1915: The War Years, #2

Prologue

They let him go home? Charlie Keeton kicked the wooden wall of his dugout.

Calm down. It wasn’t as if I recommended it. I’m only a corporal. They don’t listen to people of my rank, said Corporal Nathan Dettmer.

Jack’s still there, isn’t he?

He is.

Dettmer had been trying to tell Charlie what had happened to his twin brother Danny Keeton for hours, but he could never think of the right way to do it. Besides, it seemed wrong to ruin the Christmas season like this.

He watched as Charlie took off the thin leather helmet and tossed it on the table. Bits of dried mud encrusted onto the tips of his hair. He shook some of them off and scratched his scalp. It was a common sight in the trenches. Lice were rife. The only good thing about the cold was that it kept them away, although it didn’t stop the rats from taking a bite out of the men in the middle of the night.

When’s he coming back?

I don’t know, said Dettmer. His injuries weren’t something that could keep him out of the war for more than a month or so. A bullet in the foot shouldn’t take long to heal, especially for a young person. Just as long as there’s no infection.

What happens if there’s an infection?

Dettmer shrugged. It depends on the sort of infection. Sometimes it causes the wound to take longer to heal. And then there are the wounds that can kill you because all the bad gets inside your bloodstream.

Charlie shot a look of anxiety at him.

"Oh Danny hasn’t got anything like that. They would have known by now if he had gangrene or anything like that. Besides, even if he did have something as bad as that they would have only taken his foot off. Medicine these days is far better than it was a few years ago.

Dettmer wasn’t sure he’d put enough conviction in his voice as he watched Charlie cradle his chin under his elbows. He’d seen men who had contracted gangrene before. The skin looked like it was rotting in front of him. They would go away for an amputation, but even that couldn’t stop the spread sometimes. The skin would turn black and the flesh would dissolve in front of their eyes. He’d almost thrown up when he’d caught a glimpse of someone with gangrene at the field hospital near Poperinge, a few miles behind the Belgian front.

How did he get shot? He was supposed to be right behind me.

I don’t know, said Dettmer with as much conviction as he could.

He knew full well how Danny ended up in the British trench with a German bullet lodged in his foot. Danny wanted to return home to find out if his brother Jacob Keeton had gone home injured or not. Dettmer had brought in the son of a doctor, named Stephen Loades, to help him with it.

Dettmer hadn’t seen Danny shoot himself, but he knew exactly how it went. Danny would have waited until everyone had gone over the top into no man’s land. Alone in the trench, he would have spent a few seconds waiting, wondering. When time started to run out, he would think about shooting himself. Then he would have second thoughts. Everyone he ever knew who did that would go through the same ritual. Finally, Danny would have switched off his mind and pulled the trigger.

His thoughts about Danny were broken when Charlie punched the wood again. His knuckles came back grazed and bloody.

Will you stop that? said Dettmer. You’ll have Braddock in here finding out what we’re up to.

Can’t help it. Charlie massaged his knuckles and tried to stroke the flap of torn skin back over the cut. I’m the only one left from my area now. Jack’s in hospital. Danny’s gone home. And Jake. God knows what happened to him.

Dettmer lowered his eyes. He felt sorry for him. He knew how difficult it was to lose a family member and have no idea as to their fate. But he couldn’t tell Charlie about Jacob’s final end. The information he managed to find was clear. Jacob Keeton had gone on a mission to no man’s land in the middle of the night and hadn’t come back. Nobody found any trace of him or the group he went out with. That could only mean one thing. They’d either being captured or buried alive.

Charlie was walking around the dugout again, fingering the mud walls found in the gaps between the wood. He’d done that for days. That childish way of his had gone. Despite being only fifteen-years-old and much too young for war, he’d matured for the worst. His forehead was always creased and he would rarely share anything more than a courtesy grin whenever someone told a joke. Dettmer wanted to put him out of his misery, but he couldn’t. How could he know whether news of Jacob’s death would send him over the edge or not?

Who sent him out? That’s what I want to know. So I can hang the bleeder. I’ll have him.

Nobody would have forced Jake into something like this. Each man takes his own path in life. Dettmer inwardly cringed as soon as that philosophical line came out of his mouth. It was always a risk.

I know. You think I’m thick or something? Charlie shook his head. I don’t think so. Someone would have put him up to this.

Charlie, no, don’t get yourself involved in a witch-hunt. Every person –

I know how it works. Charlie’s voice rose. But not Jake. You’ve only known him a few months. He’s a coward. Doesn’t have anything about him that would make him volunteer for something like that.

War makes –

Don’t start with any of that crap again. I know someone made him do it, and nothing you say can tell me otherwise.

