The Lost Soldier (36 page)

Tom came in filthy from the digging he and his mates had been doing all day. As they reached the barn that served as their billet Sergeant Turner bellowed the order to fall in. There were moans and groans from all of them.

“What the hell do they want us for now?”

“Christ, is there no rest?”

“Not another bleeding route march!”

Then someone mentioned the words scrub down, and with great alacrity they did as they were ordered and had soon marched to the other end of the village. There amongst the trees was an old barn, its grey stone walls thick and sturdy, its roof patched and repaired. It was the billet bath house. Inside was a huge vat of hot water, a great tin bath big enough to hold anything up to thirty men.

“All right, ten minutes,” bellowed Corporal Johns and the whole company stripped off their filthy clothes and plunged into the already murky water for a ten-minute wallow and scrub. Relishing the warmth of the water and ignoring its colour, they scrubbed and scraped at their lousy bodies, knowing this would be their last chance to feel clean for some time. Water at the front had to be carried up in cans and was strictly rationed, both for drinking and washing. Now they could wallow in it, sluice it over their heads, washing the accumulated mud and filth from every inch of their bodies. No soap, but nobody cared, the water was enough. Their lice-ridden underclothes, beyond redemption, were unceremoniously burned.

Tom and his mates emerged from the bath, the water now the colour of brown Windsor soup, and rejoiced in the feel of clean underclothes and socks before they put back their uniforms.

“’Ere Cookie, didn’t know you was a carrot top!” shouted Jack Hughes as he watched Tony Cook towelling his head.

“Watch your lip, Jacko,” Tony retorted, flicking the wet towel at him. “Better’an having no ’air at all!”

“Christ! You look almost human, Carter!”

“You never will!”

“Get your togs on,” snapped Corporal Johns. They scuffled for their uniforms, with more good-natured backchat.

“That’s my shirt!”

“Have it, mate, don’t want to be hatching your chats!”

“These boots’ve shrunk an’ all!”

“Try putting your own on and give me mine!”

Despite the uniforms, it was wonderful to feel their skins were their own for while. It would be a feeling short-lived, but it was a warm June evening, and though there was the ever-present background music of the artillery, distant on the evening air, it was a rare time of peace and well-being and each man revelled in it.

Back at the barn they were about to eat when the cry, “Mail’s in!” echoed round the yard. Men tumbled out of the outbuildings and scrambled to the door of the farmhouse from where the mail would be distributed. Post was a marvellous boost; as the letters, packages and parcels were handed out, the men listened avidly for their names.

“Farmer, Short, Tamper, Jones M J, Hooper, Dalton, Carter, Cook.”

Each man carried his post off in triumph as his name was called and those who received nothing tried to think it didn’t matter, that they’d had letters last time. As always, Tom’s letter was from Molly. She was the only person in the world to write to him. Until he’d met her there had been no letters for him at any mail call, but now there was almost always a letter and often a small package too, with cigarettes and chocolate she’d bought in the village that he could share with his mates. Once she had even sent him some gateau from Madame Juliette’s. It had been packed in a box and had arrived completely crushed, but it had been scoffed down with as much enjoyment as if it were still in perfect shape.

Tom took his letter away into the barn and dropping down on the blanket on the hay that constituted his bed, he pulled it open. What he read made his heart stand still. He read it again and then again, trying to take in what she was telling him, what she was asking him to do.

Tom,

I got your last letter and am glad you’re safely back in billets, though it sounds as if you are very busy. I know you can’t tell me much because of the censor, but it is nice to know that you are safe. Thank you for the snap, you look very spruce!

I have some news for you, Tom, which I hope will please you, but may cause us a problem as well. It is difficult to explain how I feel so I’d better just tell you straight. You are going to be a father. I think I am having a baby. I know we planned to have children, but it will be difficult over here. I will have to go home, dear Tom and have our baby there. No one else knows yet, not even Sarah, as nothing shows and I am keeping well, thank goodness. I am sure that they are not handing out leave at present, but if you could manage to get 48 hours I could meet you somewhere and we could get married. I know you will stick by me, dear Tom, whatever happens, but I would like the baby to have your name, and this may be the last time we could get married for a while. Now I am 21 my father has no say.

