in the day, you did steal from a fellow soldier leave papers and identification in order to impersonate same soldier. In other words you are a thief and a coward. How do you plead?'
The man was aware that all the officers were staring at him. He smiled at them vaguely.
'The man's an idiot,' the major said. 'Lieutenant Burton, will you enter a plea, as the prisoner's friend?'
'Guilty,' the lieutenant said.
'Very well.' His pen scratched slowly across the paper. 'Um, Lieutenant Carpenter, can you take the court through what happened in greater detail, as it will have some bearing on the sentence? And for God's sake talk slowly and keep it brief because I've got to write it all down.'
The officer started talking about the war, but the prisoner was not interested in that any more. He was staring at the view outside the high windows. Heavy rain in northern Europe had made the summer of 1917 one of the wettest on record, but today the sun was out. The flowers in the overgrown beds glowed brightly. Rooks circled the crown of a huge chestnut tree. Beyond the garden, a wheat field was turning gold. Next to the wheat was a green meadow where a brown cow with gentle eyes rubbed its neck on a gate. And above it all, white clouds drifted peacefully across a pale blue sky.
To the prisoner, the view outside the window was like medicine. For almost a year, he had been frightened of the sky because of all the awful things that fell out of it: shells, poison gas, or more of the dreadful, smothering rain.
The only bright colours he had seen had been the acid white of flares, the dirty yellow of shell bursts, the crimson brightness of blood and the purple of spilled guts. The only trees he had seen were blasted stumps. The only fields he had walked on had been turned into a sucking, poisonous soup of brown mud by years of bombing. The only harvest from these fields were the bodies of his comrades and enemies, mown down by machine guns, buried by mud, blown up by shells, buried again, blown up again.
The sergeant was bellowing in his ear.
'Have you got anything to say, Private? Answer the court!'
'I'm so sorry,' the man answered. 'About what?'
'This is the clearest case of contempt I have ever seen,' the major said. 'I've never seen the like. At present we have no findings to announce. We will be taking evidence with regard to the prisoner's character. But in my opinion, Private Stubbs, you are a thief, a coward and quite possibly a murderer. Unless defence has anything to add, I now pronounce the proceedings in open court to be over.'
It was only as he was being marched out that the penny dropped. He was John Stubbs. That seemed to be the gist of it. And if he were John Stubbs, then he had done all those terrible deeds.
What strength he had left his legs again and he collapsed.
'Pick him up, lads and get him out,' the sergeant said. The prisoner was lifted up again by the two privates and they began to drag him out of the room. At the door he managed to turn his head.
'Wait,' he said. 'Wait! There's been a mistake! I'm not John Stubbs!'
He expected the world to stop but the three officers who had been seated at the table ignored him. The prosecutor and the court president were talking and the other, his defender, had got up. Now he was standing at the window, whacking his riding boots with a crop. He stopped, put his monocle back into his eye and looked at the prisoner.
'Are you saying we've been wasting our time?'
'Yes! No. I don't know.'
'What are you saying then?'
'Just that you've got the wrong man.'
'Who on earth are you then?' the officer asked.
The prisoner shook his head. 'I can't remember.'
The officer laughed like a horse. 'Well, you'd better try. Because if you're not John Stubbs, I don't know who is.'
Chapter Two
John Stubbs saw the Chinese sailor weaving his way down Tooley Street and smiled to himself. Funny the things that you saw these days: women making bombs in factories all day, and drunk Chinamen in
The man was aware that all the officers were staring at him. He smiled at them vaguely.
'The man's an idiot,' the major said. 'Lieutenant Burton, will you enter a plea, as the prisoner's friend?'
'Guilty,' the lieutenant said.
'Very well.' His pen scratched slowly across the paper. 'Um, Lieutenant Carpenter, can you take the court through what happened in greater detail, as it will have some bearing on the sentence? And for God's sake talk slowly and keep it brief because I've got to write it all down.'
The officer started talking about the war, but the prisoner was not interested in that any more. He was staring at the view outside the high windows. Heavy rain in northern Europe had made the summer of 1917 one of the wettest on record, but today the sun was out. The flowers in the overgrown beds glowed brightly. Rooks circled the crown of a huge chestnut tree. Beyond the garden, a wheat field was turning gold. Next to the wheat was a green meadow where a brown cow with gentle eyes rubbed its neck on a gate. And above it all, white clouds drifted peacefully across a pale blue sky.
To the prisoner, the view outside the window was like medicine. For almost a year, he had been frightened of the sky because of all the awful things that fell out of it: shells, poison gas, or more of the dreadful, smothering rain.
The only bright colours he had seen had been the acid white of flares, the dirty yellow of shell bursts, the crimson brightness of blood and the purple of spilled guts. The only trees he had seen were blasted stumps. The only fields he had walked on had been turned into a sucking, poisonous soup of brown mud by years of bombing. The only harvest from these fields were the bodies of his comrades and enemies, mown down by machine guns, buried by mud, blown up by shells, buried again, blown up again.
The sergeant was bellowing in his ear.
'Have you got anything to say, Private? Answer the court!'
'I'm so sorry,' the man answered. 'About what?'
'This is the clearest case of contempt I have ever seen,' the major said. 'I've never seen the like. At present we have no findings to announce. We will be taking evidence with regard to the prisoner's character. But in my opinion, Private Stubbs, you are a thief, a coward and quite possibly a murderer. Unless defence has anything to add, I now pronounce the proceedings in open court to be over.'
It was only as he was being marched out that the penny dropped. He was John Stubbs. That seemed to be the gist of it. And if he were John Stubbs, then he had done all those terrible deeds.
What strength he had left his legs again and he collapsed.
'Pick him up, lads and get him out,' the sergeant said. The prisoner was lifted up again by the two privates and they began to drag him out of the room. At the door he managed to turn his head.
'Wait,' he said. 'Wait! There's been a mistake! I'm not John Stubbs!'
He expected the world to stop but the three officers who had been seated at the table ignored him. The prosecutor and the court president were talking and the other, his defender, had got up. Now he was standing at the window, whacking his riding boots with a crop. He stopped, put his monocle back into his eye and looked at the prisoner.
'Are you saying we've been wasting our time?'
'Yes! No. I don't know.'
'What are you saying then?'
'Just that you've got the wrong man.'
'Who on earth are you then?' the officer asked.
The prisoner shook his head. 'I can't remember.'
The officer laughed like a horse. 'Well, you'd better try. Because if you're not John Stubbs, I don't know who is.'
Chapter Two
John Stubbs saw the Chinese sailor weaving his way down Tooley Street and smiled to himself. Funny the things that you saw these days: women making bombs in factories all day, and drunk Chinamen in
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