The Sons of Adam

So Serbia grovelled.

Serbia was little and Austria-Hungary was big, not to mention the fact that the Austrians and the Germans were best of friends and the Germans were well known to fancy a spot of military adventure. So Serbia grovelled. Profusely. Unreservedly. Embarrassingly.

But, unfortunately, if you fancy a spot of military adventure – if you’re all geared up for it, looking forward to it, been promising Auntie Helga a postcard from Belgrade – then a conciliatory reply isn’t necessarily enough to hold you back. So Austria declared war.

Now the trouble with starting wars is that your neighbours are apt to get a little nervous. Russia sat right next to strong Austria and mighty Germany, and it seemed that there was about to be a war on her doorstep. This made Russia a little twitchy, so she mobilised her troops, all six million of them.

Whoops! Here was Austria-Hungary hoping for a nice little war in its back garden, when all of a sudden the biggest country in Europe has mobilised its massive population and placed it on a war footing. Germany called on Russia to demobilise, but, as the Russians looked at it, that was a bit like the fox inviting the chicken to come out of the roost. Russia told the Germans to get lost, and Germany too got ready for war.

Now the trouble with Germany mobilising its army is that the French feel kind of twitchy. The French are a generous race with a well-deserved reputation for hospitality, but when you’ve had a few thousand uninvited guests marching through your capital city only a few decades before, you can be excused for getting nervous. What’s more, France had an alliance with Russia, and the Germans and Russians weren’t looking too friendly these days. Germany asked France to abandon her alliance with Russia, but France said no.

The way Germany saw things, if war was coming then it made a whole lot of sense to stay one step ahead of the game. And, say what you like about the Germans, when they set out to do a thing, by golly they do it thoroughly.

Looking back on it, neither Tom nor Alan nor anybody else could have explained why one more assassination in the assassination capital of the world should have triggered the largest armed conflict in world history. But, explicable or not, that’s precisely what happened.

Needing a quick victory in the west to ensure decisive gains in the east, Germany sent its troops into Belgium, destination Paris. The British – deeply reluctant to go to war, but equally reluctant to hand Europe over to the Germans – asked Germany kindly to leave Belgium alone. The Germans said no, and Britain too was at war.

13

May 1915.

The night sky rumbled with a general low thunder and the horizon sparkled with the flashes of shells bursting miles away to the north. The largest French farmhouse seemed to have given up the notion of farming anything and had turned itself into a kind of hotel instead. In the spacious kitchen, three or four wooden trestle tables were crowded with soldiers, each paying half a franc for a vast plateful of fried potatoes together with a scrap of bacon and a glass of watery beer.

Alan and Tom, only just arrived in France, blinked at the light and the noise, and stretched their legs, cramped after a two-day journey by boat, train and cart. They weren’t left alone for long. A pale-faced man – a corporal, from his uniform – came running up to them.

‘Mr Creeley, sir? Mr Montague?’

The twins nodded. They had signed up shortly after the outbreak of war. After months of training in England, and still longer months of sitting around in a gloomy transit camp outside Manchester, they had finally arrived in France. They were second lieutenants and would each command a platoon of soldiers as new to the game as they were. The two men were uncertain of their soldiering skills, sobered by the strangeness of the fiery horizon.

‘Company Commander wants to see you, sirs,’ said the NCO. ‘Wants to know why you didn’t arrive yesterday. We move up to the line tomorrow morning.’

The NCO ushered the two men into what had obviously once been the farmhouse’s creamery – idle now that there were no cows to make the milk. An oil lamp hung from a hook in the beamed ceiling and a uniformed major was bent over some papers, booted feet across a map-covered chest, drinking coffee. He looked up.

‘Filthy stuff, French coffee. D’you have any? English, I mean?’

The newcomers shook their heads. ‘Bacon, sir,’ said Alan. ‘And marmalade.’

‘Uh.’ The major grunted. ‘Coffee. Best thing to bring.’ He put down his paperwork with relief and stood up. He was surprisingly tall, and had muscular in-swinging arms that made him look a little monkey-like: strong and potentially dangerous. He stretched out a hand. ‘Wallace Fletcher.’ They shook hands. ‘Take a pew.’ The pew in question was a couple of planks over a collection of milk churns. ‘Why the hell weren’t you here yesterday?’

