The Copse
I'm going underground, (going underground),
Well the brass bands play and feet start to pound.
Going underground, (going underground),
Well let the boys all sing and the boys all shout for tomorrow.
Paul Weller
'Right, Mister Parry, how are we supposed to get into Geneva? Last time I heard there was a war going on there and they'd shut and barred all the doors.'
'Shush!' Mister Joyce put a finger to his lips. 'Keep your voice down, can't you?'
That wasn't very nice, said Alfie. That wasn't fair at all.
I looked around. It was the following morning, we were standing outside the wheelwright's shop and there was nobody nearby. 'Look,' I said. 'We've got the whole street to ourselves. Nobody heard anything.'
'That's hardly the point, you stupid girl. What makes you think we're going to Geneva?'
'I'm not a girl, I'm a bloke. I'm Driver Sam Moon. Now who's speaking out of turn?'
Bloody hell, Sunny! Show him some respect, can't you?
Mister Joyce thumped his wooden palm with his right hand. 'I'll swing for her! I will!'
I paid him very little attention. I could hear the sound of gunfire in the east.
- 0 -
After a breakfast that was the equal of the previous night's supper we set off, following the road Alfie and I had taken with Mabel and Nancy only a week before. The talk we'd overheard in the tavern the previous night had suggested that the Front was still advancing, but slowly. Certainly we were sharing the road with a great deal of military traffic. There were lorries loaded with everything from ammunition to livestock, troop-carriers with their cargoes of ghost-eyed, frightened men, officers in staff-cars, ambulances, tanks, mobile guns, balloon-launchers, armoured cars, fuel-tankers and rocket batteries as well as lines of marching infantrymen, sweating and cursing as they were forced off the side of the road and into the endless mud by the mechanised traffic. Our little steam-powered car with its chattering motor felt fragile and incongruous in the middle of this flood of heavy-duty khaki.
From time to time we came to a crossroads where a red-capped policeman waved us across or raised his hand to stop us and let the other traffic pass. Every time this happened I thought we were going to be ordered to get down and show our papers, and I had my story ready. But there were so many of us making our way to the Front, and another tide, nearly as full, of relieved soldiers flowing towards us, that we weren't hindered in our progress. We were, after all, only two among thousands.
It was like being in a train. We couldn't go any faster than the vehicle in front of us, and we didn't dare slow down for fear of being run into by the lorry behind. Mister Joyce had found a way of keeping the water-tank replenished from the churns in the car's back seat. He'd got hold of a piece of tubing - from the tavern cellars, I suspected - and had made a kind of siphon arrangement that meant he didn't have to lift the churns up or tip them to get the water out. It was clever, and it meant we didn't have to keep stopping the way we had the two days before.
Neither of us spoke much, apart from necessary things to do with driving the car. Me, because I was annoyed with Mister Joyce and myself about our little spat, and also because I had to remember to do the big-man deep-voice act. Mister Joyce because - I don't know. I think he would have liked to have been able to write in his book but the Dassault was bouncing and rolling too much on the deeply-rutted road for him to make anything other than illegible scribbles.
After three hours of this bone-jarring progress we reached the ruined church where the convoy had stopped before, and where Mabel and Nancy had betrayed me to the rest of the Advance Brigade. It was time for a rest. Both Mister Joyce and I were tired of feeling sick and disoriented by the car's motion so, without needing to ask, I pulled off the road and parked by the wall.
'Lunch break,' I said.
Mister Joyce looked as if he was not sure that eating was exactly what he felt like doing at that time. Perhaps he would come around to the idea after a few minutes. I wandered into the roofless shell of the church. The stained glass had been shattered by the bombardment the villages and houses nearby had undergone, and the pews has been removed.
For storage, said Alfie.
Or firewood.
