His Second War

by Alec Waugh

“Yes, Barnes, what is it?”

  “I don’t want to be a batman, sir.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s not the kind of work I care for, sir.”

  “I’m sorry, Barnes, if you could persuade anyone else to take your place …”

  “There weren’t no volunteers, sir.”

  “Then in that case I’m afraid you must regard it as an order.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I must refuse, sir.”

  It was said very respectfully, but very firmly. There was a pause. It was a situation without precedent in the Camp Commandant’s experience. He needed a moment to collect his thoughts.

  “Very good,” he said. “Staff-sergeant, Barnes is under close arrest. While on active service disobeying a command. Have him taken to the guardroom, and then come back.

  “And this time,” he said a minute later, “for heaven’s sake detail someone mild.”

  “Jenkins is mild, sir.”

  Jenkins was mild all right. He was much too mild. He reported on the brink of tears.

  “It’s no good sir, it really isn’t. I’ll do it, of course I’ll do it, sir, but my nerves won’t stand it. I’d drop things. I’d spoil things. If I once get flustered—and I should get flustered—I don’t know what I mightn’t do, sir, I really don’t. I’d break things. I’d …”

  “All right, Jenkins, all right. Hand me over that nominal roll, Staff.” But it was without any real hope that he read that list. With the eyes of vision, he foresaw even as he gave the order: “Detail Marriott,” the scene that was to be enacted five minutes later, of a short, stocky, red-faced driver saying: “I refuse, sir.”

  That was how he foresaw it and that is how it was.

  “At this rate,” said the Camp Commandant, “we shan’t have a driver left to meet the General at the aerodrome.”

  At that point an idea struck the staff-sergeant.

  “I wonder, sir, if one’s actually got the right to order a man to be a batman?”

  The staff-sergeant happened to be right. An R.A.S.C. driver could not, so the regulations ran, be posted as a soldier-servant without leave from Records. “It was a wrongful order, sir.”

  “Even so a soldier should obey a wrongful order.”

  But it was without any real conviction that he said it. The release or detention of drivers Barnes and Marriott was of small matter compared with the absence of a soldier-servant in the General’s pantry.

  Fortunately, however, the General’s arrival was in itself a diplomatic gesture. He arrived, not as a General with red tabs but as a Minister in a blue lounge suit; as someone, that is to say, who was not entitled to a soldier servant.

  85

  RETURN TO YESTERDAY

  1. Extract from a letter from Miss Carol Hill, Literary Agent, New York City.

  … You will long before this, I hope, have received my cables telling you that the last of the three stories that you wrote on the way out has been bought by Collier’s, and that Red Book is publishing “Cleared Decks.” The air raid story I have not sold, and somehow I feel I shan’t. Air raids are out of date. I do hope, though, that the fact that two out of the three have found a home will encourage you to write some more.

  Now that the army clothes, feeds and houses you, there can be, I know, with income tax at the level it is, little inducement for you to write. And you have little time. But can’t I persuade you to look on the writing of an occasional story as “a kind of extra war work.” It is important that the West and Middle-west should be made to face the realities of war, should be made to feel sympathetically towards you British, and to realize that you are engaged in a 100 per cent effort. Indirect propaganda is so much more effective than set articles and speeches. Do please try.

  2. Airgraph to A. D. Peters, Literary Agent, London.

  Carol beseeches me to write some more short stories. But I have little time to write—and little to write about. England must be a different place by now and anything really interesting about out here would be promptly censored. Then there’s the difficulty of getting stories back; they’d be out of date by the time they reached you. The only remedy seems to be to write something so short that I can confine it within the covers of an air-mail letter-card. With my handwriting I reckon I could manage 2,500 words, so expect an air-mail letter-card in the course of the next month.

  3. Air-mail Letter-card to A. D. Peters.

  This is the best that I can do. But it doesn’t seem to me too bad, at that.

  An Officer Learns a Lesson

  A high stack of letter-cards and airgraphs awaited censoring. “Again,” he thought.

