by A. A. Milne
How such a man became a colonel, or a colonel remained such a man, was a mystery. However many lives in his loved battalion the ‘tin hat’ had saved, he never could accustom himself to its lack of aesthetic appeal. He was all for smartness; but a subaltern who had thought to please him by having his hair cut particularly short during the Battle of the Somme was advised ‘not to go about looking like a convict when peace might burst upon you at any moment.’ When he lamented the man’s habit of answering, as it seemed, every question with the words ‘I couldn’t say, Sir,’ he was not regretting their ignorance, but being harrowed by the unchanging texture of its expression. He was a good soldier, and if he wanted to do something obviously necessary, which a good soldier could not do without higher authority, he did it; and then, like a good soldier, applied for leave to do it. When he was commanding his battalion at Chatham in the first rumour-fed days of the War, and was ordered to repel invasion by establishing a series of sentry-posts ‘facing’ as he put it, ‘the hostile town of Maidstone,’ it was his not to reason why. He established them. ‘But, of course, I withdrew them directly the General had gone’ —and of course he would.
Thinking of him again, of those far-off days from which these memories have drifted back to me, I turned to some of the letters which I had then written, wondering how much of my feelings for him I had put on paper. I seem to have fallen for him, as they say, at once. On my first day up the line: ‘I had about an hour’s talk with the C.O. last night; he is a delightful person.’ Ten days later, after we had come out of action: ‘The C.O. is heavenly; I love him; frightfully funny in a particular way of his own. He was in grand form to-night; in fact, we all were; at least, he made us think we were.’ And so on, panegyrically, until his health sent him back to England, and to the wife of whom he had said to me once: ‘I write to her every day, because I have dinner every day. If there’s time to have dinner there’s time to write to your wife.’ My last reference to him is this: ‘The C.O., as you know, left for England on Monday, and to-day (Sunday) I had a box of 50 Coronas from him: with apologies that he couldn’t afford 100 owing to the extortions of the mess president (myself). Pretty quick work, and isn’t he a dear?’
A dear! Shall that be his epitaph? It seems the most unlikely one for a good soldier, the most unsuitable one for this particular ironic soldier; but at least it tells of the real affection which he inspired in one grateful subaltern. Moreover, it would amuse him. So let it stand.
I had been sent, with the military efficiency of those days, to a battalion which had already a signalling officer, a new man just appointed, called Harrison. I had spent eighteen months learning to be a signaller, and of bombs and rifles and the ordinary routine of the platoon officer I had forgotten what little I had known. The brigade was just going into action. It proposed to capture the Switch Line at Bazentin-le-Petit, or what once was that village. When this business was over, the Colonel would recommend my transference to some battalion which wanted those eighteen months’ training; meanwhile I could go into action with the signalling officer and add some practical knowledge to all the theory which I had assimilated. As soon as we had got into the reserve trenches I went into the signallers’ dug-out to introduce myself; I liked signallers and felt at home with them. I meant to have asked a thousand technical questions, but found myself engaged in a long discussion with Lance-Corporal Grainger about books. He was a Welsh miner, as well educated as most of them are, quiet, friendly, charming. We found that we shared a passion for Jane Austen.
The attack was timed for midnight. On the day before, Harrison and three men, with me hanging on ‘for training,’ ran out a line to the front trench by a devious route, for we had been told that the existing line would never stand against the opening counter-barrage. On the way we fell into a burst of whizz-bangs, and Harrison was knocked out. We got him back to the first-aid post, I reported to the Colonel, and became signalling officer. At four o’clock next morning we went out again, this time by the ordinary communication trench, such as it was, and laid a line, elaborately laddered according to the text books, and guaranteed to withstand any bombardment.
H.Q. was in a deep German dug-out, facing, of course, the wrong way. In an adjoining dug-out was the H.Q. of the East Lancashires with whom the attack was being made. In the space between these two underground rooms were my signallers. At eleven o’clock that night the Colonel, the Major, the Adjutant and I sat round a table by candle-light smoking and talking, waiting for our barrage to begin. But the Germans, who knew all about it, began first. And the line went.
