The Very White of Love

by S C Worrall

  At dawn, the next day, a drum roll sounds and the band starts to play the regimental march: ‘I’m Ninety-Five’, the comic song made famous by the British Rifle Brigade, who distinguished themselves at the Battle of Waterloo. The parade commander barks, ‘By the left, quick march!’ and the column of men starts to move off at a quick tempo. The battalion prides itself on its marching. Standard speed for the British Army is one hundred and thirty-eight paces per minute. The Bucks Battalion marches at a brisk one hundred and forty-eight paces.

  Later that morning, the battalion moves out in a convoy of lorries that snakes out of the racecourse for the journey south to the coast. Martin sits up in the cab of the Panopticon, with Jenkins, the driver, and Joe Cripps. The rest of the platoon is in the back.

  All the glass has been removed from the windows, to prevent injuries from shell blasts. Swathed in blankets and scarfs, the three of them look like they are off to a rugby match, not war. And the freezing air is aggravating Martin’s cold.

  ‘Someone was saying last night that this is set to be the coldest January of the century.’ Cripps points to a herd of sheep, cropping the frosted grass with lowered heads.

  ‘Just our luck, eh?’ Jenkins, the driver, grips the steering wheel. ‘It’ll be a miracle if we make it across the Channel – let alone France!’

  Martin is overcome by a violent fit of coughing.

  ‘Whisky and lemon, with some hot water and honey, that’s what you need, sir. And no smoking,’ admonishes Cripps.

  In the lee of the hills, villages are locked tight in January hibernation, the cottage roofs dusted with snow, smoke rises from chimneys. Donnington. Speen. Beauclair. The home front. Log fires. Parsnip soup. Families.

  After four hours, the gantries of Southampton’s West Docks come into view, and beyond them, the English Channel. Martin is full of conflicting emotions. Excitement to be getting going after the months of tedium at training camp. On the other hand, he knows that now the temporary separation from Nancy is about to become permanent, and with every mile they cover, he will be pulled further from her.

  This makes the prospect of seeing her, if only for a few hours, so important. Nancy and Roseen are travelling down by train from London and he has arranged to meet them for lunch at their hotel in Southampton or, if he is early enough, at the station. He glances at his watch. In thirteen minutes!

  The streets are choked with military transport and soldiers. Military Police stand at each crossroads directing the traffic. Jenkins manoeuvres the Panopticon into a long line of vehicles waiting to embark. Cranes swing equipment and supplies onto the deck in nets, like the webs of giant spiders. Boarding is scheduled to begin at 5 p.m. but the lorry in front of them has broken down. Martin lights a cigarette and waits.

  The commanding officer’s Humber comes careening towards them. In the back seat sits Captain Ritchie, the adjutant. Martin salutes. Ritchie salutes back and opens the door of the car for Martin.

  ‘We’re having some problems with the French bills of lading. They told me you speak French, Martin.’

  Martin’s heart sinks. ‘Some. I’ll do my best.’ He jumps down from the lorry and gets into the back of the staff car.

  ‘Action at last!’ Ritchie slaps his swagger stick across his thighs.

  Martin wraps his coat around him more tightly. ‘It’s been a long wait.’

  ‘That’s the spirit, Martin.’

  At the Customs House, Ritchie ushers Martin towards a desk in the back piled with a jumble of paperwork: customs forms, lists of equipment, immigration documents, pages and pages of vehicle registration numbers, all to be translated into French.

  ‘Good luck!’ Ritchie excuses himself and leaves.

  If he is lucky, he might be finished by tea time. Martin grinds his teeth and sets to work. But at six o’clock, he is still translating a ten-page document from the Port Authority in Le Havre, itemizing charges to be levied and areas of responsibility, in a technical French that makes his brain ache. At seven, a runner knocks on the door, and hands him a note. A rations lorry loaded with sacks of flour has overturned at Gate 18. Martin is to take his Pioneers and clean up.

  Martin picks up a pencil and a piece of paper, says to the runner: ‘Can you deliver this to the White Hart Inn, please?’

  Forgive me, darling, for not coming to the station but we are at full tilt at the port, moving equipment and men, trying to get ready for our departure. I won’t be able to get away this evening, either. But I will get over for lunch tomorrow. I have also booked a table for dinner, before we sail. Just the two of us. Roseen will understand. I miss you more than I can say and can’t wait to see you. Give Roseen a hug. Martin.

