A Different Kind of Love

by Sheelagh Kelly

  ‘What a compliment him coming to see you. He really is a splendid old chap, isn’t he?’

  From the wan face on the pillow came half-hearted agreement. ‘It’s absolute hell not to be going, but at least I feel secure knowing he’ll be there to look after my little brother.’

  Hurt by this slur on his manhood, Louis fought the inclination to retaliate, deciding that it was punishment enough for one so ambitious to be excluded from the adventure. To cover his annoyance, he dipped into his tunic and withdrew the photograph of Probyn, which many fellow officers had acquired. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got yours to hand so I shall leave this here and the RSM can watch over you whilst I’m away.’ Ignoring Guy’s objections he propped it against a jug of water. ‘There you are, a guardian angel.’

  Though the mouth smiled the reply was far from gracious. ‘It’s you who needs the guardian angel. Just remember to keep your mind on your responsibilities. You’re there to fight, not to quaff wine with the mademoiselles – and do take that blessed photo; it’ll only get wet next to the water jug. Besides, I thought you intended to carry it as a talisman?’

  ‘Don’t need it when I’ll have the real thing.’ Louis censured himself for being unable to resist the barb, though as he left the ward a grin of one-upmanship played around his lips.

  * * *

  Two days after the King’s inspection, news came that the British transport ship Royal Edward had been torpedoed by an enemy submarine with the loss of a thousand lives. Such dastardly deeds were occurring quite regularly now: their vessel grounded in Danish waters, the helpless crew of the E13 were mercilessly picked off like ducks, a White Star Liner, Arabic, torpedoed and sunk with more loss of life. Yet even pushed so far the Americans still offered no more than angry words, leaving any retaliation to the Allies; and retaliate they surely did, an angry swarm of British aeroplanes descending on German positions to inflict huge losses and extend a new British line on the Western Front.

  In English streets such valour was re-enacted by a million small boys. Bereft of an aircraft, Joe Kilmaster performed the next best thing: arms outstretched he ran zooming round his mother as she chatted to Fanny Gentle and Mrs Rushton in the evening sunshine, interspersing his engine noises with sporadic gunfire, dipping and weaving about imaginary skies.

  A bomb exploded. Grace broke off the conversation to chastise her son. ‘Joseph, we’re trying to speak! Go play down there with the other hooligans.’ The boy roared off along the terrace, leaving the three women to their gossip.

  There was much to discuss, for the weekend had witnessed new developments. Not only had Italy declared war on the Turks, but there had come the decision of Britain and France to place cotton in the category of absolute contraband, so upsetting the United States. ‘I can’t see why they’re chuntering,’ objected Grace. ‘It’s nothing compared to what the Germans have done to them. Well, all right they might have a genuine grievance – but for heaven’s sake we’ve waited a year before putting this embargo on. How can you have an effective blockade if you’ve got to let certain people through? Maybe now they won’t waste any more time in idle chitchat with the enemy and help us get this damned war over with.’

  They spoke disparagingly about the recent food riots in Germany for a while, until Grace glanced down the street and saw her daughter coming along it with a newspaper bundle. ‘Oh, here’s our Gussie and I haven’t even warmed the plates.’

  Augusta arrived. ‘I didn’t have enough money so I could only afford four fish, but I’ve made it up with extra chips.’

  Grace frowned. ‘But I gave you a florin.’

  ‘Cod’s gone up to fourpence.’

  ‘My God! It’ll be classed as a luxury import soon,’ exclaimed Grace with an outraged look at her neighbours. Steering Augusta inside, she instructed, ‘Divide it between the rest of you, I’ll just have chips. I’m not really hungry.’

  Fanny shared her disgust. ‘What were we just saying about food riots in Germany? They’ll be having them here if they aren’t careful!’

  Grace roundly condemned the Hun for robbing them of their tea. ‘They sit there lurking in their blasted submarines, too cowardly to come out and face our navy but instead firing at trawlers and anything else that comes into their sights…’

  All at once remembering that very soon her husband would be venturing into those dangerous waters, Grace felt the sun eclipsed by an awful chill of fear and she crossed herself swiftly, before saying goodbye to her friends and heading indoors.

