Half of the Human Race

by Anthony Quinn

  And now here they were in June, waiting in a support line three miles south of Mametz, with a push in the offing. In January Will had been promoted, though he felt certain that this had less to do with his fitness as a company commander than with the BEF’s need to make good the drastic loss of officers. At Loos, in a not untypical example, the 1st M—shires had started on 25 September with 670 men and twenty-one officers. Two days later at roll call 190 men and three officers answered to their names. That he had finally secured the designation of captain was an irony that didn’t escape him. Sometimes, when he heard a rifle crack, his thoughts would drift back to the Priory and the sound of cover drives popping off Tam’s bat. More than two years dead … Will felt obscurely relieved that Tam had been spared any of this – that he had ‘walked before he’d been given’. The phrase had stayed with him. On that day at Loos it seemed they were all walking before they’d been given.

  There came a knock at the door and Meadows, Will’s batman, poked his head into the gloom.

  ‘Message from headquarters, sir,’ he said, holding up a letter. Will called him in. Meadows was a stout, neatly groomed fellow with a Yorkshire accent so broad that for the first few weeks of their acquaintance Will had been obliged to pause at roughly every third sentence and say, ‘I beg your pardon?’ Gradually his ear had attuned to his extravagant vowels and dropped aitches, until they were able to hold an almost coherent conversation with each other.

  Will opened his letter and read the contents. ‘From Lieutenant Colonel Bathurst. He’s paying us a visit after rifle inspection this evening.’ He offered a significant look to Bailey, and then turned back to Meadows. ‘Tell the sergeant major to make sure the trench is tidy. That parapet needs repairing. I don’t want Bathurst moaning about “slovenliness” again.’

  ‘Will you be wanting –?’ His eyebrows were hoisted enquiringly.

  ‘Yes, a bottle of Dewar’s, if you can.’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ said Meadows with a nod, and withdrew. Will returned his attention to the shirt he had been delousing, and, satisfied, threw it down on his cot. He glanced again at Bailey, whose face looked tight with apprehension.

  ‘Well, it looks like you’ll have your answer by tonight, Mark.’

  Bailey nodded. ‘We’re all looking forward to this stunt,’ he said, though his voice argued the contrary. He was one of the younger men who had not yet been tested in a major action, and Will, touched with pity, wished he could spare him the necessity. He was only a few years older than Bailey, but he felt more like his father than his commanding officer. He unbuttoned his pocket and took out a pack of cigarettes, proffering it to him.

  They smoked meditatively for a while, then Will rose to his feet. ‘And now I must oblige you to leave, Lieutenant, unless you care to watch me delousing these breeches.’

  ‘Oh – of course, sir,’ he said. ‘Will you, erm …

  ‘Just as soon as I know,’ Will said quietly. Bailey held his gaze for a moment, saluted, and left.

  An hour later Will sat at his desk, his pen poised, his mind as blank as the sheet of paper in front of him. He knew he should write to Ada, but he was damned if he could think of anything remotely appropriate to tell her. Dearest Ada, All well here, aside from the rats and the lice and the mud and the smell of dead bodies. How are you? He sighed, and recapped his pen. Deciding to stretch his legs, he stepped out into the trench. The day was closing in, the late-afternoon light a greyish white, the colour of old batting pads. It was the quietest time of the day, though the toing and froing continued even now, as purposeful as an ants’ nest. As he clumped along the duckboards, he checked the wire and the revetting along the lip of the trench, and was pleased to note that the CSM had got the men tidying up the place. He proceeded along the line, past ordnance parties, ration parties, engineers, signallers, sappers, gravediggers, runners, the whole microcosm of ancillaries that enabled an army to function. At one point he overheard a group of men joshing one another as they stacked sandbags against a parapet wall. One of them had come to the punchline of a story and cried, ‘Wouldn’t ya know – the fuckin’ five-bobbers!’ and the others burst out laughing. Will was continually astonished at how the men kept as cheerful as they did through the discomfort and boredom of waiting in reserve. He had once nursed a sullen hostility towards them – their pilfering, their sloppiness, their insolence, their complaints about pay, their repulsive language. How would this lot make soldiers? And yet, as he had got to know the men, they came to seem more vulnerable, and more admirable, than he could ever have imagined. At their first ‘show’, under a barrage of screaming artillery fire, they had looked sick and ashen-faced, but it was the quiet gravity of their demeanour that moved him. Having arrived at the last extremity of hope, they would put their hands on their mate’s shoulder and whisper assurances that all would be well, though they had nothing to trust in but themselves and each other.

