Ashdene Cottage was really no ivory tower. It could not be, because it contained young Derek, the Cookes’ six-year-old son, whose childish enthusiasms were painfully at variance with the atmosphere of calm resignation so carefully built up round him. “Don’t ask me what will become of him,” said Gerald at a moment when his closest thoughts revealed themselves. “I suppose he will go to no known school, and learn to speak German better than English, and join those horrible Young Englanders. We’re all in the same boat, I know, but what a boat!”
On the late afternoon of Sunday, with nearly the whole village, we attended evensong in the lovely old parish church. Here, where the setting sun shone on the backs of the little company and on mouldering poppy-heads through glorious patches of medieval glass, I was aware of the same feeling I had had behind the frosted panes of North Street chapel. The water of life flowed here too.
The familiar Prayer Book office, in a language said to be doomed, had a special poignancy as a precious inheritance from the past, still untouched. Hallowmas was approaching, and the old Vicar spoke of the trials and victories of the saints, who found the means of serving God in every age. Theirs was the only lasting happiness, and it was independent of worldly circumstances.
So be it, Lord; Thy Throne shall never,
Like earth’s proud empires, pass away.
The hymn lingered on the ear in the twilit churchyard, and across the village green where a train of lorries marked with the Swastika stood with throbbing engines and the rooks shrieked their raucous good nights.
Next morning on the little station platform, in the five minutes before our train arrived, Gerald unburdened his heart. “Look, Charles,” he said hurriedly, walking me up and down the platform, “I’ve been meaning to ask you this all the time. I’m doing no good here, neither is Celia. We’re anomalies, back numbers, relics of another age. Now, can’t you get us permission to enter New Zealand? I mean, I could sell out, and smuggle enough of the money out to pass your subsistence tests. Then I could take any kind of job, I don’t mind what. I know a good deal about sheep, for instance. Or, if it comes to war, I could join your army, as a private if necessary, and be fighting on the right side.
“It’s Derek that we’re mainly thinking about,” he went on. “I haven’t the least idea whether the minor country gentry have any place in the Nazi scheme of things, but, even if they have, could their life be worth living for one moment? It’s just hell, I tell you, as it is, though we’re pretty much as well off as we were before, and don’t lack for a thing. If Celia and I can’t get out, honestly I’d gladly stow Derek away on a boat, hoping that he’d be sent to an orphanage or something on the other side.”
I hastened to say that I would do everything I could. The train was coming in. I told him that if he could bribe the Nazis at this end I thought I could arrange things at the other. But he would find it difficult to get any professional job or start in business.
“Sheep-farming for me,” he called out, as the train got up steam. “Four bob a day”—and a smile of radiant hope lit up his haggard face.
Thus, for the last time, we left our favourite Debenford, unchanged to outward appearance, but in fact just one more Nazi hell. We waved good-bye to our friends, well-to-do, unpersecuted people who yet longed to work as labourers on the other side of the world; and we turned away from the too-beautiful view of the pinnacled tower, the trees, and the sun-glancing estuary.
In London, when we got back, the talk was all about the coming war. It was a relief to discuss someone else’s troubles, and this war was in the beginning thought of as a thing that concerned Great Britain no more than indirectly. Then came an announcement which altered things. To some it seemed the last refinement of cruelty, but it strangely quickened the heartbeats of others. There was to be a remobilization of the 25’s, 26’s, 27’s (veterans now), who would form an Army Service Corps and other auxiliaries. They would not be armed—but they would wear their old khaki uniforms, without badges.
Elizabeth felt at once, as I did, strangely exalted and yet sorrowful. The Germans had forgotten something. True, what we thought of could lead nowhere. And yet—was it not something to be thankful for that at least some of our young men could now find an honourable way out?
One did not dare to put one’s thoughts into words, but it was not difficult to imagine these comrades in arms brought together again, in the old forage caps and slacks, remembering old times, finding tongue at last for all their pent-up hate and indignation, imagining once again the King’s marks upon their worn uniforms—and then rising to perform at last one desperate but gallant deed, which would not be lost to history. Could it be Hitler’s one concession, supremely appropriate, to his unhappy victims?
