt to the bickering.

  “Yes, where was I?” Minnie said. “The tsar of Russia has given a resolute reply to the German peace overture by exhorting his soldiers to fight on until Germany is defeated.”

  “Good, I hope our government tells the kaiser where to put his peace proposal too. He started this whole thing. He shouldn’t be allowed to say when it ends,” Susan said.

  Minnie was now on a different page. “Oh dear, it seems we are to have a meatless day.”

  “We already have two or three of them,” Jenny said, just as the front door opened and then slammed shut. Grinning, Patrick walked into the parlour.

  “Tell me you have good news,” Susan said.

  “I have wonderful news,” Patrick told her, still smiling. “I have not been posted to a ship, at least not for the foreseeable future. I’m being sent back to Southampton as part of the naval medical branch support team. I’ll be supervising all aspects of wounded repatriation.”

  “Does that mean you will still have to go to the continent to collect the injured soldiers?” Minnie asked.

  “No, it will be my job to take over the running of the operatio
ns from the moment the hospital ships arrive in Southampton until the wounded are put on the trains. That was part of my duties when I was on the Britannic, but my new posting will involve seeing to every single hospital ship that come into port. I’ll also be liaising with the major hospitals in the London area from time to time. The government thinks it will be a good idea for hospitals to hear from a naval lieutenant about what exactly goes on when the wounded arrive – and how things can be improved.”

  Jenny’s eyes widened. “Did you say lieutenant?”

  “That I did, Jenny. It seems I’ve been promoted. It’s a step up the ladder in the medical field. It will mean a pay raise, Mam.”

  Susan was smiling. It was a rare sight. “I could cry with joy, son. I’ll sleep better tonight knowing that you’re safe.”

  “When do you leave?” Minnie asked.

  “At the end of next week. I’ll miss Christmas with you, but the war doesn’t stop for the holidays, does it?”

  “Oh, who cares about Christmas? This is the best present anyone could give me,” Susan said. “The main thing is that you won’t be in danger and might get back to see us from time to time.”

  For a while, the conversation settled around Patrick. After a dinner of ham broth on its third outing, Jenny went back upstairs. Her head was thumping. Her stomach was cramping up, and she was shivering, even though downstairs was relatively warm. The morphine doses were decreasing, and soon she would have to do without it altogether. Patrick had given her the nightly dose of laudanum, but it was a useless medicine that contributed to a couple of extra hours of sleep at best.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Kevin picked his way through a maze of communication trenches leading to the secondary lines. The long shallow ditches were knee high in muddy water. Long planks were floating on top, jamming the already difficult route. Obstacles like chunks of concrete and barbwire also jutted out from the side walls, having slipped from their positions during landslides. Sandbags that had fallen from the tops of dirt walls thickened the muck further, trapping Kevin’s feet like quicksand. And as he dragged his weighted body through the miry slush, his boots crunched spent bullets, dead rats, mess tins, and helmets; he also saw a wagon wheel, left behind by the enemy. He looked up. Dawn would not lift the darkness for another hour, but even when light came, a dim grey landscape would sit under a rainy sky.

  He greeted soldiers leaning against the trench walls. Some were talking quietly amongst themselves. Others, he saw, were asleep where they slouched. In the centre of the ditch, soldiers were filling, emptying, and refilling buckets with mud and water in an attempt to stop the trenches from flooding completely. And in the misery, a lone man jovially sang, “I didn’t want to join the ruddy army. I don’t want to go to war.” Kevin smiled at him. A man singing was always a welcome sound. That particular song was fashionable in the trenches, and it was a popular talking point too – who the hell could possible want to go to war?

  The world was bogged down in mud, barbwire, and death, he thought, struggling towards command headquarters. It was a hellish life consisting of constant shellfire, the horrible beat of the guns, gas that came over the top of the trenches like a yellow cloud, and rat-infested ditches such as this. It was a place where friend and foe remained under fire and threat of death because better holes to run to and hide in didn’t exist. It was home.

  But despite the hell, the men were filled with a quiet resignation, as though they were all united in a common bond of hate, not for the enemy as much as for the whole miserable, murderous massacre. This morning his hatred was directed towards his own army, for it was the biggest murderer, in his eyes. Not since Dublin had he seen his own countrymen being executed by firing squad, yet when he reached the command centre, that was exactly what he’d be forced to witness again.

  His desire to refuse the order that had been given to him the previous night had been so great that he had thought that he too might end up being shot for disobeying a superior officer. It was imperative that he be present at the execution, he’d been told. He had to administer morphine to the prisoner so that he wouldn’t be anxious when he faced the firing squad. Was this a nightmare, a strange waking dream, Kevin had wondered for a brief second. Or was it a prank to test his sense of humour? It was neither, for when that brief second of complete incomprehension ended, he knew that it was not a dream or a hoax. It was British justice meted out to soldiers who had run away from the fight.