Alan began to explain, but Fletcher shut him up. ‘Military organisation. Contradiction in terms. Wonder is you’re here at all. We go up into the line tomorrow, relieve C Company.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Mr Creeley?’

Tom nodded. ‘Sir.’

Fletcher screwed up his face, appeared to assess his new subordinate, and made a grunt of reluctant approval. Then he looked at Alan.

‘Then you must be Montague, eh?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘You don’t have a brother do you? A major? One of our dear friends and brothers on the General Staff?’

Alan said he did.

‘Hmm!’ This time Fletcher’s grunt was disapproving. He picked up one of the sheets of paper from the stack in front of him and read out loud. ‘“It has come to our notice that in a number of companies the daily practice of rifle cleaning is not being correctly attended to … All company commanders … blah blah … regulation procedure … blah blah … inspections … blah blah. Please submit a report detailing … blah blah blah blah blah.”’ Fletcher dropped the paper with disgust. ‘Signed Major Guy Montague.’

There was a long moment’s silence. Alan was plainly uncomfortable. Tom, on the other hand, enjoyed the moment – or at least he did until it dawned on him that Guy was in France. He wasn’t precisely in command of Tom, but he was out here, in a position of authority, obliged to interfere. Once again, Guy’s shadow had come to fall over his life. Tom felt a surge of anger at the thought.

‘Want to know what the bloody trouble is?’ said Fletcher, at last.

‘Sir?’ said Alan.

‘My men keep firing their bloody rifles.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Makes ’em dirty. The rifles obviously, not the men. Men couldn’t get much dirtier.’

‘No.’

There was a pause. Then Alan began to defend his brother. ‘I believe my brother has no desire to –’

He would have continued, but Fletcher interrupted. ‘Oh, doesn’t matter. It’s all balls. I just tell ’em what they want to hear. Shiniest rifles in France. Cleaning drills five times daily. That sort of thing.’ He sat down, put his feet back on the chest, and started his second cup of the coffee that he so detested. ‘You’re new boys, I take it?’

‘That’s right, sir,’ said Alan.

‘You’re not going to be too bloody useless, I hope?’

Alan’s eyes jerked in surprise at the question and the tone, but before he could find an answer, Fletcher interrupted again.

‘Don’t worry. Training’s a waste of time. The only soldiers in the battalion are me, the CO, the adjutant, two youngsters from Sandhurst, and a sergeant-major who thinks the whole New Army idea’s a bloody joke. Here’s all the training you need. If you see Fritz, kill him. Keep your own bloody head from being shot off. Keep your men out of trouble. And let the CO go on thinking he’s Lord God Almighty. Got it?’

There was a silence.

‘And the coffee,’ said Tom.

‘Damn right. And mind the bloody coffee.’

14

Their introduction to the front line came all too soon.

‘Chalk. Lucky sods. Cushy first posting.’ Major Fletcher jabbed the bank at shoulder height and released a shower of white soil into the trench floor. ‘Dry as a stallion’s tit, even when it rains. You should see the bloody clay pits we lived in over winter. Two feet above the water line, three feet below. And Fritz taking a pop at you every time you tried to build the parapet an inch or two higher. Only buggers who enjoyed it were the rats.’

Alan kept silent. He and Tom were both shocked. They were shocked at the mud, the vermin, the maze of trenches, the danger that lurked in every gun slit, every weakness in the fortifications, every whistle of passing shells.

A little way beyond the dugout, lodged in the wire eighteen inches off the ground, there was a severed head. According to the British Tommies who had taken over this stretch of line, the head had once belonged to a French soldier killed by a shell blast. It would have been easy to release the object one night and dispose of it, but it had come to take on a kind of superstitious importance amongst the troops. The skull was known as Private Headley, and was treated as a regular member of the battalion. Food was tossed out to it, drinks thrown at it, even lighted cigarettes hurled as a kind of good luck offering.

