By the Green of the Spring

by John Masters

  There had been a brief letter from John Merritt in the morning’s post; he was in a camp ‘somewhere in France’, and it was raining all the time. That was Brittany, Cate thought. They expected to move up to the front soon. Nothing about Stella … but then he himself had promised to wire, telephone, and write any news of her, as soon as he had any. John was relying on him.

  He left the table and walked into the hall, to the telephone, and made a trunk call to Scotland Yard. The Commissioner’s assistant said, ‘Yes, Mr Cate, I know the case … No, I’m sorry, we still have no clues … Yes, we are making certain that any unidentified female bodies reported to us are not your daughter.’

  Cate hung up, and went slowly to his library. As some men can not face the world, in hard times, without a drink of whisky, so he felt the need for the support of a philosopher. One of them, through the centuries, would have found words to give him strength.

  Chapter 3

  Rawalpindi, Punjab, India: late February, 1918

  Lieutenant Fred Stratton, MC, stood at attention before the desk of the commanding officer, 8th Battalion Weald Light Infantry. Beside him stood the adjutant of the battalion, Lieutenant Claude Mitchell, who had marched him in to be presented to the CO, Lieutenant Colonel R. D. Q. Pulliam. Salutes had been exchanged, introductions made. The colonel said, ‘Stand easy, Stratton … Well, you’re here at last, and we need you. This is a territorial battalion, as you know – I’m a stockbrocker, really – but we like to think we are as good as the Regular battalions – almost.’

  Fred said nothing. He was tempted to say, ‘I’m a mechanic’; and perhaps a couple of years ago he would have; but now it would be inappropriate. He was an officer, and a sahib, a pukka sahib.

  The CO continued, ‘You have, what, three years’ experience on the Western Front, and an MC, while we don’t have a single officer or man here, except one of the CSMs, who’s even seen it. So I’m giving you command of B Company right away, where there is a vacancy. And you’ll be promoted captain at once … As soon as you’ve settled in, I will want you to run a course in trench warfare, for the officers and senior NCOs … Take him to the regimental darzi, Claude, and have him properly outfitted, by the day after tomorrow, for the dress rehearsal … How are you on drill, Stratton?’

  ‘A bit rusty, sir. Didn’t have much time for drill in France, though Colonel Rowland made the battalion do a lot whenever we were out of the line.’

  ‘Ah, Colonel Rowland, a legend, a legend … Well, that’s all.’ He nodded. The two junior officers saluted, wheeled, and marched out.

  Outside, Stratton said, ‘Dress rehearsal for what?’

  ‘Friday’s ceremonial parade for the Governor. We and an Indian battalion and a battery of 18-pounders are going to parade on the Maidan, where His Excellency will inspect us in review order, then we will march past to impress our subject native populace … only none of them will be there to be impressed. Now, let’s see, you’ve already been allotted a quarter, I think? So we’d best get to the darzi.’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘Tailor. He’ll measure you for some drill uniforms, rather more regimental than those things you picked up in Egypt.’

  ‘But this rehearsal is for the day after tomorrow.’

  The adjutant was a plumpish man of about thirty, with sensuous lips, slightly bulging brown eyes, and thinning fair hair. He nodded now, smiling, and said, ‘Your uniforms will be ready for you tomorrow. Your bearer – I will get you one within the hour – will see that they are washed, starched, and ironed before the parade. You will also need a sweeper and a dogboy.’

  ‘I don’t have a dog!’

  ‘Better get one. A bull terrier’s the best sort of dog … they like to bite natives. You have to have a dogboy anyway, otherwise the local population would suffer from unemployment, and it would be our fault.’

  ‘How much do I pay him?’

  ‘Six rupees a month to the dogboy, twenty-five to the bearer, and ten to the sweeper … Tomorrow, at this time I will give you an hour’s drill instruction – with your permission, Captain Stratton.’ He smiled a cynical smile. Fred thought, I don’t like the bastard; but he’s interesting, and he knows a lot. I’d better learn. This is a strange place, this India, this Shiny India he’d heard so much about from the Old Sweats of the Wealds when he was at the Depot, and in the 1st Battalion, until they’d all been killed off, or sent back to Hedlington as instructors … or even survived in the trenches, living fossils, like that Private Snaky Lucas he’d once had in his platoon …

  ‘Royal Salute … preesent … arms!’ The rifles crashed up to the present, the officers’ swords swept up to the lips, then down.

