by John Masters
Heart of War
JOHN MASTERS
To the victims of the Great War,
among whom were
the survivors
Contents
1 January 1, 1916
2 Flanders: Saturday, February 5, 1916
3 Hedlington, Kent: February 14, 1916
4 Walstone, Kent: Saturday, February 26, 1916
5 Dublin: Easter Sunday, 1916 (April 23)
6 Hedlington & Walstone, Kent: Monday, May 1, 1916
7 Tuesday, May 30, 1916: Scapa Flow, Orkney Islands
8 Hedlington, Kent: Friday, June 16, 1916
9 The Somme: July 1, 1916
10 Mirvaux, Somme, France: July 1, 1916
11 Hedlington: Thursday, September 7, 1916
12 Southern England: Mid-October, 1916
13 Hedlington: Tuesday, October 17, 1916
14 London: Friday, October 20, 1916
15 Caesar’s Camp Copse, Beighton Down, Kent: Monday, October 30, 1916
16 Hedlington: Saturday, November 4, 1916
17 The Western Front: Wednesday, November 22, 1916
18 House of Commons, London: Thursday, November 30, 1916
19 Hedlington, Kent: Tuesday, December 5, 1916
20 Walstone, Kent: Thursday, December 14, 1916
21 London: Wednesday, January 17, 1917
22 At Sea: Friday, February 23, 1917
23 Washington, District of Columbia: Monday, April 2, 1917
24 House of Commons, London: Thursday, May 10, 1917
25 The Western Front: Wednesday, June 6, 1917
26 England: Early June, 1917
27 Walstone, Kent: Late June, 1917
28 Hedlington: Tuesday, July 31, 1917
29 Flanders: Summer, 1917
30 Near Nollehoek, Belgium: Thursday, September 20, 1917
31 London: Thursday, October 25, 1917
32 Belgian Flanders: Monday, November 5, 1917
33 America, England, France: November, 1917
34 England, Palestine, Ireland, America: December, 1917
35 England and Flanders: Christmas, 1917
Family Trees
A Note on the Author
1
January 1, 1916
As the arc of noon passes over the Urals its high sun pours down on a continent aflame from end to end with a war that has been raging out of control for seventeen months. It begins, officially, over the murder of an Austrian Archduke by a Serbian schoolboy, but that event, and the increasingly violent emotional reactions of the powers of Europe, are no more than the opportunities given to wills eager to strike. The rich, long-settled world of Europe is bleeding to death, dying in the ruins of its own châteaux, suffocating in the churned mud of its own vineyards. A narrow belt of yellow slime – the trenches – snakes from the English Channel to Switzerland, and beyond the Alps, begins again and crawls across northern Italy. The corpses are rotting in the Polish marshes, on the Rumanian plains, the beaches of Gallipoli, the burning banks of Nile and Euphrates, in the rain forests of Africa. At sea, especially off the coasts of Europe, no ship is safe from the German submarines, for Germany, faced with the overpowering surface fleets of England and its allies, is waging war from under the water.
Only one country in the world has had experience of war on so vast a scale and, as it is turning out, of so long duration; and that country is not a combatant – the United States, fifty-one years after its Civil War. The Americans are a troubled people. Though their commerce is being harassed by the British blockade, they are becoming rich producing war goods for the British side, which, alone, can transport them across the Atlantic. President Wilson, with one year in office remaining of his first term, strives to keep that nation out of the war, which is manifestly becoming more bloody than any in history.
England has taken part in no European War since the Crimean War of the 1850s; and before that, the Napoleonic Wars. The nation is mentally quite unprepared for the casualties: 80,174 killed and died of wounds in the first seventeen months – 331,719 missing, prisoners, and wounded; all this on the Western Front alone (31,097 British died in the Crimean War, which lasted more than two years: of these, over half died of disease). For England 1915 has been a disappointing year. So much is expected of the offensives at Loos and Gallipoli, so little is achieved. A change of mood cuts deep into the hearts of the people. No one now recites Rupert Brooke’s passionate lines:
Now God be thanked, Who has matched us with His hour, And caught our youth, and wakened us from sleeping...
