“Lieutenant, why does it not surprise me that you speak up for such egregious lapses?” said the Brigadier. “The dog is a thief and his upkeep is a misuse of resources. We are not going to win this war without standards.”
“He’s no thief,” said Snout, turning very red. The insult, thought Hugh, hit close to home for the boy. “He’s been lost for days and he was starving. He only eats scraps normally.”
“Destroy it now,” said the Brigadier, nodding to Harry Wheaton. He had already turned on his heel to move along when Snout dropped to his knees and flung his arms around the dog’s neck.
“You can’t kill him, you can’t,” he cried. The dog licked his weeping face with an improbably large tongue. “He ain’t done nothing. He’s just a dog.”
“Captain,” said the Brigadier. “Destroy the dog and put the private on charges for disorderly conduct. Make sure he’s thoroughly thrashed for his behavior.”
“Sir, he’s just a boy, sir, and he’s been hit by a shell,” said Daniel.
The Brigadier turned back slowly, and a smile with no humor in it twisted his lips. “Colonel, it appears your lieutenant wishes to be also brought up on charges,” he said. “I would be delighted to accommodate him, but I am prepared to overlook his insubordination so as not to dampen the festivities.”
“Permission to remove the private, sir,” said Daniel, looking to Colonel Wheaton.
“Yes, yes, do it quietly,” said the Colonel.
“No, no, you shan’t kill him,” screamed Snout as Daniel signaled two corporals to drag him away.
“Snout, do as I say, it’s for the best,” said Daniel, coming close to the boy’s face and placing a hand on the now growling dog. Whether Daniel had some plan to rescue the dog, Hugh could not say. He was hurrying around the edge of the parade ground, trying to get to Snout and Daniel in an unobtrusive manner, when Snout got an arm free and punched Daniel squarely on the jaw, sending him sprawling to the ground.
The Brigadier motioned to someone in his own entourage. “Take the private into our custody and put him with the other prisoners,” he said. “Striking an officer is a capital offense. Boy or man, he will answer for it at dawn.” The soldier assisted the corporals, and it took all three of them to drag the screaming, kicking youth away.
“I’m unhurt,” said Daniel as some of the men helped him up. “It was just an accident.”
“What a pity,” said the Brigadier, coming close to Daniel and leaning in to lower his voice. “Once again you cause the end of a young man’s life.” He gave a short laugh and drew away to signal the Colonel.
“Harry?” said Colonel Wheaton, giving his son a nod. Harry drew his service pistol and walked over to the dog.
“Steady there, boy,” he said, and rubbed the dog’s ears. To Hugh’s surprise the dog stood very still, almost as if he knew, and Harry shot him cleanly behind the eye. As the gray body slumped to the ground, Snout, being dragged beyond the barn, let out a howl every bit as animal as a dog’s and haunting enough, thought Hugh, to affect the hardest of hearts.
“Good,” said the Brigadier. “Let’s dismiss the men and get to our dinner, shall we?”
Daniel would have spoken again, but Hugh reached him in time to grip his arm very hard. Harry Wheaton holstered his pistol, his face a little pale but otherwise seemingly unperturbed.
“Best ask for any clemency after dinner,” he said. “Pass the port and then ask your boon of the king, so to speak.”
“The men are our responsibility, Wheaton,” said Daniel.
“Standing in the breach is all very well,” said Harry. “But do try to avoid getting cashiered or worse for insubordination, Bookham. I know you have past animosities with Lord North. Let’s be jovial over the junket and I’ll try and put the Brigadier in the mood to be merciful.”
“I’m not hungry anymore,” said Hugh. “You persuade the powers that be, Harry. I’ll keep an eye on the boy.”
—
There were five prisoners in the old, roofless sheep pen. They were all so dirty and scabby that it was hard to tell their ages, ranks, or even that they were British. Each huddled alone, sitting with knees hugged to chin, or lying curled in a ball, scratching casually at the lice that plagued most Tommies. They were not shackled, but their faces showed an apathy that suggested they were no threat to the two privates guarding them. One man had begged a cigarette, another example, thought Hugh, of how the lowly cigarette had become the last small flame of humanity.
“Medical inspection,” said Hugh, showing his large medical bag and hoping his rank and RAMC insignia would hide his lack of official permission to approach the prisoners.
“Yes, sir,” said the guards, stiffening into an apathetic sort of attention. Their salutes would not have passed muster with the Brigadier, and Hugh wondered if they knew how thin the line was between them and their prisoners.
“At ease,” said Hugh. “Who are these prisoners?”
“Criminals, malingerers, and deserters, sir,” said the shorter lad, who had a pimply face and a curling lip. “All court-martialed and to be shot in the morning, sir.”
“Usually the Brigadier has ’em shot on sight, but he was coming here, wanted to make a bit of a show of ’em,” said the second guard. “To boost morale in the rest of us or something, sir.”
“Have they had food and water?”
One guard looked blank and the other shrugged. “We just took over, sir,” said the taller. “We just watch ’em, sir.”
“They may be criminals and deserters,” said Hugh. “But they are British soldiers and we are British soldiers. Perhaps you’ve heard our Brigadier insist that standards must be maintained?”
“Yes, sir,” said the taller one. The alarm in his face suggested he knew of the legendary wrath of the Brigadier.
Hugh decided he was the more amenable to orders, and he put on his best frown to speak. “The condition of these prisoners is your responsibility, Private. Go to the kitchen immediately and fetch a billycan of tea and some bread and butter.”
“Yes, sir!” said the private and saluted briskly before jogging off.
“I’ll be looking them over for injuries and any contagious infection,” said Hugh to the remaining guard. “Do you need to escort me?”
“I’ll be able to see from right here, sir,” said the guard. His lip lost its curl of disdain, and he looked suitably anxious. “Contagion, sir? You be careful there, sir.”
Hugh made a cursory stop by two of the men. One had a nasty cut over his eye, suppurating at the edges. Hugh gave him a small bottle of iodine and a handful of gauze and told him to clean himself up. The soldier with the cigarette had trench foot as bad as Hugh had seen: strips of wrinkled white flesh peeling about the ankles, toes bleeding and black with broken scabs. A strong odor suggested the beginnings of gangrene. Hugh gave him a packet of morphine for the pain and a pair of clean wool socks to cover up the sight of the feet. If he were not shot in the morning, he would need a proper infirmary or risk losing his feet.
The other two seemed dirty but unhurt and were dozing comfortably, and Hugh moved on to his real objective, the corner of the pen where Snout lay crumpled and unconscious in a patch of weeds. He had a black eye, a split lip, and blood still seeped from his nose. When Hugh reached to turn him on his back, he groaned and struggled feebly.
“Keep still, Snout,” said Hugh. “It’s me, Hugh Grange. I’m going to clean you up.” The boy nodded his head slowly. He kept his eyes closed, but tears leaked from under the lids and down his bloody cheeks. Hugh felt for broken bones and checked the boy for internal injuries. He had taken one or two blows to the stomach, but there was no blood under the skin. The soldiers who had dragged him away had made the boy pay for his struggling and lashing out.
Hugh used gauze and water from his canteen to wipe off the boy’s face and then dabbed his cut lip with iodine and gave him a water-soaked pad to hold over his bruised eye. Finally, he helped him to sit up, his bony back propped against the stone wall.
“They shot Wolfie, sir,” said Snout, his lip trembling. “Is he dead, sir?”