Regret to Inform You...

by Derek Jarrett

  There was a stunned silence. None of these men, not even the battle-hardened Major de Maine knew what to say. It was Arthur Windle who quietly and eventually said, ‘Let us just have a moment of silent prayer for Eliza and Sparky Carey, that somehow they may be comforted in the days ahead.’ The fire crackled and a log rolled forward in the silence.

  It was Arthur Windle who went to see the parents to deliver the awful news they had been dreading. He asked Eleanor to go with him, as she was so close to Eliza and still not really knowing what to say, they knocked at the door of the small cottage. Sparky, who opened it, realised in a moment they were bearers of bad news; he called his wife and gestured for their sombre visitors to enter.

  They sat down and having warned them to brace themselves for bad news, Arthur told them as much as he felt able. The moment when both parents stood, threw their arms round each other and howled in despair created an awful tableau, a bridge of misery, to remain with Eleanor and Arthur for ever. The parents’ weeping would last for a long time; the grief and agonising loss for the rest of their lives.

  It was ten days later that Peter delivered a letter which, when shown to him the following day, Arthur appreciated the sensitive nature of words:

  I deeply regret to inform you that your son Pte. J.A. Carey, No. 62732 of this Company was killed in action at the end of September. Death was instantaneous and without any suffering. I further regret that this letter reaches you so long after the sadness, but it has taken much time to establish all the circumstances.

  The Company was preparing for an attack and a small group of men, including your son, volunteered for a night action. The action was successful, but on their return an enemy shell made a direct hit.

  It was impossible to get his remains away and he lies in a soldier’s grave where he fell.

  I and the CO and all the Company deeply sympathise with you in your loss. Your son always did his duty and now has given his life for his country. We all honour him, and I trust you will feel some consolation in remembering this.

  His effects will reach you in due course.

  In true sympathy, James Bentley (Capt.).

  THIRTY-NINE

  March 1916

  Albert Jones was devastated to learn of Jammy’s death. His mind swam as he was prompted to remember how the two of them, in company with Taffy and the sergeant, had left the trench to carry out their gruesome night duty; but then his mind went blank. His lifelong mate had been killed, but fortune had smiled on him. Yet, when he read the letter passed to him by Jammy’s mother, he almost wished he, too, had died.

  His health gradually improved, his hand now restored to full use thanks to Nurse Hazlett. Each morning she bicycled from Meadow Way to Wood Lane, turning down the patient’s suggestion that he should walk to her house. He felt stronger, yet his mind remained in turmoil. As he sat in the kitchen with the village nurse, he was surprised to find he could talk more easily with her than with his parents. She chattered about small village happenings and told him of her work before moving to Rusfield. It was into the second week of treatment that he realised he should be feeling happier in his mind. Was it the death of Jammy or the thought of returning to France? Yet part of him wanted to return.

  ‘Nurse, I really am grateful to you for your kindness in helping me with my hand. You’ve done wonders for me. Now I can easily pick things up and the pain has disappeared.’

  ‘I’m so glad,’ the kindly nurse replied. ‘I think that physical injuries are probably the easiest to get better.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, you’ve really been through the mill and that must have an effect. I mean, I hope you begin to feel better in yourself?’ Strangely, or so it seemed to him, Albert felt he wanted to talk about things and their time together that morning was longer than the usual half hour. When she left, he reflected on their conversation and wondered why he was so depressed. Perhaps it would be easier when he got back to France and could play his part again.

  How could he feel low when the adorable Doris was so near? His mind dwelt on the day before. They had walked hand in hand across the lower level of Bramrose Hill when the sky had suddenly released a torrential downpour and they had run to an unused barn. As they sheltered, their ardour erupted and within a few minutes they were lying with clothes hopelessly disarranged. Their touches, their kisses, their words were passionate. Doris said afterwards that she did not know how she had the strength to push him away when nothing protected them from consummating their love. Yet each had given the other a beautiful and loving climax. ‘My darling Albert, it would have spoilt everything if I’d become pregnant. It won’t be long before this terrible war is over and when you are back I promise you, I will be yours. No one else will ever know me as you have just known me.’ He clung on to Doris with the tremors of war momentarily cast aside. Doris wondered how she could bear him going away; it would be so long before they could be together again.