No more cries are heard of On to Berlin! Berlin or Bust! Home by Christmas! The war is not fun, but it has to be won. The Regular Army dies at First Ypres, late in 1914; the volunteer army bult on its cadres dies at Loos, late in 1915. For the first time in a thousand years military conscription looms over Britain. The war will continue, a presence in every act of living – shopping, fishing, selling goods, electioneering, even reading the newspaper, or celebrating a wedding …
Walstone, Kent: Friday, February 4, 1916
THE DATE OF COMPULSION
MARCH 2nd
KING’S PROCLAMATION
At a meeting of the Privy Council yesterday, his Majesty the King signed a Proclamation fixing February 10 as the date upon which the Military Service Act shall come into operation. In a supplement to the London Gazette last night, the …
Christopher Cate, gentleman, titular squire of Walstone in the County of Kent, read the piece again with a puzzled frown. The Act was to come into operation on February 10th, but the headline stated that March 2nd was the date of compulsion? Ah, of course, the Act had allowed for a three-week period before anyone was actually conscripted, and that would bring it to March 2nd.
He looked out of the window. Low clouds hid the setting sun, and a cold wind, threatening sleet or snow, stirred the bare trees and rustled the hedge beyond the lawn … not a good prospect for his daughter Stella’s wedding tomorrow. She was upstairs now, with her aunt Fiona, and Garrod the maid. Fiona, his sister-in-law, was acting as hostess and ‘mother of the bride,’ since Stella’s own mother, his wife, had deserted them all for Ireland and the cause of Irish Independence, a year ago. It would be a happy occasion nonetheless, with his tenants and their wives present in the old Saxon church, and all the other villagers; and the staff of the Manor here; and Laurence – his only son, as Stella was his only daughter; and Stephen and Betty Merritt, the father and sister of Stella’s groom, from America; his own father and mother-in-law … It would be wonderful to see the marriage of such a good-looking young couple, his Stella and Johnny Merritt, with so happy and prosperous a life ahead of them, if …
He flung the paper down.
… if the war did not devour them and that happiness, as it had so many others’. There would be gaiety and laughter at the wedding, all right, but he for one would not be able to erase from his mind, in the midst of his happiness for his daughter, the faces of those who were not present … Fiona’s husband, his brother-in-law Quentin Rowland; and his nephew Boy Rowland – both somewhere in France with the Weald Light Infantry; his own brother Oswald, died of wounds received with the Rifle Brigade at Neuve Chapelle last March; another brother-in-law, Tom Rowland, at sea in all weathers, enforcing the blockade of Germany; young Sam Mayhew, one of his tenants’ sons, died of wounds the same day as Oswald; and Lord Swanwick’s younger son, Arthur Durand-Beaulieu, killed with the Guards at Loos in September … Oh, there’d be a wedding tomorrow, for life would go on, and love could not be killed. But there would be few in the old church who would not see writ clear before them, not the words of the service, but that stark headline:
THE DATE OF COMPULSION
Saturday:
Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the
sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this Man and this Woman in holy Matrimony; which is an honourable estate, instituted of God in the time of man’s innocency, signifying unto us the mystical union that is betwixt Christ and his Church; which holy estate Christ adorned and beautified with his presence, and first miracle that he wrought, in Cana of Galilee; and is commended of Saint Paul to be honourable among all men; and therefore is not to be enterprised, nor taken in hand, unadvisedly, lightly, or wantonly, to satisfy men’s carnal lusts and appetites, like brute beasts that have no understanding; but reverently, discreetly, advisedly, soberly …
‘Soberly,’ Johnny Merritt repeated silently to himself. He was not quite sober, but he had seen bridegrooms in much worse state after the farewell bachelor party of the night before. It might have been worse if Guy Rowland had been at home, but he was at Upavon, flying, and could not get leave; so the party had been relatively small and subdued – just his father, Overfeld, Morgan, Ginger Keble-Palmer, David Toledano, and himself. Overfeld the production expert and Morgan the plant foreman at the Jupiter Motor Company were not the sort of people who would normally have been invited to such an occasion, but they were good company and fellow Americans. He had never met David Toledano before, but he had been a school friend of Guy’s, and it was his family’s bank that had provided the English capital to match the American capital provided by his own father to found both the Jupiter Motor Company and the new Hedlington Aircraft Company. Besides, there was no one else. The other young Englishmen he had met in his year here, and who might have helped him bid farewell to bachelordom, were in the trenches across the Channel … or under that earth. He gritted his teeth. The sense of shame could not be exorcised, however hard he worked, however often Overfeld or his father told him he was more use to the war effort here than over there. How much longer could he stand it, face himself every morning in the mirror?
