‘Pick ’em up. Left-right, left-right.’
Regulation marching pace was two and a half miles an hour. Stanley’s misgivings about finding Tom grew as they proceeded onward over dazzling white sand towards what looked like a city of tents and hutments. He looked aghast at the vast and dreadful encampment, sickened by its thick stench of stale food. They passed tents, tents and more tents.
When they reached GHQ Central Kennels, Bones was led away by an orderly to an enclosed area with rows of kennels. Feeling bereft, Stanley made his way, numb with exhaustion, to the bell-tent he and fifteen other men had been assigned.
Just before he fell asleep that night he heard the sound of gunfire and Trigger Doyle whispered knowingly, ‘Guns. You always hear them when the wind blows from the east.’
‘How many men are here at Etaples?’
‘Ten thousand, I’ve heard, and growing every day. They’re packing us in. The Hun is up to something and Haig is getting ready.’
Trigger’s pride and excitement were so at odds with Stanley’s misgivings.
Ten thousand. How would he find Tom? There was something, Stanley remembered, called Cross Post, a mail service operated by the Army. Was the Cross Post censored? he wondered, suspecting that it might be. When Tom replied to Stanley, he’d almost certainly say his little brother was too young and must go home, so that when the letter was read by the Censor, the officials would be alerted and would send Stanley back.
Every instinct for survival made him steer clear of the official channels. He could ask Trigger, perhaps, what Trigger would do, but he distrusted Trigger’s judgement. If he were sent back home, he had nowhere to go, and he’d have to leave Bones, as Army property, behind.
No, writing to Tom using the Cross Post was too dangerous. Tom would make sure to get Stanley sent home. Stanley would have to find out where Tom’s unit was and then, only when he was face to face with Tom, would he explain.
Etaples was more brutal than Chatham, more brutal than anything Stanley had ever known. Everything had to be done at the double, everyone shouted all the time. After just one week he was tense and tired, enervated by the constant noise and dust.
He was lined up in alphabetical order in front of the Sergeant-Major for Pay Parade. It was tiresome being an ‘R’ because it could take an hour till the Sergeant-Major got to you.
Stanley’s thoughts had turned to finding Tom, when Rigby, the ‘R’ in line before himself, whispered, ‘They say we’ve been lucky it’s been quiet so far but that it’s going to change. The quiet only means Ludendorff’s up to no good, he’s busy resupplying his troops . . . put six new divisions on the Amiens front.’
Everyone knew that the German General, Ludendorff, was hauling his big guns up closer to the city of Amiens. Ludendorff had to take Amiens before he could strike at Paris. None of this really mattered to Stanley so he smiled back at Rigby. Tom mattered and Bones mattered, so he was only half listening, half thinking of what he’d buy with his pay. He and Trigger might go this afternoon to the YMCA hut and buy chocolate and tins of apricots, then run with their dogs to the farmhouse where they sold loaves of bread a yard long, all hot and soft and crusty.
Stanley stepped up to the table, saluted and held out his left hand. Etaples was full of silly regulations – and it had to be your left hand to receive your pay.
He and Trigger threaded their way to the YMCA between tents and vehicles and the crowds of villagers who came up on Sundays. Small French boys tugged at them, pestering, hawking dictionaries, spearmint and grapes. They circumnavigated a lorry, behind which knelt a priest in front of a packing case. Rows of men knelt on the ground between boxes of ammunition, which served as pews. They’d be about to go up to the Front. All men were offered Communion before going up the line.
Stanley caught sight of the priest’s boots. Sticking out of the bottom of his surplice, they had shiny spurs on them. A horseman. A idea struck Stanley: he could ask the priest.
Trigger was laughing. ‘Taking Communion’ll be enough to make them jumpy if they’re not already.’
A priest would be discreet; Stanley would be safe with him. A soldier at the back of the congregation, seeing the boys hovering and thinking they wanted to worship, rose and handed Stanley an Order of Service. Father Bill Loveday, it said, was taking the Mass.
‘Thank you,’ said Stanley. ‘Don’t wait for me,’ he told Trigger. He’d wait till Communion was over, then he’d approach Bill Loveday of the shiny spurs. It was because he was both a churchman and a horseman that Stanley felt comfortable about asking him how to find Tom.
‘Suit yourself,’ said Trigger.
Stanley knelt and waited.
The following afternoon Stanley waited in the Bull Ring, as the exercise arena was known. There were anything up to five thousand men exercising in this vast ring at any time, so it could be a long wait till his unit was called to march out. Bones was too hot, his flanks heaving, his tongue lolling, his solid bulk tiring more easily than other dogs.
Idly Stanley watched an infantry unit on bayonet drill. A straw-filled dummy in a Hun helmet, hung from a post. An officer was yelling ‘Kill the bastard!’ as the men ran at it with fixed bayonet. It made Stanley feel uncomfortable watching, and it made him wonder about Tom. Did Tom smile as he steadied his hand and prepared to fire? How many men had Tom killed? What did it feel like to kill a man?
He’d heard nothing from the priest since their conversation. Father Bill had said to Stanley that he’d be going straight from that Communion up to the Front, but that when he came out again he’d make enquiries.
Bones pricked his ears and picked up his pace as they neared the friendly crossed flags that announced Central Kennels, and made their way to the bomb pits. Bones knew it was feeding time but he didn’t worry himself, as Stanley did, about the ready availability of so much fresh horsemeat. Each day at feeding time he’d think of the Thornley horses and worry for them, wonder how they’d fared and whether Lord Chorley still thought it was a fine thing for a horse to go to war. Each day, too, it made Stanley glad that Da would never see the bomb pits.
Two days later, Stanley and Trigger queued in the breakfast line-up. There’d still been nothing from Father Bill of the shiny spurs. Stanley reached the front of the queue and took a tin of tea from the first hut, from the second a lump of bread, dipped in bacon fat. He was glad of the bacon fat; the bread was softer after a dunking.
‘Come on, Bones,’ said Stanley, his mouth still full of bread. He’d seen the excited huddle of Royal Engineers round the Post Office.
‘Just walk on past. There’ll be no mail for us.’ It wasn’t that Stanley worried about Bones growling any more, it was just less painful if Stanley didn’t hope that someone might ever write to him. Having Bones was better probably than having parcels or people to write to. Stanley and Trigger always walked straight past the Post Office. It was an unspoken understanding between them.
‘Ryder! Ryder!’
Stanley’s heart raced. Trigger’s head shot round, amusement and curiosity in his eyes. That shout had come from near the Post Office, from Rigby. Rigby would know if Stanley had a letter because they were alphabetically close. Stanley turned and dragged the confused Bones back to the mail orderly, his fists growing clammy and hot. Bones was hanging back, reproach in his eyes, disliking any variation to his routine.