CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The last night

THE NIGHT WAS STILL, warm, brilliantly moonlit.

Sergeant Ferrissey, commanding the Fifth Battalion’s last guard on British soil, moved quietly on his rounds. The moonlight cast shimmering tracks across the dark sea below and bathed the fields in white radiance; but Sergeant Ferrissey had no eyes for the loveliness of the night.

He was burning, aching inside his uniform for the company of a woman. Not for years had Sergeant Ferrissey gone so many days unconsoled; he looked down from the heights towards the town that lay in the shadows around the bay, asleep and silent except for the hum of the nightshift that came ceaselessly from the distant aircraft factory; he thought of the women down there in the darkness, moving softly about in curtained rooms, lying warm and lonely in their beds, smiling insolently across the throbbing machines in the factory; and he raged.

He closed his eyes and stood for a while listening to the distant, hypnotic hum from the factory. He let his fancy carry him away, swooping down through the warm night, to the empty, moonlit streets below. He could see himself running with giant, floating strides through the town, his boots thundering on the pavement; and all along the streets, the doors swinging slowly open and the women stretching out their warm and supple arms in invitation. He opened his eyes, the dream broken, and breathed deeply.

Someone would suffer for this. His strength was leaping and struggling within him. God help the first German I meet, he thought, and the muscles at the back of his hands tightened under the skin.

He continued on his rounds among the silent tents. The sentry on Number One Post was leaning dreamily over the wire fence, his rifle slung at his shoulder, looking down at the sea. The night cook was dozing in a chair by the warmth of his boiler. Outside one of the tents two men were sitting on the ground, talking quietly. Sergeant Ferrissey paused on his way.

‘Get to bed, lads.’

‘O.K. Sergeant. Good night,’ said Charlie Venable.

‘Good night.’

Lying in the stifling darkness inside the bell tent, Charlie Venable had been awakened by the sound of whimpering on the other side of the tent pole.

He lay for a moment listening, then raised himself on one elbow. Alfie Bradley was sitting up, his blanket heaped at his feet. His head was bowed, his shoulders were shaking.

Charlie whispered, ‘What’s up, mate?’

Alfie looked up, then began to sob again.

‘Dear, oh dear,’ said Charlie, ‘this won’t do. You’ll wake the others up in a minute. Get your head down, boy, an’ try to sleep. You’ll be all right.’

Alfie whispered weakly, ‘I’ve wet my blanket.’

‘Nothing to cry about, boy. Done worse than that in my time.’

Alfie shivered, ‘I could die, Charlie. I could die of shame, doing that.’