  Fred stood rigidly at attention in front of the centre of B Company, his sword hilt at his right thigh, the blade, flat, pointed down and forward. The massed bands of the battalion and of the 108th Punjabis played ‘God Save the King.’ His Excellency the Governor of the province, wearing a grey frock coat, flanked by Aides de Camp in scarlet and gold, with gold aiguillettes, held his grey top hat three inches off his head.

  ‘Royal Salute, for the Governor,’ Fred had asked the adjutant – ‘Why?’ ‘Because he is the King’s representative’ was the answer … He was a long way off, and Fred couldn’t see him very clearly but he certainly didn’t look very impressive. It was funny to think that that little man could order all these troops about … even now the field guns were barking out the fifteen-gun salute to which he was entitled.

  ‘Slope … arms! Order arms!’

  Now came the inspection. His Excellency was walking forward across the sere grass of the Maidan. The brigadier general, in command of the parade, was strutting out to meet him. They met, more salutes, then the little group moved to the right of the line to inspect the horses and guns of the 18-pounder battery … The Maidan, which Fred had learned meant Plain, or parade ground, was also used for polo. Today it was almost empty of spectators except for perhaps two hundred women and children and a scattering of men – all British – behind the saluting base where the Union Jack fluttered in a gusty dusty breeze on top of its tall flagpole. Those were the hangers-on of the garrison – wives, sisters, nannies of officers; but, as Claude Mitchell had foretold – no natives. Well, to hell with the black buggers, Fred thought. This country belongs to us, we won it fair and square, and if they don’t like it, they can do the other thing. Some liked it all right – to his left, beyond the last man of the Wealds, were the tall turbanned soldiers of the Punjabis … whoever they were. He hadn’t had time to find out; and what did it matter?

  He straightened. The grey top hat was swimming into view at the extreme edge of his circle of vision … coming close. Both ADCs had large woolly ginger moustaches, round faces, pale blue eyes. The brigadier general was short and fat with no moustache but the same pale blue eyes. The Governor’s eyes were brown.

  The colonel said, ‘Captain Stratton, sir … just joined us from our 1st Battalion in France.’

  ‘France, eh? How long were you there?’

  Fred realised with a start that His Excellency was three feet in front of him, and that he was the one being asked the question. He said, ‘Two years, eight months, one day, sir.’

  His Excellency’s teeth shone in a smile. ‘I see. Time passes there on leaden feet, eh? Well, you deserve a rest and I hope you’ll have one here. This is a beautiful province, and the people are friendly and loyal. The Punjab provided more men for India’s war effort than all the other provinces combined. And do you know what the word Punjab means?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Fred said.

  His Excellency realised that he was holding up the parade and said, ‘Well, you’ll learn, you’ll learn.’ He passed on. Fred relaxed, thinking, there’s too many things to learn in this country and I don’t have the time. Soon’s the war’s over I’ll be going back to France, and … France? There’d be no France after the war. So what would he be doing? Finding a foreman’s job in Hedlington or Birmingham? Not bloody likely! Hadn�
�t he just decided he was an officer and a sahib?

  ‘The brigade will march past in quick time!’

  He waited, at ease now, as the Governor’s party took their positions on the saluting base under the fluttering, jerking Union Jack. First the guns would march past the Governor, then Colonel Pulliam would form the Wealds into close column of companies, the Colours, as now, between B and C; then ‘Quick March! …’ and round the Maidan they would go, the dust rising and blowing away on the Asian wind, the dresses of the watching women fluttering, like the Colours, which now must fly free. He prayed that his company would keep a good line. They were only Territorials, but this was all that they’d been doing for three years now. They ought to be good at it.

