A Cellist Soldier Read online

  A

  Cellist Soldier

  Robert J Fanshawe

  To my family, all those I love and to all who suffer injustice in war.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prequel to The Cellist’s Friend

  Glossary of terms

  CHAPTER ONE: The photograph

  CHAPTER TWO: The new man arrives

  CHAPTER THREE: Another use for a trenching tool

  CHAPTER FOUR: The April Fools

  CHAPTER FIVE: A patrol is planned

  CHAPTER SIX: An instant of change

  CHAPTER SEVEN: Alone

  CHAPTER EIGHT: Minds in the mud

  CHAPTER NINE: Witnesses

  CHAPTER TEN: Death and a meeting

  CHAPTER ELEVEN: Choosing sides

  CHAPTER TWELVE: The burial party

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN: The guest

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN: The earth

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN: Those in need of help

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN: The return

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: Back to the regiment

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: Going back to rest

  CHAPTER NINETEEN: A letter

  CHAPTER TWENTY: An awaited meeting

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: Due process

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: The Colonel’s orderly room

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: The evidence

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: Logistic links

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: Nominating a friend

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: A table

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: The arrival of a box

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: A prison

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE: A concert in a cell

  CHAPTER THIRTY: Ready

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE: The arraignment

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO: Controlling the process

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE: Lullabies

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR: Convening

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE: What did you want to hold?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX: Bach is announced

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN: Bach comes in

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT: Another outburst

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE: The bare cell

  CHAPTER FORTY: A visitor

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE: A lieutenant

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO: No birds

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE: Harmony

  Other books in the trilogy

  About the Author

  Also by the Author

  Copyright

  Prequel to The Cellist’s Friend

  “Author Robert J Fanshawe has a way with words that will draw you in from the first paragraph – from the very first sentence actually.” Hollywood Book Reviews, The Cellist’s Friend.

  “A perfect story written with optimism and originality.” Amazon customer review, The Cellist’s Friend.

  “For me the mark of a good read is that I would be happy to read it again in case I missed something. This is one of those books. Definitely one of the best books I’ve read in a long time.” Amazon customer review, The Cellist’s Friend.

  “The horrors of World War 1 are vividly depicted in this searing novel of self-examination….Fanshawe proves himself as accomplished a storyteller as he is a writer. “The US review of books, The Cellist’s Friend.

  “Although The Cellist’s Friend is set in WW1 its stories and themes are timeless.” Pacific Review of Books, The Cellist’s Friend.

  “The Cellist’s Friend is raw and thought – provoking, from the cruel opening of the music played before a firing squad to the hopeless brutality at the front, to the hospital wards and beyond….a sad story but one that is told with compassion and honesty.” Emily-Jane Hills Orford, review of The Cellist’s Friend for Readers’ Favourite.

  Glossary of terms

  Army Units

  Artillery – Main support for infantry, grouped into Regiments and Batteries.

  Battalion – Smallest Infantry unit with its own logistic and headquarters elements (500 – 700 men).

  Brigade – Higher formation from Battalion with usually 4 battalions and support elements.

  Company – Sub-units of the Battalion, usually 3 rifle and 1 headquarters company (150 – 200 men).

  Platoon – Sub-unit of the Company, usually 3 to each Company (30 men)

  Regiment – Battalions formed from Counties, cities and other groups from Britain. Each Regiment has its own badges.

  Sappers/Engineers and other elements – Civil engineers for building and major explosive tasks.

  Section – Sub-unit of the platoon 3 to each (8/9 men).

  Ranks and Appointments

  Brigadier – Commander of a Brigade.

  CAG – Corps Adjutant General, a senior staff officer (Colonel) who dealt with Courts Martial.

  Captain – Company Commander or Adjutant.

  CinC – Commander in Chief.

  Colour Sergeant – Rank up from Sergeant, usually appointed as Company Quartermaster Sergeant.

  Company Sergeant Major (Warrant officer 2) the Senior Non-Commissioned Officer in a Company.

  Corporal – Junior Non-Commissioned Officer (JNCO) commands a section.

  Lieutenant Colonel/Colonel – Battalion Commander/senior staff officer.

  2ndLieutenant/Lieutenant – Platoon Commander.

  Regimental Sergeant Major (RSM) (Warrant Officer 1). The Senior Non – Commissioned Officer in a Battalion. Holds a special and powerful place in the Battalion.

  Sergeant – Senior Non-Commissioned Officer (SNCO). Every Platoon has a Platoon Sergeant.

  Expressions

  Blighty – Britain.

  Blighty One – A wound that gets you back to Britain.

  No Man’s Land – The space between the front lines of armies facing each other.

  Stand Too – Around dawn when all soldiers man the trench, often used for inspection.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The photograph

  A cancer of bitterness spread through the Battalion on realising that it was a photograph that caused the death of the Old Man. Those who had waved their helmets and laughed along felt it the most as they saw the falsehood in it. Soldiers will always see through something like that.