  He came to a dog-leg in the line. Around the sharp corner the floor was heaped with litter – used tins, broken boxes, bits of discarded equipment, a splintered wheel from a gun carriage – though quite empty of human activity; he couldn’t see a single soldier in this part of the trench. Puzzled, he retraced his steps until he met a private coming the other way, his arms loaded with a box of empty shell cases. He stopped him and, on enquiring, learnt that the battalion that were occupying this sector had gone up the line this morning. The sergeant major, the man explained, had told them to dump any litter around this corner, thus making it the problem of whichever lot took their place. Will could see the pragmatic aspect of this, even as he admitted its cynicism: he himself would have been furious to arrive at a support trench that looked like a rubbish tip. He muttered a brief ‘Carry on.’ As he walked back towards his dugout, Meadows caught up with him, and thrust a small package into his hand.

  ‘Hope that does the trick, sir,’ he said, holding open the door for him. Will went inside and, pricked by curiosity, undid the wrapping on the package. It was a tin of lice powder, bearing the legend ‘Kill that insect, Tommy!’ He smiled in spite of himself. Good old Meadows. On his desk lay a sheaf of the men’s pay books, and with another half-hour to kill before stand-to and inspection, he sat down and began signing them.

  By the time Lieutenant Colonel Bathurst and his adjutant arrived, Meadows had also secured a bottle of Dewar’s and a couple of folding chairs for Will’s guests. The dugout itself looked neater than usual, though nothing could be done about the damp, frowsy smell or the sweating walls. Bathurst was a strapping career soldier, keen-eyed and waveringly tall, so tall that he had to duck his head as he walked in. Captain Otway was a man of about Will’s age, with a quizzical gleam in his eye and a pencil moustache so trim it might have been pasted on. They both accepted a glass of Scotch from Meadows, who then sidled out.

  ‘Glad to see you’ve kept the place in good order, Captain,’ Bathurst began. ‘All well with B Company?’

  ‘They’re a spirited lot, sir,’ Will replied. ‘I don’t think they’ll let us down.’

  Bathurst nodded deeply. ‘Good, good. Operation orders will be circulated tomorrow, but I thought I’d tip you the wink. Zero day will be Thursday the 29th. As part of the Seventh Division, we will join the offensive on the enemy line south of Mametz. With any luck most of the Boche in our sector will be either dead or running for their lives.’

  Will coughed politely, and said, ‘Sir, when you say “with any luck” …?’

  ‘Ah, well, we start our bombardment on the 24th, which should blow their front line to blazes. I talked with Brigadier-General Culver last week and he’s quite confident that in certain sectors we’ll be able to stroll into the enemy trenches.’

  At this, Will checked to see if Otway’s expression registered the hubris of such a forecast, but it was perfectly placid. Catching Will’s eye, he said, ‘Should be quite a stunt.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Will, ‘I believe I heard the same said of Loos.’

  Bathurst frowned tolerantly at t
his. ‘Oh, now, that was quite different. We’ll have twice as many guns, and God knows how many more shells. I don’t think you need to be concerned, Maitland.’

  ‘Only that I’m not sure about the wire, sir. Shelling can’t always be relied upon to destroy it. But wire-cutters are –’

  ‘No, no, you don’t follow,’ Bathurst broke in, with emphasis. ‘There is to be a barrage, almost continuous, for five days. By the end of it one isn’t likely to see another living thing, let alone a living German. The wire will be – an irrelevance.’

  Will, having received reports from night patrols that wire on the German line had been virtually untouched by shelling, was inclined to argue the point, but he sensed that this would be construed as wilful pessimism. Bathurst had stood up and was craning interestedly towards the cricket bat affixed to the wall over Will’s desk.

  ‘Yours?’

