NIGHT TRAIN

“How did you find me?”

It was the first time that the prisoner had spoken since his capture. Bosanquet, one of the two men seated opposite him, looked contemptuously at the questioner, letting out a deep sigh before answering as the slow moving train continued on its journey, rattling through the Belgian countryside, the bleakness of the wintry landscape gradually beginning to disappear from view in the twilight gloom of the evening.

“Seriously? You can’t believe that we knew where to come looking? Are you so stupid?”

Mercier, Bosanquet’s partner, showing more sympathy towards this young captive, Devereaux, whose uniform, mud stained and tattered, and his face, swollen and bruised, were the result of the blows he had received in attempting to escape them, spoke gruffly but not unkindly.

“Take no notice of him, kid. He’s just pissed that being given this mission meant that we missed Grog Night. As for finding you, it didn’t take too many brain cells to figure it out. You deserted your unit in Ypres. You’re from Bruges…”

“I didn’t desert!”

This statement, issued vehemently by Devereaux, caused the two older men to look wearily at each other and Bosanquet turned up the collar of his great coat, burrowing as deeply as possible inside it in a forlorn attempt to ward off the encroaching cold. His black eyes cast another withering look across the aisle at the young soldier.

“Son, did you have a 48 hour pass?”

Devereaux shook his head at Mercier’s question.

“Had you, by chance, been sent on an authorised mission that just happened to take you to Bruges?”

Again, the youth shook his head.

“Then, I’m afraid that, under the martial law of France, you’re a deserter”.

“No, you don’t understand…”

“I understand that, if you don’t shut your trap, you’re going to have a few more bruises on your ugly mug”.

Bosanquet’s outburst caused the young man to flinch and, for a few moments, all that could be heard was the noise of the train, chug chugging along. Outside, through the window, the varying shades of grey morphed into black, as the train made its way into the darkness, not a light to be seen because of the enforced blackout.

“What’s Grog Night?”

This latest question from the prisoner, caused Bosanquet to jump angrily from his seat only restrained by the strong arm of Mercier who was chuckling to himself.

“Grog Night, Private Deveraux, is the one night, I repeat, the one night in our shitty lives when we get to forget the misery of this f***ing war by drinking our fill of the rum our gracious commanding officer permits us. And you could not have chosen a worse time to go AWOL”.

“I’m…I’m sorry”.

“Yeah, well, too late now. Why’d you run anyway?”

Deveraux, without a great coat of his own, shivered and tried to hug himself but the chains that bound his wrists to his ankles restricted his movements.

“Look, we’ve got all night and, the rate this shit heap is travelling, I’d say most of tomorrow as well. That’s if the lousy Germans don’t blow us to kingdom come. Might as well amuse us with your story”.

As Mercier spoke, he pulled down his rucksack from the string rack above his head and carefully removed a bottle and two bundles wrapped in newspaper

“We can enjoy a meal while we listen”.

“Hey, he’s not getting any of my grub”, Bosanquet protested.

“Don’t be such a mule head, Pierre. We’ll share our food and he shares his story. It’ll help the time pass. He looks like he hasn’t eaten in days. Hey, kid, when did you last eat?”

The prisoner shrugged but, as he watched Mercier unwrap his packages, he caught the scent of sausage and his mouth began to water. He was ravenous. His eyes bulged as the older man produced a large chunk of cheese and a loaf of bread as well, proceeding to slice everything into three roughly equal portions with a knife taken from his belt.

“Promise me that you won’t try any fancy tricks and I’ll release you from those chains so you can eat. Is it a deal?”

The young soldier nodded, Bosanquet eyeing him maliciously. A few minutes later, all three were eating hungrily, taking turns to swig from the wine bottle though, as Pierre Bosanquet watched the prisoner devour his share, with every bite, his resentment grew, believing that it was his belly that was being deprived of its full share. Deveraux, himself, was overcome with gratitude.

“Merci beaucoup”.

“Your story, kid. Let’s hear it”.

The night train for Calais, only this single carriage occupied, rattled on through the night as Prisoner Deveraux composed himself and organised his thoughts. The three men bumped and jerked on their uncomfortable, hard wooden bench seats each time the locomotive lurched over a rough part of rail.

Their stomachs surfeited, both of the older men stretched out their bodies. Bosanquet taking a pipe from somewhere within his clothing and, leaning back into the corner of his seat, near the window, began to puff contentedly, awaiting Deveraux’s narrative. As veterans of the Moroccan conflict, fighting the Berber tribes, he and Mercier had experienced everything that war could throw at you long before Europe had imploded and this current, shitty world war had begun.

