*
Could it be true, as some of the chaps were saying, that among the Bavarians advancing to the crest, to the music of their bands floating before them in the silence of the guns, were students walking arm-in-arm because they had no rifles at all, being sustained only by the desperate singing of comrades, volunteers like themselves, who had had even less training than the youngest of the London Highlanders? And that the cries of Mutter-Mutter-Mutter among the wounded were the same as Mother-Mother-Mother heard from the Iron Colonel’s grey lips when he had opened his eyes wide, just before dying, as he lay in the lee of the cornstack? It was a terrible thought, that the Germans were like themselves: a thought that he could not bear to think of at all, even to himself.
*
When the Hussars had gone, he saw a group of officers trotting up the road. They had red bands round their hats, and gold braid on the peaks. In front of them rode a Colour-sergeant, bearing a little Union Jack as a pennant. Behind him came a sturdy, white-moustached figure, which he recognised from newspaper photographs as Field-Marshal Sir John French, the Commander-in-Chief. Everyone saluted as he went past.
He watched the magnificent posse, as he thought of it halting and dismounting. Sir John French spoke to several of the Highlanders. He hurried over to hear. It was surprising how short the Commander-in-Chief was, and how kindly he spoke. He said the battalion had done well. Their work, and the way they had borne themselves, would never be forgotten. He asked many questions, all in the same kindly voice, rather like Sir Ian Hamilton’s. It was a wonderful feeling, to be spoken to like that by a Field-Marshal. He was not at all stern, like Lord Kitchener; rather the reverse. He felt much happier. All the staff-officers looked spotlessly clean, with gleaming brown riding boots and belts, and shining spurs. A Rolls-Royce motor-car with a Union Jack on its bonnet, and several mounted men, all with sergeant’s stripes, followed the group as they rode away.
With the others, Phillip was excited by the visit; but depression returned when the order was given to fall-in on the road. He was almost sorry to be leaving the field, muddy as it was; still, they would be going back for a rest, and letters and parcels.
Changes were made in the company. Lance-corporal Douglas was now full corporal, with an extra purple stripe to each sleeve made by indelible pencil. He was in charge of the left-half company. Collins, promoted lance-corporal, was in charge of the section. Collins now had a determined manner, so different from his apathetic attitude during the night bus-ride from Ypres, long ago. Then, with a start, he realised that the bus-ride was only last Friday night; and that today was Sunday. Sunday! What would they be doing at home? He could not imagine his home. Would the bell of St. Cyprian’s Church be tolling for eleven o’clock service? How unreal and far-away all that now seemed. It was gone for ever.
After linen bandoliers of ammunition had been handed out, the battalion moved off through the village. To his dismay Phillip realised that they were going along the road leading to Messines. Surely they were not going into the attack again? Shells were bursting on the rising ground in front. There was a lot of machine-gun fire in the distance. Why were they marching back again? Hadn’t they done their bit? He felt like crying.
They turned off the road, down a muddy lane which led to a farm. They lined a ditch, behind a thorn hedge. They were told not to look up, in case enemy aeroplanes saw their white faces.
Through a gap in the hedge he watched the Hussars advancing in open order, across the brown land which sloped almost imperceptibly down to the little brook which he had crossed with others during the withdrawal in the darkness. Many machine-guns were now firing, from unseen posts across the stream. Then tiny figures of men were seen, moving down the slopes. They were Germans. Nearer, other figures were moving back towards the spur—the Hussars coming back.
*
All day the Highlanders and the Yeomanry sat or lay and slept by the hedge. The German advance seemed to have petered out. Phillip could not sleep; he lay back on his valise, while recent scenes recurred again and again in his mind. The electric snake flickered all down the left side of his head; he rubbed his eye; it made no difference. Then as the afternoon was growing dull other troops filed down the track, and Sergeant Furrow told them that they were being relieved. A rumour said that they would be returning to England, to be turned into an Officers Training Corps. They filed away down the muddy lane.
