by John Masters
Guy thought, unhappily, oh this bloody war, which was making him famous and adored; and destroying so many others’ happiness. He said, ‘What about the children?’
Frank said, ‘She can look after them … all four of them, when this un’s born. May, that’ll be, Mother says.’
Guy was silent another long space, then said, ‘You’re going to have to face her sooner or later, because of the kids, your three. You can’t wash your hands of them for ever. Any time you decide to go, tell me.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Frank said formally, lifting his head out of the machinery and turning to look straight at Guy. ‘But I won’t … I loved her. And she might as well have shit in my eye.’ He returned to his work. Guy walked off, head bent. He was supposed to be back in his office to go over some orders with Dandy Stuart, the adjutant, but he couldn’t face it. He walked on down one side of the field, past the ranked Camels of 333. Across the way was a squadron of Airco DH 9s, single-engined bombers … not big enough, not powerful enough. That would be improved as Geoffrey de Havilland worked out modifications of the original design … and when the American Liberty engines were available in sufficient quantities …
Poor Frank. He was suffering spiritual agonies, and it was changing his personality. The old Frank would never have cut off his children like this. Perhaps he would change again when the war ended … When would the war end, so that he himself could meet Werner von Rackow in peace, and talk over the ideas they were now exchanging by letter? Then those ideas and plans would have to be converted into deeds … how could the monstrous, slow mechanisms of governments be made to act? Well, they acted fast enough if it was war they were waging, didn’t they? They must be refashioned to wage peace … That reminded him, he must send an orderly into Amiens to pick up the damask tablecloth he had ordered as a wedding present for Werner and his bride, Maria Rittenhaus. When the tablecloth arrived Guy intended to fly over and drop it on to Werner’s airfield. Good old Werner! But what on earth would he do, as a sedately married man, when the war was over? What would he do? It was impossible to imagine … not what Werner von Rackow or Guy Rowland would do or become, but that the war would ever be over.
John Merritt was reading by the light of a hurricane lantern set on the small camp table by the centre pole of the bell tent. Rudy Anspach, with whom he shared the tent, was on leave in Noyon till midnight. It was cold but quiet, with no wind, the thin snow lying on the bare hard ground, the same colour as the rows of tents of Battery D, 137th Field Artillery.
John was reading the Field Artillery Manual. A few days ago he had been explaining to Mr Harry Rowland about angle of site, but it had not been a clear explanation because the matter was not really clear in his own mind. He had the book open at the proper page now, and was reading the section for the third time.
63. Rapid determination of the angle of site. The following examples illustrate the procedure in the determination of the angle of site:
(a) Example 1. The distance from the observation post to the base piece is 400 yards (Fig. 60). The distance from the target to the observation post, as measured with the range finder, is 3700 yards; as estimated, to the base piece, 4000 yards. The site reading of the target on the BC telescope at the observation post is 295; the site reading to the base piece is …
A noise outside made him look up. It was a heavy retching, coughing sound. He hurried out into the open. Someone was kneeling a little to the right of the entrance to the tent, vomiting. He began, ‘By God, soldier, you …’ when he recognised the man in the starlight – Private Chee Shush Benally, the Navajo Indian who had joined the 16th Infantry the same day as he in El Paso last May. When John transferred to the Field Artillery, Benally had sworn he’d join him, and he had, just a week ago, when the battery moved up to the front.
John looked quickly up and down. No one moving in the officers’ row of tents, some lights glowing through the canvas. Benally had finished vomiting. John grabbed him by the collar, lifted him, and pulled him into the tent. ‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘Wait. I’ll see if I can rustle up some coffee for you.’
He didn’t understand how Benally had got himself out of the 16th – Benally merely said he’d told the top kick that unless he fixed the transfer, he and the other Indians in the outfit, and there were several, would put a curse on them all. A top kick can fix anything, he knew, so they’d got rid of him quick, telling the Artillery that he was a natural driver, and a wizard with a horse, which was true; and he’d come to the 137th Regiment and, though officially a driver, was used most of the time as blacksmith and saddler and, unofficially, had appointed himself John’s striker, demanding $7 a month from John for the privilege.