  The Old Man might not have seen it at the time.

  The turning point came before they heard that the photograph had been published in a newspaper under some headline about how good the morale of the troops was, and then made into a postcard. That sealed it. But the bitterness started when the new RSM arrived.

  The Battalion had been on its way to the front, redeploying after a night’s rest. There was some joking amongst them, as they had heard that a push was coming. The photographer noticed this. “I want to capture the smiles and the humour of these men. They look happy, RSM.”

  “They have a good morale about them, I’ll give you that.” The ‘Old Man,’ the Regimental Sergeant Major, the Battalion’s most Senior Non-Commissioned Officer, stood fully six inches over the photographer. His words were strained out through a vast moustache which twitched with pride. He was proud of the morale. It was his battalion. He owned the men and their morale.

  He loved and was loved by almost every one of them, from the oldest hardest Senior Non-Commissioned Officer to the newest, palest, shaking recruit, to whom any harsh words were tempered with a whispered encouragement such as; ‘don’t worry son, you’ll soon get the hang of things. Remember the parade ground. React to sounds as you would to my voice. Look after yourself always and those around you.’ Sometimes he even put his arm around their shoulders.

  He had gathered the men in a wide, dry crater which was strangely clear of war rubbish, and big enough to accommodate the whole Battalion. They shouldn’t have been there, all grouped together. But the RSM took the risk in
order to have a private word with the men and get the best setting for the photograph.

  “I trust you all had a good sleep last night,” he said in his deep resonating voice which he hardly had to raise to address all five hundred men. “You will separate into your companies over the edge of the crater and move into your own areas. We move up after last light to relieve the; ahh humm.” He never disparaged another battalion by name in public. “They are a tired and dispirited lot. You will want to be like that many times in the future, as you have in the past…Try to resist those feelings. Try to maintain your self-respect and your spirit. Believe in yourselves… and look after each other.” He paused and searched the faces of the men, his men.

  “Now we have an unusual event, a photograph, for posterity. I want you to make the best of this, to show the people back home that we are up for this fight, any fight. Some of you have been here before. Some of you are first timers. Good luck to all of you.”

  He walked back to where the photographer had set up his stand, with the black box on top. “Now are we all set, sir?”

  “Yes, could they just move forward as groups from the other side over there and perhaps they could demonstrate their morale?” The photographer smiled at the energy in their movement and anticipation. He knew he could make a good picture.

  The RSM returned to the men. “Right as company groups; not a parade ground is it, just move forward across in front of the camera and show off a bit. Let’s have some helmets in the air and a laugh and a cheer perhaps.”

  Bayonets were not fixed. Rifles were slung over one shoulder. The older soldiers strode forward unworried by holes in the knees of their trousers, or mud caked puttees. They had had no resupply during the evening before, no chance to change clothes. The new reinforcements, of which there were a lot, had joined them, with their new uniforms. Then a hearty meal had come up with an extra ration of rum, followed by a long sleep, out of range of trench weapons.

  Bravo Company went first but they did not show quite enough enthusiasm and the photographer pursed his lips as if he was watching a football match where no effort was being displayed. He had a word with the RSM, who twirled his arms, pumping up support. He shouted to Alpha Company. They got the hang of it. “Come on Alpha, the number one and only,” shouted Ben in one of the sections. With that sort of encouragement they made a better effort. The photographer waved. He was happy.

  “Relax where you are,” called the RSM. Men found the nearest piece of raised ground at the side to sit on and pull out woodbines and pipes, creating a kind of gap in the middle which only the RSM and the photographer inhabited.

  A noise came as though the gods had screeched a sudden warning; alas too late. A thump followed, and dry mud started flying in the flash and smoke. They still had about six kilometres to go to the front but a stray Five-Nine shell had found the space. “Fuck this!” Men screamed fumbling for gas masks. No yellow gas emerged, but as the smoke cleared no sign could be seen of the RSM. The shell had made a direct hit on him, standing a little distance from the photographer savouring a quiet moment.

  Men searched around in vain. Word went round the Battalion that the only recognisable things they found of the RSM were his boots with the feet still in them. Of him there were only bloody bits and pieces of body and uniform. How could such a big heart and soul be brought down to a few pieces of flesh and bone and cloth and webbing? That cut men to their own bones. A body is a body, you can pay respects to it. But when the bits of it can hardly fill a few undignified sand-bags, men would find it more difficult to believe that the character and what was in the heart, had ever existed.

  The camera and the cameraman were still intact, battered, and in the case of the photographer concussed and with a piece of shrapnel embedded in his hand, but most photographic plates were intact, and they would be reproduced. “Won’t have the Old Man’s face in it though will it,” commented one of the SNCOs. They referred to the RSM as the Old Man in view of the service he had seen; from Omdurman and the Boer War. They would search for a picture that did show him, but none could be found, even though he had arranged for the photograph to be taken. “He was like a father to us, that Old Man,” added the newly promoted Sergeant from A Company, smoking in some rare evening sunshine outside the HQ dugout waiting to move up the same evening.