  ‘It belonged to a friend of mine. Andrew Tamburlain.’

  ‘Ah, Tamburlain … Never saw him bat. I gather you played yourself.’

  Will nodded, and Bathurst turned to Otway. ‘Ever see this fellow at the crease?’

  Otway shook his head. ‘More of a golfing man, sir.’ He was making an effort to appear interested in the bat.

  ‘I keep it as a sort of good-luck charm,’ Will explained.

  Bathurst gave a grimace at this, and said, ‘Didn’t he – kill himself?’

  ‘Yes.’ He sensed Otway and Bathurst exchanging a look. The former broke the silence with an uneasy chuckle. ‘Doesn’t sound much like a lucky charm.’

  ‘It got me through at Loos,’ he replied with a small shrug.

  ‘Yes, well …’ muttered Bathurst awkwardly. Repetition of the name had unsettled him; it had already become a byword for catastrophic mismanagement. At some invisible signal Otway had stood up, and the Lieutenant Colonel cleared his throat as a prelude to their leave-taking. The atmosphere had taken a sudden plunge into gloom, for which Will knew he was chiefly responsible.

  ‘Keep up the good work, Maitland,’ said Bathurst, and having saluted, bent his head to clear the dugout doorway. Otway gave Will a neutral nod and followed after.

  For some moments Will stood there, as a fugitive thought hovered on the edge of his brain. At first he wondered if it was the mention of Tam that had triggered it. He had dreamt of him lately, though it was Tam wrested out of context; he was in uniform, for one thing, and he wasn’t carrying a bat but a crude toy rifle. He had called to him, and Tam had walked right past, his face deep in shadow. He was moving headlong into a maelstrom of keening metal, and Will wanted to stop him, wanted to say – You can’t walk into that with a toy rifle. But the figure ambled on, unheeding.

  Then Will realised it was something else on his mind, something Bathurst had said which had caught on his consciousness, like a thistle of wire snagging on his battledress. A name, perhaps. But he was damned if he could remember.

  Following inspection the next morning, Will was at his desk when he heard voices raised outside the dugout. Someone was enraged about the fly-tipping he had seen at the far end of the sector yesterday evening, and Meadows could be heard trying to placate the affronted party.

  ‘It’s a bloody disgrace. My company arrived exhausted from the march last night, and what do we find – the place knee-deep in rubbish!’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, sir, but I have –’

  ‘I want to see your commanding officer this minute.’

  ‘Beg your pardon, sir, but I believe he’s busy –’

  ‘Busy?! Plainly not with keeping the line in decent order.’

  As the exchanges grew more heated Will rose to his feet, reluctant to involve himself but driven to spare the estimable Meadows further blasts of the officer’s indignation. He pushed open the dugout door and began composing his features into a semblance of responsibility. He hadn’t thought his carelessness would come home to roost quite so soon. Over Meadows’s shoulder he glanced at the furious face of the officer, a shortish fellow, his mouth twitching beneath his moustache. Meadows had heard him emerge, and began to explain.

  ‘Sir, Captain Beaumont here has made a complaint –’

  Will was barely listening as he stared at the newcomer. My God. ‘Louis?’

  The man’s expression suddenly altered on being thus addressed. He squinted back at him, equally stunned. ‘Will …? Will? Good Lord, what on earth –’ The next instant they were pressing each other’s hands warmly, laughing at this outrageous coincidence. As he ushered Louis into the dugout, he turned to his batman and asked him to bring them coffee. Meadows, pleased to have had the combustible atmosphere defused, hurried off. They fell naturally to talk of the front. It turned out that Louis was a captain in the 8th Dartmoor Light Infantry, part of the Division which had been drafted in to join the attack on Mametz. Neither expressed much confidence in their present prospects. Of a sudden Louis broke off talking shop to gaze at Will.

  ‘Of all the people! It must be – how long …?’

  Will smiled wryly. ‘Four years, I’d say. Your cousin’s wedding.’

  ‘By Jove, I believe you’re right! Now, weren’t you rather fond of –’

  ‘Constance.’ He had not said the name in a long time. It felt strange on his tongue. ‘How is she?’

