CHAPTER 4
The weather was holding fine and warm, but there was a cooling breeze coming by way of the gaps around the wagon’s sliding door. Despite the number of men, there was plenty of space to stretch out, but it was clear that nobody at all was looking forward to using the buckets. Dinger had already worked out that he could get his John Thomas out between the edge of the door and the side of the wagon, and demonstrated the practicality of his technique in a way that was extremely copious, as well as deeply satisfying, judging from the sounds he was making as he pissed. Jonty Charlton laughed loudly at the sight.

“How, Dinger!”

“Aye, lad?”

“Try and save it up next time. Wait for a Jerry troop train to go past!”

“No, man. Saving my number twos for that”

“You’ll never get a log out through that crack”

“Jonty, marrer, I have had sufficient practice involving the hote kweezeen of that Doris in that caff by the drill hall, and am accordingly well-trained in the theory and proper military practice of shitting through the eye of a needle. Anyway, I’d rather see my dump out there than smell it in here”

Dinger finished his business before buttoning up his battledress trousers, and slumped on the floor beside Jim.

“Think they’ll feed us, Sarge?”

“They’re supposed to, that’s what the Geneva Convention says”

“I might need that bucket later, then. What did that smarmy Jerry captain ask you, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Oh, all sorts. What I did before the war, pubs in Durham City, that sort of thing”

“Did he make some stupid joke about spirits in a pub?”

“Aye, he did”

“Thought so. Got a bloody script, he has. I bet if you ask the lads, he said the same shite to all of us”

“You’re probably right, Bell. Out of curiosity, and you don’t have to answer, what did you do before all this kicked off? You’re not ‘hostilities only’ or a Terrier, I know that”

“Honest? I was a pitman. In Ashington”

“I thought that was a reserved occupation”

“It is. Few of us had a natter, once we saw where this was going. Knew there was going to be a war, we did. Didn’t fancy spending it where we were, so we joined up before they started asking”

“You volunteered to get shot at?”

“You ever been down a pit, Sarge?”

“No, I worked for my Dad. With him, more like. He’s a keeper, out by Rothbury”

“Then you won’t understand. I could tell you all about black lung, choke damp, bloody fire damp, working a shift in nowt but boots, hoggers and a dut with a shiny light on, though some of the lads didn’t even bother with hoggers, left their arses bare, and then there’s falls of stones, not seeing any sun for weeks on end, but that’s just the special bonus things. No, we could see the bloody coal owners would make an absolute fortune out of us, and we’d get no say at all. We jumped first”

He shook his head, looking away for a few seconds before turning back to Jim.

“Shite topic to chat about. What was your, er, game?”

“Exactly that. Game. Had some pheasant about, but mainly it was red grouse. Got a few visitors for shooting roe as well. Stalking, that is. Dad and me, our job was mainly vermin control. Crow, hawks, buzzards, foxes, even moles out by the Big House. I started with a gun when I was just about big enough to pick one up. Other thing was… no false modesty, Bell, but I know what I’m doing with groups of lads”

“Aye, sarge. I’ll give you that. Had a lot worse in NCOs”

“Thank you very much, Colonel Bell! No, what I meant was that Dad and me, we used to recruit the beaters every August. Grouse season starts on the twelfth, aye? Ours were driven shoots, not like the roe stalking. Needed to find the right sort of beater, someone who can manage a fair bit of a tramp through the heather, with sense enough not to stick themselves down range. There are some bloody daft bastards about”

Dinger shook his head.

“Aye, same as in this game. Don’t stay daft for long, though, do they?”

“You aren’t wrong there. Anyway, got a bit fed up with the whole thing after a few years, if you take my point”

“What? Too much shooting? Bit daft signing up for this lot, then”

“No, lad. It was the guns, as we called them, but not what you mean. The shooters. More money than sense, and not a drop of that last bit between them. Nobs, gentry, whatever you call them. Everything on a plate for them, even got the bloody grouse driven past in front of their guns. Called it ‘hunting’, while sat on their fat arses, rest of us doing all the work. I got a few too many ‘Boy, do this, do that!’, I decided I wanted a different life. Rest you know. I do miss the dogs, though”

“What, hounds?”

“No, spaniels and terriers. Fox hounds are too stupid to come in out of the rain; one of Dad’s mates saw to that”

“What do you mean?”

“Point of riding to hounds is the ride. Hounds are supposed to follow the quarry, so any dog that tried to outthink the fox, cut it off, that sort of thing? It got shot, so it wouldn’t spoil the fun for the toffs”

“Bugger a hell! Was that something you did as well? Red jacket and silly hat?”

