Authors: William Brodrick
While
he spoke gently using modest hand gestures — offering a plate; cake? More tea?
— Anselm could feel the tenacity of the advocate in David’s voice. He was an
Osborne soldier, too. Anselm felt vaguely at risk.
‘Sometimes
a relative asks why granddad’s name isn’t on the memorial,’ continued David. ‘Questions
are asked. The stitching gives way They get a fresh perspective on the army
that won the war.’
‘Nine
out of ten had their sentence commuted,’ said Sarah, eyes closing.
‘One in
ten was shot,’ corrected David. ‘The weak were sent to the wall:
The
strong win wars,
guessed Anselm.
There
was a pause while father and daughter regarded each other across the divide of
statistics and interpretation. In the hush, and not for the first time, Anselm
tried to craft a ninth Beatitude:
Blessed are the strong for they
… He
couldn’t work out what might come next.
‘We
went to my study’ said Sarah, changing the subject. ‘I dug out all my files for
the period September to December nineteen seventeen. This included all Ralph’s
extant notes, letters and diaries, along with material sent to him or retained
by him. We drew a complete blank. The name Flanagan does not occur, presumably
because at the time Ralph had a war in mind, along with the lives of a hundred
and fifty thousand men.
Blessed
are the strong,
suggested Anselm,
for they are
not yet weak.
‘Before
she left,’ began David, ‘I wanted to help her … to try and loosen the grip of
this tragedy on the family I said that finding the missing papers wouldn’t
explain why Joseph Flanagan’s sentence was confirmed. That he’d been a victim
of a system that thought in straight, brutal lines.’ He shrugged his
dissatisfaction. ‘All she said was that this trial was different … that it
had a meaning. It’s one of the worst things I’ve ever confronted. The wounded
looking for
meaning
in the one place it cannot be found.’
Tea, sandwiches and cake
don’t go well with this kind of conversation, concluded Anselm. Any more than
beer and crisps. When the trolley had been rolled to one side, he asked a
question out of politeness.
‘Why
are you sure that Flanagan was shot? The file, to my mind, was ambiguous.’
‘Two
reasons,’ said David. ‘First, there was a degree of anxiety in the High Command
about the effect of contemporaneous events on the troops.’
‘There’d
been a rebellion in Ireland in nineteen sixteen,’ explained Sarah. ‘And
nineteen seventeen was a
bad
year: in spring the French were dazed by
mutiny; in September some of our lot took to the streets of Étaples. Meanwhile,
Third Ypres had to be won. Flanagan was tried and condemned in that climate.’
‘And in
that climate, I think the top brass were looking for an
example,’
resumed
David, ‘which brings me to the second reason. This was a time when the British
attitude towards the Irish was often tainted by antipathy and—’
‘Wasn’t
it Meredith who said that the Irish provided the English with her soldiers and
generals?’ quoted Sarah, wanting to dissociate herself from the coming
argument.
David
paid no heed to Meredith. He shrugged himself forward and said, on the edge of
his seat, ‘There seems to be a correlation between recruitment figures
throughout the empire and death sentences passed on regiments from individual
countries. For example, sixty—seven per cent were recruited in England and
sixty—five per cent of death sentences were imposed on English regiments — and,
in passing, I’d point out that almost half of those who were subsequently shot
came from the working class north — but it’s the pattern I’m stressing now.
‘And
that pattern holds for other countries?’ asked Anselm.
‘Indeed
it does,’ replied David. ‘For Scotland, Wales, Canada, Australia, South Africa,
New Zealand …’
David
paused and Anselm said, ‘And Ireland?’
‘That’s
the one exception to the rule. The Irish recruitment figure stood at two per
cent, but the convicted Irishman was four times more likely to get a death
sentence. That was Flanagan’s real problem, as much as his conduct. He was born
in the wrong place and he was tried by the wrong people at the wrong time.’
Anselm
dabbed his mouth with a napkin, though his lips were dry.
‘You
won’t find a shred of paper that reveals a deliberate policy’ said Sarah,
wearily ‘Not an instruction, a memo, a letter, a memoir. Nothing.’ She stood up
and smoothed her dress. ‘Father, would you like to see what I did find? It may
not take you much closer to an understanding of Joseph Flanagan, but it will
shed a little light on Herbert Moore.’
2
Sarah’s study looked on to
the undulating fields of Cambridgeshire. Anselm’s attention, however, was with
the rows of box files covering the life of General Osborne. Each was labelled
with a year, beginning in 1860 through to 1953. For the period 1914—1918 there
was an entire shelf for each year. Pebbles of various sizes, chunks of driftwood
and shells covered the borders of Sarah’s desk, surrounding a blue folder and a
black ledger.
‘I’m
writing this biography for my father,’ she said. ‘He couldn’t do it himself.’
‘Why?’
‘He was
very close to its subject. Ralph lost his son in nineteen seventeen and David
lost his father in nineteen forty-four. Both killed in action. Of course, with
that first death, David had lost his grandfather, and with the second Ralph
had lost a grandson. Unexpressed grief bound them together for the sixteen
years they shared this house. Unexpressed because dying was a family tradition.
We were prepared for it.’ Anselm noticed that Sarah had almost left herself out
of the reckoning, though the cost of war had determined the focus of her life.
She was a military biographer. A regular visitor to the PRO. ‘My father was the
first to refuse the uniform,’ she said, not quite sadly but with pity, ‘and his
rage and sadness have settled on the cause of those who were not prepared and
who had no one to speak for them. We agree more than he admits, actually Here,
look at this.’
Sarah
sat at her desk and opened the blue folder. She gave Anselm a memo from General
Osborne to all three Divisional Commanders under his control. It was entitled ‘Desertion
and Drunkenness’.
