by John Masters
Another M.P. broke in, ‘Asquith will take umbrage, and refuse to accept the Committee.’
Northcliffe smiled wickedly, ‘Any man with a spark of self respect would do so.’
‘And then you will be in a position to bring the rebellion into the open?’
Northcliffe nodded and poured himself another glass of port. He said, ‘If we are to topple Asquith – and if we don’t we shall lose the war, I insist you understand that – we must not make out the recent great offensive on the Somme to be more of a victory than it was. I have given orders to all correspondents and writers for my papers – and of course the leader writers above all – that the Army’s casualties shall receive more notice than its advances, though the latter are not to be denied … if they really occurred. The people must not be allowed to believe that Asquith has, in any sense, however remote, been the architect of a great victory in France.’
Harry felt unhappy. He stared at Northcliffe, who was now animatedly talking to the M.P. opposite him. What did that mean – take more notice of casualties than advances? In plain fact it meant manipulating the news for a political purpose … but was that any different from manipulating it for a national purpose, as had certainly been done early in the war … to influence American opinion, to prevent disheartenment, to deny the enemy useful information?
When Northcliffe looked up from his conversation, Harry said, ‘Don’t we risk causing the Army to lose heart that way?’
Northcliffe smiled winningly, ‘I agree with you, Rowland, but what I am advocating is the Army’s own policy! Charteris told me and Sir Douglas emphasized it, the last time I was over at G.H.Q. – that they don’t want optimistic or favourable reports published. If they are, the people will think everything is going well, the Army has everything it needs. But the Army wants to paint itself as always lacking for essentials, especially men, machine guns, shells, and now the new machines, the tanks …’
‘That is better than the early days,’ another M.P. said, ‘when you knew – or soon learned from men coming back on leave – that the official communiqués were much too rosy, if not complete lies.’
Northcliffe said, ‘That hasn’t ended. Asquith has been labelling every little advance a great victory … We must break up soon, gentlemen. I am returning to France the day after tomorrow, and I hope that I – I hope that England – may count on your support when the time comes.’ He rose, dramatically raising his glass – ‘I give you a toast…’
The Members of Parliament rose, looking at each other. Northcliffe was very emotional, a little mad, Harry thought. What did the French call it? Folie de la grandeur?
‘I give you a toast … To a new Prime Minister, now … and Victory, in 1917!’
They drank, muttering words under their breaths; but the only word that Harry thought had been spoken by everyone was ‘victory.’ He pulled out his watch and peered at the face. Ten thirty – just time to catch the last train to Hedlington. Tomorrow he’d start digging into what his constituents thought about Asquith and the conduct of the war.
As Wright helped him down from the big car, Harry bundled himself deeper into his overcoat against the raw buffet of the wind whirling down Jervis Street. ‘Thank you, Wright,’ he said, ‘I won’t be long.’
‘Very good, sir,’ the old chauffeur said, touching his cap. He was bent with rheumatism, Harry noted; and said, ‘Get back in the car. Keep warm,’ and turned to cross the pavement toward Number 85. The door opened as he reached for the knocker, and Bob Stratton stood inside, Jane at his shoulder.
‘We saw the car, through the curtains,’ Jane said. ‘Come in, Mr Harry. Let me take your coat … there. How’s Miss Alice? And I hear Mr Charles is home on leave.’
‘Boy is a captain now,’ Harry said proudly. ‘He’s been at High Staining with his father and mother for the last four days, but he’s coming up to have dinner and spend the night with us at Laburnum Lodge tonight.’
He followed Bob into the front parlour, where he was surprised to see Fred Stratton, in lieutenant’s uniform, standing by the centre table. ‘Fred’s home on leave, too,’ Jane said from behind him.
‘Good evening, Mr Rowland,’ Fred said.
‘Nice to see you safe and sound,’ Harry said. It was cold and correct here in the front parlour, the heavy curtains drawn against the November damp, the aspidistra wilting on the centre table on its doily, the framed photograph of Bob and Jane’s wedding (they looked like stuffed dummies), the photographs of the children at their weddings on the tallboy against one wall, a sickly lithograph of Jesus walking on the water opposite.
