‘I think he’s trying to stay out of my way,’ Morton said.
‘Why would he do that? He’s been so nice and welcoming.’
‘Something he said yesterday that he thinks he shouldn’t have said.’
‘Go on,’ Juliette said.
Morton recounted the brief conversation that he had had with his Uncle Jim,trying to recall it as best he could word for word.
‘I think you might be reading into it, Morton,’ was Juliette’s initialreaction. After a short pause, she added, ‘But, if you really think there’ssomething else there, then you probably should ask your Aunty Margaret, ratherthan him. If he did let some cat out of the bag that he shouldn’thave, then he obviously feels it isn’t his place to discuss it.’
‘I know…It’s just trying to find the right moment. We’re only here foranother two days and I don’t want to ruin it by pushing her to talk aboutsomething that she clearly doesn’t want to discuss. We had all morningwalking along that cliff path the other day—she could have told me then.’
Juliette rubbed her hand up his back. ‘You need to make time to ask her,then; it’s important. I know what will happen if you don’t: we’ll go backhome and you’ll stew on it and work yourself up, wondering what on earth itcould be. It’s probably nothing, or a small detail that she forgot tosay.’ She kissed him on the cheek. ‘Try and find a moment thisevening.’
Morton nodded his agreement and hoped it would be that simple. He bentdown, picked up a stone and threw it into the jaws of the sea.
ChapterTen
24thDecember 1914, Le Hamel, France
Shortlyafter eight-thirty am, the men of the Second Battalion Royal Sussex Regimenthad marched into Le Hamel and been distributed among its houses and lodgings.
The Army had requisitioned severalproperties in the quiet village; some the owners had left voluntarily when thefighting had drawn close, others involuntarily, ousted by the military. Charles Farrier was sharing a room with six other men from the Battalion in anold redbrick town house on Rue Vayez, which, prior to the outbreak of war, hadbeen among the most desirable properties in the area. The six-bedroomedhouse, close to the church, had been stripped of its fine carpets, rugs, softfurnishings and everything that had made it a home; it was now the skeleton ofits former self, sorrowfully witnessing the constant stream of battle-weary mensent to rest and recuperate within its stark walls. Each room containedjust six beds and a brazier for warmth. The men in the house consideredthemselves fortunate; others had been billeted in lofts or barns nearby, withonly straw for a bed.
Charles Farrier was sharing a bedroom withLeonard Sageman, Frank Eccles, Tom Trussler, Jimmy Ramsay and Edward Partington.Each was sitting at the end of their simple metal-framed bed, their feet firmlyon the floor, their boot laces open wide. Beside each man’s feet werepiled two filthy, snake-like puttees. Tense glances and unspoken dreadpassed between the men; they were braced for what they badly desired anddreaded in equal measure: the removal of their boots and uniform.
Charles drew in a long breath, took afleeting glance at his comrades then gripped his left boot firmly. He hadintended to whip it off quickly, like a plaster, so that the pain was sharp butfleeting. However, as he began to remove it, the pain was excruciating,like every bone was being broken and every muscle ripped to shreds.
Knowing that he was being watched by fivepairs of anxious eyes, Charles did his best to stifle his whimpers. Hetried again but the pain was simply too unbearable.
‘Do you want me to do it, Charlie?’ Lenasked quietly from the next bed.
Charles nodded, lay down, placed the endof his pillow in his mouth and clenched his teeth together.
With as swift a movement as he couldmanage, Len wrenched off the boot. Charles’s body tensed and flexed likehe’d been electrocuted, as he bit down onto the pillow.
Moments later, both boots were discardedon the floor and the elation and relief began to overcome the agony.
The rest of the men copied Charles andpaired up to remove their boots.
Charles added his socks—stained and soakedbeyond recognition—to the pile on the floor and stared at his feet. Theywere both grossly swollen and grey in colour. Even though the boots hadbeen removed, painful pricks seared through the numbness of the outer layers ofskin.
They were the lucky ones. Theyweren’t dead. They weren’t injured. They weren’t evenhospitalised. More than one hundred and fifty men from the Battalion hadbeen admitted to the field hospital in recent days suffering rheumatism, agueand swollen feet.
Charles didn’t feel lucky. Thehollowness inside him was growing and growing. He tried not to thinkabout it. He slowly sat up and stripped down to his long johns andwoollen vest.
After a time the six men stood, almostmechanically, and trudged painfully out of their room, through the house to anoutbuilding where a communal bathhouse had been established. There, theyjoined a line of men from their company, similarly stripped to theirunderwear. Gone were the sentimental morale-boosting songs. Gonewas the gung-ho bravado. The men just gazed at the floor, torpidlywaiting their turn for a hot bath. Even conversation was too much.
Charles pictured the zinc bath athome. It was stored in the kitchen, only being used in front of theirbedroom fire once or twice a week. He considered, with an ironic smirk,how he had sometimes felt himself dirty enough between the usual set times towarrant an extra bath. How little that naïve man had known. Hewondered, if he survived all of this, if he could simply go back andfind that naïve man again. He doubted it. He was sure that he wasforever lost, consumed inside the broken man that he was today, who had seenand been the cause of so much horror and brutality.
Theair in the bedroom was clouded with the steady stream of smoke drifting up fromthe beds. Only Tom Trussler, occupying the bed opposite Charles, had beena smoker prior to the outbreak of war. It was a habit acquired by therest to