Secondly, it was ordained for a remedy against sin, and to avoid fornication; that such persons as have not the gift of continency might marry, and keep themselves undefiled members of Christ’s body …
‘Fornication,’ Stella Cate thought, head bowed and eyes downcast behind the thin veil. She had committed fornication, and knew that she would have done it again, if she had remained unmarried. No one knew it, except Probyn’s Woman, somewhere in the back of the church with Probyn, Fletcher, Florinda, and Willum. All of them, except Willum, knew, for the Woman and Florinda had got rid of the fruit of that fornication. Betty Merritt, her groom’s sister, suspected, Stella thought; not the specific fact of her night with Captain Irwin a year ago; but that she had somewhere, somehow, eaten of the fruit. Betty was not unfriendly – the opposite, in fact – but there was a look in her eye that said, ‘You know what I do not know.’
She lifted her head instinctively, for she had heard a strange sound, a rhythmic thudding, a subdued creaking, the deep hum or murmur of men’s voices. It was outside the church, in the village street. But what was it? Unwillingly, she bowed her head again. She’d have liked to run out and see what it was.
I require and charge you both, as ye will answer at the dreadful day of judgment when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, that if either of you know any impediment, why ye may not be lawfully joined together in Matrimony, ye do now confess it.
Stella’s uncle, John Rowland, standing a little stooped in the second row of pews on the right, wished his wife Louise could have been here, as she had dearly wanted to be; but she was attending a course in Wiltshire, being run under the auspices of the British Friesian Society, on ways of keeping Friesian cattle healthy, increasing milk production and improving the breed while importing only a minimum of champion bulls from Holland. Those bulls cost money – foreign exchange, which the country needed to buy shells and steel and beef and wheat and … if it needed to go on fighting the ghastly war at all. Whatever the original rights and wrongs, it was surely time that the slaughter, and the plague of hatred, were stemmed … when Louise came back he must talk with her about buying some more heifers … Stella looked almost ethereally lovely, in spite of the simple daytime dress and short veil she was wearing – perhaps because of them. Christopher Cate had wanted to avoid waste and ostentation when he had decreed a simple wedding, and simple clothes for his daughter; but the effect had been to enhance Stella’s classic English rose-petal colouring and complexion. Louise would have been weeping happily long since, of course … Johnny Merritt was a fine-looking young man, and his father a tall and distinguished figure beside him, as best man. These Americans crossed the Atlantic, even in wartime, with no more thought than he’d give a trip to London. A son’s wedding would be ample justification for anyone, of course; and in Stephen Merritt’s case there were also the affairs of the motor and aircraft companies to be looked into. Mr Merritt’s fellow directors in the bank in New York would expect him to give those very careful study; after all they must have a great deal of money invested in them … The daughter, Johnny’s sister, was a good-looking girl, too, just over medium height, lithe and athletic in her movements … He cocked his head. He heard a steady tramp tramp tramp outside … singing, or rather humming, what was that tune? Ah, the one with bawdy words, Mademoiselle from Armentières … a soldiers’ song. There must be troops marching through Walstone on manoeuvres. A barked command confirmed it. He frowned and sighed: even here, he thought, even now …
Wilt thou have this Woman to thy wedded wife, to love together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour, and keep her in sickness and health …?
