No Man's Land

Christmas Eve 1914 the shelling slowed towards nightfall and by 10 p.m. it has ceased entirely. The quietness was almost unbearable. Standing in the trench almost knee deep in thick gooey slime Private Albert Bowdell, a fresh faced nineteen year old, listened hard but all he could hear was his own heart beat. Christmas day would be a good time for the Germans to launch a surprise attack he thought god I hope they don't. He cupped his hands around his cigarette and drew in the comforting smoke. He was deep in the trench so there was no chance of a sniper seeing him. He exhaled slowly listening to the sound of his own breath.

Faintly at first but gradually growing stronger he heard singing, disembodied voices floating in the ether. He looked down the trench but could see no one except the next sentry ten yards away drawing on his pipe. The voices grew louder and he cocked his ear straining to hear. The words were strange but the tune was instantly recognisable “Stille nacht heilige nacht.” Bloody ‘ell he thought it’s the Hun singing Silent Night. A strongly accented voice carried on the wind “Merry Christmas Tommy.”

He felt his spirits lift for the first time in days “Merry Christmas Fritz” he roared back.

The canvass flap of the dugout lifted and Captain Rupert Fitzwilliam Charles Bingley-Fortescue emerged looking grim. “What the hell’s going on here Bowdell”? he demanded sternly.

“Oh Jerry is singing carols sir and wishing us merry Christmas sir”

“And did I hear you shouting back Bowdell?”  

“Yes sir” Albert straightened himself up to the attention position.

“Well don’t, d’you hear?” That could be construed as fraternising with the enemy, court martial, shot at dawn, you understand?”

Albert suddenly felt depressed again “Yes sir, sorry sir, won’t happen again sir.” He knew from long experience what words of contrition Bingley-Fortescue wanted to hear.

The captain eyed the private with distain the lad was a damn good batman and always kept his kit in good order but, he thought, this man doesn’t know his place. The other men were easy to handle but Bowdell, the son of his father’s head gamekeeper, had won a scholarship to the grammar school and by all accounts had done rather well. He lived on the estate in the tied cottage with his parents but, breaking with tradition, he didn’t work for the family instead his keen intelligence and hard work had secured him a post in the local bank.  

Albert Bowdell had a way of showing an uncommon initiative that disturbed the captain.  He’d overheard him in a village speaking very good French to a pretty girl sourcing extra rations and asking for a date. He suspected this common soldier’s knowledge of the language was better than his own. He didn’t like that; he didn’t like the man’s air of independence or the way his fellows looked upon him as a natural leader.

In Bingley-Fortescue's aristocratic view men of the lower social orders as he liked to refer to them were there to obey his orders instantly and without question nothing short of grovelling subservience suited the captain. When addressing his brother officers he was all charm and politeness always smiling and obliging but, when dealing with his men, he was a cold martinet who would punish a man at the drop of a hat.  

After one particular kit inspection back in England a comrade had remarked to Albert that the captain had looked down his nose at his immaculate kit laid out on the soldier's bed ‘like he’d just been presented with a freshly laid turd’ was the soldier's way of expressing it. Finding no fault with the man’s kit he had flicked several items off his bed with his swagger stick and simply said “Not good enough do it again” and walked on to the next fellow.

Another reason the captain felt slightly uneasy in the presence of his batman was that he had shot the lad’s father. Bowdell senior, as head gamekeeper, had been in charge of the beaters on a pheasant shoot driving the birds onto the guns. The beaters were quite close when the safety whistles blew to stop the shoot. Rupert had been aiming at a bird at that very moment. The bird had unexpectedly dived low and Rupert, who should have held fire, let fly hitting Bowdell senior in the left arm.


Rupert had been feeling rather anxious and out of sorts all that morning and his usual excellent tally of birds was well down largely due to the huge amount of champagne he’d drunk the night before. To make matters worse he’d bet that bragging swine Ellcott fifty guineas he’d do better than him. That now looked like a very forlorn hope.