John said, ‘What have you been doing, Chee?’
‘Gettin’ drunk,’ the Indian said, ‘what else?’
‘What on, man?’
‘Cognac … A bottle, bottle and a half … Are you all right?’
‘I’m OK,’ John said. He ought to have Chee thrown into the hoosegow for drunkenness, but … Chee had taught him so much, those months together in the infantry, that he could never regard him as just another private soldier. He was John’s teacher in everything to do with the natural world, including mankind, men, and their natures; yet John felt that he was responsible for the Navajo, as he would be for a child, for in certain areas Chee was as helpless as one – particularly when faced with a bottle of liquor.
Benally said, ‘Germans going to attack soon, eh?’
‘Latrine rumours … but it may be true. We’re going into the line next week, that’s all I do know.’
‘Everyone know that,’ Benally said, ‘but Germans won’t attack us … attack British.’
‘How do you know?’
Benally grinned – ‘Stars … wind … dumb Indian know something, Johnny … Ah, you called John now, right?’
John nodded. Benally said, ‘You got any liquor here?’
John said, ‘No, and if I did I wouldn’t give you any. Can’t you ever stop until you’re paralytic blind drunk, Chee? How many times have I had to cover for you … at Bliss, on the troop train, on the ship, in the trenches? Why do you do it?’
Benally’s square brown face hardened. He said, ‘Because our land taken … our skies no belong us, our water flow for white man.’ He laughed suddenly, his face changing as rapidly, ‘After war, you come Sanostee, John. We hunt elk together … our squaws make posole for us …’ He put out his hand and rested it on John’s – ‘No news?’
John shook his head. Benally said, ‘Why you not get drunk with me, eh?’ John shook his head again. Benally said, ‘I will write my uncle … big shaman … ask him to sing for her. Don’t know whether the sing will reach her, across the sea … never tried that before … but I think it will. Our sings reach the dead, so …’
John said, ‘Thanks, Chee. Go ahead. It’ll be good to know someone else is trying.’
‘And when she’s back, after the war, bring her to Sanostee, eh?’
‘I don’t know, Chee … We have to finish the war first, and then … I just don’t know.’
‘Come Sanostee,’ Benally said. ‘No bad things there. Only sky, rocks, grass, water … wind to clean inside head … Come Sanostee.’
Daily Telegraph, Wednesday, March 13, 1918
THE AIR RAID ON PARIS
100 KILLED, 79 INJURED FOUR ENEMY PLANES DOWN
As was stated in the later editions of yesterday’s Daily Telegraph, the Germans carried out another air raid on Paris – the eleventh since the war began – on Monday night. Apparently this raid was on a larger scale than that of Friday last, as nearly sixty aeroplanes are said to have been engaged in it, though many of them failed to reach the city, being driven off by defending forces and by the anti-aircraft guns. It is satisfactory to learn that four of the raiders were accounted for. One of them, a Gotha, was brought down in flames near Château-Thierry on the river Marne, about thirty miles south-east of Soissons, and its occupants were captured.
Unfortunately, the casualties were very heavy, though the number of persons actually killed and injured in the raid by the bombs was smaller than in the raid of Jan. 30, when forty-five people were slain and 207 injured; but the death-roll was greatly increased by a panic at a refuge at one of the Metropolitan Railway stations, where sixty-six persons, mostly women and children, lost their lives. Reuter’s correspondent states that they were ‘asphyxiated,’ i.e. suffocated by the pressure of the crowd … One of the … Gothas brought down was burnt to ashes and the pilot and other occupants were burnt alive. Most of the crews of the other machines brought down were wounded …
Ghastly, Cate thought. Women and children trampled to death in panic … men burnt alive … it wasn’t only the war that was becoming more inhuman every day, but the people waging it.
He looked at the clock on the mantelpiece – five to ten. He wasn’t feeling very bright this morning – pray to God it wasn’t the flu – and had got up late. He would have stayed in bed all morning, probably, if the Governor wasn’t coming down. He’d made a ten o’clock appointment … wonder what it was about?