  It is nearly midnight by the time he crawls into his berth on the ship: a converted Isle of Man ferry that will take them to France. His hands are raw, his back is sore, his chest aches from coughing. There is no ventilation and no lights because of the blackout.

  He wishes he were anywhere but here. Wishes he would wake up and none of this would be happening, that he would be back in Oxford, walking along Broad Street with his arm around her waist; or lying with her under the hollow oak in Penn, staring up into the canopy of leaves, the sound of bees in their ears. A cloud of snow swirls past the porthole and he falls into a fitful sleep.

  He wakes early and heads for the dining room. The men are in the Second Class area on the ferry. Officers in First. The mood is sombre. Sitting down near a window, Martin pulls a French military dictionary from his pocket.

  He opens the book, covers one side of the page with his napkin, and begins to recite: ‘Live fire . . . un tir reel. Pontoon bridge . . . pont de bateaux . . . ’

  The mess sergeant appears at his shoulder. Martin orders bacon and eggs, toast and coffee, then uncovers the page to see how the word is spelled and repeats it, syllable by syllable. ‘Pont de bateaux.’

  ‘Swotting?’ Gibbens sits down opposite him.

  Martin lifts the cover of the book. ‘French military jargon.’

  Gibbens waves to the mess sergeant, who hurries over and takes his breakfast order. Coffee, toast and marmalade.

  Martin lifts a forkful of sausage and egg to his mouth, then crunches on toast followed by a gulp of coffee. ‘Any idea when we’ll sail?’

  ‘Apparently, we’ll be here another night. Half the equipment hasn’t arrived. The ammunition hasn’t been sorted.’ He shakes his head. ‘The usual bloody mess.’

  Ashore, the port is a hive of activity: water tankers being filled, Bren carriers loaded on board, soldiers being counted.

  ‘Mister Preston!’ a voice calls. It is the adjutant again, Captain James Ritchie. As they are among other ranks, he uses the more formal greeting, not Martin. ‘You’re wanted over at the station. A shipment of blankets and bedding has just arrived by train from London, and needs sorting out. Take some of your men and unload the train.’

  ‘At the double.’ Martin salutes; hesitates.

  ‘Something wrong?’ The adjutant gives him a steely look.

  ‘No, nothing.’ He pauses. ‘It’s just, my fiancée and sister have come down to say goodbye. And I was hoping to meet them for lunch.’

  ‘We’re all leaving loved ones behind, Lieutenant.’ The adjutant’s voice is clipped and unsympathetic. ‘Now, get cracking.’

  It is four o’clock by the time he reaches the hotel. Nancy and Roseen are in the lounge, having tea. A bay window looks out onto the gunmetal waters of the Solent. Snowflakes stick to the glass.

  Nancy rushes into his arms. ‘Better not get too close, carissima.’ He touches his lips to her hair. ‘Don’t want to give you the bloody lurgy.’

  ‘You look awful!’ Roseen knits her brows.

  ‘Thanks, Sis.’ He slips out of his greatcoat, leans over and kisses the top of Roseen’s head, then signals to a waiter. ‘A Whisky Mac? Something to warm us up?’ Nancy and Roseen nod enthusiastically. ‘Make it three.’

  ‘You’re staying for dinner?’ Roseen takes a cigarette, twiz
zles it between her fingers, then inserts it into a black ivory holder and lights it.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Martin starts to cough. ‘They want us back on the ship at eight o’clock.’

  Nancy’s face falls. ‘You’re sailing tonight?’

  ‘No one knows.’ Martin makes two ironic quotation marks in the air. ‘Top secret. As though the German High Command doesn’t know that 10,000 Brits are about to embark for France.’

  There is a long silence, broken by the waiter bringing a tray loaded with the drinks and a bowl of peanuts.

  ‘I’ve got something for you.’ Nancy hands him a Harrods bag.

  Martin takes the bag and peers excitedly inside, then lifts out some packages.

  ‘Just some little things I thought might be useful . . . ’

  Martin tears the wrapping paper off the first parcel, pulls out a bright red lambswool scarf. He wraps it round his neck. ‘Love it!’ He gets up and kisses Nancy on the cheek, then sits back down and opens the second package. Inside is a small, dark blue tube, about the size of a cigar case. Martin sniffs it. ‘Montecristo?’

