by James Hanley
Joseph Kilkey did not reply. ‘Saint Christopher help me to keep my temper.’
‘Pick them up,’ said Clarke, standing over Kilkey.
‘You won’t, eh!’ and he looked round at the quartermaster, immersed in Sweet Life. ‘A stinking conchie,’ he said.
‘’Spect so.’
‘Come on, you! Not having any of this now!’ he lifted the bundle of clothes, belting and straps, flung them at Mr. Kilkey. ‘Grab them, you!’
Joseph Kilkey had to, for the soldier, pressing against him, now forced him backwards through the door. He called aloud into the yard.
‘Hey you—you—you—come here!’
Some new recruits ran up, putties trailing round their ankles.
‘Like soldiers,’ shouted Clarke. ‘Not like prostitutes.’
They stood in line.
‘Put them putties proper. Then take this man to A platoon quarters. When you get there push him in and don’t let him out. See.’ He caught Kilkey by one ear, said: ‘Ever see one? Eh! A stinking bloody conchie! Aye! The sod of sods—rat of rats—worm of worms. Take him to hell out of it! Out of it! OUT of it!’
With kit over head and shoulders the recruits, all of them now filled with the iron and pride of authority, pushing and pulling the man towards A platoon’s quarters, Joseph Kilkey reached the room. Into this he was flung heavily, and the remains of his kit flung on top of him.
Cried the more authoritative of the three: ‘Conchie! Got to be forcibly dressed, and all spick and span for the march off. Quartermaster’s orders.’
The door slammed, the three youths dispersed and returned to their important task of packing and polishing before the Battalion moved off to entrain for Garside, Joseph Kilkey for the moment lost to the world. But not to realities. He knew he was alone and isolated, helpless. He knew that his promise to himself yet remained a promise. He knew what he had said to Father Moynihan. He was in another world, a world that took account of nothing except the job in hand. A world that did its thinking afterwards. A world that had no time to listen.
Mr. Kilkey passed through that ordeal in silence. He knew that if he did not remain cool, if he ever lost his temper, he was done for, Well, he could think of Dermod and of his happy home three years ago, and he felt a conscious joy in the knowledge that no matter what happened he could still think of Dermod and Mrs. Ditchley. Father Moynihan and the people at the chapel. He had made these promises. They could kill him, but he would not give in.
It made him sad when he remembered the beautiful girl who had spat at him.
A blast from a bugle made him jump. Everybody in the room laughed. Two men had stripped him naked Just above his head a soldier sat in a bunk swinging his legs, and occasionally lightly touching the top of the man’s head.
‘Rather dress a tart with a nice stern any time,’ said one, as he fastened braces at the back of Mr. Kilkey’s khaki trousers.
‘Got a big head, mate,’ said another, jamming a forage cap on his head.
‘And a back like Jesus had. Here, try the bloody weight of it, conchie,’ said a third, and he ran the straps round Kilkey’s shoulders, and landed the pack on his back, which contained not only the regulation weight, but an additional weight of three bricks. ‘How’s that?’ he said, giving an almost convulsive pull on the pack, which, for a second or two, threw Kilkey off his balance, and he stumbled awkwardly into another soldier, who at once drew up his knee, dug it into the man’s stomach and shot him backwards.
‘Must be deaf and dumb,’ called one from a top bunk, ‘Won’t open his kisser.’
‘He’ll open the other one. Faint like hell when he hears the next shot?’
‘Come and have a look at your bloody self.’
They dragged him to the end of the room, and stood him in front of a cracked mirror. He saw their grinning features looking out at him. He felt he must sink to the floor, a sickly feeling had come over him now.
‘Have to cut your hair, conchie.’
‘No! He’s bald.’
‘Not quite. Just a little root there,’ the man said, bringing the flat of his hand slap on to Kilkey’s head. ‘Just a little bit which the barber—who owes me two bob—may or may not cut off, or else it’ll be blown off, eh, conchie?’
And gradually the pressure of five bodies was pressing Joseph Kilkey closer and closer towards the mirror, closer to the wall. Perhaps they meant to push him right through it, mirror and all. Suddenly they drew back, left him, went and sat down on the form. The bunks were full, the forms were full. There were no chairs or tables here.
