‘We’ll go on a bit further and have a look,’ he said.
Nesbitt got to his feet.
‘Stay low,’ Robert ordered, feeling for his gun.
They pushed through the corn, which had grown up higgledy-piggledy from the seeds that had fallen from the previous year’s unharvested crop. A kite hovered a little way ahead. It seemed unthinkable that something so pure and graceful could live this close to the corrupted breath of the war. Rabbits, unguarded after months without human contact, froze at their approach, then scurried off. A harvest mouse scuttled over his boot, its tiny eyes locking momentarily with his – two perfect, gleaming blackberry pips. A creature from another world; as was he.
He took them as far as he dared, almost to the edge of the cornfield, then motioned for Nesbitt to get down. Then he lowered himself onto his stomach, every part of him watchful and primed. His right hand quivered. He swore softly and swapped his field glasses to his other hand. It was steadier than the right, but not by much, and was getting worse. And it wasn’t just his hands and legs any more. The tremor was working its insidious way right up his body. Even his teeth had started to chatter. It was as if the war had begun to penetrate his very soul, trying to prise apart his integrity from the inside at the same time as it sought to smash his body to bits from without.
All the officers in the company were neurasthenic to some degree, with their stammers, shakes and tics, their rapid changes in mood – you would have to be a madman for it not to affect you. But increasingly Robert feared breaking down completely, going into an absolute funk, like some men he had heard of: the captain from the next company along who’d literally shit his trousers the morning they were due to go over the top and lain at the bottom of the trench, thrashing about in his own filth and screaming for his mother. Or the private from his own platoon who, on a quiet and otherwise unremarkable day, had without warning scrambled up the trench pegs and run, shouting obscenities, into no man’s land, to be felled a few seconds later by a rapid burst of German machine gun fire. Such madness was Robert’s deepest fear; it ran deeper even than his fear of death, of being left limbless or blind, or of drowning in mud. More and more, he felt as if he was only managing to hold himself together by a supreme effort of will. He felt that if he let his guard down for just a fraction of a second, he would crumble.
The sun emerged from behind the clouds once more, reminding him of a watercolour he’d once painted, when he was still a decent human being with an untarnished soul. He closed his eyes and let it warm his face. Then:
‘Send back a signal to HQ,’ he ordered. ‘Tell them High Wood is empty. We must go in without delay.’
The Old Man was in the dugout when they got back.
‘Well done, Lovett. The brass hats are going to have a look for themselves shortly,’ he said.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Robert was stupefied. ‘You mean orders haven’t been issued already? Sir! There isn’t a moment to lose! We must go in now!’
‘I know, I know,’ the major sighed. ‘But you know how things are.’
‘But this is madness! If the first of July achieved nothing else, surely it showed us we must act immediately when the opportunity presents itself – make our own decisions on the spot, as events dictate. Leaving everything up to HQ spells certain disaster, as we all saw!’
‘It isn’t that I disagree.’ The Old Man’s temple twitched, as it did almost constantly these days. He’d taken a hit to the thigh and been out of action for a fortnight. He looked haggard and had aged noticeably. Everyone knew it was bad to be away from the battlefield for any length of time – it made you windy. Robert had insisted on having his own thigh wound stitched up at a casualty clearing station as close to the front as possible and coming straight back. ‘But there’s nothing I can do. They’ve got it into their heads that they absolutely must see for themselves.’
‘More likely they fancy a pleasant little constitutional before dinner back at the chateau! How is it, sir, that I’m deemed qualified to lead a whole section of men to their inevitable deaths, but not to report back reliably that High Wood is deserted of the enemy and ripe for capture?’
The major swatted away a fly, swearing under his breath. ‘Go and get your head down for a bit. We’ll be on the move again soon enough.’
‘Sleep is the last thing on my mind, sir!’
‘I’ll make it an order if I have to.’ Major Shaw didn’t look up.
Furious, Robert saluted and stalked back to his dugout, where he aimed a vicious kick at the wall, then sprawled down heavily on the makeshift packing-crate bed. It was insanity. Did their lives mean nothing? Were they expendable, like dogs?
He heard a rat scratching about, then saw its head pop out from behind a copy of Punch magazine. It was disgustingly, obscenely fat. The rats knew no fear now; such an abundance of rotting flesh was theirs for the taking that they must think themselves celestial. At night they would come into the trenches and tear the hairs from the sleeping men’s heads for their nests. They made his skin crawl – a hundred times worse than the lice and fleas. The rat-catcher and his terrier needed to come again. That dog was a proper killing machine. It wasn’t like a cat, stopping to toy with its prey. It would kill the rat immediately, then move onto the next, and the next. It was like watching a master at work.
Silently, Robert unholstered his gun and waited. His hand was always completely still when he was aiming to shoot. The rat reappeared, and a fraction of a second later Robert squeezed the trigger and its brains spattered across the wall. Good shot. Fleming would have been impressed. He missed their rat-shooting competitions.
Second Lieutenant Bray, one of two new subalterns brought in to replace the dead officers, hurried down the steps, looking desperately young and pale, and all his nineteen years.
‘I say, sir, is… is everything all right?’ His guileless brown eyes were as wide as saucers and his skin as smooth as a schoolboy’s. He was the youngest son of a vicar, and keen to take up the cloth himself after doing his bit.
‘Just a rat. Nothing to worry about,’ Robert said. You weren’t supposed to waste ammunition on rats, but an officer could get away with it.
‘Yes, sir.’ Bray saluted.
Robert felt suddenly incredibly old and tired. ‘Bray, we don’t bother with all that saluting bullshit down here among us, all right? And second lieutenants don’t call first lieutenants “sir”.’
‘Sorry, sir. I mean… sorry, Lovett.’ Bray turned to go, then turned back. ‘I haven’t found time to inspect the men’s feet yet. Will it be all right if I do it later?’
‘Make sure to do rifle inspection. That’s the most important thing. Feet can wait until later.’
‘Thank you, sir. Oh Lord, sorry!’ He smiled shyly.