by John Masters
‘We didn’t. ’Ave some more van blong … You’ll ’ave to go out into the parlour and get some more, Bob. Madame’s not going to come back and let Snaky try it on with her again.’
‘I didn’t,’ Lucas said aggrievedly. ‘She doesn’t understand good English, that’s what.’ Lucas’s real Christian name was Rupert, but like all men in the British Army with that surname he was called Snaky, as all Millers and Rhodes were called Dusty.
There was a long silence, while the five soldiers stared into their wine glasses, drank, and stared again. The booming of artillery continued without cease, but they were too far away to hear small arms fire. Closer above in the night an aeroplane flew low, its engine thrumming in the dark. To drown out – useless hope – the shaking of the artillery, England said, ‘What do you reckon we’ll be doing next?’
‘Chatting,’ Lucas said shortly, ‘what the ’ell do you think we’ll be doing?’
England drank – he was already three parts gone, his hand shaking worse than ever. Lucas noticed the trembling hand and said ‘Your hand’s shaking, man. Shell shock, that’s what you’ve got. The Regimental will have you on a charge tomorrow. Only officers is allowed to get shell shock. Twenty-eight days Field Punishment Number One for you.’
England ignored the badinage, or did not hear it. ‘It’s time the fucking Frogs did something. After all, it’s their fucking country, innit? But it’s us what’s dying for it.’
Four French civilians came in by the back door, leaving their clogs just inside, on the scrubbed brick floor, and shuffling silently to a table the other side of the room in their bedroom slippers. They were all men in their fifties and sixties, wearing the black velvet coats and the blue trousers of small farmers or farm labourers. As they entered they acknowledged the presence of the British soldiers with a brief – ‘M’sieurs’; but did not glance in the soldiers’ direction.
Madame had learned by some telepathic means that the farmers had come into her back room, and appeared from the parlour, smiling as much as the natural chicken’s-arse formation of her mouth would allow. The soldiers heard the muttered French, then she went out again.
‘Why aren’t those bastards fighting?’ England asked belligerently.
“Cos they’re too old. Is your dad in uniform?’
Madame reappeared with two bottles and set them down on the table with glasses. One of the French farmers gave her money; it slipped out of her wet hand to the floor, and all five soldiers saw the two silver francs.
‘Look at that!’ England gasped, ‘two bottles of van blong, two francs. One franc a bottle … and what’s the old bitch charging us? Four francs!’ He pushed his chair back hard, so that it flew backward across the room, crashing into the wall. He roared, ‘Madame, five more bottle van blong, one franc each, unfronk, see?’ He staggered towards her waving an empty bottle from the table. Two of the farmers stood up, gesticulating; the others poured the wine, not looking up. Madame slipped out to the parlour slamming the door behind her. England stared after her, followed, wrenched the door open, and found himself in the front room, crowded with British soldiers, some farm girls, and one or two older local men.
‘This is bloody robbery!’ he yelled. ‘She’s jewing us four francs a bottle but giving it to her own blokes for one franc!’
He hurled the empty bottle at the plate glass mirror, engraved with a slogan for Byrrh, that hung on one wall.
All the British soldiers present jumped to their feet. ‘One franc? The old bitch!’ They started throwing chairs through the windows, hurling bottles and glasses against the wall.
The night air whistled fresh and cold through the room, blowing out the thick cloud of tobacco smoke from caporals and bleus. ‘Fucking Frogs!’ England shouted.
Resignedly, his four friends from the back room joined in the riot of destruction. The estaminet had rapidly emptied of all civilians, except Madame, who stood with folded arms and rattrap mouth, watching the carnage. The noise rose to a fortissimo. With the windows open the massed artillery a few miles to the east joined in with heavy rumbling bass under the treble exclamations of shattering glass and the tenor thumps and crashes of chairs hitting against the walls.
The Military Police burst in, led by a corporal about six feet high, and as wide, with a broken nose, two cauliflower ears, and a brass knuckle duster on each fist.
