I thought coming back to camp, I’d find some peace, but it seems there’s none to be had anywhere here, least of all here. Some of the lads are unhappy with the situation and want to be somewhere else, but ‘C’est la Guerre’ as they say. Lieutenant Everson is trying to do his best, and believes it’s for our own good, but there’s always some barrack-room lawyer who thinks they know best.
I’ve been thinking about what happened between us. Sometimes, I think of nothing else. I don’t regret it for one moment, but I feel so helpless stuck here so far from home, so far from you. I know some say that what we did was wrong, but that night I didn’t believe it, I still don’t, and I hope you feel the same.
It’s human nature, I suppose. You’d think with everything else out there against us, that we could show some common sense. Sometimes we can be our own worst enemy.
CHAPTER THREE
EVERSON WALKED DOWN the hutment ward towards the Padre’s bed. Captain Lippett, the MO, had assured him that the chaplain’s injury wasn’t serious, although it had resulted in a mild concussion.
Hearing of the Padre’s assault had a profound effect on Everson, perhaps more so than the riot itself. How was it that the morale of the soldiers under his command had slipped so low? A chaplain, of all people. He was glad that the man who did this was under guard and would face retribution under court-martial.
The Padre looked wan and older than his years. A bandage was wrapped around his head. An odd, almost comic tuft of sandy hair stuck up from the middle of it, like a tonsure in reverse. He sat in bed reading the black-leather-covered Bible that rarely left his side. It was, as he had said many times, his only weapon. As he saw Everson approaching, he put the Bible down and smiled for him, but it was a weary smile that took effort.
A chair had been put out for him. Everson took off his cap and sat down.
“You look tired,” said Everson.
The Padre waved a hand. “I haven’t been sleeping well. A few… nightmares.”
“Night terrors, Sister Fenton said. You wake up screaming.”
The Padre shrugged off his concern. “So do many here,” he said, gesturing around the small ward. “You forget, Lieutenant. There are no reserve trenches here. You can’t take them out of the line. There is little relief for them, even here.”
“Or you, Padre. You seem… troubled,” said Everson.
The Padre ignored him and continued to press his point. “The men have a legitimate grievance,” he continued gently. “They have homes and families far away, with no knowledge of if they will ever see them again. They’ve endured more than they ever should. They have done far more than you expected of them. But even they have their limits, John.”
He was more forgiving than Everson. But then, Everson reminded himself, that was his job.
Everson bowed his head. “They’re not men,” he corrected. “They don’t have that luxury right now. They’re soldiers. They have to be. It’s the only way they’ll – we’ll – survive. We have to maintain discipline. Unless we stay together, unless we remain as a battalion, we’re going to get picked off, one by one. Each man that dies or deserts lessens our collective chances of survival.”
The Padre looked into his eyes and clasped Everson’s hand in both of his. “Then you have to find a way of keeping them together. You need to give them hope.”
WHAT FEW OFFICERS there were, along with the NCOs and compliant soldiers, managed to re-establish order and calm within the camp quite quickly, suggesting perhaps that ill-feeling didn’t run as deep as the ringleaders had hoped. It took less than a day to round them up. Everson surveyed the camp in the aftermath. In truth, the rioters had caused less damage than they might have, but that wasn’t the point. They could be dealt with swiftly, but it would take much longer to deal with the consequences of their actions. In the wake of the Khungarrii attacks, the Pennines had sought to ally themselves with local nomadic urmen enclaves, offering them protection from chatt attacks. Now, thanks to the riot, and the behaviour of some of the men, those alliances were in jeopardy as some enclaves prepared to move out.
Most of the men, their immediate frustrations spent, returned reluctantly to the routines that had structured their lives these past few months. Most of the men complied because it was all they knew. Ultimately, they sought comfort in the companionship of their comrades.
Everson didn’t fool himself into thinking that this was an end to his problems. For months he had held the battalion together. He had been relying on their respect for him, but that currency had diminished rapidly. He had been given a warning. How he dealt with the mutineers would send a warning back.
The courts-martial ran for two days. The court dealt with most minor charges by forfeiture of pay or field punishment. It heard the more serious charges toward the end. They were the cases that Everson dreaded.
The bell tent requisitioned for the courts–martial was humid and smelled of damp tube grass, sweat and fear. Army justice was often brutal and uncompromising.
Everson sat at the centre of the table, with Lieutenant Baxter, of the Machine Gun Section, to his left and Lieutenant Tulliver to his right, as they dealt with one case after another.
The Padre’s assailant was one Everson took a particular interest in. He sat impassively as Second Lieutenant Haslam, prosecuting, read out the charge sheet. “The accused, number 9658798, Fusilier Francis Rutherford of the Pennine Fusiliers, as soldier in the regular force, is charged with striking a superior officer, being in the execution of his duty. The maximum punishment is death. How do you plead?”
The prisoner Rutherford, who stood to attention in front of his escort, looked visibly shocked. “Not guilty, sir.”
Despite the plea, the case itself was straightforward. Rutherford had taken part in the riots by his own admission.
“I was trying to stop Private Wilson, sir,” he protested. “There was a struggle. During the incident, I may have struck the Padre by accident.”
“By accident,” said Haslam, unconvinced. He waved a sheaf of papers. “There are eight witnesses – eight, including Private Wilson – who testified that you struck the Padre deliberately, in an act of malice and insubordination.”
“What? But that’s not true, sir,” Rutherford protested. “Ask the Padre!”
“Unfortunately the Padre isn’t fit to give evidence at these proceedings. And may I remind you that you have already admitted to taking part in the mutiny. Do you wish to further address the court?”
Rutherford, when faced with these facts, merely hung his head, realising the futility of any further protest. “No, sir.”
To his dismay, Everson felt no satisfaction in pronouncing sentence.
Wilson got away with field punishment.
Private Nicholls’ intervention on behalf of the nurses had seen him acquitted as he had done all possible to prevent the actions.
The ringleaders, though, were of a different cloth and were court-martialled jointly. They stood together surly and resolute: Bains, Swindell and Compton.
Bains stood to attention, his face swollen and bruised with a dark red hatching of scabs on his left cheek. He refused to make eye contact with anyone in court, a look of undisguised insolence on his face.
The charge against him and his fellow conspirators was mutiny.
He offered no plea, just a sullen, defiant silence.
“Bains,” said Everson wearily before he passed sentence. He waved a fragile piece of paper in Bains’ direction. “You drafted these demands, I believe.”