The news of his batman’s arrest depressed Phillip, and he went to bed after an omelette and lay in his sleeping sack unsleeping, a prey to thoughts that he too was a sort of deserter: the R.E. detachment had gone away, and to whom should he report? And how explain his absence? Even if the doctor had verbally put him on light duty, he had never reported anywhere for light duty.
Chapter 28
ANTI-CLIMAX
IN the morning his fears seemed to come true. At first, when the military police appeared to search the premises for stolen army property, including blankets, the talk was of Mad Jack, who had been caught with nearly twenty thousand francs, which, said the redcap sergeant, came from flogging army property to civilians.
Apparently “Twinkle” had been given away by a woman in Noeux-les-Mines, after he had “taken on the mam’selle in the Demi Lune, sir, if you understand my meaning”, said the sergeant. It seemed rather sordid to Phillip, and he wondered how much of “Twinkle’s” tales were true. He mentioned that he was, anyway, a good batman; whereupon the sergeant asked him casually how he had come to get him for a batman, when he wasn’t on the strength of any unit? Phillip explained about the gas detachment.
“Aren’t they back at G.H.Q., sir?”
“I heard they were, I suppose my job is ended now they’ve gone.”
“Yes, sir,” said the sergeant non-committally. “I suppose you come up with the reserve divisions, sir?”
“Oh, no. I was First division.”
“Oh yes sir.”
A few minutes after they had gone, wheeling away over four hundred tins of bully beef, ham, tinned butter, with a dozen blankets and other articles on a barrow, there was a knock on the door. Madame opened it. An officer stood there, a captain with a red brassard on which were letters in black A.P.M. The sergeant stood behind him. Phillip felt as though shot.
The assistant provost marshal was curt. He wanted to know who he was. Why he was not with his unit? Why he had not reported back for light duty? How long he had known his so-called batman? The A.P.M. ended up by saying that he was under close arrest. His belt and revolver were taken away.
“Your kit will be packed up and be brought to you. You will come with me.”
Round the corner was a motorcar. Through lines of curious troops Phillip was driven to corps headquarters, feeling what Father would call white about the gills as he thought of court-martial. He recalled what Cranmer had told him about men being shot for leaving their units only for an hour or two, and felt even whiter about the gills. “Pluggy” Marsden, Allport, the R.S.M., Mr. Adams, of the Gaultshire—probably dead. He would have no witnesses.
After interrogation at corps he was taken away in the motorcar; and to his immense relief he saw “Nosey”, the brigade major, who vouched for him. He was set free, belt and pistol returned, and told he could join the Gaultshire mess. “Nosey” now wore a crown and star; Gaultshire badges replaced the red gorget-patches.
“Meanwhile, write out a report, will you, Maddison, about those batteries you saw in Auchy, and let me have it immediately.”
“Very good, sir.”
He wrote with the speed of jubilation, and took it to the orderly room.
In the mess, he learned that “Nosey’s” nickname had been given at a pre-war inter-battalion heavyweight boxing contest.
He heard that the Gaultshire casualties had been very heavy, nearly seven hundred in the battalion. All attacking officers had either been killed, wounded, or taken prisoner. Both “Pluggy” Marsden and Allport had been wounded. It was the same with most other units. Three divisional generals out of the eight divisions engaged had been killed. Over forty battalions had lost their commanding officers. Beyond that, no-one in the mess spoke about the battalion attacks. They seemed very quiet. Among the rumours was one that the field-marshal had been recalled to London. The reason, it was said, was that the new-formed Guards division had been almost annihilated, owing to Sir John French having put them into a hopeless attack, when it was too late. An Irish Guards major came to visit “Nosey” Orlebar and Phillip learned that they were out at rest at Verquineul quite near. He wondered if he could go there, and find out if Bertie got through all right. Perhaps he could borrow a horse from the transport officer? He heard that “Spectre” West was down at Le Touquet, at the Duchess of Westminster’s hospital; he had lost an eye and a hand, but had dictated a letter to one of the nurses: a brief letter, wishing the battalion good luck, and apologising to the commanding officer that he was “not able to return to duty at the moment”. To Phillip it was rather a frightening letter. It was pinned on the ante-room board, showing a ducal coronet embossed in black.
