“Officer
approaching!”
I stand
to attention. The Lieutenant walks over
to us. He salutes. We respond.
He walks up to me and I feel his hand on my shoulder. I look up into his rheumy eyes and hand over
his rum-tainted water bottle. He turns
and walks away, all eyes on his retreating back.
“Thank
God we had enough rum,” I breathe to Alf Driscoll. He nods.
I hand him his water bottle. The
sweet, heavy smell of the Pusser’s Rum still clings to it.
We sit
in an uncomfortable silence, shocked and yet thankful for what we had managed
to do. It’s half-past-eight, breakfast-time,
and a watery sun is trying to break through the gloomy clouds. I close my eyes and take a deep drag on my
Woodie. What a bloody awful start to the
day.
“I’m gonna sign up tomorra. You comin’?” Jimmy looked me in the eye as if daring me to
jump into the Musgrave Channel churning near the Belfast shipyard.
“What’s
ya’ hurry?” I asked.
“There’s
a war goin’ on! Every other buggers
goin’, come on, let’s us go for the crack.”
“Why
not today?” I asked, “if you’re that keen.’
“Me mam
wants to come with us.”
It was
then I saw the child in him, bursting with patriotic eagerness, but still
needing his mam’s blessing.
“Best
tell Mr Harland we’re off then,” I said as he grinned, happy with his own
recruiting.
I
turned the corner into Donegall Square and saw a line of young men snaking
round from the door of the City Hall. There was almost a carnival atmosphere seeping through
the narrow streets; like it does when a travelling fair comes to town. Then I heard a woman’s voice:
“Don’t
go son. Please.” Jimmy’s Mam was struggling
to keep up with him.
Gradually
creeping closer to the front, we stood for nearly two hours in that line. The City Hall recruitment place whiffed of
sweat and tobacco. Jimmy strode up to
the desk where a Major Crozier was enlisting.
“Name?” he asked.
“James
Crozier Sir.” The Major smiled.
“That’s
an honourable name. How old are you?”
“Twenty
Sir.”
“You
don’t look it.”
“I am, Sir.
Godsoner.”
“Go through there,” the Major pointed towards
a door in the far corner of the room. “Take the oath and get your kit.”
“No!”
wailed Mrs Crozier. “He’s only a boy, can’t you see, please don’t let him
go.” The Major stepped forward and put
his hand on her arm, and in doing so, pulled it from her son’s.
“It’s
all right ma’m, I shall personally see that he is well looked after.”
In France, the winter of 1915 was bitter; colder than any
I had ever known. On the last day of January
we were sent into the frontline trenches near the Redan. I was worried about Jimmy. He had already been given No.1 Field Punishment
for disappearing from his billet and he was missing again. The Corporal was
steaming. He came striding down the
trench towards me. I stood to attention.
“Where’s that lazy bastard?” His spit showered my face.
“Don’t know Corporal.” He narrowed his eyes and stared
into mine.
“If you do know, you’ll be on a charge,” he growled.
“I don’t.”
“Well go and find him, you ugly fucker.” I felt his spit
shower me again.
“Yes Corporal.” I saluted and ran down the trench to
where Jimmy should have been. The rest
of the working party were hard at it in the snow. One of them shouted to me:
“Where’s that bastard mate of yours? Shirking again?”
“Don’t know,” I called across. “Has he been here?”
“Yes, then he said he had gut ache and cleared off.”
I waved
and headed towards the latrines taking care to keep my head down – I had seen
too many men take a sniper’s bullet.
I found Jimmy huddled behind a stack of unarmed
shells. He didn’t move when he saw me. He
was shaking.
“Are you sick?” I asked.
“Me legs hurt an’ me belly aches,” he moaned.
“You should see the doctor,” I told him, but he just
shook his head.
That
night there was heavy shelling. Fritz
must have known we were going to attack the Redan and they were trying to force
us back. I was in a dugout with Jimmy, trying
to keep warm. Corporal Todd came in at
half-past-eight and we stood to attention.
“You,” he stabbed me in the chest with his bony finger,
“go and get tomorrow’s rations. You,” he
roared at Jimmy, “stay here; you’re going on sentry duty at nine o’clock.”
