The Somme Stations

our ‘accused adviser’. None of us had yet been accused, but this term was rather anxious-making. Also, we had been told that the case papers would be passed on to the Military Mounted Police for their consideration. There would be no public inquest, the military activities going ahead on Spurn being hush-hush, but we were informed that an army doctor had found the cause of death to have been a blow to the head, or rather to the eye. It was admitted on all sides that Harvey might have jumped, or fallen, into the sea, and then been clashed against the sea wall. He might have collided with an iron ladder that was fixed to it, before becoming entangled in the stray length of rope. This theory was favourite among the section – or so we all pretended.

As far as I knew, no man had yet admitted being up in the night. I myself said little more to the regimental police than I had to Oamer in the Hope and Anchor. I did not try to cast suspicion on any man. I admitted the tussle with Dawson, but made light of this as far as possible: ‘Horseplay. We were just larking about. I admit we’d had a drink taken.’ I did mention that I had gained a cut on my knuckle in the skirmish, although I held off from saying exactly how.

But Quinn, like Oamer, had been mindful of the fact that I was a trained detective, and after saying, ‘It’s all too perplexing’ over and over, had taken me into his confidence: ‘What about Private Dawson?’ he said. ‘Apparently the man fights like a tiger when drunk.’ I made some remark of a neutral kind.

Marching us off the ship, Oamer had assured us that the matter did not seem to merit further investigation, and that Quinn believed it would not come to anything; that he would do his best to write down the death as a suicide.

At Le Havre, early in the afternoon, it was snowing on the grey docks, but as fast as the snow came down it melted. The troop train we boarded was made up of coaches from every system in France – not their best specimens either, but we’d heard that many blokes had gone to the front in horse wagons, so we were better off than some.

‘It’s vestibuled throughout,’ said Tinsley, as we found a compartment.

‘But springless,’ said Oamer, as we creaked away from the station, almost directly on boarding. I was sitting with Oamer (with pipe, poetry book and magazine), Tinsley (with note book on knee, observing the railway scene), Scholes (who sat silent), and a reasonably cheery Dawson. Presently, Scholes and Dawson seemed to doze. At intervals, Tinsley would make a note and a remark, usually to do with railways. The trains we passed seemed to be civilian-operated, but approaching Rouen, Tinsley twice observed ‘Hospital train’, and the second time, Scholes stirred and shook his head sorrowfully. Tinsley also made a note whenever he saw one of ‘ours’ – that is, the engines run by the Railway Operating Division of the Royal Engineers.

When there was nothing to see but dull, flat fields under grey sky and falling rain, Tinsley said, ‘Look at that farmer – funny sort of cart he’s got.’

‘He’s a peasant, in fact,’ said Oamer.

I happened to have writing paper and one of the franked army envelopes on me, and I had the idea of killing a bit of time writing a letter to the Chief, since I was feeling rather guilty at not having looked him up in York. In the letter, I explained briefly what had happened on Spurn, and told him I thought any promotion would be held back as a result. I suppose I was half hoping he’d step in on my behalf, but I knew he didn’t really have any authority to do so.

At a spot called Romescamps, there was a great military siding, and I pointed out some North Eastern Railway engines to Tinsley.

‘I wish we could go slower through here,’ he said.

‘We’re going slowly enough, mate,’ said Dawson, who’d now stirred.

Just then we lurched to a halt in a mass of sidings.

‘This is likely to be a two hours’ business,’ said Oamer.

He said he was getting out to stretch his legs. He had a letter of his own to post, and offered to take mine, so I addressed it: ‘Chief Inspector Weatherill, York Station Police Office, York, Yorkshire, England’ and handed it over. I noticed that he paid no attention to the address as he took the letter.

In fact, we were only one hour at Romescamps, during which Tinsley and I climbed down, and looked over the wilderness of rainswept sidings. Tinsley was very taken by the French engines. ‘Look at that!’ he’d say, ‘Square funnel! What I wouldn’t give to have a camera just now.’

I told him he’d very likely be shot if he started taking pictures here. We both saluted as we passed Captain Quinn, who’d also climbed down from the better class of carriage in which he’d been riding. He was speaking to some of his fellow officers, and I heard him say, ‘I believe it’s snowing heavily in Scotland at the present time.’

When we climbed back up, I reported this remark to Dawson, who said, ‘Snowing heavily in Scotland, eh? That’s unfortunate.’

Oamer came in on the joke, saying, ‘Captain Quinn does have a penchant for that word. But over here it’s going to have to be in French, thus malheureusement.’

Dawson shook his head, saying, ‘Don’t see him getting his chops around that.’

We set off again, and Tinsley said to Oamer, ‘We’re for Albert, aren’t we?’ which he pronounced like Queen Victoria’s husband.

‘Whatever makes you think that?’ said Oamer, for our destination had not been officially disclosed. But Tinsley’s habit of cocking his ear to every rumour where the subject was railways had paid dividends, and he blurted it all out, as Scholes listened, horrified.

Albert, Tinsley said, was a ‘rather forward’ railhead. It was in the Somme department of France, and had taken a lot of punishment from shellfire, but was still heavily populated by French civilians and Tommies both. We were approaching it from the south-west, via Amiens. It was not possible to approach it from the north-east, via Arras, which would have been quicker, because the line between Arras and Albert had been cut by the German advance.

‘Hold on,’ said Scholes, ‘how far is Albert from the front?’

‘About three miles,’ said Oamer, who by his answer told us that everything Tinsley said had been true.

In the light of this knowledge, silence fell again for a while.

We were slightly bucked by the sight of Amiens station. There were plenty of soldiers but plenty of civilians as well, and some very pretty samples of French womanhood.

‘Look like cats they do, the French doxies,’ said Dawson.

‘And is that a good thing?’ enquired Oamer.

‘It is to my mind,’ said Dawson.

But I believed Oamer to be indifferent on the point.

The next station was all army, however. It had no name, but Tinsley knew it for a spot called Corbie. Two minutes after we pulled out, we saw a wrecked cottage. After a few more of the same, Dawson said, ‘House roofs seem to be at a premium around here.’

It wasn’t just the houses; the trees were broken too, and the fields under the darkening sky were fields of mud, with clusters of ponds everywhere – ugly black ponds that might have held monstrous creatures. We came through another mass of sidings, and beyond these were whole crowds of wrecked buildings, as if they’d all banded together out of sympathy with one another – a wrecked town, in fact.

‘Albert,’ said Oamer.

‘Jesus Christ,’ said Scholes.

Albert station had survived, which only made it look the more ridiculous. You thought: why does this place merit a station? Why don’t the trains just go on until they come to a proper place? As I climbed down, with the engine blowing off up front, and all the blokes shouting, I saw that the station building was like a town hall, with a clock tower, and the time on the clock was about right: six p.m. But that was the only thing that was right. At the sight of this place, I was scared shitless but I wasn’t about to lie quaking on the ground. The only thing to do was muster around the ‘E’ Company sergeant major as directed. After we’d told off into our companies, a silence fell. The engine had stopped blowing off steam, and was now simmering; all the slamming of doors had stopped. A new noise could be heard, and every man was listening to it. This was the most infernal and continuous crashing, screeching, howling. In this noise there was everything bad: old ladies screaming, mighty waves breaking, whole train crashes happening out of sight in the sky.

‘Hold on a minute,’ said Scholes, who was standing alongside me, a look of horror on his face.

Two minutes later, we were marching, in extended order, towards the noise. Oliver Butler was behind me. ‘Got the collywobbles, Private Stringer?’ he called out. ‘It’s got me spooked, I don’t mind admitting.’