It wasn’t the money that bothered Rupert that wasn’t even a consideration; it was the fact that Ellcott would be crowing about it for weeks damn his eyes and now this bloody fellow had gotten himself in front of his gun at the wrong time damn him. The day, he thought, was completely buggered. He felt not the slightest remorse for having shot the man but he put on a concerned face and made contrite noises in front of his peers. One had to keep up appearances.

“We’ll say no more about it this time Bowdell just make sure my Sam Browne is gleaming tomorrow  and my pistol is clean I’m off to HQ early.”  

“Yes sir. Goodnight Sir.” Half an hour after his dressing down Albert was relieved of his sentry duty and made his way to the dugout where he would start work cleaning his officer’s kit long into the night by the pallid light of a single oil lamp.

Albert had been brought up on the estate of Bullington House a large country pile set in a thousand prime acres on the Welsh borders. He’d been taught to watch his P’s and Q’s in front of the gentry, always to be polite and compliant with their every wish. As a boy he had had contact with the young Master Rupert on several occasions mostly during school holidays and had not enjoyed any of them. Rupert boarded at one of the better public schools so Albert only saw him in the holidays.

One day Rupert had approached him and asked if they taught boxing at his school. Albert said no only football and rugby.  Rupert had then told Albert he was going to teach him how to box. Albert knew better than to refuse this son of his father’s employer and accepted. On this pretext Rupert, who was three years older than Albert and of bigger build, had given the younger boy a savage beating eventually walking away smiling saying in his plumy accent “that’s the way we deal with clever little shits at my school.”

Albert had learned from a parlour maid that Rupert had actually suggested to his father that they find a new head gamekeeper and throw Bowdell and his useless family out now that the man was a cripple but Baronet Bingley-Fortescue senior, a man of strong moral character, wouldn’t hear of it.

It was around ten o’clock on Christmas morning, a cold mist hung in the dank air when a German voice broke the unnatural silence. “Hey Tommy can we come out and bury our sniper you killed last week?” Bill Whatley Albert’s platoon sergeant suspected a trick at first but peeped through the donkey’s ears telescope. There was a German soldier standing on the lip of his trench armed only with a spade. The officers had all gone to a meeting i.e. having a Christmas drink behind the lines so Sgt. Whatley took charge.

“OK” yelled Whatley “but no tricks or we’ll blast you.”

Three more Germans then appeared and moved to the spot about twenty five yards in front of their lines to where the body of their fallen comrade lay. They dug the grave right there. There was no point taking the decomposing body anywhere else as one piece of mud was very much like another.

After the funeral party had left there was a brief silence then a strong Germanic tenor voice started to sing 'Stille Nacht' again. He was soon joined by other voices and when they had finished the British soldiers, not to be out done, sang ‘Oh Come All Ye faithful” with great gusto. How the next move came about Albert had no idea but suddenly the German’s were out of their trenches and walking across no man’s land waving bottles of drink one of them was even kicking a football. Before Albert could even think what he was doing he was following the rest of the men out of the trench to join the throng.

A large German corporal came up to Albert hand outstretched smiling “Merry Christmas have a drink Tommy” he said thrusting a bottle of schnapps into his hand. Albert thanked him and took a long swig.

“My name is Albert what’s yours?” he said handing back the bottle.

“I’m Hans, not bloody Fritz!” the man replied with a friendly wink “And I just knew you wouldn’t be called Tommy either”

“No I’m definitely Albert” he laughed. “I’m a bank clerk by trade what do you do and how come you speak such good English Hans?”

“I used to represent a company selling toys we Germans make very good toys you know. I often visited London indeed my brother has a toy shop there so I used to visit him quite regularly. He’s married to an English lady, been there fifteen years.”

Albert suddenly felt deeply despondent, like a lot of intelligent people he thought a better way of settling differences between nations could and should be found. “Why the hell are we killing each other Hans?"

Hans smiled he liked this fresh faced young Englishman. “Because we’re at war that’s all he said with a philosophical shrug "countries sometimes go to war and this is one of those sad times.”