‘And here’s your digs,’ said Fletcher, introducing Alan and Tom to their dugout. ‘You’ll want to get some more earth on that bloody roof of yours. It’s not going to stop a direct ’un, not built like it is at the moment. Any food, hang it up. If it’s on the floor, Brother Rat will have it and that’s against regulations. Corpses for them, food for us. Got that? Good men.’

Fletcher went, leaving the two young men alone in their new home. Tom looked at Alan. Alan looked at Tom.

Tom cracked a smile. ‘Well, brother, here we are.’

Alan nodded. ‘Yes. Here we are.’

They sat down on their beds, running their hands over the rough wooden walls, feeling the weight of earth above their heads. They remembered Fletcher’s comment that a direct hit would kill them both. They thought about the summer before and how impossible it seemed that that life would ever return.

But there was something else in the atmosphere as well. Something positive. The shocking reality of their new home made them feel more strongly than ever the bond between them. They had arrived on the front line, only a few dozen yards distant from an enemy that wanted to kill them. Their task was to do the same to the enemy. But they were brothers. More than brothers, they were twins. It seemed like no power on earth could break them apart.

The two men sat on their beds, stared at each other, and began, for no reason at all, to laugh and laugh and laugh.

15

It was nine weeks later.

Tom and Alan were novices no longer. They knew how to protect their men, how to harass the enemy, how to lead a patrol out in the dangerous silence of no man’s land. They had experienced rats, discomfort, shelling, gunfire, and the loss of men they knew. But one thing was still unknown to them. They hadn’t faced serious action and all that does to a man. Not yet.

But that was about to change.

Tom drew back the sacking that curtained the men’s dugout. The smell of unwashed bodies and burnt cork raced out, followed by the quieter odours of kerosene and tobacco smoke. Half the men already had their faces blackened, the other half were fighting over a single shaving mirror or letting their mates do it for them. One man had his face marked with love-hearts and messages to his girlfriend. Another had his face covered with obscenities.

‘Widdecombe,’ snapped Tom, ‘get this man’s face properly blacked. And you, Tinsey, get away from that chalk unless you want to make Fritz think you’re a blasted ghost.’

The men fell quickly into order, under Tom’s eye. He counted them. There were eight.

‘Corporal, how many men d’you make it?’

‘Eight, sir.’

‘Where the hell is the last man?’

‘Last man, sir? Eight’s what Major Fletcher –’

‘Private Headley? Where is he?’

The dugout filled with laughter at Tom’s joke, but he wasn’t done yet.

‘Oh, don’t worry,’ he added. ‘As a matter of fact, I believe I told him to go on a-head.’

Shrieks and howls of laughter followed this witticism, which was already being repeated to the dullards of the platoon. Tom’s rapport with his men had been more or less instant from the start, and though they were thoroughly nervous now, they were high-spirited as well.

And yet, for all his joking, Tom was acutely worried, not for himself but for Alan. Earlier that day, at company mess, Fletcher had asked for volunteers.

‘We need a chap to lead a recce party. Purpose of the recce is to find the gaps in the bloody wire – assuming there are any bloody gaps, that is – then come home. On the way back you’ll drop a trail of lime for the other lads to follow later on. If you can avoid making a bloody hullabaloo while you’re at it, we would appreciate it. The raiders will follow the trail, skip lightly through the holes in the wire, and give Fritz a faceful of bayonet before he’s woken up. Got it? Who’s game?’

Alan and Tom were, of course, both game.

‘New boys, can’t wait to get at it, eh?’

Neither man answered.

‘Anything to get Colonel Jimmy his DSO, what? Jolly good. That’s what we all want.’ Colonel James ‘Jimmy’ McIntosh was the battalion commander – and a man who, according to rumour, was desperate for a medal. There were faint smiles around the table as Fletcher continued. ‘Montague, you take charge of the recce. I’m in command of the raid. Creeley, you’ll be my second. Any problems, you take over. All clear?’

It had been perfectly clear. Both men nodded, grave and subdued at the thought of what was coming.

Then Fletcher had paused, his expression torn between the desire to say something and the feeling that he shouldn’t. The mess waited breathlessly for the outcome.

