Gifts of War

by Mackenzie Ford

  Romford’s gimlet eyes bored into me. I didn’t care. “The German navy is much more popular than the German army.”

  “Why should that be?”

  “The German army was originally the Prussian army, so all the other parts of the country have reservations about it. But the German navy was only formed since the unification of the Reich, so it is German, not Prussian. At least to most people.”

  “And from which you conclude?”

  “That the German people will stomach a war at sea longer than a Stalemate on land, which you have at present.”

  “You’re reading an awful lot into very little,” hissed Romford.

  “That’s what intelligence analysis is, sometimes,” answered the colonel softly. “Sometimes we have very little to go on, sometimes nothing at all.” He cleared his throat. “You’ve seen service at the Front?”

  “Yes sir. I was shot in the groin just after New Year, during an attack on Plumont. My pelvis was shattered.”

  “That’s why he has a limp,” barked Romford. He made it sound like something that was catching.

  “Well,” said the colonel, straightening his tie, “I’ll check the facts and let you know what I find.”

  There were no other questions—no one dared risk Romford’s wrath—so the colonel picked up his briefcase, stood, we all saluted, and he left, with the major in his wake. Just before they exited the room, Romford turned and hissed in my direction: “God protect you, Montgomery, if you’re wrong.”

  That night I went to meet Will. Sam hadn’t let me meet him on Sunday because, she insisted, the lockkeeper’s cottage was so untidy. I said I didn’t care but she said she did and that was that.

  I arrived at the cottage at about seven, laden with some shortbread I had bought on the black market in Stratford, as well as two bottles of beer and one of lemonade, for mixing shandy.

  Will, I was surprised to see, was a shade on the tubby side— “bonny” as the Scots say—but otherwise it was all I could do to restrain myself from remarking that he was the image of his father. It was so true: save for his disconcerting lack of blond hair, his features recalled Wilhelm’s, from the shape of his face to the angle of his eyebrows, to the curl of his lips. If he thinned out as he grew up, he would become a good-looking boy.

  He gurgled a bit, burped a lot, smiled a gummy smile, and contorted his features into a massive yawn. And that was it. There is, in my experience, a limit to the amount of time that you can spend talking to a five-month-old baby, but in any case soon after I arrived Will fell asleep. Sam put him to bed, I mixed her a shandy, and we sat down to dinner—pork, one of the advantages of living near a pig factory at a time of shortage, a sort of quid pro quo for being with the smell all the time.

  We spent most of the evening talking about the hearing, when Sam’s immediate future would be settled. I reported that opinion among the gossips in the Lamb was still divided but that the news from the Front was so bad just then (the Germans had advanced all of three miles near Ypres after releasing chlorine gas) that many people were saying that if the father really was fighting at the Front, then Sam shouldn’t be abandoned by the village—that she might be abandoned by her man, permanently, at any time. Some of the more energetic Christians among the drinkers in the pub pointed to the Christmas truce, now receding into memory, as an example of what could be achieved by goodwill, and urged a similar goodwill in Sam’s case.

  She was having none of it and was not at all hopeful. “You should see the way I’m treated in the shops. Like something that slid out of the canal.”

  I thought back to that first day when I had followed her in the rain, when she had left the shop in the high street in such a hurry. Had the other women been having a go at her then?

  “What will you do if the verdict… if the decision goes the wrong way?”

  “If it comes to it, I’ll probably go back to London—”

  “To live with your aunt?”

  She shook her head. “Oh no. She’s churchgoing and wouldn’t allow a bastard under her roof in any circumstances. So I haven’t told her. Not yet. I’ll stay with one of my sisters.”

  “Do they know about the … about Will?”

  She nodded. “I wrote and told them. They came to the hospital when Will was born.”

  “And what’s going to happen? Long-term, I mean.”

  She poured more lemonade into her beer, to weaken it. “It’s early days. If the unthinkable happens, if Germany wins the war, if Britain is invaded, then Will’s parentage might help. What a thought that is.”

  “You don’t… you can’t want that to happen, surely?”

