Page 4 of No Man's Land

Had he known then where his investigations would lead, he might have made a different decision. As it was, Josef made a point of keeping his eye out for Captain Winchester, and when he saw him next, in the bar at Toc H, he saw his chance to dig deeper. Saw it and took it.

Chapter Two

Toc H—soldier parlance for Talbot House—was one of those rare establishments where officers and enlisted men mixed freely. It had been running for a year or so in the nearby village of Poperinge, a transfer station for thousands of soldiers, and was part bar and part place of reflection and rest.

Josef was most interested in the bar.

But a trip to Pops also allowed him to visit the elderly Belgian gentleman who developed his films. He was keen to see how the photograph of the dying young man came out. If it was as good as he hoped, it would be a powerful image.

M. Verbeke’s pharmacy was on a picturesque little street only five minutes from Toc H, which had so far escaped any of the shell damage inflicted on other parts of the village. Josef doffed his cap as a couple of black-clad elderly women left, each of whom paused to give him a level and uninterpretable gaze. The people of Pops were used to the heavy British presence, but Josef saw no reason they would enjoy it. He slipped inside once they were gone, pleased to find the shop empty.

Mdm. Verbeke stood at the counter, but when she recognised Josef, she called over her shoulder in Flemishfor her husband. Josef had the impression that Mdm. Verbeke didn’t approve of her husband assisting him with his illicit photographs. Or perhaps she found the subject matter distasteful. And it was—the whole damned war was distasteful.

“Hallo, Josef,” M. Verbeke said, appearing from the back room. “Hoe gaat het met jou?”

He was a small, stooped man with a round bald head, ruddy cheeks, and sparkling eyes. Almost the opposite in every way to his tall, stern wife who, with a curt nod for Josef, disappeared into the back.

“Zo en zo,” Josef replied, as he always did.So-sowas the best he could manage these days. It was also the limit of his Flemish. “I have another film for you, M. Verbeke. Are you able to develop it?” He reached into his pocket and handed it over.

“Joat,” he nodded. “Next week, I will have it for you.” He turned the film over in his hand, studying it. “So many photographs of dead men, Josef. What will you do with them all?”

“Publish them, of course. Back in London.”

M. Verbeke looked surprised. “They will let you?”

“No.” He smiled. “But…the newspaper I work for doesn’t much care for the propaganda laws. And I say the people have a right to know the truth.”

After eight months with the Red Cross, Josef had a stack of shocking images. And when he returned with them to London, he had every intention of shouting the truth from the rooftops. If that meant he went to gaol, then so be it. He couldn’t think of a worthier cause.

M. Verbeke nodded along, but said, “You would leave us to the mercy of the Germans, then?”

Ah. Well. Sometimes, Josef forgot that not everyone shared his pacifist perspective. He said, “I hope, monsieur, thatthere’s a man like me behind the German lines, too. Showing the truth to the German people. Then, perhaps, we can have peace.”

M. Verbeke looked doubtful. “I hope you are right,” he said, just as the door behind Josef opened with a soft tinkle of bells. Mr Verbeke slipped Josef’s film beneath the counter, and Josef heard English voices before he turned around to see a couple of Tommies lurking in the doorway. Given the entertainment most men sought in Pops, it would have been clear what the young men were after even if their furious blushes hadn’t made it obvious. But if either of them knew what to do with a real live woman, Josef would be surprised. Neither of them looked more than seventeen.

He left them to their stumbling requests. “Saluu, M. Verbeke,” he said, before slipping out of the shop.

Dusk was falling by the time he reached the market square and from there headed over to Toc H. Its white frontage and long, narrow window shutters looked a little grimy, but the sound of laughter spilled out along with yellow electric light, and Josef’s spirits lifted. There were few comforts in the salient, but everyone found solace at Toc H.

Despite the distant rumble of the guns, inside he was met by calm: a fug of tobacco smoke and unwashed men, the air thick with laughter, and someone on the piano bashing out an old Vesta Tilley number.

Josef headed directly for the bar. He wasn’t a soldier, and Toc H wasn’t strictly his turf, but he’d never had trouble being served here. Soldiers on the line knew the value of the Red Cross. It was back home where his status as a conchie caused problems. Not that he cared. What did a couple of rough shoves on the Underground matter, or a coward’s white feather thrust at him by a group of angry-eyed women? He’d watched his fellow socialists go to gaol for their beliefs, and he would have joinedthem had May not suggested signing up with the Red Cross so he could take his VPK to the front and photograph the truth.

Soon, he’d be home again—only six more weeks—and then they’d start printing.

He ordered a beer, which wasn’t real English beer but a light Belgian lager, and found a table to himself in the corner. Fishing out a cigarette, he amused himself by flipping through an old copy of theWiper’s Times—he’d written a few sardonic pieces for it himself, earlier in the year—and studying the occupants of the room. It was the variety of people he enjoyed most about Toc H, and although the officers and enlisted men tended to keep to themselves, there was more mixing here than anywhere else—except in the line, or among the dead.

And as far as Josef was concerned, the more the classes mixed, the better. Harder to persuade a man that you were his superior by birth when he’d seen you drooling into your whiskey. Or pissing yourself with fear.

Josef liked to think of his interest in other people as a journalist’s eye. May said he was just a nosy bastard. Either way, Josef enjoyed watching people, which was why he noticed immediately when Captain Winchester and his Indian companion stepped into the room.

They went straight to the bar, talking only to each other. Not even a friendly wave for their fellow officers. Winchester was a little taller than Josef, which was to say neither tall nor short but somewhere unremarkably between the two. But his companion wastall. The effect was exaggerated by his turban and the fact that Winchester had removed his cap, exposing glossy dark hair swept back from his forehead. He leaned one arm on the bar, casting a bored eye over the room as he talked to his friend. Josef looked down at his newspaper to avoid making eye contact, turning the page without reading a word. After a moment or two, he glanced back over. Winchester was holdinga glass of something amber, his companion sipped a mug of tea, and they were deep in discussion. Arguing, he would have said, except that Winchester’s face was alight with humour. His friend’s was not.

They were a curious pair.

As he watched, the Indian officer set his mug on the bar, leaned forward to murmur in Winchester’s ear, and took his leave. Winchester only smiled to himself—then, without warning, looked directly at Josef and lifted his glass in salute.

Ridiculously, Josef flushed. With a curt nod, he turned away, picked up his beer, and took a long draft to douse his embarrassment at being caught blatantly staring. So much for his journalistic talents.

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