  “Better than a father. I hate my dad. He knows nothing about what we doing here. The Old Man knew everything,” replied the Company Sergeant-Major looking down at his neatly tied puttees, from ankle to just below the knee, covered in dry mud, the colour of the wood revetting they were sitting on. His helmet was off, leaving dark hair plastered with sweat to his forehead. He took a deep breath and shook his head momentarily, his eyes not seeing anything.

  “Maybe, they’ll make you RSM, Sar-Major,” said the Sergeant. He was aware that the Sergeant-Major’s influence on his own life would then increase.

  “Not me boy, they’ll send someone else in, mark my words.” He picked up his helmet, just as sounds emerged of shovels on soil, which the Sergeant knew to be a sign that it was time to get back to work. He was a bit peeved by the handle ‘boy’, which being newly promoted he had to accept, probably down to his small stature and inability to grow a decent moustache because of his blond hair.

  He stumbled over the lip of a shell hole to where his platoon was gathered. “Well don’t just sit there gawping at me, get yourselves spread out into section positions, get out of this crater, don’t want us caught napping as well.” Newly promoted or not he was determined to show his leadership. He scrambled each section corporal up to the lip of the crater to show their arcs of observation and fire, linking up to the other platoons whose positions had been indicated to him by the Sergeant-Major.

  “What’s occurring then Sarge?” asked one section corporal.

  “Don’t know yet, officers at their final briefing ain’t they. Once it’s dark we’ll move into our final position.”

  “But we thought it wasn’t final, just a holding position before the push forward.”

  “Like I said, don’t know yet. Wait till the officer returns.”

  They smoked and waited, looking moodily out over No Man’s Land, whatever they could see of it with darkness rapidly approaching.

  The Platoon Commanders returned, carefully boundering the craters, and gave their orders from folded canvas map cases, which hung around necks along with binoculars and gas respirator haversacks and pistol lanyards. Straps and slings and web belts and canvas pouches, some with ammo clips; uniforms creased with wear and rain and sleep and some bulging pockets hanging the uniform out of shape; weighed down every soldier. The officers incongruously also wore ties with a pin holding the collar tightly around the knot.

  The Battalion conducted the late evening relief in line impeccably, following tape that had been laid down by reconnaissance parties. But when the Old Man’s Battalion moved up into position there was much evidence that the morale of those relieved had been as he had predicted. Proper latrines had not been dug so there was the smell of fresh faeces everywhere. They did leave a sizeable stash of unused ammunition and enough shovels and tools to repair the trenches that they seemingly had not bothered to do.

  “Why didn’t they wait till they got back to their rest area, Corp?” asked Ben referring to the smell.

  “What does a dirty dog do in his territory as he leaves it,” commented Jack, Ben’s friend and rum partner, who was not new to the Section, or the Company.

  Such was the respect between units and the views of certain ‘old sweats’ who had been through much and become cynical.

  The trenches were in a very bad state. They had been blasted apart. There were not many deep shell holes. It was just a pockmarked patchwork. So men were lying almost in the open where previous shallow trench walls had been broken down.

  But the night was strangely quiet which encouraged the speculation that the Germans opposite supposedly at about four hundred yards, had moved out as well and not been relieved.


  In the morning they saw how bad the trenches were. The thought that maybe they would not be here long, encouraged a reluctance to start work on repairing them. A soldier sees no point in unnecessary work. His heart will never be in it. Winning the hearts of soldiers was something the Old Man did without effort. It came naturally to him. Some officers and Non-Commissioned Officers were natural leaders. It might have been their intelligence, humility, hard work or honesty that made them so. Bravery didn’t come into it. A man could be brave but regarded as incredibly foolish by his fellows and not therefore followed. Fear was the air they breathed. Courage was a moment, a reaching out beyond, or ignoring, the everyday calculation of an activity, whether something had to be done or not and the risk involved.

  Risk was also a commodity, to be traded. A leader had to take risks otherwise how could he ask his men to take them. Thus platoon commanders had to lead patrols out into No Man’s Land. They had to go on wiring parties. When an officer or NCO sat in his bunker, shaking and giving orders for this and that, without doing anything himself, he very soon lost his men.

  Knowing this unspoken contract, some officers chose not to give orders for anything, except when something was passed down. Orders from above were not part of the risk contract. They were simply being passed on.

  Had the Old Man been alive he would have toured the front line in the morning, immediately after Stand Too, quietly advising platoon commanders who seemed reluctant to do anything, of their housekeeping duties. ‘Need some protection down there, sir. Don’t leave those men in the open,’ he might have said. His priority was always to look after the men, which made every loss of life a tragedy rather than a normality.

  He didn’t deliberately give instructions for immediate work that would lead to men being at risk. When there was nothing to do, he favoured sleep under as much cover as possible. The men loved being chided for not being asleep. ‘Get under cover lad, get some sleep.’