Albert, sensing this friendly man was sympathetic to his views, told him of his sadness at the two countries being at war. “You Germans are Saxons right?” He didn’t wait for an answer but continued in the same breath “we British are Anglo Saxons we’re cousins for god’s sake. Your Kaiser is the grandson of our late queen Victoria and her husband Albert, after whom I’m named, was German so what the hell is it all about Hans?” Albert paused for a second but receiving no answer went on “Why should an ordinary British bank clerk be sent to kill a German farmer in France or a German toy seller sent to butcher a British bank clerk?” His large expressive brown eyes reflected his sadness and Hans felt for this young man.

“I don’t have those answers Albert, I don’t think even the generals do. We are just ‘kleine leute’ (Little people) you and I we have no choice but to do as we’re told.” He took the proffered cigarette from Albert and sniffed it appreciatively before accepting a light and drawing deeply.

They talked on for some time sharing the German’s schnapps and Albert’s fine Virginia cigarettes that Hans liked so much better than his own. At one point they were even drawn briefly into the kick about the others were having. It wasn’t a proper game of football as the churned soaked earth would not permit that.

They talked and drank some more, they mixed with the other soldiers but somehow kept coming back and talking to each other showing family photos joking and complaining about their respective officers. The things all soldiers do but usually confined to the ones on their own side.

After a couple of hours people started drifting back to their own trenches and when the officers returned the stragglers were promptly recalled.
  
Bingley-Fortescue was not pleased. He was not pleased at all. Slightly the worse for the brandy he had consumed he looked balefully at Albert. “Just last night I warned you about fraternising with the enemy and not twelve hours later I find you doing just that.” The officer’s voice was quiet and had a deadly calm quality to it. Albert knew his captain well and recognised this to be a danger sign.

“Sorry sir, I just followed the others sir.”  Albert stood rigidly to attention looking the officer in the eye.

“I didn’t warn the others Bowdell but I did warn you so I’m putting you on a charge of one: wilfully disobeying a lawful command and two: fraternising with the enemy. Do you understand?


Albert’s heart sank. Oh god was he going to be shot by his own side? “Yes sir.” Was all he could manage in a wooden voice that betrayed no emotion.

The captain paused for a moment eyeing his batman with a mixture of curiosity and a grudging admiration at the lad’s calmness. He knew Albert was an intelligent lad and the full implications of what he’d just said would have sunk in immediately. Still he thought an example needed to be set so the other men knew orders were to be obeyed instantly and without question at all times. Discipline must be maintained and by demonstrating that even the cleverest of them were no match for their superiors it would send out a strong message in a clear way understandable by all.

“Do you realise the full implications of these charges Bowdell?” There was a cruel half gloating note in the officer’s voice now. Before Albert could answer Bingley-Fortescue went on “each charge alone could see you imprisoned for a very long time if not executed, both together will almost certainly put you before a firing squad. Not only that but the disgrace brought on your family will mean they would no longer be employable on my father’s estate. Thanks to you your father and mother will be sent away penniless and homeless.”

The captain watched carefully for a reaction but was disappointed when Albert merely replied “yes sir” in a flat voice that again bore no emotion. “Am I under arrest sir?”

Bingley-Fortescue eyed Albert Bowdell with something between contempt and pity he was surprised the lad had not sought to mitigate his behaviour, not pleaded for another chance, not that he would have been given one. The captain replied, a casual almost bored note creeping into his voice “my kit needs cleaning and I’ll report to this matter to HQ first as to the best place to send you in the meantime get about your duties. Oh and send Sgt Whatley to see me at once.” The captain waved a dismissive hand to indicate he’d finished for the moment.

The generals in their mighty wisdom had decided that this Christmas day meeting with the other side would be extremely bad for morale back home. In order to keep up the recruitment numbers the Germans had to be vilified, portrayed as the Hun, evil villains capable of bashing out new born babies brains with their rifle butts not ordinary decent young blokes like their men folk. No, courts martial for these ‘offences’ were quite out of the question as was any mention in the press. Best it was buried, hushed up for the sake of the war effort.

This decision left Bingley-Fortescue with a large splash of egg on his face. He told Albert in his condescending way that he had reconsidered in light of the devastation it would cause the soldier’s family them being loyal family servants and all. But he gave him the sternest of warnings that should he do anything remotely like this again he would shoot Albert himself.