  Kevin reported to the officer in charge and was then escorted to the prisoner. Outside a bunker, two soldiers stood guard, rifles slung casually over their shoulders. A chaplain was also there, and after introducing himself to Kevin, he led the way down six wooden steps into a cavernous room.

  At first, Kevin didn’t see the prisoner. Mesmerised, he stared at the sacks and boxes of victuals stored neatly in regimented piles. How long did the army intend to hold this wretched place? he wondered. He looked up at the ceiling. It was not only high enough to stand without slouching, but it also had electric light shining from bulbs strung on thin wire. He had heard of the Germans and their exuberance for making trenches, a home away from home, but he had never seen anything so large, sturdy, or well protected as this bunker.

  “The officers are billeted in rooms, way beyond this one,” the Chaplin said. “There is a maze of tunnels going on for about a half a mile.”

  “They probably end up where I’ve just come from,” Kevin said. “It’s a wonder the Germans have time to fight, what with all the fancy building work going on.”

  Private Herbert Hughes sat on top of a pile of sacks, staring at nothing in particular. One soldier guarded the door, made from rough wooden planks and nailed onto a frame that was jammed into hardened mud. The makeshift cell was also a storeroom of sorts, but it was practically bare, apart from a few sacks lying on the ground here and there.

  Hughes stood to attention, saluted, and asked hopefully, “Are you a lawyer, sir?”

  Kevin approached him, swallowing his pity and the emotional lump in his throat that threatened to choke him.

  “No, Private, I’m a medical officer.”

  “What do I need a doctor for? They’re going to shoot me in a minute. Is there nothing you can do for me, sir? Will you speak on my behalf?”

  Kevin found it hard to look at the man. According to the officer he had spoken to earlier, Hughes had testified that after seeing his friends and comrades massacred, he ran and just couldn’t stop running. When he’d literary fallen into the arms of a third-line British reinforcement unit, begging to be sent home, he’d cried with terror, urging the unit not to go any further.

  “There’s only death up that road!” he’d shouted repeatedly. After being questioned about why he was running across a field, going in the wrong direction, Hughes inadvertently told the men and officers that he couldn’t take the noise any longer. His ears were exploding, and he had witnessed things no man on Earth was supposed to see. All his friends, every last one of them, were gone, he’d sobbed.

  The army didn’t want cowards, Kevin thought, yet he sympathised with the man about to face death at the hands of his countrymen. He was also well aware that the decisions to execute soldiers were not taken lightly or rushed. A death sentence had to be passed unanimously and confirmed in writing by various officers as the verdict passed up the chain of command. A man’s battalion and brigade commander tended to comment on the man’s record, but senior generals seemed more concerned with the type of offence and the state of discipline in that unit. What did that matter in this case? Kevin thought. The private’s entire unit had been wiped out. Their discipline was hardly an issue now. Kevin had seen the commander-in-chief’s confirmation. It was all over for this man. He was not going to be given an appeals hearing, and no amount of begging would save him.

  Up until now, Kevin had been spared this duty. Hughes, not more than twenty years old, was not the first soldier to be shot at dawn, nor would he be the last. Traitor, coward … labels given to bo
ys and men who were so obviously in stages of mental collapse that only a fool wouldn’t see that they hadn’t been in their right minds when they’d run away from the battlefield. God only knew that he felt the trauma of war every single day. There had been times he’d wanted to get the hell out of the firing line by any means, fair or foul. Men broke down even as they wrote home in quiet times about the horrors they had seen. Some saturated the paper with tears of despair, while others could not even articulate words that truly expressed their feelings. The executions were a disgrace, yet many medical officers had openly stated that they did not feel any empathy for the offenders.

  “Sir, help me, please. In the name of all that’s holy, save me,” Hughes begged.

  Kevin focused on his duties, casting his own feelings aside.

  Hughes was trembling and perspiring in the freezing cold air. “I’m a good man, sir. I didn’t mean it. I don’t know what I was thinking. I ain’t never so much as stolen a loaf of bread or ’ad a fight in the street. I’ve given a year to king and country, and I’ve been a good soldier. I just kept running. I couldn’t seem to stop – the bloody noise … All that sodden blood. My mates …”

  “It’s time, Private Hughes,” the chaplain interrupted. “Do you want something to calm you down?”

  “Oh dear God! They really are going to do it, ain’t they?” Hughes sobbed, staring at Kevin.

  Kevin filled the syringe with a dose of morphine. He also took a quarter bottle of alcohol from his bag. Handing it to Hughes, he said. “Drink as much as you want.”

  After Hughes had slugged down a fair amount, Kevin helped him off with his overcoat and jacket. Then he rolled up Hughes’ shirtsleeve and injected him with the mind-dulling drug.

  Outside, the firing squad was waiting. Two officers were also in attendance. One was Major Pratt, the commanding officer, and the other was the young officer who had informed Kevin about Hughes’s background.