A Whispered Name (7 page)

Over
the years that followed, Herbert often wondered if Colonel Maude had cast his
eye over the London Gazette, checking for unusual promotions. He’d have been
disgusted.

On the third day of
Herbert’s convalescence, when the rain finally stopped, there was a knock at
the door. A sergeant from the military police swung a slow, model salute and
handed over a small folded sheet of paper.

‘A
signal, Sir. It is addressed to you.’ He took one ceremonial step back, stamped
his foot and said, ‘I understand the contents are of an urgent nature.’

All three
disclosures struck Herbert as completely obvious. But he was used to it. The
army had a special ritual for the obvious. With comparable gravity he opened
the folded paper and read:

Report to Battalion HQ on 31st August instant.

FGCM. Third officer required.

Confirm receipt.

E. Chamberlayne (Capt & Adjt.)

After the sergeant had
left, Herbert walked to the window and gazed across the water. He could have
gone home. But he’d stayed … because of a private vow to remain with his unit
for the duration … to keep that life over there free from the corruption of
this one over here. He sighed and opened the signal once more, his mind
dwelling on one phrase: ‘Third officer required’.

At 4.00
a.m. on the 31st August Herbert began the return journey towards the guns,
scrounging first a lift on a charabanc to Étaples. At Abeele he obtained a
horse and rode to Oostbeke, a small village northwest of Poperinghe where his
and several other regiments from the same division had been billeted after
leaving the front line. All the way he brooded upon the words dictated to
Chamberlayne by their CO: ‘Third officer required’. In itself that was a
statement of the obvious, worthy of the sergeant in the military police: a
Field General Court Martial had to comprise at least three officers unless the
convening officer (usually the Brigade commander) dispensed with the obligation
for operational reasons. As Herbert cantered down a lane of puddles between
fields of cabbage or hops draped on wooden scaffolds, he remembered that two
officers had limited sentencing powers … the worst they could dish out was
Field Punishment or Imprisonment. After a mile or so Herbert came upon the rows
of bell tents and wooden huts, smoke smudging the sky above the troop kitchens.
In the distance, near the artillery lines, three observation balloons floated
high like fat maggots feeding on the clouds. It was obvious, really: without a
third officer, there could be no death sentence.

2

Herbert’s billet was an
old shed that housed various items of agricultural machinery They were like
instruments of torture —rows of spikes or claws on wheels — and he couldn’t for
the life of him imagine how they might be used on the land. When he’d settled
in, he tracked down Lieutenant Colonel ‘Duggie’ Hammond to a low farmhouse with
a small courtyard occupied by three chickens. His room overlooked their
manoeuvres. He was sitting on his bed, arms folded while his dog, Angus, slept
twitching at his feet.

‘I’m
told we lost half the regiment,’ said Herbert, sitting on a wooden stool.

Duggie
shook his head. ‘There is no regiment.’

‘What
do you mean?’

‘We’re
down to fifteen per cent.’ His hair was ruffled. Blood spots from lice covered
his face. He had a permanent frown, revealing temperance and a reluctant
gentleness. He was a regular soldier though he looked like a man who would have
preferred the quiet of marking books, his severity confined to solecisms of
grammar and bad spelling. He glanced at Herbert’s arm and hand. ‘How are you
getting along?’

‘Fine,
Sir. Just some big scratches.’

‘You
didn’t go home?’

‘No,
Sir.’

Constance
and Ernest knew of their son’s decision and thought he was going too far, but
they’d been quietly awed by his resolve to stay on the field of battle. They
let it slip to the locals, and Constance told friends back in Cumberland,
hoping they’d tell someone in the Lancers.

