Then the flare died completely, and the No-Men must have moved, though how they could have tackled this terrain so swiftly didn’t seem possible, because they were standing around him, three deeper shadows in the blackness, and he felt the prick of a bayonet pressed between his shoulder blades.
‘What’s your regiment?’ The whisper was hoarse, and in English.
‘Royal Warwickshire Territorials, sir,’ he stammered in reply.
‘Don’t sir me.’ The bayonet pressed harder. ‘What do you think I am? I’ll ask you again. Your regiment.’
‘Who do you take orders from?’ added a second voice, accented, probably German. A third voice sniggered, thick and low. They were mocking him. Testing him. Then he realised what the first voice had really asked.
‘None,’ the deserter answered. ‘No regiment. No orders.’
‘So, who are you, then?’ asked the whisperer.
‘What are you?’ added the sniggerer.
‘Nothing,’ he said, and as soon as it was uttered he felt the truth of it lift its burden from his soul. ‘I’m nothing,’ he repeated more confidently, on an outrush of breath as if it were a confession of love. ‘I’m a deserter. A coward. If they catch me they’ll put me up against a wall and shoot me.’
‘Funny, that,’ replied the European. ‘What do you think they have been doing to you all this time?’
The bayonet disappeared from his back, and hands helped him to his feet. It was such a simple act, but it ran counter to months of crouching that he cowered, convinced that a sniper would immediately blow his brains out, but nothing happened. There was no challenge or gunshot, just the screams and tears of the wounded all around them in the darkness. Then another flare soared into the sky, much further off than the last, and the hands that held him up began to guide him.
They led him deeper into the skeletal wood, to the shell-blasted ruins of what might have been a farmhouse. It seemed so obvious a landmark and rendezvous point for raiding parties that anybody trying to avoid patrols would go nowhere near it, and he said as much.
‘Regulars have learned not to come here,’ replied the whisperer. ‘This place belongs to the Grey Brigade.’
There had been one large room which was now a courtyard with its roof gone, and in one corner a wide trapdoor made of heavy timbers. Two of the No-Men hauled it open to reveal stone stairs descending to what had presumably been the farm’s cellar. Down here there wasn’t even the meagre ambient light of the outside, and the deserter stumbled in absolute blackness. Then a fist thudded on wood, a rattling bolt was withdrawn, and a door opened into light, warmth, and the aroma of food.
The cellar was long and low-ceilinged, and even though it had collapsed at the far end it was still luxurious compared to the funk-holes he’d slept in and even some of the officers’ dugouts he’d seen. Scavenged kit was stacked in piles all around – rifles, ammunition, boots, blankets, mess kits, tools – between which were makeshift cots for the dozen or so men who called this place home. It was humid with the reek of contained and unwashed men. They lay or sat, picking lice off themselves, mending or making gear, or any one of the dozens of small tasks that kept off-duty soldiers busy. Some stopped what they were doing to stare as he entered, while others carried on as if he didn’t exist. Four were sitting on chairs about a small table, playing cards. Their uniforms were a motley of German feldgrau with red trim and gold buttons, French horizon-blue and British khaki, salvaged and patched from either side of the lines. The only thing they had in common was the lack of any rank insignia – cuffs, collars, and epaulettes were all stripped bare. Light came from stubs of candles set around the room and at the far end where a crude fireplace had been made out of the rubble and the damaged ceiling allowed smoke to vent. Here a man crouched on his haunches by a large cast-iron pot, who turned from regarding the newcomer to resume stirring its contents. As he stood in the doorway gaping, the European and the Sniggerer pushed past him to their own particular corners and started stripping off their gear.
‘Welcome to the Wild Deserters,’ said his escort. Seen properly for the first time, he was younger than the hoarseness of his voice had led the deserter to imagine, dressed in the same assortment of gear. ‘I’m Bill. You have a name?’ His voice was still a guttural whisper, which served well enough for survival in No Man’s Land, though it appeared he had little choice since his throat was a scrawled nightmare of scar tissue. Bill, then. No rank, no surname. Probably not even his real name.
‘Everett,’ he said, since it was as good a name as any.
‘Lads,’ said Bill to the room, ‘meet Everett.’
There were grunts, a couple of tin cups raised in sardonic welcome, and one cry of ‘Fresh meat!’ which was met with chuckles.
‘You’re hungry,’ said Bill. ‘Come on.’
Everett helped himself to an empty mess tin and spoon and approached the cooking pot, inhaling deeply. The aroma felt rich and heavy enough to fill him on its own – something meaty, with pepper and rosemary
