notion impatiently ‘It’s convenient. Anyway the French keep wine in a cellar. I imagine the Belgians are no
different:
Anselm’s
finger plotted a crow’s flight upon the map, moving ponderously from Black Eye
Corner, to Abeele, to Étaples, before coming back to Elverdinghe. It was a kind
of round trip. ‘Let’s just add the Étaples material to the evidence given to
the court. Let’s just see what sort of picture emerges.
Hands
hidden behind his scapular and hooked into his belt, Anselm ambled round the
room. On occasion he kicked imaginary conkers, as if he were in the woods at
Larkwood. Every so often his gaze moved to Martin for confirmation when he was
unsure of a detail. He spoke rather quietly.
Flanagan
leaves his unit after midnight on the morning of the 26th August (said Anselm).
By 1.45 a.m. he reaches the Regimental Aid Post. He’s last seen at 2.00 a.m.
Doyle then makes an appearance before the same MO at 3.49 a.m. and at that
point he enters the system of tagging and treatment. ‘An eye injury,
apparently,’ recalled Anselm. Martin nodded. Doyle and Flanagan are then
accosted thirteen hours later in Étaples, sixty odd miles away ‘From which we
conclude that the two men must have met some time after 2.00 a.m. The where,
when and how is anybody’s guess.’ By the evening of next day Flanagan — alone
once more — is back near Ypres with three bottles of wine. Anselm leaned over
the map.
‘To
make that long journey in that short time, Flanagan must have caught a train.’
Anselm ran a finger along the railway line between Étaples and Abeele.
‘And if
that’s right,’ conceded Martin, ‘he must have walked or hitched a lift to
Elverdinghe … some twelve miles north-west.’
‘He
wasn’t going to Elverdinghe,’ corrected Anselm reluctantly, for he didn’t like
playing the front runner. ‘That is where Flanagan was caught. If you
carry on the trajectory, he was heading here … back to Black Eye Corner.’
‘But he
got drunk.’
‘Which
is far too convenient,’ insisted Anselm, repeating his earlier point. He’d
glimpsed what may have happened. ‘He brought the bottles with him.’
‘Where
from?’
‘Étaples
… I’m not sure,’ suggested Anselm. ‘But he didn’t find them in a barn.’
‘Why
bring alcohol halfway across Flanders?’
‘Because
it gave him an excuse. Something to say when the army finally caught him.
Because he could use a hangover to hide the time he’d spent with Doyle. I mean
it’s almost convincing —’ Anselm became earnest, giving substance to a speech
he didn’t believe —’Flanagan had ploughed through the mud and hail to save an
officer’s life; he’d snapped under the strain of the noise and the death of his
leader — that was a nice touch — and then he’d got lost and drunk in the
howling night.’ Anselm shrugged his shoulders. ‘Flanagan came back knowing he’d
get caught. He was banking on a merciful court.’
Martin
slipped his jacket back on. He checked the buttons at the cuffs and squared his
shoulders. ‘So what is the picture that emerges?’ he asked, humbly ‘Why are you
troubled by the evidence … the neat story given to the court?’
‘Because
it reads like something planned,’ said Anselm. ‘Because I think that Joseph
Flanagan was in control of that trial. That’s the picture I see.
2
Evening came and Anselm
wandered back to his B&B feeling like one of those students of mysticism
who inhabit a charnel house. Everywhere he’d looked, everything he’d touched,
concerned the dead. He’d bought three books on the Battle for Passchendaele. A
quick glance had revealed only two points of agreement: the maps and the
immense scale of the slaughter. The dispute was restricted to blame and merit.
In the late afternoon Anselm had sought Martin’s advice once more.
‘Why
have two identity tags?’
‘One
remained on the body and the other went to records. Sometimes you couldn’t
bury the dead.
different:
Anselm’s
finger plotted a crow’s flight upon the map, moving ponderously from Black Eye
Corner, to Abeele, to Étaples, before coming back to Elverdinghe. It was a kind
of round trip. ‘Let’s just add the Étaples material to the evidence given to
the court. Let’s just see what sort of picture emerges.
Hands
hidden behind his scapular and hooked into his belt, Anselm ambled round the
room. On occasion he kicked imaginary conkers, as if he were in the woods at
Larkwood. Every so often his gaze moved to Martin for confirmation when he was
unsure of a detail. He spoke rather quietly.
Flanagan
leaves his unit after midnight on the morning of the 26th August (said Anselm).
By 1.45 a.m. he reaches the Regimental Aid Post. He’s last seen at 2.00 a.m.
Doyle then makes an appearance before the same MO at 3.49 a.m. and at that
point he enters the system of tagging and treatment. ‘An eye injury,
apparently,’ recalled Anselm. Martin nodded. Doyle and Flanagan are then
accosted thirteen hours later in Étaples, sixty odd miles away ‘From which we
conclude that the two men must have met some time after 2.00 a.m. The where,
when and how is anybody’s guess.’ By the evening of next day Flanagan — alone
once more — is back near Ypres with three bottles of wine. Anselm leaned over
the map.
‘To
make that long journey in that short time, Flanagan must have caught a train.’
Anselm ran a finger along the railway line between Étaples and Abeele.
‘And if
that’s right,’ conceded Martin, ‘he must have walked or hitched a lift to
Elverdinghe … some twelve miles north-west.’
‘He
wasn’t going to Elverdinghe,’ corrected Anselm reluctantly, for he didn’t like
playing the front runner. ‘That is where Flanagan was caught. If you
carry on the trajectory, he was heading here … back to Black Eye Corner.’
‘But he
got drunk.’
‘Which
is far too convenient,’ insisted Anselm, repeating his earlier point. He’d
glimpsed what may have happened. ‘He brought the bottles with him.’
‘Where
from?’
‘Étaples
… I’m not sure,’ suggested Anselm. ‘But he didn’t find them in a barn.’
‘Why
bring alcohol halfway across Flanders?’
‘Because
it gave him an excuse. Something to say when the army finally caught him.
Because he could use a hangover to hide the time he’d spent with Doyle. I mean
it’s almost convincing —’ Anselm became earnest, giving substance to a speech
he didn’t believe —’Flanagan had ploughed through the mud and hail to save an
officer’s life; he’d snapped under the strain of the noise and the death of his
leader — that was a nice touch — and then he’d got lost and drunk in the
howling night.’ Anselm shrugged his shoulders. ‘Flanagan came back knowing he’d
get caught. He was banking on a merciful court.’
Martin
slipped his jacket back on. He checked the buttons at the cuffs and squared his
shoulders. ‘So what is the picture that emerges?’ he asked, humbly ‘Why are you
troubled by the evidence … the neat story given to the court?’
‘Because
it reads like something planned,’ said Anselm. ‘Because I think that Joseph
Flanagan was in control of that trial. That’s the picture I see.
2
Evening came and Anselm
wandered back to his B&B feeling like one of those students of mysticism
who inhabit a charnel house. Everywhere he’d looked, everything he’d touched,
concerned the dead. He’d bought three books on the Battle for Passchendaele. A
quick glance had revealed only two points of agreement: the maps and the
immense scale of the slaughter. The dispute was restricted to blame and merit.
In the late afternoon Anselm had sought Martin’s advice once more.
‘Why
have two identity tags?’
‘One
remained on the body and the other went to records. Sometimes you couldn’t
bury the dead.
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