“I see by the paper,” he said, sipping his cup of hot water before going to bed, “that I’ve lost my chance of joining the Labour Corps as a Volunteer. From now on it’s to be conscription, and I’m out of it by one year. This Military Service Act has been rushed through both Houses and the Royal Assent has been given by Commission in the King’s absence. Listen to this, Hetty, ‘Every male British subject … who has attained the age of eighteen years and has not attained the age of fifty-one … shall be deemed to have been duly enlisted in His Majesty’s Forces for general service with the Colours or in the Reserve for the period of the war …’ Yes, I’ve missed my chance at having a go at the Germans, just as I missed the chance of becoming a fruit farmer in Australia as a young fellow. Now it is too late. I am a half and half creature, a mere cog in a machine. Still, I suppose the Army is composed mainly of cogs.” The idea appealed to him, and thinking of himself in uniform, with hair dyed (he had bought a bottle of hair restorer) and moustache like that of Sir Douglas Haig, he went on, “I should have liked to have been a sniper. What are you laughing at?”
Her sense of fun had upset the picture of himself; he closed up at once behind his paper. She was laughing at him, because he was old and done-for.
“I wasn’t laughing at you, Dickie——”
But she was, and he knew it. “I am glad you find me amusing, that’s something in my favour.”
“I know you would be a very good sniper.”
“Well, I won’t go so far as to say I will be, but I might have been. After all, I have my first-class marksman’s certificate, you know.”
“Yes, dear, of course, naturally.”
He retired hurt behind his newspaper.
She felt like crying. If only he could sometimes laugh with her, how much easier life would be. The idea of Dickie as a sniper had been funny, for the poor man had been just that all his life—sniping at this and that from behind the entrenchment of his newspaper—Lloyd George and his ‘ninepence for fourpence’, Churchill, Ramsay Macdonald, the Suffragettes, George Bernard Shaw, Free Trade. She smiled from her cross, feeling suddenly exhausted, and going up to the kitchen, stumbled on the stairs, and with a slight whimper stood still in the unlighted scullery, her place of retreat where she could think her own generally sad thoughts.
The smell of burning toast drew her back to the kitchen, to draw the curtains and open the bottom of the window, for across the top of the window ran the hot pipes from the boiler to the hot tank in the bathroom, and Dickie said that the cold air coming in cooled the pipe. She saw a star shining above the arch of jasmine between the two houses, and thought that the same star was shining in France upon the yellow heap which was the grave of Charley’s boy; she heard again the shivering boom of guns ‘up the line’, she saw the cold clear waters of the Somme which had come down from the battlefield; and closing her eyes, prayed without words to the Virgin Mary, Mother of God, while tears moved in silence down her face.
“I suppose,” said Richard, when she returned to the sitting-room with a tray of toast (scraped brown) and a boiled egg, “we shall be having Phillip back in England before long. I heard in the City that many men of the Fifth Army have come back, and all tell the same terrible story of the way things were mismanaged over there by General Sir Hubert Gough.”
*
The Major of the American hospital at Etrêtat was about to come round the ward with the Colonel from Paris. The Major, with Senior Sister, the young ‘loo-tenant’ doctor, and the nurses had all been busy seeing that the ward was one hundred per cent freshened up.
Phillip stood by his bed, in felt slippers and dressing-gown, awaiting their coming. The bed had a large white bow tied on the head rail, denoting milk diet. He felt like a pouter pigeon, eyes lost under feathers of lint and cotton, throat and chest big with bandages. The water-blisters had gone down, the raw flesh itched. At night gloves were tied over his hands, lest he scratch, and develop septicaemia. He was not a pouter pigeon, he was a dodo, misshapen with blobbed wings and reptilian clawed feet, for his toe-nails needed cutting. He tried to curl in his toes when being washed in bed by the ward nurse (who was the very blonde who came from Sweden, via the United States) lest she see them, and he fell in respect in her eyes. He could not see her face, but from what others in the ward said, she was very beautiful; another Lily, her voice low and gentle.
