While the goalie was talking, little W fell asleep. With the happiest of smiles, quiet, contented …
The funeral took place the next Wednesday, at half-past two in the afternoon. The March sun was shining. Easter wasn’t far off.
We stood there, around the open grave. The coffin was lowered.
The Head was present, with nearly all the staff. Only the physics master was missing; he’s a queer fellow.
The priest read the funeral service. W’s parents and some relatives of theirs stood motionless. Opposite us, in a half circle, stood W’s contemporaries—the whole class. Twenty-five.
The flowers lay near the grave. One beautiful wreath bore, on a greenish card, the words “From your Goalkeeper.”
And while the priest spoke of flowers that bloom and die, my eyes fell on N.
He stood behind L, H, and F.
I watched him. No expression betrayed itself in his face. He caught my eye.
He’s your bitterest enemy, I felt with a sudden conviction. To him, you’re a criminal. Beware of him when he’s older. Or he’ll destroy everything, even to the ruins of the memory of you. He’s wishing now that you lay down there; and he’d destroy your very grave, and none should know that you had lived. But don’t show that you’re aware of his thoughts. Keep your own ideals to yourself. Others will come after N. Other generations. Don’t think, friend N, that you can outlive what I hold holy, though you may outlive me.
And even in the midst of my thoughts, I felt that some one else was watching me. T.
He was smiling—very quietly, with a supercilious scorn. Had he guessed my thoughts? Was that the reason for that strange, fixed smile?
Two bright, round eyes, watching me. Gazing at me. Unblinking.
A fish?
8. WAR
SOME THREE YEARS AGO, THE AUTHORITIES issued an order which made changes in our Easter holidays. All schools were to go to camp for some part of them. “Camp” meant a kind of premilitary service. Our scholars must spend ten days in the open air—surrounded by the “freedom of nature”: they must live in tents like soldiers, under the eye of their form-masters. Sergeants from the reserve would direct the training. Marching and exercises were the order of the day, and for those above fourteen, rifle practice. The boys were naturally enthusiastic: nor were we teachers sorry, for we weren’t too old to like playing Indians.
That Easter Sunday, the inhabitants of a town, a good way off, saw a huge charabanc coming their way. The driver was blowing his horn as if he were driving a fire-engine. Geese and hens fluttered out of our way, dogs howled and the excitement spread to every one.
“Here they come. The boys! The cadets!”
At eight that morning we had left the high school and now it was half-past two as we drew up at the town hall.
The mayor greeted us, the police-inspector saluted. The head master of the town’s school was there, of course, and the priest very soon appeared, a little late. A friendly looking fellow with a round face.
The mayor showed me his map of the district and explained where our camp-site lay. A good hour’s journey if you didn’t want to race.
“The sergeant-major’s there already,” announced the inspector. “And two men went on ahead early in an Army lorry, to lay out the camp.”
While the boys got out and gathered their belongings together, I had another look at the map. The little town lay two thousand feet above sea-level: already we were in the neighbourhood of the great mountains which rose to six thousand feet or so; and beyond them stood others, dark and cold, capped with eternal snow.
“What’s this?” I asked the mayor, pointing to a group of buildings which the map showed on the western outskirts of the town.
“That’s our factory,” he answered. “The greatest saw-mill in the district. But unfortunately it was closed down last year. Profits too small,” he added with a smile. “We’ve got a good many unemployed now. It’s distressing.”
The teacher chimed in too, and told me that the saw-mill belonged to a big combine. I could see that he hadn’t much sympathy for the shareholders and directors. Nor did I feel any. The town was very poor, he went on, half the people lived by piece-work, at a terrible rate of pay. One child in three was undernourished.
“Yes,” chuckled the inspector. “Here too, with the beauties of nature all around!”
Before we started off for the camp, the priest came up to me.
“You’re the master in charge, I believe? Just a moment. There’s a little thing I’d like to bring to your notice. About an hour and a half from your camping-ground there’s a castle. The State acquired it, and there are girls quartered there, round about the same age as your boys. They’re running round all day and half the night, so keep a look out”—he smiled—“and see that no complaints come to my ears.”
“I’ll take good care.”
“You don’t mind my mentioning it? When you’ve spent thirty-five years listening to confessions, you grow rather sceptical, and a journey of a mere hour and a half doesn’t strike you in the light of a deterrent.”
He laughed.
“You must come along and see me some time, I’ve got some new wine down.”
At about three o’clock we started. First through a valley, then up a winding hill-side road, from which we looked down again into the glen. There was a smell of resin in the air as our path entered a long wood. At last the trees fell back to let in the light: before us lay our site, in a meadow. The mountains were still closer to us now.
The sergeant and his two pioneers were playing cards. When they saw us coming they got up quickly and the sergeant advanced, a very military figure. About fifty, he’d be. He wore an unobtrusive pair of glasses. A decent fellow.
Now we must get down to work. The sergeant and his two men showed the youngsters how to put up a tent. I joined in. In the centre of the camp we left an empty space, and there we put up our colours. In three hours our city was built. The two pioneers saluted and started off back to the little town.