  He would have dreamt on, but his pensiveness was broken by a sharp knock at the door. He sprang to his feet, opened the door and gasped in amazement: ‘Racer! What the devil are you doing here? God, it’s good to see you.’ The cousins and long-standing friends embraced, stepped back, laughed and shook hands again. ‘I can’t believe it.’

  Abraham did not seem to have changed at all. ‘I got home yesterday evening for ten days’ leave, so I came round as soon as I could. I’m sorry you’ve had such an awful time, but you look better than I thought you would. It’s terrible about Jammy, isn’t it? Poor Jammy. I’m going to see Mr and Mrs Carey tomorrow. That won’t really help, but it’s all I can do.’

  ‘Oh, they will be pleased to see you. They’ve taken things very hard of course, but are struggling to get back to normal. Mrs Carey has thrown herself into helping with the parcels for sending off to France and dear old Sparky is giving more help to people than ever.’

  Turning to news of friends, Boney said: ‘I was talking to Mrs Atkins recently and she told me how Jack was always mentioning Patricia in his letters. Indeed she has written to Jack’s mother several times.’

  ‘She’s a fine girl,’ Racer reminisced. ‘Indeed they are a splendid family. They were so kind to Jack and me when they let us stay with them before the big race. I met up with James, that’s Patricia’s brother,’ he went on to tell his friend.

  ‘Talking of girls, Racer; how is the lovely Grace?’

  ‘I’m sure she’s fine. She doesn’t actually know I’m home; you don’t always get advance notice of leave and with me it was just a case of “go now”. So I’m going over to Wensfield later this afternoon and give her a surprise by calling at the school to meet her. I hope she’ll be pleased to see me.’

  Neither volunteered much about their time in France except light-hearted incidents and some of the people they had met. To both of them the great thing was not the conversation, but being together again. They walked round to The Queens Head for a drink; maybe The George held too many memories. It was while they were there that Boney remembered something.

  ‘Racer, did you hear about your running friend?’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘That army runner you just beat when we all went up to Stamford Bridge.’

  ‘You mean Captain Wyndham Halswelle. What about him?’

  ‘I’m afraid he was killed last year. I’m surprised you haven’t heard,’ Boney went on, seeing how the news upset his friend. ‘He was something of a hero, I believe.’

  ‘He would be. He was a really great man. I shall never forget his kindness when he took me on to the track and showed me how to run in lanes. If he hadn’t, I would never have won. How did you get to hear about him?’

  ‘Well, it’s really quite strange. I’ve never had anything to do with Major de Maine, indeed I always thought of him as a little stand-offish, but soon after I came home from the hospital I got a note from him inviting me up to the manor. When I got there we sat in their lounge and had a wonderful tea. I saw a different major that
day. I asked him about his time in the army and he told me how he had served in South Africa and Egypt and then he mentioned your racing friend. Apparently the major was something of an athlete in his youth and this interest caused him to look at an athletics magazine when he had been in the Steepleton library. That’s where he read about the athlete’s death. The article said how he had been killed trying to rescue another officer, even though he was badly injured himself.’

  ‘What a terrible loss,’ replied Racer, ‘such a good man.’ He paused for a moment, obviously deeply upset; his mind returning to the occasion they had met over three years previously. ‘So why do you think you were asked up to the manor?’

  ‘Well, the major said that as he was too old to join up, at least he would do what he could. Apparently he had invited Jack Atkins when he was recovering from injury, so perhaps you’ll get an invitation, too. And something else: last week I popped in to the reading room, how good it looks, but best of all, Miss Small was in there with some of the oldest children from the school. It was lovely to see her again. Anyway, she allowed me to talk with some of the children and said I could call in at the school anytime. Maybe we could go in together, Racer?’

