The company were ordered to stand, riflesbayoneted and ready at the fire trench until they could be relieved. Aday of pumping and shovelling around the clock had done little to improve thesituation.
Darkness seemed to descend rapidly, as ifit had fallen with the pervasive rain that continually fed the stagnant waterin the trench.
Charles Farrier stood shivering. Thewater had reached his groin and was continuing to rise. Unable andunwilling to talk to his unseen comrades in the fire bay, he simply staredahead and prayed that relief would come soon.
Suddenly, from somewhere over to his left,a barrage of rifle fire and muted shouts filled the night sky. The men inCharles’s bay looked out in the direction of the noise, but could see nothing.
Some time later, the men were roused fromwhatever state of cocooned silence they had managed to get themselves into whena loud explosion ripped open the trench less than a hundred yards away.
Charles listened as rifle fire erupted,almost masking the blood-curdling screams of injured men, which rose violentlyinto the sky.
Within minutes, the unmistakable crack ofreturn artillery fire from the Allied trenches resounded in the air, explodingseconds later, ripping callously through mud, wood, wire and flesh.
‘Sounds like Fritz is in for a pummellingtonight,’ Leonard said with a feeble laugh.
Agreement came from several half-heartedlaughs in the fire bay.
‘Yes, but it sounded like we took apummelling, too,’ Charles said solemnly.
If any replies were forthcoming, then theywere drowned out by the deafening roar of multiple rounds of artillery firefrom both sides.
A waft of cordite drifted across thetrench, an odious echo from the relentless pounding that each trench wasreceiving.
‘There’ll be more casualties tonight,yet,’ Charles muttered to himself, suddenly grateful to be standing waist-deepin freezing, muddy water.
ChapterSix
23rd December 2014, Cadgwith, Cornwall, England
Mortoncouldn’t sleep. It was the vicious combination of too much alcohol thenight before and his mind being besieged jointly by thoughts of his birth andthoughts of his great grandfather’s untimely death in the First WorldWar. He leant across to his mobile and checked the time: Fiveforty-eight. Despite being desperate for sleep, he knew that it wouldn’tcome now. He also knew that his Aunty Margaret would right now bedownstairs baking some cake or other. It seemed to be a Farrier trait toget up at the crack of dawn come hell or high water; a trait he desperatelyhoped wouldn’t be locked away in his genes, dormant and waiting to be ignited.
Morton swung his legs out of bed and, inthe near-blackness of the bedroom, fumbled about for his slippers and dressinggown. He deftly stole from the room, gently closing the door behind him.
Downstairs, as expected, he found Margaretwith a smudge of flour across her face, and up to her arms in cake mixture.
‘Morning—a bit early for you, isn’t it?’Margaret greeted.
‘Morning, Aunty Margaret,’ he replied,waiting for his tired brain to wake up before more conversation couldhappen. ‘Too early.’
‘Nonsense. Best part of the day.’
Morton took a seat at the kitchen tableand flaked dramatically onto his arms. ‘That’s what Dad would say,’ hemumbled.
‘Come on, now, Morton. Fix yourselfa coffee and get on with some research!’ Margaret said playfully.
Morton groaned, although the idea appealedto him. It’s a good time to take advantage of Juliette being asleep, hereasoned.
‘I’ve dug out my old box of family papersand what-have-you—thought you might find it of interest. There’s also aphoto of Grandad Len in his uniform.’
Morton sat up, his interest piqued.
‘It’s in the lounge. Probablynothing much in there to help you with Grandad Farrier’s war service, but worthhaving a rummage.’
Morton made himself a strong coffee andwandered into the lounge. Margaret had lit a fire some time ago, but ithad yet to take the edge off the chilliness. He pulled his dressing gowntightly around him and sat down on the floor beside the plastic storagebox. On the top of the box rested an image of a First World Warsoldier. Morton picked it up and studied it carefully. It was a sepiastudio portrait, printed onto a standard postcard—a common practice amongst menabout to leave for the front.
The man in the photo, proud and handsome,had brown hair and a neat pencil moustache, which sat over a straight, seriousmouth. There was a warm familiarity to his dark young eyes. He worea standard khaki serge tunic with knee-length khaki puttees. Around hiswaist and over his shoulders was the 1908 pattern Mills Webbing equipmentsupporting two sets of five pouches.
Morton flipped the postcard over. Onthe back was handwritten, ‘August 1914.’ In front of it, a word or seriesof words had been entirely obliterated by heavy black scrawl. He held thepicture up for a closer inspection and briefly considered scanning it in highresolution to try and determine the words that somebody had deemed it necessaryto remove, but the thickness of the censoring was such as to make itsrevelation impossible.
Turning over the image in his hand, Mortonstared at the face. So naïve and ignorant of what the next four yearswould bring him. He was very lucky to survive unscathed for the entireduration of the war, Morton considered.
‘Did you say that Len was a prisoner ofwar?’ Morton called into the kitchen.
‘That’s right. Don’t know much morethan that,’ Margaret answered with a chuckle.
Morton considered that being a prisoner ofwar was probably what had saved him.
‘There’s a couple of postcards from him inthat box,’ Margaret added.
Morton set the photo down and carefullylifted the lid of the storage box. Inside, he was greeted with a randomassortment of papers, and family detritus, whose discolouration testified totheir age.
‘Do you mind if I take photos of some ofthe documents?’ Morton called.
‘Oh, no, go ahead. No worries. I’m glad someone’s taking an interest in it all—Danielle and Jess aren’t reallybothered.’
‘Great.’ With a flurry ofanticipation, Morton began to work his way through the box, which ranged incontent from serviettes emblazoned with Margaret and Jim’s silver wedding date,to original certificates. Among the collection were Margaret’s birth andmarriage certificates, his grandparents and Alfred and Anna’s marriage andtheir death certificates. He studied and photographed each item, addingrelevant details to his growing Farrier family tree