  There had been a time, when he was still soldiering in England, when he had fancied that the censoring of his men’s mail would be a fascinating occupation. Now, after ten months in the Middle East, it had become a chore like any other. The letters were all the same. What else could he expect them to be? The men could not say what they were doing or where they were doing it. Everything really personal went into the green envelopes that were censored not regimentally, but at the base. The letters that came to him were, in the main, replies to letters that had been received from home, (“Well, darling, I bet you enjoyed yourselves that day Bert took you to the picnic.”) bulletins about their health (“I seem to have got over my attack of ‘gippie’ tummy”), comments on the war news (”Well, mum, I don’t think it’ll be long now. We’ll soon be giving Jerry a taste of his own medicine. Six months I give it.”)

  Six months. It was always that. Six months. Occasionally a year. At first he had been puzzled, at times almost irritated by this insistent, unflagging, unreasoned optimism. How on earth could they imagine that the war could be over within six months—for it was always a question of “Jerry being socked”, never of the war just “finishing”. Gradually, however, he had come to realize that six months represented a human being’s capacity for expectation. One had to be able to mark a date upon a calendar. In their heart of hearts they knew, each one of them, that they were set upon a long, long journey. But being human they had to paint themselves a picture. They had to be able to think “this time next year …”

  He had little doubt of the kind of thing that he would find in this present stack. He knew the men’s styles and friends. He knew which men he had to watch for indiscretions—there were only three he had. He only bothered to read the majority of the letters because they gave him “sidelines” on the men themselves. He found it easier to deal with them, to get good work out of them, if he knew what was on their minds.

  Quickly he read the letters over. Another adjuration from Bombardier Gregory to his mother “to keep her chin up.” Sergeant Evans was still worried about the furnishing of the flat his wife had taken. There was Willis writing to that girl of his again—no, it was to his mother this time. “Well, dear Mum, I don’t think it’ll be much longer now. I don’t think Jerry can take much more of it. Early next spring, I say.” The usual stuff. No need to bother about this. He turned the page. “Well, Mum, I expect you’ve heard about Anne getting fixed up with a chap from the munition factory. I don’t suppose I can blame her, me having been so long away, but it was a blow.”

  A blow! He checked, staring at the bald announcement. A blow. He should think it was. How many letters hadn’t he censored to that girl, how many parcels hadn’t he watched Willis pack for her. Willis must have spent every spare penny on stamps and presents, and then for this to happen. To be jilted by one’s girl! It was bad enough when that happened to one in England, when one was surrounded by friends and by familiar things. But when it happened to one out here …

  He pushed back his chair and stepped to the opening of his tent. He was in charge of a section of six-pounders detailed for coast defence. Below him in all its splendour stretched the blue meadow of the Mediterranean. Behind him rose the snow-peaked mountains of the Lebanon. It was a beauty spot all right. But it was a prison too. A hundred yards away a group of gunners were on the camouflage netting that concealed the gu
ns. Between him and the guns were the scattered tents in which the gun teams lived. For six months now they had been stationed here, watching for an attack that might never come but for which at every hour of the day and night they had to be prepared. It was a monotonous life all right. One did one’s best to make things varied for the men, to keep them fit and interested in their work. One got leave for them when one could, sent them into the nearest town whenever possible. But the guns came first, their job was to serve the guns. For six months now they had been waiting, watching. For all that he could do for them, for all the brave showing that they made, their hearts must be often heavy. They were not professional soldiers after all, their real lives, their careers, the things they cared for were in England. They lived for their mail, their links with home, their “after-the-war” dreams, and if their homes let them down …

  He had heard stories enough of men whose girls had flung them over, of wives who had asked to be divorced. Such stories were the commonplace of the Middle East. But it was the first personal example he had had, the first time that it had happened to anyone he knew. For it to have happened to Willis, too. Such a decent, quiet, self-respecting fellow, so punctilious about his work; work for which he had no real aptitude but at which he had made himself proficient, out of a sense of duty; Willis whose whole world had been centred on this girl; who wasn’t one of those resilient, happy-go-lucky people who can shrug off such things with a “There’re as good fish in the sea.” Willis wasn’t capable of that, poor devil. Pity seized him and anger and frustration; a sense too, unexpectedly, of relief; of personal relief in his own safety, in the knowledge that to himself nothing like this could ever happen.

