Free As the Crow Flies by Jeffrey Archer Page A

was lying down the line. She told her
brother that he had been one of the lucky ones, blown up by a land mine, and
only lost a toe not even a big one, she teased. He was disappointed by her
news, as the loss of the big one also meant you could go home.
    “Otherwise
only a few grazes and cuts. Nothing serious and very much alive. Ought to have
you back at the front in a matter of days,” she added sadly.
    He
slept. He woke. He wondered if Tommy had survived.
    “Any
news of Private Prescott?” Charlie asked, after he had completed his rounds.
    The
lieutenant checked his clipboard and a frown came over his face. “He’s been
arrested. Looks as if he might have to face a court-martial.”
    “What?
Why?”
    “No
idea,” replied the young lieutenant, and moved on to the next bed.
    The
following day Charlie managed a little food, took a few painful steps the day
after, and could run a week later. He was sent back to the front only
twenty-one days after Lieutenant Makepeace had leaped up and shouted, “Follow
me.”
    Once
Charlie had resumed to the relief trenches he quickly discovered that only
three men in his section of ten had survived the charge, and there was no sign
of Tommy. A new batch of soldiers had arrived from England that morning to take
their places and begin the routine of four days on, four days off. They treated
Charlie as if he were a veteran.
    He
had only been back for a few hours when company orders were posted showing that
Colonel Hamilton wished to see Lance Corporal Trumper at eleven hundred hours
the following morning.
    “Why
would the commanding officer want to see me?” Charlie inquired of the duty
sergeant.
    “It
usually means a court-martial or a decoration the governor hasn’t time for
anything else. And never forget that he also means trouble, so watch your
tongue when you’re in his presence. I can tell you, he’s got a very short fuse.”
    At
ten fifty-five hours sharp Lance Corporal Trumper stood trembling outside the
colonel’s tent almost as fearful of his commanding officer as of going over the
top. A few minutes later the company sergeant major marched out of the tent to
collect him.
    “Stand
to attention, salute and give your name, rank and serial number,” barked CSM
Philpott. “And remember, don’t speak unless you’re spoken to,” he added
sharply.
    Charlie
marched into the tent and came to a halt in front of the colonel’s desk. He
saluted and said, “Lance Corporal Trumper, 7312087, reporting, sir.” It was the
first time he had seen the colonel sitting on a chair, not on a horse.
    “Ah,
Trumper,” said Colonel Hamilton, looking up. “Good to have you back. Delighted
by your speedy recovery.”
    “Thank
you, sir,” said Charlie, aware for the first time that only one of the colonel’s
eyes actually moved.
    “However,
there’s been a problem involving a private from your section that I’m hoping
you might be able to throw some light on.”
    “I’ll
‘elp if I can, sir.”
    “Good,
because it seems,” said the colonel, placing his monocle up to his left eye, “that
Prescott” he studied a buff form on the desk in front of him before continuing “yes,
Private Prescott, may have shot himself in the hand in order to avoid facing
the enemy. According to Captain Trentham’s report, he was picked up with a
single bullet wound in his left hand while lying in the mud only a few yards in
front of his own trench. On the face of it such an action appears to be a
simple case of cowardice in the face of the enemy. However, I was not willing
to order the setting up of a court-martial before I had heard your version of
what took place that morning. After all, he was in your section. So I felt you
might have something of substance to add to Captain Trentham’s report.”
    “Yes,
sir, I certainly do,” Charlie said. He tried to compose himself and go over in
his mind the details of what had taken place almost a month before. “Once the
Verey pistol ‘ad been