At first they marched fairly regularly in step down the pavé road to Wulverghem; but soon fatigue, and the hard sett-stones, made progress for each man a desperate, lonely, and unspeaking affair. Phillip’s shoes and hose, sodden from crossing the stream the night before, soon blistered his heels. They went on through Wulverghem, turning right-handed towards the nearest of the low, wooded hills to the north. Darkness had come when the first halt was called. They fell out on the right of the road, beyond the iron rails embedded in the pavé.
Here the transport was waiting with hot tea and Maconochie stew; then on again into the night, humping packs, rifles continually being shifted from shoulder to shoulder, no one speaking, tramp tramp tramp in darkness flashing and rolling with gunfire along the eastern horizon.
They kept going in the hope of billets in the village below the Mont de Kemmel; but they marched on through dark little rows of cottages dim-seen under the embattled sky; men now slouching along, out of step, many limping upon the uneven pavé. Phillip was on the left of his file of fours; the pavé in the middle of the road. A muddy track lay each side of it. With clenched teeth he slogged on. They came at last to another village. This time they halted, to lean upon muzzles of rifles, waiting, for this was the end of the march.
As in a bad dream he followed five others into a cottage kitchen. Their blankets had been thrown off before the advance through the wood; no matter, this was a house, with roof to keep out rain, and thanks be to God, said Corporal Douglas, a stove. Shedding equipment, they lay down, but stirred to to life once more when the post-corporal and his orderly man brought round letters. The orderly carried an extra sack marked Missing, in indelible pencil.
Parcels would be delivered tomorrow, said the post-corporal’s voice, heard by Phillip lying in a corner, face to the wall, precious envelopes in breast-pocket, praying silently that all the candles be put out—the eye-stabbing bright points of light, the jarring voices in the room.
*
More of ‘B’ company turned up in the morning. An entire half-company of ‘A’ arrived. Retreating with other troops after the night of battle, they had slept elsewhere. The battalion losses were not so heavy as had been thought; they were just under four hundred.
For ‘B’ company there was a foot-inspection after breakfast; then Lance-corporal Collins marched the sick to the R.A.M.C. post, where iodine was dabbed on Phillip’s raw blisters. From the orderly he heard that Martin was in the Casualty Clearing Station at Locre.
Later in the morning orders came to move by ’bus. With relief he heard they were going back to Bailleul. When they paraded, Captain Forbes told them that he had received a telegram from the Commander-in-Chief, offering his warmest congratulations and thanks for the fine work they had done at Messines. “You have given a glorious lead and example to all Territorial troops who are going to fight in France.” There was also a letter from General Allenby, commanding the Cavalry Corps, in which he thanked the battalion for the self-sacrificing support given in a great emergency. “Steadiness and courage saved a situation that was as difficult and critical to deal with as will ever occur.” If only he had known what had really happened. Then Captain Forbes read out messages from the 2nd Battalion at Home. So the news had got to London! Ah, if only he had not run into the wood.
Yet he felt also a sort of pride as Fiery Forbes read out the messages; but upon reflection, wondered again how they could have applied to what had happened. How had the situation been saved? He tried to picture Father’s face, when he read of it in The Daily Trident. He could almost hear Gran’pa on the Hill discussing it
with Mr. Krebs and Mr. Bolton, in the shelter, or perhaps standing in the road outside his gate, with Mrs. Bigge looking on. Would Mrs. Neville, in her upper flat, be watching up the road as she usually did? He could imagine the serious faces, and perhaps Mrs. Neville would be crying; but not Mother. He had not seen her cry since he was a little child, though often hot spots came on her cheeks when Father bullied her, and a shine came upon her eyes.
Chapter 24
INCIDENT IN CHARLOTTE ROAD
MRS. NEVILLE, seated in her window with its view of the lower slopes of the grassy Hill, and all of Hillside Road, saw Mrs. Maddison walking down the pavement with what looked like Timmy Rat’s box held in one hand by its strap. She knew the box well; for invariably Phillip had brought it down to show Desmond every time he had returned home for the holidays. I just brought Timmy down to welcome Desmond home again, Mrs. Neville. His box is quite clean, really—she could hear Phillip’s voice now: at times he had such a charming, diffident manner, just like his father.
