O N E

Toloy-les-Moffaines

Arras

14^th May 1918


The Court Martial would resume at 14:30 hours.

Sergeant Ruari Grant’s stale bread, barely covered by a thin slice of bully beef, was washed down by a tin mug of cold water. This was a familiar lunch for a soldier in the trenches irrespective whether he was a Private or, like Ruari, a respected Sergeant of the Seaforth Highlanders. His prosecuting officers were more likely enjoying a cooked meal washed down with a claret, of which there was a good supply behind the lines in the Toloy-les-Moffaines sector, south-east of Arras. Ruari did not know whether his case would benefit from their splendid repast but he hoped it would find them in a sympathetic mood to hear his final plea.

The bolted door shattered his quiet solitude.

"Prisoner Grant, Attention!" His Sergeant colleague stepped forward to unhandcuff his prisoner. Two soldiers fell in fore and aft and the party marched back to the field tent.

At the end of the mottled green field bivouac was a full-length wooden table. Returning to sit there would be Major-General Hargreaves with Brigadier Naismith and Colonel Miles. They had in their power the gift to return the Sergeant to his platoon at the front where he would be welcomed back by his men or sentence him to death by firing squad, before the next day was over.

"Prisoner, Attention."

The Court martial resumed with Major General Hargreaves giving the command for all to be seated.

"Sergeant Grant, am I to understand that you wish to address the tribunal?"

"Yes sir, I do."

"Very well, step forward."

Ruari took a few paces forward. Thirty three years of age and promotion to Sergeant had given him a confidence to face life in all its recent ugliness. This moment almost reminded him briefly, of the rush over the parapets but this time it was also a moment to savour. After all, it may be his last chance to speak with passion and he could do so without the prospect of leading his platoon over the top this afternoon.

"Gentlemen, I do not take the charge of fraternising with the enemy lightly. I know the consequences if found guilty. But I first ask you to consider this. On Christmas Eve 1914, plucking up courage to haul oneself up and out of the trench and walk towards the foe, men from both sides met. They exchanged cigarettes, lit each other’s fags burning brightly in the darkness. No mans land. A dividing ground filled with hundreds meeting the enemy for the first time. Empathising with each other’s plight in their sordid trench existences. Sharing our Princess Mary boxes with the Hun while they shared their Kaiserliche with us. Cigars for the officers, chocolate, butterscotch and cigarettes for the men. Along many parts of the line the truce was spurred on by the arrival of Tannenbaum, small pine treetops decorated with candles capturing the Tommies imagination as well as the men of the Indian Corps who were reminded of the sacred Hindu festival of light."

"That was almost four years ago, Sergeant Grant, and I remind you when Sir John French heard of this incident, he quickly gave the order to desist from fraternising with the enemy."

"Indeed he did, Sir. And so too did the German High Command. Which leads me to the point that if fraternising, en masse, with the enemy was tolerated for almost two days, then an isolated encounter with an enemy in our capture, places this charge in proper context."

"In context perhaps, Sergeant Grant, but as a Sergeant, do you not realise the significance of your action and its effect on the men under your command?" asked Brigadier Naismith.

"I refer to that first truce because it showed that officers and soldiers told to hate, loathe and kill, could still lower their guns and extend the hand of goodwill, peace, love and Christmas cheer."

Ruari turned to walk the length of the wooden table, marshalling his thoughts, his only ammunition left.

"What is not in doubt is my loyalty. It transcends any resistance to change. Yet, is it not man’s desire to wish to change? To accommodate some thoughts of a peaceful life? A life beyond the war, perhaps? If I felt I could not change anything, what purpose could I find in fighting? Before the war I worked in the newspaper printing industry. Printers’ ink dyes came from Germany, from Hamburg. I became quite fluent in the German language as a result of my trips to their land. Had I been an officer you might have found greater use for this language ability. But instead, by speaking German to captured troops, I find myself under this charge. Yes, I spoke to one of their officers. Lieutenant Conrad Kress. I do not deny it. About tactics, unit strengths, plans etc, most certainly not. About old times. Yes. I know this man. I lived with this man and his family from time to time. He was an ink dye manufacturer. I went to see him each year and purchased the ink dykes our newspapers require."

Ruari pleaded with his mournful eyes. "Loyalty to one’s friends, one’s profession, one’s shared values. Loyalty to the Seaforth Highlanders, and sirs, my loyalty to my King and to you. These are the constants in my life. Can a man not have more than one loyalty in life though? Fraternising with the enemy, no sir. Fraternising with a captured enemy, yet a friend known to me was an act of humanity. It’s what makes us human in this soulless landscape. It’s what makes us British."

He paused momentarily for the tribunal to consider his plea, then continued his vigorous defence.

"Has the British Army in all its might and glory not one ounce of compassion, of understanding, of forgiveness? Or does a Court Martial sanitise the forward ranks by dispatching all who stand accused before it. That is the test you must now apply. I beg you to choose the former, because what I have done may infringe Army protocol but sirs, what I did, did not offend God. On that I rest my case."

Ruari returned slowly but confidently to his seat. He felt his best efforts had been made in the circumstances. He was now in the hands of the gods of war. He did not have long to wait.

"Prisoner stand," the colour sergeant shouted needlessly in the hushed room.

Major-General Hargreaves turned towards his colleagues. "Have you reached your verdicts?"

"I have." said Brigadier Naismith

"I have" said Colonel Miles.

"Then Colonel Miles, your verdict and reasons please."

Colonel Miles looked up at Ruari, He straightened his tie and cleared his throat.

