Pat Kelleher - The Alleyman

“Ooh, quite the wild woman, eh?” The others began to circle her.

“I haven’t had a woman in months,” said one.

Warton groped his way out of his makeshift bed. “You men ought to be ashamed of yourselves.” Rising to his feet, he thrust his hand out, feeling blindly for obstructions. He found a tunic. He gripped it and pulled the man toward him. “Who the hell are you, eh? Not a man, that’s for sure. I’ll have your number for this,” he snarled.

A large hand planted itself in his bandaged face and shoved him to the ground, to the accompaniment of mocking laughter.

Someone shunted Edith. She lost her balance, tripped over Warton and landed on her back, on the vacated bed.

A cheer went up. Kerchief loomed over her. “Them trousers won’t protect you, darlin’. I’m a dab hand with trousers,” and to illustrate the point he flung off his tunic, flicked his braces off his shoulders and began to unbutton his flies. Edith, alarmed, tried to rise from the bed, but found herself pushed back down.

Her hand searched blindly down by the side of the bed for a weapon, something, anything. All she felt was hard, dry soil. Her fingers clawed at it, trying to get a handful of dirt, but it was too compacted. Her hands met something hard and warm.

He loomed over her, khaki trousers down round his knees exposing pale hairy thighs. She lashed out with a foot between his legs. His eyes bulged and he grunted into his kerchief. Edith swung her arm upwards, the hollowed gourd in her hand, and flung the contents in his face. There was no mistaking the smell of urine.

Edith scrambled from the bed and, panting, faced her attackers. Before, she had been scared; now, she was angry. That same righteous fire that once urged her to denounce Jeffries burned within her now.

A howl of derision went up, the men enjoying the turn of events even more.

A gunshot silenced the laughter.

Half Pint stood in the tent entrance, leaning on a crutch with one hand, his other crutch cast to the floor, the better to hold the revolver.

Sister Fenton arrived on his heels to see the aftermath.

“What the hell are you doing?” yelled Half Pint. “Get out! You’ve got no argument here! Your grouse is with the officers. The next one who makes a wrong move gets plugged. And you can bet your arse it won’t be a cushy one, so just remember who’s going to have to patch you up. Now move.”

The rowdy mood deflated almost instantly, leaving the shame-faced men to shuffle out, their consciences pricking.

Kerchief, his eyes red rimmed, his hair plastered to his head by warm piss, struggled to pull up his trousers.

“Not you,” said Sister Fenton and belted him round the head with the fallen crutch.

Edith watched, her mouth a perfect ‘o’ of surprise. He crumpled to the floor. Fenton handed the crutch back to a bemused Half Pint.

HOBSON STOOD BENEATH the flagpole on which the battle-tattered Union Jack fluttered with little enthusiasm, as though infected by the general malaise affecting the men.

Backed up by 4 Section 3 Platoon, he confronted the disorganised mob heading towards him. They stopped, more out of amusement and curiosity than discipline. Many were wearing gas hoods or kerchiefs over their faces to hide their identities.

“Just what the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?” Hobson roared. “Get back to your duties.”

The mob stood around insolently, interspersing the resulting sullen silence with the occasional boos, jeers and catcalls, like a rough music-hall crowd.

Hobson was disgusted. He’d helped train these men. He’d wiped their arses, patted them on the shoulders and listened to them when they cried for their mothers.

He took a piece of paper from his tunic pocket to a rising sarcastic “Oooooh,” from a crowd that grew bigger as other rioters drew closer.

Hobson unfolded it to more mock amazement.

“Hey up, lads, he’s going to read us a monologue!”

Hobson’s lip curled as he glared at the ill-disciplined rabble in front of him. He cleared his throat. “I have been ordered by Lieutenant Everson, Acting Commanding Officer of the 13 thBattalion of the Pennine Fusiliers to read from the Army Act of Nineteen Hundred and Thirteen.”

“Give us a song!”

Hobson ignored the lout and began his recitation. “Every person subject to military law who causes or conspires to cause any mutiny or sedition in any forces belonging to His Majesty; or endeavours to seduce any person in His Majesty’s forces from allegiance to His Majesty, or to persuade any person in His Majesty’s regular forces to join in any mutiny or sedition; or joins in, or being present, does not use his utmost endeavours to suppress any mutiny or sedition; or coming to the knowledge of any actual or intended mutiny or sedition in any forces belonging to His Majesty, does not without delay inform his commanding officer of the same, shall on conviction by court-martial be liable to suffer death.”

Every word was as bitter as bile to him. He never once believed he would be reduced to reading these words. He stood and stared down the insolent glares not obscured by gorblimey cap peaks, gas masks, scarves or kerchiefs. Some, at least, looked shame-faced and cast their faces down.

“Sod this for a game of soldiers,” someone yelled from the crowd. The throng began to scatter, dodging the clumsy-footed soldiers who had no heart to engage them. Some sprinted straight past Hobson, whose face flushed with rage as he bellowed. “You men! Come back here!”

Before him, the remnants of the mob, perhaps two thirds of their number, shuffled uncomfortably.

Hobson, looked at them, disappointment etched on his face. “I don’t want to see your faces. Get back to your dugouts and remain there unless otherwise ordered.”

The men, their mood subdued, removed their hoods and kerchiefs once their backs were turned. They began to disperse, although not quick enough for Hobson. “At the bloody double!” he yelled.

He felt the weight of his trench club in the frog at his hip. Right now, he could really do with breaking a few heads.

THE STRUTTER FLEW over the field of red poppies that had sprung from the Somme mud, before it dived low across the camp, causing men to duck, or to dash for cover.

There was a time when Tulliver loved doing this. He and Biffer had often flown down French roads buzzing staff motor cars, sending bloated red tabs scrambling for the car floor or columns of soldiers diving into ditches. All jolly good fun. Here, though, the sport palled.

He chased and harried, breaking up large mobs, herding them back from the open ground and into the trenches, watching men sprawl in the dirt as his landing wheels roared inches above their heads.

“Christ, what am I doing?” he muttered.

All the rage at being grounded, at the loss of his squadron mates, at the lack of understanding; he balled it up and screamed at the unearthly world in frustration.

The indifferent roar of the engine drowned it out.

AS THE RIOTOUS din rose and fell about them, Atkins and the rest of 1 Section stood to arms in the trench outside Battalion HQ. Thin columns of smoke rose into the air from indiscriminate arson.

“You can’t blame them for rioting,” said Pot Shot, remonstrating. “We’ve had no rest or pay for four months. We haven’t suddenly found ourselves back on Earth, and it doesn’t look like we’re going to, either, does it?” The lanky Fusilier shot a sullen glance at Atkins. “Don’t you think the rest of those poor buggers deserve to know, too?”He was talking about the Bleeker party, and Atkins knew it. They all did.

He wanted to do the right thing, and of course, he had sympathy with those rioting, all of which made his choice to stand here right now all the harder.