Free A Whispered Name by William Brodrick Page B
Authors: William Brodrick
was
a slight man of average height. Sandy hair with a gentle wave had been neatly
parted, revealing a high, smooth forehead. His fine mouth gave the hint of a
natural smile, suggesting approachability and an easy temper. Raised eyebrows
disclosed the vulnerability of the trapped. To Herbert, he looked vaguely
familiar, though he couldn’t place any specific meeting. The soldier’s eyes
flicked over the officers that would try him with an expression of knowing
dread … like Herbert had seen upon the face of Quarters. With that thought he
felt again the kick of the rifle, deep in his shoulder. A flash of mud blanked
out the sockets and his mind escaped into darkness.
‘I’m
Major Robert Glanville. On my right is Captain Herbert Moore. On my left is
Lieutenant Graham Oakley Do you have any objection to being tried by any one
among our number?’
Flanagan
made no response. Glanville repeated his question.
‘None,
Sir,’ said Flanagan. The Irish accent was very strong, the intonation musical. ‘Thank
you, Sir.’
‘Private,’
said Glanville, ‘it’s not your fault, but you are wearing a belt. That is
against King’s Regulations during a court martial. I let the matter pass, but
it is the only irregularity I will countenance.’
His
authority on procedure thus stamped, Glanville thumbed through the red book
till he found the relevant passage. He placed his right hand on the black book
and, in a low monotone, eyes on the red book, he swore to try the accused
according to the evidence, without partiality, favour or affection, to never
divulge the sentence until it was confirmed, and to never disclose the vote or
opinion of another member, unless required in due course by the law, ‘So help
me, God: Glanville passed the books to his right and Herbert made the same
oath, hardening his voice to hide the fear. His heart was beating out of step.
He felt queasy again. The books moved left and Oakley like a man on the touchline,
almost bellowed his promise. He, too, was afraid.
Glanville
then stared at Flanagan, rumpling his nose and upper lip as if his moustache
were itching a nostril. The pause gave density to the three yards between the
accused and his tribunal. Peering down at a small sheet of paper torn from an
exercise book, Glanville read out, ‘Four-eight-eight-eight Private Joseph
Flanagan, eighth Service Battalion, Northumberland Light Infantry … you’re
charged with … when on active service, deserting His Majesty’s Service in
that you, on the twenty-sixth of August nineteen seventeen, absented yourself
from the said eighth Battalion until apprehended at Elverdinghe on the
twenty-seventh of August nineteen seventeen.’ He crumpled his moustache again.
‘Do you understand what I’ve just said?’
‘I do.’
While
the charge was being read out, Flanagan had looked slightly over Herbert’s
right shoulder. His gaze had become fixed. Gradually the expression of dread
had been replaced by a striking image of resignation, immobility and
attentiveness, as one might find on an ancient icon. His skin had acquired the
same subdued patina.
‘Please
record a plea of “Not Guilty” on the schedule to Army Form A three,’ said
Glanville.
He then
squared off the pile of paper in front of him. The top sheet already carried
the date, names and regimental details of everyone present (in Chamberlayne’s
hand) . After a glance at his pocket watch, Glanville licked the point of his
pencil and added at the top of the page: 10.04 a.m.
‘When
you’re ready Mr Chamberlayne,’ he said.
Chapter Nine
According to a scrap of
paper hanging from a frayed piece of string, 6890 Private Doyle’s papers were
to be lodged with those of 4888 Private Flanagan, ‘pending resolution of the
latter’. A resolution that had never taken place. The Doyle file contained an
uncoordinated assortment of memos, telegrams and letters between different
administrative and active units within the army Doyle’s
a slight man of average height. Sandy hair with a gentle wave had been neatly
parted, revealing a high, smooth forehead. His fine mouth gave the hint of a
natural smile, suggesting approachability and an easy temper. Raised eyebrows
disclosed the vulnerability of the trapped. To Herbert, he looked vaguely
familiar, though he couldn’t place any specific meeting. The soldier’s eyes
flicked over the officers that would try him with an expression of knowing
dread … like Herbert had seen upon the face of Quarters. With that thought he
felt again the kick of the rifle, deep in his shoulder. A flash of mud blanked
out the sockets and his mind escaped into darkness.
‘I’m
Major Robert Glanville. On my right is Captain Herbert Moore. On my left is
Lieutenant Graham Oakley Do you have any objection to being tried by any one
among our number?’
Flanagan
made no response. Glanville repeated his question.
‘None,
Sir,’ said Flanagan. The Irish accent was very strong, the intonation musical. ‘Thank
you, Sir.’
‘Private,’
said Glanville, ‘it’s not your fault, but you are wearing a belt. That is
against King’s Regulations during a court martial. I let the matter pass, but
it is the only irregularity I will countenance.’
His
authority on procedure thus stamped, Glanville thumbed through the red book
till he found the relevant passage. He placed his right hand on the black book
and, in a low monotone, eyes on the red book, he swore to try the accused
according to the evidence, without partiality, favour or affection, to never
divulge the sentence until it was confirmed, and to never disclose the vote or
opinion of another member, unless required in due course by the law, ‘So help
me, God: Glanville passed the books to his right and Herbert made the same
oath, hardening his voice to hide the fear. His heart was beating out of step.
He felt queasy again. The books moved left and Oakley like a man on the touchline,
almost bellowed his promise. He, too, was afraid.
Glanville
then stared at Flanagan, rumpling his nose and upper lip as if his moustache
were itching a nostril. The pause gave density to the three yards between the
accused and his tribunal. Peering down at a small sheet of paper torn from an
exercise book, Glanville read out, ‘Four-eight-eight-eight Private Joseph
Flanagan, eighth Service Battalion, Northumberland Light Infantry … you’re
charged with … when on active service, deserting His Majesty’s Service in
that you, on the twenty-sixth of August nineteen seventeen, absented yourself
from the said eighth Battalion until apprehended at Elverdinghe on the
twenty-seventh of August nineteen seventeen.’ He crumpled his moustache again.
‘Do you understand what I’ve just said?’
‘I do.’
While
the charge was being read out, Flanagan had looked slightly over Herbert’s
right shoulder. His gaze had become fixed. Gradually the expression of dread
had been replaced by a striking image of resignation, immobility and
attentiveness, as one might find on an ancient icon. His skin had acquired the
same subdued patina.
‘Please
record a plea of “Not Guilty” on the schedule to Army Form A three,’ said
Glanville.
He then
squared off the pile of paper in front of him. The top sheet already carried
the date, names and regimental details of everyone present (in Chamberlayne’s
hand) . After a glance at his pocket watch, Glanville licked the point of his
pencil and added at the top of the page: 10.04 a.m.
‘When
you’re ready Mr Chamberlayne,’ he said.
Chapter Nine
According to a scrap of
paper hanging from a frayed piece of string, 6890 Private Doyle’s papers were
to be lodged with those of 4888 Private Flanagan, ‘pending resolution of the
latter’. A resolution that had never taken place. The Doyle file contained an
uncoordinated assortment of memos, telegrams and letters between different
administrative and active units within the army Doyle’s