Where was Mrs. Maddison going with the box? Was she coming to see her, and perhaps ask her to take care of Phillip’s white rat? Had Phillip’s father decided that he would not have it in the house any longer? Surely not, while Phillip was away at the front! Well, really, whatever the reason, if Mrs. Maddison intended to ask her to look after Timmy—no, no, she must not say yes! It was unhealthy. Rats and mice—she drew the line at rats and mice. Desmond’s hedgehog, that the boys had once brought home in a handkerchief, to unroll on the carpet and dip its head in milk—when, surprisingly, it unrolled to lap up the saucer—had been able to take care of itself in the garden—but Timmy Rat in her kitchen, never! She must be firm!
It was shortly after eleven o’clock on the morning of Monday, the 2nd of November. The day had started with rain, but now it had cleared. The sun was shining in her kitchen window; and having carried her cup of mid-morning tea to the sitting-room, Mrs. Neville, comfortable in her chair, had worked off her slippers, and with cup-handle ready in position for the first slow reflective sip, had taken up the morning paper. At that moment she caught sight of Phillip’s mother; and she was about to get up from her chair, to open the window and ask Mrs. Maddison in for a cup of tea, when her eyes caught the headlines on the front page of the paper lying across her knees.
LONDON HIGHLANDERS IN ACTION
BAYONET CHARGE RESTORES
BROKEN LINE SOUTH
OF YPRES
Heavy German Losses
Tears sprang from her eyes. “O my God!” she said, staring through them. Phillip! Mrs. Cakebread’s two boys! The three Wallace brothers just down the road! They must have been in it! O my God! poor Phillip’s mother! That was it! Phillip’s father wanted to get rid of Timmy because—O, surely not! What dreadful thoughts she was capable of! Mary, Mother of God, forgive me!
Mrs. Neville dabbed her eyes, and rising swiftly for one so weighty from a chair none too big for her bulk, managed to throw up the window and call out to the familiar trim little figure just as it was going round the corner into Charlotte Road. Thank God, Mrs. Maddison smiled when she turned her face! Then everything must be all right—so far, at any rate. Mrs. Neville touched the wood of her table.
She waited while the small smiling figure crossed the road, and composed herself for the moment of speaking when Mrs. Maddison should stop by the railings at the end of the open, tiled approach to the flats. Then in her best party voice Mrs. Neville called down, sweetly,
“Do come up and have a cup of tea, dear, if you can spare the time. I’ve just made a pot! I’ll come down and let Mazeppa out. Then Timmy will be safe in his box on the mat, behind the closed door.”
Mrs. Neville, having drawn a deep breath in order to put on her shoes, hid the paper under a cushion, and went down the stairs and opened the door, Mazeppa mewing before her.
“Do come in, Mrs. Maddison. Out you go, Mazeppa now! Away with you, lazy cat! All he thinks about is his food. There now, Timmy will be safe on the mat. Go up, dear, will you? I’m such a weight, I’ll follow you. You’ll have a cup of tea, won’t you? I’ve only just made it. Go up, dear, and sit down, while I fetch another cup.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Neville.”
“Well now, what is the latest about Phillip?” said Mrs. Neville, sweetly, having brought in her tray. “No news is good news, I always say.”
“Yes, Mrs. Neville!” replied Hetty, almost gaily. “Phillip is very well, he says. They are staying in an empty convent, somewhere in France, having moved up from the railhead where they were working. He does not say, of course, what he is doing, but it is nice to think that they are in a convent, with wooden floors, too. He was always such a delicate child, and prone to catch cold.”
“Well, let’s hope the war will be over by Christmas, dear. I hope you don’t mind me calling you ‘dear’—‘Mrs. Maddison’ sounds so formal, for Phillip’s mother, somehow.” She paused, listening.
“What’s that noise? Did you hear it, dear? There it is again.”
“It is Timmy coughing, Mrs. Neville. He is not very well, I am afraid, nothing contagious, but he has croup, and wheezes such a lot that my husband thought that, as he was also very old, and the war, he thinks, may go on for sometime—well, perhaps it would be kinder to have Timmy put to sleep.”
To her surprise she saw Mrs. Neville’s eyes suddenly look staring and large, before she lowered her head and sought her handkerchief. She too had felt almost like crying at the thought of Phillip’s pet being put to sleep—not the ‘put down’ of Dickie, such a harsh term. What would Phillip say when he heard?