"I have attended no fewer than eleven Courts Martial in my tenure. At each I have found the deserter or the coward guilty. In sentencing each to death I had no doubt I was legally and morally obliged to do so. In your case Sergeant Grant, it is not as straight forward a case as I had first imagined. You have not deserted your men. Indeed we heard a glowing report of your conduct in the war from Captain Boyd when he gave his character evidence. He would welcome you back to serve in the trenches especially at this time when experienced soldiers are much in demand. The death penalty would defeat his aim. And mine too. I am mindful that if justice is to be done, and is seen to be done fairly, there must be times when the accused receives the tribunal’s mercy. Having heard the evidence, your plea in mitigation and having taken account of the unusual historical circumstances in this charge, I find your guilt neither on a balance of probabilities nor beyond reasonable doubt. There lurks sufficient doubt in my mind that I am compelled to find you not guilty".

Colonel Miles afforded himself the briefest of smiles towards Ruari but the drumming of the Major-General’s pencil on the table brought the proceedings to a higher level of decorum resulting in an elongated pause. Brigadier Naismith took this non-verbal communication as a sign to uphold tradition in Military Court Martial affairs.

"Brigadier Naismith," Hargreaves gestured with his open left hand and a sly turn of the head with a piercing stare, "Your verdict, please."

"The Army Penal Code", he began, "is not a set of school rules. Its purpose is to ensure the efficient running of our troops in war by eliminating the categories which mitigate against our efforts and deflect from our total concentration in defeating the enemy. Fraternising with the enemy in any form creates a ripple effect. The dastardly Hun becomes the respected foe and before you know it, mutiny breaks out in the trenches. The law is the law and the letter of the law is equally non negotiable. This Court Martial must set an example. I find the prisoner guilty."

What hopes Ruari had were seeping from his heart like the ink from a cracked inkbottle. No blotter lay within reach as he prepared for the Major–General’s pronouncement.

"You have heard what my colleagues have said. I will not lengthen the proceedings unnecessarily. Sergeant Grant, this tribunal finds you guilty by majority of the act of fraternising with the enemy. There is only one punishment for such a contravention of the Army Penal Code. You will be shot at dawn tomorrow. The Court Martial is stood down "

Ruari bit his lip. ‘You will be shot at dawn’, the words delivered in that clipped southern tone came back to him in bursts of rapidity. The reality trickled through his mind but for a moment he smiled. He tried to convince himself that the aim of however many of his own men firing at him, would surely lead to a sudden death. He would face his death with pride. He would stand erect, decline a blindfold and ask God to welcome him home, a believer in humanity, a failure in man’s incomprehensible inhumanity to man.

Only waiting was the enemy now. 

 

         TWO

                                           Toloy-les-Moffaines

Evening 14^th May 1918

A wooden detention hut

Ruari Grant’s war was over. In twelve hours his life would be over too. He took some comfort in knowing a firing squad would fire accurately and efficiently. That luxury could not be guaranteed in the trenches. He had seen so many men trapped in barbed wire with blood seeping from their torn bodies as they tried to escape their entrapment while bullets honed closer to them until finally, one bullet struck fatally. Only then did the body earn its rest. Not in a grave, as his would be by dawn, but in the mangled wire where a weighty body would slowly descend to touch the earth where vermin would soon attack his mortal remains. It was a sight he had seen too often.

"May I come in?" a soft Scottish voice announced. It was Reverend Captain Sandy Marr, the Seaforth Highlanders’ padre.

"News must have travelled fast."

"Aye Ruari. It has. The boys are very sad to hear the verdict. They say it’s not just."

"Not just perhaps. But true nevertheless, padre. And no appeal either."

"That’s why I have come to see you Ruari. It’s at times like this you often need the padre."

Ruari smiled. "The sooner it’s over the better. I can’t see why they did not just take me out and execute me after their verdict."

"The quality of life, no matter how long, is not something to dismiss."

"Why? What do you mean?"

"There is much I can do in these final hours to bring your soul to ease."

"You mean prayer?"

"Yes of course, prayer but time to talk, to reflect on your life, think of your family, encourage you to write to them, and within reason, meet your last request if you have any."

Ruari opened his breast pocket and produced a folded sheet of white paper.

"I’ve already written to my parents. Here take it. Their address is on the front. They are the ones who suffer most. They lost my older brother, Callum, at the battle of Loos. Died a proper hero, he did, but it should never have been. The barrage didn’t do much harm to the Hun and the first wave were mown down. The second wave came too late, under-trained. We got a pasting that day."

"You were fortunate to get through that one, Ruari."

"Maybe, but not given my present predicament. It would have been better for my parents to think we both made our sacrifice in the slaughter at Loos."

"Ruari, I promise I’ll see they get your letter. And I’ll tell them that this was not a death for cowardice, or for turning your back. It was a death for comradeship and humanity, sentenced in the turmoil of battle by a battle weary and timorous tribunal. A decision which not every Court martial would have reached. Such are the exigencies of this endless war where progress is limited."

The padre placed the letter in his bible for safekeeping.

"Ruari, any last request?

"Well, what’s on offer padre?"

" I’ve been in this position before, you realise. Some like a favourite hymn, a wee dram or a good meal. Perhaps I can arrange all three. Some like to see a friend. It all depends. There is usually no problem meeting a last request, as you could imagine. Have you given it any thought?"

Ruari stood up and paced around the hut. One last wish. That was all that was within his power to request. A final and perhaps cosmetic request to salve the conscience of the executioner. As this thought passed by he recalled once more the cause of his predicament. A smile crossed his lips. His eyes lit up. He had a request that would give him much comfort.

"Yes, I have one last request, Padre. I’d like to speak to a friend for the last time."

"All right. I’m sure that will be arranged. Your commanding officer?"

" No padre……. Oberstürmfuhrer Conrad Kress."