‘Come on,’ Harry encouraged the weakening Gus. ‘Nearly there.’
‘He needn’t have gone to fetch him – at least not at once – not under that barrage of bullets.’
‘Who? Who are you talking about, Gus?’
‘But you know my brother – you know Al – he couldn’t leave someone lying out there – not even for five minutes.’
‘Almeric’s here as well?’ Harry said, stopping. ‘Of course – you’re in the same regiment.’
‘I shouted at him to wait but he wouldn’t, Harry,’ Gus continued. ‘You know my brother – others first. Always himself last.’
‘Nurse?’ Harry tried to attract the eye of one of the nurses, all busy seeing to the wounded in various states of distress. ‘Nurse?’
‘I’m all right, Harry. These other chaps are in far greater need.’
Finding a couple of empty wood crates to one side of the tent, Harry made Gus as comfortable as he could while he waited.
‘Is Almeric all right, Gus?’
‘Almeric’s dead, Harry,’ Gus said flatly. ‘I was just telling you.’
‘What? What did you say, Gus?’
‘He was fetching Blake. Sergeant Blake got hit badly. Al went back to fetch him.’
‘Did you say – you didn’t, did you?’ Harry asked, horrified. ‘You can’t have done.’
‘I thought I’d told you, Harry,’ Gus said, tears rolling down his cheeks. ‘Oh Christ,’ he sighed, putting his head back in his hands. ‘They shot him to pieces.’
John Eden saw the name of his first-born son in the lists from the battle at Loos and made immediate enquiries. Once the news was confirmed he made arrangements to return to Bauders at once. There being no trains running to the Halt, he commandeered a motor car from among those at the disposal of the War Office and was driven to Bauders. The English countryside was bathed in the late glow of a fine, hot September day, but he hardly moved, sitting in the back of the motor car with his feet firmly planted on the floor and both hands grasping his knees. Afterwards he remembered little if anything of the journey, other than thinking about how best to break the news to Circe of the loss of their resolute, brave and dashing Almeric. He could think of no possible way; could not imagine anything that could be said in any way to lessen the pain. He resolved to tell her only of their son’s courage, and he would tell her of his valour on the day he fell, but knew that would bring little comfort.
But then as he drew near his ancestral home, as he passed through the gates and saw the deer and the sheep grazing peacefully in his parkland with the great house outlined against the pink of the evening sky, he knew there was nothing he needed to say because as he finally alighted from the motor vehicle and composed himself on the steps of his home he realised that Circe already knew. As soon as she had seen the official car she had known, and was already waiting for John, her arms outstretched.
Chapter Fourteen
The Pantomime
The show had to go on, if only to keep up the spirits of the patients, but how to tell the Duchess? It was something that preoccupied both Partita and Kitty.
‘You really don’t need me to tell you, my dears,’ Circe said to them both when they finally plucked up the courage to go to her. ‘We all know in our heart of hearts that the one person who would be truly delighted that you were planning another production would be astonished that you even thought of cancelling it. We might not feel like doing it, but then we are not the point of it. The point of it is these young men who are here as our guests to recover from their wounds and the infamy of war, men some of whom, I would remind you, might possibly be deemed fit enough soon to return to do more battle, and if that is the case the very least we all can do is to make this Christmas another one to remember in every possible way.’
‘Well, I suppose at least we wouldn’t have Mr St Clare telling us what to do and what not to do,’ Partita remarked when she and Kitty were reviewing their feelings about the proposed pantomime. ‘Mamma said he’s working as a stretcher bearer.’
‘Mr St Clare?’ Kitty said in surprise. ‘Good for him.’
