Journey's End
Page 1
PENGUIN BOOKS
Journey's End
R. C. Sherriff was born in 1896 and educated at Kingston Grammar School and New College, Oxford. He entered his father's insurance business, but shortly after, on the outbreak of the First World War, he joined the army, and served as a captain in the East Surrey regiment. He rejoined the business in 1918 and spent ten years as a claims adjuster. It was an interest in amateur theatricals which led him to try his hand at writing. After rejection by many theatre managements, Journey's End was given a single Sunday evening performance by the Incorporated Stage Society in December 1928. Laurence Olivier played Stanhope on that occasion. In 1929, Shaw was instrumental in having Journey's End produced at the Savoy Theatre. The play's enormous success, in both Europe and America, enabled Sherriff to become a full-time writer.
Among his other plays are Badger's Green (1930); Windfall (1933); St Helena (1935), a play about Napoleon, written in collaboration with Jeanne de Casalis; Miss Mabel (1948); Home at Seven (1950); The White Carnation (1953); and The Long Sunset (1955), a vivid picture of the last days of Roman civilization in Britain. He wrote screen plays for many films including The Invisible Man (1933), Goodbye Mr Chips (1933), The Four Feathers (1938), Lady Hamilton (1941), Odd Man Out (1945), Quartet (1948), No Highway (1950) and The Dam Busters (1955). He also published an autobiography, No Leading Lady (1968).
R. C. Sheriff died in November 1975.
R. C. Sherriff
Journey's End
PENGUIN BOOKS
PENGUIN BOOKS
Published by the Penguin Group
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First published 1929
Published in Penguin Books 1983
Reprinted in Penguin Classics 2000
16
Copyright 1929 by R. C. Sheriff
All rights reserved
All rights whatsoever in this play are strictly reserved and applications for permission to perform it must be made by amateur companies to Samuel French Ltd, 52 Fitzroy Street, London W1P 6JR, and professional companies to Curtis Brown, 1 Craven Hill, London W2 3EP
Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
978-0-14-191276-9
CONTENTS
CHARACTERS
SYNOPSIS OF SCENES
ACT I
ACT II
ACT III
CHARACTERS
STANHOPE, commanding an infantry company
OSBORNE
TROTTER
HIBBERT
RALEIGH
officers of the company
THE COLONEL
THE COMPANY SERGEANT-MAJOR
MASON, the officers' cook
HARDY, an officer of another regiment
A YOUNG GERMAN SOLDIER
TWO PRIVATE SOLDIERS OF THE COMPANY
Journey's End was first produced by the Incorporated Stage Society at the Apollo Theatre, London, on 9 December 1928, with the following cast:
STANHOPE
Laurence Olivier
OSBORNE
George Zucco
TROTTER
Melville Cooper
HIBBERT
Robert Speaight
RALEIGH
Maurice Evans
THE COLONEL
H. G. Stoker
THE COMPANY SERGEANT-MAJOR
Percy Walsh
MASON
Alexander Field
HARDY
David Home
GERMAN SOLDIER
Geoffrey Wincott
Produced by JAMES WHALE
Subsequently the play was presented by Maurice Browne at the Savoy Theatre on 21 January 1929.
THE SCENE
A dugout in the British trenches before St Quentin.
A few rough steps lead into the trench above, through a low doorway. A table occupies a good space of the dugout floor. A wooden frame, covered with wire netting, stands against the left wall and serves the double purpose of a bed and a seat for the table. A wooden bench against the back wall makes another seat, and two boxes serve for the other sides.
Another wire-covered bed is fixed in the right corner beyond the doorway.
Gloomy tunnels lead out of the dugout to left and right.
Except for the table, beds, and seats, there is no furniture save the bottles holding the candles, and a few tattered magazine pictures pinned to the wall of girls in flimsy costumes.
The earth walls deaden the sounds of war, making them faint and far away, although the front line is only fifty yards ahead. The flames of the candles that burn day and night are steady in the still, damp air.
ACT I
Evening on Monday, 18 March 1918
ACT II
SCENE 1: Tuesday morning.
SCENE 2: Tuesday afternoon.
ACT III
SCENE 1: Wednesday afternoon.
SCENE 2: Wednesday night.
SCENE 3: Thursday, towards dawn.
ACT I
The evening of a March day. A pale glimmer of moonlight shines down the narrow steps into one corner of the dugout. Warm yellow candle flames light the other corner from the necks of two bottles on the table. Through the doorway can be seen the misty grey parapet of a trench and a narrow strip of starlit sky. A bottle of whisky, a jar of water, and a mug stand on the table amongst a litter of papers and magazines. An officer's equipment hangs in a jumbled mass from a nail in the wall.