Senior Sister came into the ward for a final look round. “Don’t you want to be in bed to meet the Colonel, young man?” Her question was the equivalent of the English veiled request, “Don’t you think you ought to be in bed——” but Phillip did not know this.
“No, thank you, Sister,” he replied with a little bow. He wanted the Colonel to see that he was now quite fit to leave the ward. He must get to ‘Spectre’, by hook or by crook.
Senior Sister went away, with what a story-writer in The Saturday Evening Post would have called ‘a little moue’ at Ward Sister. Such high-toned British dignity! The young British colonel insisting that he stand in the presence of a United States colonel! Admiration, amusement, mingled with her wish for symmetry—beds aligned, drapes seventy five per cent drawn back, pillows at forty-five degrees to lines of necks, arms parallel above coverlets, Old Glory and Union Jack crossed above the chimney piece at the correct angle of forty-five degrees, while below on the shelf lithographs of President Wilson and King George of Britain stood together, divided only by a framed Manifesto on Moral and Ethical Principles issued by the Daughters of the Revolution.
The moment came. He waited, pulsating more, right arm sweat glands unexpectedly closed.
“Glad to know you, young man. How goes it, as the British say?”
“I am quite fit, thank you, sir. I was wondering if I might be transferred to the ward where General West is, now that there is a vacancy.”
“So you’ve found that out, have you?”
“Yes, sir. My orderly, that is my striker, told me. Of course I don’t want to cause any trouble, but the General is my best friend.”
“Wale, what do you think, Major?”
The Major looked at the Senior Sister, then at the chart in the Ward Sister’s hands. Temperature 102 the night before, 99 that morning. Pulse 92. Respiration 70. He saw pus encrustation on the eye bandage removed for his inspection, he touched the livid swollen lids, noting that hyalin was already running down one cheek. The raw blistered flesh on neck and chest was weeping, too. He listened with his stethoscope. Heart intermittent, mucus in respiratory passages, probably incipient bronchitis. Against that, no pneumococcal trace in the stained colloidal smear revealed under microscopic examination.
“Wale, I guess I’ve got some noos for you, Colonel,” he said, his pronunciation similar to that of 17th century English. “You are doo for embarkation to Britain on the boat this afternoon. We have to lose all of you. Do not thank me, sir. We require every bed for a convoy doo in tomorrow, I guess, as our common enemy now appears to be making his all-in effort. Meantime you sure must keep those eyes occluded. I think we have gotten rid of streptococcus, but conjunctivitis remains.”
“Is mustard gas made from mustard, doctor?”
“Mustard gas is a compound called dichlorodiethyl sulphide, sir. The Germans call it Yperite, maybe with the hope that by its aid they will capture Ypres, or as they call that old town, Yper, which some of their cartoonists, I observe, are delineating in the shape of a skull, which has to my mind a pathological fear-fulfilment. Yes sir, dichlorodiethyl sulphide is no simple compound. At this moment of so-called prog-ress our chemistry research men find it indestructible, that is, they cannot yet provide an antidote for use upon damaged tissue. But they will, we may be sure. Goodbye, Colonel, give my regards to London, England.”
“Sure thing, Colonel. And please accept my thanks for what you and your kind helpers have done for us British here. By the way, sir, will General West be on the same boat?”
“Surely, but the General’s a very ill man, with gas gangrene, I guess.”
&
nbsp; *
The hospital ship Persia, a small boat brought into service for the emergency, was convoyed by two destroyers. Sitting below the deck on canvas-covered forms all round the steel walls were the lightly wounded and walking cases. Others lay or sat upon the floor for the two-hour crossing. The officers’ ward led from this; there were other wards, those amidships on the first deck were for the stretcher cases.
Phillip, sitting by a porthole, was waiting, with renewed hope and annulment of hope, for an opportunity to ask O’Gorman to lead him to Westy. His anxiety grew as the ship left harbour and became dread of being sick before others, the more so because he would not be able to find his way to the lavatory, and, behind a locked door, be safe to vomit, and lie down unseen. Should he ask O’Gorman to take him to the lavatory now, or wait in the hope of feeling better? The orderly had said it was a fine day, the Channel like a mill-pond; perhaps lack of sight had put out his sense of balance, for the ship seemed to be rising and falling.
