Pat Kelleher: Black Hand Gang

Their illusions didn’t last. On the Western Front, along a strip of mud six hundred miles long, that stretched from the French Alps to the Belgian coast, they died in their tens of thousands, in the blasted, unhallowed ground called No Man’s Land.

Seeston forged ahead. Shoulders stubbornly thudded against his as he pressed against the flow, but he was on urgent business, a runner for Battalion HQ. The air of importance that this status lent him bolstered his courage and he pushed on with the purpose of a man who knew his time was more valuable than that of those around him.

From somewhere up ahead, beyond the turn in the communication trench, a high scream punctuated the dull repetitive bass thuds of the German shells that had begun to fall.

“Make way there! Coming through.”

Men backed against the walls as best they could. Seeston’s advance was brought to a halt as a broad arm swept across his chest and thrust him against the revetment. He was going to say something, but as he glanced down at the khaki arm he noticed the three chevrons and thought better of it. “You an’ all lad,” said the Sergeant.

A couple of Linseed Lancers, red cross brassards on their upper arms, moved urgently past, carrying a stretcher. Seeston got a good look at the occupant. The man, his face swathed in dirty blood-soaked bandages, had stopped screaming and a pitiful whine surfaced though thick, wet gurgles. Inexpertly tied, the bandage had partially fallen away from his face. A couple of waiting men crossed themselves.

“Jesus. Poor bastard.”

From the shattered visage a desperate, pleading eye looked up and briefly met Seeston’s gaze. A small jewel of humanity set in a hellish clasp of splintered bone and bloody, chewed meat, the eye lost its lustre as its owner sank once more beneath a private sea of pain. There was a cough and sputter and the groan worked its way up into a scream again, a desperate arm clutching the air for something none of the soldiers could see. Seeston turned his head aside with a shudder. Jesus, that could be him lying there next time. There were countless ugly and obscene ways to die out here; sniper bullet, machine gun, shell fire, gas, grenade, shrapnel, bayonet, trench club. All for King and Country.

The stretcher-bearers disappeared round the traverse of the communications trench towards the Casualty Clearing Station. Seeston doubted their patient would make it. Once the stretcher-bearers were out of sight, Broughton Street came back to life, the incident consigned to a consensual silence and added to the list of things they’d seen but wouldn’t tell those back home.

“That’s why these things are one way, y’daft bastard,” said the brawny sergeant, releasing him. “If yer going up you want High Street. Down, you take Broughton, got it? Now go back the way you came and turn left at Mash Lane.”

Seeston had seen a map of Harcourt Sector back at Battalion but here, sunk into the ground between walls of wooden shoring and mud, he quickly lost his bearings. He came to a crossroads gouged into the earth. A crude hand-painted sign declared the place to be ‘Idiot’s Corner’. Below it, signposts pointed down different runs: Lavender Road, Parsonage Lane, Harcourt Trench, Gamble Alley. He stopped an approaching soldier.

“Excuse me mate, I’m looking for Moorside Support.”

“Yeah well I wouldn’t stand there and do it. It’s not healthy. Idiot’s Corner, that.”

Seeston blinked.

The soldier rolled his eyes in exasperation. “These crossroads have been marked by Fritz ’aven’t they? Every so often he drops one on it. Like I said, only an idiot would stand around here.”

“I’m looking for C Company HQ.”

“The Broughtonthwaite Mates? Down Mash Lane, turn left onto High Street and follow the smell of black puddin’s.”

“Ta, mate.”

Seeston followed the direction indicated by the Tommy’s outstretched hand and onto another narrow communications trench, this one linking the reserve trenches, several miles back at St. Germaine, to the front line. Having lost time, he started to jog up the trench.

He’d just turned the corner of another traverse when he collided with an officer. A few splatters of mud flew upwards from Seeston’s hobnails as his foot missed the broken duckboard and sank into the open sump, splashing the officer’s highly polished boots.

Crap.

It was Lieutenant Jeffries, Commanding Officer of 4 Platoon.

Crap, crap, crap.

Seeston snapped to attention.

There were some officers that you could get on with, but Jeffries wasn’t one of them, with his airs and graces. In fact he seemed more concerned about his own appearance than anything else, to the point where they called him ‘Gilbert the Filbert’ behind his back; after that musical hall song by wassisname. And he could blow hot and cold. You never knew what you were going to get.

He was a dapper-looking cove with a thin, black, neatly trimmed moustache, not a brass button unpolished, not a crease out of place, cap set straight, everything just so. This man took care of himself, took care to remain different, better . Made a point of it. Not for him the new common purpose, all in it together for King and Country. Despite that, Jeffries had a reputation for taking suicidally dangerous risks on the battlefield.

The officer met Seeston’s gaze and held it just a fraction too long to be comfortable, before his eyes flicked down to the mud on his boots. He had a way of looking at you, into you, as if he expected to find something and was profoundly disappointed when he didn’t. A smile, like a shark’s fin, briefly cut the surface of his face.

“Striking an officer, Private? That’s a court martial offence.”

“Sir, it was an accident, sir. I didn’t see you. Sorry, sir.”

“I’ll be the judge of that. Handkerchief.”

“Sir?”

“Get your handkerchief out, man, and wipe that slop off my boots and mind you don’t scratch the leather.”

“Sir?”

“You heard, Private.”

Seeston pulled out his handkerchief and knelt down on the wet duckboard to wipe the splatters of grey chalky mud from the rich, tan, calf-length boots.

“Now why are you in such a hurry, hmm? Spit it out.”

“Runner from Battalion, sir. Message for Captain Grantham, C Company, sir.”

“Is that so? Short life, a runner. What’s your name?”

“Seeston, sir.”

“Well, Seeston, best be on your way.”

“Thank you sir. Sorry, sir.”

“Oh, and Seeston?”

“Sir?”

“I never forget a face.”

SECOND LIEUTENANT JAMES Charles Everson was making his way though the trenches towards Company HQ when, out of the corner of his eye, he thought he recognised the soldier skulking down a support trench.

“Evans?” he called in a hoarse whisper. The soldier stopped and turned sheepishly.

“Sir?”

Everson saw he was carrying a couple of hessian sandbags in his hands that, despite his care, clanked suspiciously. He shook his head in exasperation.

“Damn it, Evans. You’re my best scrounger. I can’t afford to lose you.”

“Sorry sir, couldn’t help myself. I got you a bottle of scotch though.” His hand slipped into a sand bag and produced a small bottle of amber fluid. He handed it to Everson, who glanced about cautiously before slipping it inside his jacket.

“Merci, Evans,” he said. “Just don’t do it again.”

“I won’t, sir.”

Everson arched an eyebrow. “Won’t what, Evans?”

“Get caught, sir?”

“Good man.”

Evans touched a finger to his temple in an informal salute and slipped away into the muddy shadows.

Everson, too, continued on his way. Heart pounding in his chest, his mouth dry and breath stale from too much coffee and fear, he took a moment to compose himself before pushing aside the heavy gas curtain. A warm fug of stale sweat, damp earth, the chatter of voices and soft oaths rose up the steps to meet him. Ducking his head, he started to descend into the Company HQ Dugout.