by Philip Child
“I’m all right,” said Dan querulously.
“Dare say you are — so far. No doubt what you need, more than anything else, is a rest.… Have you started having nightmares?”
“Yes,” said Dan in surprise.
“You wondered how I knew, didn’t you? Of course, in the back of your mind you’ve been thinking you were the only chap in the British Army bothered this way. Thousands of ’em. Sixty percent are quite all right again after a week or two of rest in the casualty clearing station.… These dreams, were they about your duties as an officer?”
“At first, they were. I’d be trying to do some job. Laying a gun platform for instance; and I wouldn’t be able to get it down in the right way.”
“And then the dreams got — er — more military in character.”
Readily enough Dan told him of a dream which came repeatedly now, about being helpless under a barrage. ‘It’s always about fighting. It isn’t distorted like ordinary dreams. Always about real people I’m with in the daytime — and real events I’ve seen. But … it’s more terrible than those events really are.”
“Steady, old man.… Anyway, in your dreams, you’ve always fought back.”
“Yes.… Until the last day or two.”
“Good. I’ve got you in plenty of time.… Did you lose consciousness?”
“No-o . Not exactly.”
“Bad headache?”
“A little one behind the eyes — only this morning.”
“Any worries — outside the war, I mean?”
“Who hasn’t!”
“Quite. Quite. How long have you been out?”
“About a year and a half.”
“The salient?”
“Yes.”
“Married, Thatcher?”
“No!”
“Don’t get shirty. About sex — we’re all strange creatures, all of us! Animal after all, you know, only on two legs with — er — a soul, so they say.”
“So I’ve heard,” said Dan sarcastically.
“That’s what makes the trouble. Never heard of a mule with an anxiety neurosis, did you? … Got to ask these questions. I’ve asked lots of people. About sex, have you ever —”
“No, I haven’t!” interrupted Dan savagely.
“On leave?”
“No.”
The doctor drew a deep breath. “It’s always the highly organized person with — er — ideals — the ‘thoroughbred’ so to speak. Well, lately now. Bother you? — That sort of thing, I mean?”
“No.”
“No desire?”
“No. I wish to God you’d finish this.”
“Quite normal that you shouldn’t — under the circumstances.… Now, as a child, were you shy with people?”
“Not that I can remember.”
“Weren’t afraid of things like thunderstorms, high places, tunnels, or crowds — anything like that? Don’t be upset — it’s a stock question.”
“No.”
“You’ve a good resistance. Normal sort of chap. Good stuff for a soldier.” Suddenly, he shot a question sideways at Dan. “Sorry for the Germans?”
“No — yes. I don’t think of that.”
“Quite.… Well, my dear fellow, you’re lucky. You’ve got a light shell shock, as they call it. I’ll be damned surprised if you aren’t quite fit again after a good rest. A week in the hospital, two or three weeks at the rest camps. Come and see me for an examination when you get back. Without fail!”
Dan said, gasping: “It’s so … blasted … mysterious. With a wound you would know where you’re at.”
“It’s just a wound like any other — a wound of the mind. As a matter of fact, nearly every soldier has it — a little. It isn’t a moral problem at all. You’re living an abnormal life. Pumping hormones into the bloodstream at a great rate to meet unusual situations. Finally, get an overdose. Of course, it takes different people different ways. But millions of people are being doped that way. Ten million men are going to be restless as hell after the war. Probably won’t realize what is wrong with them. There’ll be hell to pay. You’ll see! Things are going to be started after the war that will take a long time to finish.… You’ll get over this very quickly. Completely.”
Chapter XVI
I
“Listen,” said Lynch, “‘The First Army has been ordered to press the enemy back toward the frontier without delay —’ What do you think of that, Daniel, my lad? It’s to be a hell of a big attack, and we’ve already won the war — on paper.… Then, here’s the plan of operations.” He flipped over the sheets of mimeographed orders. “We are supplying the forward observing officer for brigade. Over the top with the best of luck.”
“Who is going, Lynch?”
Lynch gave Dan a quick, sidelong look. “Don’t know, old man.”
He does know, Dan thought. He won’t tell me because he thinks I’m touchy.
Lynch and the others had not been at ease since his return to the battery a week ago. They were too cordial, and he could feel them watching him furtively, as if he were different from themselves; now they were the mess and he was “one of our chaps who went into a tailspin.” There was a conspiracy, he felt, to keep him from taking his share of sticky jobs. They were waiting to see whether he was sure of himself.
He was not sure of himself. He could not be until he had been under shell fire again.
Each night, rounds of ammunition were dumped by the pits in readiness for the attack. Watches were synchronized by the Heavy Artillery Corps. Reams of information and instruction began to sift down through the various headquarters, gaining mass and momentum with each added series of mimeographed sheets bearing the inevitable phrase “passed on for your information and necessary action.” This paper warfare was an earnest of better things to come.
Dan went to the major’s billet. “May I see you for a moment, sir?”
“Of course. Smoke? Drink?”
“About the attack, sir. Have you decided what I’m to do?”
