Free Hymn From A Village by Nigel Bird Page A

knew them. Good lads they were.” I took off my hat as I entered, straight into the kitchen.
    The evening light didn’t seem to stretch to the indoors, a couple of low flames on the oil lamps allowing me to see around.
    A big lump of dough like an island in the middle of a sea of flour occupied the table, an open bottle with a couple of small glasses next to the mess.
    From the pot, simmering on the stove, the rich smell of stew filled the air. Made my mouth water.
    Madame Desmarais must have seen my nostrils working. “We’ll be eating soon,” she said. “Would you join us?”
    Typical poor. Always willing to share.
    It had been a long day. I’d forgotten about food. “I’d love to.”
    Monsieur Desmarais pulled out a chair and I sat.
    He seated himself over in the corner on the dimpled cushion of an armchair, picked up his pipe and scraped out the charred remains of the previous smoke.
    The old lady handed me a wooden bowl filled to the brim with a stew the likes of which I hadn’t seen since I was a child then passed me a hunk of bread on a plate.
    “Tuck in.”
    I did.
    The rabbit was so tender it was fit to wean a child. I nodded my appreciation at the couple who watched on intently.
    Madame Desmerais passed me a glass of cider.
    I raised my glass and sipped. Tasted like the apples had just been picked from the tree.
    Soon as I finished, I told them what I could remember.
    I took them to the hole where I watched the shell explode.
    I remember checking myself over to make sure it hadn’t taken a bite out of me, then crawling over on my belly, elbows pushing back the heavy mud and muttering prayers under my breath.
    Could hardly bear to look inside when I got there. Had to, though.
    Mud and blood covered their faces. Made it difficult to tell who was who.
    Bernard sat, Jean lay face down.
    I rolled in. Saw straight away the stare of death in Jean’s eyes.
    Bernard just sat, still as night.
    “Cigarette?” I offered.
    No reply.
    I lit up anyway. Needed both hands to do the job.
    The smoke calmed me down, like it had swirled round my head and into my fingers and toes. Removed the smell of butcher’s shop from my nostrils, too.
    Another soldier jumped in.
    I pointed my gun ready to fire.
    Just my luck that it was Rousseau.
    Should have pulled the trigger.
    He reached over. Snatched the cigarette from me and threw it away.
    “No time to rest,” he screamed, flecks of spittle catching in his moustache. Couldn’t see the trench map now the rest of his face had coloured. “Get the hell out of here and cut those bloody wires.”
    Neither of us moved.
    “Desmarais, shift that square arse of yours.”
    He didn’t budge. Just held tight to his brother.
    Rousseau leaned over. Took a handful of Bernard’s jacket and tried to lift him to his feet. Moved his face in close. “Now,” he shouted.
    Bernard brushed the Sergeant’s hand away and threw Jean over his shoulder. Straightening his legs, he walked right out the back of the hole towards our trench, stepping over the bodies of our fallen as he went.
    Rousseau fumed. Shouted at him using words I couldn’t repeat in front of a lady.
    Next thing he was telling me to advance.
    Soon as I raised my head over the edge, I drew enough fire to drop an elephant. I fell back and leant into the land, the cool of the earth connecting to me like it wanted me to stay.
    From somewhere on the left came the whistle for retreat.
    Never heard a sweeter sound before or since.
    “He wasn’t a coward?” Madame Desmarais asked. “Did you hear that, Emile? Our Bernard was no coward.” Her eyes were wet, tears dripping onto her tabard. Made her look like she had some kind of infection.
    He was no coward. I knew it and so did they, but it wasn’t going to repair the damage.
    “Retreating without permission they said. A disgrace to the uniform and to France.” The old man clenched his teeth onto the stem on his pipe.
    Manners prevented me from puking. I held the food in my