He sat there, trying to force his mind to believe that seasickness began in the imagination, like fear: thrust away nervousness, and he would not feel sick. After all, the little levels in the human ear could not really be upset while he was sitting down. So it was a case of mind over matter.
“Send Private O’Gorman, my orderly, to me, will you?”
“I’m here, sorr.”
“Oh, thank God! Go and find where General West is, will you? Leave your rifle and clobber here, beside me. Say I sent you if anyone tries to stop you. Then come back here as quickly as you can.”
“Very good, sorr.”
He felt better. It was a case of mind over matter, he told himself. But the word matter started another train of thought: yellow matter—pus, stink of cordite, mortar and brick dust—hot oil engines. If only those around him would not talk so, and smoke, smoke, smoke; the combination from irritating became menacing. What a fool he had been to send O’Gorman away. He would never get back in time. The crisis was near, water was gathering in his mouth, fatal sign. He was reluctant to call out for a bowl, and it was too late now to ask to be taken to the lavatory. How weak he was, always going against his intuition. He should not have sent O’Gorman to find Westy.
The ship was beginning to creak. The cork life-belt was too tight round his chest. It was pressing against his breathing. He would not be able to lower his chin to be sick. He must ask for a bowl. Acrid smoke from the man smoking a ghastly Belgian cigar on his left. He must get away. He stood up, and was flung down by the greatest world-splitting noise. It seemed to break him into a million atoms. He did not feel the blow of his head hitting the deck. He lay there, vomiting, while remote voices began to speak only to fade again. He did not care, but lay in a semi-coma until awareness returned of shouts and cries around him. Then a loud megaphone command.
“Every man is to remain where he is.”
The beat of the engine stopped. There was a roar of steam, the whoop whoop of whistles which he thought vaguely must come from the destroyers.
Feet were moving overhead. An authoritative voice called out, “Everyone on the upper deck! Take your time. Every man to move in an orderly manner. The ship has struck a mine, there is no danger.”
“Any more for the ‘Skylark’?” cried a wag, as Phillip knelt up, trying to find where he was by his hands.
He was helped on deck into fresh blowing air. “Wait here, please, sir. Everything will be quite all right.”
“Yes, I am sure it will. Do you know where Brigadier-General West is? He’s a stretcher case.”
“He’ll be taken care of, sir. Now you wait here, sir, until they get the boat off of the hooks.”
Too many voices were talking at once. Was the deck sloping? He asked the voice next to him, and heard that the explosion had torn a hole in the engine room.
“The boilers might go up any minute now.”
The deck lurched. There were cries from the line of waiting men.
“Keep your places, men. Help is coming. The boats will soon be lowered.”
Westy had a big wooden cage around his leg, how could they get him into a boat? With immense relief he heard O’Gorman beside him. “The Gineril be on the upper deck, sorr. That’s the one above us. We’re on ‘B’ deck, sorr. We’ll have to swim for it, by the way things is lookin’.”
“We ought to get to him. He won’t be able to swim with his leg like that. Take me to the companion way.”
“Very good, sorr.”
O’Gorman guided his hands, steadied him up an iron ladder nearly vertical with the listing of the ship.
Boots were scraping and scrambling. Floats were being unlashed. The boats along the port side filled with men were no longer hanging over water.
“Wait here, sorr, while I take a look for the Gineral. I’ll spot him by the red about his tunic.”
The ship was taking on a steeper list, men crowding the rails steepened the angle. More words through the megaphone.
“Attention, all men! Help is coming from the escort destroyers. Let every man see that his cork-jacket is properly fastened. Those of you who can swim should take to the water, to ease the manning of the boats. There is no need for alarm. All will be picked up.”
It was now five minutes after the mine, wallowing in the ebb down Channel, had struck amidships to starboard.