No, there were many explanations, but few supporters of that one. Some said that the Germans had no wish but to humiliate, others that they intended to use the unarmed British as a screen against the enemy, others again that they thought it good propaganda. All thought they were making a mistake.
Smithers came up to me in the office. He was very nearly grinning. “I have been called up again, sir,” he said. “Report to-morrow. Would you believe it!”
It was a shock. I had forgotten his age. When he had cleared up certain matters I told him he had better go and spend the rest of the day at Tanner’s End with his family. I walked down the narrow stairs with him, and we stood just back from the Fleet Street pavement. He remarked that it would be fine to be in uniform again, just as though he were going to fight for his own country, or were not a peace-loving Nonconformist. “Perhaps we shan’t meet again,” I said. He looked at me; there was a queer excitement in his eyes. I reminded him that I might have to leave England at any time now, and added: “Goodness knows when the old Courier will open its London office again.” In the end he decided to break a rule, and drink a toast to our divided fortunes. We crossed over to the “Cheshire Cheese”, where it all seemed completely unreal. I told him that if I left I would hand over to his wife any balance there might be in the office account. We talked for the moment to the parrot, and then we went away, and Smithers caught a Number 13 bus, and waved good-bye from the top.
That evening, at Tilbury, as the result of a sudden decision, I put Elizabeth and our child Julia into a liner bound for New Zealand. Left alone, I became even more conscious of the strangeness of things. The hired car taking me back to Hampstead sped along grey streets of the familiar London pattern, yet it was London no longer, but some weird city on the edge of the world. It was almost a surprise to find the flat still there, a cheerful fire blazing in the grate, and cold supper laid out by the thoughtful Mrs. Jenkins. Everything was in place, including Julia’s toys in the nursery; the world had been shaken to its foundations, but still the old golliwog sat up with one eye larger than the other. All the same, Julia and her mother had gone. I looked at my watch, and guessed that the S.S. Lavinia was now about opposite Southend pier. What on earth was I doing here, in this city of the dead, waiting helplessly for the start of the worst war of all? I recalled that the next New Zealand boat was due to sail in three weeks’ time. Then suddenly I remembered Smithers, and all the other young men who would soon be walking about in khaki forage caps again. There was, after all, something I wanted to stay in London to see.
I began to ask myself questions about a war which everyone regarded as inevitable, but which no-one attempted to describe in advance. How would it begin? What would be Hitler’s pretext? Would there be a gigantic naval battle in mid-Atlantic? The whole thing seemed so improbable, part of no natural development. Yet that it was coming I had no doubt. It was a necessity of the Nazi mind.
The next few days were full of rumours of fleet movements. The Queen Mary and the Normandie were said to be loading troops and supplies at Hamburg. The little band of potential “enemy” journalists in London was breaking up; but a polite Dr. Schultz, insisting, of course, that it was still hoped that war would be averted, assured me that no obstacles would be placed in the
way of my departure should the worse come to the worst. I believe the Germans were anxious to let the outside world see to the end how ruthlessly they could bend the British nation to their purpose.
The nameless men in khaki began to appear on the streets. I was told they were forced out of barracks in their leisure hours in order that they might minister to Nazi Schadenfreude. Policemen hustled them, Stormtroopers insulted them; but there was still a look of inward excitement on their faces.
Not long afterwards, on a misty morning, I was crossing the Horse Guards Parade when I happened to remember that it was the 11th November, Armistice Day. Glancing at my watch, I saw that the time was ten minutes to eleven. The fancy took me to walk through the arch into Whitehall, and observe a private Two Minutes’ Silence in the neighbourhood of the tragic monument which now represented a sacrifice that was doubly vain. To-day we had neither peace with honour nor even peace, and one wondered if it might not have been better if we had made our surrender far back in 1914.