A father. A father. The word hit him like a cudgel. How could he be a father? He had no idea what a father did. Molly thought she was having a baby, his baby; he was going to be a father. In almost any other circumstances the news would have delighted him, exhilarated him, so that he’d have run from friend to friend telling the great news, but now? Now it had to be a secret, something to be hidden; something shameful. He thought back, as he had a hundred times, to the afternoon he and Molly had spent in the stone barn, that wonderful afternoon when each had belonged entirely to the other. How could they have allowed themselves to be so carried away? But how could they not? And now there was a baby on the way, and Molly would have to go home to England. If they were not married before she went, she would have to face shame and humiliation of giving birth to an illegitimate baby, a bastard. Tom had been called that often enough in his life to be certain that no child of his should have to face such abuse. Part of him rejoiced in the fact that he was going to be a father, to start a family with the girl he loved to distraction, but that rejoicing was soon submerged and drowned by the dreadful position in which Molly now found herself, and he unable to go to her aid.

Every day for weeks now they had been rehearsing for the big push, manoeuvres, training, working with other platoons and companies as they gathered, making up the miles of front line that would move forward together when the day came, driving the Germans before them, bringing the war to a speedy end. Every man was needed, not one could be spared. How could he ask for leave, even for so short a time, when the great preparations were in such an advanced stage? No one knew when the attack was to come, but that it was imminent was beyond doubt.

Molly had finished her letter with brave words, telling him,

I regret nothing, Tom. That I promise you, and if we cannot be married before the child is born, then we will be married after. I consider myself your wife already. I became that on our last afternoon. I think of you as my husband and shall do, whatever happens to either of us. My darling Tom, I know in my heart that you will come home safely to me, but, if I am wrong, at least I will have some part of you with me for the rest of my life.

I love you and am proud to be your wife.

Molly

Tom looked blankly at the words, not knowing what to do. His darling Molly was being so brave about it all. But in the eyes of the world, she was not his wife. She was the one who would suffer the shame if he didn’t get to Albert and marry her before she went home. She, and the baby. Poor little mite, it would have the stigma he’d had to live with all his life. He felt a surge of protective anger rise up in him, no child of his was going to be branded a bastard. He wished he had someone with whom he could discuss it. If Harry had been alive… but there was no one now. Tony? Tony was a good enough mate, but they weren’t close, not like he and Harry had been. He couldn’t discuss this with Tony. Anyway, Molly was his cousin. Tony might not take too well to Tom’s having put her in the family way.

That night as he lay in the barn surrounded by snoring, grunting men, tossing and turning in their sleep, Tom hardly slept. His mind churned as he thought about the various possibilities of what they might do. He thought of Molly lying alone in the dark worrying about herself and the baby, for, despite her fine, brave words, she must be very scared. It would not be long before she had to tell someone, if only Sarah, so that plans could be made for her to go home. Tom hated the idea of that too. He had a pretty fair idea of what Molly’s home life had been, and there was no way he wanted her to return to her father’s house; but if she had to, and it looked as if she did, whatever happened, Tom wanted her to go there clad in respectability, a married woman, having her baby alone because her husband was at the front. From what he had heard of Molly’s bullying father, he had no doubt of how she would be received and used if she went home carrying a bastard child. Her mother loved her, Molly had said, but she had never protected her before, so was unlikely to now.

At last, through sheer exhaustion, he fell into a fitful sleep, but when reveille sounded, he felt as if he had not slept at all. He awoke to a feeling of foreboding and then it all flooded back into his mind, and he realised with a jolt that Molly must be waking to this feeling every day. He managed to scrawl a note to her that day. It was couched in careful language so that the censor would not understand what he was saying, nor feel the need to blank any of it out.