CAPTAIN HARDY, a red-faced, cheerful-looking man, is sitting on a box by the table, intently drying a sock over a candle flame. He wears a heavy trench-boot on his left leg, and his right foot, which is naked, is held above the damp floor by resting it on his left knee. His right boot stands on the floor beside him. As he carefully turns the sock this way and that – feeling it against his face to see if it is dry – he half sings, half hums a song – humming when he is not quite sure of the words, and marking time with the toes of his right foot.
HARDY: One and Two, it's with Maud and Lou;
Three and Four, two girls more;
Five and Six it's with – hm – hm – hm –
Seven, Eight, Clara and Caroline –
[He lapses into an indefinite humming, and finishes with a lively burst]:
Tick! – Tock! – wind up the clock,
And we'll start the day over again.
[A man's legs appear in the moonlit trench above, and a tall, thin man comes slowly down the dugout steps, stooping low to avoid the roof. He takes his helmet off and reveals a fine head, with close-cropped, irongrey hair. He looks about forty-five – physically as hard as nails. ]
HARDY [looking round]: Hullo, Osborne! Your fellows arriving?
OSBORNE [hitching off his pack and dropping it in a corner]: Yes. They're just coming in.
H
ARDY: Splendid! Have a drink.
OSBORNE: Thanks. [He crosses and sits on the left-hand bed. ]
HARDY [passing the whisky and a mug]: Don't have too much water. It's rather strong today.
OSBORNE [slowly mixing a drink]: I wonder what it is they put in the water.
HARDY: Some sort of disinfectant, I suppose.
OSBORNE: I'd rather have the microbes, wouldn't you?
HARDY: I would – yes –
OSBORNE: Well, cheero.
HARDY: Cheero. Excuse my sock, won't you?
OSBORNE: Certainly. It's a nice-looking sock.
HARDY: It is rather, isn't it? Guaranteed to keep the feet dry. Trouble is, it gets so wet doing it.
OSBORNE: Stanhope asked me to come and take over. He's looking after the men coming in.
HARDY: Splendid! You know, I'm awfully glad you've come.
OSBORNE: I heard it was a quiet bit of line up here.
HARDY: Well, yes – in a way. But you never know. Sometimes nothing happens for hours on end; then – all of a sudden – ‘over she comes!’ – rifle grenades – Minnies – and those horrid little things like pineapples – you know.
OSBORNE: I know.
HARDY: Swish – swish – swish – swish – BANG!
OSBORNE: All right – all right – I know.
HARDY: They simply blew us to bits yesterday. Minnies – enormous ones; about twenty. Three bang in the trench. I really am glad you've come; I'm not simply being polite.
OSBORNE: Do much damage?
HARDY: Awful. A dugout got blown up and came down in the men's tea. They were frightfully annoyed.
OSBORNE: I know. There's nothing worse than dirt in your tea.
HARDY: By the way, you know the big German attack's expected any day now?
OSBORNE: It's been expected for the last month.
HARDY: Yes, but it's very near now: there's funny things happening over in the Boche country. I've been out listening at night when it's quiet. There's more transport than usual coming up – you can hear it rattling over the pavé all night; more trains in the distance – puffing up and going away again, one after another, bringing up loads and loads of men –
OSBORNE: Yes. It's coming – pretty soon now.
HARDY: Are you here for six days?
OSBORNE: Yes.
HARDY: Then I should think you'll get it – right in the neck.
OSBORNE: Well, you won't be far away. Come along, let's do this handing over. Where's the map?
HARDY: Here we are. [He gropes among the papers on the table and finds a tattered map.] We hold about two hundred yards of front line. We've got a Lewis gun just here – and one here, in this little sap. Sentry posts where the crosses are –
OSBORNE: Where do the men sleep?
HARDY: I don't know. The sergeant-major sees to that. [He points off to the left. ] The servants and signallers sleep in there. Two officers in here, and three in there. [He points to the right-hand tunnel. ] That is, if you've got five officers.
OSBORNE: We've only got four at present, but a new man's coming up tonight. He arrived at transport lines a day or two ago.
HARDY: I hope you get better luck than I did with my last officer. He got lumbago the first night and went home. Now he's got a job lecturing young officers on ‘Life in the Front Line'.
OSBORNE: Yes. They do send some funny people over here nowadays. I hope we're lucky and get a youngster straight from school. They're the kind that do best.
HARDY: I suppose they are, really.
OSBORNE: Five beds, you say? [He examines the one he is sitting on.] Is this the best one?