But there was still an altar at the choir end of the nave; a stone table with the emblem of the Magdelena - the Daemon of the Holy Spirit - carved on the front, superimposed on the symbol of the Cross of Sacrifice. There was no Holy Word, of course, but I had my prayer-book in my pocket so I knelt in front of the altar and murmured a few Collects from the section entitled For Employment In Times Of National Peril.
I realise I've not said much about my religious beliefs. Like everybody else at Highdean, I had been Confirmed in my faith after Alfie settled. There was Chapel at school every morning and evening and, despite what Aunt Sybil said, I went to St Anselm's or St Barnabas' fairly often during the school holidays. I had kept up my devotions in Mornington too, but I'd fallen behind after I ran away to Frankland.
Not that I needed to feel guilty about that. The Articles of War had made it perfectly clear that I had to balance my national duty with my duty to the Holy Spirit. "Render unto the King what is the King's, and unto the Holy Spirit what is the Holy Spirit's." The two duties - to God and to Nation - stood side by side. Neither could wholly override the other.
All the same, it was a relief to get the chance to see to my spiritual needs and I was happier within myself when I returned to the car. So was Mister Joyce. He had split a loaf in two and was chewing on it appreciatively.
'Hello,' he said, handing me a chunk of bread. 'Feeling better?'
He thought I'd gone to relieve myself. That idea annoyed me - what business was it of his? - so I told him I'd been into the church to pray.
'You believe in that stuff, do you?'
'Yes, of course. Why, don't you?'
'You believe that the Holy Spirit hears your prayers and answers them?'
'Yes. If they are righteous and sincerely meant, then your prayers are answered.'
'Always?'
'Yes, always. But not necessarily at the time or in the way you expect. Sometimes your prayers are answered and it's only later you realise it's happened.'
'And the Holy Spirit does this?'
'By moving in the hearts of men and their daemons, yes.' I looked at Mister Joyce's face. He was smiling lop-sidedly.
'And you really believe all that?'
'Yes, of course I do.'
'I see. Then we'd better not talk about it any more.'
I flared up. 'What do you mean by that? Eh? What do you mean, Mister Parry?'
'I mean this,' Mister Joyce leaned towards me, his good hand resting against the wall. 'I mean that I don't want to talk about it. But ask yourself this: If everybody's prayers are answered then what's all this about?' He hoisted his wooden arm and pointed to the church's shell-pocked walls and broken arches. 'Whose prayer was answered here? Ours? Or the Enemy's? Do our prayers and their prayers cancel each other's out? Are some of their prayers more righteous and sincere than ours? Is that why our boys and men are killed from time to time? Don't we pray hard enough? And, if our prayers do cancel each other, what's the point of fighting? Shouldn't we be fighting a praying war instead, to see if we can pray harder than they can? Shall we have a good pray right now and see if we can't kill an Afric warrior or two?' His voice was edged with bitterness and he looked disgusted.
Oh, but he was infuriating. Even though I was seething with anger, I could see that to shout at him would get me nowhere. Those horrible things he was saying either demanded a long, reasoned reply or silence.
'Shut up,' I said. 'You're talking rubbish.'
- 0 -
We rejoined the stream of vehicles going east. There was an oil-fuelled troop-carrier in front of us, chucking out smoke and fumes. I let the Dassault drop back a few yards to avoid getting poisoned. Even so, we could still hear the men singing an old marching chantey:
We are the boys of the SDG,
(Boasting boys, shouting boys)
We are the boys who will make you flee,
(Step aside for the boys!)
We are the boys who will pass the test,
(Boasting boys, shouting boys)
We're the boys who're the very best!
(Step aside for the fighting boys!)
Holy Spirit save them, said Alfie.
Yes, I said, remembering Sister Moulson and the Admissions Ward of the field hospital.
- 0 -
Eventually our luck ran out as I'd known it would. Around three o'clock the traffic slowed down and came to a halt. I wondered if the carriageway was blocked by a broken-down vehicle or perhaps there was a shell-hole in the road and we were having to inch around it over the rough ground. I disengaged the motor, turned down the naphtha feed and shut off the steam valve.
