‘Well, have you seen it before?’
‘No.’
Ash indicated the angel with a toss of his chin. ‘Always think of me as your angel. I’ll be watching over you. The keeper of your soul.’
Rosie felt very uneasy, a little spooked. He said, ‘I’d better go, my love. The train won’t wait, and it’s quite a walk with a backpack full of razors and socks and field dressings. I’m meeting Sidney and Albert at the station.’
‘We could send someone for a hansom,’ she suggested, and he replied, ‘No, it would take too long, and I reckon I should get myself in training. I’m mighty sure there’ll be some long marches ahead. Before I go I want to recite something for you.’
‘Recite something?’
‘Yes indeed. I found it in that Georgian Poets book you love so much, and I memorised it, so I could say it at this moment.’
‘Is it Rupert Brooke?’
‘Uh-uh. See if you recognise it.’
He pursed his lips whilst he recalled the verse, and then recited:
‘Breathe thus upon mine eyelids – that we twain
May build the day together out of dreams.
Life, with thy breath upon my eyelids, seems
Exquisite to the utmost bounds of pain.
I cannot live, except as I may be
Compelled for love of thee.’
Rosie recognised it and took it up:
‘O let us drift,
Frail as the floating silver of a star,
Or like the summer humming of a bee…’
‘It’s Harold Monro! What is it? “Child of Dawn”?’
‘Yes, that’s right. Now do you think you could breathe on my eyelids? Just so I can see what’s so darn good about it?’
He closed his eyes and leaned down, and Rosie breathed on his eyelids. Suddenly he opened his eyes and said, ‘It’s not quite what Monro cracked it up to be. Might you allow a kiss instead?’
Eventually Ash went to say goodbye to her mother and sisters, and then they gathered to see him off at the door. Theatrically, Ash affected French manners, and kissed each of the sisters’ hands, and then their mother’s. She did not know quite where to put herself. She said, ‘I will write to the King personally to ask him to make sure that you are somewhere safe,’ and the sisters smiled little secret smiles to each other. Mrs McCosh was always writing to the King, and was the fiercely proud owner of a little pile of polite and non-committal acknowledgements from his secretary.
Finally Ash took both of Rosie’s hands and said, ‘We’ll get spliced on my first leave, then.’
She nodded, and said, ‘I’ll pray for you every day, especially before I go to bed.’
‘Thanks, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘And long live the Pals.’
Rosie said, ‘Pals forever,’ and then he was gone, striding out into the snow with his baggage on his back and his cap on his head. He waved from the gate, and Rosie felt a little hurt that he so obviously could not wait to get away, and out into battle. That was how all the young men were, suddenly caught up by a very specific, important and tangible reason for living. Rosie could not blame him, and would later wish that she had had told him how proud of him she had been. The last she knew of Ash was the sound of him whistling ‘Gilbert the Filbert’, trilling the notes like a blackbird as he strode away.
After he had gone Rosie went to the conservatory to look down at the snow angel, and Sophie, Christabel and Ottilie followed.
‘Ash said he was my angel. It was a funny thing to say.’
‘Do you mean funny ha ha or funny peculiar?’ asked Sophie.
‘Funny peculiar, of course,’ said Christabel on Rosie’s behalf.
‘Oh good,’ said Sophie. ‘I hate it when I don’t understand jokes.’
After tea Rosie opened Ash’s present, and it was an etching called Adieu by L. Rust. It depicted an old-fashioned infantryman wearing a shako, with a musket over his shoulder, on the point of stepping forward. A maid in a pinafore stood at his left side, on tiptoe, her arms draped about his neck and her eyes closed. Her attitude suggested depair and resignation and absolute devotion. Either he was kissing her nose, or was whispering something. Rosie thought it would have been something like ‘I have to go now, I really do’. The contour of the girl’s body exactly folded into that of the soldier. The effect of the picture was poignant, and it made her begin to cry. She took it upstairs and propped it against the wall on top of her bookcase, and then she retrieved her figure of the Virgin Mary from under the bed and put her in front of the mirror. She talked to her about keeping Ash safe, and then wrapped it up again, and replaced it.