  They were off. The band changed from its measured beat for the artillery to ‘Green Grow the Rushes O,’ played at the lightning fast step of Light Infantry … bum bum bum beat the bass drum … Christ, it must be 150 paces a minute. His legs were twinkling as fast as they could, his sword was wobbling in his hand, the Colour bearers must be having a godawful time marching straight into the wind with the heavy silk banners flapping and gold cords and acorns flying … He was almost up to the saluting flag. He remembered he had to give the order himself … ‘B Company … Eyes … right!’ He jerked the sword hilt up to his lips, and then down once more into the salute. One day he’d dig the point into the ground and then … They were past, God knew how he’d done. The brigadier general and the CO were up there beside the Governor … ‘B Company … Eyes … front!’

  He heard the bellowing of C Company commander behind him. The band was slowing to the pace of heavy infantry. The Punjabis must be coming up to the saluting base. The battalion was wheeling round and back to its original position in line. His Excellency would be leaving any minute now. What the hell did Punjab mean? Why were there no spectators at the review, if the Punjab was so patriotic?

  The starched collar of his tunic was cutting into his neck, and his armpits were dark and wet with sweat. The cold weather was almost over, they said. He was hot and uncomfortable … but safe. If this was the price he’d have to pay for being a sahib – it wasn’t too bad.

  That evening Fred was standing at the bar of the Rawalpindi Club with Claude Mitchell, drinking chhota pegs – small whisky and sodas. From the ballroom the sound of ragtime penetrated faintly to the bar, making a high-pitched counterpoint to the gruff voices of the men in there. The garrison was celebrating. His Excellency the Governor himself was present, somewhere, but Fred had not seen him.

  Mitchell said, ‘Did you find what “Punjab” means?’ Fred shook his head – ‘It’s a compression of Panchh Ab – five waters, in Persian. Five rivers flow through the province – Sutley, Ravi, Beas, Jhelum, Chenab. It is a beautiful province, as HE said … Himalayas to the north, fertile plains below, the rivers … this is the breadbasket of India, produces most of the wheat … Even the cantonment isn’t too bad, though I never think I’m going to run into Ortheris, Learoyd, and Mulvaney here, as I do in Lahore.’

  ‘Who are – those men?’

  Mitchell turned and stared at him in astonishment, eyebrows raised comically. ‘Not weaned on RK? But, of course, you are not a public schoolboy, are you?’

  ‘Of course I’m not,’ Fred said curtly. ‘And I don’t try to hide the fact. You can take me or …’

  Mitchell raised a plump hand, ‘Please, Fred … may I call you Fred? Please don’t take offence. Between you and me, nor am I. Grammar school. This accent and the rest are protective colouring. But they were all brought up on Rudyard Kipling. After all he is the poet of the Empire, their Empire, isn’t he? Ortheris, Learoyd, and Mulvaney were privates – imaginary – in what was probably the Northumberland Fusiliers, serving in India, in several of Kipling’s short stories. If you’re going to stay in this country more than a month or two, you’d better read some of him … An Indian babu I know, a very intelligent man, says that Kipling understands India very well. He adds that he doesn’t understand Indians … but that’s none of our affair, is it? I’ll lend you Soldiers Three and Kim tomorrow … no, not tomorrow, I’m going out duck shooting to a jheel about twenty-five miles from here, near Mandra. Hey, why don’t you come with me?’

  ‘I don’t have a gun,’ Fred said.

  ‘I’ll lend you one … We take the Frontier Mail to Mandra Junction and then a tonga about five miles to the dak bungalow, which is right by the jheel… some snipe at this time of year, too, but mainly duck, on their way north. What say?’

  Fred hesitated. He didn’t want to make a fool of himself and he knew nothing about duck or snipe shooting … Still, it appeared to be a favourite sport here, so he’d better learn.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Great! Now, we ought to show ourselves on the dance floor. The CO likes his officers to dance, not just sit in here boozing, still less lurk in the snake pit poodle-faking …’

  Fred finished his drink, scribbled his name on the chit – he had already discovered that sahibs never paid cash for anything in India – and followed Mitchell out of the bar, straightening his tie and checking his bugle-horn lapel badges as he went.

  Mitchell stopped in the wide arch that opened on to the ballroom, surveying the crowded scene. The women were a moving sea of colour … very few plain white, mostly pinks, blues, and greens, with a few yellows. The men were all wearing khaki drill slacks and tunics, with shirt, collar, and khaki tie. There were not many medal ribbons, except on the older men, and the white-purple-white of Fred’s Military Cross was quite conspicuous.