'Hang on, Mister Parry,' I said. 'I'll go and see what's going on.'
'Right you are, Sam.'
I jumped down and walked past the line of stalled vehicles up the side of the road, being careful to clump along like a man. The last thing I needed now was to be whistled at. There was a fork in the road about fifty yards ahead and by it a pair of wooden huts had been put up and wrapped around with barbed wire. A wire fence ran into the woods to left and right. By each hut stood an armoured man with a Vickers gun. A drop-down barrier was being operated by a middle-aged corporal on our side of the road and by a younger man on the other. Another queue was building up on the far side of the checkpoint. Every vehicle was being stopped and questioned. As I watched the gate was lifted and a water-tanker ground its gears as it passed through from the other side.
I walked back to the car. 'We've got to wait,' I said. 'Half an hour at least. Or turn back.'
'We're not turning back,' said Mister Joyce. 'We've got to go forward; carry on. Anyway, it'd look suspicious. Don't worry. These papers'll see us through.'
'All right,' I said.
We sat in the queue and waited. Every two or three minutes the troop-carrier in front lurched forward in a noxious cloud of black smoke. There was enough pressure left in the boiler to let me run the motor up and follow it without having to re-light the naphtha. Wait - jerk forward. Wait - jerk forward. I wasn't used to this. It'd been different in Mornington. Ambulances had priority over cars, buses, lorries and taxis. We'd never had to stop for anybody.
The longer we waited, the more tense and anxious Alfie and I became. Mister Joyce seemed confident, but I wasn't. For a start, although my documents were made out to Driver SC Moon - which was my name, near enough - his papers said his surname was Joyce, not Parry. It was so stupid - why did he have to adopt a false name? It would have been so much simpler not to.
You mean it would have been better to tell the truth?
Alfie! Don't be so bloody sanctimonious. I'm a reformed character now.
My irritating daemon winked at me. We stopped and started and stopped and started and reached the front of the line at last and the corporal on the gate leaned over the side of the car.
'Right, mate,' he said. 'Show us your chitties!' His wolfhound-daemon stood close by his side with her teeth bared.
I grinned. 'Here you are, Corp.'
He riffled through the papers. 'Mister Joyce, mechanical SME, and Driver Sam Moon.' He looked at me more closely. 'Bloody 'ell! You shaving yet, young 'un?'
'Yes, Corp. Once a week, regular.'
'God 'elp us! Ain't you the big man. All right. Your papers are in order, but I can't let you through.'
'Why not?' Mister Joyce leaned over me. 'What's the matter? What's wrong?'
'It's like I said, sir. Your papers are in order, so far as I can tell. At least, they was in order when you left Blighty. But they've not been stamped.'
'Stamped?'
'Yes, sonny. Stamped. Validated. Where did you leave from this morning?'
'Sainte-Claude.'
'Right. Well, Sainte-Claude is where you'll have to go back to. Go back there, take your papers into the Movements Office and get 'em stamped. Then come back 'ere and I'll let you pass.'
'But-' Mister Joyce's face was turning pink. 'I've got important work to do. Colonel Braeburn is expecting me. He sent for me especially from London. There are... there is essential work for me to do. War work. Don't you understand?'
'Yes, sir, I understand. But your papers ain't stamped and I can't let you through. Now Sam, turn the car round. You're holding everyone up. Go back to Sainte-Claude like a good little boy and get your blasted papers stamped. Then come back here tomorrow, show me them, and we can all be friends. All right?'
Mister Joyce was furious. 'You'll get into trouble when I tell Colonel Braeburn you've held me up. Serious trouble.'
'Maybe I will, sir. But I'll be taken out and shot right now if I let you pass.'
I had a thought. 'Can't you telephone Colonel Braeburn, Corp? Get him or his ADC to confirm our details?'
