A Fox Under My Cloak

by Henry Williamson

  The words moved him now, with a feeling of all such things gone from his life, never to return: the lark singing high over the heather of Ashdown Forest, heard by Baldwin and his girl and himself on that Sunday before they had struck camp and gone to France. Were larks now singing over the graves of Baldwin and all the others upon the crest of Messines? And Uncle Hugh dead long ago, shrinking to skin and bone with cries of pain——

  Then when the gloaming comes

  Low in the heather blooms

  Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be.

  Emblem of happiness, blest be thy dwelling-place,

  O, to abide in the desert with thee!

  “You were a great success,” said Waterpark, when they were outside after the goodbyes. “I think perhaps your métier is electrocution, or whatever the beastly word is, rather than singing. We must make our dinner call together in two days’ time. Most hospitable people. Well, au revoir, many thanks for helping me out!” and leaping on his heavy brown machine, Waterpark rushed the dust away.

  What happened afterwards was that he was blinding over the Heath, head down as usual, and did not see a motor coming towards him and went slap into it and the forks of the Harley were found somewhere near the flywheel of the motor car. Phillip heard the noise of impact half a mile away; and had to give evidence at the inquest. Afterwards he was served with a summons for not having the £1 annual licence required for a mechanically-propelled vehicle; and once again his name appeared in the local paper as a Young Blood in the Army Rushing About.

  *

  In mid-August the battalion entrained for a village near Southend-on-Sea to dig trenches and fire a musketry course. Several other regiments were in the district north of the Thames estuary. In one of the village pubs at night, in the saloon bar where some of the older junior officers, including Brendon, the Boer War gentleman-ranker, went after mess dinner, Phillip saw a most extraordinary officer. When first seen, as the Cantuvellaunians entered, he was seated on a chair in the little square room with the barmaid on his lap, one hand round her waist, the other holding a glass of stout. He made no attempt to alter his position as the half-dozen newcomers came in, but called out, “Cheero, cocks!”

  The barmaid got up, a little flustered, to return behind the counter, thus enabling the row of variegated colours of medal ribands to be seen on the lieutenant’s breast. There were yellows, reds, browns, blacks, and blues, an exotic section of butterfly-wings. He had a sort of butterfly-face, or a large caterpillar’s, with his large black eyes, thin black moustache, little irregular teeth when he smiled, and parchment-rough texture of skin. Brendon, who wore the two ribands of the South African War, stared a lot at the fellow’s ribands, Phillip noticed.

  He was, it turned out, the adjutant of the Navvies Battalion of the Middlesex Regiment, recently formed by a Labour Member of Parliament, who had been made a lieutenant-colonel. Some of the navvies were to be seen in the district by day: many with grey hair, some very old and almost tottery, with campaign ribands going back to the Crimea, Ashanti, and long-forgotten Indian Frontier fights.

  About the adjutant, Brendon was definite. He was, said Brendon, a sprucer.

  “He’s got both the Queen’s and King’s South African ribands up, and the Boxer Rebellion riband. Now to qualify for the King’s medal you had to have two years’ service in South Africa; and as the war lasted two years and four months, including the periods of transportation of troops from England, it isn’t physically possible to have served two years there and to have got to China in time to get the Boxer medal. And there he is, with adjutant’s pay and a captaincy in the offing, probably never having left the Liverpool docks, judging by his accent—and here am I, at the age of thirty-six, having to support myself, wife, and child on a second lieutenant’s pay of seven-and-six a day, unable to afford even a second whiskey and soda.”

  After a while Phillip said, “Will you have a drink with me, Brendon?”

  Brendon went on immediately. “Someone ought to tackle that fellow—Navvies battalion!—Fred Karno’s Army!—You!” turning to Phillip. “Now there’s the battalion for our prize young stumer, Maddison—he would fit in well there. As a soldier, Maddison is in that state known as non est.”

  One more snub made little difference to Phillip: it was part of ordinary existence as he had known it from early consciousness: but it gave him an idea, that grew as he thought that the old navvies would spend the war digging trenches in England, or miles behind the front if ever they got so far as France. If only he could get into the battalion, he would be able to spend the rest of the war behind the lines!