An uneasy truce settled between the captain and his batman neither of them spoke to the other unless it was strictly necessary. This went on for a week or so until the day of the big push, the New Year offensive. The artillery barrage had started at two o’clock the day before the attack and continued until dawn when it abruptly ceased. Whistles blew and they went over the top. Albert had to stick close to his captain as he was his runner and would carry messages to other parts of the line as and when told.

One thing no one could accuse Bingley-Fortescue of was cowardice he charged forward like a man possessed pistol in hand shouting encouragement to his company at the top of his voice. They had progressed about twenty yards toward the enemy lines when the machine gunners opened up cutting large swathes through the attackers. Men were falling on either side of Albert but by some miracle it seemed he and his officer were left unharmed. It went on like this for the next few minutes. The insane stutter of machine guns, men’s screams as they were hit and now the German artillery had opened up the shells making orange splashes of death among them.

“Keep going men we’re nearly there” yelled Bingley-Fortescue just a second before a bullet ripped through his thigh right. Albert went to his assistance as a bullet passed through his sleeve without touching him. Albert dragged the pale faced officer into a deep shell hole and dived in with him just as a shell exploded nearby the concussion from it deafening and disorienting him.

“We’ll be alright here for the moment sir” said Albert recovering slightly “I’ll get you patched up as best I can sir.”
“Get me back to our lines Bowdell now I simply have to report that the Hun have twice as many machine guns as we anticipated.” Even hurt as he was the captain still had the ring of authority in his voice. Albert bent down and got an arm under the officer’s shoulder. He lifted him with some difficulty then half carried half dragged him up the slope of the shell hole. Immediately his head cleared to top a machine gunner sprayed a burst at them narrowly missing both. Albert dropped his charge and they slid down the muddy side together into the stinking pool of slime below.

“I’m afraid they’ve got our range sir” he said “we’ll have to wait until dark before we move.

“Hell man if you can’t get me back then get back yourself I’ll write a message for you to take to headquarters it’s your duty to get it there as quickly as possible we can’t wait all bloody day HQ simply have to know about those guns.“ Rupert took the field notebook from his pocket and hurriedly scribbled a note, signed it and handed it to Albert.

Albert looked doubtful “But sir if I try now I won’t make it at least I’ll have a chance in the darkness.” Bingley-Fortescue reached for his pistol dangling from the lanyard around his shoulder slowly he pointed it at Albert and even more slowly cocked it.

“I told you I’d shoot you myself if you failed to carry out my orders” he said in a flat hard voice. “Last chance Bowdell.”

Albert looked down the barrel of the big clumsy looking Webley pistol. He stared for a moment in mute defiance “Well if you shoot me that’s both of us buggered then” he said sullenly omitting the ‘sir’ in his address a point not missed by the officer.

The pistol sounded loud in the confines of the shell hole the bullet striking the earth a mere two inches from Albert’s head. “The next one kills you Bowdell now do as I say.” Albert moved slowly towards the stricken man his anger didn’t show but he wanted to kill this brash arrogant bastard. He took the message and put it in his pocket without a word then started toward lip of the shell crater. He got a little further this time as the machine gunner waited wanting a bigger target. Just as he pressed the trigger to release his fatal burst a British bullet glanced off his gun with a loud whine startling him and causing him to jerk as he fired.

The bullets went low but came close splashing around Albert’s feet one of them taking off two of Albert’s toes. He screamed with pain and fell backwards down the slope. Albert felt the slime close over his head the agony from his foot momentarily forgotten in his desperation to surface and spit out the choking slime that had filled his mouth. Taking great gasps of air Albert, now on his hands and knees, looked around him and saw his captain looking at him coldly. So you didn’t make it Bowdell where are you hit?”

“My foot, they got my bloody foot” Albert was not only in pain but he felt angry with this man who was prepared to sacrifice his life to deliver information the generals were probably well aware of anyway.
“No bloody thanks to you Bowdell you incompetent bastard.” There was a savagery in the man’s voice now. Usually so controlled in his viciousness he was in great pain now and a feeling of helplessness and frustration engulfed him.