“Yes Corporal,” we answered.
When I got back, Jimmy had gone.
“Shite,” I said,
looking round the dug-out. There were heavy footfalls on the duckboards
outside. The Corporal pushed aside the
sacking and came in.
“Where’s that little bastard?” he growled.
“Don’t know Corporal,” I replied.
“Stay there,” he ordered and left. I heard him shouting:
“Crozier, get back here now you shirkin’ fucker.” When I heard his footsteps on the duckboards again
I prepared myself. I was already
standing to attention as he strode back into the dimly lit shelter.
“Come with me,” was all he said, so I followed him. Corporal Todd banged on the door of a hut
which stood well back from the third line trenches.
“Come,”
a voice called. Todd pushed me in first and followed, closing the door against
the biting wind. CSM Hill
looked at us from under his bushy eyebrows.
The snow had clung to our overcoats and was beginning to melt in the
warmth of the room.
“Well?” he barked.
“Man missing Sarn’t Major,” Todd replied.
“Who?” CSM Hill asked.
“Private 14218 Crozier, Sir.”
“When was he last seen?”
I told him I had fetched the
rations and that Jimmy was gone when I got back.
“I’ll go and look for Crozier. You get back to your men,”
the CSM decided. CSM Hill didn’t find
him.
It was fourteen days before I saw Jimmy again. He told me he had been returned to the unit
to face a Field General Court Martial for desertion.
“Christ! You know what’ll happen if you’re found guilty
don’t you?” I was knocked for six.
“Yeah, but I was ill.
I ended up in the field hospital,” he argued. Jimmy was convinced he would be all right.
We were
paraded in a make-shift quadrangle behind the third-line trenches. Brigadier General Withycombe took charge of the
proceedings. When the recently promoted Lieutenant Colonel
Crozier spoke, we couldn’t believe our aching ears.
“From a fighting point of view,” his
voice was steady and cold, “Private Crozier is of no value. For the past three months he has been a
shirker and I am firmly of the opinion that the
crime was deliberately committed with the intention of avoiding duty in the
Redan.” Then his words became slower for
greater effect: “I recommend, therefore,
without hesitation, that the death sentence should be carried out.”
What a
bastard. That man, who had told Jimmy’s Ma he
would personally look after him, was going to have him shot.
Then Jimmy
was paraded out-front and asked to account for his absence. I could see that he was shaking, and doubted
it was from the cold we were all experiencing in this god-forsaken corner of
France. He started to speak, but I
couldn’t tell what he was saying. Brigadier General Withycombe stepped forward.
“Speak
up, Private,” he bellowed.
“Sorry,
Sir.” Jimmy raised his voice and continued: “I didn’t know what I was doin’. When we were in the trenches I felt really
ill. I had pains all over me body.”
The Brigadier looked at him accusingly and said:
“Corporal Todd told you to wait in the dugout for your
sentry duty didn’t he?”
“I don’t remember, Sir.”
“What time did you leave the dugout?” the Brigadier
questioned.
“I don’t remember leaving the dug out or the trenches, Sir,
I was too ill.” The Brigadier narrowed
his eyes and sighed.
“Was there any bombardment nearby when you felt ill?”
“There was some, I think rifle grenades were going off
about twenty or thirty feet away, but I had been ill for a long time, before we
even reached the trenches. Then it got
much worse. The cold was too much, Sir, and it made me really bad.”
“Did you report sick?”
“No, Sir.”
“Why not?”
“Don’t know, Sir.”
The Brigadier took some papers from a table and read them.
Then he continued:
“Your
record sheet says that your character is indeed bad,” he almost spat the words,
“and there are two other charges of absence against you; one from a working
party and one from your billet. Is this true?”
“Don’t
know, Sir.”
“When
you were found, twenty-five miles away, you didn’t have your rifle or cap badge. You said you had run away.”
“Can’t
remember, Sir.”
“Get
back to your unit.” Jimmy marched back
again to join the ranks.
Then Withycombe addressed
his Brigade:
“I recommend that
the extreme penalty in the case of Rifleman James Crozier be carried out. My reasons are that the accused deliberately
avoided duty in the trenches and to serve as a deterrent to a repetition of
offences of this nature.”
