The Passing Bells

by Phillip Rock

  “I like breasts and bellies,” he said, kissing both. “And I love you.”

  They clung tightly to each other as the March winds moaned across the river and hammered at the casement window.

  “You haven’t said a word about Charles,” she said softly.

  “There isn’t a great deal to say. A sad man in a sad place. Just one more casualty of the Somme—Charles Greville and four hundred thousand other men.”

  He didn’t tell her about the request for the court-martial, or the fact that Charles had contemplated suicide. Winifred had enough to think about being with child and worrying about her brothers John and Bramwell, who had gone through the Thiepval attacks and were now back in trenches near Arras.

  “Does Lydia see him often?”

  “I gather he doesn’t want to see her . . . or his mother. There’s really nothing he wants to talk about except the war.”

  And nothing that Fenton wanted to talk about less, but there was no escaping it. On the third morning home the telephone rang; a Brigadier Tydman was ringing up from London:

  “About this court-marital request of yours for Major Greville. Sticky business, don’t you know. . . . Be much better all ’round if you reconsidered it.”

  “I can’t do that, sir.”

  “Can’t, eh? Rather delicate, to tell you the truth . . . peer’s son and all that. Chap went ’round the bend and plunked his own brother. Medical wallah of the Public Schools Battalion did the proper thing . . . certified him mentally unsound and sent him right up to Llandinam Hospital. That kept the whole sad affair quiet, don’t you know. No point in kicking sleeping dogs now, to use a figure of speech.”

  “I’m sorry, but I insist on a hearing.”

  “I see. . . . Well, won’t interfere with your rights as the lad’s superior officer, although I strongly disapprove of your insistence. Rather harsh, I must say. Very well then . . . Hearing set for Thursday next . . . at Llandinam . . . North Wales. Better than bringing the chap down to London for it.”

  “Make certain a shorthand stenographer is along.”

  “We’re quite capable of conducting a proper hearing,” the brigadier said stiffly. “Good day, sir.”

  Paris, March 12, 1917

  Observations and Reflections. Trying to catch up on this. Too damn busy writing personality pieces on General Nivelle, Pétain, and all the other new luminaries of the French Army to pay much attention to this journal. Papa Joffre of the big belly is out. Nivelle with his good looks, good English, good manners, and boundless optimism is very firmly in. Every shoeshine boy in Paris knows what Nivelle has in mind, as, I imagine, does every shoeshine boy in Berlin. Keeping secrets is not an Allied military virtue. A million poilus along the Aisne preparing to lunge for the chemin des Dames and burst through the Hindenburg defenses like water through a dike of sand. British to aid the offensive by striking around Arras. God help all of them.

  Difficult even after ten days to write about Charles without experiencing a sinking feeling in the pit of the stomach. Shell shock. No two doctors seem to agree on the cause. French medical officer I met at Maxim’s one night says that shell shock is caused by a partial vacuum created by passing shells, affecting the brain cells. I believe that it means being shocked, period. Shocked by too many corpses, too much pain, too many hopeless attacks. Too many days and nights of never-ending fear. Shock after shock until the mind can no longer take any more punishment and begins to turn in upon itself. Charles is a shell shock case. Too much sangfroid for his own good. I know now what he was thinking when he stood on the parapet at High Wood and watched his men get slaughtered in the wire and among those nightmare trees. He was thinking the thoughts of the damned and keeping them bottled up inside. Something had to give in that noble head of his.

  Lord Greville, ninth Earl of Stanmore. More sangfroid in action. I went to the house directly from the train, still damp from Wales.

  “So, you saw Charles, did you?” he said when I handed him the letter. He opened the envelope and read the contents without blinking an eye.

  “Thank you,” he said, putting the letter in his pocket as though it were a bill from his tailor. I was invited to stay for a drink, but sensed it was merely a gesture of politeness and so I declined. Aunt Hanna is up in Derbyshire, where they have a small estate, looking after William, who is recuperating there. And how is William? I ask. “He will never ride a horse properly for the rest of his life.” Odd answer. Charles is in such a delicate mental balance, he could end up not knowing a horse from a steamroller. Does the earl’s attitude come with the blood? Cold and blue? Hard to say. May be no more than a pose. Bad form to reveal one’s deepest emotions. The earl stands in his magnificent study overlooking Park Lane very much the way Charles stood on the top of his trench.

