The Writing on the Wall

By Denise Cory Blake

There was to be no public display of emotion at the train station. The Wharton brothers, Joe, Harry, and Ernie, strode off to war, grins etched on their faces. Out -of-step strides carried them through the cheers that echoed by. Joe, the eldest of the brothers, his eyes never still, searched the crowd desperately for a glimpse of his girl Dulcie, where was she? whilst his mind replayed the sombre farewell scenes of home. The disconsolate look on his father’s face, his mother’s courage as she fought the tears, the urgent hugs from his sister Cissy. The thuds of their regimented strides resounded eerily through the streets, swallowed up by the crowds, as the three marched of to war, and into history.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Oct 27, 2020
• ISBN: 9781665581592

Denise Cory Blake

I have been writing historical novels for the last four or five years now. This is my latest offering, born of an inquisitive, inquiring mind, which despite my advancing years refuses to lay dormant. I keep coming up with new storylines. Long may I do so!

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

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They stood within the trenches, in untidy ranks, their faces anxious, expectant, upturned to the heavens, some with prayers on their lips, others watching their mates, trying to gain what comfort they could from their close proximity to one another.

All waited, terrified, as those last moments of reflective quiet lingered, after the long, deafening bombardment of their own big guns, the belching, bellowing Big Berthas, the men called them, that spewed thousands of shells at their enemy, before the shrill blast which would send them over the top.

There was a heavy stillness in the cold morning air, as heavy as the mud which clung to their boots that clung to their very souls. Adrenaline coursed through their bodies, fast and furious at the thought of the coming battle, yet another godforsaken battle. There had been so many abortive attempts to defeat their enemy with their ever-accurate machine guns and shellfire, so many lives sacrificed, so many lives lost amongst the ranks of the London Rifle Brigade, 10th Battalion, a Pal’s brigade, all London boys from around Plaistow and Canning Town.

Fix bayonets! the sergeant barked, the command echoing up and down the lines. Some men fumbled to obey, their nerves betraying them, or they were young, raw recruits, unsure of what to do; others slotted them into place effortlessly, by this time well versed in the process.

Then, as the officer’s eyes twitched nervously, he flipped open his holster and withdrew his revolver, checking his watch for the umpteenth time. With the whistle still clamped between his lips, a shell landed amongst them, not more than a few feet away from Ernie Wharton, his young face seeking out the first of the sun’s rays amidst the swirling morning mist.

Ernie, his steel helmet clamped tight to his head, the leather strap which bound it chafing beneath his chin, turned towards the blast, when he should have cowered away from it, to see his brother Harry blown nearly apart in front of his very eyes; the metal helmet he wore gave him no protection at all, as the blast had been a direct hit. He’d been plastered by his brother’s blood and gore. The press of bodies had pushed them apart a little time before. Harry’s anxious eyes had continually sought out those of his brother, casting reassuring glances over the heads of the intervening men, seeking to give him some comfort before the battle commenced.

If he was able, he’d hang back, once into no man’s land, to get closer to him during the advance towards the enemy lines. If it hadn’t had been for this press of men which had driven them apart when it did, then he would have died in the blast, along with his brother; that would have been a certainty.

As it was, the men stepped around the bodies (or what was left of them), never giving them a glance, their faces hard, as if set in stone, as they followed their officer over the top. Some had quivering lips and faltering footsteps, and their nerves forbade their legs to obey the commands of either their heads or their officers. They were prodded on by their fellow soldiers. It was that or the disgrace of being labelled a coward, followed by fatal consequences.

Ernie had been paralysed by the shock of his brother’s death, rooting him to the spot; the blood drained from his strained features, his limbs turned to water, and he failed to hear the shrill whistle that sent the others to their deaths, nor could he comprehend its meaning. He did not hear it, so how could he respond to it? He was motionless; the rictus of the moment transfixed him, comprehending nothing going on around him. Like a sudden flick of a light switch, he had withdrawn into a world of his own, a boyhood world of his own making, where nothing could penetrate or reach him, where he was safe, where there was nothing but blue skies, green grass, the twitter of the birds in the trees above him, and the sweet, gentle voice of his mother calling him in for his supper. His mind, at least, was no longer in the trenches. It had retreated to a place of safety, where none could reach.

He felt not the jostle and urgency of the men who shoved against him and passed him to scramble over the parapets, out into no man’s land, to become the targets for the deadly machine-gunners and snipers who lay concealed in the shell craters and abandoned shell-pocked buildings, ready to pick them off, one by one.

Joe, Ernie and Harry’s elder brother, was one of their number. He would be out there somewhere, his sniper’s rifle poised, ready. The last time Ernie had spoken to him, he had declared quietly, as much to himself as to his brother, that this was a despicable way to wage war. It gave the man at the end of his sights no chance whatsoever, yet perhaps, it was better, cleaner than the long, lingering death of the wounded hung up on the barbed wire encasing the trenches. The wire-cutting patrols of the night before had done their best to cut a way through the enemy wire. Joe had watched them from his hiding place; they had been unaware of his presence, but still, in the dawn light, the cruel, sharp barbs caught and held them fast as they advanced.

A couple of unarmed conchies, stretcher-bearers, had followed the wire-cutting patrols out into no man’s land, in the hopes that they’d give them some protection as they rescued the wounded men still living on the wire. Unprotected, harried by German snipers themselves, these conscientious objectors, or conchies, as they were called, not only faced other men’s scorn and abuse, but in some cases, they put themselves deliberately in danger to save their trapped comrades.