He folded away the paper and went out, as he passed down the passage seeing a big Rowland Sapphire roll past the windows. The Governor had always been punctual. He went to the front door to greet him, waving Garrod aside with a smile.
He’s looking much older all of a sudden, he thought, as Harry Rowland stepped down from the car, aided by the young woman who had at last taken Wright’s place. He shook the old man’s hand, led him to the library, and helped him into a comfortable chair. ‘A little something?’ he asked, smiling.
‘A drop of whisky and water,’ Harry said, rubbing his hands. ‘Never used to take it at this hour, but the doctor said … my heart, you know …’
Cate poured, and handed over the glass. Harry drank and put the glass down. ‘I’ll get down to business,’ he said. ‘Have to see Richard and John … Alice too, of course … when I leave here. Can’t get hold of Tom – the people at Chatham just say they can give me no information, when I call. They tell me to write, and it’ll be forwarded … That last trip to France tired me out, Christopher. Felt rotten when I came home, weak as a kitten.’
‘You’re not as young as you used to be, Governor.’
Harry nodded. ‘Who is? … So I’ve decided to apply for the Chiltern Hundreds. The only question is, when?’
Cate was surprised, though he knew he should not be. Stewardship of the Chiltern Hundreds, which no longer existed, was still technically ‘an office of profit under the Crown,’ and could not be held by a Member of Parliament. Applying for this non-existent post therefore meant retirement from the House. He’d seen Harry getting older – more quickly since Rose’s death; still more quickly now … he ought to have guessed. He said, ‘I suppose there’s no possibility of a General Election soon?’ Harry shook his head. ‘The end of the war?’
‘If it doesn’t go on too long.’
‘I think another winter going up and down to London would be hard on you,’ Cate said. ‘October, November?’
‘That’s what I think,’ Harry said. ‘I suppose the PM will try to dissuade me. He’s worried about losing seats.’
‘This one’s safe enough for a Unionist, I would have thought,’ Cate said. ‘Either Liberal or Conservative.’
Harry said, ‘I’m not so sure. In the eyes of a lot of people – and the number climbs every day, in secret, as the slaughter continues – we’re both tarred with the same brush: we’re responsible for the war. A good Socialist could give whomever stands in my place a bad fright … at the least.’
Cate whistled long and almost silently. A Socialist, for Mid Scarrow? It seemed impossible, against nature.
Chapter 5
London and Kent: Thursday, March 14, 1918
Roger Durand-Beaulieu, 9th Earl of Swanwick, stood in the big third-floor drawing-room, looking out at the rain falling steadily on Cornwall Gardens. His hands were clasped behind the back of his broadcloth suit, his shoulders hunched and his head a little stuck forward. He was frowning, not at anything in particular, but at fate. It was a two-storey flat, two reception rooms, five bedrooms, large kitchen and pantry, servants’ quarters above … certainly it was big enough for the four of them, except there were only three … where was Helen, and what in blazes was she doing, that was so hush hush? … SW 7 wasn’t so bad an address. But it was very different from Walstone Park, where that fat profiteer was now lording it – literally – over the old place and the fallow deer and the pheasants and the village … while the heir to his own title was a damned Canadian cowboy, who didn’t want it and had no intention of coming back to England to accept it when … Roger and Arthur killed in action in this bloody war, most of his money gone the same way, taken in taxes, then blown up … The bloody Huns had to be taught a lesson they’d never forget, but … Louise Rowland had been in the flat half an hour, with Flora – hadn’t seen her arrive, but Flora had sent up a message, and Louise would come up and see him before she left. She’d lost a son, too – Boy, killed at Nollehoek in the Passchendaele battle, not long after Cantley. That had turned her pacifist, according to what he’d heard before they left Walstone. Losing a son ought to make one all the more determined to win, to avenge him, not go round snivelling that the war must be stopped. Well, Louise was a woman. Even Flora hadn’t been so certain about the war as she used to be, since Cantley went.
He heard the door open behind him, and turned slowly. Three women came into the room: Flora his wife, the countess; Louise Rowland; and another, taller, gaunt, severe-faced woman in dowdy black clothes with a remarkable felt hat. Flora said, ‘This is Mrs Gorse, Roger, Probyn’s wife.’