'Well, maybe I could. Except I don't have a telephone.'
'There's one in the hut, you stupid man!' That was true. I could see the wires coming out of the eaves and running down along the side of the road.
'Now sir, there's no need to take that tone with me. There's a telephone in the office but I'm not in there, I'm here and I'm not allowed to leave my post. Fred!'
'Corporal?' said the man with the Vickers gun.
'Be ready to fire on my order!'
'Right, Corporal.' The muzzle of the gun pointed directly at a point halfway between Mister Joyce and me.
'That's better. Now, sir, would you please ask your driver to turn around and take you back to Sainte-Claude?'
'We've not got much choice, have we, sir?' I wasn't altogether disappointed that Mister Joyce's plans had come unstuck, even though I was supposed to be going along with them. It was good to see him taken down a peg or two.
'All right. But you're going to regret this, Corporal.'
The NCO ignored him. 'See you tomorrow, sonny,' he said to me.
I re-lit the burner and adjusted the water feed to the boiler. The car responded with a happy hiss of steam. I was just reversing onto the verge to get the car turned around when a voice came from the direction of the hut. 'Stop!' An officer emerged from inside. Our corporal snapped to attention and saluted him. So, just in time, did I.
'Corporal, let these men through.' The officer wore the pips and laurel leaves of a half-colonel. His bird-daemon rested on his left shoulder and his face was shielded by his cap. 'I'll take responsibility for them.'
'Yes sir. Please sir, may I have your name for the log book?'
'Certainly, Corporal. Lieutenant-Colonel Braeburn, EOD Division.'
'Right you are, sir.' The corporal lifted up the barrier and I straightened the car out again.
The officer approached the car. 'Mister Parry?'
'Yes, Colonel?'
'Proceed as per our agreement. Rendezvous at the dock.'
'Yes, Colonel.'
I re-engaged the motor. As I checked for oncoming traffic I caught a glimpse of the officer's face. He was standing back to let us pass. I saw - why hadn't I noticed it when I'd first seen him? - that his eyes were a vivid, startling blue and a shock of recognition and unexpected desire ran its fingers down my back and settled, sizzling, in my loins. Him again! The old man on Hampstead Heath. The boy on the Pompey Docks. The young workman on the train. And now, a Brytish Army officer. What on earth was going on?
- 0 -
By six o'clock we were very close to the forward lines. It was comparatively quiet as the guns had fallen silent in preparation for the barrage and attempted advance that was likely to happen once the sun had gone down. We were surrounded by soldiers and their support crews - purposeful, determined men who had no interest in Mister Joyce and me so long as we kept out of their way. I pulled off the road. 'What now, Mister Parry? You do know where we're going, don't you? That nice Colonel Braeburn said something about a rendezvous.'
Mister Joyce was looking tired and drawn and his Viola clung to his jacket sleeve with desperate claws. 'Yes, he did. We have to follow the line of support trenches to the south until we come to a wood of beech trees. In that wood we will find a stone hut with a locked door, painted green. I have the key to that door.'
I checked the car's gauges.' I hope it's not far. The boiler needs topping up and we're low on naphtha. We'll have to get some more fuel from somewhere before we turn back for home.'
'Let's not worry too much about that,' said Mister Joyce.
- 0 -
Nobody paid us any attention as we drove south. The road had deteriorated to the point where it was no more than a mud-track and it would have been quite impassable if the weather hadn't been fine and dry for the last few days. The car creaked and groaned and its springs bounced and jiggled as I negotiated our way as carefully as I could. My companion was looking more uncomfortable than ever. After half an hour or so we came to a wood, but it wasn't the right one and anyway it was nearly impossible to tell what variety of trees had once grown there as they were now only bare sticks, pointing up like anbarograph poles. One of them had the remains of a pair of uniform trousers hanging in it, and in another the top half of a man's skeleton swung suspended from one of its leafless branches. I glanced at Mister Joyce. He was looking sick and I could see his lips moving.