“There now,” said Mrs. Neville, looking up. “How very silly I am, to be crying because of Timmy! Of course, dear, Phillip’s father knows best, and Timmy may have something contagious. Why soon, like me, he’ll be losing his teeth!” she cried, with a little shriek of merriment. At once her face became serious. “Well, it is so nice of you to come and see me—do drop in, dear, any time you want to, won’t you? I’ll come down with you and let Mazeppa in. He is quite a companion for me, you know, now that the boys are all away from home.”
At the door Hetty said goodbye, and carrying the box, went on down Charlotte Road. She was about to turn into Dorrie’s when she saw Mr. Bolton coming out from his gate, and start to walk up towards her, as though he wanted to say something. He raised his bowler to her in rather less than his usual courtly and deliberate manner; and he appeared to stagger. Could he have been drinking? Then she realised that never before had she seen Mr. Bolton without his pug-dog on its lead.
She smiled and nodded, and was about to go through the gate when Mr. Bolton waved his stick, and began to walk faster than his usual slow gait towards her. By now she knew that something had happened; and going to meet him, saw that his face was drawn, and tears running down his cheeks.
“Oh, Mr. Bolton, is anything the matter?”
He bowed, and lifted his hat. Holding it against his fawn covert coat with its brown velvet collar, he looked at her with his pale eyes and said huskily, “M’am, my boy has been killed in action.”
“Oh dear, Mr. Bolton——” said Hetty, and then realised that he was with the London Highlanders.
“Oh dear, what can I say? Oh, I am so sorry! Oh yes, of course. Have you—have you only just heard, Mr. Bolton?”
“Not ten minutes since. Yes, it came—the War Office telegram—just as I was setting out for my walk on the Hill. Your boy, Phillip, I trust, is all right?”
‘’Oh yes, we heard only this morning! He says he is billeted in an unfinished convent.”
Mr. Bolton stared at Hetty, as though striving for breath, or words; then he said, “There has been a great battle, Mrs. Maddison. I trust all will be well with your son.”
“Oh, Mr. Bolton, have they all been in it?”
“Yes, m’am. But they saved the day, according to The Times.”
She managed to say, “Believe me, you have my deepest sympathy in your loss.” Her voice added, with a slight tremor, “
These things are in the hands of God, as are all our lives, especially in these times.”
Bogey the pug-dog was now to be heard and seen, barking violently, his anxious black face at one of the front windows of Mr. Bolton’s house.
“Ah, the little fellow, he knows!” muttered Mr. Bolton. “Well, I must go to him.” But the old man seemed loath to be left alone. “Will your father be going on the Hill this morning, do you think, Mrs. Maddison?” he muttered next.
“Oh yes, he is sure to, Mr. Bolton! He will be deeply grieved to hear of your son’s—passing.”
The old man drew himself up. “Well, life must go on,” he said, with a ruined smile. “There’s the little fellow barking for me. I shall have to go and attend to him.” He went slowly back to his house.
Dorrie had not yet looked at the morning paper. Now the sisters opened it together.
“We must continue to hope, Dorrie. And to pray that God will hear our prayers.”
As she was leaving, Hetty remembered Timmy Rat in his box, waiting in the hall.
“Oh no, I could not bring myself to take Phillip’s pet down now, Dorrie! Certainly not! Dickie would never forgive me. Oh no! We can only hope and pray. Yes, I must wait and consult Dickie before I do anything now.”
And with the box in her hand, she returned up Hillside Road, watched by Mrs. Neville, who had already heard, from Soal the greengrocer and coalman, that Mr. Bolton’s son had been killed.
Later that afternoon, as, house-work done, Mrs. Neville sat by the window sewing, she saw the telegraph boy pass on his red bicycle. The boy prepared to alight, one boot scraping on the road used as brake, while standing on the pedal with the other. Oh no, don’t say that he was going to the Wallace’s! Pretending to post a letter, she took an old envelope, put on a coat, and went downstairs and out to the post-box, feeling as though it were a matter of her own life and death.
How Dear Is Life Page 33