‘Come here,’ one cried.
‘Stay where you are.’
‘Want to sit down?’
‘Want to write to your ma?’
Joseph Kilkey turned and looked at them. Everybody burst out laughing. He looked so odd, so comical, so pathetically comical. One went up to him.
‘Want to sit down?’
Mr. Kilkey leaned heavily against the wall. He wanted to fall down, lie quiet.
‘Got no tongue? I said, d’you want to sit down? Then blast you, sit down,’ this one said, and put a foot behind Kilkey and quickly tripped him up.
The man found himself seated on the floor. The straps of the heavy pack tearing at his neck. His face suffused with blood, his mouth parched and dry.
Another went up and stood over him. A soldier about thirty. ‘I’ve seen you some place or other! Don’t you work for Pattenson’s?’
There was something at once sympathetic, even warm about this man’s enquiry, and for the first time since he had left the orderly room he spoke, but the words struggled in his mouth, he choked.
‘Could I have a drink of water, please?’ he asked.
‘I knew you worked at Pattenson’s. All right, mate. I’ll get you a drink of water.’
He got up, went to his bed, took his ration tin, and left the room. He returned with the water which he handed to Joseph Kilkey. ‘Hurry up, mate,’ he said.
The door opened again, a sergeant looked in.
‘All out for inspection. All out!’
One after another they left, all except Joseph Kilkey, who sat leaning against the wall, and with but a single thought in his head. ‘Why are they doing this, when I never harmed anybody? Never! I swear to God I never.’ He let his head sag forward on his breast. He trembled by the wall. The last soldier had left the door wide open. Through it the man could see the continual passage of troops, all dressed and carrying their full kit. For a moment he wondered if, after all, they mightn’t forget him. But a man in the doorway was the answer to his question.
‘Kilkey,’ he said.
It was the orderly officer of the day. He advanced down the room. Kilkey found voice.
‘I protest! I protest! I don’t want to fight. It’s all wrong. I have nothing against Germans. They’re only——’ His throat muscles contracted, he felt a pain in his neck and his head throbbed. ‘It’s a mistake. It’s wrong. It’s——’
‘Only one mistake has been made and it is being corrected in France.’
Then the officer turned and left him. But five minutes later Mr. Kilkey was hustled from the room, and as he emerged from it a uniform peak cap was put on his head, and the forage cap removed. The peak was put back to front. The soldier behind brought his knee into play.
‘Move, conchie, move,’ he said, and for the full length of the corridor Mr. Kilkey was a battering-ram. He was ushered into his place, taking up the rear line of four in A platoon.
He now saw that the whole draft of two hundred men was lined up for inspection in the yard. Joseph Kilkey searched the lines of faces for that of the man who had brought him the drink of water. The man who knew him as a stevedore at Pattenson’s, but he could see no sign of him.
‘Look out, conchie,’ the man next him said.
Mr. Kilkey couldn’t. He felt like a trussed fowl. He could move neither right nor left. His back ached. Somebody was coming down the line. An officer, a sergeant, a corporal. They sto
pped dead in front of him.
‘Who is this fool?’
‘Don’t know, sir.’
‘He’s an objector, sir. Brought here this morning. Name Kilkey. Refused to report. Going to Garside with this draft, sir, where his case will be dealt with.’
All three glared at Kilkey.
‘I object. It’s not right! I don’t believe in it. It’s a mistake. I shouldn’t be called up at all. I protest. I——’
The officer said: ‘We will see to that,’ turned on his heel, passed on, sergeant and corporal following. They went to the next platoon, and when the inspection was over they returned to the front of the assembly. The officer stood talking to the sergeant.
‘You take this draft and entrain them at the junction. The officer in charge of transport will be waiting for you.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Draft—shone! Form—fours. Re-form—two deep!’
The sergeant took over now, bawled. ‘Form fours! Right turn. By the left—wait for it—wait for it—quick march.’
They wheeled round and marched slowly out of the yard, The big iron gate clanged behind them.
