No Hero-This

by Warwick Deeping

  Our English platoon is drawn up in the Place opposite the church. The Tricolor and the Stars and Stripes are flying from the church spire. Some U.S.A. staff officers have arrived upon the scene, and are talking to our General. They are big men, with hard, dry, dusty faces.

  The battalion arrives. It has marched seven miles, but it comes in with a swing and a swagger, grey canvas gaiters well together, the tight, trim uniform making the men look slim yet big about the shoulders. They are a fierce, fine lot, and as I look at them I am conscious of a thrill that is a curious compound of jealousy, joy and sadness. These men indeed are the Flowers of the Forest—a forest that has not been cut over and mutilated like ours. I am astonished at the physique of these Americans. It is indeed a new world storming in to make good all the bloody sacrifices France has suffered.

  One thing that strikes me and somehow makes me sad is the way these Yankees seem to tower over the men of our English cadre. They make them look small and insignificant, almost humiliatingly so. Our men’s bayonets do not seem to rise above the tops of the American steel hats.

  But the French are cheering. This civilian crowd of peasants is moved by some elemental emotion. I see girls throwing flowers at their new heroes, and running along and holding to the men’s arms. We English seem rather out of the picture, and yet one cannot accuse the French of fickleness. This battalion of strong, fresh young men from over the seas is to them a symbol, a sign of hope, a blessed pledge that their country will not again be ravished.

  I feel Fairfax’s hand on my arm.

  “Seen enough, Stephen?”

  I turn and look up into his face, and its sadness moves me.

  “Yes, I think so.”

  We go and get on our horses and, unnoticed, ride away.

  * * *

  I find Pauline alone in the kitchen preparing a salad. It is the first time I have been alone with her, and I am so conscious of it that emotionally I am the complete coward. How absurd that one should be filled with fear by this small creature! There is a bunch of lilac in a vase on a little table by the window, and I go and put my nose to it.

  I ask Pauline if she has been to Beauchamp to see the Americans march in.

  “No, monsieur.”

  I say that they are a fine, fierce-looking lot, but I suppose my French is fantastic, for she does not seem to understand me.

  “Comment, monsieur?”

  I try to explain, and give it up, while watching her fingers busy with the lettuce and endive. Why does she always address me as “Monsieur?” It sounds so dreadfully formal, and yet, somehow, I cannot imagine her calling me Etienne. Moreover, she appears to be in a particularly still and stately little mood, and her eyes look at me like two round, blue enigmas.

  I say that the lilac smells very sweet, and I ask if I may have a sprig for my room. She nods at me unsmilingly, and seems to become absorbed in this salad business. I break off a piece of lilac and stand holding it.

  “May it bring us all good luck, Pauline.”

  She looks at me suddenly and strangely.

  “Yes, monsieur, and le Général Foch.”

  “And the Americans. We poor English are rather out of the picture.”

  “Comment, monsieur?”

  I pretend to laugh, and say that my French seems to be as unsuccessful as our strategy, but now that we have Foch and the Americans everything will be different. And then, Gabrielle comes in, and glances at me queerly, and I feel suddenly foolish, and march off to my room with my piece of lilac. I put it in my tooth-glass, and stand the glass on the shelf between the pictures of Mary and Joan Phyllis.

  Three American medical officers from their Bearer Companies have been attached to us for instruction. They are to spend a week with us, and then to be replaced by three more officers. Fairfax is to lecture to the Americans on the collecting, treating and evacuation of wounded in the forward area, and he asks me to help him by supplying some practical details.

  Rankin has appointed me as liaison officer to the American headquarters at Beauchamp. At first I thought it would mean my having to leave No. 6 rue Bois l’Abbaye, but I am to have the use of a Ford ambulance for myself and the U.S.A. colonel.

  I like these Americans, particularly Major Richmond, who corresponds to our D.A.D.M.S. He is a tall, grave, pale man, with a sudden smile, and a dry humour that delights me. Colonel Muller, who corresponds to Rankin, is a grey-headed, stoutish, rather grim person, prematurely aged. To begin with, I was a little baffled by a certain air of aloofness, almost of suspicion. These Americans seemed shy of me, and my position is a delicate one. I am not expected to give advice unless I am asked for it.

  Richmond and I soon come to understand each other. He is a Southerner, and full of flexibility in spite of his rather austere manner. Nor is his voice quite that of a Yankee. He speaks French with some fluency. I ask him to dine with us in our mess at Le Mesnil château, and afterwards I take him to my billet and introduce him to the Malaunays. We sit in the garden and talk. No, I am not jealous of Richmond.

  I stroll back with him by moonlight under the beech trees to Beauchamp. Our talk becomes intimate and easy. I confess to him that at first I was conscious of a vague feeling of unfriendliness between England and America.

  He laughs gently.

  “We are a little sensitive. Also, we come as raw troops.”

  I tell him that we English have suffered from that sense of rawness.

  “Did you expect to find us patronizing?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “God forbid. I think it comes down to this, that we have had to learn with blood and tears, and if we can save you some of the blood——”

  He stands quite still for a moment, looking up at the moon.

