Pat Kelleher: Black Hand Gang

His mother hadn’t half torn a strip off William later that day when she found out he signed up. He’d never seen her so furious until ten minutes later when Thomas had told her he’d joined up, too. She was all for marching him down to the recruiting office and telling that sergeant there and then that her son was too young and what did he mean by signing up helpless little kiddies? Thomas had been mortified and begged and pleaded before appealing to his dad. Half an hour later, when she found out they weren’t even in the same battalion and wouldn’t be serving together so William couldn’t keep an eye on him, it all blew up again.

And now William was missing. He’d been missing since the Big Push. Atkins had traipsed round all the field hospitals and questioned old mates, but there was no news and it was tearing him apart.

He watched ‘Mercy’ Evans stowing the contents of his latest ‘trip to the canteen’ into a haversack hanging from the ceiling, out of reach of the ever-present rats. Scrounging he called it, although looting would be the official charge. However, in a war where supplies were short, the Platoon Commander turned a blind eye, so long as he occasionally plied his skills on behalf of his comrades.

’Porgy’ Hopkiss was shuffling though his pack of photographs, each a portrait. He had twenty-seven of them so far, every one presented by a sweetheart he’d met or so he claimed, although at least one was of Mary Pickford and several were of dubious taste and also in the possession of more than one man in the battalion. It was his avowed intent to collect enough to turn them into a deck of cards after the war.

’Gutsy’ Blood, a butcher by trade before he took the shilling, was sharpening and polishing his best meat cleaver, because, quite frankly, it was his pride and joy and he didn’t trust his wife or brother-in-law to look after it proper back home, so he’d brought it to France with him, When he charged towards the German lines brandishing it, it scared the crap out of Jerry, not to mention half of his own platoon.

’Lucky’ Livesey had his trousers off and turned inside out across his bony white knees as he ran a lighted candle stub along the seams. “Nothing more satisfying than Chatting,” he said, grinning gleefully at the small cracks as the ubiquitous lice popped under the heat.

“Maybe, but you’ll still be hitchy-coo tomorrow, Lucky. Can’t never get rid of the bloody things,” said ‘Half Pint’ Nicholls, scratching his ribs fiercely. Half Pint was the greatest grouser in the regiment. You want to hear it true and unvarnished, then he was willing to give his opinion forth to all and sundry and, among a certain kind of man, he found a willing audience.

Lance Corporal Ketch, 1 Section’s second in charge, entered, bringing in the post. He was a small man with a pock-marked face; just a shade too tall for the Bantams, worse luck, so they were stuck with him. His gimlet eyes glowered with resentment as he began handing out the brown paper and string packages and ivory envelopes. It seemed to be against his nature for anyone to have any measure of happiness.

Atkins leaned forwards eagerly, poised for his name. His heart began to pound in his chest, waiting for news, but dreading it at the same time.

“Porgy one for you, Package for Mercy. Half Pint. Gazette, two ! Pot Shot, Lucky…”

The men snatched them up eagerly and were momentarily lost in their own private worlds as they proceeded to open them.

“Gazette and Pot Shot are on sentry duty, ” said Gutsy, taking theirs.

“And lastly Juh Juh-Ginger,” sneered Ketch, holding out a package towards a nervy, curly-haired blonde lad who was feeding a rat he’d tamed, taken for a pet and named Haig.

’Ginger’ Mottram had made it through the entire summer without a scratch, but he was a wreck. Shell-shock, they called it. Malingering, Ketch said, but then he would. Ketch deliberately waved the package just out of his reach, taunting him. Ginger went bright red. The lad blushed so often they joked that one day his hair would turn red, hence his nickname.

“Guh-guh-give it here!” stammered Ginger.

“Leave it out, Ketch,” warned Mercy. Ketch thrust the package into the lad’s hand, his fun spoiled.

“Corp?” said Atkins leaning forward hopefully.

“Atkins,” said Ketch gleefully. “Expecting something were you?”

“Yes.”

Ketch made a show of patting himself down. “No, Sorry. Nothing.”

“Ketch!” snapped Mercy, looking up from his own letter. “Only’s brother is missing f’fuck’s sake. He was hoping for news.”

“Fuck you, Evans,” muttered Ketch as he retired to his bunk.

Sergeant Hobson’s ample frame filled the dugout door. “It’s getting late, ladies. Time to get your beauty sleep. Waiting’s over. Word has come down. We’ll be up early and going over the top first wave tomorrow. Check your weapons. Where’s Lance Sergeant Jessop?”

“NCO of the watch, Sarn’t,” said Mercy.

“Sarn’t?”

“Yes, Hopkiss?”

“It’s just that there’s not much of a bombardment from our lot,” he said jerking his chin in the direction of the Front. It was true. The night’s artillery fire was sporadic at best.

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it, Hopkiss. You just turn up in your Sunday Best for tomorrow’s little promenade and we’ll go for a nice stroll in No Man’s Land. I’m sure wiser heads than yours have got it sorted,” he said, turning to go.

“That’s what we’re worried about, Sarn’t,” said Mercy.

Hobson’s eyes narrowed as he strode across the dugout.

“You think too much, Evans, do you hear me?” he said sternly, rapping Mercy sharply on the head. “And you do it out loud. If that ain’t a bad habit I don’t know what is. Don’t let me hear you do it again!”

Evans winced and rubbed his scalp.

“Yes, Sarn’t. Sorry, Sarn’t.”

“I’m watching you laddie,” said Hobson as he left. “Ketch, I need a Black Hand Gang for a bit of business tonight. I want three volunteers to meet me in F8 at two Ack Emma. See to it.”

“Right,” said Ketch, gleefully. Hopkiss and Blood? You’ve just volunteered.”

Ketch took his time, letting his eyes roam over the rest of the men, making sure to meet each of their eyes as if daring them to challenge him. His gaze settled on Atkins. Atkins, suddenly aware of the silence, glanced up. “Something better to do Atkins? Not now you haven’t.”

ATKINS WAS WOKEN by Gutsy shaking him. The last vestiges of warmth and wellbeing slipped away as realisation of where he was rushed in.

“Only? Come on lad, it’s time. Let’s get this over and done with.”

Wearing leather jerkins, carrying their bayonets in sheaths, their faces blackened with burnt cork, the Black Hand Gang, Atkins, Gutsy and Porgy, made their way past scurrying rats up to the fire bay, where Hobson and Ketch were waiting for them.

There was a faint fwoosh as an enemy flare went up. It burnt a stark white, casting deep shadows on the wall of the trench that wobbled and tilted as the flare drifted down, until at last they ate up the last of the light and filled the trench again.

’Gazette’ Otterthwaite and ‘Pot Shot’ Jellicoe were on sentry duty. Even in the dim light it was hard to miss Pot Shot. He was a large man, a shade over six foot, tallest man in the Battalion; the only man who had to crouch when stood on the firestep lest his head present a tempting target for German snipers.

Gazette was up on the firestep on sentry duty, Pot Shot sat on the step beside him, slumped against the side of the bay and snoring gently, his rifle clasped to his chest like a loved one. Gazette glanced down at them and kicked Pot Shot awake.