The Very White of Love

by S C Worrall

  The crowd goes wild. Cripps and Jenkins leap about, like madmen. Martin links arms with Hugh and together they pogo up and down, cheering until their throats are sore.

  ‘That was fun, wasn’t it?’ Martin enthuses, as he sits down after the match for a meal with Hugh Saunders in the only restaurant he has managed to find in the Michelin.

  The tables are packed with couples out for a Saturday evening, and a smattering of French Army officers in blue uniforms and gold braid. At the back, there is a small stage and a bandstand. Three girls in low-cut blouses and short skirts perch on bar stools, smoking languidly.

  Hugh orders a bottle of Nuits-Saint-Georges and studies the menu. ‘What’s a blanc de volaille poele?’

  ‘Roasted chicken breast.’

  ‘And dos de cabillaud sauce corail?’ Hugh scratches his chin.

  ‘Cod loin . . . ’ He glances up at the waiter. ‘C’est quoi, sauce corail?’ The waiter explains. Martin nods and turns back to his friend. ‘With a sauce made of crème fraîche and white wine.’

  Hugh licks his lips. ‘I think I’ll have the foie gras and the cod.’

  ‘Good choice.’ Martin tilts his head to the side, thinking. ‘But I’m going for the chicken breast.’

  ‘Apparently things got pretty out of control after the match. I heard several squaddies had bottles broken over their heads and required stitches.’

  Martin shakes his head.

  ‘God knows what state they’ll be in by the end of the evening. What time do we have to round them up, by the way?’

  ‘Ten o’clock.’ Martin raises his glass. ‘It was going to be eight, then the adjudant said to give them an extra two hours to let off steam. They’ve been cooped up for weeks.’

  ‘The brothels are going to do a roaring business,’ Hugh grins. ‘Poor Gibbens is going to have his work cut out at this week’s short arm parade.’

  Martin raises an eyebrow, unfamiliar with the term.

  ‘Army slang for VD clinic,’ Hugh explains.

  It takes a moment for the penny to drop, then Martin bursts out laughing. ‘I have never heard that before!’

  The waiter brings the wine, uncorks it, and pours a measure into Hugh’s glass. He tastes it, nods. ‘I think the Germans have the right idea with their Soldatenbordellen: military brothels,’ Hugh continues. ‘They set up brothels for the soldiers wherever the Army goes. All official and above board. With regular health checks for the girls.’

  ‘It would make the doctor’s life a lot easier,’ Martin admits, not liking the idea.

  Hugh breaks another roll and smears it with butter. He raises an eyebrow. ‘I don’t think it’s going to be a pretty sight later.’

  After dinner, the waiters push the tables back against the wall to create a small dance floor. The band starts up and couples start to dance the jitterbug. Single men crowd around the girls on their barstools. One of them gets up and comes over to Martin.

  ‘Vous voulez danser avec moi, monsieur?’ She leans over the table, giving Martin an eyeful of cleavage.

  ‘I’m fine.’ Martin shakes his head, reddening. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You Eeng-gleesh?’ The girl cocks her head, coquettishly.

  ‘Go on!’ Saunders slaps Martin on the shoulder. ‘Strut your stuff.’

  She’s a good dancer, kicking her legs out to the sides in time to the music, laughing infectiously as Martin tries to keep up.

  ‘Comme ça!’ She grabs Martin’s hands and shows him the steps. ‘Oui!’

  The band follows the jitterbug with a slow number. The girl slides one arm around Martin’s waist and drapes the other languidly over his shoulder. He can smell her perfume, and feel her nipples against his chest. He tries to keep his distance, but after a few minutes they are dancing cheek to cheek, their bodies locked together in a drunken embrace.

  ‘We go upstairs, non?’ The girl looks seductively into Martin’s eyes.

  ‘Maybe later.’ The moment he says it, he regrets it.

  ‘You have wife?’ The girl strokes his cheek.

  ‘Fiancée.’ Martin slips out of the girl’s embrace. ‘Thanks for the dance!’

  He makes his way back to the table, pours a glass of water and tips it back, then takes a cigarette, flicks open his Ronson lighter, spins the wheel against the flint. Sparks, but no flame. Martin throws the lighter on the table. ‘Got a light, Hugh?’