The band in front struck up ‘Colonel Bogey.’ Women and children crowded the pavement. Began to cheer. Traffic stopped whilst they crossed the main road. When the end of the column came in view everybody gave an extra cheer. Somebody caught sight of the man at the back. A woman clapped her hands.
‘Oh, God! Look at it. His hat’s on the wrong way. Oh good God! d’you ever see such a scream in all your days?’
Nobody had. Nobody wished to see anything better, anything funnier. The gigantic conspiracy of savages made this possible. Hip—Hip—Hurrah! The soldiers swung round into the main road. Kilkey received a thump on the back. A shower of dirt struck the back of his neck. The air resounded with the cry.
‘Bloody conchie! Rotten, stinking, cowardly conchie!’
A huge woman ran behind him. ‘Suppose a bloody Hun raped your sister?’ and she thumped him on the shoulders. The man stumbled under the blow. The erect sentinels on either side were quite indifferent and only when one of them received a volley of mud on his face, did he swing round and threaten the crowd that followed. But they laughed in his face.
‘Oughtn’t to’ve had a muckin’ conchie with yez!’ a man shouted.
It was asking too much of anybody to march one through Gelton that already had given so much blood. It was asking too much of patience and tolerance, and besides a bit of fun did no harm in these sad days. At the corner of the next street a group of factory girls sang lustily:
‘Who would be a conchie, a conchie, a conchie,
Who would be a conchie, with a girl in bed in the morning?
I’d rather be a soldier, a soldier, a soldier.
I’d rather be a soldier, stiff and straight in the morning.’
They wore shawls, their hair hung untidily about their shoulders. They were going home to dinner. But with a funny man going off to the war it didn’t matter if your dinner went cold.
The passing soldiers winked, and one in the rear, to show how clever he was, brought his hand down on Kilkey’s head so that the cap now covered his forehead and ears. The girls laughed and sang after them:
‘Who hasn’t got no ma, who hasn’t got no da?
The conchie! The conchie!
Who hasn’t got no girl? why the conchie! the conchie!
Who hasn’t got no friend? why the conchie! the conchie!’
Their voices died away as the draft turned into the main King’s Road. Now everybody in the road began to march alongside the troops, and behind the last column of four in which Mr. Kilkey marched there formed up a procession of four young women twirling feathers. They indicated by their gestures what they thought of the funny-looking man. They appealed to the spectators to look at Gelton’s thirtieth conchie. But what a comic one he was!
Meanwhile the officer and sergeant in front walked on, imperious, calm, indifferent to this ardent patriotism, the fantastic horseplay of the rabble that followed.
An old woman stood coughing and spluttering, and out of her watery eyes looked at Kilkey. ‘Good Lord! They’ll be taking my Alfred next, and he’s only one leg.’
She was joined by one of those accidental friends, the acquaintance who, with an easy familiarity, enters into the spirit of the occasion.
‘It’s terrible this war, isn’t it, missus,’ said the newcomer, who stood by the old woman, half bent, her attitude sympathetic as she spoke: ‘An awful war. An awful war.’
‘Aye,’ croaked the other, again coughing and spluttering over her basket of groceries, ‘and look at the likes of them who won’t go to fight for their country. Dear me!’
‘Aye! Just look at him! A strong man, in good health, and d’you know my only son was killed last week in France? The cowardly devils, they are.’
It was midday, the whole of the King’s Road reeked of the smell of fats, for it was dinner-time, and the staple diet of patriotic Geltonians at this hour of day was fish and chips. There was something homely about their rank smell, even to Mr. Kilkey, who, eyes to the ground, now felt he was surrounded by savages, now by lepers; their very persons exhaled something into the atmosphere. He could feel the touch of them. Society allowed them to put their mouths to, and suck from, the drain-pipes of a colossal ignorance—and to spit its dregs into the faces of those who stood beyond the boundaries of the moral abyss.
‘Battalion!—Halt.’
The draft halted.
‘Stand easy.’