Others besides myself had drifted along to the Cenotaph on that Armistice Day. There was quite a little crowd of women in black, and elderly, shabby men, and a sprinkling of the youths in khaki. As eleven o’clock approached the numbers of the last surprisingly increased; they came up in twos and threes, and soon there must have been a couple of hundred of them. I thought I caught sight of Smithers.
Public assemblages of any kind had long been forbidden, and I expected the police at any moment to come up and disperse the crowd. But the only police in sight were British, engaged on their humble traffic duties, and they appeared to notice nothing exceptional. The normal traffic of the street went on, and some German officials on their way to Downing Street stopped in some surprise to see what was afoot.
Then eleven o’clock struck. The men in khaki, with one accord, sprang to the salute. The elderly men took off their hats, and the Germans, ever responsive to mass discipline and thinking this must be some authorized ceremonial, took their hats off too. The wheeled traffic stopped. Once again there was Silence at the Cenotaph.
It came like manna from Heaven, miraculously. It seemed not to be of human devising. It was the benison of God.
A window snapped open in the Home Office. A shocked, bespectacled, Teuton face looked down and withdrew. Some angry telephoning could be heard inside. Then the Silence came back.
At last—it must have been more than two minutes!—there was a slight stir in the crowd. A khaki-clad figure stepped forward, a rough-looking fellow indeed, but charged at this moment with a kingly, a representative dignity. He laid at the foot of the Empty Tomb a tawdry, untidy object made of scraps of red paper, but which in the eye of the beholders was the most glorious poppy wreath ever made.
That was the end of the Silence. The bespectacled Teuton rushed back to his window, screaming with anger. He was followed by an S.S. man who raised a rifle, took steady aim, and killed the solitary man who was standing before the Cenotaph. At that moment a posse of German foot police emerged from Scotland Yard, and bodies of armed and mounted Black Guards closed in from each end of the street. The civilians ran to take cover in doorways, but the two hundred men in what was once the King’s uniform did not run. They formed up in the middle of the road in two parties, and, crying “Long live Britain!” charged at the Germans. They had only their fists; the others had rubber truncheons, horses, pistols. Yet for a moment there was confusion, and then the Germans recovered their balance and began to use their guns.
I saw there was blood on the Cenotaph. I heard one shout of “Mallory! Mallory!” I saw the ex-soldiers falling one by one. A white-haired civilian beside me cried “Come on!” and, wielding his umbrella, rushed into the mellay. I followed him, not really knowing why; he fell before he had run five yards. At the same moment I felt a sharp pain in my left wrist, and immediately afterwards received a blow on the head which knocked me out.
I recovered consciousness in Westminster Hospital. The concussion was not serious, nor was the bullet wound in my wrist, but I was sore all over, and I must have been kicked pretty hard. The nurse told me I was lucky. I had been taken to the Tower with the rest of the wounded, but my Foreign Correspondent’s card had been found on me, and that had been enough to send me to hospital. Now I must think no more about it, and rest.
It must have been next day that Dr. Schultz called. “No inquiries,” he said, reassuringly, “no cross-questions. I make but a suggestion. The lady matron tells me you will be out of hospital in three days. Your own country perhaps needs you the more? There will be a ship to pull anchor on Friday.” He handed me my exit visa, and bounced out, taking my Press pass with him. I turned and went to sleep.
There is little more to tell. I sailed after all, most unheroically, in the S.S. Anzac on her next voyage from Tilbury. There were few affairs to settle. My office and flat had both been ransacked, but I had consistently destroyed all significant correspondence. There was no chance of taking out of the country more than one cabin trunk of personal effects, so I arranged for a sale of furniture for the benefit of Mrs. Jenkins. Being shadowed by spies, I avoided all my friends and acquaintances, but I managed to communicate indirectly with the Cookes, giving them the name of a certain official who might, for ten thousand marks or so, get them stowed away in a New Zealand cargo boat before it was too late.