The darkness now was all engulfing, only the occasional glow of Bosanquet’s pipe enabling them to make out the faint outlines of those across from them. Deveraux began to speak, haltingly at first.

“October 19th, 1914, I was part of the 1X Corps under Dubois. We moved into the pre-dug trenches as ordered. The sun was shining and everything was a novelty. I remember, we all felt safe, can you believe? Below the line of enemy fire. It rained that night and continued for seven days and our safe haven turned into a living hell. I won’t bore you with the full details but there was no escape from the misery, up to our knees in mud, forced to sleep standing. If the Bosche had chosen to attack us, they would have had a field day; our rifles saturated and useless. They couldn’t get supplies to us because of the weather and the hunger kicked in on the third day, I recall. After that, came the rats. We couldn’t see them, the evil, little bastards, as they swam through the swamp in which we stood. But we felt them alright, when they bit into our ankles, straight through our waterlogged puttees. They were starving too”.

The two veterans understood, very well, the conditions their prisoner was describing; the hell of war before a single shot had been fired. The diabolical horrors that conscripted men were forced to endure in the name of patriotism. But, hearing it spoken of in such descriptive terms, both men were transfixed.

“The foot rot began after that first week. Even though the rain had thankfully ceased, it took another week for the waters in the trenches to drain, leaving behind a quagmire. At first, it was just a tingling, leading to an itching that we couldn’t scratch. Then, our feet began to swell, making our drenched boots unbearable to wear. Finally, came the searing pain. Those officers, under Dubois, who we never, ever saw, tramped among us, ordering that the word, rot, be never mentioned. Trench Foot was the official name given to our malaise. But, still, we were not permitted to leave our positions.  

A few tins of food arrived and we fought among ourselves like dogs to take possession. We were soaked through and, very soon, many of us began to shiver, our body temperature unable to stand up to the cold chill of Autumn. But we were the lucky ones. After a month of this torment, we were ordered to withdraw though we could barely walk, some unable to climb out of the trenches without help.  

I’ll never forget the disbelieving faces of those lining up to replace us as they watched us stumbling past them; no shortage of sacrificial lambs back then. The human body is an amazing thing though and it’s incredible what a hot meal, a bath, a change of clothing and some medical treatment can do. We were bivouacked in a barn, maybe a mile or two from the trenches, and we slept in warm hay. Then we heard them, the guns, the screaming of bombs, explosions. It was as if the entire world was caving in. 

My God, the casualties, those who had replaced us in those hellish trenches, limbs missing, brutal, horrific wounds, hundreds of them, stretcher after stretcher. But, seeing this, did not make us want to flee. Rather, we were angry, wanted revenge on those bastards who had inflicted such slaughter on our fellow countrymen”.

Deveraux paused, overcome by remembrance of these events which he had, save for his nightmares, banished to the back of his brain. Silence reigned within the darkened carriage. Suddenly a crashing sound, hitting the window, startled all three from their reverie. Bosanquet jumped up from his seat, reaching for his rifle.

“Relax. It’s hailstones. Size of my fists. Not a night to be outside”.

Mercier, wise old veteran, gently reached out and pushed his colleague back down onto his seat before addressing the vague shadow across from him.

“Yes, your depiction is accurate, kid. We, too, were in that first wave, further east than you by the sounds of it. The trenches were a nightmare but the second wave, the one they call The Battle of Ypres, that was hell on earth. Unlike your 1X Corps, we of the XXX11, under Humbert, were not replaced and had to endure the bombardment. We were fortunate but Bosanquet here, caught a piece of shrapnel in his fat arse and was invalided back behind the lines. I joined him, three days later. Lost two fingers on my left hand. Look”.

In the blackness, he held up his left hand though nobody could see it.

“Two hundred and twenty thousand poor souls lost their lives in that first month. Say it quickly and it doesn’t sound like much, does it?”

Deveraux, selfishly believing that he, alone in this menage a trois had been forced to endure such horrors, was stunned to hear otherwise but continued with his story.

“War is madness. We spent Christmas behind the front lines. Others replaced those dead or injured. Back then, at the start, troops were thick on the ground and there was no shortage of bodies to be thrown into the fray. In April, we were ordered back to the front, back to those same trenches but it was spring, there was a warmth in the air. Hope! The word was that the Germans had suffered more casualties, that the war was almost over. One last push, that was all that was needed. But those bastards had other ideas and we were all caught unawares”.