  “No, no, of course not. But it’s opened my mind. War does that to you, makes you think things you don’t want to think.” She looked toward the stairs of the cottage, as if she had heard Will move. Then she turned back. “I don’t feel any hatred toward the Germans, do you? I don’t know why we are at war anyway.”

  I thought back to the Christmas truce, the fellowship of feeling among the men in no-man’s-land when they had caught those rabbits, the exchange of gifts, the universal hatred of the common soldier for the higher-ups. Wilhelm’s photograph burned a hole in my wallet, in my conscience.

  “You’ve never thought about adoption?”

  She shook her head and smiled. She was convinced Wilhelm would be back someday.

  We sat on, talking companionably, Sam getting up every so often and standing at the foot of the stairs, to be certain that Will wasn’t stirring. She told me that Katharine, the chorister, babysat two nights a week, and at weekends when she was wanted, save for Sunday mornings, when she had to be in church. It appeared that her family was more sympathetic than most because Katharine herself had been born out of wedlock, though her father, a bosun in the Royal Navy, had married her mother as soon as he had returned home on leave.

  From what Sam said, it also appeared that the vicar led the opposition to her, even going so far—so she had heard—as to preach against “fornication” from the pulpit. That was another reason why she didn’t go to church.

  Thank God the vicar wasn’t on the school board, I thought, and thank God he didn’t know about Wilhelm.

  “Are you religious?” I asked.

  She shook her head vigorously. “Are you kidding? How could a God allow someone to behave as my father behaved, or allow the Titanic to sink? Do you think a God would allow this war?” She shook her head again, less vigorously, more sadly. “How about you?”

  I drank some beer before replying. “When you’ve seen what I’ve seen at the Front, it’s hard to believe in anything. Some of the men, though, had the opposite reaction—the carnage only convinced them there has to be a better world somewhere else.” I sat back in my chair. Outside, the light was beginning to go. “When I came to talk to the school, the headmaster asked me not to frighten the children, not to dwell on the atrocities.”

  “Did he? Well, I don’t blame him, do you? Children have plenty of time to be frightened, after school.” She shifted in her seat. “What was that officer like, the German you met in the truce? Did you get on with him?”

  Did my reaction give me away? I couldn’t help but redden, I was sure of it. Did Sam know whom I had met—had she guessed, had she worked it out, did she understand how and why I had found my way to Middle Hill? She couldn’t have.

  “Young. We were all young. He was from Berlin.” That was safe enough. “Did I like him?” I hid behind my beer; I wanted to escape this conversation, now, right now, and with a minimum of lies. “In another life I could have liked him.”

  “Did you discuss family, girlfriends, did he have children?”

  Would she never stop?

  “Neither of us was married. He had a sister, like me. Then we discussed burying our colleagues.”

  “Didn’t you discuss girlfriends? Did he have a photo maybe?”

  I was reddening again. Reddening and sweating.

  But then, on cue and mercifully, Will suddenly sta
rted to yell. Sam disappeared upstairs in a flash and returned soon enough with the young man in her arms. He was already falling asleep again. She laid him on the sofa.

  I rose to go. It was safer than having the conversation continue. Outside the door, I stooped to kiss Sam on the cheek. At the last moment she changed the angle of her head, and our lips met.

  Her mouth opened. Our tongues engaged. Our bodies pressed against each other’s. I was swamped by her smell, of soap, of perfume, of Will. I took the lead but she allowed me to do so. We stood for a long moment. When I opened my eyes, hers were closed, the skin on her eyelids smooth and pale.

  I stepped back. Her lips closed, her tongue just showing between them. Had she felt the same rush of fire along her skin as I had felt? She had not cut the kiss short.

  I turned without speaking. I went out onto the towpath. Lights were coming on in the distance. As I climbed the brick steps to the bridge over the canal and the railway my mind was in a whirl. What had that last gesture meant? Sam had told me she was still in love with Wilhelm.

  The next night, Tuesday, I stayed in Stratford. Part of me would have preferred to be in Middle Hill but I had a visit from Isobel and the rest of me was anxious to catch up with her news. She was just about to leave for the Front.

