“Is it that our needs grew smaller?” asked Hugh. “Or is it just that the fear and deprivation makes one appreciate simple things more?”
“I think our ability to be happy gets covered up by the years of petty rubbing along in the world, the getting ahead,” said Daniel. “But war burns away all the years of decay, like an old penny dropped into vinegar.” He paused and added more tobacco to his pipe, tamping it down slowly and relighting it with a stick poked into the fire. “Here there is nothing but doing our duty; and when duty cannot turn aside the stray sniper’s bullet, one gives up the hubris of thinking man can control his destiny.”
“War is truly humbling,” said Hugh. He thought of his early attempts to save those with the head injuries, and how his written notes became more hurried, and more bloody, and how he stopped taking notes at all because all the notes in the world could not change the truth that those with holes in their skulls mostly died and that he could save more people operating on almost anything but the brain.
“It’s a kind of freedom,” said Daniel. “I am free, not from fear of death, but from believing I can control death.”
“The warrior poet speaks,” said Hugh. “I foresee much rhyming of mud and blood.”
“You joke, but perhaps now I could really write about the David,” said Daniel, his face earnest. “Not as a beautiful shepherd boy, but as a frightened young soldier who knew his duty.”
“David thought God protected him,” said Hugh.
“Which makes him no different from any soldier who goes over the top,” said Daniel. “Pray to God and keep your knees bent!”
“I’ll drink to that,” said Hugh, taking another swig of standard-issue rum from Daniel’s flask. “Good God, you could run a lorry on this stuff.”
“Good old Hugh,” said Daniel, laughing. “You always keep me steady. No use talking poetry with you, although you might appreciate one or two limericks I’ve been collecting from the men.”
Despite being only a couple of miles from the German lines, Colonel Wheaton had insisted on a full brass band to accompany the drill and parade. The regiment was hosting Brigadier Lord North and high-ranking officers from several other regiments, and no German menace could be allowed to diminish the prestige of the occasion. The Brigadier came with a small army of aides and, shackled in a wagon, a group of prisoners who had been court-martialed for various capital crimes but not yet shot. The executions had been delayed by a bureaucratic issue, the absence of a chaplain to offer them the required pastoral offices. Unfortunately, the Colonel was discovered to be importing a chaplain to lead the dinner’s opening invocation, and so the festive occasion would be followed by firing squad at dawn. Neither the Colonel nor the chaplain, who had made the trip on the promise of a fine dinner and would now spend the night with the condemned, was happy.
A stage of wooden planks nailed over barrels had been erected from which the guests might enjoy a view of the parade. Horses had been groomed and beribboned, uniforms had been brushed, muddy boots scraped and polished, and every man had been harried and insulted by the sergeant majors until they and their equipment formed sufficiently presentable ranks. Those just down from the trenches were staged at the perimeter, where their dirtier uniforms might be less noticeable, along with the way they swayed on their feet with tiredness. Given past animosities, Harry Wheaton had made sure that Daniel’s unit was well to the rear, away from the Brigadier’s eye. In the front ranks, senior officers had unwrapped dress uniforms and swords, and the Colonel had imported, along with the regimental silver, the official regimental ram. The ram wore a scarlet coat trimmed with gold braid and gold tips to his curly horns. He maintained a grimace as disdainful as that of any general and tossed his head, pulling on his heavy brass chain whenever he spied a patch of grass.
As an unofficial visitor and lower-ranking officer, Hugh watched the stamping about and marching discreetly from a shady patch of ground to one side of the stage. It was surreal how similar the proceedings were to festive military parades at home, and Hugh almost expected to see ranks of ladies with sunshades and children waving flags as the units marched past the tiny stage. Only the occasional crump of unseen artillery reminded him that they were in an active theater of war.
After the marching, the Brigadier and his entourage were invited to inspect the troops and went slowly up and down the ranks with Colonel Wheaton leading them and Captain Wheaton bringing up the rear. The band took a break during inspections, and in the quiet, Hugh heard the flapping wing beat of a lone crow flying across the valley. He had not seen many birds recently, as they seemed to have an aversion for the blasted landscapes created by men, and so he was busy watching as a commotion broke out in the cookhouse by the barn.
A gray form came cantering from the tents, and Hugh could see it was a huge dog with an immense joint of roast beef dripping in its jaws. The appetizing smell of the hot beef caused many eyeballs to swivel in the heads of men frozen to attention. A piercing whistle from the ranks caused the dog to stop, turn, and trot obediently towards one of the rearmost ranks, where it dropped its prize at the feet of Private Dickie “Snout” Sidley.
“Bad Wolfie,” said a boy’s voice, carrying across the open space as Snout caught the dog by the collar. “Where have you been?”
“What is that scurvy animal doing on a British army parade ground?” growled the Brigadier, moving swiftly in Snout’s direction.
“Sorry, sir, begging your pardon, sir, I’ll take him away, sir,” said Snout, directing his plea towards Daniel as a child might turn to the adult he knew. He bent down and picked up the meat in his two hands.
“Do not speak unless spoken to, Private,” said Colonel Wheaton. “And for goodness’ sake, someone take away this beef.” One of the cooks, who had hurried from the kitchens, stepped forward with a dish and took the piece of meat.
“It’s ruined, sir,” he said. “Not fit for anything.”
“Can I have it for Wolfie, then?” asked Snout. “He likes a bit o’ beef.”
“Is the boy an idiot?” asked the Brigadier as the cook gave Snout a cuff around the ear and hurried away. “Do we recruit imbeciles?”
“Captain Wheaton?” asked Colonel Wheaton.
“Lieutenant Bookham?” asked Captain Wheaton.
“With permission, sir,” said Daniel. “The boy suffered in the shelling and the dog was thought lost. They are both recovering, sir.”
“Injured in the shelling, sir,” said Harry Wheaton.
“I am not deaf,” shouted the Brigadier. “I can hear what the Lieutenant said.”
“Sorry, sir,” said both Wheatons together.
“Lieutenant, is this animal an officially registered military animal?” the Brigadier asked.
Daniel raised an eyebrow at Harry, who replied, “No, sir, Brigadier.”
“Was that government supplies he was carrying in his mouth, Captain?” asked the Brigadier, turning to Harry.
“It did appear to be part of the regimental dinner, sir,” said Harry. “Though to be fair, the dog and his cart were instrumental in Private Snout’s duties concerning the procurement of many parts of the said dinner.”
“I want it destroyed,” said the Brigadier. “It’s a disgusting mongrel and a disgrace to the name of the regiment.”
“Yes, sir,” said Colonel Wheaton. Harry Wheaton looked upset but said nothing.
“Permission to speak, sir?” asked Daniel.
“Lieutenant Bookham—Daniel Bookham—I believe?” asked the Brigadier.
“The dog was sort of commandeered when Private Snout found him abandoned, sir,” said Daniel. “He pulls a heavy cart, sir, and he has been rather useful.”