Around them the attack had faltered and those who were able had staggered back to their lines helping what wounded they could. The moans of the other wounded and dying that couldn’t be saved were pitiful to hear. One poor soul was repeatedly calling for his mother his cries getting weaker and weaker until they finally stopped after what had seemed like an eternity.

Albert dug in his pocket and produced a battered packet of cigarettes. He lit one and handed it to the captain “Smoke”? Bingley-Fortescue took the offered cigarette ignoring the insolence of the lack of a ‘sir.’ Albert lit one for himself and sank back against the mud wall of their prison. He eyed his companion speculatively. “They’ll probably come at last light to either finish us off or take us prisoner.” Albert said dully “Either way if we try to get out of here again we’ll be dead and now I’m wounded too I won’t be able to carry you.

Still refusing to use a respectful ‘sir’ address Albert watch his captain’s reaction and seeing none said peevishly “If you’re thinking of shooting me them bloody well get on with it you miserable bastard.”

The officer looked at him with a cold hatred. “You are an insolent bastard Bowdell and no mistake. Well let me make it clear to you that if we do get out of this mess I’ll see you court martialled for this insubordination.”

Albert couldn’t have cared less at that moment his foot was throbbing he was seriously thirsty and he was both physically and emotionally exhausted. His officer was speaking again. ”I’ll make certain your family get thrown off the estate too they’ll die in penury and all due to you Bowdell all due to you.” He paused briefly then went on: "I believe your cousins work for Mr Allcott? Well they can kiss their working lives goodbye too. Off with no references, no one will employ them ever. He spat out the last word with an angry shout.

Albert dragged himself over to where the wounded man had ceased his diatribe for the moment and was sucking on his cigarette. He was filled with a cold rage, trembling with anger and now and beyond caring what happened to him the arrogance of this man who thought he could control him by threatening his family was just too much.

Albert knocked the cigarette out of the captain’s hand and gripped him by the collar. Utter shock and surprise registered on Bingley-Fortescue’s face. ”Listen to me you over privileged prick” he shouted “I’m tired of your bullying, tired of you treating me as less than dog shit on your boots. Who the fuck do you think you are eh? So you live in a big house with servants to wipe your arse, so your daddy has a lot of money and you feel so bloody superior to everyone else. Why? What have you ever done? What can you do? You can’t even clean your own kit and you call yourself a soldier? If I could find my rifle I’d blow your stupid useless bloody head off!”

Albert was spent now he sunk down beside the wounded officer breathing heavily. Both men were silent the captain stunned at the venom in Albert’s voice then, mercifully, it started to rain. They lay with their mouths open to the sky every drop they caught a blessed relief. Hours went by as they drifted in and out of consciousness weak through shock and loss of blood.

After what seemed like hours Bingley-Fortescue began talking to no one in particular. “I’m superior because of my elevated birth" he said sounding like he was trying to convince himself. "My family are aristocracy you see and we have certain privileges and we have great responsibility also. We have to look after the land and, to some extent, the people who work for us too. Not that the lower classes understand of course. Not many know their place these days it comes from educating them you know, no good will come of it mark my words.”

Albert heard this rambling speech as if in a dream, he knew the Bingley-Fortescue family history of course everyone on the estate knew. He could no longer summon the energy to be angry but said in a tired voice “The only difference between you and me is money Rupert and that’s all. You can afford to buy your privileged position and the likes of me can’t. Your family made its money in the slave trade. Your great, great grandfather was a thief who stole people and sold them into slavery and you still buy and sell people today. The only difference is that today you have to pay them a pittance and tie them in a cottage or a pathetic little room in your attic but they’re slaves by another name that’s all.” There was no accusation or bitterness in Albert’s voice it was just a plain statement.

There was silence for a moment then Rupert replied “One can’t expect a person of your class to understand Bowdell. You’ve had a smattering of education and that’s your problem you’re educated beyond your intelligence that’s all. As for money that is such a vulgar subject...”