They were all brave men but were not acknowledged as such. Their strongly held religious beliefs or moral code forbade them from killing another human being, enemy or not. They refused to bear arms because of it, but this did not make them cowards; far from it, although the newspapers of the period tried to label them as such. But all such propaganda, parading as news, which was put about for civilian readership was distorted, dishonest, and full of half-truths and little else. In reality, it could be no other, for to have disclosed the awful reality of the monumental casualties would have been a monumental blunder, which few in authority would have survived. How could the government admit to the appalling casualties, the indecisions, the errors of judgement, of those in command, which cost so many lives yet achieved so little in reality?

One of their number, Caleb Lucas Tatum by name, was a passing acquaintance of Joe’s; he could not call him a friend, for he acknowledged no man as that in this hell of a place. He had been studying to be a doctor when war broke out, and when he had declared himself to be a conscientious objector, he suffered his family’s complete abandonment and rejection. To make matters even worse for him, his own father, an upright pillar of society, being an alderman and justice of the peace, had presented him with a white feather, a mark of extreme cowardice in the public’s view, for refusing to bear arms for his country. His entire family proceeded to disown him, but Caleb’s resolve had not wavered in the slightest degree. This very ordinary-looking man, with tousled, mousey brown hair, his face haggard and drawn, had the most expressive and sorrowful dark eyes; if one looked into them deep enough, one could almost glimpse the sorrows of the world in their depths, as if he carried them all in his very soul.

He appeared to share, if not suffer, the pain of the injured, as he so tenderly tried to minister to their wounds, summoning up a kindly, gentle smile of reassurance as he cared for them. A man of average height and build, thin and bony, he was quite intelligent and held the view that as he wanted to be a doctor, in order to save lives, not to take them, nothing would shake him from this resolve.

Even his everyday existence was made harder by the cruelty and contempt he had to take from others, be it verbal or physical, especially his sergeants and officers, who had no time for him and his fellow conchies. They gave them the worst duties possible. His shoulders sagged with fatigue, his footsteps as weary as his abused body, yet his strength of character somehow sustained him through it all. His deepest regret remained that he had not been allowed to take a position as a hospitable orderly which, he felt, would have made better use of his skills.

Joe admired his guts, when all was said and done, and they spent time together over a quiet smoke whenever the chance presented itself. They were of the same age, twenty-five, and had turned their backs on the common views of the multitude. They had different ways and were from completely different backgrounds; one was middle class and very well educated, while the other was from working-class roots. They were freethinkers who refused to have the views of others foisted upon them. Yet there was between them a companionship, an understanding, an awareness of each man’s individual suffering. It was a common bond that held them fast, a bond, as unlikely as it was, forged between them; a meeting of two diverse independent minds, not always in agreement, but in that was the strength of their kinship. They came from such different backgrounds, yet the trust between them was so absolute that not only did their lives depend on it during those dark days of war, their unspoken thoughts and a spirit of comradeship resonated between them, like the barbed wire that stretched between them and their common enemy.

The wire, when not bogged down in the mud or heavy with bodies, swayed in the penetrating gusts of wintry downpours; it gave melancholy voice to the poor dead souls submerged in the mire of what was called no man’s land, for few lived to tell the tale of its bravery and courage. The war asked much of them, and they gave unstintingly in return, for king and country, throwing themselves ardently into any battle, the thrust of the bayonet charge, rifles primed and ready, gun metal red and hot in their sweaty grasp, faces set hard, eyes fixed rigidly on the distant horizon of the enemy trench. Only a few deathly yards separated them, the killing ground, where rhyme or reason fled their consciousness. The camaraderie of death awaited.

Where do you hail from then, Caleb? Joe asked companionably of his friend. He knew he was breaking all his own reservations about not getting too attached to anyone, but he felt drawn to Caleb, despite this. There were times that he, too, felt lonely.

Well, my family home is in the Finsbury Park area of London. That’s where I grew up, but as my family have disowned both myself and my views, I guess I am now homeless, a wandering vagabond, with nowhere better to be than this wondrous place, was his somewhat sardonic response.

That sounds rough. My family would always be there for me, no matter what I chose to believe or what I chose to do with my life. I am absolutely sure of that. Joe exhaled sharply, almost in disbelief at Caleb’s remarks. He could never image his family being anything less than supportive. Though in truth, he had never wanted to be any more than a haulier, like his dad. That’s where his heart lay.

You are fortunate indeed, my friend. I went through a formal tribunal when conscription was brought in, and when I still refused to join the army, I was imprisoned in Winchester Jail. It was like nothing I had ever experienced before. I had been brought up to the finer things of life, so it was hard, very hard indeed. He spoke of it in a matter-of-fact way, not out of wanting pity for himself; he was far beyond that, even if he had recognised it as such, which he never had. The only plus side was that I was interned with a lot of like-minded people. He took a long drag of his cigarette before continuing, If my will had been stronger, I would have refused to take any part in this war. There were many so incarcerated within those prison walls that felt so, and were stronger minded than I, but as I reflected on my decision, and I had plenty of time to do so, I found that if I agreed to undertake a non-combatant role, then I could still be of use to my fellow man. It seemed preferable to being locked up indefinitely, enduring the senseless brutality of hard labour imposed on us by the prison wardens.

I can hardly fathom what they did to you and those other men Caleb, Joe responded, with a sympathetic shake of his head. "It doesn’t make much sense to me at all, to treat men like that, but nothing about these times does. War strips men