  “Can you, Brent? I wonder? I suppose war is rather like growing up. We’re wild young guys, and we shall have to go through the bloody business for ourselves. That seems to be a law of nature.”

  Yes, I like these Americans, their vitality, their keenness, their engaging candour. They make me think of a lot of big boys. As to breed, they are an amazingly composite crowd, and some of them have very little English, but the same spirit seems to permeate them. I am impressed by the passion for thoroughness in many of their officers, and I like their phrase “Fall down.” Colonel Muller is always using it when inspecting some of his units. “I don’t want you boys to fall down.”

  They keep my wits working. Muller insists on seeing everything that can be seen. They are to use English equipment, and so our F.A. equipment is of supreme interest to them. Muller is always stopping the car to get out and inspect something, a water-cart, or a G.S. wagon, or our latrines. He has me over a field-cooker. We are not issued with field-cookers, and I tell him so, and his grim face lights up.

  “Guess that’s the first time I’ve caught you with your pants down, Major Brent.”

  I laugh, and say that, at all events, I was honest about it.

  He pats me on the shoulder.

  “Yes, sir, you were.”

  But as to their phrase “Falling down,” I give them one piece of candid advice. I tell them that we have learnt to transcend false modesty when shells are about, and that there is no shame, but horse sense, in falling down.

  “We call it doing a belly-flop, sir.”

  That seems to tickle Muller to death. He caresses his somewhat mature abdomen.

  “Well, sir, I have something to flop on!”

  Yes, I like these Americans.

  * * *

  I have been dining with the American Staff at Beauchamp. It is a beautiful night, warm and still, with a full moon shining, and the mood moves me to walk back by way of the Bois l’Abbaye. The great trees are all black and silver, and still as death. Beyond the wood the narrow road runs between open fields, and when I come to the Crucifix and its lime trees my mood moves me to yet another whim. I turn aside, towards the great cross, and when I am within three yards of it I am startled by a shadow that seems suddenly to disentangle itself from the cro
ss. It is a woman rising from her knees.

  I am about to apologize for disturbing her when I see her face in the moonlight.

  “Mademoiselle Pauline!”

  She stands there quite still. I gather that she has been praying here, and I feel like some tourist who has blundered into a chapel and found a woman at her devotions.

  “I am sorry. I came this way to look at the wood.”

  She does not move, and there is something in her stillness that troubles me.

  “Shall I leave you here?”

  “Yes, monsieur.”

  I am about to leave her when she makes a sudden movement and says rather breathlessly:

  “No, if you please, I will come with you.”

  I don’t know why, but I get the impression that she is afraid of something. Not of me, surely?

  We walk side by side, yet a little apart, down the moonlit road.

  I say, “Forgive me. Can I put it into French? I feel that you have had bad news.”

  “No, monsieur.”

  “Is that the truth?”

  “Yes.”

  There is a short silence, and then she says, almost curtly, “Will you do me a favour, Monsieur Brent? I do not wish that officer, Carless, you call him, I think, to come again to our house.”

  I look at her sharply.

  “Has he been to your house?”

  She nods.

  “He is not gentil. He behaves to me——”

  Damn Carless! Has the fool been trying the gaillard game on this child?

  I try to tell her in blundering French that if Carless has been making a fool of himself, the thing is unforgivable. I will make sure that it shall not happen again, and I try to assure her that all English officers are not like Carless. But I feel there is some secret discord between us, and that she will not easily be appeased. We reach the village, and there are things I am burning to say that I cannot say, but just before we come to the gate, I manage to blurt out a few words.

  “Please, tell me, this hasn’t spoilt our friendship?”

  She gives me a sudden strange look.

  “No, monsieur.”

  “Thank you, Pauline.”

  I open the gate and let her go in alone, for I have a feeling that she may wish to go in alone. I walk to the château, and find Gibbs, Potter and two Americans playing Bridge. I ask Gibbs if he has seen Carless, and Gibbs smiles at me. “Gone hunting, I think.” I am going to have it out with Carless before I go to bed. I walk to his billet and find him sitting with some French people, drinking red wine.

  “Just a moment, Carless.”

  He looks at me, gets up, and saunters out after me into the street. I say very quietly, “Carless, if you come interfering again at my billet, I’ll break your neck.”

  He laughs, but uncomfortably so.

  “Why this thusness, daddy? I only asked the kid to promenade.”

  “You damned fool! You simply don’t understand that some women——”

  He stuffs his hands into his pockets, and waggles his body to and fro as though convulsed with mirth.

  “Priceless old thing! Why, you’re smitten with the kid yourself.”

  “Go to hell!”

  But, somehow the anger has gone out of me. I know that he has spoken the truth, and that he knows it.

  “All right, Carless. But can’t you understand——?”

  And suddenly he becomes quite gentle and serious.

  “Yes, old man, I can. Sorry. I won’t go messing about again. I’m a mischievous ass. All right. Nothing doing, nothing said.”

  My anger has gone. I say, “Thanks, old man. I may be a ruddy fool, but I am not going to make a fool of anybody. It’s too big. Good night.”

  “Good night, old man.”