At the beginning of the sixth minute the order was called out, ‘Every man for himself!’ Phillip pulled off the bandages in order to find his friend. Instantly his eyeballs were stricken by an explosion of light. With blood dripping from the lids he stood there giving himself up to defeat, until a voice told him to sit down, slide to the rail, and then jump into the sea.
*
The Persia, taken off the Salonika run during the emergency, sank in seven minutes after its rusty plates had touched one of the horns of the mine. Some of the patients went down with the ship, but most of them, with Phillip and ‘Spectre’, were picked up by the escorting destroyers. Phillip was none the worse for being a quarter of an hour in the sea, but ‘Spectre’ was drowned, the wooden cage around his leg having kept his head low. He had been wearing a cork life-belt on entering the water, but was without it when picked up.
Later O’Gorman said to Phillip, “The Gineral, sorr, he fleeted off av the stracher, he was w’arin’ av his cark belt, but his sharp eye saw me misself without one, for I had gone to watter without it, sorr. The Gineral he guv me the order to put on his belt, sorr. The Gineral he barked at me, sorr, and offered me a court-martial thin an’ there unless I obeyed him, so I obeyed the Gineral’s order, sorr, and put on the cark belt he untied from around his own chest, sorr, the white man that he was. May his soul rest wid the Holy Mother of God Herself, sorr.”
Part Three
TENSION
MAY—SEPTEMBER, 1918
‘For what peace of mind can any man have if his honour is no longer in his own keeping?’
The Anatomy of Courage,
by Lord Moran.
Chapter 12
EVASION
A letter from Phillip at last! And oh dear, the words slanted about the page as though he was learning to write all over again! Still, it had arrived on his birthday, with such wonderful news: he would soon be able to see again. The writing paper was embossed with heavy black lettering, Husborne Abbey, Gaultshire.
“Just fancy, Papa! Phillip is in that lovely place, in that beautiful park, with all the deer, the bison, and the other animals! Oh, I am so proud of my boy, so is Dickie! I expect someone will be able to read my letters to him!”
“You could get there and back in a day, if you were to make an early start, Hetty.”
Other ideas were in the air, buoyant with the song of birds. Doris was going up early to London, to be with two friends of hers in the Women’s Land Army; there was to be a procession through the streets of London, and a review afterwards in Hyde Park. Hetty wanted to go, too; but could she leave Dickie? He, elated by the good news of Phillip, agreed at once; he intended to work
in his allotment in the afternoon, and could get his own tea.
“You go and enjoy yourself, old girl!”
After a light lunch Hetty and her elder daughter went down the road to catch a 36 ’bus to London. At the corner, where the lilac bushes were in bud, they saw Mrs. Neville sitting at her open window. Sprat, Phillip’s terrier, was looking out beside her.
“He’s always there when I go by,” said Elizabeth. “I bet he’s not happy with her, but always looking out for Phillip to come.”
“Hush, dear, Mrs. Neville may hear what you say.”
They crossed the road, to tell Mrs. Neville the news. Mrs. Neville had also had a letter from Phillip that morning; but she dissembled, knowing how wrapped up ‘the little mother’, as she thought of Hetty, was in her boy. However, she made one mistake which was detected by the sharp mind of Mavis under the would-be aloof facade of Elizabeth.
“Oh, I am so glad to hear the good news, dear! And in the Duke’s hospital at Husborne Abbey, too! He’ll be well looked after there, and have the best of food. That horrible burning gas, I suppose we’ll be using it next! Tell Phillip that Sprat is quite happy, won’t you, and looking forward, as we all are, to seeing him again. I shall miss my little companion very much, he is quite a companion, you know, so understanding and intelligent. He’s a little rascal, too. If I read too much, and don’t give him what he considers proper attention, he jumps and up knocks the book out of my hand! Then he fetches his tennis ball, and gives it to me, so prettily. Well, I must not stop you, it’s a lovely day for the procession, isn’t it?”
A Test to Destruction Page 24