“Gas!”

“Yes, poison gas. Chlorine. The first warning we got was when canisters were fired, short of our embedded position, and green vapours were released, floating towards us. I knew, immediately, that something awful was amiss as I caught a whiff of chemicals and I covered my face with my uniform jacket. Others were not so lucky, choking on the poison, unable to breathe, collapsing in agony”.

Bosanquet shuddered and groaned.

“Pierre was not so fortunate. The gas infiltrated his body, his clothing wet from a small shower. He suffered burns. I, too, but not so bad. One hundred thousand killed. We were forced to retreat and the Germans took over the ground that we had gained at the cost of so many. They call that The Second Battle of Ypres”.

“Such heinous behaviour. It made me hate the Bosche even more. Isn’t it enough to murder one’s fellow men with bombs and bullets without resorting to such evil, tortuous measures? I was sickened beyond belief”.

Without warning, the train lurched to a grinding stop, brakes screeching, startling the three soldiers. Devereaux was thrown, full force, across the aisle, his head crashing into Mercier’s in the darkness.

“What the hell!”

As they slowly recovered, they listened in the silence for any sign of what had caused this interruption to their journey. In the distance, for the first time, they could hear the sounds of explosions. They were not far from their destination. A light flashed past their window, gone in a heartbeat. Rubbing his sore head, Mercier got to his feet.

“I’ll see what’s going on”.

Sliding open the carriage door, he exited and, for a few minutes, the two remaining men stayed silent. Then, Devereaux asked:

“What will happen to me?”

Bosanquet, his mood softened somewhat by having heard Deveraux’s tale, realising that his prisoner had been through much the same physical and mental anguish as himself, replied without hesitation.

“You’ll be shot. On the spot. They won’t even bother wasting their time with a court martial. You know that. Why’d you do it, anyway?”

“My mother. I received a letter from home. My mother was dying. I applied for leave, just forty eight hours, so that I could see her, say my goodbyes. But that bastard, Dubois, cancelled all leave. Even then, I resigned myself to my situation though it broke my heart. But, when they informed us that we would be using our own gas, in retaliation, against the Germans, I realised that I was going to die. As if it wasn’t bad enough what the Bosche had done, using such inhumane weaponry against our fellow mortals, we, too, were prepared to lower ourselves to the same abhorrent level. I realised that there was no hope for mankind. I was prepared to lose my life but, first, I was determined to say my goodbyes to my beloved mother. You won't believe me but I always intended to return”.

The compartment door slid open noisily and the tall shadow of Mercier entered, addressing his colleague.

“There’s a tree across the line. They are trying to clear it but they will need our help. They’ve set up torches in front of the engine which I’m not happy about. It makes us sitting ducks in case of any night raid. There’s a fierce battle raging yonder”.

Turning in the direction of Deveraux, he said:

“I’m going to have to put your chains back on, mon ami, while we lend a hand. I’m sorry”.

“I could help”.

“Look kid, I can’t take that chance. I’m sorry but you could bolt in the darkness”.

Bosanquet spoke up, surprising his partner.

“Let him help, Jean. I think we can trust him”.

“Well, you’ve sure changed your tune”.

Half an hour later, sweating from their exertions, despite the bitter cold, the great tree trunk had been removed from the track. As the men, including the two engine drivers, stood in the glare of the torches, Bosanquet approached Mercier and the two huddled closely as the former addressed his friend in whispered tones. Then the two of them walked over to their prisoner and Mercier spoke.

“You can go, kid. You’ve been through enough and neither of us want to be responsible for your execution. Run. At the very least, you might get to say goodbye to your mother”.

The young man stared at his captors in disbelief but quickly decided that they were being genuine. As he turned towards the darkness, the big meaty hand of Bosanquet stretched out to him and the two shook firmly, improbable brothers in arms. And then he ran, back in the direction from which they had come. Fortified by the food and drink that these men had shared with him, his faith in humanity restored, he sped through the night, pausing only once, on a rise, to look back at the train that, only minutes before, he had felt sure was taking him to his death.

And, as he stared, the torches still flaring in the wind, he heard the droning sound of the Fokker as it flew past him, overhead, honing in on the easy prey of the train and its startled victims, its machine gun opening up in a rat a tat staccato of bullets before dropping a bomb. For a split second, as the plane circled, there was an eerie silence before the train was hit and exploded in a towering inferno. Shaken to his core, Devereaux gasped. Then turned… and ran.