On this ante-room board battalion orders were put up every evening. Phillip learned that he was posted to No. 1 company. With a shock he read that he was acting company commander. During a route march he felt pride and a new determination as he rode in front of his thirty-seven men, and wondered, in intervals of doubt about his ability to remain mounted, if he would be given his second pip. Or even a captaincy. But no, it must be only temporarily.
The battle was still going on, never pausing night or day. As soon as drafts arrived from England, it was understood that the brigade would be going back into the line. The odd thing was that when some officers did join, with a draft, he remained in command of No. 1 company. “Nosey” was always very friendly when he saw him. But he was friendly to all the new officers.
In battalion orders one evening was a paragraph that officers i/c companies were to read out on three successive parades the names and regiments of five deserters who had been condemned to death by sentence of general courts-martial, each sentence duly having been carried out.
“Hell to that,” said Phillip to his acting company sergeant major, “I’m not going to put the fear of God into these new chaps by reading them this bumff.”
He threw down the orders, thinking that Westy would approve.
In the same issue of orders all officers not on duty the next afternoon were informed that they were free to attend a lecture on The Opening Phases of the Battle of Loos. It was said at luncheon that it was to be given by a war correspondent of a London newspaper, in a marquee outside Béthune. Phillip went, with two other subalterns.
The lecturer stood on a daïs by a blackboard, with a pointer. He drew diagrams in chalk, and spoke in a soft voice, so that, with the canvas walls of the marquee flapping with gun-fire, no-one could hear him properly at the back. Soon voices were calling out, “Speak up”. The lecturer cleared his throat, and spoke louder, but still his voice did not carry, so that after ten minutes or so even the young officers of the new drafts, spick and span and eager to learn everything in a quiet way, became restless. Phillip had a seat half way down, to one side, from where he could see backs of heads in rows of red-tabbed and senior officers in front. One head, constantly moving as though with impatience, was familiar—the white curly hair, the mulberry cheeks and scowling brow of—could it be?—yes, it was—“Crasher”! Phillip looked for the white head of “Strawballs”, but could not see it.
The audience became more and more restless as the voice continued in its sympathetic monotone. At last the lecturer laid down his pointer, came forward to the centre of the daïs, and said:
“Gentlemen, I feel I must ask your indulgence for what must appear, to many of you who had to do the fighting, a most imperfect account of it. I do assure you all that I, as a mere distant spectator, feel most humble when I think of what you were called upon to do—and what you did was magnificent. Our great national poet Shakespeare said that all the world was a stage. This remark has never been more truly illustrated in all our island story than in the past two weeks. You, gentlemen, are the actors; we who stand and wait are but the audience, or to be more exact in the metaphor, not even the audience; for we can see little or nothing of what is happening, we are behind the scenes, or backstage to use the jargon of theatre-land. But while you are acting your valiant—I will not say tragic parts, for t
hat would imply a condition that I am sure you would not yourselves ever consider, or wish to be admitted on your behalf—as I was saying, we who are in the rear do not share your particular experiences, varying with every trench and rise and fall of ground—but this I can say, that just as the landscape painter’s perspective is always remote from actuality, so is the remoteness from the battlefield, for mere scribblers like myself in the rear, a clearing-place of often contrary messages and reports. Only gradually can the whole picture of what is happening be built up. Thus in one sector all may seem, for the time-being, to be lost; while that aspect, by its very pessimism, may enable troops a mile away to overcome the enemy position and so effect a break in his defences.”
The lecturer paused. There was dead silence among the audience.
“Well, gentlemen, I have done my best to give an outline of the general position on the first, second and third days of the battle; I am always open to correction; and if any of you would like to ask any questions, or to amplify what I have said, in any particular, I shall do my humble best to reply.”
