Lorimers at War

by Anne Melville

  In the trenches, no doubt, whistles were blowing. To Robert, who could not hear them, there was something uncanny about the manner in which an unbroken line of men, stretching away as far as he could see, began to move. They scrambled out of the shelter of the trench, paused, steadied and then advanced, with rifles held at the port and heads down so that their steel helmets would provide some kind of shield. The solidity of the line and the slowness of its pace was almost unbearable to watch. Robert knew well enough that the speed of the advance was determined by the movement of the curtain barrage, that if the men moved too quickly they would run into shellfire from their own supporting guns; but he felt sure nevertheless that if he had been amongst them he would have found the temptation to run and zig-zag overwhelming.

  For the first thirty yards the slope of the ridge gave the attackers some protection. But as they approached the top they were greeted with a savage burst of machine gun fire. Within seconds more than half the men within Robert’s viewpoint were flat on the ground. Some of them might have flung themselves down in self-protection, but as he searched the nearest part of the ridge through his binoculars he could tell that many would never rise again.

  A second wave followed twenty yards behind and received the same welcome – although rather more of these, bending low, broke into a run as they reached the dangerous point of exposure and pressed on towards the German lines. A third wave moved at first much faster than the other two: the artillery barrage was well ahead of them by now. But as they approached the top of the ridge they began to falter. Robert knew from his own experience how great a mental effort was needed to step over or upon a man’s body, even when it was quite certain that he was dead.

  As they hesitated, they were rallied by an officer who straightened himself ahead of them and turned, gesturing them to follow him at a run. It was not possible for Robert to hear what he shouted, but the effect was immediate. The third wave charged forward, the officer at their head. He was running in front of them, moving diagonally to avoid a large crater, when he was hit. Even without binoculars Robert could see all too clearly what happened. The man’s head jerked backwards, either as a direct result of the impact of shrapnel or bullet or because the strap of his steel helmet, dislodged, tightened across his neck. For a moment or two his legs continued their running movement, but his arms were thrown upward and his shoulders forced back. Losing his balance, he fell into the shellhole which he had been trying to avoid. But there was time, as he staggered on the edge, for Robert to see, beneath the displaced helmet, the officer’s curly golden hair. So distinctive; so familiar. Surely it couldn’t, mustn’t be Brinsley.

  Yet as he raised his binoculars to his eyes and adjusted the focus with fingers trembling with shock, Robert had no doubt that it was his cousin’s face he would see. He had to wait a moment for the smoke of the battlefield to clear briefly. Then his fears were confirmed. Brinsley had not fallen to the bottom of the crater – a huge hole, big enough to stable a team of horses or store an ammunition wagon – but was clinging with one arm to its side. He was writhing with pain, his legs from time to time jerking convulsively. Robert felt every spasm as though his own body were suffering. With a feeling of panic which increased as every moment passed he waited for someone to carry Brinsley back to the British lines. But Brinsley’s own men had by now surged forward, beyond him, and although the stretcher bearers had begun to make their quick dashes out of cover to pick up the wounded, they were bringing the nearest in first. With so many fallen men in need of them, it was hardly surprising that they should leave until last those who lay on the top of the ridge, within the range of the German machine guns.

  Robert handed the binoculars to one of his runners. His trembling had stopped and he felt both very calm and very much afraid. ‘Wait here,’ he said to the men, though there was little enough danger that they would follow him unbidden into the smoke and chaos below.

  He dashed first for the shelter of the communication trench and used that to lead him into the section of the firing trench from which Brinsley had led his men. If one of his own senior officers had seen him, he could well have been court-martialled for leaving his post, but he had only one thought in his head: that Brinsley was still alive and must be brought in. As he climbed out of the trench he automatically crouched low, head down. The ground was littered with men and equipment and made rough by shellholes and mounds of soft earth, but he ran as straight as he could over the first uphill stretch, only beginning to zig-zag as he approached the brow of the hill. The noise here was perhaps no louder than it had been in the observation post, but it was more confusing, and punctuated with the shouts of the assault troops as well as the cries of the wounded. All the craters which could be seen through the smoke looked much alike, and others were visible only when he reached the very edge. It was difficult to preserve any sense of direction. Twice he thought he had arrived at the right place and twice was disappointed. He paused briefly and saw across a stretch of exposed ground a shellhole which was large enough to be his goal.

  Again he began to run. Then, without warning, there was no more noise. He was floating in the air, turning slowly over and over in a state of bliss. Or at least, part of him was, for it seemed that he had left his body behind on the ground. He could see it, but he was not inside it.

  The silence seemed timeless but ended with a crash. Now he was back inside his body, and his body was lying inside the crater he had been hoping to reach. Earth at first trickled and then rushed down its side as though from an erupting volcano. It covered his face as he lay prone. He lifted his head for a second to escape from it, and put up a hand and arm for protection. That was something – that there was nothing wrong with his head or his arms. But he found himself unable to sit or stand or move his legs. He tried to work out where he was injured, but there was no pain to guide him, only numbness as he pressed whatever he could reach and tried in vain to flex the muscles of his lower limbs.