Fred looked well, more sure of himself, less surly; Jane’s hands and knuckles were in a terrible state with the arthritis, and her back stooped from rheumatism; Bob was looking older, but well… Harry wished he could ask for his overcoat back, but Jane might be insulted. He’d better get to business right away. He said, ‘I sent Judith round with the note because I wanted to have your opinion on a very important matter, Bob. And I’m glad you’re here too, Fred … The question is, do you think the present government, under Mr Asquith, is conducting the war as well as it should be, or could be?’
He waited, thinking that Bob Stratton always looked like a stranger in his own home, and much more vulnerable than in his ‘real’ life at the plant, for here he was not wearing his bowler hat. At last Bob said, ‘I don’t rightly know, Mr Harry … but we’re losing an awful lot of men, and not getting any nearer Berlin, as far as I can see. There isn’t a week passes without one or two of the women at the factory coming to work with black armbands … or I find them crying at the benches … Of course, the censors out there read the soldiers’ letters and take out anything the generals don’t want us to know about … but men come back on leave, and no one can stop them talking then … Perhaps it’s the generals that want sacking, not Mr Asquith.’
‘That’s what a lot of us think,’ Fred cut in. ‘The generals and the brass hats – the staff.’
Harry said, ‘But in the last resort, no one can sack the generals – the top ones – except Mr Asquith.’
Bob said, ‘I suppose that puts it back in his lap … Then there was that battle when we lost so many ships, and didn’t sink all the Germans … and Lord Kitchener drowning, that made everyone feel bad.’
Harry said, ‘We can hardly blame the Prime Minister because Lord Kitchener’s ship struck a mine.’
‘No, but I’d feel better if Lord Kitchener was still there in London. Then I’d know the best was being done, but …’
Harry looked interrogatively at Fred. Fred said, ‘They ought to get after Tinker and Hoggin and Maconochie and all those people who make rations … Make the French charge us fair for what we have to buy there … See that there’s some decent places to rest, and good food, when we’re out of the line … and no fatigues … hire niggers for that, so we can rest.’
Harry said unhappily, ‘All those things add up to some incompetence – lack of care for our men … but if they were all rectified tomorrow, would we beat the Germans?’
Fred said forcefully, ‘No, Mr Rowland, because the Germans are bloody good, excuse me, fighting men, and so are their officers, and their generals. They fight hard but they fight fair … When we’ve been up the line for a few weeks, and haven’t seen a drop of rum, or a food parcel, or a money order, a lot of the men would just as soon invite the Germans to come over and help us sort out our back areas, and the French, and then we’d all go over and do the same their side.’
Harry tried again, asking Jane this time; but the result was the same: nothing definite, a feeling of mismanagement, but none of crisis; no despair or even anger – just unhappiness.
The cold began to work through his thick serge suit, and after thanking them, he left.
Bert Gorse opened the door to him, and stood staring, open-mouthed. At length – ‘Mr Harry!’ he gasped. He stood back, recovering from his surprise – ‘Rachel, our M.P.’s come to see us.’
In the cramped ro
om, with the primitive printing press set up in one corner, Rachel Cowan rose to her feet. Harry said, ‘I know you are of a different political party than mine, and I know that you are both active in the pacifist movement. But you are English, you are my constituents, and I feel I must consult you… What do you think of Mr Asquith’s conduct of the war?’
Rachel looked at Bert, Bert looked at Rachel. Rachel said, ‘We think the war must be ended.’
‘On any terms? Total surrender on our part? Hand over our fleet to Germany? Give up our colonies and empire, accept a German Viceroy here in England?’
‘The German people will rise, too.’
Harry turned to Bert and said, ‘You agree with Miss Cowan?’
Bert said, ‘The war is being used to destroy the power of the unions – the working man’s only weapon and defence.’
Harry grew angry against his will. ‘The working men of this country want to win the war just as much as anyone else. And you know very well that one of the first acts of the Germans, if they win, would be to abolish the trade unions altogether.’