For a few moments the noise increased to an even higher level as the soldiers, who had been destroying in earnest silence, broke into oaths and shouts at the redcaps; and, whereas before they had had no one to fight, now they faced the police with flailing fists and clubbed bottles. Harry England caught one redcap a fair blow in the nose and then he found himself wheeling, whirling, falling. Had he been hit? He did not know. He was on his knees, dragging himself to his feet … his unfocussed eyes caught blurred sight of a tunic, a tunic with the big pleated pockets of an officer … breeches … puttees to below the knee … an officer … He staggered to his feet and swung his fist, the blow landing fair and square in the middle of the long face above the collar and tie … three stars on the shoulder … a captain, good, good! ‘Take tha’,’ he yelled, the frustrations and fears of months boiling over. The officer fell back against the wall, his hand to his mouth.
He lowered his hand, spitting out a tooth, blood seeping from a corner of his mouth. It was Captain Kellaway.
England stood a moment appalled. He had hit the captain, his company commander. He tried to straighten up to attention, but the wine would not let him. The Military Police stood all round, breathing hard. Three men lay on the floor, unconscious. Everyone else stood rigidly at attention, staring straight ahead.
England staggered forward crying, ‘I’m sorry, sir … I didn’t mean … Oh Jesus, sir, I didn’t … ’ He fell into Kellaway’s arms, weeping.
‘We’ll take him away, sir,’ the M.P. corporal said, grabbing England by the collar and dragging him off the officer’s chest.
Kellaway dabbed his mouth with a khaki silk handkerchief. He looked round the room and said, ‘Who here’s not in B Company?’
A few hands were raised. Kellaway turned to the corporal, ‘These are all my men, corporal. I’ll see that they are punished … and that the damage is paid for.’
The corporal said, ‘They was resisting arrest, sir … drunk an’ disorderly … hobstructing the police in the hexecution of their duty … striking a hofficer … ’
Kellaway said quietly, ‘And you are wearing knuckle dusters, corporal … Look, none of us want a fuss.’
He turned to the Madame and, pulling a wallet from his pocket, handed her five five-pound notes. Her eyes gleamed and she said, ‘More. Dix. Ten!’
Lucas said, ‘She was charging us four francs a bottle of van blong, sir, and the Frogs one franc.’
Kellaway spoke briefly to the Madame in fluent, virulent French. She almost blushed as he turned to Lucas – ‘You’re the senior soldier? Fall everyone in and march them back to their billets. Give me names and companies of men not in B. Company commanders’ orders for all of you at nine a.m.’ He went out, touching the peak of his cap.
The room full of soldiers looked at each other. The M.P. corporal said, ‘Lucky for you ’e came in. You lot deserve a good bashing in the Glass House.’ He went out, followed by his men.
Stan Quick said, ‘Wot was the captain doing ’ere? ’E knows this isn’t an officers’ estaminet.’
‘Looking for handsome young soldiers – like you,’ Lucas said.
England groaned. ‘I’ll knock your block off, Snaky. The captain’s a … gentleman … good officer … I hit him … ’
‘He’s a good officer … and a millionaire … and a pouf. You serve in the Shiny as long as I ’ave and you’ll learn that a man can be anything … and still a good officer … or a bad one. All right. Get fell in.’ He picked up a bottle off a table near him and emptied it in a single long glugging draught. He put it down, and said, ‘Never leave a full bottle or an empty cunt … By the right, q
uick – march!’
‘Post’s in, sir,’ the R.S.M.’s voice was loud in the doorway of the billet. ‘Two letters for you.’
‘Come in, Mr Nelson,’ Quentin said, holding out his hand for the letters. Neither was from Fiona. He hid his disappointment as he looked up at the warrrant officer. ‘Anything to report, before I go to Brigade?’
‘Nothing, sir. The men are grousing a bit, because of the route marches ordered for next week, but there’d be something wrong if they didn’t grouse.’
Quentin grunted. The men had to be kept fit, whether they liked it or not. The funny thing about spells out of the line was that the sick rate always went up. Up the line, living in cold or waterlogged trenches, sleeping in mud and filth, constantly harassed by shell fire, mortar bombs, and snipers, eating nothing but bully beef and army biscuits, averaging three hours’ sleep a night – the sick rate was so low that when it rose, you automatically suspected malingering. He said, ‘Tell the Adjutant I’ll be leaving for Brigade in twenty minutes, and to have my horse ready. That’s all.’