She put on her coat and hat and muffler, and walked to the church. It was a freezing day, with the kind of raw cold that burns into the bones, but even so the church was full of women on their knees. She slipped into the pew beside Mrs Ottway, who had two sons at the front, and tried to pray, but could not help sniffling. Mrs Ottway put out a hand and took hers, and they prayed together. They said the Lord’s Prayer. Afterwards ‘Thy will be done’ echoed and re-echoed inside Rosie’s head, and she remembered the words that Jesus spoke in the Garden of Gethsemane, words that she would repeat to herself all through her life when she needed tiding through.
When she returned home, Bouncer was waiting on the other side of the door. During that night he howled inconsolably, and the whole house was reduced to helplessness. Everyone was down there by candlelight in their night attire, including the servants, trying to work out what to do, and in the end they shut poor old Bouncer in the conservatory and hoped that he would not perturb the neighbours too much. Mr McCosh thought that the dog might have had a stomach ache, but Rosie said that dogs howl only when they suffer mental distress. After that time Bouncer often howled at night.
As for Rosie, she longed with ever decreasing faith for the day when ‘we twain may build the day together out of dreams’.
12
And the Worst Friend and Enemy Is But Death
Regimental no. 1967
Rifle no. 1695
Pte Ashbridge Pendennis
Dizzy, sick and exhausted by the time we got to Kemmel. Don’t think I ever felt seedier. Trudged in full view of the Huns up on the hill. No idea why they didn’t mow us down. A miracle.
Officers got told off. Came in cattle trucks, then buses that still had ‘London General Omnibus Company’ on the sides, but then it was slogging through mud and rain, mile after mile, with rifle, ammo, a cape, a goatskin and supplies. Aching and shivering, sweating and freezing. End of my greatcoat so soaked in earth and water. Terribly heavy. Sidney and Albert and I ended up almost carrying each other. Thank God they were there. Arrived, slumped down and slept, without removing our webbing. Could hear bombardment not far off. First time under fire, and too tired to care. Am extra fit because of ribbing about being a Yank, so always trained hard to be one and a half times as good.
Kept worrying about when I would get a chance to zero my sights. Was thinking, ‘What’s the point of this gun if I aim it and miss?’ Other fellows had been developing the same obsession.
My gun quite old, but good. Nice feel to it. Obviously loved by a previous owner. ‘PLG’ in tiny letters on the stock, and a lot of wax or boot polish rubbed into the woodwork. Glows dark brown. Barrel immaculate, not one pit. Bolt slides perfectly. Must always look out for mud up the barrel, because then it could explode in your hands. Took a tip and plugged the muzzle with a tiny cork from a medicine bottle. Am almost as worried about looking after that cork as I am about the gun.
Wonder who PLG was, and whether still alive. Think of him as a guardian spirit. If he’s dead, hope he watches over me and his old Lee–Enfield. Fear that the first time I get a chance to take a potshot at Fritz, will feel sorry for him and funk it. Might aim at the ground, and made him skip.
You pick up on the lore of a unit almost as soon as you join it. The lore is one of the things that keeps you together. It’s very like the stories that come down families, so that thing
s that happened to your grandmother almost seem as if they had happened to you. Must write them down sometime.
Trenches taken over from the French. Just channels of slime. No wire, no sandbags, no proper parapets, no communication trench. Too shallow, so have to sit down in the mud, but if lucky might find the chest of a Frenchman to sit down on. Strange and disconcerting at first, but am already used to how dead bodies sigh if you sit on them.
Deep hole full of water in our trench, keep forgetting it’s there. Sink into it up to your thighs. Good for thinning the half-inch of mud encrusting greatcoats. Hell to be made to march in greatcoats. Some lads cut the bottoms off.
German lines higher than ours, only a hundred yards away. Huns always have the high ground, simply because they got there first. Always have the advantage of us in a firefight, but I think we lose just as many men to sickness, including our doctor.
