Yes, but why so sentimental? Why all this fuss over a few million men killed and maimed? Thousands of people die weekly and somebody’s run over in London every day. Does that argument take you in? Well, the answer is that they’re not murdered. And your “thousands who die weekly” are the old and the diseased; here it’s the young and the strong and the healthy, the physical pick of the race. All men, too, and no women. That’ll set up a pretty nice resentment between the sexes – more sodomy and lesbianism. Loud cheers – we’re winning. Yes, but, going back to murder – people are murdered all the time; look at Chicago. Look at Chicago! We’re allways patting ourselves on the back and looking smugly at wicked Chicago. When there’s a shoot-up between gangs, do you approve of it, do you give the winning side medals for their gallantry, do you tell ’em to go to it and you’ll kiss them when they come back, do you march ’em by with a brass band and tell ‘em what fine fellows they are? Do you take the gunman as the high ideal of humanity? I know all about military grandeur and devotion to duty – I’m a soljer meself, marm. Thanks for all you’ve done for us, marm. If violence and butchery are the natural state of man, then let’s have no more of your humbug. Violence and butchery beget violence and butchery. Isn’t that the theme of the great Greek tragedies of blood? Blood will have blood. All right, now we know. It doesn’t matter whether murder is individual or collective, whether committed on behalf of one man or a gang or a state. It’s murder. When you approve of murder you violate the right instincts of every human being. And a million murders egged on, lauded, exulted over, will raise a legion of Eumenides about your ears. The survivors will pay bitterly for it all their lives. Never mind, you’ll go on? More babies, soon make up the losses? Have another merry old war soon, sooner the better…
O my son Absalom, my son, my son Absalom! Thank God I have no son, O Absalom, my son, my son!
Winterbourne nodded uneasily asleep. He started awake as the train slowed down at London Bridge and not at Waterloo. Where am I? Railway Station. Oh, of course, on a draft going out to France…
The draft were turned out at London Bridge, and collected in two ranks on the platform, yawning, stretching, and adjusting their equipment. The draft-conducting officer, a mild, brown-eyed young man on home service after being wounded, explained that they had nearly three hours to wait. Would they like to go to a Soldiers’ Canteen and get some food?
“Yes, sir!”
They marched through the empty, muddy streets. It was about midnight. Some one began to sing one of the inevitable marching songs. The officer turned round:
“Whistle, but don’t sing. People asleep.”
They began to whistle. “Where are the lads of the village tonight?”
Winterbourne found himself crossing the Thames and, looked once more at the familiar townscape. He noticed that the street-lamps had been dimmed further since he had left London, and that the once brilliantly-lighted capital now lay cowering in darkness. The dome of St. Paul’s was just faintly visible to an eye which knew exactly where to look for it. The man next to Winterbourne was a Worcestershire ploughman who had never been to London and was most anxious to see St. Paul’s. Winterbourne tried hard to show him where it was, but failed. The ploughman never did see St. Paul’s – he was killed two months later.
Curious to march through this unfamiliar London – everything the same, but everything so different. The dimmed street-lights, the carefully blinded windows, the rather neglected streets, the comparative absence of traffic, the air of being closed down indefinitely, all gave him an uneasy feeling. It was as if a doom hung over the great city, as if it had passed its meridian of power and splendour, and was sinking back, back into the darkened past, back into the clay hills and marshes on which it stands. That New Zealander sketching the ruins from a broken pile of London Bridge seemed several centuries nearer.
“Where are the lads of the village tonight?
Where are the lads we knew?
In Piccadilly or Leicester Square?
No, not there! No, not there!
They’re taking a trip on the Continong…”
The foolish words ran in Winterbourne’s brain as the men whistled the tune with exasperating pertinacity. It was curious to be so near to Fanny and Elizabeth. He wondered vaguely what they were doing.
“No, not there! No, not there!”
He had sent Elizabeth a telegram from a station on the way up, but probably it had not reached her.
They crowded into the Canteen, and ate sandwiches and eggs and bacon, and drank ginger-beer. It was too late for beer. Our temperate troops didn’t need beer at that hour of the night.
About 2 A.M. they marched back to the station. To Winterbourne’s surprise and delight, Elizabeth and Fanny were there. Elizabeth had received his telegram although it was after hours. She had rung up Fanny, and they had gone to Waterloo together, only to find that the train with the Upshires draft was not there. Fanny had used her charms upon a susceptible R.T.O., and he had told them where to go, so there they were. All this Elizabeth poured out in a rapid, nervous, jerky way. While Fanny just clutched Winterbourne’s left hand and pressed it hard, saying nothing. They had about ten minutes before the train left. The draft-conducting officer noticed that Winterbourne was speaking to two women, “obviously ladies”, and came up. “Get in anywhere you like, Winterbourne, only don’t miss the train.”
“Very good, sir, thank you,” and saluted smartly.