The R.S.M. saluted and went out with a crash of nailed ammunition boots. Quentin opened the first letter, from his son: Guy now had a hundred hours in his logbook; a week ago he had almost crashed his aeroplane landing in a sudden snowstorm; he had bought a motor bike and was using it to drive round Salisbury Plain and Pewsey Vale; had his father ever seen Stonehenge?
Quentin smiled a little grimly, to himself. Where did the boy think the Regular Army used to train? He knew that part of the Plain between Tidworth and the Henge like the back of his hand. He continued reading. They were a ripping good crowd of fellows at Upavon; one had unfortunately already been killed; they’d all been sent up immediately afterward so that they wouldn’t lose their nerve; Guy thought it would have been more sensible to spend some time telling them exactly what the poor chap had done wrong, so that they could avoid doing the same; he was really not very good at flying, but had so far come out first in all the machine-gun practices, both those on the ground and those fired from the air; it might be different with Boelcke or von Rackow firing back at him … Mummy wrote sometimes, and seemed well. Lots of love …
Mummy wrote sometimes. Well, he was glad Fiona wrote to someone, but she certainly did not write to him, her husband. His only news of her came through Guy. It was Guy who had told him, in a letter, that she had apparently changed her intention to leave them all. She’d told him – Guy – at Christmas, that she had long been in love with another man and was going away to live with him as soon as Guy joined the Royal Flying Corps; and in the New Year she’d gone to London … but had come back, saying nothing. Guy had suggested that she must have changed her mind about the other man, but Quentin found that hard to believe. He didn’t know what to believe. Meanwhile, he felt unhappy, and had to be careful not to take it out on the eight hundred men whose lives were his responsibility.
He opened the other letter. His brother Tom’s ship had been transferred from blockade duty to the Grand Fleet, and was with the main Battle Squadrons in Scapa Flow. It would be the best assignment in the Navy if the German High Seas Fleet ever came out to fight. In the meantime, it was the most boring imaginable: training, rehearsal, retraining, re-rehearsal, practice alerts, exercises, and always the grey skies, icy winds, and driving rain of the Orkneys. He wished Quentin luck, and advised him to take care of himself.
Quentin smiled again, again grimly. Take care of himself, as Commanding Officer of an infantry battalion on the Western Front? It could be done. Regrettably, it was being done, even by regular officers; but he, Quentin Rowland, could not do it. For twenty years and more he had had only one ambition in life – to command the 1st Battalion of the Weald Light Infantry, in action; and here he was, commanding it in the greatest war in history. He could not cheapen the fulfillment of his dream, however frightened he became and, good heavens, up there, only a madman would not be frightened, at times.
His nephew, Boy Rowland, came in, saluting, followed by a lieutenant of Royal Engineers, who announced that Corps Headquarters were sending him round all battalions in rest areas to run a short course in the care and management of Bangalore torpedoes. ‘Good, good!’ Quentin said, standing up. He felt unaccountably jovial, and said, ‘Fix it up with my adjutant here … Are you mad, married, or Methodist, eh?’ He always liked to put visiting sappers and gunners at ease, just as much as he disliked to see red-tabbed staff officers. But the engineer drew himself up and said, ‘I’m a Wesleyan, sir, and married, but I don’t see … ’
‘Sorry,’ Quentin mumbled, ‘just a joke we used to make about regular sapper officers.’
The lieutenant said coldly, ‘I am not a regular, sir. Before the war I was assistant chief sewage engineer of Cardiff.’
Outside, over the insistent moaning of the wind, they all heard the rapid thud of hoof beats. Boy turned as a soldier burst in through the door, pulled himself together, and saluted – ‘Message from Brigade, sir. Most Immediate.’
Quentin took it and read, while Boy scribbled his signature on the receipt form. The messenger saluted again and ran out. A moment later they heard the galloping hoof beats again, receding.
Quentin looked up – ‘G.H.Q. believe a heavy German attack against the French is imminent, probably round Verdun. They intend to mass troops in the Arras area, to take advantage of any weakening of the German positions there. The division is to move at once. Our leading companies to entrain at Armentières at twelve noon.’
