by John Masters
‘Saint Yvon, sir … but wot are they ringing the bells for?’
Boy started laughing … ‘Christmas Day, sergeant! It’s Christmas Day. Peace on earth and good will toward men! That’s why the Germans omitted their daily hate … and perhaps why the sniper didn’t fire at me just now.’
He stood up tall, looking over the sandbagged parapet, his head and shoulders showing. A German opposite was doing the same. The German waved, then put his hands to his mouth and shouted. The words rang clear across the shell-pocked snow – ‘Merry Christmas, Tommy!’
‘Merry Christmas, Fritz,’ Boy shouted back. The German began to climb out of his trench, and Boy followed suit.
‘Sir, sir!’ Knapp was tugging at his tunic. ‘We ought to be careful!’
‘No more than ten men are to come out. You stay here till I come back … Send a man to tell the captain what’s happening.’
‘There won’t be no need, sir. Look!’ Knapp, standing beside Boy in the open now, gestured to right and left, where No Man’s Land was dotted with men moving towards each other, pulling knife rests aside or cutting the wire so that they could reach each other.
Boy walked forward. The German who had shouted was close, waving his hand. The hand held a bottle. They met and Boy said, ‘Merry Christmas … I’m Lieutenant Rowland.’
‘Lieutenant Werner von Rackow, at your service!’ He clicked his heels, bowed, and held out the bottle – ‘German champagne. Rather sweet, but good enough, in the circumstances.’
Boy drank, hiccuped, and returned the bottle, grinning. The German was no more than twenty, perhaps less, six feet, slender, with a long head, aquiline features, big hands, a ready smile … very like his cousin Guy, Boy realized; except that the German was growing a toothbrush moustache, and both his eyes were grey and his hair was blond.
‘You speak English very well,’ he said, ‘and I’m afraid I don’t speak any German.’
‘You will, after the war is over,’ the other said, laughing. ‘No offence, please … My mother is – was – English.
‘You are – ’ he glanced at Boy’s cap badge ‘ – the Weald Light Infantry, I see. A very good regiment. You gave my regiment a bad time at Le Cateau. We found many of your dead on the field when we were eventually able to advance … We gave them proper burial,’ he added quickly.
‘I am sure,’ Boy said, ‘I’m afraid I don’t smoke. I have no cigarettes …’ He felt in his tunic pockets, found something hard, and pulled it out. It was a piece of German sausage that his uncle had given him last night, to take up as a snack. Von Rackow laughed. ‘Thanks, but I have plenty of that.’
Boy thought frantically, I must give him something, but what? He remembered the good luck charm his sister Naomi had given him when he went out to India. It was in the shape of Mr Kipling’s swastika colophon, made of gold, and inscribed on the front C. J. C. ROWLAND, and on the back, along the crooked arms, To Boy, with love, from Naomi. He undid his top tunic and shirt buttons, and took off the charm, which lay on his chest with his identity discs on its own gold chain, and gave it to the German.
‘We’re enemies,’ he said awkwardly, ‘but there’s no need for us to behave like animals … Take this, for good luck. We’ll beat you, but I hope you come through.’
Von Rackow looked at it a moment, then unbuttoned his own high-collared tunic and pulled out a locket that had been hanging round his neck, next to the skin. He gave it to Boy, saying simply, ‘My mother, the English lady.’ Boy saw a handsome oval face, the woman about forty, fair hair piled on top of her head. The back of the locket was inscribed with von Rackow’s name, rank, army number, and regiment. Boy hung it round his neck, where the swastika had hung, and said, ‘Thank you.’
Von Rackow did the same; and, as he was rebuttoning his tunic, asked, ‘Has the war hit your family badly yet?’
Boy shook his head, ‘We thought for a time that an uncle had been killed at Coronel, but he wasn’t.’
‘An uncle of mine went down at the Falkland Islands,’ von Rackow said. ‘Do you realize, Mr Rowland, that when those squadrons met off Coronel that day, four out of five of the men present were to die within a few weeks? The English that night, ours a month later?’
Boy shook his head, not speaking. The disaster at Coronel had been such a blow to England’s naval prestige that when, a month later, all von Spee’s ships but one were sunk off the Falkland Islands by a superior British fleet, almost without loss, he, like most Englishmen, had had no feeling but of relief, and revenge: the slate had been wiped clean.