  I can’t say I paid much attention in class that day. At any rate, I have no recollection of what we covered, what the weather was like, or what form of brown food was served in the canteen for lunch. I spent the day revisiting that kiss of the night before, turning over in my brain what it meant, whether it meant anything, whether Sam was having the same thoughts, thinking of me as much as I was thinking of her. And of course I was silently thanking Will for his brilliantly timed interruption, just as the conversation was getting sticky.

  Izzy and I met in the bar of the Crown, where we had both reserved rooms. By the time we’d finished dinner, the last—the only— evening train to Middle Hill would have been long gone, and the petrol rationing meant that my motorbike was “dry” that week.

  She looked splendid in her pale blue uniform and gray cape. My sister was by now a formidable person. Even as her brother, I could see that she was immensely attractive to men: long brown hair, deep brown sleepy eyes, a creamy skin. And she was already, at the age of twenty-two, a nurse, and a fairly senior one at that, thanks to the exigencies of war. The ambition to become a nurse had apparently overcome her when she was very young—while I was away at school—and she had started early. My being sent to the Front, and then being wounded, had only made her more determined. I had no doubt that she would do well. Izzy was a ferocious organizer and, in wartime, there was an obvious demand for nurses.

  We had a sherry at the bar before eating. I noticed one or two envious glances being thrown in my direction by other men, who couldn’t be expected to know that I was Izzy’s brother, and off-limits. I was surprised to see her knock back her sherry in no time. Then she said, “I’ll have a G and T now, if you don’t mind. Sherry glues up my liver.”

  I did as she asked, adding in a whisky for myself. (There was more alcohol in those early days of the war than there was food.) When the drinks arrived, Izzy brought me up to speed about our mother and father. Mum was not so good, apparently. She was a heavy smoker and had a bad cough; Dad was worried for her. I promised to get home more often.

  We picked up the menu cards and I was just opening mine when Izzy asked, “How’s the war wound? Not the limp—I can see that’s improving. I mean the other thing.” Sisters can be direct with their brothers.

  “That’s not improving. Nor will it.”

  “Do you … can you … I mean, do you go out with girls, Hal? Do you still feel… you know, do you get… aroused?”

  I have to confess, I blushed. “God protect us from sisters who are nurses,” I blustered. “Yes, Izzy, I get aroused.”

  “Good,” she said with a bland smile. She ran her finger down the menu. “I’ll have the plaice.” She groaned. “Everything else is fattening.”

  I signaled to a waitress, who took our order, and then Izzy waded in again.

  “Do you have a girlfriend?”

  “I might have.”

  “Well, I mean, you’re not bad-looking, in a craggy, dark-haired sort of way, all cheekbones and cleft chin, a war hero, a limp—very simpatico, as they say in Italy. A lot of girls I know would come over all woozy with someone like you.”

  “Someone like me? I’m a type, am I? Thanks.”

  “Don’t be so grouchy. I’m your sister—it’s my duty to keep you in your place. Can I have another gin?”

  “Do you think you should?”

  “I’m twenty-two, you brute. Tomorrow I leave for London, then in a few days for France. Who knows what will happen there? Yes, I should have another gin. I plan to have several more before the evening is out.” She blew me a kiss.

  I signaled the barman to bring another set of drinks. “But you’re not going anywhere dangerous in France, are you? The hospitals are well back from the front line.”

  “Oh, I won’t be in a field hospital,” she replied airily. “I’m part of an experimental unit, developed at the Lister Clinic in London. There’s this new science—it’s called blood transfusion. It was developed by a Czech, in Prague. I take blood, from some civilian’s arm, say, I syringe it out into a bottle, mixed with some sodium citrate, to stop it clotting. We analyze it into four groups—O, A, B, and AB— and then we syringe it back into the veins of men at the Front who have been injured and lost a lot of blood. So long as they are the same blood group, you’d be amazed at the effect it has. This all happens before they are shipped back.”

  “Izzy, that sounds dangerous.”

  “Risky perhaps, but very useful— life-saving useful. Just because you’re a man doesn’t mean you get to be the only family hero. I’m going to be making a real contribution—and it’s all settled, so don’t try to stop me.”

  I couldn’t think what to say. “Do Mum and Dad know?”

  “Not yet, no.”

