No Hero-This

by Warwick Deeping

  Almost it would seem as though we were here for the duration of the war, and this summer weather adds to the illusion. Apparently those in authority are still afraid of invasion or of a disastrous raid, and the 81st is one of the last trained divisions left in England. It is made up of English county battalions from the Midlands, Notts and Derby and Staffords, Warwicks and Northamptons; good stuff, though some of the latest recruits are rather young and weedy, and not yet hardened to a long march in full equipment. Rumour is busy, but our quiet, orderly life goes on. We have Divisional sports and a horse-show. Fairfax and Tom take a prize, but I do not exhibit myself with Bob.

  * * *

  I am cycling through the barracks one morning on my way to the 202 F.A. Headquarters when I meet our A.D.M.S., Colonel Cleek. I salute him, and am riding on, when he hails me.

  “Mr. Brent.”

  I dismount and wheel my machine back to him. He has one of those bloodless, cold jejune faces that suggest a harsh keenness that is quite without intelligence.

  “Are you living in barracks?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Who gave you permission to live out of barracks?”

  “Colonel Fairfax, sir. I have my wife with me.”

  “Indeed!”

  He is a sarcastic devil.

  “I don’t expect my officers to introduce their families into their work. You will come into quarters.”

  I salute him and he stalks on, leaving me feeling snubbed and rebellious. Why should authority trouble to interfere in my private life provided that I do not neglect my work? It is damned tyranny, and Cleek’s way of impressing his sarcastic self upon his subordinates.

  I find Colonel Fairfax alone in his office, and I tell him of my clash with Colonel Cleek. The man is rather like that particular club. Also, I and my fellow-officers know that Fairfax and the A.D.M.S. are not sympathetic towards each other.

  Fairfax’s blue eyes come out on stalks, a trick of theirs when he is angry.

  “You stay where you are, Brent. I gave you permission, and it is my quarrel.”

  Fairfax is a very popular C.O. and a personal friend of the General’s.

  “I don’t want to cause trouble, sir, but it does seem rather unreasonable.”

  “Absolutely. Leave it to me, Brent.”

  That is one of the things we like about Fairfax. He will stand up for his unit and his officers and never seek a victim. He goes off at once to tackle Cleek, and when I meet him later in the mess his fresh face wears a look of amused serenity.

  “It is all in order, Brent. You can stay where you are.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  He smiles at me mischievously, and no more is said.

  * * *

  Captain Bliss, the D.A.D.M.S., Colonel Cleek’s understudy, is a little man whom Cleek keeps in scolded subjection. Bliss dines in our mess on occasions and plays Bridge with us, but even after a couple of whiskies he retains an alert and watchful air, and a habit of turning his head quickly and looking over his shoulder. It is common knowledge that Cleek hectors him before the office staff, and Hallard has nicknamed Bliss, The Henpecked Husband.

  Bliss is a good little man whose inclination is to help everybody, and to maintain peace. He dines with us a few nights after Fairfax’s interview with Cleek. One of our rags is to tickle Bliss. He is absurdly ticklish, and will dodge round chairs, giggling and protesting like a girl.

  “Shut up, Gibbs.”

  “Say, give over, darling, and kiss me.”

  There is a delicious primness about Bliss that provokes everybody to tickle him.

  “Do stop it, Gibbs, or I won’t tell you anything.”

  “What is the secret, dearie?”

  “A surprise stunt to-morrow. But for God’s sake don’t give me away.”

  We know these surprise stunts. Their purpose is to prove that the Division is capable of moving at short notice to deal with a hypothetical raid, but I am afraid we are rather inclined to regard them as monkey-tricks upon the part of authority. Someone may be caught, in vulgar parlance, with his breeches down.

  I see Fairfax look sharply at Bliss.

  “Official?”

  “Absolutely. But don’t give me away, sir.”

  Fairfax’s smile is significant. When Bliss has gone he becomes for a moment the C.O.

