How Dear Is Life

by Henry Williamson

  She waited just inside the narrow lane, leading to the back-garden doors of the flats, until she saw the boy come out of the gate, and then moved, envelope in hand, guiltily towards the pillar box. She passed the boy as he wheeled his machine away from the curb, preparatory to mounting.

  “Do you realise, I wonder,” she said to the boy, with a smile, “what the sight of you stopping in a road, in these times, can mean to a mother who has a son at the front?”

  “Don’t blame me, m’am. I don’t know what’s in me telegrams. Only sometimes, like.”

  “Were you the little boy who brought the telegram to Mr. Bolton’s, this morning?”

  “’Im what’s son was killed? Yuss, I did an’ all. And the lady I just bin to’s ’ad three killed, all together. I wouldn’t take nothin’ from ’er, though she offered me a copper.”

  “You are a good, kind boy,” said Mrs. Neville. “Now you wait here, dear, and I will bring you a nice orange.”

  Later in the week, Mrs. Neville heard from her charwoman that when Mrs. Cakebread went over to offer sympathy to Mrs. Wallace, and mentioned that her two boys were safe so far, though the younger one, Gerry, was wounded, Mrs. Wallace cried, “You’ve no right to have both alive, when I have lost all my three!”

  On the same day Hetty went down to show Mrs. Neville the Field Post-card which had arrived by the eleven o’clock post, all the various laconic printed items of information crossed out in indelible pencil except I am well, and Phillip’s signature. In her relief Mrs. Neville said gaily, “You know, dear, Phillip was always getting into scrapes, and managing to get out of them, and somehow I feel he will come through all right. He’s got his wits about him, very much so, has Phillip.” Then at the sight of Mr. Bolton coming out of his gate, with Bogey, to go for his walk upon the Hill, her large face started to shake, and tears streaked the powder on her cheeks.

  “It’s November, dear. I always get like this when the leaves fall, don’t take any notice of me,” she smiled. “At any rate, the London Highlanders have done their bit, and it will be some time before his battalion is used again, so that is one comfort.”

  “Yes,” said Hetty, almost gaily. “Dome had a letter from Bertie just now, apparently they have gone back to rest, and to be refitted. I am just going to post Phillip a parcel, with a red chest-protector in it, from his grandfather, to keep out the cold.”

  Chapter 25

  THE BROWN WOOD LINE

  PHILLIP thought that Bailleul was a pleasant town. Two things made him contented: they were allowed to go into the estaminets and drink beer and café-rhum in the evening; and cousin Bertie had turned up, safe and sound. There was no rule about privates being seen with sergeants, so it was good to have Bertie to talk to, sometimes. Gerry was in hospital at the base with a shrapnel ball in his thigh.

  Bit by bit news of the company casualties got around. Baldwin had been killed at once. Elliott had been hit by a shell as they were coming into the open out of l’Enfer wood. He had lain all doubled up, his leg and arm bones protruding out of a tattered mass of kilt and tunic. “Grannie” Henshaw had a bullet in the shoulder, in the withdrawal, and was already in England. Bertie was in high feather: he said the new Colonel of the Coldstream, with which his grandfather and great-uncles had served, had applied for him, and the C.O. had signed his papers for a commission.

  From Bertie Phillip learned that the battalion was to remain at Bailleul for a large draft expected from the 2nd Battalion in England. New rifles were to be issued. Phillip had reported that his had been struck by a bullet; he said nothing about die carbine, left beside Martin as the Germans were breaking through. “I went, sir, with the others, to man the reserve line.”

  The Grande Place of Bailleul was filled with guns—long-toms, or naval guns from the South African war, all newly painted in blotches of decaying cabbage. Lacking ammunition, they had been withdrawn from the line, but to the troops they were part of the reserve, which showed that things could not be too bad. The town seemed to be a centre for Territorials. The two cousins, in the bar of the Faucon d’Or, talked with some of the Honourable Artillery Company. They looked at the dining-room, where wall-mirrors had been broken by drunken Uhlan officers throwing empty bottles about. There were various stories of Uhlan atrocities. Before leaving a house in which they had been billeted, a house owned by an old lady and her servant, some German officers had taken out all the sheets in the linen-press, spread them over the beds they had slept in, and then fouled them, for a joke. In another billet they had done the same thing upon some of the plates of a set of delicate china taken from a glass-fronted cupboard; then they had put back the plates. And yet, when he went into a butcher’s shop to buy a piece of sausage, Phillip learned that the Germans had paid for everything they had asked for, though in silver marks, with the eagle on one side. The Germans had told the butcher that the money would be good after the war. Phillip exchanged one of his silver francs for a German mark as a souvenir, a new word picked up from the regulars.

