further.
'Then, assuming he was an officer, your friend must be either the MO, the padre, the APM—the assistant provost marshal—or the captain,' Byers said, after several minutes. His tone was resigned. 'Empson, I think his name was.'
'Emmett,' said Laurence.
Byers nodded and picked up the photograph again.
'Emmett,' he said. 'Right.' He fel silent again. 'You know, this wasn't the first time I'd met your friend the captain. I came across him before this business. He was a lieutenant then. I was passing near Albert but didn't know anyone. He asked where I came from in Devon. He could place anyone by their voice. I told him Combe Bisset. He said his mother's maiden name was Bisset. Next day the trench colapsed on him. Looked nasty, but he was lucky. Lucky then, anyways.'
Laurence was about to ask him about the colapse but then the young man pointed to himself in the picture. A slightly plumper self, but even more tense than he looked now.
'Watkins,' he said, moving his finger to the man next to him. 'Welsh nutter.' His finger moved again: 'Vince somebody, a cabinet maker in real life, a Londoner, on light duties with his rupture. Not the sort of light duty he had in mind, I'd imagine. Next to him—a man whose nerves were al over the place. Wound us al up.' His finger moved on. 'This one—nickname was Dusty. I suppose that means he was caled Miler—Dustys usualy are, aren't they? Can't remember this one at al, he was on the end. One of Dusty's lot probably. Just a lad. Two were from the poor bugger's own company. They were sick about it. Said their officer was no worse than any other. Old man's the doc,' he pointed, 'and very unhappy. Your friend, Emmett there. And that evil bastard—sorry,' he looked up at Laurence, 'but he was—is—
Sergeant Tucker. He's the one that had it in for me.'
'In what way?'
'Wel, they were making up a squad. Nobody wants the job. General feeling was that it was a rotten business. By al accounts, the poor useless bastard they'd got it in for was round the bend. And because he was an officer. You'd think some of them might have gone for that on general principles, but most felt it would bring bad luck. Not Sergeant Tucker, though. He was in his element. It wasn't personal or anything; he was just a nasty bit of work. I'd met him before, too, funnily enough, same accident you just asked me about. One of Tucker's so-caled mates had been suffocated. Tucker was supposedly trying to help him until a medic came. The others were al trying to get the rest out, but I'd turned round and watched Tucker, and I can tel you he wasn't lifting a finger to help his friend. He was leaning over him but it looked more like he was putting his hand over his mouth rather than clearing it of earth. He saw me looking and moved to block my view. When I met him again, I hoped he'd forgotten me.'
Laurence made a non-committal grunt.
'But he never forgot anything.' Byers was obviously thinking. 'Frankly, he made a bit of a mess of it, your friend. As for me, half the regulars were il. The others were al belyaching. I was there waiting for the major to get back from Blighty. I shouldn't have been there at al. It's difficult when you don't belong, when it's not your outfit. At night I had to kip with the others and Tucker had it in for me from the start. The other lads were taking the rip but most of it was pretty good-humoured. One pretended to put on an apron and dust the place down. When I went out for a piss, they made out I was picking flowers for the major's bilet. But Tucker, he was al for me being a nancy-boy. Caled me the major's girl. Caled me Leonora and soon they were al at it.' His cheeks flared red. Then he said, almost aggressively, 'Look, you realy want to know al this stuff? It's not pretty, any of it. Not the bit with your friend in either. Not stuff his sister and mother would want to know.'
Laurence had no idea where it was going: but he was simultaneously apprehensive and eager to hear the rest of what Byers had to tel. 'Please,' he said, 'you've no idea how useful this is. I won't pass on al the details.'
He hoped Byers' evident loyalty to Calogreedy would keep him talking, rather than asking himself why Laurence needed the details if he was not intending to use them.
Byers took out a crumpled handkerchief. For a second Laurence thought he was going to cry and felt a flash of embarrassment, but the young man simply rubbed the lenses of his glasses. 'What started it was that, the first evening, I was there when Tucker was seling some German stuff. Most of it was the usual: belt buckles, badges. He had a ring and a watch with its glass smashed, a beautiful thing, an officer's probably, but it stil went, and a pen, and a couple of photographs of some Frauleins, that he'd nicked from dead men's pockets, and some letters nobody could read in that funny writing of theirs. Oh and some fancy drawers and a hair ribbon he'd taken off a French lass. But some of it was plain disgusting and that's what everybody wanted to buy. He had some colar flashes stiff with blood and then he'd got something in a little jar of inky liquid. He handed it over to me, saying, 'You'l like this, Byers, it's right up your street.' I thought at first it was some sort of smal animal he'd pickled, but then from the grin on his face I knew it was something much worse. I shook it a little and then I saw what it was.' He stopped, looking uncomfortable. 'It was a part of a German. His thing. Organ. It was stinking. I almost dropped it there and then. Of course it could have been anybody's if we'd stopped to think. After al, there were enough dead bodies about, but he'd got them al faling over each other to have it. Even Watkins who was forever talking about sinners and helfire.
'Anyway, he's asking for bids, and some of them are offering money and some are trying to trade for tobacco or sweets or saucy pictures. The young lad—his eyes are on stalks. You can see Watkins wants the drawers but there's the Holy Book holding him back, and Dusty is offering for different combinations of stuff, but Tucker keeps adding or subtracting according to what he chooses. Finaly they agree, but I can see Tucker's added up the total wrong. So I correct him. I mean, that's what I'm good at. The look he gives me. Wel, of course he was trying to cheat them. Not for the money but as a game. But I didn't know him then, did I? I hadn't taken to him on account of his being too chummy with the young soldiers, but I didn't know what a sick bastard—sorry, again, sir, but it's the truth—he was. And then some of the men start to laugh and I know I've had it.
'Two days later the rumour that's been going round—that some young officer, who they've had locked up in the guardhouse, and who'd been done for being a coward, has been sentenced to death—turns out to be true. Tucker comes in late, happy as Larry, tels us he's looking for volunteers for a squad. Of course he doesn't mean 'volunteer' and he doesn't get any. Wel, only Dusty, who's half-witted and would put his hand up to go over the top in a tutu armed with a stick of Brighton rock if an NCO asked him. The others don't like it. The one with nerves is shaking. Two of them know the officer. I don't, of course.
'He wants ten but he'l settle for seven and a burial party. There were a lot of men on sick, granted, but I knew it would only be a matter of time until he picked on me. And it was. He played about, pretending he wanted X or Y, who turned out to be puking up somewhere or on leave, and then he said, 'Oh Byers, just the man.
You like doing officers favours. Wel, you can do this one a favour by shooting straight.' Bastard,' Byers muttered, almost to himself.
'That night they bileted us in the farm, the one you can see in the photograph. Nobody slept much, bar Dusty