Offensive
operations had been brought to a halt, explained Duggie, ‘Just as the damned
rain stopped.’ The next move was planned for the 20th of September — though
that was secret — with an attack on the Menin Road. The broader objective:
strong points on the Gheluvelt Plateau. If that could be taken, along with the
Passchendaele Ridge, a glorious charge could be made for the coastal ports of
Belgium: it would be a routing of the foe. A mile away was a mock battlefield,
the terrain resembling the ground to be attacked. The regiment was to be
urgently reconstructed with two Companies from the 10th Battalion in reserve,
along with a batch of individual battle casualty replacements. With those added
numbers, they could just about continue to fight. Rehearsals would begin in two
days, on the 2nd. After the court martial.

‘One of
our boys was picked up behind the lines,’ said Duggie, as if there was nothing
else to say ‘An Irishman from B Company Flanagan. Do you know him?’

‘No.’

‘He
vanished during the show After the arrest some bright spark told Division who
rang up Brigade. It’s out of my hands. They want the matter dealt with quickly
before we go back into action, so the court martial sits tomorrow I’m sorry to
have called you back. It’s a nasty responsibility.’ Duggie’s arm folded
tighter, as if he were cold. ‘Brigade’s been twitching —’ he tilted his head as
if the next echelon of power was brooding upstairs — ‘Pemberton says we have to
keep our nerve, especially after what’s happened … he tells me the boys have
to know where their duty lies.’

Brigadier
General Anthony Pemberton. He’d brought the remains of his four battalions out
of the line and his first contact with Division had been about a desertion.
They’d leaned on him immediately As if following the same motion, he’d leaned
on Duggie, the relevant CO; and Duggie, albeit reluctantly had then tipped the
accumulated weight of authority’s expectations on to Herbert — not any of the
other available officers, but
Herbert.

They
watched the hens scratching for seeds among puddles of water.

‘I’m a
regular soldier,’ said Duggie, remotely ‘I know what I signed up for. But these
volunteers, yes, they wear the same boots and uniform but they’re not the same
as us. And all the rules in the King’s Regulations can’t make that one
important distinction: Turning to Herbert, he said, ‘I’m sure you remember, but
it bears repeating: the military law we serve under was born in Wellington’s
time. It was meant to restrain the mob. With a bit of tweaking it met the needs
of an empire’s professional army … it wasn’t meant for
this?’
He
tilted his head towards the chickens, and the farmyard gate, and the troops
beyond eating bacon in the fields.

The
court martial was set to take place in an old school, a mile down the road.
Herbert was to present himself at nine-thirty the next morning. At the door,
Duggie said, ‘The boys know their duty well enough.’ He paused to find Herbert’s
eye. ‘Just do yours.’

3

Herbert ambled down the
lane, turning over this last remark in his mind. In saying the boys knew their duty,
Duggie seemed to be taking issue with Pemberton: the boys needed to be reminded
of nothing; the one man who had to address his mind to duty’s call was Herbert.
In some peculiar way Duggie was relying upon him. He’d picked him out. Nothing
else needed to be said. As if waking, Herbert stalled, his attention caught by
a strange kind of singing.

Turning
to his left he saw a chipped brick wall and, behind it, a rather short steeple.
Herbert had been so absorbed with his thoughts that he hadn’t paid any
attention to where he was going, so much so that he hadn’t even seen the
church. It was as though the place had just appeared. A wooden plaque read ‘Notre
Dame des Ramiers’. A gate was ajar, without a bolt or a lock. Herbert pushed it
open and walked down a long stone corridor, open to the sky Ahead was a white
arched door. The singing grew louder as he drew nearer upon a path of cracked
flagstones. He stood outside, disturbed by the rising chant. The sound echoed
as if from a very distant place. He didn’t understand the language but he
recognised a sort of pleading matched to a wholly foreign spirit of confidence.
The melody was unbearably beautiful … it spiralled into the very place where
Herbert’s soul grovelled when the shells came screaming towards him. Without
deciding to do so, Herbert fled from a new kind of fear, back to the world he
hated and understood. By the time he reached the lane, the singing had stopped.
Herbert looked right, towards the tents and huts. On either side were the
ordered dispositions of three brigades. There were officers galore, but Duggie
had called on Herbert. He’d brought him back from Boulogne to ‘do his duty’.