  The H.A.C. were very nice chaps, he thought, although somehow they did not look like soldiers, with their long lavender-coloured greatcoats. It was the same colour as that worn by the Officer of the Guard at the Bank of England, which he had watched one autumn evening of the previous year, marching through the City. He wondered if they would have to have khaki coats before they could go into the line, lest they be mistaken for Germans. The German coats were more grey than the H.A.C. overcoats, judging from those he had seen on prisoners.

  During the second evening out with Bertie, there was an ominous increase in the gun-fire rolling down the wind. Another attack was being made for Ypres. Phillip was glad to be out of it: it was generally agreed that they had done their bit; but a shock was coming: after dinner the next day Sergeant Furrow entered the billet to announce company parade, full marching order, at four o’clock, to go into the line that night.

  “That’s torn it,” remarked Lance-corporal Collins.

  “Why don’t they send in the H.A.C.?” said Church. “They’ve only lost two men so far, digging reserve trenches, by stray shellfire.”

  “But Sergeant!” said Phillip. “How can I go? I haven’t got my new rifle! There weren’t enough to go round! I am supposed to wait until the next issue!”

  “You’ll be given one before parade, from the transport men.”

  Phillip followed him out of the billet.

  “Please, Sergeant, may I be allowed to see the Company Commander?”

  “What about?”

  “I want to transfer to the transport.”

  “Why?”

  “I like horses, Sergeant.”

  Sergeant Furrow looked at him from his superior height and said slowly and softly, “You’ll find yourself on a piece of paper one day.”

  Phillip saw Church looking at him with his slightly projecting teeth showing. He never knew whether Church was smiling, or sneering, with those teeth. He had looked at him like that ever since the ‘Leytonstone louts’ remark. He wondered, too, what was wrong in applying to go on the transport? Other chaps had said it was a good thing to be in.

  Sergeant Furrow’s remark recurred many times to his mind, as he rode up to Ypres by ’bus, now almost desperately missing Baldwin. So far he had not thought of Norman as dead; only a blank. Now, as with slight horror he imagined a crumpled piece of newspaper lying beside a hedge, and realised what Furrow meant, the idea of never having Norman with him again was like a blow.

  Norman Baldwin dead, and gone for ever persisted as a thought, as he marched up the Menin road once more. Fresh blisters had formed under the “New Skin” on his heels, so that he padded along with a sort of lope, constantly getting out of step, to the annoyance of the man behind him. German shells were dropping both sides of the road. The rifle dished out to him was the old Mark I; it would not take the pointed ammunition clips. You’ll find yourself on a piece of paper one day! He was that awful word, which some of the men used! Suddenly he remembered he had used it,
as a joke, to describe the shag in the Free Library book. Thence to mind-pictures of Reynard’s Common, Whitefoot Lane woods, bluebells everywhere in spring—trying to think of anything except Baldwin dead—and this time, perhaps——O, no, no, it could not be——

  Mother—Mother——

  *

  In the darkness every 18-pounder firing blanched the road and fossilised the roadside trees with its narrow white smiting stab. They had passed beyond the gigantic moth-wing orange flashes of two up-pointing howitzers, the orange-wing flash smacking away its shell with high corkscrewing rush diminishing into the sky. After the 18-pounders, they must be near the front line. A spreading crackle of musketry was to be heard in front. Someone pointed out the château of Hooge, now in gun-light seen half in ruins. And less than a week ago they had paraded in front of it, for the General’s inspection! Beyond the deserted château soldiers were standing in the doorways of broken white-washed cottages.