Bert, seeing Harry Rowland suppressing anger, controlled himself and spoke very carefully. ‘Mr Rowland,’ he said, ‘when working men first stood together here for decent wages, decent terms – you had them hanged, shot, gaoled, sent to Australia. If the Germans win this war, your lot’s position would change – you’d get hanged and shot and sent off somewhere, and Germans would take your jobs and places. But the working man wouldn’t be worse off – they can’t hang all of us, and we’d fight them for decent wages, decent laws, decent conditions, fair rewards, just as we’ll fight you when the war’s over. So, for us, it’s going to be the same after the war whoever wins – a fight for the working man’s rightful place in power, and his rightful share of the riches he creates … so why not stop the war now, when there’ll be more of us left to fight the real fight?’
Harry could hardly believe his ears. He stood up slowly, saying, ‘You are talking treason, Bert. Your own men would lynch you, if they could hear.’
‘Now, they might,’ Bert said, ‘because your lot are still pulling the wool over their eyes, about patriotism and what the Huns’ll do … but after the war, it’ll be different. You’ll see, Mr Harry.’
Harry sat with his two grandsons, Capt. Boy Rowland and 2nd Lieut. Laurence Cate, and Johnny Merritt, at the dining room table. The meal and all its appurtenances had been cleared away. Alice Rowland and Stella Merritt were in the drawing room, for they had left the men to their port.
Each man had a full glass in hand. Boy said, ‘Uncle Quentin very nearly had me transferred to another battalion, because he was afraid that promoting me would look like nepotism.’ He held the glass up to the light and exclaimed, ‘What a marvellous colour port is, isn’t it, Grandfather?’
Harry noticed that the young man’s hand trembled. Boy saw it at the same time, and quickly lowered his hand to rest the glass on the table.
Harry said, ‘I’ve had a very interesting letter from Guy – he may be home on leave soon, by the way … He has sixteen kills now, not counting captive balloons, and his squadron commander has allowed him to paint his tail fin – the stabilizer, isn’t it? – red, so that von Rackow will know him if they meet. Von Rackow’s sworn to kill him, but the squadron commander said that Guy would never be out alone, so the distinctive marking might draw von Rackow into a fight at a disadvantage.’
Boy said, ‘Wish our war could be like that … Single combat, knights of the air, chivalrous salutes. There’s nothing chivalrous about a 9.2-inch howitzer shell.’
Harry leaned forward. ‘I’m very glad to see you here, Boy, but I also asked you to dinner for a reason – all of you … I’m a Member of Parliament. Ultimately, I and the other M.P.s are responsible for the conduct of this war. Do you think we’re doing our job as well as is possible?’
Boy hesitated a long time and Harry said, ‘We have to learn somehow, Boy. I can see why the censorship must include even us, but it does make it very difficult to get the information we need to make the right decisions.’
Boy said, ‘Uncle Quentin would have me shot if he heard me saying it, but … I don’t think our generals are always as good as they ought to be. They do their best, I suppose, but …’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘The men trust Haig. He doesn’t talk much. He tries to unbend but can’t … He inspected us once when we were in divisional reserve, and stopped in front of one private soldier in my company and stared at him a long time. Finally he snapped, “Where did you start this war?” And the man stuttered and stammered and finally blurted out, ‘Please, sir, I didn’t start it.’ Haig never smiled, just moved on expressionless, and asked another man ten places down how long he’d been in France … It’s the staff we can’t stand. We never see them, so all their plans are based on guesswork, or wishful thinking. Uncle Quentin swears he’ll shoot one of them one day … Of course, he wouldn’t, but the adjutant, Archie Campbell, might well do it when he’s had a drop or two.’
Harry tried to put his question again – ‘But what do you in the trenches think of Mr Asquith, and the present government?’
‘We don’t,’ Boy said. ‘We’re too busy trying to keep alive … and move forward. The Germans may be barbarians and baby eaters, Grandfather, but they’re good soldiers … brave, well trained, well disciplined. They fight like tigers.’