The sergeant-major of the East Lancashires went up the steps with some idea, I suppose, of getting information, and was blown out of existence before he reached the top. My signallers announced this, and added that the line to Brigade was also down. We sat there completely isolated. The depth of the dug-out deadened the noise of the guns, so that a shell-burst was no longer the noise of a giant plumber throwing down his tools, but only a persistent thud, which set the candles dancing and then, as if by an afterthought, blotted them out. From time to time I lit them again, wondering what I should be doing, wondering what signalling officers did on these occasions. Nervously I said to the Colonel, feeling that the isolation was all my fault, ‘Should I try to get a line out?’ and to my intense relief he said, ‘Don’t be a bloody fool.’
It was about two o’clock in the morning that a runner got through. The attack, as was to be expected, was a complete failure. In his Company, So-and-so and So-and-so were killed—I remembered them, two boys under the apple trees in the little village where I had joined them in billets; we had dined in the garden to the gramophone, and there were peaches which one of them had fetched from Amiens, and the war was just a happy picnic to them, the guns rolling so far, far away in the distance that one would never catch up with them–no, sir, he couldn’t say about the captain—no, sir, he was all right, but he couldn’t rightly say about any of the others, it had been coming over something cruel.
‘All right,’ said the Colonel. ‘Am I to go back, sir?’
‘No.’ He caught the Major’s eye. The Major got up and strapped on his revolver. It was all too clearly the moment for me to strap on mine. Perhaps somebody else would do Wurzel-Flummery—afterwards.
‘Use your common-sense,’ said the Colonel. ‘If it’s impossible, come back. I simply cannot lose three signalling officers in a month.’
I promised, but felt quite unable to distinguish between common-sense and cowardice. The whole thing was so damned silly.
I told my sergeant that we were now going to run out a line, and asked him to pick two men for me. I knew nothing of the section then, save that there was a lance-corporal who loved Jane Austen, unhelpful knowledge in the circumstances. He said at once: ‘I’ll come for one, sir,’ which I thought was sporting of him, although it was obviously wrong for both of us to go. He picked on another man, a company signaller who had joined headquarters for the occasion, and we attached ourselves to the Major. We dashed. The Major went first—he was going to ‘re-organize the troops’; I went second, God knew why; the sergeant and the signaller came behind me, running out a line neatly and skilfully. No laddering now, no text-book stuff, it was just dropped anywhere. From time to time the Major flung himself down for a breather, and down we flopped and panted, wondering if he would get up again. To our relief each time he was alive, and so were we. We passed one of the signalstations, no longer a station but a pancake of earth on top of a spread-eagled body; I had left him there that evening, saying, ‘Well, you’ll be comfortable here.’ More rushes, more breathers, more bodies, we were in the front line. The Major hurried off to collect what men he could, while I joined up the telephone. Hopeless, of course, but we could have done no more. I pressed the buzzer, and incredibly heard Daffy’s slow, lazy voice: not my Daffy in England, but Corporal Daffy, ex-gardener from Buxton, with the gardener’s heavy drooping moustache and heavy stoop, unalterably a civ
ilian. There was only that one other voice in the world which I would have sooner heard.
I asked to speak to the Colonel. I told him what I knew. I ordered—what were telephones for?—a little counter-bombardment. Then with a sigh of utter content and thankfulness and the joy of living, I turned away from the telephone. And there behind me was Lance-Corporal Grainger.
‘What on earth are you doing here?’ I said.
He grinned sheepishly.
‘You weren’t detailed, were you?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Well, then—’
‘I thought I’d just like to come along, sir.’
‘But why?’
He looked still more embarrassed.
‘Well, sir, I thought I’d just like to be sure you were all right.’
Which is the greatest tribute to Jane Austen that I have ever heard.