A ripple of astounded
breath ran through the unit. Then a
piercing “Dis-miss!” rang out and we marched back to the front line.
Corporal Todd
came into our trench when we were having tea. Jimmy was huddled on the
fire-step, shaking and refusing food. I
pushed a warm cup of tea into his frozen hand.
“What happens now,
Corporal?” I asked.
“You’re going to
see a doctor,” he said to Jimmy, “seeing as you say you’re ill.”
“When?” I asked,
knowing Jimmy wouldn’t.
“Tomorrow, first
thing after roll call. Be ready,” and he turned and marched back towards his
dug-out.
“Well, that’s
good,” I tried to sound hopeful for Jimmy.
“Is it?” he
croaked.
I didn’t answer.
Twelve days
later, we were once again told to get to the parade ground to hear Jimmy’s
sentence promulgated. We stood to attention
in heavy silence which was shattered by the CO’s voice:
“Following a
medical examination by Lieutenant Colonel Fawcett, Private 14218 James Crozier
was found to be perfectly fit in both mind and body. I, therefore, concur with Brigadier General
Withycombe’s opinion at the Field General Court Martial on the fourteenth of
February, that, in the interests of discipline, the sentence should be carried
out at dawn tomorrow.”
I
felt sick.
We
sat together in the locked and guarded cellar of the dressing station at
Auchonvillers. Alf Driscoll and I had
managed to get the rum ration into our water bottles. Then we borrowed another six and filled them too. We hardly spoke that night, except to coax
Jimmy to drink the rum. I took out my
penknife and carved a memory to Pte 14218 into the cellar wall.
At seven o’clock
the next morning the Chaplain came in. I
tipped the last of the rum down Jimmy’s throat, but he was so drunk he hardly
noticed. I left Jimmy alone with the Chaplain and hurried to join our battalion
as they marched towards the village of Mailly-Maillet, coming to a halt in
front of a Villa’s high wall. The Lieutenant,
who would be commanding the firing-squad, looked pretty fresh. Ernie Potter told me that he had been ordered
by Lieutenant Colonel Crozier to eat with him last night so that he wasn’t
drunk this morning. I wished I was.
My blood ran cold
when I heard my name called. Alf was
summoned to be part of the firing squad too. The bastards, talk about turning
the screw. He was my best mate and now
they wanted me to shoot him.
We were marched
into the garden and I saw the execution post with its ugly great hooks. I retched and noticed Alf turn and puke,
too. I just hoped we had done a good
enough job of getting him senseless, poor sod.
Then through
the dimness of the dawn, I saw the guards carry Jimmy out.
“Thank
God,” I breathed when I saw that he couldn’t even stand up. He was hooked on the post like meat in a
butcher’s shop, and tied in place. A
guard strapped a blindfold round his eyes, but he was blind-drunk anyway. We stood in a ragged line about thirty feet
away, waiting.
“’Ten-shun!”
followed by the stamp of feet coming together on the other side of the
wall. The men wouldn’t see anything, but
they sure as hell would hear it. The Lieutenant
gave the order. Together we squeezed the
triggers. A volley rang out. I knew I hadn’t hit poor Jimmy. I’d fired wide. I think we all had, no-one wanting to chance
their bullet being the single blank. The
MO
walked across the grass to make his examination. He shook his head and raised his arm to
signal the Lieutenant. The junior
officer strode forward. I couldn’t bear
to look. I heard a single shot ring
out.
Someone called:
“Life
extinct.”
The guards moved
forward to remove Jimmy’s body.
He was buried
there in Mailly-Maillet while we stood in silent tribute to a boy whose Mam
didn’t want him to come to fight this fuckin’ war. There’s a Pusser’s-stained water bottle on
the fire-step, its surface scratched with the numbers 14218. And I sit, with a breakfast before me better
than we’ve seen in months. None of us
feel like eating, but we know we have to.
It’s Crozier’s sick joke to feed us like this. We heard him telling the Subaltern to record
his death as ‘killed in action’.
I hope a sniper’s
bullet soon slaps into that fuckin’ bastard.