The light was starting to fade. Neither Mister Joyce nor I had had anything to eat or drink since our argument in the deserted church and the car's tiller was pushing and pulling more and more on my tired arm as the road became rougher and rougher. We would have to stop soon and find shelter. Just as I was beginning to get worried we came to a copse where the trees still grew unaffected by artillery fire. 'Here?' I said.
'Here,' said Mister Joyce, and I got out, walked round to the side of the car and opened the door for him. He picked up his knapsack, climbed down slowly and painfully and rested his weight on my shoulder. I helped him to the nearest tree, which he leaned against while I ran the car into the wood. I doused the burners and released the safety valve. Steam hissed out and Mister Joyce was starting to tell me to shut the valve off because we'd be heard, when the question of noise suddenly became irrelevant. There was a loud, high-pitched whistling sound low overhead followed by a brilliant blue flash and an earth-rattling thump. Our forces - or the Enemy's forces - were getting ready for the night's advance. The evening artillery barrage had begun.
I ran over to Mister Joyce and grabbed hold of him. Whether or not this was the right wood, it was cover of some kind; and cover was what we needed very badly. Two more screeches overhead; and the darkening sky was torn apart by shell-bursts. Shrapnel ripped through the air with a sound like a giant tearing paper.
I lifted Mister Joyce's left shoulder and slipped my right arm under his. My sword bumped between us. Linked together like some curious tripedal insect we scrabbled into the wood. Another howl overhead; and straight away a crash and a roar, and another and yet another. The explosions were getting closer, as if the Enemy's gunners - or ours - were trying to find our range. With each blast came a blinding flash of terrible light, throwing our shadows hard against the trees.
'It's the ones you don't hear that get you,' I gasped. Another ghastly shriek, and a crash followed by a hollow boom sounded behind us. I turned to look, and Mister Joyce cursed under his breath. The car - or what was left of it - had been struck by a shell, its boiler had burst and its remains cast into the air like a toy a spoilt child had rejected. I looked at Mister Joyce. His face was grey with fear and he was sweating. I turned again, and as I turned I lost my footing and we fell to the ground. Another double blast and shrapnel rocketed through the leaves over our heads, shredding them.
We staggered to our feet, but I wasn't strong enough to hold him up and we collapsed against a tree-trunk. The battery of artillery fire was now almost continuous and, although we didn't seem to be the gunners' target we were still in very great danger from a stray shell. 'Come on!' I shouted over the roar of gunfire. I stood up and Mister Joyce let his weight rest on me again. I groaned - he was so heavy and, in the semi-darkness and uncertain footing of the wood, so hard to support. It had been bad enough before we hired the car; and that was in daylight on good roads and pavements. This was nearly impossible. I took another step forward and Mister Joyce tried to move his left leg in step with my right, but it was no good and we lurched over and landed in a heap. Another shell-burst directly overhead silhouetted the leaves in sharp outline before tearing them from their branches and showering us with green fragments.
From where we lay on the ground I could see further ahead into the wood. As the debris from the last explosion settled I saw, through the stripped trees, something grey standing fifty feet or so from us. 'Look!' I said. 'Is that it?'
Mister Joyce followed my pointing finger. 'It'd better be,' he replied.
We got to our feet again; slowly and painfully. Mister Joyce had fallen against me and my right side was badly bruised. 'Come on,' I said. There was a crump from nearby; and splintered tree-branches landed all around us. This wood was going to look like the one we had seen earlier before much longer, and if we didn't want to be found smashed and dead in it we had to find shelter very soon. We took a step forward. That was all right, so we took another, and another. Yes; it looked as if we were getting the hang of it at last. And then there was yet another terrible explosion and we were lifted from the ground and thrown against a tree trunk. I was badly winded. I felt dizzy and confused. Mister Joyce was slumped back, his head at a funny angle. I couldn't tell if he were alive or dead.
