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Desmond7's Blog

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Ch 24


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I was downing my second coffee and complimenting Lesley Talmer on her superb breakfast spread when the telephone rang. Brian answered it between mouthfuls of croissant.

He held out the handset and indicated with a nod of his head that I was required.

"Des?" said Aurel. "I have someone you will want to talk to. Can you meet us at the Menin Gate in an hour?"

Bert Viljoen’s grandmother, it seemed, had been the sister of Amanda Viljoen, the first victim mentioned in Mackay’s briefing.

Aurel had been swift in making the family connection but, understandably, had been reticent about jumping in at the deep end.

After our meeting at the Gate, we’d adjourned to a small café where the hot chocolate was magnificent and the cakes should have carried ‘watch your weight’ warnings.

"Aurel tells me you are like some kind of Sherlock Holmes," smiled Bert.

I laughed as Aurel reddened: "I think old Sherlock would have cracked this case by now."

He produced a framed, sepia toned photograph.

"Maybe this will make it ‘elementary’ then," joked Bert, who was obviously a fan of the Baker Street legend.

The picture showed a small, dark haired woman. She was quite pretty even if she did have that oh-so-serious look on her face so typical of portraits of the period.

Beside her was a British soldier. Then I saw the cap badge. It was the unmistakably the badge of the Mudshires with its distinctive ‘Bugle and Bear’ design.

I looked up at Bert, who was watching me expectantly.

"Can I take it out of the frame?" I asked.

The big man shrugged: "It’s OK with me but I can tell you what’s written on it anyway.

"The girl is Amanda Viljoen. The soldier is Herbert McCallion."

I could have kissed him.

"My grandmother told us that they were to be married but you know that Amanda was murdered and this guy McCallion, his name is up on the gate … they never got his body."

When Bert produced a sheaf of postcards held together with a rubber band, I just knew that someone up above was on my side.

Account compiled from letters contemporary documents provided by the Viljoen family of Ieper, Belgium.

May, 1917. Ypres

"F..king murdering Gerry ********!" shouted Rfn. Jim Clay when the short but deadly minenwerfer bombardment petered out.

Whether the Germans who had so expertly lobbed their mortar rounds into the Muddies’ trenchline could hear Jim’s outburst was immaterial.

Four men had died when one of the explosions ripped into their traverse as they had gathered for a ‘wee meeting’ on that Sunday morning.

Jim was not a religious man, and he would have been amongst those who gave the ‘Bible Bashers’ in the platoon a regular ribbing for their unfailing faith in the God who’d allowed this slaughter to go on.

But the sight of young Jimmy Taylor sprawled like a broken, bloodied doll in the trench had maddened him.

"Bloody hell," he snarled at Bert McCallion. "Just look at that bairn will you. He’s still got his testament in his hand!

"********!" he yelled again, uselessly.

"F..k’s sake Bert, this is meant to be a quiet sector. I’ll give those f..kers quiet I get a chance at them!" he fumed.

Bert McCallion sank to his knees and took the bloodied little Bible from Taylor’s limp hand.

"Jim, just go and get Mr. Hartley and Colour Nulty .. shouting at the bloody Gerries ain’t going to help these lads now," he ordered.

Clay disappeared along ‘Waterloo Street’ towards platoon HQ. Several other men stood, in a state bordering on shock, as McCallion collected the identity disks from the mangled bodies.

"What the f..k are you lot doing?" rasped Bert. "Taff .. snap out of it you Welsh git. Pass us a few empty sandbags so the officer can collect their effects. Sharpish now!"

Taff shuddered: "Talk about lucky Bert! I was sitting with those blokes just before they started the Gospel stuff."

Colour Nulty appeared in the traverse and cast an experienced eye over the carnage.

"How many?" he asked McCallion.

"Four dead Colour Sarn’t," answered Bert. "Dropped right on top of them while they were praying."

Nulty took out his notebook and wrote down the names of the dead. They were the first casualties suffered by the battalion in their new positions below the Messines Ridge.

"Attention!" ordered Nulty as 2nd Lt. Hartley appeared on the scene.

The young officer returned the salutes of the men.

"Report Colour Sarn’t Nulty?" he demanded.

"I’ve got the names here Sir," replied the NCO. "Four dead. Gerry mortar round. No other injuries reported. McCallion’s ready to collect their personal effects for you."

"Carry on Sarn’t. Bring the effects to my dugout when you are ready. Detail some bearers to take the bodies down the line. Make sure they are seen by the RMO at the aid post."

Hartley turned and left the traverse. Men squeezed up against the walls of the trench as he passed.

"He’s a cold one," remarked Jim Clay as the officer went out of earshot.

Nulty snapped: "That’s enough from you Clay. Get yourself down to the Doc’s place and tell him we’re bringing these lads down to him for confirmation purposes."

Bertie McCallion rose to his feet and handed Nulty the hessian bags.

"I’ll be bloody glad when we go out of the line tonight Colour," he said.

"You’re not the only one," sighed Nulty.

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