  Saunders feels in his pockets. ‘Sorry, no. Must have left it at home.’ He waves to the barman, makes a gesture, as though striking a match.

  An older woman they have not seen before emerges from behind a curtain at the back of the bar. She has a pale, drawn face, no make-up and severely cut, black hair. She goes to the girl who has just been dancing with Martin and hands her a box of matches. The girl pouts seductively as she hands the matches to Martin. Saunders shoos her away and opens the box.

  ‘What’s that?’ Martin leans forward, inquisitively.

  Saunders pulls out a tightly folded piece of paper, opens it and holds it to the candle. ‘Some kind of message by the looks of it.’ He hands it to Martin.

  Martin squints at the paper. We have important information for you. Meet in the Rue Emile Zola in twenty minutes. Come alone.

  Saunders glances over to the bar. The older woman looks back at him, nods. ‘It’s probably a set-up,’ he says. ‘They’ll stick a knife in our backs.’

  ‘But what if it’s real? A spy of some sort.’

  ‘You’ve been reading too much John Buchan, old man,’ says Saunders, with a wry smile.

  ‘Probably.’ Martin folds the paper and puts it in his wallet. ‘But just in case, we better show it to Stebbings, our intelligence officer.’

  ‘I think this may have to go further up the totem pole than that,’ Saunders winks. ‘Who knows? Maybe they have found some Panzers hidden in the woods.’

  11 MARCH 1940

  Wahagnies

  Martin bounces along on the Norton. Hugh sits in the sidecar. After showing Stebbings the note, he instructed them to take it to Corp HQ in Douai, nerve centre for the entire division. The road takes them south through the town of Ostricourt. Mist rises from the flat fields. A cart loaded with turnips lumbers along behind an emaciated horse.

  ‘The liaison officer told me there is an oak tree near here, which was used as an observation post in the First World War,’ Martin shouts over his shoulder. ‘Want to take a butchers?’

  Hugh gives the thumbs-up. A hawk rises up off a fence post and soars low over the fields. Martin watches it, then swerves to avoid a pothole. A signpost is marked ‘Le Forêt d’Offlarde’.

  The track runs between stout oak trees. Tendrils of fresh bracken uncoil towards the sky. Bluebells shine in the undergrowth. An image of Church Path Woods at this time of the year flashes into his mind. Nancy, dressed in white, walking among the bluebells. The sound of birdsong. The sap rising in the trees. Their mouths hungrily searching for each other.

  ‘I think it’d be better on foot from here,’ he says, cutting the engine of the motorbike.

  They leave the Norton and walk into the forest. Since arriving here, Martin has realized that, like everywhere in Flanders, the area near their base at Wahagnies is rich in history. The Romans cut a 55-kilometre long road through it, connecting Arras and Tournai, in Belgium: the Ostracariorum Curtis, or Ostricourt Shortcut, which gives the town its name. Martin knows that it may soon be one of the routes the Germans take to advance into France.

  The oak tree is in a remote corner of the forest. Cut into the side of it are a series of rusted, iron rungs. ‘Look at this!’ Martin’s eyes follow the rungs to the top of the tree. ‘From up there, you had a view of the whole region.’

  Martin touches the iron rungs, still cold from the night. He looks up, imagines a soldier sitting in the crown of the tree; a young man like him; a ghost from the last war. ‘We better press on.’

  Corps HQ is housed in the hôtel de ville in the centre of Douai, a prosperous town on the River Scarpe. The courty
ard is full of French and British army lorries. Two French soldiers, in magnificent blue cloaks, guard the entrance. A Tricolour and a Union Jack flutter from a flagpole. Saunders, who is senior to Martin, explains to the soldiers that they have a letter for the divisional intelligence officer. They are shown up to an office on the first floor.

  ‘What can I do for you, gentlemen?’ A thick-set man with a pair of heavy-rimmed glasses and a mop of unruly black hair asks from behind a mountain of papers and files.

  Hugh hands him the note, salutes.

  The intelligence officer studies the note. ‘Where did you get this?’