  Raising his head again and propping himself up on his elbows, he looked around for Brinsley. But even if this was the right crater, the new shell-burst had destroyed its shape, throwing out or burying any previous occupants. Robert lay there alone as the battle raged around him. His mind, still in some curious way detached from his physical state, was unable to make itself care.

  In the course of the day he received company. A grey-haired man, too old for war, weeping uncontrollably and unable to advance any further. An injured stretcher-bearer, flinging himself in for shelter as a mortar exploded nearby. Two dead men and a third who died within an hour. And a blood-showering rain of arms and legs which arrived after a shell-burst that made the ground tremble as though an earthquake were beginning. Robert observed what happened, but felt no reaction to it. He supposed that he was dying, but the fact did not seem to be of any importance. He tried to remember his mother, and to feel sorry for the grief she would experience, but he was unable to visualize her face. His imagination refused to move outside the confines of the crater. He lay without moving, waiting without knowing what he was waiting for or what he hoped would happen.

  The noise around him continued throughout the whole of the long day and so dense was the smoke at the top of the crater that it was impossible to tell for certain when night was falling. But at some point in the early evening the numbness of Robert’s wounds began to recede. Uncertainly at first, his mind re-established its link with his body. He became frightened for himself and angry at the chain of events which had brought him where he lay. But these feelings did not survive for long, for they were driven out by a pain so overwhelming that he could not even begin to control his reaction to it. It first attacked his hips and then spread downwards through his legs. Finally, as though carried in his bloodstream, it moved upwards, towards his heart, into his head, agonizing and unendurable. Robert began to scream: uncontrollably, on and on and on.

  2

  On the morning of 1 July Margaret heard from Kate at last. The letter – the first to arrive sinc
e the brief message which had announced her niece’s escape from Serbia and decision to remain with the Serbian Army – was a cheerful one. She was on the Romanian Front, Kate told her aunt, and had established a hospital with a hundred beds at Medjidia. The remnants of the Serbian Army were now under Russian command, so she was finding it very useful that a Russian friend’s tuition had made her fluent in the language some months ago. She had to spend half her time arguing with Russian transport officers and quartermasters. The inefficiency of the Russian Army was almost unbelievable, and she was glad that her medical supplies came directly from Beatrice’s office.

  The situation she described sounded appalling to Margaret, who was accustomed to discipline and efficiency in hospital management, but the letter contained no hint of complaint. During the long retreat across the mountains Kate had obviously been depressed, facing problems far outside the ability of a single doctor to solve. At least now she was in a position to be of real help to those in need of medical care.

  Margaret was glad on her behalf and looked forward to passing on the news. Alexa had been spending the week at Glanville House in Park Lane, taking her concert party to perform in the London hospitals. When the time came for her return in the evening Piers went to the station to meet her train. Glancing from the window of her office at the sound of the returning motor car, Margaret noticed how serious they both looked as they went into the house. The observation worried her and after a little while she went to look for them.

  She found them in the nursery, beside their sleeping son. The day had been one of the hottest of the year and little Pirry had thrown off all his bed coverings. His soft and seemingly boneless body sprawled in total relaxation on the mattress. One hand stretched above his head; the thumb of the other was in his mouth. The door was open, but Margaret felt it would be an intrusion on the family group to go in. She paused in the doorway and the two adults, speaking quietly to each other while looking at the sleeping child, were not aware of her presence behind them.

  ‘A vigorous offensive!’ said Piers. He glanced down at the newspaper he was gripping. ‘Such an easy phrase to write, but what does it imply? Last week, Alexa, when the House rose, I went out on to the terrace and found myself standing next to Lord Falmouth. His two elder sons were both in the army and both killed in the first months of the war. He’d heard that morning that he’d lost his youngest son as well. The last. He hadn’t been able to face his wife with the news. I think he told me just to see whether he was capable of speaking the words without breaking down. The boy was only nineteen. He’d been in France for five months. That made him fortunate in terms of statistics. Did you know, Alexa, that the average expectation of life of a nineteen-year-old second lieutenant is twelve weeks from the day he arrives at the front. How long can we go on like this? But how can we stop? I never thought I’d live to bless the fact that my son was born when I was already an old man. All my friends of my own age are either in mourning already or expecting the worst. I feel almost guilty that I’m so fortunate.’

  He turned to embrace Alexa and caught sight of Margaret. There was no reason why Margaret should have felt guilty about her accidental eavesdropping, but equally there was no doubt from her brother-in-law’s expression that he had not intended what he had been saying to be heard by her – as though she were not as well aware as he of the risks that faced her son. To reassure him, she smiled as though she had only just arrived.

  ‘Is there anything new in the paper?’ she asked.

  Piers handed her the copy of The Star which Alexa had brought from London. Underneath the black headlines which announced the opening of a British offensive came the brief official communiqué. ‘At half past seven this morning a vigorous offensive was launched by the British Army. The front extends over twenty miles north of the Somme. The assault was preceded by a bombardment, lasting about an hour and a half.’

