A Song in the Night
Read A Song in the Night Online
Authors: Julie Maria Peace
For Alan, precious fellow sojourner.
The journey is sweeter because I make it with you.
Together we have sung in the brightest of days and in the darkest of nights, always held close by the One who gives source to the most beautiful song of all.
It is to Him that we owe everything
and so it is for Him that we tell this story.
Acknowledgements
I
know that without the help and encouragement of a number of people, this book would still be sitting, half-finished, on my laptop.
M
y special thanks to Andrea Fereday, Eunice Marrow and Yvonne Taylor for giving me honest, much-needed feedback on my earlier draft. Your input was invaluable. Thanks also to good friends in South Yorkshire and Bridlington who encouraged me, supported me, read the manuscript, prayed for me and plain old chivvied me on. There are so many folk, I can’t possibly mention everybody, but I’m grateful to every one of you. Thanks especially to Anne Hill, Rose Roberts, Sheelagh Steele, Tom and Doreen Shaw, Bill Caine, Shirley Page, Freda Gibbons, Anne Couper, Shirley Green, and last, but certainly not least, my little sis, Paula Rooke. What would I have done without you guys?
S
pecial thanks to my Mum and Dad for all your love and generous support during this project. So much of what I value and appreciate in life today can be traced to you two. Between you, you’ve given your family a heritage rich in character, fun, colour and music. I feel greatly blessed to be your daughter.
G
rateful thanks to my children, Aaron, Rebecca and Naomi, for making space in your lives for that pesky new member of our family – Mum’s Book. Where would I have been without your patience and understanding? Every encouraging word, every hug, every little note (I’ve kept them all) were incredibly precious to me. I thank God for each one of you. You’re my treasures.
A
lan, my husband and best friend, your love is a constant revelation to me. We both know I never could have done this without you. Thank you for releasing me to spend so many hours researching and writing (your takeover of the domestic front was nothing short of incredible). You inspired me, uplifted me, and generally kept me sane during this whole venture. You made it possible. You’re my hero.
Ypres Salient
August 1917
The acrid scent of gunfire was drifting in on the night breeze, and the thud of distant shelling rattled the air at intervals. Still, for the moment at least, things along the trench were quiet. Eerily quiet, thought Sam. He shivered. The calm before the storm no doubt. He couldn’t remember ever having felt so miserable in all his life as he did tonight. And hungry too. There had been no rations through yet. Blown sky-high before they got up to the line, by all accounts. He reached into his haversack and pulled out a small pocket knife and a stubby pencil. He had to do something to take his mind off his discomfort. With swift, deliberate strokes, he began to whittle at the wood until the lead stood out, proud and sharp.
“Doing a spot more writing, Sammy boy?” Boxer’s cheerful voice seemed incongruous with the dismal setting.
Sam blew the pencil hard in an attempt to dislodge any stubborn shavings clinging to it. “Nope. I’m just making sure it’s ready for when I need it next. Assuming I’ll get to use it again.” He opened his bag and quickly inserted the pencil between the pages of a leather-bound notebook. He felt strangely uneasy tonight. They’d got a big battle coming up in a few hours and they’d been told to try and grab an hour’s sleep. How could a man sleep? His stomach was cramping with hunger and his joints were stiff from standing in the wet. Sweet dreams, he thought sardonically.
Boxer leaned over. “You alright, Sam?” There was concern in his tone now. “You’re not yourself tonight, pal.”
Inwardly, Sam had to concede that Boxer was right; somehow he wasn’t himself tonight. All this time, he reasoned to himself, he’d coped quite stoically with his lot; the filth, the lice, the rotten food, no food at all, the utter bone-weariness of the whole thing. The unending, nerve-jangling thump-thump-thump of shells, the morning hate, the dead faces with their unseeing eyes, the unclaimed, uncherished scraps of humanity rotting in undignified heaps like surplus potatoes. Oh yes, thought Sam, a twinge of bitterness playing in his mind, up to now he’d taken it all in his stride. Yet, as a veteran Tommy with almost two years front line service under his belt, he felt embarrassed to admit that, suddenly, it was the weather that was getting to him. The last few weeks had seen more rain than he could ever remember. Torrential, unending downpours. As if having to fight out here hadn’t been bad enough, now they were forced to continue the conflict knee deep, thigh deep, even waist deep at times – in mud. He hated it. It was adding insult to injury, and something inside him was at breaking point. Yet he knew deep down it wasn’t the rain itself that bothered him. It was the ominous sense that the very earth was turning against them. The continuous artillery bombardments of the past months, combined with the torrential rainfall, had rendered the whole front a swamp. A joke in fact. Whoever was dishing out the tactical orders obviously hadn’t been within miles of the place. The land was, in turn, devouring them and spewing them out of its mouth, and still these dreamers were coming up with their strategies.
In his mind’s eye, Sam could see a boy. Small, slightly built – probably about seventeen, but with a baby face that made him look much younger. He’d slipped off a duckboard the day before. Most likely out of sheer fatigue; he’d just lost his footing and suddenly he was in the mud. Sam had seen it happen. He and a few of the lads had tried to form a chain to get him out. “Keep still!” they’d hollered. “Try not to struggle – we’ll soon have you out of there.”