  * * *

  The recurrent sinkings also provided sober thought amongst those about to embark themselves. Knowing that Grace would be frantic about his own imminent voyage, Probyn snatched a moment to pencil a brief joky letter to her, before being dragged back to the business of coping with soldiers chafing to be off.

  Towards the end of August, on another boiling hot summer’s day, the 9th York and Lancasters finally departed Quebec Barracks, marching in files along a road clogged with dust, bound for Liphook. With nary a drop consumed, the mood was extremely merry. Louis Postgate, sympathetic as he might feel towards his brother, was totally intoxicated by the thought that after a nine-month slog they were deemed to be proper soldiers and were finally embarking on their great adventure. Foxy Reynard and Hugh Faljambe, Gaylard, Sillar, Geake – even the dour troublemaker Unthank singing his heart out with the rest – warriors all.

  The sun was still shining by the time the battalion reached the station, though its glare was much tempered. A crowd of friends had gathered to shower everyone with sweets, packets of tea, coffee and cigarettes. Someone grabbed Probyn’s hand and shook it ardently. Unfazed by such demonstration from a complete stranger, he smiled politely, his jaw beginning to ache as the hand was replaced by another and another and many more, until a loud hailer ordered everyone to their carriages.

  In civilian life an unhurried soul, Probyn would have derived much pleasure from watching the bevy of female figures in circulation. Today as supreme organizer, he concentrated only on getting the men aboard, demanding excellence. Averse to the stuffy, sun-warmed moquette of the interior, the squaddies hung out of the windows, looking for pretty girls to engage in conversation. Hearts were pledged, promises were made to write, words that would normally never have passed a soldier’s lips were issued freely by those going off to battle.

  Alerted by an ear-splitting whistle, the crowd moved as one in a last-minute surge to the windows to grasp hands and wish the Tommies luck. Then, to deafening cheers and waving of Union Jacks, the train steamed out of the station.

  * * *

  On arrival at Folkestone they embarked immediately. Giving the order for everyone to put on lifebelts, Probyn donned his own, then took out his watch and underwent a few moments’ reverie in the balmy evening. It was nine thirty. The children would be in bed. Grace too would be almost ready to go up, perhaps sipping the last of her cocoa and thinking of him.

  A more romantic summer’s night one could not ask for, the few lamps that were ignited on the coast playing like stars upon the inky rippling waters. Probyn watched them shrink to pinpricks as the ship steamed further out to sea, soon to be engulfed in a cloak of midnight blue.

  ‘Truly magnificent!’ Lieutenants Faljambe and Postgate had come to share the view with Probyn. ‘All it requires is a cigarette and I’d be in heaven.’ Owing to the rumoured presence of German submarines, the crossing was to be undertaken in darkness, even the glow of a match forbidden.

  Gasping for a smoke, the RSM gave a murmur of empathy, though added wise advice. ‘I understand your excitement, Lieutenant Faljambe, but it might pay to keep that foghorn down.’

  ‘Oh, was I shouting?’

  ‘You were, sir. Noise carries a long way upon water.’

  Peeved to be toppled from his pedestal of fully fledged warrior, Faljambe gave stiff apology and, lest this killjoy dampen any more of their enthusiasm, he and Louis excused themselves and moved away.

  Escorted by two black s
ilhouettes that sliced their way through the murky current, the ship reached Boulogne just after eleven, anchoring amongst several other vessels outside the harbour. Whipped to higher excitement by the fleets of French and English destroyers shifting around them all the time, the men were barely containable by the time the pilot led them in.

  Upon disembarkation they were ordered to march, but only for a mile and a half to a large shed where they were joined by masses of others. The whole world seemed comprised of khaki.

  Breakfasting at Ostrohove rest camp, they were to remain there throughout that day, acclimatizing themselves to French soil. Evening saw them once more putting their boot leather to the test, at the end of their hike entraining for Audruicq in the late afternoon, their mode of travel provoking much disgust.

