“Ha, they went to bed with that ace, partner! That’s four spades to us. Game. Honours, partner?”
“Oh, queen and knave, partner.”
Scores had hardly been jotted down when the clerk returned. “Brigade major on the telephone, sir, asking for the Brigadier.”
Probably the same message, he thought; let the old boy announce it.
“Well, it looks as though it’s coming at last,” said the Brigadier, quietly. “Division reports that two companies of Warwicks raided the Boche trenches beyond Fayet, and brought back a mixed bag of prisoners from nine battalions of three Regiments, just come into a sector held this morning by one Landsturm Regiment. They all said the balloon goes up tomorrow, bombardment to open 3.30 a.m. Berlin time. Confirms what the Hun pilot said when he was brought down two days ago, and also those Alsatians from the trench mortar battery. Still, you never know—per’aps they were all told to say it. I have an idea that the real push is coming up north, in Flanders. Much shorter to the coast up there.”
The guests stood up. “Well, it’s been a jolly evening, most good of you to ask us, Colonel. Good night, and good luck!”
When they had gone ‘Spectre’ said, “Warn all companies, and don’t forget to clean your teeth. It may be your last chance for a week or more.”
The night was starry and still. Mist lay in thin strata over fields dim under the moon just past its first quarter. He rang up to warn the company commanders in Brigade reserve at Corunna; all transport waggons to be loaded with spare kits on returning from the ration dumps. The Maltese cart must arrive in the morning for the officers’ mess boxes. Then he wrote up the War Diary. Afterwards he sat unmoving at the table so long that ‘Spectre’ told him to get down to it.
With the telephone on the floor beside him he got into his blanket bag, but not to sleep. Thoughts chased through his head until he fixed his mind with the idea that Spring was coming, warm dry weather, it would not be so bad as First Ypres. But supposing it was the main push, with forty fresh divisionen against a half-prepared zone … but there was the Green Line, some miles in rear. It would mean a withdrawal, similar to that of the Germans in March ’17, when they went back to the Siegfried Stellung. Then, there was practically no fighting. Still, forty divisionen packing the rear areas wasn’t exactly like the mud-balled Fifth Army in the valley of the Ancre. Perhaps the idea was after all to lure the Germans across the derelict areas of the old Somme battlefields, with their inefficient roads, lack of water-points and shelter, and cut them off there.
His mind dwelled upon scenes in the Bird Cage. Westy had said that he did not want his parents to change in any way. Would he himself have been any different if he had loved Father? He tried to imagine loving Father, but at once the picture faded out, like a broken bioscope film. Sudden darkness. Another picture, of Father in his armchair, long-bearded narrow lion-face reading bits out of The Daily Trident to Mother about the Hun Hordes massing in France. The film broke again; he could not get near Father. There was always the distance between them, a vacuum. He could never remember when it had been otherwise. Father had never kissed him, or held him warm. There had never been a warm Father. He tried to think of Father as a man, with bare legs and arms and stomach; but all that would come was Father bathing in the sea at Hayling Island, in a blue-white ringed costume to his knees.
Mother’s face was approachable, but it would not come really near. It hovered with insistent thoughts about him, so that he found himself struggling to dismiss the face, to get clear to think apart from entangled feelings. Suddenly he imagined himself shouting Mother leave me alone! He began to feel hopeless, irritated, remorseful, and hollow. He struggled against dissolution, while darkness seemed to be drawing him down, whence other thoughts arose, dangerous weak thoughts because he might yield to the blue eyes and fair soft hair of the blonde who came from Sweden offering peace in her soft, warm beauty. He must get up; but he lay there, in weak indecision, longing to blend, to be merged into her floating spirit body; and was saved from further rumination by a spot of light dancing towards him, while a leaden weight of apprehension settled upon his solar plexus.
“Are you awake, sir? Urgent message from Brigade has just come through.”
The circle of light was held as he unfolded the paper.
BUSTLE.
His heart gave a thump. Sergeant Tonks was saying, “With your permission, sir, I’ll repeat to CAB, CART, and WAIN.”
“Right, sergeant.”
“Will you tell the Commanding Officer, sir?”
