The Orange Lilies
by Nathan Dylan Goodwin
Copyright © Nathan DylanGoodwin 2014
Nathan Dylan Goodwin hasasserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998 to beidentified as the author of this work.
This story is a work offiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imaginationand any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirelycoincidental.
All rightsreserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in aretrieval system, or transmitted by any means, without the prior permission inwriting of the author. This story is sold subject to the condition thatit shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, orotherwise circulated without the author’s prior consent in any form of binding,cover or other eformat, including this condition being imposed on thesubsequent purchaser.
This book is dedicated to the thousands offallen men of the Royal Sussex Regiment 1914-1918, including two members of myown family:
Lance Corporal James Dengate
1st Battalion, Royal Sussex Regiment, 1897- 14 September 1917, Karachi, Pakistan
Private James Ernest Dengate
16th Battalion, Royal Sussex Regiment,1889 - 21 September 1918, Cambrai, France
www.everymanremembered.org
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Epilogue
Historical Information
Biography
‘On that fateful day, Tuesday 4th August, 1914, oneof the many orders sent out by telegram from the War Office under therequirements of ‘The War Book’ was addressed to the Commanding Officer, 2ndBattalion The Royal Sussex Regiment, Battalion Headquarters, Inkerman Barracks,Woking, Surrey. The telegram contained one stark and momentous word:‘Mobilise’.’
WeWon’t be Druv—The Royal Sussex Regiment on the Western Front 1914-1918
Prologue
12th August 1914, The Solent,off Southampton, England
The S.S. Agapenor, a 455 foot-longcargo vessel, dramatically cut through the inky swells of the Solent, which wastonight unusually busy. It was almost two am and most of itscargo—disparate regiments comprising a part of the British ExpeditionaryForce—was asleep in whatever space could be found. An earlier drama, whenthe steam ship had collided with another vessel shortly after departingSouthampton, had been quickly forgotten. The ship had been bruised buthad continued her voyage nonetheless.
Charles Ernest Farrier could notsleep. It was windowless and airless; he could have been anywhere. But he wasn’t anywhere, he was just days, maybe even hours away from war. He was in an area of the cargo hold somewhere deep below deck with some of hisclosest friends: Leonard Sageman, David Dowd, Frank Eccles, Tom Trussler,Arthur Jarret—all pals who had spent the last few months in close quarters witheach other. This was no exception. The Second Battalion of theRoyal Sussex Regiment, in which Charles served as a private, was requiredurgently at the front. The German army, like an insatiable plague oflocusts, had swarmed through Belgium and on into France. Back in England,calls for men to volunteer to fight had been answered in their thousands. Attwenty-four years of age, Charles had already had training as a regularsoldier; he felt somewhere close to ready to fight but knew that the traininggiven to new recruits would be rushed, inadequate and potentially fatal. Despite his training, Charles still felt unprepared. He knew that thebattleground that they faced would be nothing like the sleepy training groundsat Inkerman Barracks in Woking, where the regiment had spent the summer. There, in neat rows of bell-tented camps set in the undulating hills of theEnglish countryside, they had undertaken rigorous route marches, assaultcourses and rifle shooting.
‘You okay, Charlie?’ a low voice whispered from beside him. Despite thepitch black, he knew that the voice had come from Leonard, his best friend, whowas slumped up against him. Several years ago, the pair of them hadarrived on the Sussex coast in search of work, leaving behind them the poordistricts of Lambeth that had taken so many members of their respectivefamilies, including their parents, to an early grave. When their searcheshad failed to elevate their poverty, together, in 1910, they had enlisted tobecome regular soldiers.
‘Just can’t sleep. Thinking about home.’
Leonard patted his arm. ‘Best thing you can do is try not to think ofhome—that’s what I’m trying to do. Put your energy into preparing tofight this bloody war.’
‘Yeah,’ Charles said, absent-mindedly. It was easier for Leonard, he hadno real family left to speak of but Charles had a wife and a new son to thinkabout.
Charles heard the soft sound of Leonard’s head sagging into his hessian kitbagand found himself alone once again, with only the darkness and his own thoughtsfor company. He fished about in his pocket and pulled out his mostprecious possession: the photograph of his wife, Nellie and his six-week-oldson, Alfred. Drawing the photograph right up to his face so that itrested on the end of his nose, Charles tried desperately to make out anyfeatures on the picture, but he saw nothing. He closed his eyes andallowed his mind to reproduce the image of them on the day that the photographhad been taken. They had been sitting in smart, fashionable clothes,which had been borrowed from a neighbour, and had sat smiling for thephotographer.
Charles gently kissed the photograph, hoping that it wouldn’t be too long untilthey were reunited. But his fate rested in the hands of others.
War was spreading through Europe, like an invasive deathly smog.
And he was sailing right towards it.
ChapterOne
21stDecember 2014, Cornwall, England
MortonFarrier was apprehensive. He was cruising down the A30 in his red Miniand had just passed the ‘Welcome to Cornwall’ sign. It was one of the fewplaces outside of his home county of Sussex which would usually evoke in him afeeling of warm syrupy comfort. It was the place of perfect childhoodfamily holidays: camping trips to the Lizard Peninsular with his mum, dad andyounger brother, Jeremy. It was a period of blissful childhood ignorancefor him. Today, however, the shrinking gap between him and hisdestination only increased his anxiety.
‘Stop biting your nails,’ Juliette said, reaching across from the passengerseat and forcibly removing his fingers from his mouth. She clamped hishand down under hers. ‘What’s up?’
Morton breathed out slowly and gave Juliette’s hand a gentle squeeze. ‘Just getting nervous about seeing her, that’s all.’ He turned to her andgrimaced.
Juliette looked at him with a reassuring smile. ‘It’s only natural, butyou do need