Albert interrupted him abruptly. "Money? Vulgar? The only people I’ve ever heard calling money vulgar are those snooty bastards like you who have far more than is good for them.” He continued in the same flat tone ”Anyway your sort will be washed away by this war when people find out just what mindless butchers you and your so-called class are they’ll never be dominated by you again. No matter what happens to us now Rupert the die is cast. You and your sort are finished.”

The light was fading now and the captain, talking to himself as much as to Albert summed up their situation. “They’ll be sending out rescue parties shortly and the German’s will come out looking too so it depends on who reach’s us first I suppose.  Probably the Germans because they’re closest. I believe they are quite civilised towards officers you know so I will be looked after in a half decent fashion. You on the other hand dear Albert will be sent to some hell hole somewhere a long way from home.  Either way I’ll survive or you dear Albert are finished. He used Albert’s Christian name with an exaggerated mock politeness that reinforced his threat to ruin him and his family for all time.

The same cold rage rose again in Albert’s breast how dare this arrogant bugger play god with him? How had the baronet, a thoroughly decent man, managed to breed this hateful creature?

A plan was forming in his mind even as he heard German voices approaching their shell hole. Quickly Albert moved and took up the officer’s pistol broke it and checked the load. One bullet left that’s all he needed. “I have some good news for you Rupert” he said coldly “You’re going to be a hero my friend.“

“What the hell are you talking about? Give me that pistol at once man!”There was a note of uncertainty in his voice now even fear. The guttural voices were drawing ever nearer and time was short.

“Well it’s like this Rupert we were trapped you and I and you, noble person that you are, fought bravely and when you were down to your last bullet you turned the gun on yourself death before dishonour and all that shit.”

“You ..You wouldn’t dare! Rupert looked aghast at Albert as the seriousness of the young private’s intention sunk in. “It’s murder, I’m your superior officer, they’ll shoot you man.”

 Albert smiled “Who’ll know? Anyway I probably won’t see the night out so I’ll see you in hell my dear Rupert.” The German voices were mere yards away now as Albert put the gun to Rupert’s head and pulled the trigger. Rupert died instantly.

The shot alerted the searching soldiers to his position a voice barked an order in German. Albert stood up as best he could and put his hands in the air. One of the soldiers fired in his direction but it was a wild shot going well wide. Another voice shouted an order and the man lowered his rifle. A familiar figure slid down the hole to stand in front of him smiling. It was Hans. “Hello Albert” he said grinning “for you the war is over you lucky man” Hans bent to check out the officer removing the field note book from the dead man’s pocket. He noted the powder burns of the bullet hole in the temple. “What happened here?” he asked. Albert looked into Han’s questioning face.

“He wouldn’t surrender and was down to his last bullet so he shot himself when he heard you coming.”
“Really?” Hans looked incredulous. “Did he think we German’s are savages who would not accept an honourable surrender?”

 Albert shrugged “He was an aristocrat, strange people aristocrats death before dishonour, that sort of thing.”

 Hans nodded understanding creeping over his face. “Ah yes we have those sort of officers too usually called Von something or other all honour, duelling scars and shit.

Albert was helped up out of the hole and through the barbed wire into the German trenches. He was sickened to pass within two feet of Sgt Whatley's body hanging suspended in the wire. The German medic did a good job of treating Albert's wounds and he was passed back down the line until he reached a military hospital outside of Hanover where a surgeon tidied up what was left of his two wounded toes then her was sent on to a prisoner of war camp.

It was 1919 before Albert got back home to tell his story of how the gallant captain though badly wounded had fought to the last and had died bravely saving his life. The suicide story was good enough for the Germans but those who knew the Captain wouldn’t swallow it. Albert had had plenty of time to get his new story right and mentally rehearsed it to perfection. No hyperbole no frills just a tale of exemplary courage simply told, on the strength of which the late Captain Rupert Fitzwilliam Charles Bingley-Fortescue was posthumously awarded the military cross.

Rupert’s father the baronet had passed away whilst they were away fighting and the estate was being run by his widow. Lady Dorothy was a kindly soul and often came to see Albert’s parents during their retirement years. Albert eventually married the local vicar’s daughter and moved away to become the youngest manager ever to be appointed by his bank. Times were changing.