  About fifteen minutes with Ivy, in the main reception room of All Souls. Is it possible she’s my wife? Hard to believe. We held hands in a room about the size of Victoria Station, filled with the relatives of wounded men. Simple-looking people. Londoners mostly. The “lower orders,” as the earl would say. The Somme offensive has been over for four months, but the residue packs the wards. Eighteen-hour work shifts for the nurses, more for some of the surgeons. Over in Whitehall the lights burn as new offensives are planned. “Mum” and “Dad” wait patiently in the vaulted room to see their sons, bearing small gifts wrapped in newspaper.

  “Assiduous diarist, aren’t you, Martin?”

  “Well,” Martin said, glancing up at the bureau chief, “I like to scribble away. I find it relaxing.”

  “Care for a drink at the Café Bombe?”

  “No. My hip’s giving me hell. Must be the weather. I’ll be able to predict rain till the day I die.”

  “Take a week off. Go up to that house of yours in Saint Germain and forget your troubles. I just got a cable from Atkinson. That piece you did on Pétain . . . the ‘Warrior Monk’ thing. First-rate reception. The Atlantic gobbled up the magazine rights. Congratulations. Your telephone work out there?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Well, if anything comes up, I’ll send the kid out to fetch you.”

  And so this was a break, Martin thought as he took the Métro at Parc Monceau. He had had it up to the neck with interviewing generals and listening to all the theories on how the war could be won “rapidement.” At Louveciennes, troop trains rumbled north across the Seine. Bearded poilus stood in the open doorways smoking their pipes—impassive-looking men, veterans. The troops no longer waved and cheered from the trains as they had done during the first year of the war. But then no one was doing much cheering these days.

  The house looked good to him, a place of his own, the deed signed, sealed, and delivered. Rilke Manor. Seven rooms and a kitchen. The trees in the garden were barren and stalky, but they would burst into greenery in the spring. The windows were tightly shuttered, and a pale wisp of smoke rose from one of the chimneys.

  “What the—” He stood transfixed on the path and wondered if he should hurry down to the inn for help. But that seemed stupid. A housebreaker wouldn’t light a fire. “Jacob,” he muttered to himself. And when he unlocked the door, there he was, standing in the hall looking sheepish.

  “Now how in hell did you get in?”

  “Penknife. Slipped it under a shutter.”

  “That’s nice to know,” Martin said irritably. “Why didn’t you come by the office? I would have given you a key.”

  “Didn’t have the time, old sport. Two beefy flics were right on my heels.”

  “Detectives?”

  Jacob nodded. His face was haggard and there were dark rings under his eyes.

  “Sûreté Nationale. I came a cropper, Martin. Only two issues of the paper, and every gendarme in Paris came pouring into the print shop, busting heads with truncheons. I dove through a window without a sou in my pockets and legged it out.”

  “It was bound to happen sooner or later.”

  “One of the writers betrayed us.” He ran his hands th
rough his hair and smiled bitterly. “God almighty, never get mixed up with strident anti-war types. Not one damn thing you do pleases even one-quarter of them. My particular Judas was an elderly anarchist who was furious with me for not devoting the first issue to a primer on how to assassinate politicians and generals. Not that I’m particularly against that sort of thing, you understand, but I thought it a bit thick for the first issue. Anyway, cutting a long story short, I’m on the run from a charge of sedition, and this seemed the best place to hide.”

  “Stay as long as you like.”

  “I’ll borrow some cash from you and try to get into Spain . . . or even go back to Blighty. At least they don’t shoot you there for having a difference of opinion.”

  Jacob moped around the house for two days, debating with himself whether to go to Madrid and put out another paper, which might be smuggled into France, or return to England and take his chances as a conscientious objector. His depression was palpable, like a dark cloud following him from room to room. It was on the morning of the third day that Danny, the copy boy and general errand runner, arrived from Paris on his battered motorcycle. Along with a few letters and some articles for proofing, he carried a bulky package in his canvas knapsack.