‘Let’s just hope he doesn’t see anything too shocking,’ Partita joked. ‘No lacy drawers or such like,’ she finished with a smile, remembering Mr St Clare’s sensitivity to the sight of female underwear during the staging of Pirates. They both fell silent, each of them once again struggling against the overwhelming grief that threatened them at every turn. The alternate bouts of tears – to be brushed hurriedly away – and sickness, the sleeplessness, where old memories came dancing back, faces, laughing faces, voices, music, only to disappear as if they had never happened, which of course they might not have. The nightmare of today making, as it did, hideous mockery of their joys of yesterday. All their joys seeming to have conflagrated, leaving only ashes, and tears. But tears could not be fostered, must be suppressed, sublimated to the cause of a war which they did not understand, which in their heart of hearts they knew had to be the result of old men’s regret, of old men’s conceit – old men’s boredom even.
‘It is very brave of Mr St Clare to go and do his bit at the Front, don’t you think?’ Kitty said, eventually.
‘Of course it is, Kitty. I was just teasing. Anyway, are we going to do as Mamma says, or defy her and risk being sent to the Tower? Or holed up in one of the priestly hiding places?’
In actual fact there had never been a good reason for not going ahead with some sort of Christmas show. It was simply that, fighting grief as they were, to the girls and the Duchess the organisation of the proposed pantomime had suddenly seemed a little too near home for comfort.
As Kitty said, ‘Pirates was so special. We were all in love with someone by the end of it. Everyone in love, and then – and then Waterside coming after it – it was all like some magical dream, a midsummer night dream of our own.’
As Christmas approached, suddenly seeming to be upon them before they quite realised it, they began to throw themselves wholeheartedly into the preparation and production of their chosen pantomime – Cinderella.
‘You’ll play Cinderella, will you not?’ Jack turned to Partita, as in love with her, if not more, than Michael Bradley.
‘No, I think you should, jack,’ Partita protested. ‘I think you’d make a lovely Cinders.’
‘Yeah, I might and all, Lady Partita,’ jack replied with a grin. ‘But you’d be even lovelier. I shall play Buttons.’
‘Pity we’re not doing Treasure Island,’ Partita replied, poker-faced. ‘You’d be better in that – as Long John Silver.’
‘I shall be off me crutches by then, don’t you worry,’ Jack assured her, waving one at her. ‘Thanks to Nurse Kitty I’m all but walking already.’
‘Good,’ Partita concluded. ‘Then I shall look forward to it.’
‘I wonder if we can get Michael to take part?’ Kitty asked later of no one in particular, when they were drawing up a cast list. ‘We know he can sing – and not many of this lot can. Jack can, thank heavens, but have you heard George Skellern? And as for Charlie Bennett – he has a voice like a foghorn.’
‘I thought George and Charlie should be the Ugly Sisters,’ Partita said. ‘And it would be hysterically funny to give them a duet, don’t you think? Bring the house down.’
‘I wonder if we could get Michael to play Prince Charming,’ Kitty wondered idly.
‘You don’t think that might be going a little too far, Kitty?’ Partita asked with a glint in her eye. ‘Because I do.’
‘I think it’s a way to get him involved,’ Kitty replied. ‘It’s up to you whether or not you let it go too far.’
‘Well, of course I wouldn’t!’
‘So ask him then.’
‘It’s just that he might get the wrong idea.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Kitty maintained. ‘It really won’t make any difference to the way he truly feels – not about you, anyway. But it might make a lot of difference to the way he thinks about himself.’
‘
That’s very clever of you, Kitty,’ Partita replied. ‘I didn’t look at it that way. Very well, I shall ask him.’
‘I think we should find a part for Tinker as well,’ Kitty added. ‘She’s been so plucky. It might help her. She could be the Fairy Godmother.’
‘I had you down for that part.’
‘Tinker would be sweet – and funny, too.’
‘No, you are going to be the Fairy Godmother – because the men have demanded that as well – so let’s put Tinker down for Cinderella’s kitchen maid.’
‘Tita,’ Kitty sighed, ‘Cinderella is the kitchen maid. Not even at Bauders does a kitchen maid have a kitchen maid.’
‘All right,’ Partita said with a cross sigh. ‘She can be the Fairy Godmother’s assistant.’
‘The Fairy Godmother doesn’t have an assistant,’ Kitty protested.