  “Just a word to the wise. You had better, all of you, be within easy call. I think you understand.”

  We do. Some of these alarums are sounded in the middle of the night, and after a few words with Fairfax I decide to doss down for the night in the orderly officer’s room. I get on my bike, ride down to Holly Farm and warn Mary, and I am back in barracks by eleven.

  Surely enough we get the order to stand by at 2 a.m. We tumble out, and by 2.30 the unit is on parade, and ready to move off. We are standing at ease and in grumpy silence, for the men hate these shows, when I hear Colonel Cleek’s strident voice. So, he has come along to play Paul Pry.

  “Colonel Fairfax.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “All your officers on parade?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Fairfax gives the order “Officers, fall out,” and we double round and stand to attention in front of him and the A.D.M.S. I feel that I have my tongue in my cheek, for though the pettiness of the thing may appear unbelievable, I am sure that Cleek hoped to catch me absent, and to catch Fairfax through me.

  “Let me see, how many officers have you, Colonel Fairfax?”

  “We are three under strength, sir.”

  “Is Captain and Quartermaster Bond on parade?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I can only suppose that Cleek counts our dim figures, and has to be satisfied with the result. It would be giving his game away were he to ask for me by name, and yet, but for Bliss’s hint, Cleek would have had us frozen.

  “That is all for to-night. You can dismiss the men, Colonel Fairfax.”

  We go to the mess for a drink, and I am afraid we are bad boys who gloat over the flouting of Solomon. Before turning in I ask Fairfax a question, but not before the others.

  “Do you really think, sir, he hoped to catch me absent?”

  Fairfax chuckles.

  “I don’t think, Brent! One is not supposed to think in the army. But I suppose we owe Bliss a good tickling and a bottle of whisky.”

  It is incredible that such petty jealousies should influence men at a time like this. I can imagine every sort of intrigue permeating the life of a little garrison town in peace time, with a collection of She-Colonels competing for social kudos, but that a man like Cleek should plot to toss a poor junior like myself seems a paltry adventure. Though, of course, it is Fairfax of whom he is jealous; it is a case of the sly, lean wolf and the mastiff. We remain such animals in our individual make-up, though Mary, who is something of an astrologer, places Fairfax under Leo, and Cleek under the sign of the Ram. But will this sort of pettiness continue on active service, and shall we be, not only in conflict with the Germans, but also concerned in defending ourselves from attacks in the rear by Cleek? This man should not be in the possession of authority.

  * * *

  We have all been very excited about Rumania, and the ultimate catastrophe depresses us.

  Also, it is obvious that the bloody scuffle on the Somme is ending in misery and mud. Will this war go on for ever? November is with us, and I am preparing to send Mary home for her ordeal. She is very calm and brave about it, but I am worrying, for I suppose a doctor knows too much, but I do pray that we shall not be sent abroad before her child is born. I shall feel so much more easy in my mind if the business is over before I have to face my second self-surrender as a soldier.

  * * *

  Christmas. Fairfax has gone home on leave to Cheshire. We have a merry evening in the mess, for Mary has insisted on my being a social person. The men have fed on turkey and plum-pudding and much beer, and are having a sing-song of their own. We have been invited as guests and we join them for an hour. Gibbs is pe
rsuaded on to the platform and sings Yip-ai-addy with a voice like a fog-horn. Our funny man, Briggs, appears as Pavlova, wearing two halves of a mess-tin where his breasts should be. He is really very funny and vulgar, and there is immense applause and shouts for an encore. He gives us a vocal rendering of two cats making love.

  I am biking home, and Hallard walks with me as far as the barrack gate. I like Hallard more and more; there is a sardonic sincerity about him that should wear well on active service.

  “I wonder where we shall be next Christmas, Steevie?”

  I say, “On the knees of the gods.”

  I see Hallard’s prominent teeth white under his black moustache. He has a hungry look.