Near the flag-pole stood a biggish chest—our firearms. The targets were erected: wooden soldiers in foreign uniforms.
With twilight, we lit a fire and did our cooking. It smelt good. We sang a few Army songs. The sergeant drank a schnapps, and his voice grew hoarser.
The mountain-wind stirred.
“That’s coming down from the glaciers,” said one of the youngsters. Some of them were coughing.
I thought of the dead W.
Yes, you were the smallest fellow in the class—and the friendliest too. I believe you’d have been the only one to write nothing in your essay against the niggers. So you had to go. Where are you now?
Has an angel come and taken you—as the angels did in the old tales?
And did he fly with you to the place where all the blessed footballers play? Where the goalkeeper’s an angel too, and the referee, whistling when a player flies after the ball? For that must be off-side in heaven! Are you happy up there? Of course! Up there everybody sits in the grandstand—in the middle of the front row—while those horrid officials who always chased you out of the goal when you wanted an autograph must stand behind the giants who stop them from seeing the game—
Night now, and off to bed.
“To-morrow we start in earnest,” smiled the sergeant. He shared a tent with me. He snored.
Once or twice I flashed my torch to have a look at my watch. On the tent wall I saw a brownish-red stain. What was it?
To-morrow we start in earnest, I lay thinking. In earnest. In that chest near the flag-pole lies war.
War.
We were on the battlefield.
In my mind’s eye I saw the two pioneers—the sergeant from the reserve, who was in command now—and the wooden soldiers, who would teach us how to shoot straight. Other figures passed before me. The Head, N and his father the baker—the baker of Philippi. I thought of the saw-mill that now lay idle, and the stockholders, drawing larger profits, even in spite of its idlenes
s. I thought of the smiling inspector and the priest who liked his glass of wine, of the negroes that might not live, of the piece-workers who couldn’t live: I thought of the powers that rule the land, and the underfed children.
And of the Fish.
We’re on the battlefield here. Then where is the front?
I heard the night-wind, and the snoring of the sergeant.
Was that—blood—that brownish-red stain?
9. VENUS ON TREK
SUNLIGHT FILLED THE CAMP. WE LEFT OUR TENTS.
We washed in the brook and made tea. After breakfast the sergeant made the boys form two lines, arranging themselves according to their height. They numbered off. He divided them into squads.
“No shooting to-day,” he told us. “Just a bit of exercise.”
He was a sharp disciplinarian: the two lines must be in perfect order. He had a habit of squinting one eye.
“Come up a bit here—back there, you’re too far forward. You’re a yard in front of the others, number three there!”
Number three was Z. How hard it is for him to keep in line, I found myself thinking. Suddenly I heard N’s voice.
“Back there, idiot!” he rasped at Z.
“Now, now”—from the sergeant—“don’t get rough. There’s no cursing in the Army now. That’s a thing of the past. Get that into your heads.”
N fell silent. Blushing hotly, he threw me a furtive glance. Now he could have strangled me, for it was he who was in the wrong. I felt strangely pleased, but I restrained a smile.
“Regiment—march!” came the sergeant’s command. The boys marched off. The biggest in front, the smallest at the rear. Another minute, and they were in the wood. Out of sight.
Two remained behind. One of the M’s and one of the B’s.
They peeled potatoes and made other preparations for the midday meal. All in quiet high spirits.
“Sir!” shouted M suddenly. “Look what’s on the march over there!”
I looked. Some twenty girls were marching in military formation, weighed down with rucksacks. As they approached we could hear them singing—Army songs in a trilling soprano. B laughed aloud.
Then they became aware of our camp and halted about two hundred yards away.
Their leader addressed them and came on alone in our direction. I set out to meet her.
We introduced ourselves. She was a teacher in a large provincial town and the girls were those of her class. They were staying at the castle now—so these were the young ladies to whom the priest’s warning related! As I walked back with my new companion to her regiment, the girls stared at me like so many cows. I don’t think the priest need have felt any anxiety: these girls didn’t look very attractive.
Besmirched with sweat and grime, they were scarcely a pretty sight.
Their mistress seemed to guess my thoughts—at least she had that womanly attribute. She attempted an explanation.
“We don’t go in for frills and tinsel. And we don’t spend our time theorizing. We like to get something done.”
I didn’t want to embark on a long argument over the various schools of thought where education was concerned. I just murmured “Ah!” as an answer, and thought to myself, Even N’s a human being by the side of these poor creatures.
“Yes, we’re Amazons,” continued the teacher.
But the Amazons were only a myth. This was reality. Daughters of Eve, strayed far.
I thought of Julius Caesar.
He couldn’t find any inspiration in Venus with a rucksack. Nor I.
Before they marched off again the teacher explained to me that to-day the girls had been out looking for the lost airman. How so?—had some ’plane crashed?
No! The search for the lost airman was a new military exercise for the nation’s young womanhood. Somewhere in the wood was a big white box. The girls spread out and advanced in a wide line, each of them searching for the white box.