  ‘I heard the guns,’ said Alexa. They moved away from the nursery, closing the door behind them. ‘I woke up at six o’clock this morning. There was no one about in Park Lane: no traffic. The air was very still. And I heard the guns.’

  ‘All the way from France? It’s not possible, surely.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have expected so. I can only tell you that it happened. And I wasn’t the only one. From time to time throughout the day I’ve seen people standing motionless in the middle of London, not doing anything, just straining their ears. Everyone’s been snappy and uneasy today. Partly because of the heat perhaps. But it’s as though we’ve been having knowledge forced on us when we would have preferred not to know. And if we can hear the sound in England, what must it be like to be only a few yards away from the guns?’

  ‘Brinsley is somewhere near the Somme,’ said Margaret. Both her son and her nephew were careful not to give anything away in their letters, but Brinsley had recently been on leave and had mentioned the names of villages near to the base town of Albert. Margaret had looked them up later on the Daily Mail map which hung in the library, and knew that she had reason to feel anxious. But to talk about her fear would do no good. The day was over now. If Brinsley and Robert were safe, there was nothing to worry about. If they had come to harm, it had happened already. Her own anguish could do nothing to help them and she had long ago ceased to believe in the power of prayer. She was frightened, but determined not to show it. In an attempt to talk of something more cheerful she asked Alexa how London was looking.

  ‘Drab and dowdy,’ Alexa told her. ‘There are no flowers in the parks, no water in the lakes, no lights in the buildings at night, no street lamps lit either, for fear of Zeppelin raids. The soldiers on leave are lively enough and there seem to be plenty of over-painted young women ready to go with them to the theatre or music hall. But there’s no feeling of style any more. Hardly anyone wears evening dress to the theatre now, and a gentleman in a tall hat is almost a curiosity. To tell you the truth, there’s hardly anyone I know left in London. The museums and galleries are closed, and the shops are so under-staffed and under-stocked that anyone who owns a house in the country has retired to live in it and to buy food from the nearest farm. If I didn’t believe that our concert party brought a little glamour to men who deserve to be cheered up, I’d never stir from Blaize. As it is, I think we shall have to close Glanville House. It’s becoming impossible to replace the servants as they leave to join up. Even the maids are going to work in factories. It doesn’t seem to worry them that their skin will turn yellow from the munitions or that they may even blow themselves up. The last kitchen maid I employed had never been outside her own village before last Christmas and now she’s gone off to sell tickets to omnibus passengers.’

  Once Alexa embarked on the subject of servants there would be no stopping her for the next ten minutes. Margaret withdrew her attention, trying to calculate when she could expect to hear any personal news, and what value it would have – since a letter received today would only mean that the writer had been safe five days earlier.

  In the event, she did not have to wait long. Piers was always the first to read the daily paper. He marked anything in it which he thought might be of special interest to his wife or sister-in-law, but when Margaret arrived for her own later breakfast after an hour spent in her office reading the nurses’ overnight reports she always looked through the casualty lists for herself. They might contain names recognized by her but not known to Piers. On Tuesday, however, there was a name which Piers neither overlooked nor marked. He brought the paper to her office and silently handed her the page which announced that Captain Brinsley Lorimer had been killed in action.

  Margaret wept. Her life had not always been a happy one, but for almost the whole of her fifty-nine years she had been able to accept its setbacks without tears. Only within the last few months had each new blow seemed less supportable than the one before. And Brinsley, light-hearted and life-loving, had been a second son to her for ten years – ever since her brother had sent him to her in England at the age of thirteen for his educa
tion. She felt Piers’ arm round her shoulder, but each of them knew as well as the other that there were no words which could bring comfort.

  A long time passed before she was able to control herself. Then she looked again at the page. Her swollen eyes refused to focus on the tiny type, but she could see that the list of names continued for column after column. ‘Robert?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ve been right through,’ Piers said. ‘Not just the Royal Engineers but every single name, to make sure. He’s not there.’

  That was a comfort only in the sense that she could not have endured a double blow. She thanked Piers for staying with her, promised that she would be all right now, and was left with the task of writing to Kate and to Ralph. Brinsley’s father would have had the official telegram of notification and so would know already of his son’s death.

  The morning post brought a letter from Robert. It had been written on Friday, before the battle began, so that the mere fact of its arrival gave no reassurance. And its casual mention of an unusual social occasion brought a new chill to Margaret’s heart. If Robert had been near enough to Brinsley to share a meal with him, then Robert was on the same section of the front. Her face was pale as she went out to do her morning round.

  Pale enough, presumably, to be noticeable. In the long ward which had been converted from Alexa’s little opera house, Margaret was aware of one of the VADs staring at her with an intensity which merited a reprimand. With some difficulty she focused her eyes and attention on the nervy face and recognized the young woman who had helped to get Robert off the train at the beginning of his last leave. Nurse Blakeney, wasn’t it? The girl approached her, visibly summoning all her courage. A VAD was not expected to speak unless she was spoken to.

  ‘Dr Scott. Please forgive me – I know I shouldn’t – but I have to ask. Doctor, have you had bad news?’