  He went to see the navvies’ adjutant, who was billeted at the pub. He greeted Phillip as “Old Cock”, accepted a double gin and tonic, and then said, “Well, what’s your trouble?”

  Phillip explained.

  The adjutant said that he was expecting to be given the second-in-command of the reserve navvies’ battalion about to be formed, and at the moment was officer in command of the detachment preparing a defensive line under the sappers; so at the moment he could do nothing.

  “I’ll tell you what, old cock. I’ll give you the colonel’s name and address in a moment, it’s Alexandra Palace, near the race-course, you know, north of London, but we’re leaving there any moment. When you write and ask for an interview, lay on the soft soap, but be regimental at the same time—if you follow my meaning—it can be done, cock, both ways, like most things in life, though some”—he bumped Phillip with his elbow, and leered—“can be done in a variety of positions, eh? Don’t you agree?—to resume, cock—write the letter, say you were with the Londoners in France, no, don’t say that, he’ll think you’re a skrimshanker, which you probably bloody well are, like the rest of us, but eyewash, cock, eyewash every time! Well, write your letter, see; and I’ll put a word in for you, I’m going to Alexandra Palace in two days’ time—and when I get to be second-in-command of the reserve battalion, I’ll see you get a company, promoted to captain, how’s that, cock?”

  Phillip was delighted. He could hardly believe it. He didn’t really believe it. There was the Boxer riband in the row, after the King’s South African. He was a bit of a sprucer. He knew it when the other went on:

  “I have some expenses to meet, in connection with forming the new battalion—comforts for the old boys’ families you know—bless ’em, the old cocks booze every penny of their pay, and regularly forget to send a bit home—anyhow, an adjutant is out of pocket as often as not, with this and that, guests in the mess, et cetera. So how about fifty quid, worth it, isn’t it, for a captaincy? Not now, cock—don’t get me wrong—I’m not one of the fly boys!—later, when your transfer’s through, not before, and you actually see your name—I’ll tell you what I’ll do—listen—— You give me five pun’ now, to get the colonel’s recommendation for the transfer. I suppose your C.O. will let you go?”

  “Oh yes, I am sure he would, sir.”

  “Righto, cock. Five bradburys, and you’re in, Meredith, you’re in! Then when you’re in, another twenty and you’ll be in the second battalion soon to be split off from the first. Right, cock. Then when you see your promotion in the orderly room, going up to Eastern Command with the colonel’s signature, the rest of the dough. And if you ever split, I’ll deny every bloody word of it, and it’ll be your word against mine. I’m no pushin’ plaster saint, nor are you, so it’s fifty-fifty, cock, are you on?”

  “Can I get my transfer first, sir, and then think about it?”

  “’Course you can! Tell you what, gimme coupla brads now, and I’ll let you off the rest of the five pun’!”

  Phillip gave him two one-pound notes, and took the name and address of the commanding officer. “And don’t forget to put Em Pee after his name—he will be reminded of his constituents, and that will help your application, cock.”

  The next morning he went to see Captain Whale in the temporary orderly room. The adjutant said smoothly he did not think that the colonel would raise an
y objection: so Phillip sent off his letter to the address given him, and awaited results.

  A week later, when they had returned to Godolphin House, a reply came. He was informed that a personal interview would be granted between the hours of 2 p.m. and 4 p.m. on the Saturday. Captain Whale gave him leave until Sunday midnight, and off he went, prepared for another weekend with Desmond, and possibly Eugene as well. Eugene was now in the Public Schools’ battalion of the Royal Fusiliers, according to a letter from Desmond.