3
We put in a week at Loos after the Somme, and were then due for a long rest. In billets at Philosophe on the way out I heard for the first time the name of the Divisional General: Gleichen. Was he still Count Gleichen or had he already become Lord Edward Gleichen? I cannot remember. After the war we found that he and Lady Edward were neighbours of ours on Ashdown Forest, and we became so friendly with them that Lord Edward and I exchanged books, he giving me London’s Open Air Statuary and I giving him Winnie-the-Pooh. It is doubtful if the history of the British Army can record any similar exchange. I had heard Owen Seaman talk about him, and now, hearing his name again, wondered if we should ever talk about Owen Seaman. My more military companion was horrified at the idea of a General talking to a Second Lieutenant; it would practically mean that we had lost the war; so I let it go for the moment. At La Comté, our rest-village, the telephone rang in the H.Q. mess one night, the Adjutant leapt to his feet, announced in an awed voice, ‘The General, sir, from Division,’ and handed the receiver to the Colonel. ‘Yes, sir,’ said the Colonel several times. ‘Thank you, sir. Good-bye, sir.’ He came back to the dinner-table and surveyed me through his eye-glass.
‘You’re lunching at Division with the General, Punch,’ he said.
‘When, sir?’
‘To-morrow. You’re taking me with you. Do you mind?’
‘Actually, no, sir.’
‘It’s a little hard,’ he sighed, ‘to have had to wait for this until one of my subalterns puts in a good word for me.’
‘Bad for discipline,’ said the Major, trying to look as if he meant it. When, a little later, he went on leave for ten days, he spent one of them travelling backwards and forwards across Essex, just to see Daphne for a moment and tell her how well I was. That was the sort of field-officer I served under in the War.
I explained that my editor knew Gleichen. It was accepted as an explanation rather than an excuse. ‘They’re sending a car for you at twelve,’ said the Colonel, lighting a cigar. ‘For God’s sake don’t leave me behind.’
We went back into the line at Bully-Grenay, hoping to spend the winter there, but the ‘blood-bath of the Somme’ was not quite full, and at Beaumont Hamel there was to be yet one more display of G.H.Q.’s bulldog tenacity. The battalion’s objective was called–and it was the only attractive thing about it–Beauregard Dovecote. If ever any place looked a death trap on a military map this did. But it rained and rained and rained. At the last moment the attack was postponed. The troops should have been disappointed about this, but weren’t; they marched westwards, singing loudly. It went on raining; one never ceased to be wet through. We fetched up eventually at Doullens; the sun came out; the H.Q. staff was photographed, and all was gas and gaiters. For a week or two we rested, trained and wrote home saying that we were in the pink. At some sort of field-day I was introduced (if that is the correct military word) to the new Divisional General. He told me that Signal Officers must be extremely careful not to risk their valuable lives; I agreed with him cordially. Gleichen had been given employment at home, his name being too German for the patriotic press. I wished mine had been Müller.
I had my men out on a little hill one morning, and was walking as usual, from station to station to see how the messages were coming through. It was a warm November day, so warm that each station seemed a mile, rather than a few hundred yards, from the next, and I wondered how I could drag my legs there. At lunch in the H.Q. mess I went to sleep; spent the afternoon and evening sleeping in front of the stove; and when I went to bed was given the usual couple of aspirins by the M.O. Next morning my temperature was 103. The M.O. went off to arrange for an ambulance to take me to the clearing station. By the time I was introduced to it again, the thermometer was soaring up to 105. Next day the battalion got the order to move; the attack was to begin. My sergeant came to say good-bye to me. I handed over my maps, commended the section to his care, wished him luck, and went to sleep again. He was lucky. He only lost a leg.
Ten days later I was at Southampton. Some kind woman offered to write a telegram for me. It was to Daphne, saying that she would find me in hospital at Oxford. I woke up one afternoon and saw her at the end of the bed, crying.
4
We were back at Sandown. January 18th was my birthday. In addition to letters from the family there was one from J. M. Barrie. Surprising. How did he know that—he didn’t know. He wrote to say that Boucicault was putting on two one-act plays of his in a Triple Bill, and that if I could turn Wurzel-Flummery into a two-act play, it might be used to complete the programme. One could hardly imagine a more exciting birthday present.