All up and down No Man’s Land officers and men were exchanging gifts – cap badges, cigarettes, loaves of bread, tobacco, photos, wine. A British staff captain was stumbling along shouting, ‘No photographs of other ranks permitted! Only officers may be photographed fraternizing!’
The German said, ‘I won’t be in the trenches much longer. I’ve applied for the air arm.’
‘I’m terrified of those things,’ Boy said, ‘but I suppose they’re going to become more and more important. Look now!’
He pointed up – a German plane, the black crosses clear under the wing, was circling low over the battlefield, the pilot leaning far out to observe the strange goings on below.
Whistles began to shrill. The staff captain was shouting, ‘Everyone back! … Back! Hostilities will recommence in twenty minutes!’
Von Rackow put out his hand. ‘Good luck to you too, Mr Rowland. I wish we could meet in other circumstances.’
‘So do I.’
‘Perhaps we will.’
They saluted each other, the German formally, but with a smile, Boy awkwardly, feeling a fool, yet warm. He trudged back towards the British line, where he could see Sergeant Knapp’s moonface peering anxiously over the parapet.
He jumped down and in, almost the last to do so. Ten minutes later a series of heavy thuds sounded from the east, followed by the whistling sighs of a score of shells. They burst in salvoes on the support area a quarter of a mile to the rear. Knapp sighed with relief, ‘That’s the ’ate, sir. Not on us today.’
Boy said, ‘Well, everyone back to business … Let’s reconnoitre a place for that sniper.’
‘Right, sir … Two men come up from the rear, just now, sir, posted to us. Privates Maloney and Stratton, sir … They’re ’ere, now … Attention!’ The two soldiers standing in the trench, each bowed under greatcoat, entrenching tool, full pack, bulging ammunition pouches, full water bottle, rolled blanket, rifle and bayonet, stood to attention and stared straight ahead.
Boy said, ‘Where are you from, Maloney?’
‘County Cork, sorr … I was in the navy two years, but got seasick every time we went to sea, so they let me join the army.’
‘And you, Stratton?’
‘Kent, sir. Hedlington.’
Boy stared more closely. The man was in his mid-thirties – stocky, sandy, with big ears and wide set eyes. He said, ‘Didn’t you work at my grandfather’s plant, Rowland’s?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Frank Stratton said, grinning broadly. ‘I remember when you were born, sir, in Hedlington, before Mr John moved out to the farm. And then Mr John would invite my dad and mum and us down to picnic during the summer.’
Boy said, ‘Well, I’m delighted you’ve joined us … If you haven’t detailed a batman to me yet, sergeant, I’d like to have Stratton. Suit you, Stratton?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good idea, sir. Then ’e won’t ’ave quite so much ’ard labour as the others. No chicken, are you, Stratton?’
‘Thirty-six, sergeant.’
‘ ’Ow did you get out ’ere so soon? Can’t ’ave joined up before August, can you?’
‘That recruit training was pretty easy, sergeant, and I kept pestering the officers, till they sent me out to get rid of me.’
Boy said, ‘You’re married, aren’t you? Your wife’s called – wait a minute … Anne.’
‘That’s right, sir. Two girls, and a little nipper, born October 4th t
his year.’ His left hand wandered towards his breast pocket and Sergeant Knapp said hastily, ‘That’s all, there! Dismiss!’
Boy walked off, overhearing Knapp’s muttered comment – ‘Some folk is off their blooming rockers – thank Gawd!’
Two days later Boy was in the company headquarters dugout, listening to Captain Maclachlan finish his orders for a wiring party, to be commanded by Boy: ‘Normal messages by field telephone from the front line trench: emergency – red over red Very lights, for general stand to, if you suspect an enemy attack is imminent. Any questions?’
Boy looked at his notes and after a moment said, ‘Can I draw the wire earlier, sir? I’d like to have time to check it. Sergeant Knapp has told me that it’s often tangled on the spools.’
Maclachlan said, ‘Yes. Fix that direct with the RSM. Anything else?’
‘I don’t think so, sir.’
‘Well, run along then and get some sleep – all of you – before dark.’