‘Do you still have shortages of shells? Ammunition? Food? Comforts for the troops?’
Boy said, ‘There aren’t shortages like there used to be in ’15 – except that all battalions are always under strength. Rations aren’t bad, but we can’t cook them properly. We soak Army biscuits a day or two – they’ll crack a brick otherwise – pour in milk, jam, cook the lot in a sandbag until it’s hard and then cut off slices – sandbag and all … Comforts – half of what’s sent to us is stolen by the people on the lines of communication. And when we go out of the line there’s only the estaminets, and the French, and the brothels …’
Harry said, ‘I’ve had a lot of letters from churches, women’s organizations, and so on, telling us we must make the Army abolish the brothels. Every M.P. has.’
Boy said,‘I don’t suppose it will make much difference. The French women will carry on somehow – they make too much money at it. It’s necessary, I suppose, but it’s so degrading … The French overcharge the men for everything. I heard the brigadier general tell the C.O. that the French were charging us – the British Government – for every train that is run on their railways for us – troop trains, ammunition trains, hospital trains – everything. And we’re only there trying to help them defend their country. It’s a question of whom we hate the most – the French, or our own brass hats.’
Harry tried once more, ‘So you … by you I mean the fighting men out there, don’t have any particular feeling about Mr Asquith’s government?’
Boy considered once more and finally said, ‘No, Grandfather. They’re too far away.’
That’s no answer, Harry thought; then, a moment later, he thought, but it is. He turned to Johnny Merritt and said, ‘I haven’t seen as much of you recently as I should have, and as I’d like to … what do you think of the higher conduct of the war here?’
Johnny looked down, collecting his thoughts. He’s thinner than he ought to be, Harry thought; and looks tired, and several years older than he is … works too hard … or perhaps Stella’s wearing him out in bed … or both … Stella had looked beautiful tonight, as always, but somehow remote, and as though not present with the rest of them, not hearing what was said, slow moving in another world of her own.
Johnny said slowly, ‘I think everything’s been done in too gentlemanly a way … Mr Asquith’s a gentleman, but this war isn’t a gentleman’s sport. Conscription should have been brought in a long time ago – universal conscription, of men, money, industry, capital, labour, land … no more pretence of “business as usual.” How can anything be “as usual” when you see those casualty lists in the paper every da
y? I would say that Mr Asquith is the man responsible – who else can be held responsible, but the Prime Minister? – and that he should be made to resign.’
‘Whom would you like to see in his place?’
‘Winston Churchill, or Lloyd George,’ Johnny said.
‘Thank you, Johnny. I value your opinion all the more because, as an American, you see us from outside ourselves … Pull the bell for Parrish, will you, Laurence.’
Laurence got up and pulled the long velvet rope that hung by the side of the mantelpiece, connected by wire to one of the row of bells on the wall in the servants’ hall.
When Parrish came in, Harry said, ‘You three go and join your aunt in the dining room. Take the decanter. I want a word with Parrish.’
When the young men had left, he turned to the old butler – ‘What do you think of the war, Parrish?’
‘Terrible, sir,’ the butler said sadly. ‘All those young gentlemen …’ His voice trailed away. ‘And thinking that Captain Charles has to go back to it. And Mr Laurence will go too, soon.’
Harry said, ‘Do you think it… that our leaders are running it as well as they should?’
‘I’m sure I don’t know, sir.’
‘Do you have confidence in Mr Asquith?’
‘He’s the Prime Minister,’ Parrish said, ‘and if the people in Parliament don’t think he’s doing right, they’ll have an election and ask the King to make someone else Prime Minister. I’ll do whatever they tell me to do … if I can.’
Harry said, ‘Thank you, Parrish.’
‘Thank you, sir. Good night, sir.’
As he entered the drawing room he heard his daughter saying, ‘Well, gentlemen, I have to get up at dawn tomorrow, so I’ll be going to bed.’
‘She’s going bird watching,’ Laurence said. ‘Wish I could go with her, but it’s a private club, Auntie says.’