“Mmm, yes. As a matter of fact, I was coming to tell you tonight. You see, most of the subalterns are still pretty green. We shall need an experienced officer — er — one who knows the ropes —”
“Yes, sir?”
“To take charge of the rear section. If things go as well as we expect, the guns will be out of range in an hour or two. They will have to be moved up promptly.”
Dan lit his pipe, bracing himself to say what, in one respect, he did not want to say. “May I ask you a frank question, sir?”
The major bent to reach for some papers, his face was thus turned away from Dan. “Yes, what is it, Thatcher?”
“Why don’t you give me that FOO job, sir? There’s no subaltern who has had my experience except Lynch, and he was FOO on March twenty-first . It’s my turn, I think.”
The major stood up. “Are you sure you are fit?”
“Never better, sir.”
“One ought to wear into harness gradually, I think, after — er — after — fact is, the MO says —”
“He’s an old woman, sir. Takes your blood pressure one minute, and pi-jaws you about your immortal soul the next!”
The major’s look was a vain effort to probe the condition of Dan’s nervous system. He said, at last: “Right. If you are sure you are fit. Likely to be a sticky job, you know. Couldn’t risk sending a shell-sh — a man who wasn’t absolutely fit.… Tell you what, Thatcher. You think it over tonight, and if you should decide that you need to wear into harness — er — more gradually —”
“I shan’t change my mind, sir.”
But next morning something happened which shook this fine resolution. Mail, which had somehow missed the battery for several days, came up with the ration lorry. On top of a pile of letters for Dan
was one postmarked Abbeville, France, written in a strange hand. From curiosity he opened it first, and when he had read it, he no longer remembered the other letters.
Lieutenant Thatcher, CGA
Dear Mr. Thatcher,
I am writing to you in the faint hope that you might be able to help my friend Beatrice Elton, who, like myself, was nursing as a VAD in this hospital. She has a very serious case of the Spanish influenza, and it is doubtful whether she will pull through. The doctors think that if she lives through Wednesday night, she may possibly recover.
I am sending this note, against my better judgment, because Beatrice keeps asking for you. Frankly, though my opinion will mean nothing to you, I cannot help feeling that you have had something to do with her illness. I know nothing about her personal affairs (she is a very reserved girl), but I do know that she has worried herself into a state of mind intolerable for beast or human being over some man. The fact is she does not want to recover. If you can possibly get away, and if it means anything to you to save a life, then come at once! Ask for me at the base hospital here.
I am, sir, yours faithfully,
Mary McCreery
Dan had to read the letter twice before its meaning came home to him. It had been written on Tuesday morning, and this was Wednesday morning. Beatrice’s critical time was tonight, and he was to “go up the line” for the attack tomorrow. In civil life, someone sent you a telegram saying, “Death near.… Come at once,” and you dropped everything and came; but there was a war on, and in the army, they were likely to look at you with a steely eye and say, “Too bad.… Can’t be managed.”
He went to Major D’Arcy. “I’ve just had a letter, sir, about — my fiancée. She’s a VAD in the base hospital at Abbeville. She’s desperately ill with influenza — may not pull through. May I go there, sir?”
The major looked both relieved and disappointed. “My dear chap, I’m frightfully sorry to hear it.… I’m afraid it can’t be managed. Shorthanded, you know. And this show coming off.… Er — on thinking over our talk today I’ve changed my mind. I think you’d better take the rear section, after all. You’re not quite ready to pull your full weight to the h—”
“My God, sir, I’m not trying to get out of the FOO job. I’m telling you the truth. And I give you my word of honour, I’ll be back by six o’clock Thursday.”
“Right, Thatcher,” said the major crisply. “It’s my duty to warn you, though, that if you are not here by six o’clock Thursday I shall send you up for court martial.”
Dan hurried to his billet and snatched his wallet and a haversack. Then he suddenly remembered that Murdo was somewhere near Abbeville, taking a course of some sort. A stroke of luck. Hurriedly, he looked up Murdo’s address and drafted a telegram to be sent to him at the first opportunity.
Dan was lucky in getting lorry lifts so that he reached Abbeville at dusk, and went at once to the base hospital. He found it maddeningly official. Here hundreds of people lay between life and death; what time was there for the private affairs of one insignificant individual?
He waylaid a medical officer and told him he wanted to see Beatrice Elton, a VAD in the hospital.
“Who is she?” said the officer beginning to move away. “Never heard of her. What do you want to see her for? “
“She’s my fiancée,” said Dan angrily. “She has Spanish influenza.”
“Then she will not be here. And if she were, you certainly could not see her. Contagious disease.”
“Where is she?”
“Can’t say.… Sorry, I’m very busy. Ask over there in the office. They won’t let you see her, though.”
He went to the office. This time he gave his name and asked for Mary McCreery, Beatrice’s friend. He sat in the office and waited what seemed an interminable time while typewriters clicked and orderlies came and went with brisk, inhuman efficiency.
Presently, a tall, raw-boned woman with untidy red lair and a masterful manner came into the room, picked him out with a single sharp glance, and strode over to him. “I’m Mary McCreery.”