The lecturer bowed, as though awaiting applause. Phillip felt a slight distress when none came. The silence remained. Perhaps people did not clap at military lectures, even when given by civilians? He felt a little sorry for the speaker; he was obviously nervous, and must have known that what he had said was only a sort of newspaper account.
“Well, gentlemen, have you any questions?”
There was a stir in the front row. Phillip saw “Crasher” slowly getting on his feet. Then he heard the curt, growling voice, “I want to ask only one question.” “Crasher” paused, and glared at the lecturer.
“The other day I took part in the battle of Loos. Now, having listened to the lecturer, he has proved to me that I was never there. I would like to ask ’im to explain that.”
The marquee was filled with cheering, clapping, and laughter. The meeting broke up. On impulse Phillip went to the brigadier, came to attention, bowed and said, “Excuse me, sir, but I am the guide who took you up past Lone Tree on the evening of the twenty-fifth. I have been wondering, sir, what happened to the colonel of the Cantuvellaunians?”
“Caught a ball,” growled “Crasher”. “Every other man jack of ’m caught a ball. As I told ’em at First Army, it was the charge of horse against the Russkies guns at Balaclava all over agen. They put me on ha’ pay after that one for telling ’em what I thought, and b’God they put me on ha’ pay after this one! No dam’ progress in the human race! That feller Darwin was right. Who the devil are you? I’ve seen your face somewhere before, dammit.”
“I am the guide who took you up past Lone Tree——”
“That don’t account for your name, dammit.”
“Maddison, sir. I met you in the Cantuvellaunian mess in England.”
“Did you b’God. More people know Tom Fool than Tom Fool knows.”
Misunderstanding this remark, Phillip said, “Yes, sir, I was a bit of a fool, I admit.”
As the old general did not reply, but continued to fix him with his pale blue eyes, Phillip went on, feeling more and more awkward, “I mean, sir, in setting fire to the colonel’s newspaper.”
“Why, bless my soul, you must be the young feller o’ spirit they bully-ragged for speaking out o’ turn, but b’God, if no-one spoke out o’ turn——! I have, b’God, and blotted me copybook! Yes, ‘Strawballs’ told me about you the other night in that damned cold quarry, said it was a pity you have never been to school. Well, don’t let it worry you, I never learned a dam’ thing at Eton, except how to hunt the hare with those dam’ jelly-dorgs they call beagles.”
The anciently-dressed brigadier lifted his hand in dismissal, and Phillip went away, thinking what a wonderful old boy he was.
The next afternoon he started to ride with a groom to visit cousin Bertie at Verquineul, about three miles distant, behind Noeux-les-Mines; but the chronic congestion of the roads, and the fact that he was still not able to “sit down to it”, in the groom’s phrase, made him turn back. It was now into the first week of October, and the battalion was nearly up to strength. The further attacks had got nowhere, all the attackers who survived had gone back to their jumping-off trenches. Training with smoke-helmets pointed to a new attack with the French, who had now come into the sector north of Loos. And the following afternoon, when he walked to Verquineul, hoping to see Bertie (and yet hoping not to meet him, now that his face had partly eclipsed that of Helena) he learned that he had missed him by one day. Bertie’s battalion was in the line up by the Hohenzollern, which, except for the forward trench, was once more in German hands.
A day later, in Béthune, whither he had gone to draw the battalion pay in francs, he saw the Coldstream G.S. wagons being loaded with gas-cylinders, and heard that another assault upon the Hohenzollern Redoubt was being prepared. It was part of the renewed attack all along the line.
He took the company the following day to the bombing range beyond the town, a hot and suffocating business with gas-helmets; and on return, when he went into the ante-room, to see what post had come in he saw a khaki envelope in the M pigeon-hole of the letter rack—2/lt. P. S. T. Maddison to report immediately to the orderly room. With trepidation he went there, to hear the worst.
The adjutant and the colonel were working late, before dinner. Cold water in stomach, with drying throat, Phillip stood to attention.
“Good evening,” said the adjutant, amiably. “Your exchange into the Diehards has come through. There’s a train leaving Béthune at nine ack emma tomorrow morning.” He pushed over a yellow ticket for Victoria. “Your dossier has been following you about, from here to Helfaut, and back again. The colonel wants to see you.”