The palm lounge of the Anzac belonged to the dear dead days of the P. & O. There were few passengers, because it had now become virtually impossible to leave England by ordinary means. All was incredibly spick and span—a little detached piece of a vanished world floating out, who knew whither? The steward who brought me whisky and soda was surely a character from Outward Bound.
Shoeburyness slipped past, and the morning grew cloudy. I noticed a large oil painting, which—no doubt as a tribute from the new Australian owners to the comrades in arms of the original Anzacs—gave a vivid portrayal of the Lancashire Landing. I thought about that desperate enterprise, and many since, and what after all they had led to. I thought of Stephen Mallory, and of the sons of Gallipoli heroes shouting defiance in Oldham market-place; I thought of the Affair of the Cenotaph, in which, the communique had said coldly, “216 mutinous members of the British Army Service Corps and eleven civilians unfortunately lost their lives”. These were all failures, with a quality of gallant absurdity; and England was now in chains.
Then I recalled an epitaph which someone, I forget who, had written for the men who had died in that Gallipoli campaign. It went, as far as I could remember, like this:
We failed. If, when another sacrifice is needed,
You fail as gloriously, we shall have succeeded.
I rejoiced to think that ahead lay New Zealand and the war and that the country we were leaving behind was still capable of glorious failures, here and there.
The S.S. Anzac entered the Narrows Seas, between the white cliffs and the dunes. Then England disappeared, and I knew that the only way back to her was the long, stern way round by the New World.
EPILOGUE
I WROTE what I thought were the last words of this book a fortnight ago, and went out into the garden of my father’s house sick and heavy with the tragedy I had tried to record. I looked across the valley at the steadfast slopes of New Zealand’s Southern Alps, and tried to calm my weary and bewildered brain with the thought of the eternal in nature—the slow life of the rocks and of the earth and the deep silence in which it is lived. In a month I would be leaving with the New Zealand Division for America, and would plunge once more into the travails of humanity. But for that month, I said, I would breathe the mountain air and forget all that lay beyond the hills.
Now, after only two weeks, I have had a reminder, and yet it is not one which I resent, for it has reminded me of something not less eternal than the universe—the unconquerable soul of man. It is a letter forwarded to me from the office of my newspaper. The envelope addressed to me at the Wellington Courier itself bore a Wellington postmark and had been posted within the week. But the l
etter itself has only one line of address at the top, “De Profundis”, and it is dated three months back—two months, that is, after my departure from England. There is no signature, but the personality of the writer is as clear to me as if I heard his low, musical voice, and felt again the keen glance of his blue eyes. I cannot do better than conclude my book by quoting it:
“Dear Mr. Fenton,
“You will remember the night when three honest men sat about the fire and took pleasure in a conversation without fear. I bade you then tell your countrymen of the fate that had befallen their motherland, and, if I read you then aright, by now you will be doing so. But I told you then that your message should not be without hope, and I have since thought that I should have given you more ground for such hope than I did at the time. I accepted my young friend’s guarantee of your honesty, and indeed liked and trusted you myself, but too much depended on my silence for me to be entirely open with you. Even now I shall not be able to tell you a great deal, for I, and many others with me, stand as guardians over a life which was born in silence and suffering and which must be nursed in secrecy and watchfulness. It is the infant life of freedom that we guard—a freedom not only of the body but of the spirit—and, if this child can be reared unharmed to man’s estate, it may be that a Britain shall arise again, greater and nobler for the sufferings she had endured. Remember, Mr. Fenton, that our former freedom died long before the German tyrant set his foot on our necks. It grew sick when we put the safety of ourselves before the freedom of others, and, though there was a time when it looked as though it might recover, its life was finally extinguished when we made peace with the powers of darkness.
“I have said that I cannot tell you many secrets. What I will tell you is of things done and endured—things that our oppressors have kept hidden from the world—and you reading them may learn something of what is being prepared. Every day men meet in desert places—in darkened rooms, in forests, and in lonely valleys—and the gospel of freedom is passed from mouth to mouth and the light of hope dawns again on forlorn faces. These are some of the stories that are told:
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