Boy saluted and turned to go but CSM Davies cut in – ‘Excuse me, sir, we’ve had a Form 905 for you.’ He handed it over. Boy read, not understanding – Lieutenant C. J. C. Rowland, 2nd Bn Weald Light Infantry, stationed at Lucknow … It was an Indian Army form. The ordnance authorities at Lucknow were stating that he owed them sixty-four rupees, fourteen annas, four pies in connection with the loss of two pakhals, on April 8th, 1914. Payment must be made immediately by cheque or money order to the District Ordnance Depot, citing the number of this document.
‘How on earth did this get here?’ he asked the CSM.
‘Sent on from the 2nd Battalion,’ he said, ‘with a note to say it arrived just after you were transferred. But, look you, sir, we can lose it, easily!’
Captain Maclachlan cut in – ‘Yes, lose it, Sar’nt Major. Although whether anyone can escape from the clutches of an Indian Ordnance Depot that easily, I am not sure.’
Daily Telegraph, Wednesday, December 23, 1914
KING’S MESSAGE TO EAST COAST MAYORS
Deep Sympathy with Bereaved Families
His Majesty yesterday sent to the Lord Lieutenants of Durham and the North Riding of Yorkshire a gracious expression of his sympathy with the bereaved families in the bombarded towns on the East Coast, to be forwarded to the Mayors of these towns. Identical messages were received by the Mayors of Hartlepool and of West Hartlepool in these terms:—
I have felt keenly for the people of Hartlepool during the past week, and heartily sympathize with the bereaved families. Please enquire as to the progress of the wounded. I wish them all speedy recovery. GEORGE R.I.
‘The Germans had a cheek to bombard Hartlepool,’ Laurence said, buttering a piece of toast and spreading it with Oxford marmalade, ‘but why didn’t the navy stop them? Or sink the ships that did it?’
Christopher Cate said, ‘Cheek isn’t the word to apply to operations of war, Laurence. The Germans took the risks involved in order to make our civilian population realize that they are not immune from the dangers of war just because we are surrounded by sea. They want us to lose confidence in the navy, and in our leaders. For the same reason they will shortly be dropping explosives from Zeppelins and aeroplanes, I am convinced.’
‘But what are the risks, for the Germans?’ Laurence demanded. ‘They knew Hartlepool and those places aren’t defended. And the Grand Fleet sits up at Scapa, hundreds of miles away, doing nothing.’
‘They aren’t doing nothing,’ his father said. ‘Admiral Jellicoe occasionally orders some of the heavy ships to make a sweep south and east along our coasts, and towards Germany, in the hope of catching a German squadron on just such an operation as this coastal bombardment. So far, luck has been against us … and by the time the Grand Fleet itself can leave harbour to cut off the raiders, it is too late – they have a much shorter distance to go.’
Laurence ate some toast; and then, unwilling to let the Germans off lightly, said, ‘They’re dirty dogs, though, to bombard civilians, aren’t they?’
Cate said, ‘Yes, they are.’ He hesitated, but decided Laurence was old enough to think more deeply into these things. He said, ‘The Germans say that we are attacking their women and children by our blockade. Starving them. To an extent, it is true … War is an unpleasant business, Laurence.’
Again Laurence was busy eating for a time, then he said, ‘Will Uncle Quentin be home for Christmas, do you think?’
‘I very much doubt it. It’s only the day after tomorrow, and though he might turn up at any moment for a few days’ leave, it is against the odds. After all, every man in France would like to spend Christmas at home, with his family, if he could.’
‘I hope at least that he has a big Christmas pudding.’
‘That he should,’ Christopher said. ‘Mrs Abell made him a big one last week – and another for Uncle Tom – and we sent them both off while you were still at school. Uncle Tom won’t get his in time, I fear … but we may be seeing him soon. In yesterday’s paper the naval correspondent was speculating that most of the cruisers that have been scattered all over the world can now come home – to join the Grand Fleet, or the blockading forces.’
‘Or get the Goeben and Breslau out of Constantinople,’ Laurence said. ‘A fleet could sail up the Dardanelles and into the Bosphorus and just blow them out of the water. They’re Germans even if the rotten Turks have fitted out the crews with fezzes and pretended they’re all in their navy now … rotters!’