Two more shells landed not far off. More debris flew past us. 'Mister Joyce?' I said into the sudden quiet, but there was no reply. I slapped his cheek. 'Mister Joyce?' Still nothing. What could I do now? I didn't see how we could possibly make it to the shelter of the hut if Mister Joyce was unconscious or dead. I wasn't strong enough.
Oh no. Is this it, Alfie? Is this where it all ends?
No. Look. Oh yes, there was Viola, gasping and quivering in terror but still with us; still present. Mister Joyce was still alive.
Reach into his pocket.
Which one?
Crash. Another shell landed close by. Somewhere to the left of us a tree fell with a long groan. In the direction of the lines a flickering red light was growing inexorably. The wood had caught fire.
Right-hand trouser pocket. And Sunny...
Yes?
Please let me help you...
- 0 -
We got to the door of the hut just as a cluster of four shell-bursts fell around us - one for each quarter of the compass, it seemed. I was beginning to wonder if we were suffering what the wireless bulletins called "collateral damage" or whether, as on the Marie-Louise, we had become a target after all. I took the key from my pocket and inserted it into the lock. It turned easily, as if the wards had been oiled only yesterday, and the door opened inwards. We practically fell through it. Inside it was pitch-black dark, but as my eyes adjusted I could see that there was an iron ring-bolt set into the floor. I let Mister Joyce's limp body slip to the ground as gently as I could. Viola nuzzled against his cheek. A shell landed nearby and the hut shook. It could only be a temporary shelter - a direct hit would destroy it and kill us all.
It was obvious what we needed to do, so I stood by the side of the hatch into which the ring-bolt was set and heaved hard on it. Nothing happened. I pulled again. Still nothing, and then I saw the reason - it was locked shut by a sliding latch. I knelt down and tugged at its handle and like the outside lock it slid back easily as if it had been recently used. Then I tried the ring again. Heavens, but the hatch-cover weighed a ton! I lifted it a few inches, but my strength failed me and it fell back again. Three loud bangs outside reminded me of our danger. I bent my knees and pulled up again with all my strength. I had to do this by myself. Nobody else could help me.
The hatch-cover lifted again, and this time I stuck a foot underneath it, preventing it from falling all the way back. I rested for a few seconds and then pulled again. Heave, and up; and suddenly it tilted right over and fell with a clang. I fell back with it, but only for a moment. I got back to my feet and looked down into the hole which the lifted hatch revealed. It was utterly black in there but there was no time to be afraid of that or to hesitate. It was our only possible refuge. Gasping for breath and grunting with the effort I pulled Mister Joyce across the floor and pushed him through the hatchway. He disappeared into the gloom and I heard what sounded like his body bumping against a set of stairs. Good - I'd been afraid there'd be a sheer drop. I launched myself after him.
There were ten stairs, carved from blocks of stone. I found Mister Joyce lying against the bottom one, groaning loudly. That was a relief. They used to tell us in the Brigade that it was the quiet patients who died and the noisy ones who lived. At this rate we might just live. It was impossible for me to pull the hatch-cover back behind us, so I took hold of Mister Joyce's legs and pulled him deeper into the cellar which, I presumed, led back from the steps and propped him up against the wall. Not a moment too soon for, with a sound like the end of the world, the hut overhead took the full force of a shell and collapsed with a sound like a quarry-blast. A cascade of stone and earth tumbled down the steps and sprayed across the floor next to us. The last traces of light from above vanished instantly. The hatchway was blocked - probably by tons of debris - and we were trapped underground without light, food or water. It was deadly quiet.
The shock of our situation hit me then as it hadn't before when the gunfire was all around us. We were buried alive with no hope of rescue. I could think of nothing worse, no fate more appalling. I felt sick and full of despair. I got up and walked blindly until I bumped into the wall on the other side. I slumped back against it, put my head in my hands and cried.