Snowed and froze, but mostly rained. Work at night, so sleep in the afternoons, but sometimes sleep in snatches, just two minutes during busy times. You can’t sleep wearing webbing and water bottle, but not allowed to take them off. Groundsheet isn’t big enough, so you sleep sitting up, with your helmet on, so that drips fall away onto shoulders. In the front line we’re not permitted to remove our boots and socks. Puttees leave horrible trackmarks round legs. Bad idea to take off boots in icy weather anyway, because they freeze solid. Can’t get them on again.
Stand to on firing step at dawn every day. All night for preparation, so best time to attack. Fritz does exactly the same thing, of course, and no attack ever comes. All casualties from snipers and shellfire. Proper attacks rare as alligator feathers.
Regiment lost twelve officers and 250 men to enemy action, exposure, exhaustion and frostbite, before I got here. Relieved by Royal Scots Fusiliers in December. Boys ate nothing but bully beef. You open the tins with a bayonet.
Thank God for rum ration. That navy stuff goes right down to your toes and heats you all the way back up again. Sincerely hate any NCO who tries to cream it off.
Rum and cigarettes; I guess that’s what a soldier lives for. Swap my cigarettes for rum, and think it a darned good deal too.
Couldn’t hold the line after middle of January. Lost too many men. Transport people volunteered to come and fight in place of our dead.
Began to think that there’s something about a young man that makes him want to die, and die well, whilst still at the height of life, whilst still not tired of it. Or maybe war so terrible that the prospect of death entices. Is it a comfort not to have to face the future? We all end up discarded on the midden of time, so might as well be flung there now. Ain’t I quite the philosopher?
Not thinking along those lines. I have Rosie to live for. Told her I was her angel, but really she’s mine. Also knew that if I was killed she’d never have the chance to become disillusioned. She’d never get tired. We’d never have an argument. I’d be young, strong, handsome forever. Would never watch her grow old, either. No plans to die, but it might be a good thing before I let her down. If I die, the vision lives.
Impossible to imagine oneself being dead, because one is still there, imagining it. That’s how we can watch our comrades die, and carry on. If I imagine myself dead, I’m still at Rosie’s side.
13
Daniel Pitt to his Mother (1)
Somewhere in deepest darkest France
3 January 1915
Ma chère maman,
How lovely it was to spend Christmas with you on the South Downs, and quel plaisir to go tobogganing with one’s mother! It was cruel of you to make me drag both of our toboggans back uphill, though. How will I ever forgive? Perhaps time will heal.
It was very sweet of you to come to the aerodrome to see me off. How marvellously you frightened the sentries and charmed the CO! and even his dog! I thought you were very brave, the way you held back your tears, but really, you didn’t need to. Everyone was perfectly aware that you are French and have the perfect excuse to be emotional.
But, chère maman, I do know how you feel. You saw my brothers off to South Africa, never to see them again, and we don’t know what’s going to happen to Archie out in Waziristan. You must be very lonely and worried. Even I am worried, a lot more than my fellow birdmen, none of whom seem to be older than eighteen. At twenty-two I feel a little less bulletproof than they do.
I want to tell you why you shouldn’t worry, but first of all I have to relate what happened on the way over. As you know, I came over in a gunbus, with another pilot in the front, and the plan was to collect a nice little Morane-Saulnier at St Omer. Well, the gunbus is a stout fellow, and a remarkably dependable and safe machine, but ours conked out not far from Gravelines. Broken ignition wire, it turned out. Ça se passe. I can’t tell you how frightening it was. I was fiddling with the instruments, almost in a blue funk, thinking I was going to have to ditch in the sea and get dissected by crabs and other molluscs, and the odd dogfish. But I managed to land right at the sea’s edge, on the beach. Thank God it was low tide. The other fellow and I managed to drag it up the beach with the aid of stalwart fishermen who had been innocently beachcombing, and we telephoned through to Squadron HQ. Whilst waiting for the ack emma we got royally treated by the inhabitants of a bistro. I’ve never had such a good steak. I can tell that being a half-French birdman is going to be a huge bonus out here. I will have simpering girls draped off both arms, and have to check that there aren’t any in my shoes in the mornings, as we did with scorpions out on the NWF. The weather leaves most of our flying days completely dud, so…more time for the fair maidens of France!