  There are very few completely bad men in the world. In fact, one wonders whether such a creature exists. I suppose extreme vanity and the sex urge go to the making of cads, and I have come across only one such complete cad, an officer who could display the M.C. and bar, and an arrogance that was catastrophic. We had a passage of arms upon some official matter, and the victory was mine, and later I caught him attempting to play a most blackguardly trick on me. I had dared to hurt his vanity.

  Carless is very far from being a cad, but is just a breezy and good-natured extrovert, and he keeps his word to me. There is no malice between us.

  I have a secret interview with madame, and I tell her that Monsieur Carless has conveyed through me his apologies to her daughter. Madame seems a little amused. She hints that her daughters know how to take care of themselves, and that I am a most paternal person.

  I, paternal!

  Also, La Petite seems to be avoiding me. She is smileless and aloof, and I wonder whether she can be classing me with Carless. Women are enigmatic creatures. I pluck up my courage, and seize a chance to ask her if I have offended her in any way.

  “You, monsieur, no.”

  But she is so pale and formal, and distrait.

  This month of May seems too exquisite to be real. Each day is sunny and serene, and the country is looking beautiful. Can there be such a thing as war? Here we do not hear even the distant grumbling of the guns. There has been a pause in the fury of the Boche attacks, and one dares to hope that the danger is past.

  Colonel Muller, Richmond and I career all over the country in our Ford, inspecting sections of the Medical Corps, and doing a little sightseeing. St. Valery is a delightful little town, and it reminds me of Rye. We visit Eu and Le Tréport, and my American friends shop at Eu, a curious old place that suggests the 2nd Empire preserved in glass. These great wheatfields and the villages with their white houses and their beechwoods make me in love with peaceful things.

  * * *

  I am strangely and exquisitely happy, and exquisitely sad. Is there any sin in the love that has come to me? Does it clash with that other love? Yes, and no. For though I seem to live in a dream state here, my waking self goes over the sea to those at home with a more poignant tenderness. I know that this is a dream, and that my other world is reality.

  Rumours are beginning to spread that the 81st will shortly be reconstituted, and the cadres brought up to strength with drafts from Salonica and England. I know that this exquisite interlude must end, but I am sad with a great sadness.

  I should like La Petite to have known what she has meant to me, but my silly sensitiveness recoils upon itself. Does it hurt a woman to know that some man has loved her impossibly and very dearly? Can she be satisfied with the dream? I would rather lose my tongue than hurt this child. The love that matters is big with tenderness and compassion. It is the same love that I can give to Mary.

  Am I a humbug? I think not. But this experience will make me more gentle in judging others.

  * * *

  June. I come in one day and find the Malaunay house vibrant with emotion. Gabrielle is sitting dry-eyed and tense in a corner. La Petite is standing behind her chair. Madame, busy mending something, has the face of an old woman weary with too much emotion.

  Bad news? I am clumsy enough to ask, and Pauline’s face becomes a pale flame. She frowns at me, and then glances reproachfully at her sister.

  I turn into the passage feeling rebuffed. Surely, they might understand that I am their friend? I have reached the bottom of the stairs when I hear a flutter of footsteps, and turn to find Pauline behind me. She has a paper in her hand. She gives it to me.

  “Read, monsieur.”

  Her face has a kind of sheen. Her eyes are looking at me differently. Is it that she knows that she has hurt me rather terribly?

  I say, “Forgive me if I was bête. Is it bad news?”

  “Yes.”

  She looks back down the passage, and again at me.

  “Monsieur is never bête. It is because of Louis. My sister is afraid.”

  I take the paper up to my room and read. It contains news of the disaster on the Chemin des Dames. The communiqué may have been carefully edited, but one can read between the lines. The Fre
nch have been hit as we were on March 21. Good God, will nothing stop these damned Germans?

  I understand now. Gabrielle’s gunner is in that sector.

  These French have had too much to bear, nearly four years of suspense and anguish, and I can understand a country becoming a little hysterical. The glory of Verdun, the bitter failure of the Nivelle offensive, our debacle, and now this! I sit on my bed and think.

  Yes, this exquisite interlude is but a dream. The war seems to loom over me again, like some huge, impending wave. One must face it. One must go on to the end. It is fate.

  I get up and look at the portraits of my wife and child.

  * * *

  The war has come to this peaceful country. It arrives in the night, German bombing machines searching for the dumps in the Somme valley. They are trying to blow Abbeville and the railway triage to blazes. This conquest of the air has been nothing but a curse, and it seems to me that man, like an evil little boy, will continue to make of his new toys a murderous menace.

  On these fine still nights one can hear the German ’planes, the double purr of the twin engines. Beauchamp has received two bombs, and an isolated farmhouse has been badly damaged in the valley. The whole family were killed. At night there is a feeling of tension in these French villages, and the people gather in the street and watch and listen, and speak carefully to each other as though the men in those murderous machines might hear them. They are very weary of the war, these French, but I can feel the hatred in their hearts, their profound bitterness against the Boche, and their hatred has infected the Americans. I should be sorry to be the Germans when these fierce young men get in among them with the bayonet. They will not be polite in the matter of taking prisoners.

  How strange that it should happen like this, and that a Boche bombing-plane should bring us together.