  How wise he had been to form that pact, that self-denying ordinance with Judy. “Darling,” he had told her, “it’s been heaven, more than heaven. I can’t believe that the time will ever come when it’ll be any less heaven. We can’t tell though, how long the war’ll last. We can’t tell how we’ll be feeling about each other, about anything in a year’s, in two years’, in maybe three years’ time. Let’s make no vows. Let’s make no attempt to keep in touch. No telegrams, no letters. Let’s just remember, and then as soon as I’m back let’s get in touch and, darling, if we feel the same way, then …”

  That was the pact that they had made. In all conscience it had been hard enough to keep—during the long nine weeks’ journey around the Cape when her memory had been a ghost beside him, during the excitement of his first weeks in the Middle East when everything had been new to him, during the monotony of these recent months when turning the pages of an old diary he had thought “a year ago to-day.” How he had longed for the sight of her handwriting on an envelope. How he had longed to “talk” to her on paper. How often, censoring the men’s mail, had he not felt envious. Yes, how he had been wise, hadn’t he? He could never receive a letter such as Willis had. No matter how long the war lasted he could go on believeing that at the end he would find her waiting.

  Through the flap of his tent he could see Willis alone beside the gun pits. He walked across to him. One should not, he knew, refer to anything that he had read in a man’s letter. The censorship was like the confessional. There were times, though, when it was wise, because it was human, to ignore regulations, when a man was grateful for the opportunity of getting a thing off his chest.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “about your trouble.”

  Willis shrugged. “It’s what I half expected, sir,” he said. “Anne’s a lively person, always on the lookout for fun. I was really a bit old for her. If we could have married right away, if I hadn’t had to come out here I might have been able, well, to steady her. But with me away, and her not knowing how long the thing will last, well, sir, one’s only young once, with no one to rely upon, not seeing her future clear, if you get me, sir; I thought that if I wrote a lot, if I sent her things, showed her that she was mattering as much as ever, it might make her feel that, well, things would be all right in the end. It was too long, though sir, too far away. Not being able to see an end to it. I suppose I’ve always known it was bound to happen. I only hope—she’s a headstrong girl, sir—I only hope she’s found a decent fellow.”

  It was said simply, undramatically, on a level tone without inflections. Its simplicity both touched and humbled the officer who stood beside him. How selflessly, how unselfishly this man had loved. Willis had thought of one thing only, of how he could make things easier for this girl. It was of her only that he had thought. Whereas he himself, had he at any time, at any point, thought of anything except himself, of how he might protect himself, ensure his own peace of mind? Had he once thought of Judy, of how she would be affected by this self-denying ordinance?

  Slowly, pensively, he walked from the gun position to his tent. On the canvas camp-table lay the pile of letters, Willis’s at the top of it. Ten minutes back it was with a sense of relief, of personal satisfaction, that he had stuck down that letter. He felt ashamed now of that feeling. What had he to be proud of, after all? He had forged himself an armour, yes, but only by taking away Judy’s. For all he knew, Judy might have remembered him no longer than Willis had been remembered by his girl. Yes, but on the other hand there was an equal chance that back in England, lonely and abandoned, she was on the verge in her loneliness, of taking a step that she would regret all her life.

  With a sudden resolve he pulled forward a sheet of paper. His whole life might be ruined for the lack of a word, a sign from him, a proof, a reassurance that he was still dreaming of her. Still planning that shared life between them. What was the use of armour to him, what right had he to armour, if his wearing of it left her vulnerable?

  “Beloved,” he wrote, “that self-denying ordinance was nonsense. Am missing you more than ever. Please, please write.”