  Nancy laughs. ‘Nothing so exciting as that, I’m afraid!’

  Martin pulls the top off the tube and takes out a collapsible toothbrush. ‘Brilliant! It will go perfectly with Uncle Charles’ collapsible lantern.’ He beams, boyishly. ‘And what’s this?’

  ‘For your cough.’ Nancy folds her hands in her lap.

  Martin unwraps another package, pulls out a small brown glass bottle. He opens the top and sniffs. ‘Fennel!’ Another hacking cough shakes him. ‘How did you know I even had a cold?’

  ‘Roseen told me after you phoned the other day.’ Nancy puts on a matronly tone of voice. ‘Two teaspoons every four hours. And NO SMOKING!’

  She takes out a carefully wrapped sliver of midnight blue tissue paper, hands it to him. Martin unwraps it and lifts out a silver locket on a chain, opens it. Inside is a photo of her in a white summer frock, framed by a doorway in Cornwall, her hair silhouetted against the summer light. And a lock of her hair.

  Martin is overcome with emotion. Seeing her standing there, in all her innocent beauty, makes the prospect of their separation seem all the more cruel. ‘It’s beautiful!’ he eventually manages to say as another fit of coughing shakes him. ‘Thank you!’ Martin opens the clasp and puts it round his neck but his fingers can’t manage the clasp. Nancy gets up, lifts the hair from his neck, slips the little silver ring into the clasp, closes it, then kisses his hair and sits back down. ‘Last but not least . . . ’ She leans forward and hands him a small, velvet-covered box.

  Roseen excuses herself and heads to the Ladies, to leave them alone.

  Inside the box is a silver ring: a twin of the one he gave her when they got engaged.

  ‘It’s got the same inscription inside,’ Nancy purrs.

  Martin wants to leap out of his chair, take her in his arms and carry her upstairs. To hell with the war. To hell with his commission. But he knows in a few hours he has to be back with his men.

  He tilts the ring and reads: ‘The Very White of Love.’ He leans over and kisses her on the top of her head. ‘Now, you will always be with me.’

  The next morning, it is snowing even harder. He spends most of the morning helping empty the vehicles’ radiators and cover the engines with straw and sacking to stop them freezing during the voyage. Some baggage has gone missing, two men have gone AWOL, a 30 cwt lorry has blown a cylinder head gasket. The transport officer is livid. At midday, Martin is ordered ashore to collect the last batch of immigration papers from the Customs House and complete some remaining paperwork.

  ‘Is there a phone I can use?’ Martin asks the large, bosomy woman at the reception desk.

  ‘Over there, my lover.’ The receptionist has a thick Bristol accent. She smiles knowingly. ‘Last goodbyes?’

  Martin blushes. ‘In a manner of speaking.’ He dials the number. ‘I’d like to speak to Miss Whelan, please.’ He pauses. ‘Miss Nancy Claire Whelan. Room 107.’

  It feels like an eternity before she comes to the phone, though it is actually less than a minute.

  ‘Tino?’ Her voice sounds shaky.

  ‘Carissima.’ Martin pulls out a cigarette and lights it. ‘I’m afraid . . .’ There is an uneasy silence. ‘Are you there?’

  ‘I’m here.’ Her voice quavers.

  ‘I won’t be able to come and say goodbye.’ Martin bites his lip. He hears the tears in her breathing. ‘We sail in a few hours.’ He bites on the cigarette. ‘I’m so sorry, darling.’

  ‘It’s all right, Tino,’ she says, trying to hold back the tears. ‘I know how busy you are.’

  Martin fixes his eyes on a poster on the wall. It shows a night ferry crossing the Channel to Dieppe. At the bottom are the words: Take a break, come to France. The irony almost makes him want to cry out. ‘I so wanted to see you . . . ’

  She forces herself to sound composed. ‘I’ll be fine. You must take care of yourself for me.’ She gives a forced laugh. ‘The time will fly by and you’ll be back in my arms on leave.’

  He leans against the wall, staring at the poster. ‘Promise me you won’t worry.’

  There’s a long silence. Martin touches the ring and looks up at the clock on the wall. One hour until the ship sails.