  There had been visible a pale greenish tinge in the lower sky as they were marching up. Now through trees on either side of the road he saw what someone said were parachute lights rising up to hang at the top of their arcs, and drop slowly down, spilling wavery light like that of burning magnesium. A wood came between them and the firing line as they turned off the road and went along a track to a farm, which Captain Ogilby told Sergeant Furrow was Bellewaarde. They were in reserve, to dig support trenches and build redoubts. Phillip was one of three men under Lance-corporal Blunden for Headquarters guard. This meant twenty four hours respite, every two hours out of six on sentry-go, followed by four off to sleep.

  The guard-room was in a shed, next to the farmhouse kitchen, used as the orderly-room. The shed had dry straw on its earthen floor. He was No. 3 sentry, his first spell from ten o’clock to midnight. This meant four blessed hours sleep at once.

  At ten o’clock he was awakened. It was rather fun, having two hours before him in which to challenge all who approached, and demand their regiment. There were many troops passing, ration fatigues and working parties.

  “Halt, who goes there?”

  “Black Watch.”

  “Pass, Black Watch.”

  The flares filled the wood with mystery, so did spent bullets flopping down. What strange German had fired into the dark?

  “Halt, who goes there?”

  “Camerons.”

  “Pass, Camerons.”

  They staggered past, carrying big cubes of shining tin which glinted in the flares for ever rising beyond the black, seeming-shifting trees.

  “Halt, who goes there.”

  “Coldstream.”

  “Pass, Hotwater!”

  A voice called out, “Who the pushin’ hell d’ye think yeer? Harry Lauder on stilts?” in truculent Glaswegian accent.

  “Fred Karno’s Army.”

  A cat was wailing on the broken wall of a building.

  “Puss! Puss! Where are you?”

  “Mee-aw-iou!” cried one of the Goalies.

  “Halt, who goes there?”

  “Puss in pushin’ boots!”

  “Pass, friend!”

  They went away with their biscuit boxes, talking about it, while Phillip had a quiet in-throat laugh to himself. Up the old Bloodhounds! If only he could see Cranmer again.

  Bullets smacked among the trees. It was eerie with the worn-out moon adding its half-black shine to the powdery pallor of the German parachute flares.

  He tramped up and down, to keep warm, to pass away time till midnight. Midnight Parade—Glinka’s! He sang the song to himself, while the unseen cat mewed thinly on the broken wall. He stared, trying to see it; and was turning away when it seemed that someone had caught hold of his coat above the waist and tried to jerk it off, together with the rifle slung on his shoulder. His first thought was that the Guardsmen had attacked him for insulting their regimental name. But nothing else happened. Feeling the place of the blow, he discovered that his greatcoat was ripped across the front. A button was shattered, the webbing sling of his rifle cut. With a shaking feeling he realised that, as he had turned away, a bullet had hit the coat parallel to his body.

  How welcome was the midnight relief, and a mug of hot sweet milky tea offered by gentle, dark little Blunden, who had been a messenger of the London, Liverpool, and Globe Insurance Office before the war. Then down upon the straw, with four blessed hours in which he could belong to himself.

  *

  In the morning the greatcoat was an object for wonder. Even Major Forbes, the acting C.O., came to see it. The orderly room sergeant put an extra tot of rum in his mug of tea. As he ate fried bacon sitting in the straw, he heard from the orderly room talk that they were now attached to the 1st Guards Brigade, under General Fitzclarence, a famous hero. At Bailleul, in the estaminet, there had been talk of how he had saved the day, rallying the Worcesters with a hunting horn when the line had been broken on the morning of Hallo’e’n. They were in the 1st Corps, commanded by Sir Douglas Haig, whose headquarters were the White Château just outside Ypres.

  In the afternoon Phillip rejoined “B” Company in the wood while scouts went forward to Gheluvelt to find the headquarters of the battalion to which the company was now attached.

  They waited, silent and tired, each one suspended in the noise of almost continuous firing.

  There had been a re-arrangement in the battalion: the eight-company system had been changed to four, as among the regular battalions. “A” and “B” had been merged into No 1 Company, under Captain Ogilby. A new arrival, 2-Lieutenant Thorverton, was second-in-command.

