‘Try anything else and I’ll shoot you myself,’ Brandt said. ‘If it were up to me, I’d have put a hole in your head already. And that’s far better than you deserve, you and your whole criminal British Empire.’
‘That’s a bit rich coming from a country that sends its children to war, don’t you think?’
‘You’re a hypocrite. But anyway, none of that concerns you any more. Now you’re just another useless mouth to feed.’
The older guard emerged from around the corner now, still buttoning his flies. He saw at once what had happened and, horrified, stood to attention. Brandt looked at him with contempt, snatched back the rifle from the boy and shoved it angrily at the older man’s chest. Then he struck the side of the man’s head with a blow so hard it must have made his ears sing. The guard clutched his head in humiliation. Brandt swore at him and stalked off.
It was unthinkable that a British officer would strike one of his men, whatever the circumstances, and Robert was deeply shocked, even after everything that had happened to him. He’d always found headlines about ‘The Beastly Hun’ vaguely tasteless. Men at the front line had a sort of grudging semi-respect for Fritz. He was a soldier, like they were, and courageous as anything. But, Robert decided now, perhaps the Germans really were another species entirely.
A second guard came to keep watch over him. No chance of getting away now. He would have to wait until it was dark.
The boy returned with a tin mug of Ersatzkaffee, a lump of black bread and a piece of smoked herring which had started to turn. If Robert hadn’t been starving, he would have refused the lot of it as unfit even for a pig. The bread was made of what appeared to be equal portions of straw, sawdust and potato, while the coffee was bitter and practically undrinkable – most likely made from burnt acorns. Regardless, he made himself drink it and swallow the bread. He had to keep up his strength. But he baulked at the revolting herring and offered it to the youngster, who wolfed it down on the spot. The boy turned to go.
‘Hi!’ Robert called. The boy turned back, and Robert threw him the rest of the chocolate. The boy caught it and stared back, dumbfounded. He nodded his thanks, and Robert gave him a salute. The youngster grinned, his eyes lighting up like the child that he still was. Then he ran off, tearing open the chocolate and stuffing it into his mouth.
Soon it was time to move on again. In the growing light Robert could see, with mounting satisfaction, that the Germans were in a sorry state, thin and malnourished, their uniforms patched and frayed. Evidently, the Allied naval blockade was having the desired effect.
Ahead, the German transport trundled back towards the new line in a long, tired column. There were few motorised vehicles. Most of the equipment was being carried on wooden farm carts or was strapped to supply limbers pulled by exhausted horses and mules. Two injured men went by, lying on duckboards placed over the back seats of a British Daimler limousine – on which had been daubed in German Gothic script, rather optimistically, Day trip to Paris.
Behind this came a goat pulling a machine gun. There were a few pieces of artillery – Robert recognised an old type FK96 field gun with a broken breech – but most of what was being carried back appeared to be equipment salvaged from the abandoned battlefield: twisted light-gauge railway track, timber plundered from French buildings, barbed wire, pipes, pots and pans – even a kitchen range.
They went through the charred remains of French villages, then eventually came to a massive bank of barbed wire festoons, the coils thicker and more cruelly barbed than anything he’d seen before, held aloft in deathly thickets by countless thick iron crosspieces. There seemed to be wave after wave of dense banks, protecting every bridge and road.
With sinking spirits, Robert saw that the new German front was heavily fortified, and sited so that it made the absolute most of the terrain and the natural defence offered by the St Quentin Canal. A line of concrete pillboxes dotted at regular intervals, their sinister slitted eyes cleverly hidden, meant that the whole approach – over which the Jerries had excellent observation – could be swept with machine guns. British offensives would be suicide missions.
They came to the main front-line trench system, which was deep and solid. Robert saw that it all extended back for miles – a vast, impregnable buried fortress of trenches, gun emplacements, turrets and dugouts, both terrifying and awe-inspiring. Despite all the privations they were suffering, it was obvious the Germans weren’t going to give up and sue for peace any time soon.
He passed down a communication trench, where a party of German soldiers were laying cables. There were catcalls in his wake and whistles – someone ironically sang the first few lines of ‘It’s A Long Way To Tipperary’. But most said nothing, their respect for Robert’s rank outweighing their animosity towards him as an enemy combatant. Even so, he could sense their confidence, their expectation that the future belonged to them.
Then, as he went on, one of them called, in perfect English with a thick Liverpudlian accent: ‘What do you make of our new front line then, eh, Tommy? The British don’t have engineering like this, do they? Sir!’ He translated for his German compatriots, to general amusement, and Robert fought the urge to turn back and punch him square in the face. Brandt ordered them all back to work.
On and on they went. As they rounded a traverse, Robert saw a group of men hard at work building a gun emplacement. Something wasn’t quite right, and for a split second he struggled to comprehend what he was seeing. Then realisation dawned: though their clothes were barely more than rags, he could make out that they were British soldiers.
Robert stopped dead. ‘What the bloody hell is this?’
Brandt ignored him.
‘Lieutenant!’ Robert shouted at his retreating back. ‘I demand an explanation.’
Brandt turned. ‘What is it? Is something not to your satisfaction?’ His voice was thick with sarcasm.
‘These men are British prisoners of war,’ Robert said, his voice low with fury. ‘They are protected by the Hague Convention, to which your country is a signatory. What do you mean by forcing them to work on your guns? Work towards the war effort is prohibited. And they’re not supposed to be anywhere near the front line.’
‘Well, you must excuse us for not observing the niceties, Captain,’ Brandt said. ‘You’ll appreciate we are a little preoccupied with more pressing matters.’
The men were all thin and malnourished and several had large boils on their necks. ‘This is slave labour. You, Private, when did you last eat?’ Robert called to one of the men. But the man wouldn’t meet his eyes.
‘You see?’ said Brandt. ‘They have no complaints. They receive the same rations as German soldiers, as the convention stipulates. Which is more than German civilians receive. If you are unhappy with the quality of their diet, perhaps you ought to take it up with the British Navy.’