‘Hmm – Montague – I don’t suppose your brother Guy will be out hunting Fritz tonight – might find the shock was too much for him, eh? Face some bullets, for a change – any case, better things to do, I expect – the King’s rifles to keep clean – don’t mean that – does a good job, I’m sure – anyway, that’s what I mean, he’ll be proud of you, what? First mission and all that.’

Fletcher stumbled to a close. Everyone listened in astonishment. Fletcher had come very close to insulting Guy, almost accusing him of shirking danger. Of course, it was common enough for soldiers in the field to complain about those stuck away behind the lines, but Guy was Alan’s brother and Fletcher’s comments had gone beyond acceptable barrack-room humour.

Alan could see Tom’s smile grow wider and wider, and it was with a frosty voice that he said, ‘Thank you, sir. Yes, I hope he will be proud.’

‘Yes, yes, quite, quite,’ said Fletcher, quickly moving away from dangerous territory. His attention fastened with relief on a pair of rats copulating on his own private store of marmalade. ‘Rat ahoy!’ he cried, drawing his revolver. ‘On three, please, gentlemen. One … two … three.’ He led the others in a volley of gunfire, which left both rats dead in a glue of marmalade. ‘No lovemaking in company mess. Leave that sort of thing to the Frenchies.’

That had been eight hours ago.

Alan, having been chosen to go out first, would be the first to know real mortal danger. Tom would follow only after Alan was home.

Tom’s body hummed with a double nervousness. Once for himself and the danger he was about to face. A second time for Alan and the danger he was in right now.

Alan’s job was find gaps in the wire. Would there be any? Tom doubted it. Alan had strict instructions not to spend time cutting the wire, but Tom knew Alan. His twin would never let a troop of soldiers march up to an obstacle they couldn’t cross. Tom guessed that, even now, Alan would be on his belly, wirecutters raised, snip-snip-snipping at the deadly coils. A single noise or glimmer of moonlight could give away his position and his life.

Tom smoked cigarette after cigarette, extinguishing each one against the silvery sandbags in the parapet. The glowing tobacco charred its way through the sackcloth and released a tiny hiss of falling soil. ‘For God’s sake, look after yourself, brother. For God’s sake.’

A voice behind him made him jump.

‘What’s that? Eh?’ It was Fletcher.

‘Nothing, sir. Wondering where Montague is.’

Fletcher harrumphed. ‘Your men are ready?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then we leave in fifteen minutes. Tell your men.’

‘And Montague, sir?’

Fletcher shrugged, sinister in the moonlight. ‘Montague, Mr Creeley, will have to take his chances.’

16

The minutes passed.

Still no sign of Alan.

The fifteen minutes were up. Fletcher signalled that it was time to go.

One by one, they ascended the stumpy little ladder into no man’s land. Away from the claustrophobic tunnels and parapets of the trenches, the world seemed suddenly vast and shelterless. Ahead of him, Tom could see Fletcher’s ape-like figure and the dark shapes of his men. Tom, in charge of the second detachment, counted off thirty seconds then headed off in slow pursuit. Nowhere was there any sound louder than the muffled impact of boots on earth, the scrape of rifle butts along the ground. A couple of minutes went by, each one as long as a century.

Then something peculiar.

The soil under Tom’s hands began suddenly to glow white. He stopped for a second in astonishment. It was lime, shining in the moonlight. But if it was lime, then …

Alan bounded forwards out of the darkness, grinning. Tom suddenly realised how desperately worried he had been. It was all very well being twins – it was a friendship other people could never hope to match – but there was a downside too, which was simply this: Tom had more to lose.

He embraced Alan. ‘Look after yourself, brother. Whatever happens, look after yourself.’

Alan returned the embrace then pulled away. ‘I did. Now it’s your turn.’

Tom looked up. He had already delayed longer than he should. He crept off again along the trail of lime with his men, while Alan returned to British lines and safety.

The raiding party moved slowly onward. For a minute or two things continued to go well. The raiders were silent, invisible, undetected.

Then it happened.

Somewhere ahead of Tom, in Fletcher’s party, one of the Tommies slipped on the side of a shell crater and went slithering down to its muddy bottom. Though he swore, he swore quietly, but his equipment broke from his pack and rolled clanking down the short slope.

The noise rang out like a siren.