Boy looked at his watch. ‘It’s nine now, sir … and Armentières is six miles away.’ He hurried out, and a moment later the Quarterguard bugler blew the battalion call, followed by Stand To, then Officers.
The Daily Telegraph, Saturday, February 5, 1916
OVERALLS FOR WORKERS
NEW SHOP FEATURE
Observant people begin to notice little changes that are both interesting and significant in regard to the arrangement of shop windows. A year ago the overall would probably not have been displayed in them, or if it had been it would have found a place along with aprons, round towels, and similar useful but not very attractive wares. Within the last few weeks, however, it has leaped into all the prominence that can be accorded to the dress or the hat. In one great sale at least it has figured among the bargains likely to prove especially alluring, and Oxford-street, Kensington, and other popular centres of shopping have shown it with such labels as ‘For munition workers,’ or ‘Correct pattern for office wear.’
… The cotton overall has been adopted by the young women who are now serving behind the grocers’ counters … It is worn, too, by the girl attendants in lifts at large shops or in blocks of offices … Further it is taking a more glorified form, in wool or silk, as a ‘slip on’ dress that the girl can assume at her desk, in order to save the more expensive tailored suit in which she arrives at and leaves her office. With the reduced demands for costumes, either of the coat and skirt or one-piece order, the making of the overall, which is a comparatively simple matter, is helping to adjust any displacement of labour that might have arisen in regard to the older and less adaptable of the dress makers.
The writer meant skirted overalls, Christopher Cate said to himself; though some women were wearing the trousered sort. Shocking, at first, but the jobs they were doing really demanded them. They’d be indecent if they were climbing ladders, and painting high walls and cleaning windows, in skirts …
Weddings were exhausting. He yawned. Sunday morning, and in an hour he’d have to get ready for church. There was the Sunday paper on the desk … he’d never catch up at this rate … have to make a determined attack on it after lunch, instead of having a snooze … also make notes for tomorrow’s meeting of the Mid-Scarrow War Problems Committee …
His son came in – ‘Daddy, I have to go back to school after lunch.’
‘I know, Laurence,’ Cate said cheerfully, ‘I’ve warned Norton.’
‘Cyril the stable boy’s joined up, hasn’t he?’
Cate
nodded. ‘Yes, and barely sixteen … gave a false age, of course. Plenty of spirit, that boy has, even if he did insist on wearing those garish ties. Well, I suppose that showed his spirit, too.’
Laurence said, ‘Wish I could go, too.’ Cate looked up – ‘You wait till the end of the summer term, Laurence. Officers must have a little more maturity.’
Laurence changed the subject. ‘Can you give me five bob, Daddy? I saw a book called Raptors of the World, in the bookshop window in Godalming. I’d love to buy it.’
Cate fished in his pocket and gave his son two half crowns. ‘Here you are.’ He found another half crown – ‘And while you’re there, buy Ian Hay’s new book, The First Hundred Thousand. It’ll tell you a lot about the sort of men you’ll be commanding. It’s a citizen Army now.’
‘All right, Daddy,’ Laurence said, pocketing the coins. Outside the door he heaved a deep, silent sigh and went to find Jack and Jill, the cocker spaniels, to take them for a short walk before it came time to go to church.
3
Hedlington, Kent: February 14, 1916
Bob Stratton sat in the kitchen where he always had his high tea, enjoying the sausage and mash that had been served with it today. He was sixty-seven, works foreman at the Rowland Motor Car Company factory. It was bright in there, the gas mantle hissing low over the table with its blue-and-white-checkered cloth. Steam rose from the kettle, and the aroma from the tea filled his nostrils. The two women, Jane, his wife, and Nellie, the servant girl, stood attentively behind him, watching to see what he wanted, Jane now and then murmuring an order to the girl in a low voice.
Without looking up Bob said, ‘Where’s Ethel?’
‘Helping Anne with the children. She’ll be back by seven … Mr Willibanks asked her to marry him again. Came round here special, at dinner time. She said no.’
‘Still hoping Fagioletti will come back to her?’
‘She is … but he won’t.’ There was a triumphant note in his wife’s voice, and Bob looked up, ‘How do you know?’