They had expected this. It was the little licence allowed them, for all were local men, new recruits going off to strengthen the heavily decimated first-line battalion. In a few minutes the ranks were broken, friends and relatives wandered amongst them. Right ahead the officer and sergeant talked. And a hundred yards beyond them lay the tall edifice of the railway station. The assembly broke up into little groups. Men talked, joked, laughed, made promises. Girls giggled, cried, some sang. Elderly women advised, begged. Old men patted backs, were encouraging. The future, they said, was full of the most marvellous colours. The band laid their instruments down in the road and smoked. It was free and easy, all the way to the trenches.
Joseph Kilkey, who only three hours ago lived in the world, had friends, had his fire to sit by, work to do, who thought of Maureen and Dermod, remained alone. Isolated. Nobody looked at him, nobody spoke. Only a few hours ago he thought of the family into which he had married. The foolish woman, the happy-go-lucky man. The mere boy—in gaol. The thruster reaching the stars, the nice lad in the Navy. And now they didn’t matter. They didn’t count. There was something else to think about. He looked at one face, then another. No! There was something violently wrong. He was in this and he didn’t belong, he didn’t count. He was standing on the furthermost rim of the world.
He felt terribly alone. He had never felt so lonely before. He would have liked to fill his pipe, but that with what tobacco it contained had been in the worst possible place, in his mouth, and somebody had smashed it. He remembered the pieces strewing the lobby.
Suddenly he sat down on the pavement. But even this drew no attention. The world in these few moments found things more important than conscientious objectors with which to amuse itself. He put his hands to his face, ran them down, looked at his hands. He lifted his cap, and turned it the other way round. At that moment ‘Fall in’ came.
He struggled to his feet. There were quick handshakes, kisses, cheery farewells, promises to write, encouragements to fight like hell.
Then the draft formed up and moved off. Before it had gone ten yards Mr. Kilkey’s hat was pulled off and one made of pink paper stuck on his head. He took it off, threw it away. A foot kicked his heel, then the paper hat was put on again. Again he threw it off, and a second time it was jammed on.
‘And keep it on, you bastard! It’s a soldier’s hat. A soldier’s splendid hat, mate!’
They drew near the railway station, where half a dozen officers and
N.C.O.s were standing on the main platform, and the long, dirty-looking train was already waiting to receive them. Steam gushed from engines, puffed down the platform, an occasional clinker dropped on a hut. The porters ran trucks at feverish speed up and down, loaded and empty. The station resounded to repeated cries of: ‘No! Number five A, you ass.’
And then the Geltonian draft marched into the station. As before it was always the last column of four that attracted attention.
‘Mate,’ said Kilkey, looking to the soldier on his right, ‘d’you mind loosening these straps? I’m nearly choked,’ and he began struggling with the pack, trying to ease the weight of it from back and neck.
‘Who tied it like that?’
‘Somebody, I don’t know——’
‘Then somebody I don’t know better untie it,’ replied the soldier.
‘Thank you,’ Kilkey said. ‘Thank you.’
‘Mark time. Single file and have your rifles ready. Single file and have your——’
Doors opened, slammed shut. A dirty-faced engine-driver leaned over the side of his engine, chewed tobacco, repeatedly spat. Pools of water from the night’s rain still lay here and there on the platform. On the empty siding three loco engines emitted columns of smoke and steam, which rose in clouds, and then seemed to form a long train, so that looking across the crowded platform it appeared like a white wall, and here and there through the network of it, the bright rails glistened under the film of steam! There was a half-darkness here, a quite distinctive, individual darkness that was somehow different to the darkness of the world beyond the station. The railway lay in a sort of perpetual twilight, where voices sounded ghostly, the whistle had a hollow rather than a shrill blow. The trucks sounded thunderous and above it all the incessant viciouslike hiss of escaping steam. It floated over everything and everybody, into the waiting-rooms, into the buffet where loud-mouthed and agitated though nevertheless patriotic women endeavoured to stem and stay the voracious appetites of soldiers and sailors. It floated into the carriages, made traceries upon the windows; it was drawn into the mouth and into the nostrils. It laid a gossamer-film on bags and boxes, made the granite surface of walls look bleaker still. It even lay upon the cakes and sandwiches that decorated the long marble-topped table in the refreshment room and buffet. The station clock struck half-past one, but its face seemed too far away to be seen. It recorded time somewhere up above, austerely, indifferently.