  ‘We come to save their skins,’ ejaculated Private Rawmarsh to vociferous agreement from his comrades, ‘and they stick us in trucks meant for bloody animals!’

  But, eager to get to the front, well drilled by their sergeants and watched over by RSM Kilmaster’s steely eyes, the troops complied with alacrity, the whole battalion transferred from platform to train in record time.

  * * *

  At the other end of the track, the machine-gunners branched off for Wizemes; the rest were to spank the roads again.

  ‘Now I appreciate the reason for all that route marching at home,’ announced Louis to his peers, though it was not issued as a complaint for after so much excellent training their bodies were honed to withstand any test.

  Nevertheless, Lieutenant Reynard managed to look hard done by, wincing under the burden of his equipment. To drown his moans, Louis formed his lips into a whistle, the men soon joining in as they tramped jauntily along the pavé.

  ‘Look at these old buggers, Pork!’ An amused Private Hamm indicated the column of men who were plodding towards them, covered from head to toe in dust, their expressions quietly reflective.

  ‘No wonder they need us here,’ opined his friend, whose name was actually Porks but since they were almost inseparable and had become known as Pork and Hamm, no one ever remembered to add the S. ‘They must be off to draw their pensions!’

  Overhearing, a sergeant commanded them to cease the derogatory remarks as the two columns marched past each other. Probyn, who had heard it all before, remained silent. It was no use trying to explain to these carefree boys that in a few months on the battlefront they would look similarly worn out. Instead, he merely shared a look of understanding with the commander of the other unit, before proceeding with his own buoyant troops on the road to Nordausques.

  Whilst no surprise to Probyn, it came as anti-climax to his whistling, singing band that on arrival here they were not to join in any real battle but were to undergo a further two weeks of training. However, once the groans had died away they were alerted to the sound of gunfire in the distance, and suddenly their play-acting was given a sense of purpose.

  Their RSM began to note a change in their attitude, an air of apprehension, the cocky ones unusually reticent. Though Probyn did all he could to bolster them, his words of encouragement were overshadowed by the horrors of war that had begun to creep upon the scene: bloated corpses of black-and-white cows burst open like overripe pods, emitting a stench that made some physically sick; the bomb-ravaged homes; the queue of wounded outside a dressing station; crimson seeping through hastily applied bandages; but much worse, the mangled remains of a human being awaiting interment – English, German or French, it hardly mattered – what had once been living flesh and muscle and bone rent apart as easily as a doll by some truculent child, its only purpose now to host a buzzing swarm of flies.

  Probyn watched the young men’s expressions change as they glimpsed the true awfulness of war for the first time, knew what was going through their minds, saw the realization dawn – how pathetically fragile was the human form – but he offered them no words of solace for, in the end, it was up to each man to cope in his own way.

  Unable to equip his young officers with bravery, he could and did, however, warn them of the underhand tactics the enemy would employ; it was a lesson even the company commanders must learn, for most of whom it was their first experience of war.

  Visiting them in the deserted estaminet that acted as their billet, he advised: ‘Before you go into the line, gentlemen, it might be as well to warn your troops that if they hear the order to cease fire they should ensure that it comes from their own side. The Boers wreaked havoc on our lines before we realized they’d learned our bugle calls – our lads would heed the call to retire and be sitting ducks. The Boche will no doubt try something similar; they’re cut from the same cloth.’

  ‘How very unsporting,’ objected Faljambe, sifting through his collection of gramophone records and placing one on the turntable, the crumbling room dotted with other such home comforts.

  Louis agreed, but made a wistful digression. ‘I must confess I feel rather unsporting myself, going through the men’s private letters.’ Censoring had lately come into force.

  ‘It’s got to be done, sir. If they should fall into enemy hands—’

  ‘Oh, I understand that, Mr Kilmaster, and I’m certain their families don’t wish to hear some of the lurid accounts I’ve had to delete today. You should have seen the stuff Unthank wrote to his parents.’