Lieutenant-colonel Orlebar was genial as ever.
“So you’re leaving us, Maddison. ‘Spectre’ West will be sorry to hear it. You belong to the county, don’t you?”
Phillip tried to smother his betraying hesitancy—yet he did have cousins at Beau Brickhill—Wakenham, black on the map of the County of London—Baldersby—“little Cockney”——
“Yes, sir!” he replied, eyes on ground.
Worse was to follow, for offering him the tin of hand-made Goldflakes, the colonel asked where he had been at school. Dreading a repetition of the pause, the non-committal “O-oh”, when the same question had been asked in the orderly room of the Cantuvellaunians, and in panic lest his lie be detected, he pretended not to have heard the question and replied, eyes on floor, “I was at Fitzwilliam Hall, Cambridge, sir.”
The colonel made a few pleasant remarks, then shook hands, and wished him luck in his new regiment. The colonel was sorry to see him go; there had been a chit from division about the excellence of the report sent in by a junior subaltern of the Gaultshires who had remained up with the attack on Lone Tree, taken command in an emergency and led a flank attack which was successful, and then, on light duty, had nevertheless remained up with the attack and sent in valuable information about the position of enemy batteries. Colonel Orlebar had only that afternoon decided to confirm Maddison in the command of No. 1 company, with the rank of temporary captain.
*
Early the next morning, the 13th October, the guns were booming upon the dull eastern horizon as Phillip set out for rail-head. The new attack had begun, from Hohenzollern Redoubt on the north, to Bois Hugo in the south, towards the higher ground held by the Germans along the La Bassée–Lens road. The deadly horizon was white with the drifting smoke of the bombardment, brittle with remote crackling and hammering. Waiting on the platform of Béthune station, Phillip saw transport men with brass letters C.G. on their shoulder-straps; and going up to the officer wearing the Star of the Garter badge on his cap, to ask what news of the attack, he learned that “Marie” Cakebread had been killed the night before, while on patrol by Big Willie trench, looking at the Hun wire. His body had been brought back for burial at Vermelles.
*
After the comic little toot upon the horn, the steam-drib
bling black Nord engine drew away from the country of pyramids and broken corons while he could scarcely realise that he was leaving it all behind, for ever; and yet in a way he was sorry he would not see the Gaultshires again. What nice people they were, from Colonel Mowbray and “Nosey” down to the new second-loots from Sandhurst. There had been a genuinely free and easy feeling in the mess, and a foremost regard for the men, under the unspoken disciple of good form set by the colonel, by his very friendliness. Perhaps that was what Baldersby had been driving at; but somehow it had not been the same thing as in the Gaultshire mess. Every officer in the Gaultshires seemed to belong to the county, nearly all the officers knew about each other, or their families had known each other, and the senior officers at the top table were like elder brothers. “The Duke” was often spoken about, and always with respect, so different from Uncle Jim’s angry Radical attitude against him for being a large landowner.
Oh, damn, damn, damn! Why was he leaving? Anyway, he had spoiled himself by pretending that he had been up at Cambridge. Still, he had left them for good, he would never see them again. The thought of another winter in the trenches was unthinkable, and he had to tell himself again and again of his wonderful luck. The papers said it would be a long war, as Kitchener had forecast; probably two more years before the Germans cracked. Two years like the past seventeen days! Ah, but he would be a non-combatant, in charge of those white-headed old navvies, digging trenches far back, building rest camps, laying railways——
He settled in his corner, looking out at the green country of poplars, willows, and dykes along the way to Calais, and thought of his arrival that night, unless there were submarines in the Channel, in Hillside Road. He fixed in his mind the surprised faces when he walked down into the sitting-room. He thought of warmth and light in Freddie’s. He thought of Bertie, always so easy and smiling; he could not imagine Bertie dead. Nor could he imagine Helena Rolls’ face when she heard the news; he could not think of her, something put her out of his mind, he could not see her face, but only a blank.
A Fox Under My Cloak Page 45