  “I thought as—”

  “And don’t you dare tell them! Promise?”

  The waitress came to lead us to our table.

  “Pro-mise!” Izzy hissed.

  “Yes, yes, all right. Just be careful.”

  We went through into the dining room. Being as it was Tuesday, the place wasn’t very busy. The walls were covered in watercolors, scenes from Shakespeare’s plays. As we sat down, Izzy went on. “Don’t look so glum, Hal. I know what I’m doing. I agree it’s a bit more frightening than sneaking into a field with a bull in it and counting to four hundred and forty-four, but it’s what I want.”

  “It’s just… I thought you’d be getting married about now, having babies.”

  “Oh, babies can wait. As for sex, I’ve done that. I’m not a virgin, you know.”

  I stared at her. Fortunately for me, the food arrived, and we busied ourselves with vegetables, sauces, pepper and salt.

  “You’re looking glum again, Hal. Don’t be shocked because I’m not a virgin. None of my friends are virgins either.” She drank some water. “Am I being too frank? Nursing has that effect, I think. Can you stand the shock?”

  “It’s true what they say about nurses then? You are all sex mad?” I couldn’t believe I was having this conversation with my sister.

  “What kind of life do you live up here?” she asked, taking hold of her knife and fork. She looked at me earnestly, her brown eyes shining like dark honey. “There’s a war on, Hal, people can get sent to the Front and be killed at any moment. You should know, for pity’s sake—you’ve been there. So you’ve no choice but to hurry, experiment, try everything in case this is your last opportunity. I don’t only live with other nurses, you know. One of my flatmates works in the Ministry of War, another is in the theater. We’re all out every night— dancing, drinks, smoking, flirting.” She leaned forward, lowered her voice. “And yes, doing it.”

  She ate some fish and leaned forward again. “Does that
shock you, appall you, that your little sister actually likes doing it?” She waved her knife. “Who knows when it’s going to stop, Hal? The war, I mean. God knows, we may lose. How would Ma and Pa get by if we were overrun with Germans, if their house was commandeered?”

  She sat back as our water glasses were refilled. “You’re living out here, with ducks and swans and cows, drinking sherry, of all things. You should get back to London. Yes, it’s dirty, noisy—more than ever with these automobile things and motorbuses clanking around everywhere. But that all adds to the pace, the pulse, the urgency, the very beat of what’s happening. Play while you can, play hard, try everything— even drugs if you want. Playing hard shows you are not defeated, not dead, not even down. It’s your duty to play, because tomorrow it might end.”

  “You’re drunk.” I wished I hadn’t said that. I sounded like a prig.

  “No, darling, I’m not drunk. Tipsy, maybe, but flying, mainly because I’m with my lovely brother, who looked after me all those years, and now I am shocking him rigid with my vulgar language and unfortunate behavior.” She leaned forward again and her voice changed, quickened. “I’m a nurse, Hal. I’ve seen lots of men naked. I’ve taken out their false teeth, put tubes down their throats to wash out their stomachs when they’ve tried suicide. I’ve smelled their awful smells and held their hands as they died, frightened. I’m more familiar with blood, urine, and excrement than I am with sherry, for pity’s sake. I treat people who haven’t washed for a month or haven’t changed their underwear since the damn war started.” She fingered her water glass. “We had a lovely childhood, Hal. The worst experience was hearing owls at night, when we slept in a tent on our lawn.”

  She gulped her water.

  “But I wouldn’t go back. Being an adult beats being a child any day. We had a young mother in the clinic the other day. She’d taken an overdose—and given the same drug to her young baby. We put tubes down their throats and pumped out their stomachs. The baby survived but the mother died. Think of that. We saved a life but we created an orphan.”

  Now she attacked what was left of her gin. “Don’t you think our childhood was too tidy, too safe? Don’t you think that Ma and Pa were too protective when we were very young? They wouldn’t let us mix with those gypsy children, they were very strict about climbing trees—remember the time they found out we had been scrumping and made us return the bloody apples, for Christ’s sake? That farmer had two hundred apple trees—more—and would never have missed what we took.” She grinned. “Remember how stolen apples always tasted better than ones you bought?”