  “A limey officer dropped this off at the office, Mr. Rilke. Said he was doing a favor for a Colonel Wood-Lacy and that it was to be given to you personal.”

  “Thanks, Danny. Anything new on the wires?”

  “U-boats sank another American ship. . . . Congress looks ripe for voting for war in a few weeks . . . and McGraw predicts the Giants will take the pennant this year.”

  “Good for McGraw. At least there’s some sanity left in the world.”

  There was a letter attached to the brown paper parcel.

  Dear Martin:

  Enclosed is a copy of the transcript, which I managed to get hold of. After reading it, I think you will understand why I sent it to you. Charles’s agonized reflections on the war deserve something more meaningful than a filing cabinet in Whitehall. Just what you can do with it in light of the times I do not know, but I want you to have the ms. nonetheless.

  The proceedings went just the way I said they would go. Charles spoke for two hours or more in front of three impassive men from the Judge Advocate’s office. Their findings were foregone—no court-martial justified and Charles to remain at the hospital until the doctors see fit to discharge him. I have sent this across with a friend so as to avoid censors or other curious types pawing over the contents.

  Best,

  Fenton

  “What is it?” Jacob asked, glancing over Martin’s shoulder as he sat reading the typed document. “Copy of a lawsuit?”

  “More of an indictment, Jacob. But of course, you wouldn’t have heard about it. Charles Greville shot his brother in the leg in January while home on leave.”

  “Good God! Why?”

  Martin touched the loose pages he had already read. “You can discover that reason for yourself.”

  Jacob drew a chair up to Martin’s desk. He barely glanced at the first two pages, merely noticing the stilted language of the panel judge explaining the purpose of the hearing, but the first paragraph of Charles’s statement held his attention as nothing had ever done before:

  “I entered this war with the highest of ideals and the firmest of faith in the rightness and justness of my patriotism . . .”

  They read through the document several times, Martin lying on the sofa, Jacob slowly pacing the room.

  “It took guts for old Fenton to get this hearing for Charles,” Jacob said. “I can see why the War Office was content to just let things lie. A pretty damning statement.”

  “Only if people read it,” Martin said quietly.

  “I gather that’s what Fenton would like to see happen.”

  “I couldn’t get this published, you know that. It’s too critical of the high command’s handling of the Somme attacks—too outraged at the battle being turned into nothing more than bloody attrition, huge losses being justified because the Germans were suffering on the same scale. A British Verdun. The censors would turn it down flat. And even if I took it back to the States in my pocket, I doubt if I could find a paper that would touch it. They’ve got war fever over there now. No editor wants to print a cold shower.”

  Jacob began to stalk the room in agitation, puffing on a cigarette and letting the ashes scatter across the rug.

  “Christ, it isn’t propaganda . . . it isn’t even that critical of the war. It just damns the conduct of it, the senselessness of pushing men against machine guns and barbed wire over and over again. The whole thing is one long cry of despair for men caught in a trap. Every Tommy knows what the Somme was like, but the civilians turn a deaf ear to their stories. Hell, they just like to read the papers and see ‘Great Gains’ printed on the banner, and study the war maps—the enlarged portions that make every advance look impressive unless you realize the scale is in yards, not miles.”

  “That’s all well and good, Jacob, but the hard fact remains—”

  “That the wire services or the newspapers wouldn’t touch it? Fine. Sod the bastards! Let’s print it ourselves—a thousand copies or more, well printed and bound. . . . Send copies to every member of Parliament . . . every churchman . . . every intelligent human being we can think of.”

  “Have you been at the brandy?”

  “No. I’m drunk with purpose all of a sudden. I feel like flashing a bright light into dark corners. I’d like to see some MP with guts stand up in the House with this statement in his hand and cry out, ‘What in the name of God is going on over there? Let’s find some generals who aren’t dead from the neck up!” He slumped into a chair, a smoldering cigarette butt pasted to his lower lip. “All right. I’m sober now. That was just Jacob Golden being carried away by his own rhetoric, as usual. You’re quite right, Martin. No one wants to read something that might make them question their faith in the war leaders or the holy purity of their cause. To die in battle is such a noble death, isn’t it? The wisest thing you can do with Charles Greville’s cry to the heavens is put it neatly away in a drawer.”