“I think I’ll let him sleep. He can’t do anything now, and God knows what sleep he’ll be able to get in the next few days. Let me know when the three companies report from Corunna. Better put in a relief telephonist, and get some kip yourself. Oh, just to check this. CAB, CART, and WAIN are to report here at the quarry before going into the rear zone of The Aviary. No. 4, TUMBRIL, will of course remain at Corunna, prepared to move at five minutes’ notice.”
“Very good, sir.”
“And you’ll be informing Brigade as soon as the three companies leave here for The Aviary?”
“Right, sir, I’ll tell the signaller.”
“No, I’ll telephone the B-m myself, of course. I’m going to get up now. I can’t sleep anyway.”
He went out into the chill of the night. Stars overhead were still visible as he walked up the road beyond the quarry, and down again. He returned to talk to the sentry, then up and down the road interminably until voices and marching feet edged the night against the tinny notes of a mouth-organ. Mist made the figures blurred upon the road. It was CAB, led by Bill Kidd. The Brigade padre was with him. Bill had apparently decided to be very regimental. His words were exhaled with whiffs of rum.
“‘A’ Company, Captain Kidd reporting, sah!” he barked. “All present and correct! Nominal Roll prepared for the Orderly Room Sergeant, sah!” Having got rid of that, he changed his part. “Congratters my mad son on your third pip! Lovely day, what? Too blasted quiet for Bill Kidd’s liking. Bill Kidd knows where he is when the old Johnsons are floppin’ about!”
“Johnsons?”
“Aye, Johnsons! Coal Boxes! Black Marias! Angels of Mons and all that stuff. A shout! A scream! A roar! Black in the face!” He coughed, bending down to keep attention upon himself. “Sorry for the rust in the old organ pipes.” He adjusted his 5-ft. length of thick, loosely knitted worsted scarf, weighing about 4 lb., flung twice round his neck and almost hiding his chin. “That’s better. Keep the old vocal chords warm. Well, old boy, I’ll give you a buzz when we’re all safely tucked up in the old keep. Chin chin, see you later.”
He faded back into the mist, and the last Phillip was to hear of him for two days was a rasping, “Come on, you crab wallahs, do an allez!” and then the thread of mouth-organ music grew faint, to nothing.
Phillip stood with the padre by the sentry’s brazier. “Quite a character, Bill Kidd,” said the padre. “The men would follow him anywhere. The only thing he appears to be afraid of is French cartridges!”
“How is that, padre?”
“Well, as you know, most of the fellows after some time out here get superstitious fears. With Bill it’s French cartridges. This particular hoodoo began, I gather, when some of the boys in the 8th battalion in Oppy Wood found some French cartridges, and carried them as souvenirs. First one, then another, was killed by shell-fire. Then in that raid a week or two ago, four men who had them in their haversacks fell under a direct hit. Bill plays his harmonica to overcome the hoodoo.”
Talk came round to the Germans. “They’re sportsmen, most of them,” said the padre. “I remember a stretch of the Menin Road between Hooge Tunnel and Clapham Junction, I expect you know it? The road there at that particular section, you may remember, was still under direct observation after we had captured the pill-box at Clapham Junction. My job during the battle was to bring stretcher cases down the road from Inverness Copse. Most of the troops and carrying parties went up and down under
the right bank, and were under constant fire from everything, but when I went down on the road itself with the wounded, the Germans never fired their machine guns. It wasn’t chance, I’m pretty sure, for on three occasions they laid off when stretchers and walking wounded were going down.”
Phillip warmed to the padre, telling him of similar experiences at Loos, again on July the First, and at Passchendaele.
“Oh yes, they’re sportsmen; the pity is that our newspapers don’t publish such things, but I suppose the people at home wouldn’t understand, that’s the tragic part of it. Well, I must be off, but before I go, do let me tell you the story of our Chaplain-General, Bishop Gwynne. I was riding with him on my way to Third Army School at Auxi-le-Château last summer, when he told me about a chaplain in a battalion of the London Regiment who insisted on going into the trenches with the boys. He had a board outside his dug-out with the words The Vicarage painted on it. One day a Cockney passed and said to his pal, ‘Blime Bill, who’d have thought to see a bloody vicarage in the front line?’ At that the chaplain popped out his head and said, ‘That’s right! Now you’ve seen the bloody vicar, too!’ ‘And,’ said the Chaplain-General, ‘that’s the kind of chaplain I’m trying to get them to send out to France.’ Cheerio, Maddison, and all the best!”