‘She does now,’ Partita informed her. ‘And Mamma is going to be the Queen, and Papa – would you believe? – Papa has agreed to take his first acting part. He is to be the King.’
Canon White, only newly arrived to help cover many miles of neglected parishes, proved to be an invaluable help, once it had been discovered that he was a pantomime buff. Not only did he have full books and lyrics for the traditional versions of almost every pantomime, he also had costume and prop books and was only too willing to lend a hand with the production, even though it was not going to be a traditional panto. And, of course, Elizabeth was to provide the music, just as she had done for Pirates.
‘Latest from Pug?’ Partita wondered when they all met up one evening for rehearsal.
‘Still in one piece, bless him,’ Elizabeth replied, lowering her voice a little, as she realised how unfair it was that Pug should be in one piece, and not Almeric. ‘He hopes he might be given leave some time around Christmas. But do you know, in his last letter to me he says he’s practically in the same place as where he first started?’
‘How come?’ Kitty wondered. ‘How do you mean?’
‘It seems every time they make fifty yards, the next day or week or month, they go back fifty yards. He says he can’t be more than thirty yards forward from where they were first engaged.’
‘It simply doesn’t make sense.’
‘I don’t think war ever does make sense,’ Elizabeth stated sadly.
It was certainly not making much sense for Elizabeth’s father, Cecil, who was now beginning wholeheartedly to regret volunteering. He had fondly imagined the war for which he had put forward his services to help fight would be nothing more than a brief skirmish, a chance to get away from Maude, renew old regimental acquaintances, and perhaps see a little bit of action from a decent distance. Few men of his age could expect to be thrust into the front line, but such had been the heavy loss of officers early on in the combat that the need for experienced officers was a more than ready one.
So it was that, after the failure of the September offensive, Cecil Milborne found himself dispatched to Maricourt, just north of the Somme, as part of the Fourth Army. Prior to this move he had already been for a short time in the front lines, but in a relatively quiet part along the Marne, where he had managed to survive, but – it was rumoured – at the cost of the lives of many of his men whom he frequently sent out on suicide missions, having waived any need for carrying out reconnaissance. Unsurprisingly Major Cecil Milborne was hated by the unfortunates who served under him.
In the end Cecil’s cunning ability to stay away from danger rebounded on him when, as a result of his new commander’s appraisal of his apparently spotless record, he was sent to the Somme. The commanding officer could be forgiven for thinking that he had landed on his feet with Major Milborne. For here, undoubtedly, was an experienced and first-class officer, just the sort of soldier he was looking for. He promptly added him to the list of men required for the forth-coming campaign planned around the Somme. As a result of this, Cecil was denied Christmas leave, forced to up sticks, and accompanied by a large body to make his way to Maricourt.
As a result of the dyspeptic mood he then suffered because of the backfire, shortly before leaving for the Somme, and acting in his usual bitter manner, Major Cecil Milborne ordered a detail from his brigade out on one extra mission.
After two and a half days and nights of fighting in the front line, the men were exhausted, but this did not deter Cecil, who promptly ordered them to retake a trench lost to them in the previous twelve hours. There was only one officer free to go with the party. He apologised to his men for taking them out again, making it perfectly clear that this was the sole decision of his superior officer. They reached the redoubt in question where he and three of his men were killed immediately by shell fire. Seeing the fatal trap into which they had been forced to fall, second in command, William Wilkinson, managed to fight his way back to the safety of the divisional trench, one of only three survivors. Once there he swore to avenge the death of his gallant comrades. No one who heard him could doubt his sincerity.
By the time some semblance of order had been restored in the clearing stations behind the lines at Loos, the medical teams could only wait for orders to their next destination.
In an effort to make some sense of what he had endured, as well as to distract him from what he knew must come, now that the Allies had been pushed back, during his free moments Harry decided to accompany the journal he had started with sketches. At first they were merely quick line drawings of desolate war landscapes, but these were soon followed by depictions of life in the dressing and clearing stations, pencil drawings of the wounded lying on stretchers in fields of waving corn, among wild flowers as they awaited transport to field stations, of surgeons operating under the most severe conditions, of fellow drivers at work and at rest, men exhausted by their labours, some sitting smoking, others reading letters, or writing home, many just sitting or lying where they could find comfort, staring blankly.