“D’you always have to do that?” asked Elizabeth with a little giggle.
“Yes, it’s the custom. They seem to attach great importance to it.”
“How absurd!”
“Why absurd?” said Fanny, feeling that Winterbourne was somehow hurt by the contempt in her voice. “It’s only a convention.”
The whole train was filled with different drafts of soldiers who had been ordered into the carriages. Only Winterbourne and the two girls were left on the platform, except for the R.T.O. and one or two other officers. As often happens in railway partings, they seemed embarrassed, with nothing to say to each other. Winterbourne simply felt dull and uneasy, tongue-tied. He was saying farewell, perhaps for the last time, to the only two human beings he had really loved, and found he had nothing to say. He just felt dull and uneasy, dully remote from them. He noticed they were both wearing new hats he hadn’t seen, and that skirts were being worn much shorter. He wished the train would go. Interminable waiting. What was Elizabeth saying? He interrupted her:
“Is that the new fashion?”
“What?”
“Shorter skirts.”
“Why, yes, of course, and not so very new. Where have your eyes been?”
“Oh, there were only village women where I’ve been. I haven’t seen a properly dressed woman since my firing leave.”
Tactless! He had spent those few days with Fanny. Dear Fanny! A good sort. She had thought it an awful lark to go on a week-end with a Tommy. She was dreadfully sick of the Staff. Still, it was inconvenient that the only decent hotels and restaurants were out of bounds to Tommies. Fanny felt quite democratic about it. Elizabeth hadn’t cared. She lived with a kind of inner intensity which kept her from noticing such things.
They were silent for seconds which dragged like minutes. Then they all began to say something together, interrupted themselves. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.” “What were you going to say?” “Oh, nothing, I forget.” And then relapsed into silence again.
Winterbourne found he was slightly intimidated by the presence of these two well-dressed ladies. What on earth were they doing at two o’clock in the morning, talking to a Tommy? He tried to hide his dirty hands.
Damn the train! Won’t it ever go? He felt uncomfortably hot in his greatcoat and began to unbutton it. The engine whistled.
“All aboard !” shouted the R.T.O. Winterbourne hastily kissed Fanny and then Elizabeth.
“Goodbye, goodbye; don’t forget to write. We’ll send you parcels.”
“Thank
s, ever so. Goodbye.”
He made for the compartment where a door had been left open for him, but found it full. The luggage-van, piled with the men’s rations, was next door. Winterbourne jumped in.
“You’ll have to stand!” exclaimed Fanny.
“Why, no. There’s plenty of room on the floor.”
The train moved.
“Goodbye.”
Winterbourne waved his hand. He felt no particular emotion, merely an intensifying of the general depressingness of things. He watched them receding, as they waved their hands. Beautiful girls, both of them, and so smartly dressed.
“Be happy!” he shouted as a valediction, in a sudden gust of disinterested affection for them. And then lost sight of them. Fanny and Elizabeth were both crying. “What did he shout?” asked Elizabeth through her sobs.
“ ’Be happy!’ ”
“How curious of him! And how like him! Oh, I know I shall never see him again!”
Fanny tried to comfort her. But Elizabeth somehow felt it was all Fanny’s fault.
Winterbourne sat on his pack in the joggling van for about ten minutes. It was almost dark. The guard was trying to read a newspaper by the light of a dim oil-lamp. The soldiers who had to see that the rations weren’t stolen were already lying on the floor. Winterbourne buttoned up his coat, turned up the collar, arranged a woollen scarf on his pack to make a pillow, and lay down on the dirty floor beside them. In five minutes he was asleep.
3
IT was not nearly dawn when they reached Folkestone. The drafts from various units were now amalgamated, but still remained under their own officers. They were marched through the dull little town and bivouacked in a row of large empty houses, probably evacuated boarding-houses, fitted up with the usual inconveniences of small English hotels. They washed and had some breakfast. All rather dismal.
At seven they were marched to the quay, and then marched back. The officer had mistaken the word “eleven” for “seven”. So they had to wait again. It was their first introduction to the curious fact that much of the War consisted in waiting about and in undoing things which somebody had ordered in error or through mistaken zeal. The men, sitting on their packs in the empty room, were eagerly and vainly discussing their immediate future – which Base Camp would they go to, which unit would they be drafted to, what part of the line? Winterbourne went over to the uncurtained window and looked out. Drifting heavy clouds, a moderately rough, dirty-looking sea. The Esplanade was practically deserted. The shelters looked dilapidated; most of the glass in them was smashed. The unused gas-lamps looked somehow desolate on their rusting standards. Another wounded town – dying, perhaps. Depression, monotony, boredom. He looked at his wrist-watch. Still more than two hours to wait. Now that the inevitable had occurred, he was very impatient to get into the front line. The only interest he had left was a consuming curiosity to see what the War was really like.