  While they waited, a soldier looking like an old-clo’ man went by, in his hand a sheet of newspaper. He was obviously bent on retirement among the trees. It was five days old, as Phillip saw when the bearded, stumpy, muffler’d, woollen-balaclava’d, buttonless-tunic’d, mitten’d object stopped to ask for a light for his German cigar.

  “Let’s have a squint, mate,” Phillip called to him.

  The fellows crowded round, as he read out an account of the Battle for the Channel Ports. It mentioned Gheluvelt, Hooge, and other familiar names which he saw almost with a shock. To his disappointment there was nothing about Messines, although he realised that there had been no time for an account when the paper was printed.

  “A newsboy here would make his fortune,” said someone.

  “Ta chum,” said the old-clo’ man, taking his paper back and wandering off, puffing the cigar.

  They waited. The day dulled. The shelling increased. Wounded men began to appear, walking down among the trees. It began to drizzle. At last orders came to lead on. They filed away to the Menin Road, and marched away from the line. Cheerfulness at once returned; but soon after they turned off the road, and breaking step, followed along a yellow cart-rutted track, towards woods with the floating smoke of bombardment above them.

  The track led into plantations of spruce and larch. It became a drive, with cross-drives among chestnut stoles, above which rose standard trees of oak and ash. Occasional trees were smashed by shell-fire. Phillip heard the crowing of cock pheasants in the dense covert; and suddenly, as they were crossing a drive, four invisible 18-pounders let fly, the shells scorching seemingly overhead so close that they ducked. Yet the battery was not visible: only fragments of cordite bags dropping in the momentary hot air quiver of four buffeting cracks. Thank God they were ours, he thought, seeing a notice nailed to a tree—Het est verboden in het bossch te gaan—and with an interior start realising that this was the same Belgium in which he had found the long-tailed tit’s nest outside the Ursulines convent at Wespelaer, when he and Mother had gone there to fetch Mavis for a holiday in Brussels, and they had all visited, Gran’pa and Uncle Joey and cousin Petal, the Field of Waterloo, and the guide who looked and spoke like an old sergeant called himself Captain Welsh and outlined the plan of the battle on top of the memorial pyramid with a malacca cane worn down almost to a stub, uttering words to which he had not listened, they had seemed so unreal, like the picture in the
front room at home of Blücher greeting Wellington after the battle among the dead and dying men and horses—and now this was like the picture in the front room, with Baldwin dead and nearly four hundred others in the battalion. And yet how could it be happening to him, was it real, was it all a bad dream?

  In a moment of severed thought Phillip felt himself dissolving. He fell, and was helped to his feet, ashen-faced, by Corporal Douglas, who said, “I thought you were hit, Maddison. Come, brace yourself. Let me carry your rifle.”

  “I can manage, thank you, Corporal,” he whispered; and helped by Douglas’ kindness, clenched his teeth, struggling not to cry out.

  Twilight came; and with it the strange dilating and shifting pallor of the German parachute flares in the sky beyond the wood. Acceptance of the physical now enclosed him: he slogged along with equipment and pack, hundred and fifty rounds of ammunition, fifty of them slung in bandolier, but still the clips that would not enter the magazine of his rifle. If only he had his carbine, if only his magazine worked properly, then—jaws working sideways on teeth—if the worst came to the worst and they were overrun, he might shoot five Germans in eight seconds, even if they were so near as fifteen yards from the trench. They would be easier targets than the sparrows on the roof at home, which he had often shot with Father’s B.S.A. air-rifle.

  *

  As they approached the eastern edge of the wood dark figures were standing about, amidst Catherine-wheels of fire from perforated Maconochie tins of charcoal, swung on wire and emitting crackling sparks. Others held their miniature braziers and blew upon them, so that little coronas of flame in blue, cerise, and yellow glowed before bearded faces, with the illusion of home. “Wha’ch’er chum!” They wore rolled woollen balaclavas on their heads. There was comfort in the sight of them standing there, swinging or blowing their tiny fires of charcoal, unconcerned by crack of bullet.

  These were survivors of Mons and Le Cateau, of Marne and Aisne, and now of Ypres, which they pronounced Ee-priss.