  Martin chewed an unlit cigar and stared at the ceiling.

  “Could we print it?”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yes.”

  Jacob leaned forward and flipped his cigarette butt into the fireplace.

  “Not here, unless you care to see the inside of a French prison. Could be done in Switzerland, but getting copies over the border would be very difficult. The French are horribly suspicious of printed matter. Could be done easily enough in London, of course.”

  “Why ‘of course’?”

  “My mother’s brother, my Uncle Ben, prints foreign books. . . . Russian, Ukranian, Yiddish. Has a fine letterpress in Whitechapel. Used to work there sometimes as a kid before I got hauled away to prep school and Eton. I can still smell the ink he used.”

  Martin scowled at his cigar and bit off the tip. “Wouldn’t be much point in printing this in Ukrainian.”

  “Ben? He has fonts of half the world’s languages . . . even English. The man collects typefaces the way some men collect old wines. Type and socialism, Ben’s twin passions.”

  “You’d be running a risk going back to England, wouldn’t you, Jacob?”

  “Well, I’m running a risk staying here, aren’t I? All that can happen to me in England is that they give me a choice—go back into the army or get tucked away in a CO camp and spend the rest of the war tilling the soil. Not the worst fate I can think of. It’s a risk I’m willing to run. You face a bigger one, Martin. This transcript is definitely critical of the war and would be an embarrassment to the War Office and the General Staff. They could label you an unfriendly journalist and take away your press passes. The French war ministry works hand in glove with ours, so you might just be twice damned. I can’t see how much use you’d be to the Associated Press if you weren’t allowed within a hundred miles of the war zone.”

&nbs
p; “I wouldn’t be the first AP correspondent ever kicked out of a war zone because he rubbed brass the wrong way.”

  “And then there’s Fenton. Wonder how much will come down on his head? If he hadn’t pushed for a hearing . . .”

  Martin swung his legs off the sofa with a groan and then bent toward the table, where the transcript lay scattered. He sorted the pages together with firm purpose.

  “He never would have sent this to me if he were afraid of repercussions. This was his cast of the die. Come on, Jacob, if we hurry we can catch the night train to Le Havre.”

  London, March 25, 1917

  Observations and Reflections. There is a great sense of satisfaction in setting type. For me, it is a return to print shop—10 point Baskerville, cranking out the Lincoln High School yearbook on the platen press. A copy of the slim paperbound book that we have worked so hard on lies before me. Far better printed than the old Lincoln High thing, although the method of producing it was essentially the same. Jacob’s Uncle Ben designed it, chose the typeface, helped Jacob and me compose the type, and picked out the paper. A master printer’s job. Title page reads:

  AFTER THE SOMME

  An inquiry into the advisability of

  court-martial of Major The Rt. Hon. Charles

  Greville, 2nd Royal Windsor Fusiliers,

  conducted at Llandinam War Hospital

  WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY

  Martin Rilke, Associated Press

  God willing, I will have grandchildren one day, and they will wish to know why the old man stuck his neck out a country mile and put his name on the document. The fact is, I had not thought of doing it, but Uncle Ben, who looks more like one of the prophets than anyone’s uncle, argued that the book needed a touch of authenticating, England being the land of the literary hoax and Charles Greville himself not being available for interview. And so I sat in a corner of Uncle Ben’s shop and wrote an introduction, explaining who I was and what I had seen of this war to date and who Major Greville was to me. My cousin’s story, I said, and perhaps your son’s story, or your brother’s or father’s story. “Be cool but passionate,” Uncle Ben advised. Uncle Ben is a man who speaks in contradictions. Above his desk there are two framed, signed photographs. One is of the anarchist Kropotkin, the other of King Edward VII. The two men appear to be winking at each other and smiling down on Uncle Ben at the same time. “Confusion is not always disorder,” Uncle Ben murmurs from time to time. “A poor tool will often blame the workman.”