Free A Whispered Name by William Brodrick

his fibre, as though
he were cloth. No one wanted to sit on a court martial, though none would admit
why: it brought you close to your own fears, your own weakness, your own
capricious nerve — one day strong, another weak. All soldiers feared the
incidence of a bad day when, for once, backbone really mattered. If you failed
the test, well, no matter who you were, you ended up in a cellar by an oil
lamp. He breathed deeply nodded at the guard and pushed open the heavy door.
    To the
left Herbert saw a room lined with benches, beneath which were hooks fixed no
higher than his chest. Two greatcoats had been laid out, each with their
sleeves joined as though they were carved knights upon a sarcophagus. Herbert
brushed against one and it slid to the floor, revealing a book in the inside
pocket. The title was visible: Military Law Made Easy. Herbert knew it
well. A lifesaver, written by Lieutenant Colonel S.T. Banning. There were exam
papers at the back, with answers. Briskly hardening his mind, Herbert strode
down the tiled corridor towards the hum of modulated voices.
    Herbert
didn’t know any of the other officers, save the prosecutor — Edward
Chamberlayne, the adjutant of his battalion and Duggie’s administrative
Captain. He’d been thrown out of Oxford for indolence, a distinction that he
wore like a decoration. His eyes were strikingly clear surrounded by a dark
line of shadow, a feature that suggested he was a minor principal in an amateur
operatic society. He introduced the other members of the court: Major Robert
Glanville, the President, and Lieutenant Graham Oakley the junior officer. They
were gathered by a window which, incredibly still had net curtains. Through the
grey lace Herbert could just make out a stretch of distant woodland. Far away
the guns thumped like a racing heart.
    ‘Before
we settle down to work,’ said Glanville, ‘I’ll just remind you of some basic
drill. I’m pure Yorkshire and I’ll make myself plain.’
    Square-faced
with a large moustache, the major towered over everyone in the room, his
uniform bulging across the arms and chest. There was a far away kindness in his
expressions, as though he might announce the founding of a public library or
the donation of brass instruments to form a band. For all the Yorkshire
credentials, his accent had the smoothness of a Sandhurst alumnus.
    ‘Have
either of you sat on a court martial before?’ asked Glanville. Oakley and
Herbert shook their heads.
    ‘A
pity. Have you seen an execution?’ Another joint shake of the head.
    ‘Good.
Now put that out of your mind.’
    Herbert
had of course seen a firing party from another regiment heading off in the
half-light before dawn. He’d stood beside Duggie several times when Routine
Orders were read out by Chamberlayne to the four companies of the battalion,
informing them that a court martial had taken place and that the sentence had
been ‘duly carried out’. The words always unsettled Herbert. All the details
were given: name, rank, regiment, offence, place of trial, date of execution
and, worst of all, the exact time — to the minute. It evoked the picture of an
officer with a stopwatch and notepad. After each public reading Duggie had said
a death sentence would be imposed on anyone who committed a like misdemeanour.
The major was wise to have sensed these unspoken memories, and to have named
them at the outset.
    ‘First
things first,’ said Glanville, hands on hips. ‘This lad will be undefended. It’s
our job to make sure he gets a fair crack of the whip. If he has a defence it’s
up to us to ferret it out. Understood?’
    Oakley
and Herbert nodded.
    ‘Second,
the assumption of innocence doesn’t apply He’s deemed to have deserted his
unit. It’s a General Routine Order. Correct, Chamberlayne?’
    ‘Almost,
Sir.’ The Adjutant made a bow with his head, as he’d probably done to his
tutor at Oxford. ‘As a court, you are bound to assume that the accused intended
the natural and