  ‘That would be wonderful.’ Racer turned and looked at the clock over the bar. ‘Well, I must go; otherwise mother will never forgive me for being late for lunch. I’m sure she’s overfeeding me, so it’s just as well I’m not racing at the moment. How long before you think you’ll be going back?’

  ‘I expect I’ll hear something in about a week. Let’s see if we can meet up again tomorrow. Maybe a walk over Bramrose Hill?’

  ‘That sounds a great idea. Let’s do that.’

  They shook hands, clasped each other and went their own way. The same old Racer, Albert thought, but Racer reflected on a nervousness he had seen in Boney and how his hands had shaken when holding his drink. His deeply-etched face added years to his twenty-year-old cousin and lifelong friend.

  FORTY

  March 1916

  With the sun making a weak attempt to break through the grey cloud cover, the pony and trap with Sparky Carey and Reverend Arthur Windle passed through the open wrought-iron gates leading to Richford House. Just past two-thirty; Sparky had been as punctual as ever. As he had said to Eliza, ‘It’s time I started doing something to help. James would expect that from me.’ Eliza had nodded to her husband in numbed agreement. She had heard that time was a healer, but felt the loss was becoming greater. As the two had set out on the five-mile drive to Richford House, Sparky asked Arthur Windle about the great house: ‘I know they’ve made the place into a hospital for troops, but why are you going there, sir?’

  ‘Well, to be honest Sparky, I don’t know much about it myself. I do know it’s the home of Lord and Lady Davison, but converted in to a war hospital. A few days ago I received a letter from the bishop asking me if I would visit.’

  Arthur realised that Sparky would have given anything to be visiting his son, however badly wounded; and, in truth, Arthur had mixed feelings about making this visit. He wondered how the men would regard a visitor, but if it did help then he was glad to go. Eleanor had offered to come with him, but he had declined as he thought this was hardly the activity for a woman.

  A final left-hand curve in the drive and there stood a magnificent country house, beautiful in its light-coloured stonework: built to entertain royalty. There was a variety of activity in front of the house: three ambulance wagons were parked, two carts from which large crates were being unloaded and three soldiers, one on crutches, were making their way towards the side of the house. As Sparky pulled up he said he would tether the pony and go for a little walk.

  An uncertain Arthur clambered out of the trap and walked up the impressive stone steps leading to the massive wooden doors, one of which was slightly ajar. He pushed open the right-hand one, entered and stepped into the magnificent entrance hall. He was immediately aware of a smartly-dressed nurse sitting at a table. She looked up, generously smiled: ‘Can I help you sir?’

  ‘My name is Windle, the Reverend Arthur Windle, and I have received a letter confirming that I could visit this afternoon.’

  Nurse Blendle, her breast badge bore her name, consulted a list. ‘Welcome, sir. I will call for Sister.’ She picked up a small, brass bell and gave it a sharp ring. The sound resonated round the large hall and within two minutes a severe looking lady with a bright blue cape over her white under-uniform, quickly approached.

  ‘Good afternoon, sir. You must be the Reverend Windle. Thank you for coming. I’m Sister Carmichael. We have over 300 men here, all with bad injuries, some very severe indeed. Sadly, this war is causing injuries the like of which we have never seen before. Dr Howard, the senior doctor here, believes the men can be helped by people visiting; for them to realise they haven’t been forgotten and, that however terrible their disfigurements may be, visitors will share time with them. Thank you for coming, but be warned; what you will see may shock you.’