Curse this hanging about! He drummed his fingers on the window-pane. The men in the room went on talking, aimlessly, foolishly, talking to no purpose. Winterbourne wondered at his own lack of emotion. All his past life seemed a dream, all his vital interests had become utterly indifferent, his ambitions were dissolved, his old friends seemed incredibly remote and unimportant; even Fanny and Elizabeth were unsubstantial, graceful ghosts. Depression, monotony, boredom – but a peculiar sort, a strained, worried, exasperated sort. For God’s sake get a move on. It’ll never end, so for the love of Mike let’s get it over. Let’s catch our little packet. We know our numbers are up, so let’s get them quickly.
One of the men was whistling:
‘What’s the use of worry-ing?’
What indeed? But can you help it? You, cheery idiot, are worrying just as much as any one else. Villiers’ torture by hope. If you were quite certain that your number was up, you’d have at least the tranquillity of resignation. But you’re not quite certain. Even in the infantry men come back. With a really healthy wound you might be out of the line for six or nine months. That was called “getting a blighty one”, if you were lucky enough to get sent back to England – “Blighty”. The men were discussing blighties. Which was the most convenient blighty? Arm or leg? Most agreed that if you lost your left hand or a foot, you were damned lucky – you were out of the bloody War for good and you got a pension and a wound-gratuity. Winterbourne stood with his back to them, looking out of the window; the ghosts of past summer visitors thronged the Esplanade. Left hand or a foot. Live a cripple. No, not that, not that, my God! Come back whole, or not at all. But how those men love life, how blindly they cling to their poor existences! You wouldn’t think they’d much to live for. No beautiful and smartly-dressed Fannies and Elizabeths. Oh, they have their “tarts”, they’ve all got a girl’s “photo” in their pay-books – and what girls! Tarts for Tommies. Cream tarts for Tommies. He turned away abruptly from the window and sat down to clean his buttons. Always keep yourself clean and smart, and walk about in a soldierly way…
His mood changed and his spirits rose as they marched down to the docks. Only twelve hours had passed since they left, and yet it seemed a tremendously long time. Winterbourne realized that the monotony, the imbecile restrictions, the incredible nagging of military pedants, had been crushing him into a condition of utter stupidity. He regretted deeply that he had been kept in England so long. At least you were doing something real in France, and there was movement…
Troops were pouring along the quay, and mounting the gangways on to three black-painted troopships. Winterbourne recognized the ships as old friends – they were pre-war Channel packet-boats transformed. Huge notices were displayed on the quays: “No. 1 Ship, 33rd Div., 19th Div., 42nd Div., 118th Brigade”. An officer with a megaphone shouted: “Leave Men to the Right, Drafts to the Left.” Another megaphone shouted: “First Army Men, Number I Ship.” “Third and Fourth Armies, Number 3 Ship.” “Captain Swanson, 11th Sea-forth Highlanders, report to R.T.O.’s office immediately.” It was rather stirring – animated and efficient as well as bustling.
The draft went on board, and were shepherded to one end of the upper deck. The whole ship was swarming with leave men returning to France. Winterbourne gazed at them fascinatedly – these were the real war soldiers, fragments of the first half-million volunteers, the men who had believed in the war and wanted to fight. They made a kind of epitome of the whole army. Every arm of the service was represented – Field Artillery, Heavies, dismounted Cavalry, Gunners, Sappers, R.E. Sigs., Army Service Corps, Army Medical Corps, and infantry everywhere. He recognized some of the infantry badges, the bursting grenade of the Northumberland Fusiliers, the tiger of the Leicesters, the Middlesex, the Bedfords, Seaforth Highlanders, Notts. and Jocks, the Buffs. He was immediately struck by their motley and picturesque appearance. He and the other draft troops were all spick-and-span – buttons bright, puttees minutely adjusted, boots polished, peaked cap stiffened with wire, pack mathematically squared, overcoat buttoned up to the throat. The leave men were dressed anyhow. Some had leather equipment, some webbing. They put their equipment together as it suited them, and none of it had been shined or polished for months. Some wore overcoats, some shaggy goatskin or rough sheepskin jackets. The skirts of some overcoats had been roughly hacked off with jack-knives – not to trail in the deep mud, Winterbourne guessed. The equipment which still weighed so heavily on the shoulders of the draft seemed to give the real soldiers no concern at all – they either wore it unconcernedly or chucked it carelessly on the deck with their rifles. Winterbourne was charmed. He noticed with amused scandal that the bolts and muzzles of their rifles were generally tightly bound with oiled rags. Winterbourne looked more carefully at their faces. They were lean and still curiously drawn although the men had been out of the line for a fortnight; the eyes had a peculiar look. They seemed strangely worn and mature, but filled with energy, a kind of slow, enduring energy. In comparison the fresh faces of the new drafts seemed babyish – rounded and rather feminine.
Death of a Hero Page 27