Phillip waited until the other two companies had been checked in, then went back in high spirits to report their departure. ‘Spectre’ was still lying on his back covered by blankets on a stretcher, his boots sticking out like those of a dead man. “Numbers One, Three, and Four Companies have left for the Aviary, sir. It is nearly 4 a.m. The order to Man Battle Positions came in just after 2 a.m.”
“I heard it.”
A hand came from under the blankets, and took his, the pressure remaining upon his fingers for a few moments, then ‘Spectre’ said,
“If you feel you have been made unhappy by your father, think that it was because your father has been made unhappy, too.”
“I understand, Westy.”
A stumped wrist—the black-gloved dummy had been taken off—crossed with the hand and gave a double clasp. “Bless you, dear boy. Now get some sleep. We’ll be leaving for our advanced headquarters at 4.30.”
Fully clothed beside the security of the telephone, Phillip lay calmly still. There was little under an hour to go. Then messages began to arrive, and no sleep was possible, or desired.
At 4.30 a.m., as he was slinging haversack, field glasses, map case, water-bottle, revolver, etc. he felt the chalk under him beginning to tremble. Then the air was rumbling. He went outside and stood in a light-pattern of thousands of great scissors flashing to the Galaxy.
*
An hour later, soaked with sweat, the battalion H.Q. party was inside the 30-ft. deep dug-out of the inner Zone. There, sitting on the floor beside the telephone, Phillip managed to make some notes for the C.O.’s use when he had time to write up the battalion War Diary.
20/21 March
midnight. Bde ’phoned gaps found by patrols in German wire.
2.07 a.m. BUSTLE from BDE. Sent to all coys.
3.15 a.m. CAB, CART, WAIN left Quarry for Aviary.
3.30 a.m. R.F.A. Bde reported putting down bursts of fire on enemy assembly places.
4.09 a.m. CAB, CART, WAIN reported in positions.
4.10 a.m. Bde informed of above.
4.30 a.m. Bn. hq. party left for HOOK.
5.20 a.m. Arrd. HOOK. Gas masks worn; much yellow cross and phosgene.
5.30 a.m. Gas and h-e reported on all coy keeps and posts.
6.30 a.m. No contact with Bde, or CAB, or CART, or WAIN. Power buzzers also dud. Gas now yellow cross.
7.35 a.m. No contact by land line with Bde. Runners sent out.
10 a.m. Fog lifting. Incessant m-g and rifle fire from east, direction of Bird Cage.
12 noon. Sunshine. No contact with Bde yet. All coys holding positions, but report flanks in air.
2.15 p.m. Sullivan (I.O.) sent to Bde with report. Our casualties estimated 200. Bird Cage garrison coming into Aviary. Asked for TUMBRIL to be sent up.
6 p.m. Sullivan’s runner came back reporting S. killed by shell. Runner wounded and incoherent.
At 6.5 p.m. Lt.-Col. West ordered Phillip to report the situation to Brigade, which had moved to its advanced headquarters in the Quarry. ‘Spectre’ gave him a sealed envelope for the Brigadier.
Part Two
ACTION
EVENING, 21 MARGH–22 APRIL, 1918
Chapter 6
RETREAT
The sun was going down south-west of the wooded Sydenham heights, upon which stood the familiar Crystal Palace, as Richard crossed the Hill that evening. In the old days its glass roof had often gleamed with little flecks of fire, reminding him of his boyhood in the West Country; but now the panes of the roof were painted black, lest they guide enemy aircraft into London. And so, he thought, was life; come almost to darkness.
In the City the news had broken at mid-day that a great battle was raging along a 50-mile front. Phillip, in the Peronne sector, must be feeling, as he put it to himself, ‘the full force of it’. He must be the first with the news, breaking it gently, lest Hetty imagine the worst, as she tended to do nowadays.
