Pat Kelleher - Black Hand Gang

HOURS LATER, WITH only the occasional reappearance of a wily hell hound or two, the men were stood down with only sentries left on guard against further attack. Those not on duty retired to the support trenches.

“Fuck, look lively here comes Hobson,” said Porgy, sucking the last dregs of smoke from his Woodbine before dropping it in the mud to sizzle and die.

“Great. Ketch’ll be in charge of the Section. Bet he couldn’t wait,” muttered Mercy as they noticed the Corporal skulking along behind the Sergeant, “and Jessop barely cold.”

“Right, you lot, finished sitting around on our arses have we?” said Hobson. “Then there’s work to do.”

“Sarn’t,” said Porgy, putting a hand to his grubbily bandaged pate, “Me head’s spinning. I think it’s that crack I got last night.”

Atkins could almost hear the rest of the Section groan and suppressed a smirk. Bloody Porgy. He had an aversion to manual labour. Had to keep his hands soft for his long-haired chums, or so he said.

“Right, Hopkiss,” said Hobson, almost wearily. “Let’s get you to the MO then and see what he has to say. If you’re malingering, I’ll have you. The rest of you fall in. Come on,” he barked when they were slow to get up, “put some jildi into it!”

They got up and put themselves into lacklustre order.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph, you’re a sorry bunch. If your mothers could see you now they’d be ashamed!” he snapped. “You lot are on trench fatigue. I’ll leave it to Corporal Ketch to sort the details out. They’re all yours, Corporal.” And he set off, escorting Porgy to the MO. Porgy turned and gave Atkins a quick wink before Hobson shoved him down the comm trench.

“Right,” said Ketch slowly once Hobson had gone, the sneer on his lips smearing itself across his face. “We’re going down Broughton Street for a bit of digging, so grab your entrenching tools.”

There was a lot of muttering and sighing as they picked up the spades from their kits and began sloping off down the trench.

“Not you, Atkins,” said Ketch. “I’ve got another job for you. Don’t think saving me from them hell hounds has won you any favours, cos it hasn’t. You suffer too much from cheerfulness you do. Well, I’ve got the cure. You’re a cocky little shit, d’y’know that?”

“Here, steady on Corp!” said Mercy.

Ketch shot him a look and carried on.

“And shit should be in the latrine. Sanitation duty until I say so.”

“Corp!” objected Atkins, but knowing it was an argument he was going to lose, Atkins bit his tongue. Mercy had no such reservations.

“Quit riding the lad, Ketch. You may be an NCO but apres le guerre I’ll have you cold, mate,” he said stepping between Ketch and Atkins and going to-to-toe with the Corporal.

“For that you can join him, Evans, you like getting yourself in the shit so much.”

Once Ketch had dismissed them and they’d gone off to fetch their tools, Atkins turned to Mercy.

“What up with him? Why’s he got it in for me?”

“Ketch? Regular four-letter man he is. He was foreman over at Everson’s brewery before the war an’ he didn’t ’alf lord it over us. Thought he had it cushy ’til old man Everson decided to let the workers form a union, didn’t he? Aggravated Ketch no end that did, but there were nowt he could do about it, was there? War broke out, we joined up to get away from the bastard only to find that, as a foreman, he’d been made an NCO. He’s worse now than he ever was,” Mercy said with sardonic grin. “He hates everyone and everything.”

“Because?”

“Because they are and he’s not.”

“Not what?”

“Tall, handsome, rich, popular, sergeant, butcher, baker, candlestick maker. Take your pick. But don’t worry about him, It’s not worth it. Look on the bright side, Sanitation duty stinks but shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours,” said Mercy with a smile and a wink. “Gives us an easy ride while the others are breaking their backs, don’t it?”

PADRE RAND, HAVING left Tulliver with Captain Grantham, escorted the VADs through the trenches drawing curious glances from some of the men as they passed.

“Where are we going?” asked Nellie Abbott.

“To see the Regimental Medical Officer. He’s trying to set up a Dressing Station here until we can find a way back to your hospital.”

“Looks like you’re going to have to find the Somme first,” said Nellie chirpily.

Edith bowed her head and smiled privately. She liked this young, tough woman.

“Driver Abbott, you may not be under my direct supervision, but I’ll ask you to show some respect to your betters,” said Sister Fenton.

Edith saw Nellie bite her lip and flick a dirty look to Sister Fenton and loved her all the more.

“But she’s got a point, hasn’t she Sister?” said Edith. “We don’t know where we are and that… that creature….”

“It probably escaped from a zoo, or some such, Bell,” said Sister Fenton. “Or it’s a new kind of attack hound bred by the Hun. I’m sure they’re not above doing that sort of thing. Remember poor Belgium?”

They followed a crudely painted sign and turned a corner to find a wide, bombed out shell hole appropriated as a sort of waiting room. Dozens and dozens of men sat about listlessly. Some bandaged, some staring vacantly ahead. Others lay on stretchers, still and lifeless. The group worked their way through the crowd of men, who parted quietly, politely, until the nurses came to a lean-to structure made from timber, corrugated iron and sandbags.

“Captain Lippett?” enquired Padre Rand.

A man, late thirties, with slickly oiled hair and a small pair of pince-nez sat on his nose, dressed in shirt sleeves and braces, wearing a blood-stained apron, looked up from a bare-chested, pale skinned man, whose arm wound he was cleaning. “Padre. If you’ve coming looking for work there’s plenty. Many of these men will die today. I haven’t the time or the facilities to deal with them here. I’ve got a large percentage bleeding from eyes, ears and nose. Never seen anything like it. Damned if I know what’s caused it. Been tellin’ ’em it was the gas. Seems to keep ’em quiet for a while. Tompkins,” he called to a nearby orderly, “dress this man’s wounds. Bloody lucky there, private.”

“Light duties, Doc?” the man asked weakly.

“For you? Yes, I’d say so.”

The man could barely disguise his smile as the orderly led him away.

“Actually, I’ve brought you some help,” said the Padre.

Captain Lippett turned to look at the women over the top of his glasses. He obviously wasn’t pleased with what he saw. He hurriedly took the Padre by the arm and dragged him away. There seemed to be a heated discussion going on between them. Edith made out the words “Women!” several times. It was clear that the MO didn’t approve of their being there, but here they were and there was nothing to be done about it. In the end the officer threw up his hands in submission and returned to the nurses.

“Well, if you’re so put out, Captain, I’d be obliged if you could just arrange transport back to the hospital,” said Sister Fenton.

“Sister, I have absolutely no idea what’s going on. And it would seem motor ambulances, or indeed transport back to anywhere, is beyond us at the moment. In the meantime, however, we have many injured men here and, while I believe that this is no place for a woman, frankly I could use your help.”

Which was about as much apology as they were going to get. Nellie was set to sterilising equipment and finding bandages, while Sister Fenton assisted the MO with the more serious cases. Edith was assigned the duty of helping MO orderlies assessing and treating the crowd of walking wounded. She cast her eyes around the crater. There were so many of them waiting around stoically and the stretcher bearers were bringing more. There was a sudden rush as the more ambulatory felt they would rather be treated by a woman than the rough hands of Privates Tompkins and Stanton.