Anyway, to the point. If you fly over France, you see beneath you a country of the most magnificent beauty. Where else are there towns like Fleurs, or Poitiers, or Abbeville? Where else are there lovely long avenues of poplars and infinitely long Roman roads? And rivers with such lovely curves? And elegant chateaux that were never made for war? And women who think you must be mentally deficient if you are not in love with them? Where everyone drinks wine and sings, but nobody’s drunk?
The point is, maman, that I love France with all my heart and soul. She is my mother, as you are, and England is my father, as Father was. One loves one’s parents equally, if differently, and I love France as I love you, with a sort of passionate aching tenderness.
Not far from here there is a strip, neither very long nor wide, where this exquisite land has been reduced to a hideous bog of brown mud, pitted with interconnecting shell holes full of filthy water, where there are no trees unbroken and no church or farm or house intact. It is already a vast graveyard of the unburied. The gunfire is relentless and maddening. The front is an obscenity, maman, and this was inflicted on France by a madman who overran two neutral countries in order to get to it and bring about this wreckage. Only when it is covered with snow is purity restored to this land, and even then the trenches cut through it like cracks in glass.
At Westminster we had to learn reams of heroic poetry. It was beaten into us, did you but know it, but there’s a verse I remember, by Lord Macauley, I believe, which goes:
‘To every man upon this earth
Death cometh soon or late:
And how can man die better
Than facing fearful odds,
For the ashes of his fathers,
And the temples of his gods?’
Well, that’s how I feel. Airmen don’t live long, as you probably know. I may be lucky, or I may have the worst of luck and be maimed rather than killed. But if I am killed, I would like you to be fearsomely proud as you show my photograph to your visitors, and say, ‘That was my son, mort pour la France.’
Ton fils dévoué,
Daniel P.
14
Rosie
Boxing Day of 1914 began very wet, and Rosie was awakened by the sound of rain on the windowpanes. Her face was cold, but her body was warm from being tucked under the covers. The coal fire, which had been banked up the night before, had burned itself out, and was giving very little heat
. It was still dark outside, and she lay in bed thinking about Ashbridge in France. He would almost certainly be outside in the trenches, and she wondered how one could possibly cope with being there in weather like this. Rosie remembered that it was St Stephen’s Day, and that he had been the first Christian martyr. She got dressed in bed.
The house was quiet now that all the male servants had gone. When she went downstairs the Christmas tree seemed lifeless with its candles unlit, and the presents gone from beneath it. She was the first of the family to be up, although she could hear Cookie and Millicent clattering in the kitchen. She sat in the drawing room watching the world become light outside, and felt helpless.
That morning she conscientiously wrote her thank-you letters, and then put on her coat and a sou’wester and went next door to see Mr and Mrs Pendennis. She found the latter very pale and agitated, but doing her best to be collected.
‘My dear,’ said Mrs Pendennis, ‘I shall just have to resign myself, won’t I? I’ve got three boys out there, and it’s not very likely that they’ll all come back, is it? Have you noticed that the parents of the dead boys have become a kind of club?’
‘They do errands for each other,’ said Rosie. ‘It’s nice in a forlorn kind of way, isn’t it?’
‘I’m worried about my husband,’ said Mrs Pendennis. ‘He’s smoking an awful lot, and it’s giving him a cough. He says it helps to clear his lungs, but I really don’t think it helps at all.’
‘We spend our time clutching at straws, don’t we?’ said Rosie.
On the next day, which was the day of St John the Evangelist, there was a terrible gale, and once again Rosie woke up feeling a kind of horror for Ashbridge, in case the weather should be like this wherever he was. Mrs McCosh, sensitive to Rosie’s worries, tried to keep her busy, and despatched her to the post office, so that she came back drenched and windswept. Because Millicent was so busy, Rosie made up the fire in the drawing room herself and knelt in front of it to dry out. It was unbearable to think of Ash being shelled and soaked, with no real shelter and no fire to dry out next to. Rosie stared into the flames as if there were something to be divined there.
The Dust That Falls From Dreams Page 6