  Within a week that telegram would have reached her. Within six weeks he would have started to fret anxiously, longing for, yet dreading that first letter. From now on he would know no certainty, no peace of mind. He had flung away his armour. Yet it was with pride and happiness that he faced his own complete defencelessness.

  86

  LUNCH WITH THE MINISTER

  The invitation came from the A.D.C. The staff were being invited in twos and in rotation. The Staff Captain “Q” and the I.O. from the Press and Propaganda Section deliberated at some length as to whether they should wear Sam Brownes or not.

  The Residence had been once the Japanese Consulate. It was built on the Lebanese plan; on each floor a large central hall with small rooms opening off it. The small rooms were cosy and informal. Three French officers had been invited. They were in the medical service. One of them was a full colonel. The conversation was entirely in French and was constructed on a triangle round the Minister, Lady Spears and the French colonel. Not a single remark was addressed to the two British officers. The I.O. Press, who was young and shy, interposed three questions. The Staff Captain “Q”, who preferred listening to talking, except among his friends, and very often even then, twice, out of a social sense, rescued a conversation that seemed about to languish, reorientated and then relinquished it. The food was admirable. The Minister a good raconteur. He quite enjoyed himself.

  After lunch the party split up into small groups. He discussed with a French Commandant the restaurants of the Cote d’Azur. After a quarter of an hour’s conversation the French Colonel rose to his feet and they all left together. The Minister came down with them into the hall. They signed their names in the guest book. It was the first time that he had met the Minister.

  87

  BEIRUT SKETCH BOOK

  Grand Serail. In front of the main entrance there is a wide gravel courtyard with steps and a clock tower and the air of a Municipal Town Hall. Inside there is the air of a Dickensian coaching inn; a long, low, one-storied Turkish building and a courtyard that is in part a garage, but that has none of the usual garage atmosphere of noise and petrol fumes.

  At the end of the courtyard is a garden, a brick path leading under
a high arched pergola. At the end of the pergola, there is a sentry. Two wide staircases rise on either side of the main entrance. There is a great smartness of saluting. The sentry tosses up his rifle by his right-hand side, bringing his left hand across at right angles, the palm pointing down. The offices open off the gallery. Half of the doors stand open. The windows—high and Gothic windows—face the sea. The Secretariat is for the most part civilian. The girls are dark and pretty. There is no atmosphere of bustle. But a brisk atmosphere of work. A small boy brings round cups of coffee. In the summer he brings iced orange juice.

  Liaison Problem. The office hours in the Grand Serail were 07.00 to 12.00 and 14.00 to 18.00 hours. H.Q. Ninth Army’s hours were 08.30 to 13.30 and 16.00 to 20.00 hours. Spears’s Mission Syria had to adjust its time-table to these two main contacts.

  Nostalgia. She was slight, pale, dark-haired and very pretty with her hair worn low upon her shoulders and drawn behind the ears. When he saw her across the room, he thought: “A French woman following the local fashion.” He was introduced to her in French. For a minute or two they went on in French. Then suddenly she laughed: “What about trying English for a change?” It was like … But he could find no simile. She had been born in Brooklyn.

  On nights when he was Duty Officer he would ring her up. For ten, for twenty minutes, for half an hour they would chatter away to one another. He would close his eyes. Listening to her voice, he would think himself back at the Algonquin.

  Convoys. Occasionally in the distance you would hear the dull thud of guns: a naval action, you would ask yourself.

  Arak. It is a white liquid that clouds when you pour water on it. It tastes like Pernod. You sip at it and between sips you eat. In the cafés, when you order it as an apéritif, they serve “mezze” with it—small hors-d’ œuvres, side-dishes of cheese and nuts and radishes. If you do not eat while you are sipping Arak you will be drunk in a few minutes. Sometimes if you are talking and forget to eat, and treat Arak as though it were a whisky soda, you will feel the room swaying round you; but a couple of quick mouthfuls will set you straight. If you start on Arak you must stick to Arak. If you are wise with Arak, you will never feel the worse for it.