Dettmer could only look at the finger being jabbed in his face. It didn’t matter what Charlie wanted to believe because he was dead wrong. He’d been there on the night where Sergeant Braddock had convinced Jacob he could go on the mission if he wanted. It was a suicide mission being asked to go all the way up to the German trenches and bring back a prisoner. Jacob was so desperate to go that there was nothing anyone could say to make him change his mind. And it had bothered him every night since it had happened.

Then be careful, said Dettmer at last.

Be careful of what?

You could be making a mistake if you pick out the wrong person. Most of these missions come down from the generals fifty miles behind the front lines. You won’t find anyone who planned the mission in the trenches with us. And what would you do if you did find them?

Kill them.

Dettmer got to his feet. Charlie, I know you’re angry. But every time someone dies here we can’t always blame the person who planned the mission. This is a war. If it wasn’t Jake who went, it would be someone else. Jake wouldn’t want you to go and take revenge for him. You know what would happen, don’t you?

Charlie’s frown didn’t drop, but he paused. He’d done it. Making him think about his actions was what he wanted to do. Men like this who lost siblings in the war always reacted in the same way. They would want to find the commanding officer and blow their brains out.

Don’t you? said Dettmer with a gentle firmness.

Court martial.

Straightaway. I don’t know if you believe in God or heaven, but I doubt Jake would want you to do something that would take you before your time. You have your whole life ahead of you.

It’s not fair, though. Charlie stamped his foot like the fifteen-year-old he was.

It isn’t. If you must do something, wait for your brother to come back. Decide on this together. And, remember, they only have him registered as missing in action. He may well be still alive in hospital somewhere, or even on another part of the line. Until you know damn well that Jake’s gone, he’s still alive, and that’s how I see him.

Charlie could only nod sadly.

Dettmer waited behind for him to calm down. After giving him a slab of chocolate he’d picked up in Poperinge when they were last on leave, he left his dugout and re-entered the main trench. At this time of night only the sentries were out here. January had left a veil of frost coating the exposed mud. It looked like the sparkle of stars from a distance and in the orange light of the gas lanterns they hung behind veils within the dugouts.

Drawing a cigarette from his packet and lighting it under the cover of a thick pair of woollen gloves, he breathed the sweet taste of tobacco smoke into the air. This situation wasn’t going away anytime soon. The Jacob situation still haunted him. Why hadn’t he done more to stop him from going?

That Braddock, giving me the wind-up, Dettmer said to himself under his breath.

He picked out Sergeant Archibald Braddock’s dugout. It looked exactly like the dugouts everyone else used. Sergeants weren’t afforded many luxuries in the trenches. This never seemed to bother Braddock. He appeared to take a grim appreciation of the task at hand whenever it was time to launch another attack at the German trenches.

With nothing to knock on, he moved the veil aside, being careful not to let too much light filter out into the open. He found Braddock sitting on a wooden chair with its back missing, picking his teeth.

What do you want?

We need to do something now.

About what?

You know what. Jacob Keeton and that mission he went on.

Braddock didn’t look up at him and yawned whilst rolling pieces of frayed tobacco into a cigarette paper. I’ve got nothing to say about it. You’re the one who keeps bring it up. Don’t know why you keep coming in here. And I don’t know why I keep letting you. You follow me, after all.

And I’m the corporal with friends in the war office.

The sergeant glared back at him. Dettmer always knew how to get his attention. His remaining family members held high posts within the war office and could make Braddock’s life extremely difficult if they wanted to. He couldn’t really have him removed from his command, but he liked to make Braddock think he could.

Don’t know why it still bothers you. Only one man. Men die all the time. They’re supposed to die. It’s what a war’s for.

Because his brothers are still here. They want to know what happened to him and who sent him out on that mission. Charlie Keeton started talking about killing whoever sent him out on the mission tonight. I’ve calmed him down for now, but as soon as Danny Keeton comes back they’re going to keep bringing it up.

Braddock shrugged. Let them keep bringing it up. They’re only privates. There’s nothing they can do. I’ll rough them up when they’re both together again. Keep them in line and their mouths closed.

No. That doesn’t solve anything. I don’t feel good about knowing where Jacob was any not telling them. I should have told them. It was their right to know.

Corporal Dettmer. You could be court martialled for even talking about a mission like this. You didn’t say anything because you know you shouldn’t have. Stop feeling guilty. Keep killing Germans. And shut your face. Is that all you wanted, then?

Braddock had already turned away to a table like he’d already given him his answer. He stared a hole into his back, hoping he could feel fire coming out of his eyes. It wasn’t enough. He had to find Jacob.

They have other brothers.

Braddock grunted. So what?

One’s a private called Michael. The other’s called William. Charlie told me about them. William was in the army before the war started. A model soldier, according to some of the people I talked to.

Get to the point, Dettmer.