  “Damned nobbly knees, old man, like old Cleek’s. I wonder why I so hate that man? Can you hate, Steevie?”

  “I can.”

  “Is it because an old goat like Cleek can butt us when and how he pleases?”

  “Perhaps. But more than that. Fairfax is different.”

  “Yes, thank God for a good C.O.”

  “You’ll find out how much that means when we go over yonder.”

  “I get you.”

  Mary is sitting up for me, and she is looking rather drawn and tired. She has been suffering from pressure and indigestion, and I know that her time must be coming near. Fairfax will be back on Monday, and he has given me leave to travel down into Sussex with my wife. I am taking her in the car, and I shall drive like a man with a crate of delicate china. Fairfax has examined Mary twice, and assured me that everything is normal.

  How I wish that the state of the world was normal, and not a kind of chronic delirium shot through with bad dreams.

  I have brought my wife home and left her in Randall’s hands. Randall is really a marvellous person. He talked to me like a father, but a father with understanding. I am not to worry. He will send me a wire directly the business is over. But how I hated leaving her alone in our house, though the two elderly maids are kind without being fussy.

  “I’ll try and get leave and come down to you, dearest.”

  She seems to have so much more courage than I have. Or is a woman supported at such times by the inspiration of the other life that is in her?

  * * *

  Mary has a daughter. Randall wires that all is well. I show the telegram to Fairfax, and he promises to put me up immediately for three days’ leave.

  A curt chit comes back from the A.D.M.S.’s office.

  “Please state how often this officer has been absent from duty during the last six months.”

  Fairfax puts on his cap and his battle face and goes off with the chit in his pocket. I wait for him in his office, and I have not to wait long.

  “Off you go, Brent. Three clear days.”

  “I’m awfully grateful to you, sir.”

  “Not a bit. I took my jigger and laid Cleek a stymie.”

  * * *

  I have seen my daughter, and I cannot pretend that the creature has any beauty. Its queer crumple of a face is mottled and red, and there is hardly any hair on its head; its eyes are a vacuous blue. The women, of course, are in ecstasies, and assure me that they can discover a likeness to me in this puckered monkey. And yet I feel a queer tenderness towards the grotesque piece of proud flesh. A part of me has gone to the making of it, and I suppose that in a year or two, if I survive, I shall be trailing small Joan round by the hand, and feeling myself a large and wonderful fellow.

  And perhaps, twenty years hence, I shall be suffering the inevitable fate of most fathers. My daughter will be tolerant, but brightly patronizing!

  It is otherwise with Mary. She has the pallor and beauty of a tired serenity. Her hair looks so much more black than usual. She seems content to let me sit there and hold her hand.

  “Are they really looking after you properly, dear?”

  “Of course. Though I don’t pretend to be of any importance.”

  Her eyes smile at me.

  “It is extraordinary how silly women can become over a baby.”

  “It would be rather extraordinary if they didn’t.”

  “I suppose so. But it is all rather a barbaric business, Stephen.”

  “Did you have a very bad time?”

  “No, not that. But it is rather like imposing upon one’s modern mood something out of the stone age. Part of one is so terribly uncomfortable and sore, and part of one is filled with absurd, primitive satisfactions.”

  “Quite like the war.”

  I see her wince, and I reproach myself. Why drag in the war after she has just endured the battle of child-bearing?

  “Sorry. But I was quite wrong.”

  “Quite wrong, Stephen. It may sound absurd, but a woman does feel that she has produced something positive.”

  “And so she has. Still keen on the same names?”

  “Yes, Joan Phyllis.”

  “Joan Phyllis Brent. If you saw that name in the paper you would picture to yourself a slim, upstanding, debonair young woman.”

  “Twenty years hence.”

  “Twenty years!”

  I think of myself as fifty-seven, bald and paunched, and wearing spectacles. But no, it is quite impossible to visualize oneself otherwise than one is, still full of the essential I, and showing a face that has grown old so gradually that its texture looks the same.

  “It must be a funny business growing old.”

  My wife says a wise thing.

  “I suppose it is like everything else, one just grows into it.”

  * * *

  I am back in Ebchester, and billeted in barracks. Holly Farm is an anachronism without Mary. Also, the winter is taking itself with extreme seriousness. We have had six inches of snow, and it is lying. Biking to and from Holly Farm would have been too superfluous, and I have left the car at Brackenhurst. I prefer the male comfort of the mess, and its human contacts. I have more than a feeling that our time is growing short here, and that we men will soon be together where our happy family will be put to the supreme test.

  * * *

  Rumour is becoming actual. Fairfax and other senior officers have been dispatched to France on a Cook’s Tour.

  We have had steel helmets issued to us—hideous things both to look at and to wear. I try sitting in mine to accustom myself to the weight and pressure of this soup plate, and I find that it gives me a headache. I expect that will pass.

  Box respirators are issued.

  Hallard, who is in command, shows me a chit from the A.D.M.S. ordering officers to be given leave in succession. He sends off Margie and Gibbs. My turn should come last, for I had three days in January.

  Two new officers arrive. The powers that be have been withdrawing officers from the Mounted Field Ambulances on the East Coast, and attaching them to our three ambulances to bring us up to establishment. Neither I nor Hallard are very favourably impressed by these new men, Captains Carless and Chiffinch. Carless is a good-looking, debonair, flashy fellow whose riding-breeches are smartly cut, and whose salute is exceedingly impressive, but I do not trust the texture of him. Chiffinch is an insignificant little man in pince-nez, with a poky face, talkative and nervous. He grumbles at having been detached from his own unit, and boasts of having been in command of it for three months.

  As a Territorial, Chiffinch is senior to me, though I now have my captaincy. Does it mean that he will take over my section? The prospect does not please me.

  * * *

  Fairfax returns from his tour. He says that we are going into the line near a place called Béthune.

  In the mess I can feel him summing up Carless and Chiffinch.

  He tells me that I am to remain in charge of C section.

  “Oughtn’t Chiffinch to have it, sir?”

  He says, “I am putting Chiffinch under Hallard in A. You can have Carless. Does he know much?”

  “He can’t take a parade, sir, or move the men about?”

  “Yes, he looks that sort. Rub his nose in it, Brent. Tell him to live up to his breeches!”<
br />
  Fairfax has a terse sense of humour when the occasion requires it.

  * * *

  Margetson and Gibbs are back, and Hallard and the two new men go on leave. The division is to be dispatched by brigades to France, and our day for entraining is scheduled for March 3rd. We are to embark at Southampton for Havre. Fairfax tells me that he and I can go on leave when Hallard returns. The nearness of actual service abroad seems to be drawing Fairfax and me closer together.

  He says to me one evening, “I feel that I am going to be very glad of you, Stephen, over there. You are the one man who knows what the real thing is like. I’m beginning to feel rather horribly responsible.”

  “I don’t think you need worry, sir.”

  “The fact is, Stephen, as between man and man, I don’t think Cleek is going to be much help to us. He is the sort of man who is always thinking of his own position, and imagining that someone else is going to let him down. Just at the moment I don’t want to go into his office. Nothing but fuss and fury.”

  “Perhaps he’ll grow tame, sir.”

  “I want to ask you one thing, Stephen. You are our most experienced officer, and I may ask you to take on some of the more nasty jobs to begin with. Shall you understand?”

  “I’m ready to do anything, sir.”

  “I feel you won’t let me down.”

  “I promise you I won’t do that, sir. Besides, perhaps you don’t realize that it won’t be hard for us to back you loyally in every way we can.”

  He looks at me with affection.

  “Thanks, Stephen. I feel that too, about you and Hallard and Gibbs. Well, enough said. I want everybody to share alike in any of the unpleasant things that I may have to hand out.”