The boy had been good. He’d done as he was told. Sam could still see the bright eyes, imploring, trusting. But they just hadn’t been able to get a grip. Sam had wrestled like a desperate man, slithering on the slimy boards, almost falling in himself. The boy had stayed calm almost to the end. He’d done everything right – everything they’d told him to, like a good soldier should. Then, as the mud had begun to curl over his shoulders, he’d panicked. The realisation that his situation was hopeless had hit him long after it had hit his would-be rescuers. Sam could still hear the boy’s screams as he’d thrown his head back to face the sky, frantically trying to gain a few more seconds. Just as the mud had seeped into his mouth, he’d uttered his final, wretched cry.
“Mother …!”
Sam had seen men die. He’d seen friends die – good friends, shot to pieces in front of him. But something about this young lad felt like the last straw. He thought of the boy’s mother. With all his heart, he hoped she’d never find out how her son had really died. ‘Killed in Action’ was the usual line, and Sam was glad of it. He certainly wasn’t going to be the one to inform the poor woman that her beloved boy had perished in a curdling cesspool simply because his legs were too tired to hold him upright. Sam found himself thinking of his own mother. On the few rare occasions he’d managed to get home on leave, he’d noticed how she’d aged. Her once fine features were etched with lines now, her corn-coloured hair streaked with silver. The past two years had taken their toll. Oh, she never said anything of course; she always tried to be bright and cheery when her boy was home. But Sam could remember the morning towards the end of his last leave, when his younger sister had taken him aside. “Be careful, Sam,” she’d begged. “Mamma’s almost sick every day till the telegram boy’s been past the house. You make sure you come back to us.”
And then there was Emily. The girl he loved more than life itself. Not that she knew it yet. Strangely, she’d been a part of his existence for as long as he could remember. Old school pals, Emily’s father and his own had kept in touch even when Sam’s dad had moved villages to find work. Sam recalled the monthly get-togethers between the two families and smiled ruefully now as their memory washed over him. Those visits had been part of the fabric of his life. During his boyhood years, most of the occasions had been spent planning adventures with Emily’s older brother, Jack. Emily, and Sam’s little sister, Kitty, had amused themselves doing girl things. Funny. He’d never really noticed her back then. Then suddenly, almost imperceptibly, it had happened. He must have been about fifteen or so. One day, a gloriously hot summer’s afternoon, as the two families had sat in the sprawling garden at Emily’s home, he’d suddenly caught her looking at him. She had blushed and turned away with an awkward smile. Why had he never seen it before? When had her eyes become the colour of the sky and her chestnut hair grown so long that it fell to her waist? From that moment, he’d been smitten. How bittersweet those visits had become for him. He looked forward to each one with an intensity that almost made him ill. And when it was over, it was as if the sun had fallen out of the sky. Not that he’d ever dared breathe a word to her. It was an unspoken adoration he’d carried for years now. How could he know if she felt the same? He’d been trying to pluck up courage to say something when this wretched war had broken out. All of a sudden, it seemed that everyone’s plans were on hold.
Dear, beautiful Emily. She’d seen more than her fair share of this conflict. Her coming out here as a nurse had only made him love her more. He was glad she was stationed in one of the Base Hospitals; some of the CCS girls had copped it pretty badly. Nowhere was completely safe, but there were places more safe than others. He didn’t like to think of her exposed to all that misery; no woman should have to see the things that were going on. But she was a darling. He couldn’t imagine being nursed by anyone better. Being shot to ribbons would be almost bearable if it meant having Emily around to tend his wounds …
He brought himself up with a start. What on earth was he thinking of? He was angry at himself for allowing his imagination to run away with him. The thought of Emily looking down at his poor, mutilated body suddenly sickened him. He wanted to marry the girl, for pity’s sake. He had to get a grip – shake off this gloom. It was sticking like the confounded mud.
Boxer’s voice cut into his thoughts. “It wasn’t your fault, Sam – the boy yesterday.”
Sam shook his head miserably. Trust Boxer to get straight to the nub of the thing. “Such a waste.” It was all he could think of to say. He picked a louse off his sleeve and cracked it against his thumbnail.
Sensing his friend’s anger, Boxer sat quietly for a few moments. “We’ve been mates for a good while, Sam. We’ve seen a lot of things.”
Sam looked down without replying. Suddenly, he’d seen too much.
Boxer waited a moment before continuing. “You know, Sam, everyone in this world’s marching towards the front, soldier or not.”
Sam straightened up. “What d’you mean by that?”
Boxer measured his words carefully. He’d seen men lose hope before. They did stupid things. He had to get through to Sam; he loved him like a brother. “We’re all heading for the front, pal – from the minute we take our first breath. Some of us get taken out early on. Some of us are out on the field for the duration. But in the end, it gets us all. Even if we survive this, Sam, our day will come. Even if it’s by some cosy fireside, with all of this just some dim and distant memory.”