  Martin tells the story. Uniformed typists clatter away on ancient Remingtons. A wodge of telephone cables spews out of the window. A woman in a dark, two-piece suit hammers away at a potable telegraph machine. As the intelligence officer listens, Martin notices a map pinned to an easel: Belgium, northern France and Germany, with black pins showing the position of all the German divisions.

  The intelligence officer gets up and yanks the easel out of sight. ‘What restaurant did you say you were you in?’ Martin tells him and he scribbles down the name. ‘Leave it with me.’ He folds the piece of paper and puts it in his pocket.

  ‘Did you see that map?’ Martin asks Hugh, as they leave the building. His voice is shocked, angry.

  Hugh holds his finger to his lips and walks towards the Norton. Martin lights a cigarette. ‘The north-west corner of Germany, above the Ardennes. It was literally black with pins!’ Martin blows out a cloud of indignant smoke.

  ‘Which suggests they already know where the Germans are going to attack.’ Hugh nods.

  ‘And here we are, farting around building the Gort Line. In preparation for an attack from the east!’ Martin’s voice is raw with anger. ‘If the men knew this . . . ’

  Saunders glances up at the flags fluttering above the HQ. ‘We can’t say anything.’

  ‘It’ll be a bloodbath.’ Martin stubs the cigarette out under his boot. These are the things he can’t tell her, the secrets he must keep.

  ‘I hope not.’ Saunders winces.

  Back in Wahagnies, Martin is summoned to the office of Major Heyworth, the battalion’s second-in-command.

  ‘We want you to represent the brigade on a gas course in England, Martin,’ he says in his Mancunian accent, twizzles a pencil between his fingers. ‘As you are the junior officer, I have selected you.’

  ‘Gas?’ Martin shuffles his feet. He’s never much liked Heyworth. Now he feels as though he is being picked on just because of his age.

  ‘New chemical agents are being developed by the Germans – and by our own people.’ Heyworth purses his lips. ‘We need to stay abreast of the latest science.’

  ‘Chemistry is not really my forte . . . ’ Martin gives the major a half-hearted smile.

  Heyworth ignores him, lays the pencil down. ‘The course will be held at Fort Tregantle, near Plymouth.’ He picks up a brown file marked HMSO. ‘You’ll be leaving at the end of the month. For two weeks.’

  Two feelings clash inside him, like waves. On the one hand, the course represents a golden opportunity to get back to England and see Nancy. But by becoming the brigade’s ‘expert’ on gas warfare, Martin knows he will be placing himself directly in the firing line. Nancy will be horrified. ‘I . . . I . . . ’ he stammers. ‘With all due respect, Brian, I really don’t think I’m suitable.’

  ‘We’ll be the judge of that.’ Heyworth gives him a beady stare, then starts to make notes in the file. ‘I would have thought you’d jump at the chance of seeing that fiancée of yours.’

  ‘She, er . . . ’ Martin stammers again. ‘She’s appearing in a play in April, in London, sir. It’s a big opportunity. I don’t think she’ll have much free time.’

  Heyworth gives Martin a withering stare. ‘Unfortunately, much as it would like to, the British Army can’t plan its campaigns around your fiancée’s theatrical schedule.’ The major’s voice drips with sarcasm. ‘I just wish Betty and I had this opportunity . . . ’

  Martin remembers his uncle, Robert Graves’ stories about mustard gas – men burning in agony in the trenches, or going mad on their return home – and his poem, ‘A Dead Boche’, which describes a dead German at Mametz Wood on the Western Front, ‘dribbling black blood’. But he can’t admit to his fears in front of the major, so he wracks his brain for another line of argument. ‘Surely, someone from the Sappers would be more suitable,’ he suggests. ‘My place is here with the men. We’re just starting to gel as a team . . . ’

  Heyworth lays down the pencil. ‘You’ll get your final Movement Order next week.’

  Up in his room, Martin takes out a bundle of her letters and lays them on the table. He feels dejected. The thought of gas warfare sickens him. And he knows how it will upset Nancy. Is their luck running out?

  He opens her most recent letter. On a separate sheet is a poem she has written for him, dated and signed in her hand.