For a moment, Tom held his breath. He could feel everyone behind and ahead of him doing the same. The night air remained quiet.

Then a gun opened fire, a rifle, sounding repeatedly. Whether the rifleman was German or British was never quite clear, but it took just seconds for the German lines to light up with fire. Tom felt the sudden, shocking horror of finding himself under attack. For an instant, he felt dull, stupid, incapable of action.

He looked around. Over to his right, he saw a shellhole, deep and – for the moment – safe.

‘Get into the shellhole now,’ he screamed, using all his lung power to bend his soldiers to his will. The force of his voice shocked them into compliance.

The men piled into safety. Tom counted them in, then followed.

The German fire intensified. A rising flare lit up the night sky. With the utmost caution, Tom raised his head to look out. First he saw nothing. Then, lifting himself still further, he caught a glimpse of Fletcher’s crowd, shockingly far off, in a crater much closer to German lines, and witheringly exposed. The light of the flare faltered and died. Tom lowered his head, just as bullets began to spatter into the earth above and around him.

He looked at his men, who were sitting safe but terrified in the bottom of their crater. He began to speak, but the men were still distracted and shocked. One of them – Tinsey – was nodding his head and rhythmically chanting: ‘Stupid, fucking, German, bloody –’

Tom struck Tinsey hard on the arm. Tinsey stopped. The other men looked wildly at Tom.

‘Now listen, all of you. You men are to get back to shelter, as quickly and safely as you can.’ Another burst of fire interrupted his words. Tom was sprayed with earth and he assumed everyone else was too. ‘You will leave in pairs and move when I say the word, not before. You will run like hell. If you find any man wounded or hurt, you will not stop. You will just run.’ One of the men was struggling with a big clumsy satchel of hand-hurled Mills bombs. ‘Denning, leave that. Leave it! Just put it down, man. All you others, are you completely clear about what to do?’

They were clear. Detaching the men in pairs, Tom sent them running for safety. The shellhole emptied. Tom was alone.

Particles of chalk moved grittily beneath his tongue: soil put there by a German bullet. Anger lit a fuse in him.

‘You stupid bastards,’ he screamed. He screamed it at everyone. The Germans, Wallace Fletcher, Colonel Jimmy, the good-natured riflemen of his battalion. He was screaming at High Command, whose war this was. He was screaming at Guy, who’d never been under fire and probably never would be.

The shooting was still intense, but it was concentrated on the party further ahead, pinning them down, leaving them unable to move. They’d be finished off by mortar fire, come the morning. Shifting position, Tom noticed his foot knocking against young Denning’s bag of Mills bombs.

His tide of anger rose higher.

He picked up the satchel and began to run.

17

It was three weeks later. Midday. The battalion had dropped back out of the front line, for two weeks of rest in the pretty village of Le Hamel, just six miles from the front.

Alan jogged along a narrow lane that wound down to a tiny stone-built cottage. His boots scuffed up the white dust that settled gently on the roadside flowers, poppies and saffron weed. As he reached a bend in the lane, Alan’s jog turned into a run. He ran up to the cottage and thumped on its crude wooden front door. From a window upstairs, he heard a voice.

‘Up here, old man.’

Tom had lived, but only just.

His anger had carried him all the way to within spitting distance of German lines. Once there, he’d thrown himself flat and begun hurling Mills bombs like a bowler at some demented cricket match. His fury kept him at it, aiming and throwing with an extraordinary intensity. What he managed to hit, nobody knew, but this much was certain: the fire that had swept over Fletcher’s men became scattered and confused. Fletcher seized his opportunity and raced home with his men: their lives saved.

Once Tom had finished his satchel of bombs, he’d done everything he could. His anger left him. Clarity returned.

Somewhere to the east, dawn was getting ready to light its lamps. Tom was so close to the German lines, he could hear their sentries break wind. Slowly and with infinite care, he’d backed away. As he’d crawled, he must have been hit, because he felt a sudden impact in his left arm, followed a few seconds later by the slip and slither of blood. He’d found a shellhole and tumbled into it. He’d put a dressing on the wound, closed his eyes a moment – then woke at noon with the sun high in a perfect sky and larks singing crystal in the echoing air.