Easterleigh Hall at War by Margaret Graham Page B

complained.
    Jack said, ‘He’ll be over the hills and far away if he’s any damned sense.’
    Auberon growled, ‘Nearly there, Sergeant. Captain Bridges is taking his company over the left, we’re to the right. Bring your section and follow me. You doing all right there, Donald? Feet not too much of a problem? Never fear, not much more marching.’ He wheeled away. ‘Follow me.’ A German retaliatory shell came over, close. No one ducked, not even Barry. Jack clapped him on the shoulder. Donald Barry muttered, ‘And what does he know about feet? Stirrups rub, do they?’
    Jack grinned. ‘Ah, he’s learning the way of the world already, Corporal Preston.’ Auberon called back, ‘I have ears, Lieutenant Barry.’ Barry coloured. Jack shook his shoulder. ‘He’s on your side.’
    They followed in the footsteps of their master, and stopped when Auberon flagged down a ration truck. Jack heard the private driving it yell over the noise, ‘Go on till you get to the three dead mules, turn right, right again. Keep going till you reach the two, or is it three dead ’uns, men that is. Bit puffy they are. Then turn left, sir.’
    Lieutenant Barry paled. Well, Jack thought, he’ll hear and see worse before the day is out, and God help him tomorrow, or would it be the next day? Poor bairn.
    That night Jack, Lieutenant Barry and Auberon sat in the dugout in one of the forward trenches. Auberon was puffing on his pipe, filthy thing, as though the air wasn’t bad enough with all the trench muck and blood and shit. It was the one he used before an action, so not long now, Jack thought. He eased himself on an old ammunition crate. Hard as bloody nails it was, and splintered. Auberon picked up his pencil, pointing it at Jack. ‘Told your men to get their letters written?’
    â€˜Aye, even the Lea End mob are at it, tongues between their teeth, though a couple asked me to write theirs for them. Let’s hope we don’t have to write too many of the other kind when we get back.’ They were writing by the light of a candle, which stood in a jam jar found by Roger, which was the first helpful thing he’d done on the march. The flame juddered with each salvo.
    Jack wrote to Evie, Mam and Da, Millie, saying much the same thing. He took more time over his letter to Grace, speaking of his love, of his contentment, his happiness now that he knew how she felt, telling her not to mourn but to make a life, telling her that he felt no fear. That last was a lie; the tremors in his hands and guts were a dead giveaway.
    Young Donald Barry was writing to his parents, and one other, perhaps a sweetheart? Jack wouldn’t ask. He hated to see a boy of that age writing a letter to be read in the event of his death.
    He watched as Auberon wrote one letter, to his sister, and then another. He did this every time. He watched as he reread it, and tore it into the smallest pieces. Jack never asked.
    Auberon caught him looking but said nothing. He merely nodded. ‘The barrage will stop just before dawn. The Indian Corps will go over, we will wait our orders. Now, young Donald, you stick like a limpet, do you hear me, a damned limpet to the sergeant’s side, and if not him, then Corporal Preston. You do what they say and that way we might just get you home, is that quite clear?’ Donald Barry nodded, jerking with every explosion, every shudder of the ground, every fall of debris from the roof, every judder of the flame. ‘Now lad, get some sleep. There’s the cot there. If you can’t sleep, rest at the very least. I’m off on rounds. Jack?’
    â€˜I’m with you, sir.’
    Every evening before an advance, or even a patrol, the two of them would visit their men. It helped to settle them and with the reinforcements yet to be blooded it was as well to remind them of what to expect, of what to do, of how to empty their minds