Andrew Martin - The Somme Stations

Whereas being in the war had killed many men, I could see that not being in it was killing the Chief. With him, everything was upside-down. Most patriotic men resented those of their fellows who didn’t fight. The Chief resented those that did. Accordingly I was torn as I spoke to him. I didn’t want to make myself out a hero. Then again, I could see him glazing over as I told him our mudlarking exploits – the trench digging and fixing. He was hungry for details of being under fire; he seemed fascinated by ordnance – all the gauges of shell I’d dodged. And then there was his obsession of old: machine guns.

‘You’ve felt the bullet go close?’ he said. ‘The little wind?’

I nodded and, seeing that the Chief looked quite defeated at missing out on this experience, I added, ‘Only once or twice, mind.’

I reserved the full story of William Harvey for our second bottle. In the meantime I gave the Chief tales of a fusiliersapper’s life. When I told him about Burton Dump and the lines going forward that would be brought into regular use from Monday onwards, he couldn’t help but grinning.

‘It was railways that started this show; looks like they’ll finish it as well.’

‘How did they start it?’

‘The Huns had to be sure they could defend to the east while attacking to the west. See – ’

I thought he was going to show me the disposition of the German armies using wine glasses and cigars, so I cut in:

‘But what are you up to, Chief? I mean, why are you out here?’

Since he couldn’t put me off any longer, he explained fast, as though the business was just too daft for words. The Chief, who had practically run the York railwaymen’s shooting leagues, had got up a ‘shooting party’ – him and some of his superannuated mates in the Volunteer Training Corps. They’d given demonstrations of marksmanship or failing that (since not all had retained A1 vision as the Chief had) general gun-craft. At first they’d toured the army camps in and around York. Now they were visiting some of the rest camps in France.

‘The troops hate to be out-shot by an old cunt like me,’ said the Chief. ‘It spurs them on. If they do beat us, we give ’em cigarettes by way of a prize. We have army fags gratis from one of the York quartermasters, but…’

He was holding up the empty bottle, frowning at it.

I called for another.

‘… But what we get from the quarter bloke’, he ran on, ‘is that powdery army stuff. Boy tobacco… So I lay out myself for decent fags from time to time…’

‘I’ve taken up regular smoking,’ I said.

‘Yeah?’ said the Chief. ‘Well, you need a hobby.’ He was reaching into the bag, saying, ‘I got this lot from a little market they have here – ’

I said, ‘Are they Woodbines, by any chance?’

‘What do you want?’ said the Chief, ‘Jam on it?’ He put a hundred fags on the table in front of me, the packets marked ‘Virginians Select’.

‘For me?’ I said.

The Chief nodded.

‘I’m obliged to you. Now what’s going on at York station?’

The Chief pulled a face: ‘Half the porters are bloody women.’

The wife had told me that in one of her letters – leaving out the ‘bloody’.

‘How do they get on?’

The Chief shrugged: ‘They’re not equal to the heavier luggage.’

‘What else? The government’s taken over the railways, hasn’t it?’

The Chief nodded.

‘We have a bloke from London in the Station Master’s office. All excursions suspended. All breakfast, lunch and dining cars suspended.’

‘I suppose the only blokes left are the real crocks.’

‘Apart from the express drivers,’ said the Chief.

I thought about asking whether he’d heard of Tinsley’s hero, Tom Shaw.

Instead, I started in on telling the Chief about the death of Scholes, but he’d heard the news already. I asked him about Scholes’s old pal, Flower, who’d gone off to the Military Mounted Police.

‘In hospital,’ said the Chief.

‘Shot?’ I said.

‘Not bloody likely,’ said the Chief.

‘Well then what?’ I said.

‘What do you think?’ said the Chief. ‘Kicked by a bloody horse.’

‘Serious?’

‘It is for him,’ he said, with some satisfaction.

I then asked what – or whether – he’d heard about the death of William Harvey, since he’d obviously not had my letter about it. He had done: read of it in the North Eastern Railway Journal . He knew the circumstances had been considered suspicious, although the magazine had left out that bit. I gave him the story of the investigation, and the hard time of it we’d all had from Sergeant Major Thackeray.

‘So you were all in the shit?’ he said.

‘Still are,’ I said. ‘Charges might be brought at any minute.’

‘Any theories, lad?’

Of the many things I could have said, I asked him about Oamer – the character of the man.

The Chief said, ‘He was a popular bloke in the booking office.’

‘But what do you make of him?’

‘Well, he’s queer of course.’

‘He’s a good soldier,’ I said.

‘General Gordon was queer,’ said the Chief. ‘It’s said Kitchener is.’

‘But would Oamer be the sort to go off, you know, adventuring with much younger blokes?’

The Chief drained his glass, poured himself another one, drank it, kept silence for a good half minute. (He’d regained some of his old style now that we were talking of an investigation.) At length, he said, ‘I know the bloke he lives with. He’s Deputy Manager of the Yorkshire General Bank in Parliament Street… Name’s Archibald… summat or other. They have a place on Scarcroft Road – big house. You’re meant to think it’s two flats, but that’s just a tale. This Archibald… He’s not a young bloke.’

‘But you’ve not answered my question,’ I said, and from the flashing glare he gave me, I thought the Chief was going to lay me out. This was the man I knew!

‘I’ve no bloody notion,’ he said.

The bar was filling up with soldiers. Once again, the Chief was looking a bit lost. He see could the other blokes eyeing his odd uniform and wondering about it. I watched him light up another of his Marcellas, and it looked a very lonely endeavour, as he puffed and blew to get it going. It was as though he was trying to make up for his age, his scrawniness and the funny uniform, by the lighting of a big cigar. When he’d got it going, he stood up, showing no sign of unsteadiness from the wine.

‘I’m off,’ he said. ‘Lorry’s waiting in the Square. I’m putting up with some King’s Own Yorkshires a couple of miles west. Tomorrow it’s back to Blighty.’

‘How’s the police office going on?’ I asked, also standing.

‘Just me and Wright at present,’ said the Chief, as I set about stuffing the cigarettes into my pockets. ‘Any bad lad coming onto York station has a free hand just at present.’

‘Now that I don’t believe,’ I said.

Back in the street, under a lonely lamp, we heard a few distant crumps from the front.

‘I did get forward a couple of weeks ago,’ said the Chief, blowing smoke. ‘… But it was a quiet sector,’ he added glumly.

‘You look in fine fettle, Chief,’ I said.

Still in this gloomy phase, the Chief said, ‘Bloody shame about young Harvey. He was a good kid.’

‘Was he?’ I said, and I looked the question at the Chief.

‘He would aggravate some of the blokes in the shooting leagues,’ the Chief admitted. ‘He was from an army family. His old man had been in the colours… won a medal out in Africa. The lad thought nothing of railways, you see – looked down on the oily blokes.’