The battles fought round Loos had hit them all hardest of all, the ravages being caused by the almost unopposed use of the machine gun by the enemy. Until this point the wounded the ambulances had transported had been hurt by rifle fire, shrapnel from the guns – often their own – small shell fire, rifle grenades, provided they had not scored a direct hit, and bayonet wounds, the damage done to those hit by larger shells or blown up by mines being too devastating to survive.
‘What’s all this you’re writing, Wavell?’ Richard Charles, the senior medical officer, asked him, sitting himself down beside Harry and offering him a smoke. ‘Every time I see you you’re scribbling away, or trying to ask me awkward questions. Can I see that?’
Charles took Harry’s journal before Harry could stop him to read what had just been written, Charles reading the last two pages in silence while Harry smoked his cigarette.
‘You don’t mind, do you?’ Charles asked quietly, as he turned the page. ‘Say if you do.’
‘I don’t mind,’ Harry replied, although he did.
‘Hmmm,’ Charles said, when he had finished reading the latest pages, and flicking back through the notebook to admire the drawings. ‘You have quite a talent, Wavell,’ he conceded. ‘A considerable talent, if I may say so?’
‘You may,’ Harry replied. ‘I don’t mind at all. In fact, if you mean it—’
‘I mean it,’ Charles interrupted. ‘And I know what I’m talking about, I assure you. My mother’s an artist and my father’s a publisher.’
‘And you’re a doctor.’
‘The great thing about life, Wavell, is that it follows no logic. You can really write, you know, and you can draw.’
‘And you can operate – quite brilliantly. I’ve seen you in action.’
‘I would rather I wasn’t practising my skills under these sorts of conditions. Wasn’t quite what I visualised when I started training. Still – needs must when the devil drives, and all that sort of thing.’
‘I’ve also heard you don’t stay put,’ Harry continued. ‘That you’re often out there in the field, tending to the wounded.’<
br />
‘You don’t want to believe everything you hear.’
‘I also heard you got a roasting for it,’ Harry grinned. ‘Too brave to be a doctor, they said.’
‘And no damned use at all to the wounded if dead,’ Charles added, before returning to the matter of Harry’s journal. ‘We should find a publisher for this, the journal, drawings, everything. People should know what it’s really like out here. Well, of course you do, otherwise you wouldn’t be keeping a journal. They say everyone who writes one only does it so that it may be read. Look, tell you what. When we get back to Blighty – soon I hope – get in touch. Here.’ He took Harry’s journal back from him to write his name and address in the back. ‘You never know. The old man publishes a lot of this sort of thing – by that I mean good writing, poetry, the better sort of prose. He’s a bit of a bright man, my father – and my mother would be able to help you with the illustrations.’
‘Thanks,’ Harry said, meaning it. ‘That’s very good of you. I wish there was something I could do in return.’
‘I’ll think of something,’ Charles replied, putting his cigarette out in the mud at his feet. ‘In the meantime I have to say that your idea about moving the dressing stations nearer the field stations, and thus the front line itself is a good one. I’ve been giving it some thought, and as far as I can see the only minus is that if we move too near the front lines we could be vulnerable to capture. It’s not that practical to clear a station in a hurry.’
‘As against that, though, we would save a lot more lives.’
‘Yes, indeed. We should balance these things up, make a judgement that would possibly prove that the one far outweighed the other. Which is why I’ve written a memorandum to a high up, one of the consulting surgeons, putting forward your idea – and giving you credit for it, I may say,’ he finished with a smile.
‘Thank you, sir.’
Harry offered Charles a cigarette and they lit up and smoked in silence for a while, both lost in their thoughts.
‘Any chance of getting home for Christmas?’ Charles asked.
In Distant Fields Page 37