  ‘We didn’t bargain for this, did we?’ He hesitates, afraid to end the call. ‘I love you.’

  ‘Godspeed, Tino.’ She is crying now. ‘Come back to me soon!’

  Before he can answer, the line goes dead.

  18 JANUARY 1940

  The English Channel

  The coast of England recedes in the darkness. Because of the blackout, the only lights come from the buoys and the lighthouses. Martin stands on deck, staring into the dark, churning sea. He looks at his watch. Midnight. Nancy and Roseen are already back in London. They are moving in opposite directions now. Every beat of the ship’s engine pulls them further apart.

  He stamps his feet. His greatcoat is flecked with snowflakes. A bitter wind makes his trousers flap against his legs. He bangs his gloved hands together, pulls his scarf more tightly round his neck. Propped against a stanchion, Topper is playing ‘Auld Lang Syne’ on the harmonica. A Union Jack flaps against the flagpole.

  ‘You’ll catch your death out here.’ Gibbens is also bundled up in a greatcoat, with a thick, blue wool scarf around his neck, the peak of his hat pulled low over his brow. A leather satchel full of medicines hangs from his right shoulder. ‘Have a bit of this.’ Gibbens pulls a hip flask from inside his coat and hands it to Martin.

  Martin takes a swig and hands it back.

  ‘Single island malt. From Islay.’ Gibbens takes a swig then screws the top back on the hip flask and puts it back inside his coat. ‘I go up once a year and pick up a case.’ He stamps his boots on the deck.

  ‘Those are smart.’ Martin looks down at the doctor’s handcrafted, leather walking boots.

  ‘Got them just after the Munich crisis.’ Gibbens holds out a toe. ‘Broke them walking in the Lake District.’ He pauses. ‘Feels like another life.’

  They fall silent, listening to the steady throb of the engines and the swooshing of the ship’s bow as it slices through the waves. The doctor stares across the water, troubled. ‘You know, I recently attended a meeting in Newbury with all the medical officers for the division. They asked me where I would put my field station. I told them: a few miles back from the front, because of the danger of the German tanks, and their highly mobile way of fighting. Blitzkrieg, you know.’ Gibbens pulls a face. ‘The assistant director of medical services, a pompous ass from Whitehall, laughed:“It’s going to be trench warfare, Gibbens, just like the Great War. Your field station has to go at the front.”’ Gibbens shakes his head. ‘Daft bugger.’

  ‘Not very encouraging, is it?’ Martin shivers.

  Gibbens puts his arm round the younger man. ‘Better get inside.’

  At dawn, Martin wakes and peers out of the porthole to see the beam of a ligh
thouse sweeping over the black sea, illuminating the swirling clouds of snow. A French warship rides at anchor, the Tricolour fluttering from its mast. Apart from that, there are no lights. France is blacked out, too.

  On the floor next to his bunk is a packet of Nancy’s letters, nearly one hundred in all, tied with string and wrapped in oilcloth. He reaches down, takes the packet. A fit of coughing wracks his body. He opens his knapsack and feels inside for the bottle of fennel syrup, pulls the cork out with his teeth, pours a dose down his throat, recorks the bottle. Opens a letter. Drifts away.

  A siren goes off. All men to muster on deck. Gangplanks are secured to the gunnels, cranes swing through the air, depositing bundles of provisions and weapons on the quays. The men are still half asleep, they grumble as Martin herds them across the deck, like recalcitrant cattle. A small crowd of French has gathered alongside the ship. Some wave Tricolours, a few wave the Union Jack. A French regimental band plays ‘God Save the Queen’.

  Martin grips the icy chain railings and marches down the gangplank.

  It’s mid-morning by the time the convoy sets off for Lillebonne, a small town to the north-east of Le Havre where they will spend their first night on French soil. The rest of the officers will travel by train, but Martin has asked, and been given, permission to stay with his men. On their way out of the port, they pass through the Rue des Galons, Le Havre’s red-light district. News that thousands of testosterone-filled British soldiers are on their way has leaked across the Channel and hundreds of femmes de nuit are waiting to welcome them to France with open arms. And open legs. Cheap tarts in scarlet bustiers and leather boots for the enlisted men; poules de luxe decked in satin and silk for the officers. Knowing the British love of sports, especially among the officer class, some of the girls are dressed in tennis and cricket garb.