Wasted Lives

By Terry Richard Stevens

Embark on a stirring journey through the harrowing trenches of WW1 and the quaint tranquillity of England’s countryside in Wasted Lives. As the war rages, two valiant young lieutenants find solace away from the front lines, convalescing in a serene country house. However, the peace is shattered when the estate becomes the stage for a sinister murder.

Bound by duty and haunted by the spectre of war, the duo finds themselves entangled in a dark mystery that threatens to unveil secrets that could change the course of their lives forever. With each unfolding clue, they venture further into a web of deceit, coming face to face with the harsh realities of war and the shadowy figures lurking in the peaceful English meadow.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Feb 2, 2024
• ISBN: 9781035823550

Terry Richard Stevens

Terry Richard Stevens was born in London. Moved abroad in 1974 and has been married since that same year. He has worked thirty years as a qualified social worker at a leading Oslo city hospital until his retirement.

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About the Author

Terry Richard Stevens was born in London. Moved abroad in 1974 and has been married since that same year. He has worked thirty years as a qualified social worker at a leading Oslo city hospital until his retirement.

Dedication

To

My dear sister, Janet,

My dear wife, Marit.

Thomas and Haakon,

Katie and Renate,

and all friends who have shown their support.

Copyright Information ©

Terry Richard Stevens 2024

The right of Terry Richard Stevens to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781035823543 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781035823550 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2024

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Part One

Prologue

I try hard to concentrate on my synchronised watch, which I am holding in my left hand. Its dial mesmerises me. My eyelids are heavy and I feel slightly dizzy. I am trembling slightly, whether from exhaustion or fear, I cannot tell. Neither do I dwell on its cause. I am almost past caring, existing in a dream-like state from day to day. I have no family, and no loved ones. The one girl I once imagined myself to be in love with, and who long ago loved me, has changed beyond recognition.

My closest friend of late has also returned to the front, and probable death. Most of my previous friends and acquaintances are dead. I have also been cheated of my rightful inheritance. My catalogue of woes also includes being under the suspicion of a murder that I didn’t commit, despite my immense disliking of the victim.

If I manage to cheat the probable death that will claim me, then I have nothing in life to return, or look forward to.

Five minutes to go. I glance up at my men in front of me in the trench. A tightly packed line of all shapes and sizes, hampered by fifty-five pounds of backpacks, facing the parapet. The ladders are in place, and the men await the signal from me, Captain William Samson, to send us all over the top to whatever fate awaits us. Their blood-drained faces reflect glassy stares. They are all tired, for no-one sleeps the few hours before a planned offensive, and uninterrupted sleep has evaded most of us for the previous five days in our frontline trench. We were due to be relieved when orders came to prepare for a vast offensive and our release from the frontline was postponed.

Some men mumble to their companions, a few shake hands even, but the majority are quiet. Sergeant Grant shouts the order to fix bayonets as the horrifying, deafening din of the barrage from our guns ceases, leaving us with ringing ears and partial deafness. The men fumble to obey Sergeant Grant. Someone’s unsteady hand drops their bayonet on the muddy duckboard. Wilkins. Grant does not reprimand him. It is not the time for reprimands. Grant sighs, picks it up and hands it back. Grant is a good sergeant. A seasoned veteran, who understands the feelings of the men lined in front of him.

Two minutes to go. Although the early morning is chilly, a trickle of sweat runs from my brow and irritates my nose. I wipe it away. Grant tells the men to stand by. I clasp my whistle between my teeth, to stop them chattering. I move forward to the ladder designated for Sergeant Grant and myself. There are two men designated to each ladder; the one on the right goes first. In our case, myself, as leader of our platoon. It is my job to encourage the men, waving my service revolver and blowing my whistle. Everyone is silent, awaiting my signal. To my utter dismay, I realise I have to urinate. Too late. I hear a whistle close by, and automatically blow mine. Two long blasts. I advance on rubbery legs towards the ladder.

Already we hear the chattering of the German machine guns, who were supposed to be decimated by the incessant barrage of our guns, sweeping the parapet as we climb over. On my left, someone slides back, already a casualty. A quick glance to right and left shows a long line of men, bayonets glinting in the early light. Already, some are lying still.

We are not running, we are walking in an orderly fashion, as if out for a stroll. We have been ordered to do so by the chiefs of staff, safely behind the lines. I defy them and zigzag slightly, keeping my head down, as if that would save me. I feel a warm patch of damp at the front of my trousers. My bladder has loosened. I hear cries and groans above the cacophony of the battle. Men are falling like dominoes…

1

I grew up with my parents in a simple country cottage in the village of Malling, Oxfordshire, with two people who obviously did not like each other. My mother, Alice, was a skilled seamstress, my father, Joseph, was a porter at the local railway station. We were very far from being comfortably off, but I think we had all our very basic needs covered. My father would invariably come home from work, intoxicated in varying degrees, after his custom of stopping off at the White Horse public house for beer on the way home from the station.

A young child can be very perceptive. I soon began to wonder why, if not understand, the reason my father was cruel to my mother. She in turn was too afraid to show many signs of affection towards me, at least when my father was in the vicinity. Any sign of this would be enough to inflame his temper, at best raising his voice, and at worst treating my mother to a slap around the head, not bothering that I was witness to these things from where I cowered in a corner. (I could also be on the receiving end of his open palm if I was unlucky enough to be in his way, which was often.)