  ‘Oh, Mother told me she was in Paris. Working in a hospital.’ His gaze became far away. ‘I think the last time I saw her she’d just come out of prison. You know she was with the suffragists?’

  ‘Yes, I remember. The last time I saw her was at Tam’s funeral.’

  Louis nodded sombrely. ‘Dear God … I read somewhere that you, um, found him –’ and at this his face was seized by a helpless grimace. ‘Sorry. I should have written to you …’

  Will shook his head, brushing the thought away. He moved to his desk, took the ‘Tamburlain Repeater’ off the wall and handed it to Louis, who examined the bat with the reverence of a schoolboy. Will, amused by the cartoonish mobility of his friend’s face, asked him to guess its provenance.

  ‘Ah … I should say – Lord’s, July ’05 …? The one that cleared the pavilion.’

  ‘Spot on!’ laughed Will. They were still reminiscing about Tam and the Priory when Meadows arrived with the coffee. As he handed over one of the tin mugs, Will noticed a distinct tremble in Louis’s hand. Louis rather innocently remarked upon it himself.

  ‘Started about six months ago,’ he explained. ‘We weren’t even under fire. One minute it was fine, the next thing it just – gave way. Couldn’t stop it shaking! I took some leave, which helped, but it still comes and goes.’ He held up his hand to observe the tremor, in the interested manner of a neurologist.

  ‘You haven’t been …’ Will mimed raising a glass to his lips.

  ‘Good Lord, no. That is, not more than usual! I’m afraid it’s just that I’ve been here too long.’

  Will offered a sympathetic moue. Any time spent in this place was too long. ‘I dare say you’ve heard about the push …’

  Louis nodded. ‘It seems we’re to attack some trenches in front of Mametz. The whole brigade’s going in.’

  ‘Then we’ll be fighting right alongside one another,’ said Will, though his cheerful tone did nothing to clear Louis’s knitted brow. To fill the silence he took out two cigarettes, lit one, and handed the other to his friend. Louis smoked absently for a while, then appeared to wake up to the anomaly. ‘I didn’t know you smoked.’

  ‘Another filthy habit I’ve picked up over here,’ he replied.

  ‘Sullivans,’ said Louis, failing to make the connection. Perhaps he had also forgotten that he had introduced Connie to him. That was June, too, Will was pretty certain – the June of that extraordinarily hot summer. Now, far in the distance, he could hear the guns start up. The crump and boom, the steady, dreary rhythm of it. Louis was staring intently at the tip of his cigarette. When he spoke his voice had altered.

  ‘Will. D’you ever wonder if … your time might be up?’

  Will nodded thought
fully. ‘We’ve come this far, though, haven’t we?’

  ‘But that’s just it. When you see so many others drop around you … I don’t know, you begin to think – why not me? There’s only so much luck to go round.’

  ‘We’ve all got to die, Beau.’

  ‘Yes, but – so soon?’

  There was a look of hopeless appeal in his eyes. Will had never talked to a fellow officer in this way before, and felt momentarily at a loss. He had got into the habit of throttling his own fear, as if it were a small animal, looking away and twisting the neck until it snapped. He knew that of all officers on the front the one with the shortest life expectancy was captain; he supposed Louis knew it, too. But what was to be done? He exhaled a long plume of smoke and shrugged in a fond way at Louis, who finally dropped his gaze and said, in a resigned voice, ‘I’d better be getting back.’ They stood.

  ‘I’ll send some men,’ Will said at the door, ‘to help clear up that mess at your end – with my apologies.’

  Louis smiled ruefully at the mock formality. He was going to step out when Will stayed him with a hand on his shoulder. ‘Listen to me. We’re going to make it through this. I know we will. See that?’ He pointed his thumb at the cricket bat on the wall. ‘I’ll let you have that on the day this is all over.’

  Louis narrowed his eyes for a moment. ‘Do you swear it?’

  ‘On my honour.’

  When he had gone, Will tore a strip from his notebook and wrote on it, In the event of my death, this bat is bequeathed to the care of Capt. Louis Beaumont, 8th Dartmoors. W.M. He taped it to the splice of the bat, and set it back on its mount.