The three plays came on at the New Theatre in April, Wurzel-Flummery in the middle. Dot Boucicault played the solicitor, Nigel Playfair the pompous M.P. I got thirty pounds a week for the eight weeks of its run. We went up for the first night with forty-eight hours’ leave, were introduced to Irene Vanbrugh, and asked by Dot to write a play for her. Next morning I was asked by Alfred Butt to write the forthcoming revue for the Palace Theatre. Dazzled by the financial prospects I started off gaily, but it soon became clear that, even if we had nothing else in common, Butt and I were beginning to share the same misgivings about our partnership. I couldn’t possibly write the revue he wanted, he couldn’t possibly want the revue I was writing; so, to the relief of both of us, we said no more about it.
Meanwhile the War Office was getting on with the war. Our battalion was a unit of the Portsmouth Garrison, and had, like other battalions in the garrison, its own signal section. It was now decided to establish a signalling school at Fort Southwick at which all signallers of the garrison could be trained together. The school was divided into four companies, of one of which I was to be in charge. Reluctantly Daphne left Sandown and the regiment, and took a cottage at Portchester. I should have a two-mile walk up to the Fort every morning at 7.30, and a two-mile walk down every evening which would get me home at five-thirty. Then, after tea, we could begin Irene’s play.
Unfortunately the play which I had in my mind offered no possible part to her. I tried to forget about it and think of something else. It was no good; the only way to forget it was to write it. So I wrote (or more accurately dictated to my collaborator) a play called The Lucky One. The Theatre Guild did it in New York some years later, but it has never been put on for a run in London. I used to think it was my best play; well, I suppose it was once; but now I see that I just wasted a good idea. I wish I hadn’t thought of it so soon.
Again I tried to write ‘Irene’s play,’ but again I thought of something else first. The result was a one-act play called The Boy Comes Home. We enjoyed writing it, but there seemed to be nothing much to do with it. If only I could write the play which Boucicault wanted. But Daphne was becoming concerned about my health; I got tired so easily. Well, it was a tiring life, getting up at 6.30, walking two miles up hill, running a company for eight hours (which included teaching ploughboys the theory of induced currents), walking two more miles and then doing my ordinary work of writing for another five
hours. And I knew the cure for it. I wanted to go to sleep for a whole year.
However, she begged me to see the M.O. at the Fort. I saw him, he sent me down to the Military Hospital at Cosham, I was kept there for a night, thumped all over in the morning, and passed on to the Convalescent Hospital at Osborne for three weeks.
And there I really did rest. Life at Osborne seemed to me then, and has seemed so at times since, the ideal life. One would not expect Osborne House to be beautiful; it was not; but the surroundings are perfect. There was a nine-hole golf course running down to the Solent, there were croquet lawns, there was an excellent library of light novels. Our only duty was to see the M.O. in charge of our section on every other morning. The food was incomparably better than anything we had had lately. We ate, slept, read, played games gently, and wished it could go on for ever. I know of nothing which gives one so complete a feeling of luxurious rest as settling down to a novel in a deck-chair immediately after breakfast, with the knowledge that one is safe from the reproaches of conscience. And if this were the day when Daphne was coming over to tea, then life had at the moment no more to offer.
I managed to get another three weeks’ sick leave after I left Osborne and then we returned to Portchester. But the war had been going on in our absence. The battalion was now under orders for Dover, which took it out of the Portsmouth Garrison and removed its signallers from Fort Southwick. There was a chance that I might ultimately get a job in the War Office; in any case Daphne would not come to Dover with me, where there were nightly air-raids. If we were to write Irene’s play together, we must write it in the next week. On Thursday at 5.30 I settled into a deck-chair in our little garden, saying, ‘I shall now think of something.’ By dinner-time I was ready. At 8.30 I began to dictate Belinda, and by Tuesday evening it was finished. My collaborator took charge of it while I went off to Dover. A week later I got a telegram from Boucicault: ‘I like the play, my wife likes the part, I would like to do it.’