‘Ah,’ the earl said. He recognised her now, though he had not seen her for three years or more. She seldom left the cottage. It was Probyn’s Woman, not really his wife.
Flora said, ‘Sit down, Roger … here.’ She and Louise sat down side by side on a sofa; the earl sat in an armchair opposite them; the Woman remained standing, arms folded.
The countess said gently, ‘Roger, what we’re going to tell you will be a shock to you, so prepare yourself.’
‘What now?’ the earl growled. Arthur and Cantley gone, what else could there be?
The countess said, ‘Helen has written to Louise telling her where she’s living, and confirming what Louise and I have been certain of from the time Helen left High Staining last December. She’s going to have a baby. It’s …’
‘A baby?’ the earl interrupted, frowning. ‘That’s impossible … or has she sneaked off and got married? Is that what the secret job is?’
‘The baby’s due next month,’ the countess continued patiently. ‘Boy was the father. They were going to get married on his next leave.’
‘He was killed,’ the earl muttered. ‘Where is she?’
‘She’s living in Soho with Ethel Fagioletti – you remember, Ethel Stratton that was, who married the Italian waiter, only now he’s a sergeant in the Wealds. Helen wrote to Louise asking her to come and tell us … and to bring up Mrs Gorse to examine her. She wants Mrs Gorse to deliver the baby.’
‘Helen, having a bastard,’ the earl said. ‘Christ!’
‘It’s only because Boy was a brave man, and did his duty, as Cantley and Arthur did. It’s quite possible that they, too, left fatherless children somewhere … We’re going to Soho now to see Helen. Do you want to come?’
The earl snapped, ‘No!’ He got up and returned to the window, staring out at the rain. He threw over his shoulder, ‘What shall I tell Barbara when she comes back? She’s teaching a children’s ride in the Park.’
‘Nothing,’ the countess said. ‘I’ll tell her this afternoon.’
Louise, speaking to the earl’s back said, ‘I’m sorry Boy couldn’t marry Helen, Lord Swanwick … but John and I are very happy that Boy did know love before … he went … and we’re very happy too that he has a son, and we a grandson, of his body.’
The women left the r
oom, the Woman first, the countess last. She looked back at her husband, a dark figure against the rain-spattered window, his hunched dejected back to her, then she gently closed the door.
Three quarters of an hour later, the countess knocked on the blue-painted door of a little two-storey house on Dean Street in Soho. The street smelled of cooking spaghetti sauce, and a barrel organ was playing Italian tunes, the organ grinder’s monkey prancing on top of the machine waving tiny British and Italian flags. The house next to the one where they waited was a restaurant called Bertinelli’s and in the doorway of the house beyond that was a very painted young woman with high heels, net stockings visible to just below her knees, and a tiny umbrella, staring discontentedly at the rain.
A sharp-faced little woman with small hands and feet and an incongruously large bosom opened the door. Her big blue eyes opened wide and she exclaimed, ‘You’ve come …!’
‘I’m Lady Swanwick,’ the countess said. ‘Helen’s mother. This is …’
‘Oh, I know Mrs Rowland, and Mrs Gorse … from when I was a little girl … Come in, m’lady, m’m …’
She held the door open saying, ‘On the left … Lady Helen’s working upstairs … Lady Helen!’ She called up the narrow flight of stairs. ‘They’ve come … Her ladyship your mother and all!’
The visitors waited in the crowded little parlour, filled with bric-a-brac. A large photograph of a swarthy sergeant in khaki, against a painted backdrop of a park, stood on the centre table which was covered with a beaded and fringed cloth.
Helen came in slowly, Ethel Fagioletti behind her. Helen was carrying the baby high, and it was big, for a first child. She was pale, with tears in her eyes, but her mouth wide in a smile. ‘Mummy,’ she said, her voice trembling. The countess found herself weeping as she opened her arms wide to receive her daughter into them. Then Helen was kissing Louise Rowland, and beginning to talk – no, she was in no pain, only the usual discomfort, he’d been kicking since the middle of November, it couldn’t be long now, she was so happy, Ethel had been so good …