William is a sergeant, just like you. And he keeps winning medals. I wouldn’t be surprised to see him as your commanding officer soon. When he finds out about this, you and me are in trouble.

Braddock scraped the chair along the wood floor as he turned it round again to face Dettmer. He assessed him with a steady gaze, as if he was searching for some hint of a lie in his forehead.

You think that because they have a brother who keeps rising in rank we should be scared of something?

I’m saying that he could make both our lives difficult, if he wanted to. He will want to find out about his brother, as well. It won’t be long before someone sends a letter home to their mother in Leeds. And when she finds out she’s going to send a letter to him. That’s why I say we need to find out what happened to Jacob and make sure that everyone knows he decided to go on that mission by himself.

It was his decision. Why would anyone think otherwise?

Because it wasn’t his decision. We bullied him into it.

Braddock’s face contorted into what looked like that of a constipated bull’s. I don’t know what you think you’re playing at Dettmer, but you better shut your mouth now. Encouragement is not forcing anyone. I never threatened him. You told him the benefits if it had gone well. I tried to tell him they weren’t worth it. We’re done speaking, get out.

Dettmer lingered for a few seconds in case he thought of something useful to say, but nothing came. He was never going to convince the likes of Sergeant Braddock to care about the average soldier. He was harsh at best and a sadist at worst.

He would have to guide the Keeton brothers in the right direction by himself.

Chapter One

Danny Keeton dozed on the train running straight to Leeds from London. He’d half expected to have to walk part of the way. When he’d made his feelings known to the conductor on the train, he’d looked at him like he was mad. Apparently, soldiers were given a certain level of respect in Blighty when they returned from the front.

He dug his fingers into his left thigh. It was the only thing that calmed him when his foot flared up again. Wrapped in a huge mound of bandages, he owned a pair of crutches sitting next to him. Whilst he could put weight on his foot and walk a short way, the doctors had all told him to avoid doing it as much as possible. The bullet wound was said to be healing well, but Danny couldn’t tell if that was expert bedside manner or the truth. He always turned his head away when they changed his bandages.

It was the beginning of 1915 and he’d been away for less than six months before he’d shot himself in the foot. The bullet had only hit the outer part of it, saving it from any serious damage, but he could still feel a phantom bullet digging into his flesh even now.

Are you getting off at Leeds or waiting for another train? said the soldier sitting next to him.

Getting off at Leeds.

Danny wasn’t really in the mood for speaking now. The soldier in question was a Yorkshire boy named Alan Sullivan. He didn’t appear to have any form of visible injury, but he felt it rude to ask about why he was on this train. His hair had been cut almost to the skin, leaving a faded red sheen covering what was otherwise a completely bald head.

I’m getting off there as well. Looking forward to getting home. I’ve been there since the beginning, you know that?

Aye, you told me when we were getting on the train at London.

Where do you live? said Alan.

Holbeck. Danny continued spying out of the window at what he thought was a line of horses being led down the road. The rain pouring down the glass made everything look like a blob of colour clumsily painted with an oversized brush.

Cor blimey, didn’t think you were that close. I’m up in Beeston. You know it, don’t you?

Aye. I’ve been up there before when my brother got married at the church there.

What luck. You should come up to see us sometime. We can go to the pub or whatever, or I can come down to you and we could go out for the night there. Girls love soldiers these days. All you have to do is walk about a bit in your uniform and they’re all over you.

Danny cocked an eyebrow at him. He didn’t believe a word of it. It sounded exactly like the stories Jack Warren used to tell about his female conquests. Everyone knew women thought nothing of him, but most encouraged him to keep trying because they enjoyed the creativity he put into his tales.

Don’t believe me? You just wait, my lad. You’ll see soon enough. First night out and you’ll be off home with someone or other. I’ve seen it myself. My brother does it all the time when he’s home on leave.

Danny nodded. It wasn’t that he wanted to be rude, but the mention of the word ‘brother’ only brought him back to why he’d shot himself in the first place. He had to find out the truth about Jacob. On the front, and with his mother refusing to communicate with him, there was no other way of finding out if he was dead or not. He wanted to believe that he was still alive and well, but Dettmer’s letter about him being reported as missing had crushed him. Now he was more like a chief mourner going home to break the bad news than a soldier on injury leave.

Alan went silent until the train began to slow down and Holbeck appeared. The high level and low level stations made this train station unique in Leeds. They got off at the low level one and stepped out onto the platform. Home was exactly how he remembered it.

Perpetual smog rolled around the sky, coating everything in a thin layer of dust particles. The brickwork was as black as soot; whether that was because of the type of brick or the smog from Hunslet Steelworks, he didn’t know. Yet apart from the general dirtiness of the surroundings, it felt different.

Rather than the usual array of men, women, and children going on holiday or travelling to work in other parts of Yorkshire, soldiers