  ‘Ah,’ Mitchell said, ‘just the ticket for you. Come along.’

  ‘What …?’ Fred began, following.

  Mitchell stopped in front of a woman sitting in a chair against one wall of the ballroom. She was alone, but a vacant chair and two empty glasses on the small table beside her indicated that she had not always been. Mitchell said, ‘Good evening, Daphne. May I introduce one of our new company commanders? Captain Fred Stratton … Miss Daphne Broadhurst-Smythe.’

  Miss Broadhurst-Smythe was about thirty, quite tall, with a long face, blue eyes, hair of a rich mouse colour, and a pale complexion, lips also pale, mouth wide, and the hint of a frown between her eyes, which were set rather close to her high-bridged nose. She was not beautiful and had a vaguely vacant air, as though not fully aware of who or where she was.

  Fred thought, now what do I do? Mitchell made a small gesture with his head towards the dance floor and Fred started. Of course! He said, ‘Would you care to dance, Miss Broadhurst-Smythe?’ God, what a mouthful!

  She said, ‘Thanks. That would be lovely.’

  She had an exaggerated upper-class accent, he noted. They moved on to the dance floor, Fred leading cautiously. He had been quite a dancer as a young man, but that was before the war, and dances had changed a lot since 1914.

  ‘Do you live here?’ he said.

  She said, ‘My father’s a colonel in the Remounts … I keep house for him … My mother died three years ago.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that,’ Fred said.

  She cut in, ‘Daddy was Skinner’s Horse … 1st Bengal Lancers, you know.’

  ‘Oh good!’ Fred exclaimed. Jesus, this wasn’t easy. He said, ‘I only arrived Monday … from France … via Egypt.’ He trod on her toes and muttered, ‘Sorry … bit out of practice.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘I’m going duck shooting tomorrow with Mitchell – Claude.’

  ‘Jolly good,’ she said, but she didn’t sound very excited. ‘Daddy loves shikar … He’s back at the table. Let’s go there and I’ll introduce you. He always likes to know who I’m dancing with. Too many cads about in officers’ uniforms, these days, he says.’

  ‘Quite right,’ Fred mumbled. He followed her to the table. The colonel was very tall, thin, grey-moustached, narrow-headed with close-cropped grey hair. Daphne introduced him and the colonel sighed, ‘Ha … MC, I see. France?’

  ‘Yes, sir … 1st Ba
ttalion of the regiment.’

  ‘Good regiment … though of course this is only a Terrier battalion. You weren’t a Regular, were you?’

  ‘No, sir.’ He can tell by my accent, Fred thought; and then, belligerently, what the hell’s it got to do with him?

  ‘Do you ride?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  The colonel’s expression became condescending – ‘Pity … Shoot?’

  Fuck you, Fred thought. Aloud, he said, ‘No sir … but I’m going out after duck with Claude Mitchell over the weekend. I thought I’d better learn for when I get back to England. My brother-in-law has a big estate and preserves pheasants.’

  ‘Pheasants?’ the colonel said suspiciously. ‘That’s an expensive game. Where?’

  ‘Walstone, in Kent.’ Fred paused a moment then said, ‘My sister is married to Lord Walstone, of Walstone Park.’

  ‘Lord Walstone,’ Daphne said with a religious sigh.

  ‘Hoggin that was,’ her father said. ‘Saw it in the New Year’s Honours.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Lord Walstone,’ Daphne repeated. ‘You must come to tea with us soon, Captain Stratton. How about next Thursday?’

  The two men tramped along in the darkness before dawn, twelve-bore shotguns under their arms, Mitchell’s blue roan cocker padding to heel, stars lighting them along the pale road, four inches deep in dust, between its unkempt borders of prickly pear. It was a mile from the dak bungalow to the jheel, and they had now covered nearly half of it. The night was warm, but not hot, with a slight wind from the north carrying the green smell of the fields, under the young wheat, and from beyond, a fainter breath of the Himalayas.

  ‘Nearly there,’ Mitchell said. ‘Heel, Sligo!’ The cocker, who had strayed sniffing, dropped back to his proper position. ‘You’ll have all the fishing fleet after you now that they know you’re related to a lord.’