Dearest Molly,

I got your letter and am delighted with your news, but are you sure? As things are at present it will be quite difficult to do as you ask, but I will make every effort to do so if you are really sure. It is not as we planned, but have no doubt [Tom underlined the words twice], you will always be my darling girl.

Tom

He posted it and hoped that it would reach her before very long, so that she could take comfort from his support.

For the next few days, as he was carrying stores to the supply dumps, manhandling sacks and boxes along the network of communication trenches behind the lines but not out of range of the German artillery, his mind was on Molly and what he must do. If she was certain she was expecting, there seemed to be no alternative but to go to Captain Hurst and explain the situation and ask for forty-eight hours leave. Like an automaton, he hefted the crates of stores on to the flat trucks of the light railway, which took them to yet other dumps, further up the line, always part of the same working party, yet apart from it.

“Hey, Carter, you look like a wet weekend,” Joe Farmer said to him when they paused for a break one day. “What’s up, mate?”

“Nothing,” replied Tom shortly.

“Girl dumped you, did she?” enquired Sam Hughes amiably.

The look on Tom’s face at this remark, made everyone draw back, and Sam Hughes, feeling he must have hit the mark mumbled, “Sorry, mate. No offence.”

Tom moved away, but he heard Cookie mutter, “He had a letter.”

Yes, he’d had a letter, but now he was waiting for another one. He didn’t have long to wait. Molly’s reply to his note was swift in coming.

Dear Tom,

I’m as sure as I can be. I have missed twice now and, though I have no sickness like some, I cannot eat a piece of cheese at present! Makes life difficult here, but so far no one has commented. I know it will be difficult for you, but please try for our baby’s sake.

With our love,

Molly

Tom read the note again. Our love. Love from herself as always, but from the baby too. Our love. His mind was made up.

That evening when the work party returned to the farm and collapsed with fatigue in the barn, Tom went out to the pump in the yard and washed his hands and face. He combed his hair and brushed at some of the drier mud on his uniform. Then he went over to the old farmhouse which served as officer accommodation.

Sergeant Turner was coming out and when he saw Tom, he stopped him and said, “Where’re you off to, Carter?”

“Have to see Captain Hurst, Sarge.”

“Oh, do you now? And why’s that, then?”

“Private business, Sarge.”

The older man looked at him. He liked Carter, a reliable man, and never afraid of hard work. He remembered Tom carrying the wounded Harry back to the lines from no-man’s-land; you didn’t forget a thing like that. He eyed Tom now, speculatively. “Anything I can help with?” he asked.

“No thanks, Sarge. Just a bit of personal business that I need to talk to Captain Hurst about.”

Sergeant Turner nodded and watched him go to the farmhouse door, then he crossed the farmyard to where the rest of Tom’s mates were billeted and asked, “Anyone know what’s the matter with Carter?”

Tony Cook looked up and answered, “Nope.” Then he added, “But he had a letter the other day.”

The sergeant nodded. Men were always getting bad news from home, but he wondered what Carter thought Captain Freddie Hurst could do about it.

Captain Freddie Hurst could do nothing about it. When Tom came in to see him he listened to what he had to say and then said, “Let me get this straight, Carter, you’ve got some poor girl into trouble and now you want to dash off at a moment’s notice to marry her?”

“I suppose that’s it,” Tom agreed miserably.

“You must be mad to ask,” the Captain said. “You know the state of things at the moment. You know that within days every single man will be needed, and you ask me if you can push of to Albert for a couple of days just to make an honest woman of some girl you’ve put up the spout.”

Tom felt the anger rise in him as he heard the casual phrases the officer used. “She’s not ‘some girl’ she’s my fiancée,” he replied sharply. “We were getting married as soon as we could anyway.”

“But you jumped the gun.” Captain Hurst’s face softened a little and he went on. “Look, can’t say I blame you for that, Carter, but it still doesn’t mean you can walk out on the army to get married. Heavens, man, there are hundreds of men here who’d love to do the same thing. There’re girls all over England waiting for their men to come home and marry them, but they have to go on waiting, and I’m afraid your girl will have to wait too.”