  Dearest, I love you in familiar things,

  In birds, in clouds, in moons

  And swallows nested in the eaves;

  I love you in the sound of voices

  Streams, wheels, wind and wings;

  I love you in wonder, as do mothers

  Listening to a child’s first breath;

  And know, past all ineptitudes of speech,

  This love’s immeasurable, a seed

  Fast-rooted, a flower bearing fruit.

  A wave of love, and renewed optimism, floods through him, as he reads and rereads the poem. The image of the seed rooting and turning into fruit is exactly how he feels about their love. Isn’t the order to attend the course actually good news? If things turn out as Heyworth says, they will be together again in less than three weeks. The thought makes his heart beat faster. He hurriedly unscrews the top from his pen and begins to write.

  My very darling,

  Unless the balloon goes up, I shall be in England on April 2. I’ve been chosen to represent the brigade on a gas course somewhere near Plymouth. It seems to fit perfectly. My proper leave is in the last batch of the battalion, which means I shall also be at home at the beginning of July. Probably for my birthday. I am being blessed by my usual good luck.

  The damn Army Post Office has held up your letter – I see it was posted on 9 March and reached me half an hour ago. I do hope my letter reached you in time. I’m thankful you’ve had the one before. We are at last beginning to have a little more time to ourselves, but we are a little concerned that we may soon have to be rather too busy. I may be going to the Maginot Line for a week before I see you. I hope so because, apparently, it’s the most amazing experience. This warfare is extraordinary. I could tell you so much.

  We’ve felt the first touch of spring and seen the first glints and colours of March sun. I’ve seen no flowers yet but there are a few blossoms on the apple trees. And the wrens behind our kitchen are very alert. I lay in the sun for the first time this year. The village is much more cheerful, too. People stand out on their front door steps, children scamper about the square – more airplanes come, though, allied and German, so we have to keep on the alert for air raid warnings. There was one last night but, luckily, I was asleep. Mostly, though, life is smooth just now. I trust it’s not the calm before the storm.

  The softer ground also allows us ‘poor navvies’ to dig away at some monstrous and impersonal tank proof ditch; we can ride and drive with more pleasure – even marching doesn’t hurt so much because our feet don’t slip and our ears don’t freeze, and we can watch the sky and think all the conventional romantic things. I am currently supervising the work on all the roads round the village and training on the ranges, watching the clouds one moment and at the targets the next, pretending we are shooting just for sport. Besides that, I’ve been going all round the village in the absence of our agent de liaison, paying for electric light and asking if the billetors had any complaints about the men. They all receive me kindly and ask: ‘Voulez-vous prendre quelque chose,
Monsieur? Du vin peut-être, ou un café cognac?’ And they involve me in the toils of conversation, making me concentrate hard because they don’t speak slowly for me and answer at length because they say I must practice – but I enjoy it and my French has improved. I can even discuss theological matters with Monsieur le Curé, who deplores the lack of true religious education in France. He says the French are being brought up to be a nation of materialists, toujours l’argent, toujours les affaires, always business and money.

  It’s raining quite hard now and I have to go on a night operation so I’m feeling rather grumpy – though when I think we may soon be in Devon and Cornwall together for a little spring and primroses, and love, my heart skips a beat.

  Always, Martin.

  13 APRIL 1940

  Mousehole, Cornwall

  Martin paces up and down the station in Penzance, his heart in his mouth. In a few minutes, they will be together again! He can hardly believe this moment has finally arrived after the long, dreary months in France, the endless days of trench digging and sitting around, waiting for the proverbial balloon to go up. Now, a speeding train is carrying her from London to his arms.

  A loudspeaker above his head crackles into life. The station is crowded with soldiers. Baggage trolleys are trundled back and forth loaded with kitbags. Tearful families cling to each other. He feels deliriously happy. ‘The train now arriving at platform three is the overnight train from London, Paddington.’

  Martin checks himself in the window of a carriage on the adjacent platform, adjusts his leather belt and holster (he has left the gun in France), tilts his cap, and starts to run towards the platform. As he passes, a newspaper seller shouts: ‘Read all about! Read all about it! Britain Invades Norway!’