As my mental capacity increased with my chronological age, I also began to wonder why my mother chose to live with this fearful brute of a man, who had never shown the least affection for either of us. Although I lacked the intelligence to solve the puzzle, I began to suspect that his outbursts of temper and cruelty had, for reasons unclear, something to do with me. Sometimes, when he was in a calmer mood, I was aware of him watching me, but always with a grim expression on his face. Never a smile, never a word. I never saw him smile—I don’t think he ever did and he never spoke directly to me, except in a loud voice when chastising me. That was my conclusion then. It wasn’t until years later that I heard the whole truth—from my mother—but by then, it was almost too late to salvage anything from the damaged relationship between us. My character was moulded into the person I became, years ago, by their behaviour, especially my father’s. The truth, when I finally heard it as a young man, only added to my burden in a way. Little wonder that I grew up a taciturn individual, wary of everyone and everything.

I started at the village school at the age of seven. It was my first contact with other children. I use the word contact in its loosest sense, for I had little previous experience of meeting others, either adults or children. My communication with the few individuals I had met before my schooling began were only limited to very short verbal exchanges, or grunts.

School was an enigma as far as I was concerned. We were about twenty pupils, all told, between the ages of seven and fourteen. There were two classes, one for the youngest, and one for the eleven to fourteen age group. Discipline was strict, but strictness was no stranger to me. I had already subconsciously accepted that as a way of life, without giving it any thought. What baffled me most was the break-times, and the apparent happiness shown by my peers, as they ran, laughed, and played, seemingly without a care in the world. Didn’t they have homes, just like mine, where laughter and any sign of frivolity brought swift retribution in the form of punishment. I was invited to play with them, but was afraid to, in case my father heard of my taking part. I merely stood around watching, treated after a while as a stranger by my fellow pupils. After a week or two of this, three boys in my class approached me during one such break. I suddenly realised that the rest of the children had ceased their playing, and had formed a somewhat ragged semi-circle at a safe distance behind the three boys.

What you staring at, stupid, snarled their obvious leader, a pasty-faced, black-haired individual, whose name I knew. Lister.

Just watching, that’s all, I shrugged, answering in my usual flat tone.

Just watching, he mimicked in an exaggerated high voice, turning to his audience. Only his two companions laughed. Well, watch this, he said, turning back to me. He held up his hands in a pugilist stance, which my father sometimes did. He made a jab at my face, which I dodged, something I had become adept at from home. There were a few gasps, especially from the girls. Lister looked slightly surprised. He threw another punch, which I also avoided. I adopted a similar stance to my adversary. He tried another jab. I knocked it away.

Lister was a bully, but lacked any real skill. He was caught off balance, but not for long.

Amid gasps and some girls’ screams, he made a rush at me, leaving his guard down. I automatically struck out and connected with his chest, more by luck than judgment. With an oooff, he doubled up. Someone at the back cheered. A couple of the girls clapped their hands. My opponent turned and glared menacingly at them. He was losing face, and didn’t relish the situation at all. Up went his guard again and another fierce jab came my way. I feinted, but not fast enough. He clipped my ear. I struck out automatically, catching him on the left jaw, again more by luck. This time, he went down.

Encouraged by the ensuing cheers, I held up my guard, standing over him. He half-rolled and tried to grab my legs. I was too fast for him. He attempted to get up, and halfway in this exercise, I hit him again on the same place. He stayed down longer this time. The crowd dispersed slowly, along with Lister’s two cronies. I backed off to a safe distance, and watched him closely as he regained his feet slowly, slightly befuddled. (In retrospect, it was fortunate for both of us that we were both seven-year-olds. Had we been some years older, some serious personal damage might have been done.) I wandered away. Someone blocked my way. A girl. Sally, who was in my class. She smiled at me.

Why don’t you come and play with us? she asked simply, fixing me with her large, cornflower-blue eyes. I shall never forget her almost pleading look or the soft tone of her voice. It would stay in my mind’s eye for years. Back then, I didn’t know how to respond. We stood regarding each other for a few moments. Her smile disappeared, but she still held the pleading look.

Alright, I finally managed to whisper. She smiled again and turned away from me, expecting me to follow. Just then the bell was rung, summoning us to our lessons once more. I was soundly caned—along with Lister—for the escapade in the playground.

I recollect being treated with a little more respect from my classmates afterwards, and I was never bullied again. (Lister died from diphtheria a couple of years later, without us never exchanging further words.) I even began taking the chance of playing football with the other boys, and sometimes I skipped with the girls, along with a few other braver boys who no one dared accuse of being a sissy. Sally, I’m sure, liked me quite a lot. Alas, her feelings were not reciprocated in the way that she perhaps hoped. I just didn’t know how to show love. I liked being in her company. She was an extraordinary pretty girl, and this in itself held an automatic attraction for me. Just how to follow up this puppy love I had no idea. If I had showed some positive response, perhaps the future might have turned out more to my advantage. And Sally’s, poor girl.

Perhaps…

I suppose, if I am completely honest, I have to confess to growing to like life at the village school. I cannot remember finding schoolwork particularly easy, but on the other hand, I certainly never experienced much difficulty with the tasks set before me. I immersed myself in them fully, mainly to escape the soul-destroying existence of home life, where there was little change. Apart from the actual academic aspect, there