Naomi Rowland, standing beside her father, John, nodded her head in approval as Johnny Merritt’s voice rang out firm and clear – ‘I will.’ She had not seen much of him, but she liked what she had; and perhaps he was the right man for Stella, if anyone was. That girl needed a strong hand, and though Johnny was very polite – more polite than Englishmen of his class would have been – she sensed a firmness underneath. The trouble was, or might be, that Stella was flighty. She put the thought away firmly. It would work out well. She smoothed down her khaki barathea tunic and, glancing round, caught the eye of her cousin Virginia Rowland, also dressed in khaki, but in the uniform of the Women’s Legion, while Naomi’s was that of the Women’s Volunteer Motor Drivers. There was much khaki and navy blue in the church, come to see the squire’s only daughter wed to the young American. And Uncle Christopher had been so right to forbid long trains, scores of bridesmaids, expensive gowns, and all that tosh – always insulting to women, as though they were heifers to be decked out for the bull – dangerous tosh in times like these. She wished her friend from Girton, Rachel Cowan, had come. A year ago, she would always have found time to be with Naomi, whatever the difficulties. They were growing apart, that was the truth … sad; but it couldn’t be helped.
Wilt thou have this Man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance … ?
Betty Merritt listened carefully as the rector, old Mr Kirby, intoned the words. He looked strange in a surplice. The last time she had seen him, just after she and her father had arrived from New York, he’d been sitting low on a fat cob, galloping across a ploughed field, his lined old face purple in the cold, mouth open as he swore at the horse, eyes bolting with excitement, the Master’s horn shrilling behind the hill … ‘Obey him’ … Stella would have no difficulty in keeping that part of the oath, she thought. She liked to be told what to do. Whether she would obey Johnny’s unspoken but obvious wishes, keep to his standards, Betty could not say. She did not know Stella well enough yet to make that judgment about her. She looked across at Ginger Keble-Palmer’s long profile: a nice, shy man; and, though he did not know it yet, she intended that he should be more than that to her. She had learned already that he was a good aircraft designer, and worked for Richard Rowland and her brother at the Hedlington Aircraft Company. He did not know anything important about her; specifically, he did not know that at Smith she had taken sol
id geometry, algebra, plane and spherical trigonometry, analytic geometry and calculus, both integral and differential. He was going to learn, soon. And her father was going to be reminded.
She heard the tramp of marching men from outside the church, even through the doors closed against the February cold. She heard the clink of steel on steel. She heard, pervading the candled twilight, the buzz of an aeroplane circling somwhere overhead, a searching, intrusive wasp.
Who giveth this Woman to be married to this Man?
Richard Rowland watched approvingly as his brother-in-law, Christopher Cate, took a step forward, his daughter’s hand in his, and, leaving her at Johnny’s side, stepped back. Christopher looked sadder than the occasion warranted. His only daughter being married to a rich and personable young American was hardly cause for tears … but Christopher had never been one to laugh lightly; and now he was probably thinking of Margaret, his wife, and wishing she was at his side … but Margaret had hidden herself in the back streets of Dublin, or in some cottage in the bogs, a gun always by her; and Sinn Fein, not her husband or children, was her only care now. Perhaps she did not even know that Stella was being married, though the announcement had been made in the Dublin papers as well as the Times, Telegraph and Morning Post. Turning his head, he caught sight of Willum Gorse, beaming in simple pleasure … but then Willum was simple. He was glad to see that Willum’s half-brother Bert Gorse hadn’t got a half-day off to attend. That swine had been agitating the men in the J.M.C. again – but now he’d got him. The conscription bill had been passed, making all unmarried men under forty liable to military service. Bert was thirty-five or thirty-six; and he was unmarried; and he, Richard Rowland, would make it his business to see that the responsible authorities were made aware of those two facts. He glanced at his wife, Susan, beside him. Tomorrow the chauffeur was going to drive her up to the orphanage in Camberwell to pick up the two children she was going to adopt … that they were going to adopt, he should say; but he found it hard to associate himself with the business. In seventeen years of marriage they had not produced any children of their own, and then, late last year, she had suddenly announced that as he had his factories for ‘children,’ she intended to adopt not one but two real ones. He should have gone with her on her two previous trips, to visit orphanages, and talk to governors – and children – but he had had no time. The affairs of the J.M.C. and the H.A.C. – both of which he managed, and both of which were ultimately owned by Johnny Merritt’s father’s bank in New York – kept him more than busy. He should have made time. The children were going to be his, too, whether he liked it or not.