Chapter Seven

Far from being the depot
of Anselm’s imagination, the Public Record Office was a modern structure rather
like one of those pillboxes in Normandy only it was immense with a plentiful
distribution of tinted glass. A great weeping willow by a lake bruised Anselm’s
sensibility. The branches hung so low that the fronds trailed in the water
like an act of veneration. At the reception desk Anselm asked for Martin Reid.
Presently approaching quietly from behind, Anselm heard a soft Scottish voice. ‘Good
morning, Father. Welcome on board.’

The
joke was more self-conscious than clumsy While Martin had been a confident,
even commanding, presence on the telephone, face to face he was somewhat shy
Anselm placed him in his late forties. He was immaculately turned out: polished
black shoes, pressed grey trousers and a blue blazer with silver buttons — an
appearance wholly fitting a man who’d served under a naval ensign. It was a
uniform of sorts, the only delinquent attribute being the open-necked checked
shirt, though Anselm suspected a tie bearing a dolphin motif was neatly folded
in one pocket. His eyes were dark brown, showing reserve, absorption and a
friendliness more easily expressed from a distance. On entering his office,
Anselm smiled. The room was in savage contrast to the character of its
occupant. Books and papers were heaped on his desk among photographs in various
garish frames. Four children smiled out with the exuberance — Anselm presumed —
of their mother.

‘Remember,
I was a submariner,’ said Martin, scratching his head as if someone else had
wrecked the room while he was out. ‘After you’ve lived in a bicycle pump you
don’t quite know where to put things once you get the space.’

The
disorder was entirely superficial, Anselm was sure. A controlled reaction to
the extraordinary discipline of his former professional life. His attire, tone
and manner communicated his defining qualities: seriousness of purpose,
respect for the subject of his work, and the utmost reliability.

‘Given
the nature of your enquiries, I’ve managed to secure some special arrangements:
a room of your own, quick access to a photocopier and a telephone if you need
help. You mustn’t hesitate. Just dial forty—eight.’

Anselm
took a facing chair, quite certain that Martin was at least fascinated by his
presence. He was, after all, a link to the past, however slender; a thread into
a troubling court martial that had escaped any simple classification.

‘I hope
you can find a clue to the meaning of this trial,’ said Martin. He rested his
square jaw between cupped hands, letting his pessimism drift across the room. ‘For
it has a meaning, of that I’m sure. I just have no idea of what it might be:

Anselm
blinked as if a shaft of light had shot through the canopy of aspens over
Larkwood’s cemetery. Those phrases belonged to Kate Seymour. She’d been here.
She’d dialled 48 from a private room. That’s how Martin had discovered that
Herbert had been a member of the court martial.

‘I can’t
make any promises,’ admitted Anselm. He waited politely to see if Martin would
confirm the intuition but they were both observing the same discretion: respect
for another’s confidentiality. But Anselm wasn’t really bound. He’d been told
no secrets. And an open conversation, now, about Kate Seymour, could only help
her and the man she represented. ‘Meaning?’ He smiled, ingenuously seeing
Martin gauge the temptation to share what he knew ‘Forgive me … but how can a
trial have a
meaning?’

Twiddling
all three silver buttons on the cuff of one sleeve, Martin nodded at the
puzzle. He was unflappable. Which wasn’t surprising, given that he could fire
an intercontinental ballistic missile if the right person asked him to. When he
was ready he asked, innocently ‘Do you understand how military law operated in
the field?’

‘No.’

‘May I
explain?’

‘Please
do.’

Somehow
the cluttered table had turned. The shadow of Kate Seymour receded and Martin,
very much on his own patch, settled back into the chair of a researcher with a
client. He spoke with the one-step-back authority he’d brought to the geology
of the Salient. He was not going to discuss the troubles of Kate Seymour.