19 Walstone Park: Friday, January 1, 1915
Johnny Merritt had a vile cold and his head felt like a boiled owl’s. ‘This English climate!’ he had muttered to himself a hundred times since the cold had started three days ago … ‘and the way they heat their rooms, or rather, don’t.’ His father had told him he was a fool not to cry off from his New Year’s visit to the Cates, in his condition, but he had been determined to go. Stella would be there; and he was beginning to feel unsure about her. When they had first met, that marvellous day at Henley, she had seemed totally absorbed in him. That remained true the first few times they had been together since his return to England; but recently he had felt her attention was wandering … she wasn’t always available to be given tea at the South Eastern, even when he knew she was in Hedlington, but not actually at work in Lady Blackwell’s hospital. She wasn’t even always ready to spend all her hours with him at Walstone – though it was she who had, through her father, invited him down. Yet he loved her more than ever. The plain fact was, he acknowledged to himself, that he was jealous … but of whom? He answered himself – of anyone who looked at her, or took up a moment of her time. Oh well, he’d have her to himself nearly all day tomorrow, when he took her to Canterbury.
He was striding along a lane on the outskirts of Walstone with two Mrs Rowlands – Mrs John and Mrs Quentin – Mrs Quentin’s daughter Virginia, and Naomi’s friend Rachel Cowan. The older ladies wore sensible tweed skirts and coats, thick stockings, boots and dark grey spats; he himself wore knickerbockers and a thick Norfolk jacket, a tweed cap, and long woollen scarf. Old Mr Harry Rowland was driving down from Hedlington, with his wife and Alice. Richard and Susan were not interested in foxhunting, and were not coming – perhaps also, he thought, Richard preferred to keep away from his father. Mrs Cate had vanished in Ireland. The rest of the Rowland clan – Christopher Cate, Laurence, and Stella; John Rowland and his daughter Naomi, down from Cambridge for the Christmas holidays; and Guy – were all mounted and riding separately to the New Year’s Day meet of the North Weald foxhounds, held this year as every year at Walstone Park, seat of the Earls of Swanwick.
The country looked starkly beautiful, a recent snowfall mantling the north side of hedge and copse and lying in patches in the shade of great trees. The trees themselves were bare, clean arms flung out against the pale sky, the sun a warming touch on the cheek. Frost sparkled in the grass along the Scarrow and spears of ice hung from gutters and eaves.
They crossed the Scarrow on an ancient humpbacked bridge of stone, and Johnny glanced upstream.
There was Walstone Park, half a mile away, an immense grey mass, windows sparkling golden in the morning sun, lawns sweeping down towards the river, small figures in scarlet and black, horses, the glint of steel.
‘What a beautiful sight!’ he exclaimed, ‘someone ought to paint that.’
‘People have, several times,’ Louise Rowland said. Virginia added, ‘The roof leaks, though …’
A little past the bridge, on the right, the wrought iron gates to the Park, adorned with gold-painted coronet and coat of arms, were open, the liveried gatekeeper standing outside the gatehouse.
‘Good morning, Furr,’ Louise Rowland called. The gatekeeper touched his cockaded top hat, murmuring, ‘Morning, ma’am. Morning, miss. Morning, sir.’
‘Have hounds arrived yet?’
‘Just passed, two minutes ago, ma’am. The bitch pack.’
Virginia said to Johnny, ‘The kennels used to be at the back of the big house, but Lord Swanwick – this one – moved them to Beighton. Daddy says one cannot hunt and preserve pheasants on the same land.’
Johnny nodded in acknowledgement. She was a nice kid, about fifteen, he thought, big breasted, but pudgy and awkward; in a couple of years, if she acquired anything of her brother Guy’s poise and carriage, and thinned down a bit, she’d be a good-looker.
They started walking up the drive, through scattered trees among grazing fallow deer. The great house slowly appeared round a curve of the grassy slope, to be seen again much as Johnny had seen it from the old bridge, but now more fully frontal, as the drive swept round and headed straight for the building. The hounds were a short distance ahead, trotting up the drive, a man on horseback behind them and another in front, both wearing faded scarlet coats and dark blue velvet peaked caps, and swinging whips loosely beside them. The kennel huntsman, wearing a tweed coat, cord breeches, and canvas leggings, bumped along on a shaggy pony in rear. He had a bag slung round his shoulders and a short spade strapped to the side of his saddle. A fox terrier’s small, alert face peered out from the top of the bag, examining everything and everyone as it passed. One of the horsemen swung his whip and cracked it like a pistol over the head of a hound that was straying off on to the grass, attracted by some seductive scent. ‘Garaway boick, Antic!’ he snapped. The whip cracked again, and Antic slunk back into the pack.