“I’m Daniel Thatcher.… Where is Beatrice, please.”
“At the house of some French people where we were lodging. Sit down again; I want to talk to you.” Her look appraised him shrewdly. “Now what are you going to do when you see her?”
“Is she conscious?”
“Yes — now.”
“I’m going to marry her.”
“Oh, you are, are you? … But, my good lad, unfortunately you can’t do that. What about a licence? What about the French civil authorities? It’s jolly difficult to get married in France.”
“My uncle will be there. He’s a clergyman, and he’s the sort of man you can count on. The marriage may not be legal, but she’ll think it is. We’ll do it properly later on.”
“How do I know whether you will?”
“Look here, I’m a decent chap — what’s called a gentleman. That’s what you are wondering about, isn’t it?”
“Yes. I was.… Well — I daresay you are. Though you’ve managed to get Beatrice into the devil of a state of mind, my lad.… It might be a good thing.” Hers was the easy superiority of dominating women without strong passions.
“Come along, then,” she said. “I warn you, she’s very weak and she doesn’t know her own mind.”
They went in a cab to Beatrice’s house and there, in the hallway, they found Murdo Burnet waiting for them, impatiently slapping his stick against his puttees.
“Thanks for coming, sir. I knew you wouldn’t fail me. You’ve seen her?”
Murdo nodded. “She’s very weak, but she could pull through now, I think — if she wanted to.… What did you really get me here for?
“To marry us, sir.”
“Eh! … Wouldn’t be legal for one thing.”
“I took out a licence when I was on leave. Anyway, I can fix that up later.”
“Well, you seem to know your own mind.… I daresay I am breaking the letter of the law. Still, under the circumstances, why not? Go up, then, and let me know when you want me.”
“Excite her a little, young man,” said the McCreery VAD, “but, mind you, not too much! She is very weak. And tie this handkerchief over your nose and mouth.”
“No, thanks,” exclaimed Dan.
“Do as you are told!” ordered Murdo curtly.
So he went up the stairs masked like a bandit, and quietly opened the door of Beatrice’s room.
All he could see of her was a dark mass of hair on the pillow. A woman sitting by the window got up and went out. Beatrice turned her head toward him, and two feverish eyes bored into his. “Hello, Dan. I’m not much to look at.… Captain Burnet said you were coming.” Her voice was a weak whisper.
He bent down to kiss her, but she would not let him. “It isn’t safe. You can hold my hand, though.… I wanted to see you before — before I —”
He said brusquely, “It isn’t a question of that , Beatrice. Murdo says you can pull through now, if you want to. And you must for my sake because I need you desperately.… Listen carefully to what I’m going to say; I can’t talk to you for long because you are very weak. Murdo is downstairs. When I call to him, he will come up and marry us.… No, don’t think about it, Beatrice, just trust me and do it.”
She said nothing for a long time, then whispered: “Why, Dan? I’m not going to live.”
“You must because you are needed.” He told her about his shell shock and added: “It’s hard to talk about it, Beatrice.”
Her fingers tightened and she moved her head restlessly. “I am so tired, Dan.”
“You must be plucky. People don’t just give up and die these days.… You’ve got into a rut. You’ve had a dilemma you couldn’t solve, and it has made you sick. I’m going to solve it for you.”
She began to weep. “Don’t bully me, Dan. I feel so weak. So very weak.”
He said gently: “You are going to pull through.”
She did not answer, but her eyes said no.
This time, instead of arguing, he said simply: “I’m to go over the top tomorrow. Let’s get married first. I might not come through, either.”
This statement roused her from thoughts of herself, as he had meant it to. She gathered energy to exclaim: “You must not think that, Dan.”
“Then I won’t think it if you won’t.”
“Will it make a difference if I live?”
“All the difference in the world, my very dear.”
After a moment she whispered: “Dan, will it be difficult for you, going over the top?”
He hesitated, then said frankly: “It nauseates me a little even to think of it.… That’s a secret between you and me and the Creator, Beatrice.”
Her eyes softened and misted; it was as if some long held tension suddenly had melted there. “I’ve just been thinking of myself, haven’t I? I’ve been such a coward.”
“Everyone is a coward sometimes.… You and I have to help each other, dear. That’s our job.”
He stole to the head of the stairs and beckoned to Murdo. Murdo came up quietly, and with him came Beatrice’s friend and the French woman and her husband. They sat down about the bed, each of them with handkerchiefs tied over their faces, as strange a congregation of human beings as ever defied death through wounds or sickness, by the life-giving ceremony of marriage.
Murdo stood up and, opening the prayer book, began the Form of Solemnization of Matrimony in a low, grave voice. Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God and in the face of this congregation, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony .… The words of the prayer book swept in solemn procession into their hearts. Not by any to be enterprised, nor taken in hand, unadvisedly, lightly, or wantonly.… First it was ordained for the procreation of children … for a remedy against sin … for the mutual society, help, and comfort that the one ought to have of the other, both in prosperity and adversity.