  ‘Unthank has parents?’ Winding the gramophone, Faljambe sounded amazed. ‘It was my understanding he’d been spawned by the devil.’

  Whilst others showed mirth, including the RSM, Louis gave a reproving smile. ‘You might be further surprised that some of it was quite eloquent.’ He pondered for a while, almost blushing at the memory of Rawmarsh’s lustful pencillings to his sweetheart. ‘But reading the men’s intimate thoughts … I feel so intrusive.’ Then he laughed. ‘Poor Skeeton, he hasn’t really grasped the concept of all this secrecy business yet. After I’d finished with his letter there was more crossed out than there was written.’ Still smiling, he rose to carry out his role of orderly officer. ‘Well, I’d better make my rounds and leave the rest of you to your beauty sleep.’

  ‘Sleep?’ Reynard inserted a toffee into his worried, pimply face. ‘With that row going on?’ He could not get used to the constant bombardment, however distant.

  ‘You’re such a happy carefree soul, Foxy,’ Louis teased him, then took his leave, giving parting address to the RSM. ‘Thank you for that useful piece of information, Mr Kilmaster, I shall pass it on.’ Probyn moved alongside him, lowering his voice so as not to ridicule the lieutenant in front of his peers. ‘Revolver, sir.’

  Thus reminded, Louis gave a wince at his own slackness and as casually as he could, went back to pick up his revolver, checking first to see that it was loaded before strapping it on, with a murmur of thanks. ‘My brother said I should need a guardian angel.’

  With a wry glance at each other, the old soldier and the new went out into the rumbling night, their eyes and ears alert for spies.

  * * *

  It was hard for such a formidable personality to melt into the background, but as much as he could Probyn tried to remain anonymous, to watch and to listen without interference as those in his care struggled to mould themselves into an effective fighting machine. For most, having learned to work well together even before leaving England, the dangerous environment only helped to cement these ties. Yet, despite all the months of practice, there remained some who had yet to accept the rules.

  Towards the end of the fortnight’s training, before leaving Nordausques, the order came for the battalion to turn out for a special parade, a request that did not suit Private Unthank.

  ‘Parade?’ he exploded. ‘I hoped I’d left all that crap behind in England.’

  ‘It’s to honour Brigadier-General Kinloch,’ the corporal informed him. ‘He’s leaving the brigade.’

  Unthank scoffed, ‘Another bloody general? There’s more generals than there are men. I wish they’d all bugger off and leave us to get on with the job.’ However, he dragged himself o
ut to parade, albeit with bad humour.

  All were assembled in arrow-like precision, focused on the brigadier-general, who expressed sorrow that he would not be there to lead them into action and thanked them for their loyal support through the long and arduous period of training, when suddenly a hare came bounding through the ranks. Probyn tensed. His eyes immediately fell on Unthank, who had broken the neat formation. Feeling those eyes boring into him, Unthank met the other’s gaze and reluctantly stepped back into line, though his expression showed that he itched to give chase. As if acting in mischief, the hare chose to sit right in front of him and proceeded to clean its whiskers with a paw, whilst a glowering Unthank and the RSM duelled with their eyes, the latter daring Unthank to move a muscle. Finally, totally ignored, the hare bounded from the scene as quickly as it had appeared, leaving behind only a taste of sweetness in Probyn’s mouth. Such steadiness augured well for the trials yet to come.

  Departing Nordausques the battalion set out on a long trying march over the pavé. It was too hot to sing now, or even to speak. Each weighed down by sixty pounds of equipment, they were to suffer greatly, many stops having to be made along the way in order to gulp from the water wagons. Even then there was no comfort to be found in shade, for the ancient hedgerows of home were absent here, the fields coming right up to the road and leaving the soldiers exposed to the full attack of the sun.

  If younger men endured discomfort, the manifold sufferings of their regimental sergeant-major would have been pitiful to behold had he confessed to them. Overweight, plagued by aching joints, his heart pounding in his bullish chest and his face crimson, Probyn had never endured such a trial, felt as if he might drop dead any minute, was driven only by sheer willpower, for he could allow no one to glimpse his frailty.