The Sons of Adam. Harry Bingham
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chatted briefly about trivia, but it wasn’t long before Guy began venting his frustrations with the assault at Loos and the conduct of the war more generally. ‘Sir John French was a bloody fool – a decent chap but totally useless. Haig’s not like that. On tactics, gunnery, supply lines, all that kind of muck, he’s absolutely first rate, the very pattern of a modern general. But – my God! – he’s obsessed with attack. He literally doesn’t care about casualties. I’ve seen him in the bloody map room, hearing about the losses at Loos, the slaughter of the 21st and 24th, and his only reaction was to make changes to the ammunition supply arrangements. Not a hint of anything else. Nothing.’
‘Poor bastards,’ said Alan. ‘It makes it worse somehow that they were all volunteers.’
Guy nodded. ‘And damn short of officers now. Men too, of course, but the officers did the decent thing and made sure they got even more thoroughly killed than the men. They’ll be scouring the other divisions now, looking for chaps. Either of you boys fancy a change?’
Alan and Tom glanced at each other, sharing the same thought, but it was Alan that spoke it.
‘Neither or both, Guy, neither or both.’
The conversation ended there that day. Guy was soon off – efficient, reliable, thorough. But the issue wasn’t over, not by any means.
A few weeks later, when Alan and Tom had returned to the front line and after enough rain to make everyone miserable, Major Fletcher came splashing down the trenches in search of Tom.
‘Ah, there you are, Creeley. Duckboards are a bloody mess, slipping and sliding like a bloody vaudeville act. Get ’em sorted out.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘On second thoughts, you may not need to bother. The company’s been asked to find an officer to make good the losses for the 21st and 24th divisions. The word from on high is that you’d be just the chap. MC and all that. The men’ll respect you from the off.’
‘You want to transfer me?’ Tom’s voice was shocked, but also belligerent.
‘Not want to, old boy. God knows who they’ll give me in your place. Some bloody milliner from Bristol, I expect. Thinks a bayonet is a bloody crochet hook. Not forward march, forward stitch, more like. But no use in arguing. We answer to the King, the King answers to God, and God answers to Sir Douglas Haig. Yes sir, no sir, at the double sir.’
‘I won’t go.’
Fletcher suddenly caught the tone of Tom’s voice, the glare in his eye. Fletcher’s tone changed as well. ‘If you’re told to go, you will go, Creeley. And when you speak to me, you will address me as “sir”.’
‘Yes, sir, but may I say that I won’t go anywhere without Montague. I don’t mind going anywhere, but I go with him or not at all.’
‘You do not tell me what I may and may not do, Creeley. I’m putting your name forward to Colonel McIntosh tomorrow morning and to hell with you. And sort out those bloody duckboards.’
Tom let Fletcher go, then burst from his dugout.
‘Watkins,’ he yelled, ‘Watkins.’
A corporal came running.
‘Sir?’
‘Get those bloody duckboards sorted out. They’re sliding around like a vaudeville act. And if anyone asks for me, tell them I’m seeing the medics.’
He began to climb over the parapet to the rear, preferring the relatively open country between the trench systems to the muddy darkness of the trenches themselves. It was an unnecessarily dangerous route, but Tom was in no mood for caution.
‘Yes, sir … Should I tell them what’s wrong with you?’
Tom was already mostly gone from view, but he turned round to yell his answer. ‘Certainly you should. You should tell them I’ve got a bloody arse for a cousin.’
He disappeared into the night.
And if there had been any doubt before, there was none left now. Fate had set her trap. The three men – Alan, Tom and Guy – had acted as they were bound to act. What followed, however disastrous, was certain to happen. Only a miracle could save them now.
At two in the morning, a motorcycle roared up outside a pleasant residential street in Arras. Late in October, the gardens were nothing more than a collection of black and dripping twigs, bounded on the street side by iron railings. Out in the street, a silvery motor-car stood in quiet splendour.
Tom stopped the motorbike, slammed the garden gate open, and struck the lion’s head knocker on the front door with three or four crashing blows. A few seconds passed without response, and Tom struck again, smashing the stillness of the night.
‘C’est qui, ça? Mon Dieu, je viens, je viens.’
From outside, Tom could hear the heavy door being unlocked, and as soon as the last lock was turned, he thrust the door open and entered. He strode past the housekeeper – sleepy, outraged, in dressing gown and curling papers – and stormed upstairs. He didn’t know which room he was looking for and flung open doors and slammed them shut again, until he came to the front room of the first floor. There was Guy, in pyjamas and his uniform tunic, standing at his dressing table, checking his revolver. As the door crashed against the wall, Guy turned with his hand just inches from his gun.
‘Stay right there,’ cried Guy. ‘Don’t advance another step.’ His hand was on the gun now, altering its position on the dressing table so he could snatch it up easily.
‘Leave the gun alone, you fool,’ said Tom.
‘Why have you come here? Who gave you permission to leave your post?’ Guy was backing away from Tom, towards his bedside, where a candle flickered smokily.
‘It was your idea to separate me from Alan, wasn’t it? You can’t bloody leave things alone, can you?’
‘It wasn’t my idea to slaughter the 21st and 24th. The poor bastards need officers. The idea at HQ is that we should give them chaps with a decent fighting record. Chaps like you.’
‘Alan’s every bit as good as me and you know it. Better. He looks after his men better than I do. He’ll keep his head better if it comes to an offensive. I personally don’t give a damn which division I serve in. I don’t care which pointless battle I’m sent to die in. But I will not be separated from Alan. Will not. Not by anyone and least of all by you.’
Guy had grown calmer now that his fear of an outright assault had passed. Something like his customary smirking crept back into his manner.
‘It wasn’t me that made the decision, was it? And though we need to bring in new officers, we don’t want to unsettle existing battalions, let alone take two officers from a single company. So it’s you or Alan, but not both. And that isn’t my decision, it’s Haig’s. You can go and argue it out with him, if you want. He’s just four streets away.’ He gave Tom the address.
Tom ignored the sneer. He paced around the room, which was of a pleasant size and pleasantly furnished – a far cry from the squalor of a front-line dugout. Tom fingered the silver-backed hairbrushes, which lay next to the revolver on the dressing table.
‘Alan thinks you don’t really hate me,’ he murmured. ‘He thinks it’s just an act you put on. But I know you better than that, Cousin Guy, and it’s because I know you that you hate me.’ Tom’s fingers had wandered from the hairbrushes to the gun. His thumb flicked the safety catch off, on, off, on, off, on.
‘Leave that,’ said Guy unsteadily.
‘I know who you are, Cousin Guy,’ said Tom again. He lifted the revolver,