  On his motor-cycle he drummed happily south, rubber belt smoothing away engine vibration, and in sunny weather came to Alexandra Palace. Everyone was still at lunch, apparently. Learning from one of the navvies, who clumsily saluted him, lifting up his whole shoulder and tunic with his arm, showing thickened, dispread fingers, that the “blokes” were billeted under “yon tall grandstand” of the adjoining race-course, Phillip thought he would take a squint at the rest of the blokes of whom he fondly hoped before very long to be a company-commander. What luck he had! Twelve shillings and sixpence a day, captain’s pay, plus three shillings command pay, plus half-a-crown field allowance while under canvas or unfurnished billet—eighteen bob. He worked out that it would cost him fifty-five and a half days’ pay to work off the bribe to Lieutenant Merrit. Well, it would be worth it. There might be a chance, too, of buying and selling motor-cycles, as he had the O.K. Junior. It was a good little bus, worth £22 10s. he had charged Chick, who had resold it to Flynn for twenty pounds, just before Flynn, who had moved into Chick’s room, had mysteriously resigned his commission.

  He walked across the turf and peeped in a door in the boarded wall of the cutting under the grandstand. A smell reminiscent of Mr. L. Dicks coming into the office in Wine Vaults Lane smote him, of shag and thick-twist, beer and ammonia, sweat and feet. While he stood there several ancient shaggy-haired men, all wearing old-style forage-caps, came out of the opposite door and saluted him with varying goggle-eyed rather pathetic uncomfortable awkwardness. Then without further ado they faced the wooden wall in a row and urinated with the simplicity of horses.

  “What are you chaps working on just now?” asked Phillip, when they had finished.

  “Nought,” replied one.

  “It’s pay day s’arternoon,” explained another.

  “Do you carry rifles?”

  “Nah! On’y belts.”

  “I see. Do you have any leave?”

  “Yus, when we feels like it.”

  “Don’t you have to have a pass?”

  “No, we pays our own fares, allus ’as.”

  “I mean, surely you only go home when given leave?”

  “Not ’ere. Nobody don’t stop us.”

  “Then you’re absent without leave, aren’t you?”

  “Aye, an’ th’ ganger stops our pay.”

  “Who’s the ganger?”

  “The boss.”

  “Colonel Broad?”

  “That’s right!”

  Phillip hung about until half-past three, when the colonel arrived in an open two-seater Vauxhall, driven by a small dark second-lieutenant. He was a big, heavy man with a large red face, wearing a service cap that looked as though it had been sat upon. He got out without a word, slammed the door behind him, gave the briefest hand-lift in return for Phillip’s salute, and disappeared, loose chains of spurs jingling, into one of the Palace doors.

  “That’s a nice ’bus,” remarked Phillip, eyeing the Vauxhall.

  The small officer said with modest pride, “She’s a Prince Henry.”

  “Is it Colonel Broad’s?”

  With some diffidence (he had a slight lisp), the other replied, “As a matter of fact, she belongs to me. I’m a sort of A.D.C. to the colonel. You’re joining us, aren’t you?”

  “I hope so. I met your adjutant, Lieutenant Merrit, near Southend.”

  The small officer’s face went blank; then looking on the ground he said, “Is he a great friend of yours?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Well, if you’ll not mind me saying it, don’t mention his name to the colonel.”

  “Isn’t he very popular?”

  “Well, hardly.”

  “Where is he, here?”

  “Oh no, he’s left.”

  “Left? How d’you mean?”

  “Scotland Yard arrested him.”

  “Good lord! What for?”

  “Bigamy, dud cheques, selling Army stores to civilians—all that sort of thing.”

  The little officer was leaning an arm on the bonnet of his motor car as he spoke in a matter-of-fact voice, without a smile, as though what he was saying was quite normal and ordinary. Phillip was about to ask for more particulars, when a sergeant with spectacles and two rows of ill-fitting yellow false teeth, came out of a door and said, “Is your name Maddison? The colonel will see you now!”

  “Good luck,” said the owner of the Vauxhall.

  Colonel Broad sat at a desk, his great knees spread wide because it was too small for him. His flat hat lay on the desk with his gloves inside it. He had been a navvy on the yellow clay of London, with generations of endurance in his bones, and power in the strength of his back: centuries spent in skill of digging clay, in all weathers: none more hardy in the United Kingdom. By virtue of fist and gab he had become leader of his gang, from which he had developed to position of agitator for better pay, otherwise better conditions; thence to Trade Unionism, and a seat in Parliament (where he was known, among certain Tory Members, as the Buck Navvy) representing a working-class constituency on the flat clay lands of East London, once West Essex. A civilian one day, he was a lieutenant-colonel the next.