HARDY: Oh, no. [He points to the bed in the right corner. ]That's mine. The ones in the other dugout haven't got any bottoms to them. You keep yourself in by hanging your arms and legs over the sides. Mustn't hang your legs too low, or the rats gnaw your boots.
OSBORNE: You got many rats here?
HARDY: I should say – roughly – about two million; but then, of course, I don't see them all. [He begins to put on his sock and draw on his boot.] Well, there's nothing else you want to know, is there?
OSBORNE: You haven't told me anything yet.
HARDY: What else do you want to know?
OSBORNE: Well, what about trench stores?
HARDY: You are a fussy old man. Anybody'd think you were in the Army. [He finds a tattered piece of paper.] Here you are: 115 rifle grenades – I shouldn't use them if I were you; they upset Jerry and make him offensive. Besides, they are rusty, in any case. Then there's 500 Mills bombs,thirty-four gum boots –
OSBORNE: That's seventeen pairs –
HARDY: Oh, no; twenty-five right leg and nine left leg. But everything's down here. [He hands the list to OSBORNE.]
OSBORNE: Did you check it when you took over?
HARDY: No. I think the sergeant-major did. It's quite all right.
OSBORNE: I expect Stanhope would like to see you before you go. He always likes a word with the company commander he's relieving.
HARDY: How is the dear young boy? Drinking like a fish, as usual?
OSBORNE: Why do you say that?
HARDY: Well, damn it, it's just the natural thing to ask about Stanhope. [He pauses, and looks curiously at OSBORNE.] Poor old man. It must be pretty rotten for him, being his second in command, and you such a quiet, sober old thing.
OSBORNE: He's a long way the best company commander we've got.
HARDY: Oh, he's a good chap, I know. But I never did see a youngster put away the whisky he does. D'you know, the last time we were out resting at Valennes he came to supper with us and drank a whole bottle in one hour fourteen minutes – we timed him.
OSBORNE: I suppose it amused everybody; I suppose everybody cheered him on, and said what a splendid achievement it was.
HARDY: He didn't want any ‘cheering’ on –
OSBORNE: No, but everybody thought it was a big thing to do. [There is a pause. ] Didn't they?
HARDY: Well, you can't help, somehow, admiring a fellow who can do that – and then pick out his own hat all by himself and walk home –
OSBORNE: When a boy like Stanhope gets a reputation out here for drinking, he turns into a kind of freak show exhibit. People pay with a bottle of whisky for the morbid curiosity of seeing him drink it.
HARDY: Well, naturally, you're biased. You have to put him to bed when he gets home.
OSBORNE: It rather reminds you of bear-baiting – or cock-fighting – to sit and watch a boy drink himself unconscious.
HARDY: Well, damn it, it's pretty dull without something to liven people up. I mean, after all – Stanhope really is a sort of freak; I mean it is jolly fascinating to see a fellow drink like he does – glass after glass. He didn't go home on his last leave, did he?
OSBORNE: No.
HARDY: I suppose he didn't think he was fit to meet papa. [A pause.] You know his father's vicar of a country village?
OSBORNE: I know.
HARDY [laughing ]: Imagine Stanhope spending his leave in a country vicarage sipping tea! He spent his last leave in Paris, didn't he?
OSBORNE: Yes.
HARDY: I bet it was some leave!
OSBORNE: Do you know how long he's been out here?
HARDY: A good time, I know.
OSBORNE: Nearly three years. He came out straight from school – when he was eighteen. He's commanded this company for a year – in and out of the front line. He's never had a rest. Other men come over here and go home again ill, and young Stanhope goes on sticking it, month in, month out.
HARDY: Oh, I know he's a jolly good fellow –
OSBORNE: I've seen him on his back all day with trench fever – then on duty all night –
HARDY: Oh, I know; he's a splendid chap!
OSBORNE: And because he's stuck it till his nerves have got battered to bits, he's called a drunkard.
HARDY: Not a drunkard; just a – just a hard drinker; but you're quite right about his nerves. They are all to blazes. Last time out resting w
e were playing bridge and something happened – I don't remember what it was; some silly little argument – and all of a sudden he jumped up and knocked all the glasses off the table! Lost control of himself; and then he – sort of – came to – and cried –
OSBORNE: Yes, I know.
HARDY: You heard about it?
OSBORNE: He told me.
HARDY: Did he? We tried to hush it up. It just shows the state he's in. [He rises and puts on his pack. There is a pause.] You know, Osborne, you ought to be commanding this company.
OSBORNE: Rubbish!
HARDY: Of course you ought. It sticks out a mile. I know he's got pluck and all that, but, damn it, man, you're twice his age – and think what a dear, level-headed old thing you are.