With long strides, carrying a copy of The Pall Mall Gazette folded under one arm against the crook of his umbrella, and bowler hat in hand, he crossed the Hill, went down the gully—putting on his hat before reaching Hillside Road—and with a dull feeling of arrival, opened his front door. At once he felt disappointment, then vexation, at the sound of his father-in-law’s voice. Having wiped his boots on the mat, he unstiffened himself to be amiable, and looking round the kitchen door, said “Good evening, Mr. Turney”, while his glance took in an open copy of the Liberal paper The Star, from which his father-in-law had apparently been reading.
“I am afraid I have interrupted you,” he said, withdrawing his head.
“Oh no, Dickie, Papa was just going——”
“The news is good, I fancy, according to Bonar Law in the House this afternoon, Dick.”
Richard, having hung up black hat and black umbrella, opened the door wide, out of courtesy, before facing the other man.
“Well, Mr. Turney, all I can say is I hope that Bonar Law knows what he is talking about. Castleton in the Trident has long urged that there be changes in the High Command.”
“That may be so, Dick. For myself, I cannot help thinking that if only Asquith had remained we might by now be at peace. No good can come of the war now, that I can see.”
“If I may venture an opinion, Mr. Turney, it was Asquith and his Liberal Government before the war who insisted on cutting the Army estimates, thereby causing so many regiments to be disbanded. Had that not been so, we might have had a just peace by now.”
Thomas Turney, cloth cap pulled down over bald head sunken into heavy coat collar, went back next door, where his elder sister Marian, upright in her chair, awaited him. Always stiff, always attentive, she irritated the old man. Why did she always watch him like a cat watching a mouse! Why didn’t she read a book sometimes? He had gone to see his daughter with a view to advertising for a housekeeper. He felt Marian was destroying him. She was the eldest of the family, and had always tried to mother him. It was time she went elsewhere.
Marian Turney suspected this, but was too reserved to say anything to her niece about it; even as she concealed the belief that she was going blind.
“The macaroni cheese is ready in the oven, turned low as you told me, Tom. Would you care to have your supper served now, or will you have it later?”
“Wait a minute, woman! Can you not let me rest still a moment? And if supper is to be served now, how can I have it later? You waste words.” He sat down, after struggling to remove his ulster coat, having refused her help. He was thinking of Phillip; and of Charlie’s boy, young Tom, with the South Africans.
In her sitting-room, while Richard ate sausages largely made of bread and gristle, Hetty waited to hear the latest news. It was
not so much that she dared not to ask her husband, but that behind her reluctance hovered the spirit of fear which had long settled into a feeling of dread whenever she thought of Phillip: a feeling which, accumulating during the day, usually broke blackly into the sleepless small hours of night, a period only to be endured by prayer, which brought relief, usually, half an hour or so before she had to get up at 7 a.m.
Richard, having finished his supper, put the bits of gristle in a match-box for the cat—later. Zippy was anxious, too, for sometimes its benefactor left the match-box beside the clock for long periods. On such occasions it would utter a faint me-ow, and Richard would say gently “You must learn patience, Zippy,” and continue the reading of The Daily Trident, which blanked out his face to the cat.
“Where are the girls, Hetty? Have they come in yet?”
“Elizabeth is going to Nina’s for supper, and will be home about nine o’clock, Dickie, while Doris has gone to see a friend who lives in St. Margaret’s road. She won’t be late, I’m sure.”
“Oh. Is this another young fellow?”
“Oh no, Dickie! Mary is one of the girl students at Bedford College.”
“Does Doris still hear from that young fellow—what’s his name—Willoughby?”
“I think he writes to her occasionally, Dickie.”
“Who are his people, d’you know?”
“I don’t think Doris knows. He lives in Essex, I think she said.”
“H’m. Well, it’s none of my affair, I suppose. Is it, Zippy?” He rattled the match-box, while the big yellow neuter cat me’ow’d inaudibly. “You must learn patience, Zippy!” He put the box on the chimney shelf before changing boots for carpet slippers. Thus comforted by the sign that master was not going out, the cat settled down before the coke fire, the words learn patience causing it to think of food. It began to purr, almost inaudibly.
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