  Pale blue eyes above moustaches waxed and rolled to considerable horizontal extensions looked intently at Phillip.

  “Why do you want to transfer to us?”

  “I fought with many ex-navvies at Ypres, sir, and miss them in the battalion where I am now.”

  “If you like the company of ex-navvies so much why don’t you apply to go back to them in France?”

  Phillip returned the gaze of the eyes regarding him steadily. He did not know what to say.

  “I’ll tell you, shall I? You’ve got the wind up, and don’t want any more. All your chums gone west, and though you miss ’em, you don’t miss ’em enough to want to follow ’em to where they’ve gone, eh? Am I right?”

  Phillip thought it wise to agree.

  “Get your present C.O. to forward your application to me and I’ll sign it and send it on.”

  “Thank you, sir!”

  Outside the little officer said, “I knew you’d get your transfer. The colonel showed me your letter. He said it showed sense. He’s quite a decent old boy. Did Merrit borrow money from you?”

  “Yes.”

  “He did from me, too. And one or two others.”

  “Promising a company?”

  “Yes.”

  “A pal of mine spotted that he was a sprucer, since he wore the Boxer riband and the King’s South African. You couldn’t get both, at the same time.”

  “He wasn’t entitled to any of those medals. But he is to a long police record.”

  “How did he get into your lot?”

  “Bluff. He appeared in the mess one day—been formed a week or two, three officers then—and said he was an expert on catering. He took charge, and the colonel gave him a commission. But he sold back to the grocer half the food he bought for us.”

  “Good lord, what a nerve!”

  “Well, I must go now. I’ve got to take Miss Broad shopping in Regent Street. See you again, I hope! Cheerio.”

  “Rather! Cheer-ho!”

  *

  Reaching the City, Phillip thought he would go down to Old Ford and see his Aunt Dora. She was not there. Sylvia gave him a cup of tea. She said Dora and she had come to the parting of the ways.

  “The use of gas at Ypres shook her, then the Lusitania sinking apparently decided her. She sees the war as justified. She believes it is being fought on our side sole
ly to eradicate Prussian militarism. She believes in the current cant of a new world after the war. What do you think of that, Phillip?”

  “I really haven’t thought much about it, to tell the truth.”

  “No, you’re young yet, Phillip. Well, I shall keep on, providing a platform for our people, should they wish to end this murderous slaughter of the innocents. I suppose you’re not sent here to incriminate me, are you? No, I’m sorry. The Home Office does send agents round now and again, you know. Well, dear boy, give my love to Dora if you see her. Oh no, we haven’t quarrelled. I think, actually, Dora feels she has let me down. Still, even steel crystallises in the end, you know. Goodbye, and do look in again, won’t you?”

  *

  Partridges flew in coveys over the big fields of stubble, the clover leys and pastures of a countryside whose life was very much the same as before the war. Business as usual was the national motto: sport as usual, too. Major Fridkin seemed to be shooting almost every day, and bringing back to Godolphin House rows and rows of partridges strung by their necks on split carrying-frames, which were sold to the mess. Captain Baldersby and his tweed-clad wife stayed at the Belvoir Arms, and went shooting too, with dogs, and two khaki loaders. In the mess there was cold partridge, both English and French, for breakfast; and various forms of partridge, broiled and roast, for dinner. “Awful good little feller, perdix perdix,” remarked “Strawballs”. “A cold bird makes the best breakfast in the world. Awful good eating.”

  Phillip wanted to agree but thought it better not to speak. He did not want any hitch to occur in his transfer to the navvies’ battalion. “Strawballs” had signed the recommendation, and it had gone up to Eastern Command.

  After parade one afternoon in the second week of September he decided to go over to the Green House, and tell Fairy. He had said nothing so far, as he did not want to upset her. The strange thing was that her sister still seemed to think that they were in love. “What a pity you two did not meet earlier, Phil.” He had not said or done anything to lead anyone to assume that he loved her, so why that remark? He had thought before that, as she was married, she could not possibly fall in love with anyone else.