“Like hell, lad! We got rid of foxes the proper way, the one that works. Beagles, terriers, spades and guns. Find the bugger, dig it out and kill it quick”

They carried on like that for hours, several other soldiers joining in with their own reminiscences of civvy life, until Dinger started the conversation along another track, mostly concerning a number of Dorises and whether they did or didn’t, which was followed by Jonty’s considered opinion on strategy and tactics for converting a Doris That Didn’t into a Doris That Did.

The train spent time in sidings as more warlike transport rolled past them to the West, and it was during one of those stops that Dinger’s question was answered, as the chains securing the sliding doors were unlatched and the wagons opened. There were several German soldiers outside, one of them with a silvery crescent of metal hanging from his collar, and for a few minutes the main sound was of German voices shouting “RAUS! RAUS!”. He spoke some English, and under his direction the various filled buckets were removed from the wagons and tipped down a nearby embankment. Unarmed soldiers were soon running up with large metal canisters, and the crescent-wearing German was calling to Jim.

“You! Sergeant! Your men, in a schlang, ja? A line!”

Each wagon’s men was formed into a column, and then each column was marched down to a line of trucks, where the men were handed a mess kit and a gas cape of shelter quarter, along with one rough grey blanket. Once the issue was done, it was back to their wagon, where the metal canisters were opened, releasing the smell of hot food. There were sacks of black bread, each man receiving a mess tin of stew, a chunk of black bread and a refill of their water bottle. Jim stepped a little away from his men in order to keep an eye on the whole group, and was joined by the crescent-wearer.

“We feed you, Sergeant, yes? But we do not say what it is you eat!”

There was a twinkle to his eye that relaxed Jim, and he shrugged, trying to match the older man’s tone.

“It is food, and it is hot. I don’t ask for more, considering where I am. We are grateful. Thank you”

“Is nothing. Cigarette?”

“I don’t smoke, I have none”

The big man burst out laughing., before taking a cigarette from a tin in his breast pocket and lighting it.

“I know! My comrades, yes? They search you? Cigarettes would be gone, whoosh. I ask, you want a cigarette? I do not have for all men. But you not raucher, smoking. From London?”

“No, we are… here, see my shoulder? Northumberland. North. No, not Scottish!”

“Ah. Where you make ships and coals, yes?”

Jim nodded, then pointed at the silver crescent.

“You are right. What is the metal thing?”

“This? Landser call me Kettenhund, a chain dog, for this here, yes? It is my badge. I am Feldgendarmerie. You say… army police?”

He laughed once more, and pointed to one of the now-empty canisters as a German orderly carried it away.

“Chain dog, they call me. I am not a dog. Your meal, ha, I am not as sure there is no dog there. Now, please to tell your men they can scheiss before they are in their wagon again. Then you go”

“Are you able to tell me where we are being sent”

Another chuckle from the MP was followed by a shake of his head.

“No, not to tell. Two days, yes? Two days you find out. Back to train, Tommy. Next year, maybe, we drink beer together”

Jim found himself laughing at the idea of Albach and the big policeman with pints of Scotch in the Shakespeare, or had the man meant a German bar?

“Where will we have this drink, my friend?”

“Ach, your king, he will surrender soon, and then we fight together, as comrades again. You show me good English pubs, maybe I show you Sankt Pauli! Good luck, Tommy”

He slapped Jim on the shoulder before pushing him gently towards the waiting wagon. The doors were closed and locked, before the train shambled off once more.

It was three days in the end, rather than two, and at about four n the morning, as each man slept in their blanket and waterproof, or tried to, they were ‘RAUSed’ from their little patches of straw, formed into columns and marched to what was clearly their prison camp. Yet another jackbooted officer shouted at them, in German this time, while another German called out a translation. In summary, they were in a camp for other ranks, the officers having their own, and as per the terms of the Geneva Convention, ‘other ranks’ would be required to work.

As the officer announced where the camp was located, Jim heard Dinger swear, a couple of places to his left, and realised he needed to stop him speaking again before the guards heard.

“Shut it, Bell”, he whispered, catching a sharp nod in response. The two Germans droned on about rules and camp facilities, such as they were, and then each group of men was told off to a wooden hut. As soon as the door was slammed and locked, Jim turned to Dinger.

“What on Earth was that about, lad? Don’t annoy the bastards, for God’s sake!”

The man was shaking his head, mouth twisted.

“Sorry, Sarge! It’s just what that jerry in the shiny boots shouted, about where we are. Uncle Ned, he was a pit deputy, aye? Full of all that rubbish about self-improvement, and he only studies bloody coalmining, doesn’t he? As if he didn’t get enough of it at work, poor old sod”

“And?”

“Fucking work, Jerry says. That snide bastard over in France, conniving sneaky bugger with all those questions. We’re in Silesia, Sarge”

“Get to the point?”

“Silesia. What do you think they do for work here? I’m going back down a bloody pit!”