9

For some reason Bromsgrove was remembering its war dead.

There was a photograph of the town’s war memorial, so Michael skimmed the first section of text, and learned that the local regiment had fought in Flanders and then the Somme. The Allies were going to throw everything they had at the German defences, and – this was 1916 – the war would be won. The stalemate could not go on any longer, and the tactics were the only tactics anyone could think of. They had always worked in the past.

Michael had to put his face quite close to the display, because the writing was small. He knew that the soldiers would be annihilated – that almost went without saying. Young men from Bromsgrove had packed up their troubles and chugged down from this very spot, on steam trains. They had gone south, and then east to the sea, thence to set sail and be ‘entrained’ to what looked like villages all around the Somme – which Michael discovered from the map was a river.

He had assumed it was a town in France, or a region. In fact, it was one of several rivers in the area. There were so many words on the information boards, and so many pictures – it would take all afternoon to read everything. In one particular photograph, a man with a moustache was smiling at him. A boy sat close by, and it could have been himself, aged fourteen or fifteen. Michael put himself into the uniform, and imagined the excitement.

He would have asked questions.

‘Are we going to see action, sarge?’

‘I’m sure we will, son.’

‘How long till we get there?’

‘No idea.’

‘I heard it’s pretty much over!’ he’d have said. ‘We’re going to be stuck here and miss the show – aren’t we?’

They hadn’t missed the show, of course. They had departed, arriving finally at a camp where the waiting started all over again. Then, at last, they moved down to the lines, to replace those who had died, or needed rest. Hideous flares, and the whistling of the shells… he had heard the sound effects in films, and like every schoolboy he’d read the poetry and listened to the slow, sad opening of the ‘Last Post’. As a Boy Scout, he’d stood to attention with James and felt the curious ache of loss.

Bromsgrove station must have seen real tears, though: rivers of tears. Tears as the recruits lined up and left, and tears as their remains came back – if they ever did. They didn’t, because they were blown to pieces: that’s why there were war graves out in France. Again, he realised how little he knew about anything, and so he put his face closer still, and read more text: