No Hero-This

by Warwick Deeping

  But my passage home is serene. I find Mary amid the crowd at Victoria. She looks at my face and she looks at my ribbon, and her eyes are very dear to me.

  “O, Stephen!”

  We exchange that rather conventional English kiss, and I pat her shoulder.

  “How’s Joan Phyllis?”

  “Splendid.”

  “That’s good. I’m glad we’re not going to an hotel. Nothing like home.”

  I tuck my arm under hers, and forget I have been lousy and mud-caked and as frightened as some poor monkey.

  “I’ve never seen you look so well, Mary.”

  She blushes.

  “I’m glad, dear.”

  “Food’s been a little difficult, hasn’t it?”

  “O, we manage. But I’m so terribly proud of that, Stephen.”

  “Which.”

  She reaches across and touches the ribbon with the fingers of her left hand.

  But, if there is anything of the prig in me or the swollen-headed little hero, my small daughter’s reaction to my reappearance should chasten it. We go upstairs and she is lifted out of her cot, and having stared at me with saucer-blue eyes, she breaks into angry howlings. What is this strange face that is being pushed up close to hers, this unsolicited, intimate, male jowl? She fights, and goes red and crinkled, and is full of wet rebellion, and I am both amused, and perhaps faintly piqued. This is yet another thing that this damned war does to us, makes us strangers to our children.

  Mary has to soothe our small daughter.

  “There, there.”

  And I add, “Did a nasty, strange man want to kiss you? Diddums then!”

  Mary reproves me.

  “Don’t mock, dear.”

  I realize that part of my ten days’ leave will be spent in making friends with my small daughter.

  * * *

  Most unexpected people congratulate me, but when I think of those two dead friends, poor Roger and Hallard, I am in no mood to swagger.

  I meet Guthrie and he presents me with the usual gaff.

  “Congratulations, Brent. ’Pon my soul, I didn’t think you had it in you.”

  “Neither did I. You see, one can’t help these things sometimes. They arrive, like indigestion.”

  He pushes his silly face nearer, and I smell his breath.

  “Tell me, my dear fellow, how does it happen to doctors? I was under the impression that doctors aren’t exposed to danger.”

  “No, it comes to them unasked for.”

  “But you don’t get shelled.”

  “O, no. We work in comfortable little places miles behind the line, and we change for dinner each night.”

  He looks at me mistrustfully.

  “Oh, I see. It is what one would call official recognition.”

  “Yes, just that. I happened to treat our Divisional general for hæmorrhoids, and rather successfully so.”

  Fatuous ass! But even old Randall does not appreciate the realities of the life out there. He seems to think that we function in palatial super dug-outs, supplied with hot water and electric light. When I tell him that we have to go floundering about like scavengers, collecting the war’s debris out of mud-holes, he looks shocked.

  “But surely, Stephen, that is not fitting work for a medical man. Rather a waste of time and skill.”

  When I point out to him that modern war is just an insane waste of valuable lives he seems to assume that I am stressing a platitude. He says, “One cannot make war without sacrifices.”

  O, damn it, why don’t people understand!

  * * *

  One day gone. Two days gone. Three days. The irresponsible home-from-school feeling has passed. I am beginning to count the remaining days, to cling to them, to feel passionately and bitterly rebellious.

  O God! I don’t want to go back.

  Everything holds me here. I feel torn and frightened. I lie awake at night after Mary has fallen asleep, and think and tremble.

  Why did I come home? The poignancy of these home associations rends one’s vitals. I cannot get Hallard’s death out of my head. Almost, it is a horrible obsession. That headless body! And he, too, would have been coming on leave, to spend ten wounded days looking at the faces of the creatures who were dear to him. It frightens me.

  * * *

  My investiture? Almost I am beginning to hate this damned ribbon. And then I hear that there will be no official function during my spell of leave, or perhaps the occasion will be too crowded to include me. I am glad. I do not want to leave this place, even for a few hours, until I have to go back to the blood and sand.

  * * *

  The fifth day. Half my leave gone.

  I have made friends with my small daughter. That is to say she does not burst into tears when I twiddle my fingers at her and make friendly noises. She stares at me and deigns to smile. We even become conversational. She says something that sounds like goo-goo, and I goo-goo back like a cuckoo clock. I try taking her on my knee and bouncing her up and down. She approves of the business and chuckles and bubbles down her bib.

  I tell her solemnly that Miss Joan Phyllis Brent should have grown beyond such a habit.

  The Ponsonbys ask us to dinner. We go, and find the Rector there, and old Sir Carnaby Cross. The two Ponsonby wenches are away helping to organize and officer the W.A.A.C.s.

  When we men are left alone with our coffee and cigars old Ponsonby and Sir C. C. begin to talk the usual “club nonsense” about the war. They are so final; they appear to possess, or assume that they possess, intimate information upon all that is happening overseas. They discuss the Ypres show, and agree that the German casualties must have been catastrophic.

  I am silent. These old men exasperate me. They are so much more bellicose and cocksure than the men in the trenches. I suppose my silence intrigues them, and perhaps out of politeness they ask me for my opinion.

  I am feeling sardonic.

  “An obscure medical officer is not supposed to have opinions.”

  Old Cross scowls at me.

  “But, good God, man, you must get the feel of things. Even the German wounded must show signs of inanition.”

  That is a good word. I say that I have seen about six German wounded, and they did not exhibit any signs of starvation.

  Old Ponsonby is kind and patronizing. “I don’t suppose you doctors, Brent, are in such close contact with the firing line as the combatants. Back at your casualty stations the war has been cleaned up, and polished.”

  This assumption of superior wisdom annoys me. I am beginning to feel mischievous and suddenly I repeat to them Sergeant Fosdyke’s tirade, but without the bloodies. I become aware of a shocked and hostile silence. Old Cross knocks the ash off his cigar and snubs me.

  “That’s rank defeatism, Captain Brent. Under the Defence of the Realm Act, such language might land you in Queer Street. And it isn’t quite soldierly.”

  I smile at him blandly.

  “I was only quoting a plain, ignorant, soldier to you, sir.”

  “Soldier! The fellow ought to have been shot.”

  Old Ponsonby pushes his chair back. The atmosphere has become turgid and difficult.

  “I think we might join the ladies.”

  In the hall the rector takes me by the arm. He has the troubled, kindly face of a man whose Faith has been questioned.

  “You don’t really think that, Brent.”

  “What, sir?”

  “That we are losing the war.”

  I hesitate for a moment and then I say, “It seems to me to be a question whether we shall bleed to death before we win it.”

  He smiles and pats me on the shoulder.

  “O, you fellows over there only see fragments of the great picture. Yours must be a depressing job.”

  “Well, I see plenty of fragments, sir.”

  * * *

  Six days gone.

  * * *

  Seven days gone.

  * * *

  I notice a change in my wife. We bega
n my leave by being irresponsibly happy. There were wonderful days before us. Then our happiness became a bright cheerfulness, an avoidance of anything like silence.

  But we have moments of silence now, and suddenly we seem to feel guilty, and look at each other or avoid looking at each other, and begin to chatter. I tell Mary all the funny things I can think of about the war, and assure her that we can laugh over there. One must laugh or go potty. But I understand that she is watching the days escape from us, just as I am. Her love for me is a strange and wonderful thing, and my love for her seems the one virtue that matters. I have no desire to rush up to town and play the Carless.

  O God! I don’t want to go back.

  But if I must go back, let it happen quickly now. These last few days are so bitter. Almost I wish that they were over. Why should all the profoundly sacred things in my life be torn up by the roots? I feel that Mary is suffering much as I am, and that it will be a relief to her when I am gone.

  * * *

  The garden is looking wintry.

  * * *

  I find strange solace in the presence of my small daughter. I like to play with her, and watch her crawling about the floor. She is so supremely innocent. We are on excellent terms now, and I can make funny faces at her, and she chuckles.

  May there be no war in her world.

  * * *

  Mary insists that a certain noise Joan Phyllis had produced is undoubtedly “Daddy.” I am a little sceptical, but let us cherish the illusion.

  * * *

  The last night. We lie awake for a long time, talking. Crude sex does not enter into a relationship that is built up of understanding and profound compassion. She strokes my head, and I feel like a child in the arms of its mother.

  “Is it so very hard, Stephen?”

  “If you care as I do, it is harder for you than for me.”

  “O, no, dear.”

  “I know what happens; you don’t. I’m glad of that. The one consolation is that this war should make all future wars unbelievable.”

  “Do you think so, dear?”

  “If I didn’t I think I would suggest lethal gas for the whole of humanity.”

  * * *

  The last morning. I have to catch a very early train in order to make contact at Victoria. I rise in the winter darkness and look out of the window. The world is very black and still. I go to the bathroom and shave, and while I am there I hear Mary go downstairs. She is getting our breakfast ready herself.

  O, this brittle brightness, the poor little platitudes we utter! I feel I cannot bear much more of it. I want to be out of this dear house and alone with my silly self in the darkness.

  We go up to the nursery. I pick Joan Phyllis out of her cot and kiss her, and make cheerful noises. She chuckles at me. I push her into Mary’s arms, and kiss my wife.

  “Good-bye, dear. Don’t come down. Stay here.”

  I leave her with the child, go down, put on my coat and cap, and sling my haversack over my shoulder. The street door is still locked and bolted. I open it carefully, and stand listening. There is not a sound.

  I close the door gently upon the silent house, and walk quickly down the dark and empty street.

  O, damn everything!

  I have a feeling that I shall not see my wife and child again.

  XIX

  Bawdy talk in the train. I am too close to a party of youngsters who are swapping the stories of their sex adventures while on leave. It disgusts me, and yet I know that this feeling of repulsion is rather fatuous and unsympathetic. These poor young devils are mad for life in the midst of death. It is natural that they should crave for every sort of sensation, and smear their faces with strawberry jam.

  Has not a single one of them learnt to care otherwise?

  It may be so, and all this bawdy talk is just camouflage. The real romance may be so passionate and precious that it can terrify. Also, is it not possible that my disgust may be due to secret jealousy?

  There seems to be no more unsympathetic creature than the average R.T.O. The one I strike is a superfine person, a casual, painted lily.

  “The 81st. O, yes, somewhere near Amiens.”

  He despatches me to Abbeville, where I discover that the Division is still in the Ypres sector. I spend a dreary night at Abbeville, with memories of my previous sojourn there. I write a long letter to Mary.

  * * *

  Poperinghe. I am lucky. I run up against one of our ambulances that has been evacuating to a C.C.S., and I get on board.

  “Same old place, Gunter.”

  The orderly grins at me.

  “Same old hole, sir.”

  “Everybody O.K.?”

  “Champion, sir.”

  The Menin Road. I see the familiar faces, and know myself among friends. They are glad to see me, and God knows I am glad to see them. Gibbs picks me up and holds me over the Canadian stove.

  “The infant has gained ten pounds in a week, sir.”

  “That comes of a diet of medals. Did you see ‘Georgie,’ dadda?”

  I pinch Gibbs’s nose and he puts me down on the mess table opposite Fairfax.

  “Will you carve, or shall I, sir?”

  Fairfax tickles me.

  “Get up, Steevie, get up, man. This isn’t a fitting position for my second in command.”

  We have two new officers, Captain Potter and Lieutenant Toogood, and they are introduced to me. Potter is a tall, shy, awkward lad wearing pince-nez, in appearance quite colourless and tame, but appearances, as they concern the war, are exceedingly fallacious. It has been my experience that your fine, handsome, upstanding fellow, who may cause the women to exclaim, “What a splendid soldier!” is frequently a funk, and in a tight corner completely useless. Toogood I cannot quite place. He, too, is rather colourless and mute, mouse-coloured as to hair, and suggesting a compact and soapy piety. Perhaps it is the name that produces the impression of piety. But my chief concern at the moment is to discover what the immediate future promises us in the way of perils. It is with secret relief that I hear that the front has become static, and submerged in mud and hibernation. Conditions are fairly quiet. The Bakery—a transfigured Bakery—is our one A.D.S., and Harker is up there in charge.

  Fairfax takes me along after tea to his dug-out. I sit on a box, and he on his bed, and he talks to me like a father.

  “As second in command, Stephen, I want you to act as adjutant, and help me at headquarters. You remember my saying that I was going to consider you, when the chance came. I have four young unmarried officers now, and I think it is up to them to take on the dirtier jobs.”

  “Isn’t that rank favouritism, sir?”

  “Call it that if you like. I had a talk to Rankin on this very subject yesterday. He agrees with me.”

  “How do you like Rankin?”

  “Tremendously. He’s so fair. He has been through the whole of the bloody business himself, and he knows.”

  “Not like the old ladies of both sexes at home, who, never having seen a shell-hole, know so much more about the conditions here than we do.”

  Fairfax crinkles up his eyes at me.

  “Has leave made you ironic, Steevie?”

  “A little.”

  “Same here. But to return to our subject, let some of these youngsters who are more or less fresh to it take the risks. There is nothing for you to feel sensitive about. I’m in your debt, Stephen.”

  “O, rot.”

  “O, yes, I am. You pulled us out of an ugly mess up there. The whole unit knows it, and no one is going to grudge you the privilege of being something of a veteran.”

  I look at him with affection.

  “You can always use me when you want to. I mean it is rather a personal matter between us.”

  “Thanks, Stephen.”

  “To tell you the truth, I funked coming back. But I am feeling different about it now.”

  * * *

  How little we know out here. The club-prophets at home may move us to irony, but they d
o appear to gather information, false or otherwise, that is not revealed to us. Perhaps it is as well that we men in the arena should not hear what the wise ancients are saying to each other on their senatorial seats. That is Fairfax’s opinion, for while on leave he has had the political and domestic curtain raised for him by the hand of a certain great gentleman who is the squire of Fairfax’s village.

  “The things I have heard, Stephen, make me realize that it may be wiser to keep the fighting man in muddy innocence. Intrigue, and cowardice, and muddle. I have been told some incredible things. If Tommy were disillusioned he might march home and do a little killing on the home front.”

  I suppose it is so. But after the war shall we allow the hard and greedy old men to fool us? I hope not. It should be a different world. Or will our follies and our commercial greeds repeat themselves?

  We do not even hear of the Cambrai show until after the bells have been rung somewhat prematurely in London. The accounts we do receive are garbled, or Motor Transport gossip. Apparently we brought off a fine, imaginative coup, but since we had insufficient reserves, the adventure became a piece of bluff, and the Germans called it. But why stage so brilliant a show knowing that it could not be developed and exploited? The ultimate fizzle has depressed us more than inaction would have done.

  I suppose we must regard it as an experiment. Yet, why help to educate your enemy, and provide him with interesting material for improved retaliation?

  We obscure doctors do agree in our mess that the great, basic reality of the situation bewilders us. Germany has been fighting France, Russia and England, and on the map the flags are in her favour. She has put out Russia, and swamped Rumania, Serbia and Belgium. She has had to bolster up her allies. She has been able to send divisions to the Italian front, and shock us with Caporetto. She has been blockaded by our fleet. How does she manage to do it? She must indeed be a wonderful nation. Decry the Germans as we may I have a bitter suspicion that they have put us to shame.