  She led him up the marble staircase, still embellished by exotic ferns once set in place by Lady Davison. As they approached the door to what Arthur imagined had been a hall for large parties, they were greeted by a smell: not unpleasant, but strong. There was a steady sound of activity: murmurs, cries of pain and the sound of trolleys being moved across the wooden floor. Entering the room decorated with lavish ceiling paintings and walls marked with light panels where Arthur realised paintings had once hung, he saw four lines of beds, perhaps sixty in total. Nurses busied themselves attending to the men’s needs.

  ‘I’ll stay with you, but please stop and talk to any of the men. As you may feel able to come again, I think it’s best to look around generally and become acquainted with the overall situation.’ Arthur nodded; he felt unable to suggest any alternative.

  ‘In this part, the patients have a variety of injuries, most are severe, but some are being repaired and are on the way to recovery. Further on you will see the really acute cases, where sadly some will never recover.’ This forty-year-old woman gave a half smile and Arthur could feel her exuding compassion and obvious competence. He could only hope the men would not see him as a curious spectator.

  As he approached the first bed, he could see little more than a swathe of bandages with a slight gap allowing the patient to see with one eye and to feed. Arthur quietly sat on a wicker chair squeezed in between beds. He realised the man was looking at him, but whether with welcome, suspicion or fear the bandages disguised. Struggling to know what to say, he introduced himself and asked the soldier’s name.

  ‘Private Arthur Whelby, sir,’ a croaking Scottish voice spoke with difficulty.

  ‘Ah, my name, too, is Arthur. But you sound as if you come from much further north than I do. How long have you been here, Arthur?’

  ‘Since October.’ The man spoke with great difficulty and being unable to move his lips made words hard to understand. Arthur asked about the man’s home and finding he came from Glasgow, they exchanged a few words about the Scottish city; Arthur doing virtually all the speaking, the patient weakly nodding. As the one-sided conversation continued, the man’s single word answers began to fade and Arthur felt it time to move on.

  ‘I can’t imagine my visit helped him,’ Arthur volunteered to Sister Carmichael as they moved away. ‘What is wrong with him?’

  ‘You might be surprised, but he will have been pleased to see you. His face has suffered much disfigurement. The gun he was loading exploded, greatly damaging the upper part of his body. The left side of his face has been blown away, he lost one eye and a section of his jaw is missing. The pain from the burning must have been terrible. The hospital is very fortunate in that Dr Gillies, who has visited many times, is wonderful within the new field of reconstructive surgery and is building up one side of Private Whelby’s face. His face must be kept covered for fear of infection. His wife came to see him last week which did him much good. For a long time, he begged us not to allow her to visit as he didn’t want to be seen by
a loved one, but in the end he was persuaded.’

  Arthur moved on to another heavily-bandaged man wearing a pair of goggles. ‘So,’ asked Arthur, ‘please tell me about that man?’

  ‘This is Corporal Peter Adams, a Londoner. He’s making quite a good recovery although I’m afraid the damage to his lungs will be permanent. He came here some four months ago having been gassed. The gas shell caused severe burning of the skin, particularly his face and his hands. He not only suffered severe burning, but had breathed in some gas. The goggles seem to reduce the distress to his eyes which are so inflamed.’

  Arthur walked over to the goggled man, smiled and briefly introduced himself, grateful that he knew the soldier’s name. He was greeted by an attempted smile, sat down, reached out and held the man’s hand. Their limited conversation was made through the massive wheezing and breathing difficulty of Corporal Adams. He came from Romford, an area slightly known by Arthur and the conversation was about that part of London. As Arthur made to move on, the patient spoke his most words: ‘Sir, thank you for coming. Will you please say a prayer for me?’ Arthur, surprised, leant nearer, closed his eyes and spoke the Lord’s Prayer. The occasional gasp told Arthur that the gassed man was joining in.

  The next bed that Arthur stopped at, although he would liked to have stopped at more, was of a man with pipes running from his arm, a leg and his lower stomach. A conversation ensued, but was brief due to the man’s restlessness and obvious pain; after a few minutes Arthur felt the sister touch his arm to lead him on.