‘After
Kate Seymour’s visit, I read the Flanagan file for myself,’ said Sarah. ‘I then
went back to my own records. This memo was written on the 10th September
nineteen seventeen — the very day Ralph gave his recommendation to reduce
Flanagan’s death sentence to a term of imprisonment.’
While
reading the text, Anselm wedged himself on to a sofa loaded with books. Strips
of white paper hung out from the ends like so many tongues panting at his elbow
The general was concerned about a spate of recent cases in which drunkenness
was the cause of absence from duty. He wrote:
Intoxication is
increasingly presenting itself as an excuse when a soldier appears
unrepresented at a court martial. Please warn all ranks that such offenders
will be liable on conviction to the full penalty for desertion.
‘By implication, resumed
Sarah, ‘Ralph was for commuting Flanagan’s sentence, but then sent out a
warning to say he’d be the last. And since Ralph was the most senior voice in
the review process, there’s every reason to suppose that his opinion carried
weight.’
Anselm
had read the warning. It was set out in the Adjutant and Quartermaster General’s
diary. On reflection it had saddened Anselm. Drunkenness must have been a means
of escape from the hallucinations brought on by war, and even that route, at
nines, had to be blocked.
‘Flanagan
remains, as ever, elusive,’ said Anselm, disingenuously.
‘As
does Captain Herbert Moore.’
She
tidied the blue folder and opened the black ledger.
‘Ralph
kept a daily journal throughout the war, covering more personal matters,’ she
said. ‘The entries are spare. For example, when his son died in August nineteen
seventeen he simply wrote, “Bernard killed at St Julien. Twenty-two yrs seven m
two d nine h. Am heartbroken.” So he was not a man of many words. This is what
he penned on fourteenth September — two weeks after the trial and four days after
his recommendation on Flanagan. I’ve made a copy for you, but here is the
original.’
Anselm
took the ledger carefully and placed it on his knees. The General’s handwriting
was, of course, familiar, very small and perfectly legible. He read the passage
identified by Sarah’s finger.
Woken up at 1.37
a.m. Herbert Moore wanted interview Broke some regimental crockery long ago. Mended.
(Served with father at Spion Kop.) Came on matter of conscience rather than law
Did what I could. Fitful.
‘Whether
this refers to Flanagan or not I don’t know,’ said Sarah, hands behind her
head. ‘Most personal war diaries are annoyingly cryptic because noting the
detail was forbidden. But sometimes you can read between the lines … and I
sense the conclusion of Flanagan’s review process.
Anselm wished David
farewell and then joined Sarah between the pillars of the portico. A family’s
history added shadows of experience to her face, a generational mark from
events she had not known, but which had touched her nonetheless. He sensed,
correctly that she wanted to say something, to state her case on the troubled
question of military justice in action. After all, her great-great-grandfather
had recommended the extreme sanction on several occasions. He was implicated in
a process that had become, for some, a scandal. She, like her father, was an
advocate.
‘The
problem with a morally necessary war is that morally unnecessary things
happen,’ she said, steeled to the reality of her own remark. ‘No one is proud
of that. But we have to remember, also, that the rank and file stared a
senseless death straight in the face and went on, for love of king and country.
On the day of any execution you care to mention, four hundred men were killed
in action. We can’t take anything away from their resolve.’
Anselm
nodded, fumbling for his car keys. He agreed entirely. They did their duty,
while others, for whatever reason — be it choice or illness — did not. But he
had a squint of his own on to the past: some of those others had been
executed;
and defending them now, late in the day did not prosecute the achievement
of those who’d fallen nobly It was a thought Anselm would keep to himself.
Sarah didn’t seem to accept that tragedies never compete for pole position.
There needn’t be a winner.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The Heavens Open
On the 13th September the
preliminary bombardment opened up. Herbert looked from the mock battlefield to
the savage sky over Ypres and the Salient. Even from this distance the noise
was terrific, not through volume but depth. He tried to imagine the amount of
ironware screaming through the air and the devastation it would unleash.
Theoretically the German defence zone was being ripped apart, inch by inch:
wire, men and soil being thrown high into the air. According to Tomlinson,
revealing another secret not to be shared with the Kaiser, the pounding would
increase every day building up to Zero hour on the 20th.
‘It’ll
be bloody hell,’ he disclosed, speaking exactly ‘Furthermore, twice daily at
fixed intervals, the artillery boys will rehearse the barrage scheme that will
protect the advancing attack brigades.’ And as if answering the cocky
Australian officer who’d implied there would be no element of surprise, he
added, ‘Of course, Jerry’ll know we’re coming —’ he paused for effect — ‘but he’ll
be in no fit state to organise a welcome party.’
The
thunder went on and on. The battle drill became tense, and voices were raised.
There were no more jokes. Men crouched by their line of coloured tape knowing
that soon it would all be real. That evening, the riot of crumping fell on the
pitch, and the men played wildly some awful force having entered their limbs.
They sweated and grunted after the ball, and Elliot laughed hysterically
Pickles yelled at Flanagan to keep behind the back feet of his own defenders,
but he kept running forward, off-side. And Herbert kept looking up at the sky
awed by the awful weight it was carrying.
The
bellies of the Observation Balloons flashed with sallow light from the inferno
on the ground. They were tethered over the entrance to Hell. What could they
see?
In the
darkness of his billet Herbert lay on his bed, listening to the haemorrhage of
steel. Fear settled upon him, for what was to come. And he panicked for what he
might leave behind, for he was no closer to understanding Joseph Flanagan. The
Irishman was either detached from his circumstances or resigned to them: it was
impossible to say which. Either way he seemed indifferent to the fact that his
sentence was under review and that a decision on his life would arrive without
warning. The only way to explain such indifference was to entertain the
unimaginable: that Flanagan was following a chosen path, fully appreciating the
direction it would take.