“It’s in case of war. So that we can immediately get going if there’s an actual crash. Behind the lines, of course: unfortunately women won’t be at the front.”
A pity!
They marched on. I watched them. A good many marches had made their short legs even shorter—and thicker.
March on, mothers of the future.
10. WEEDS
PALE SKY AND RAIN-WASHED EARTH: THE WORLD a water-colour—“April.”
I made my way back to the camp, following a footpath across the fields. What lay behind the hill?
My path skirted a thicket in a wide curve. The air was still, with something of the eternal stillness. No murmur, no stir of life. The very beetles were nearly all asleep.
On the other side of the hill a farm-house stood in a little valley. There was no one to be seen, no sign of the dog.
I was on the point of going down to it when, involuntarily, I stopped. A narrow lane led past the farm: suddenly I had caught sight of three figures crouching behind the hedge. Children, hiding there, two boys and a girl. The boys would be about thirteen, the girl a year or two older. All were barefooted. What were they doing, hiding? I waited. One of the boys got up and started towards the farm. All at once he stopped short and slunk back to the hedge. I heard the creaking of a wagon. A load of timber drawn by heavy horses went slowly by.
When it was out of sight the boy made for the farm again, reached the door and knocked. He must have knocked with a hammer, or so it seemed to me, the sound rang out so sharply. Then he—and the two others—waited, listening. The girl was standing up, peering over the hedge. How tall she was, and thin! The door opened, and an old peasant woman appeared, bent over a stick. She looked about as if sniffing the air. The boy stood there quietly. Suddenly the old woman cried:
“Who is it?”
Why was she shouting?—there was the boy, in front of her! She shouted again:
“Who is it?” and groped with her stick, as if she could not see him. Could she be blind?
The girl pointed to the open door, as if giving an order, and on tiptoe the boy slipped into the house.
The old woman stood listening.
Yes, she was blind.
From the house came a noise—the clatter of broken crockery. The blind woman gave a frightened start and cried:
“Help! Help!”
But the girl threw herself upon her and put her hand over her mouth.
The boy came out carrying a loaf of bread and a jug, as the girl knocked the stick out of the old woman’s hand. I rushed towards them. The blind woman staggered, stumbled, and fell. The three children vanished.
I helped the frightened, whimpering old woman to her feet. A peasant had heard the noise and ran up. Between us, we got her into the house, and I told him what had happened. He showed no surprise.
“Yes, they got the old lady out so as they could slip in the door. That lot again! There’s no catching ’em. They’re worse than magpies—a regular gang of thieves!”
“Children?”
The peasant nodded.
“Yes, they’ve even been at it up there at the castle, where the young ladies are. They had half their wash not so long ago. You’d better look out, or they’ll be up to the same tricks in your camp.”
“We’ll be on the watch for them!”
“There’s nothing I’d put past ’em. They’re weed, and ought to be rooted up!”
11. THE LOST AIRMAN
I TURNED BACK TO THE CAMP. WE HAD REASSURED and consoled the old blind woman. She was grateful to me—why should she be? Wasn’t it a matter of course?—I couldn’t leave her lying there on the ground. A lot of brutes, these children.
I came to a sudden stop, for a strange mood came over me. I didn’t feel at all furious over the theft of the bread, or even over the brutality that went with it—I merely condemned it. Why wasn’t I outraged? Because they were poor children with nothing to eat? No, not because of that.
My path went round a great curve: I tried a short cut—quite confidently, for I have a good sense of direction. I pus
hed on through brambles. Here were weeds—thriving. I kept thinking of the girl—I could still see her stretching up to peep over the hedge. Was she the robber chief? I’d like to have seen her eyes—for I’m no saint.
The trees grew sparser here. What was that, a little farther on?
A white box: and marked on it, in big red letters, “AEROPLANE.” The lost airman: of course! They hadn’t found him yet, then.
So it was here you crashed! An aerial combat, or an anti-aircraft gun? A bomber—shattered to the ground, a black, flame-charred mass. A box.
Perhaps you weren’t killed—but they couldn’t find your lacerated body. Friend or foe—which were you, lost flyer? Now lost in death.
A box. A piece of cardboard.
As I stood gazing at it I heard some one speak. A woman’s voice. A sad plea of a voice.
“No one can alter it.”
Gently, I pushed the leafy branches aside—to see two girls from the castle. Two of those girls with the short thick legs. One was crying: a comb hung from her companion’s hand.
“What do I care about the lost airman?” she sobbed. “I don’t want to keep running through the wood. Look how—how swollen my legs are. I can’t do any more marching. Let him die, that lost airman. I want to live. I’ll run away, Anne, I’ll run away. I won’t sleep in the castle again, it’s like a prison. I want to do my hair and wash and tidy up.”
Anne tried to console her, gathering her fine hair back out of her tear-stained eyes.
“What can we girls do about it? Even the teacher’s been crying lately—in secret. Mummy’s always saying that men have gone mad. They make the laws.”
Men?
Anne kissed her friend’s forehead. I felt ashamed for having scorned that little regiment so hastily.
Perhaps Anne’s mother was right. Perhaps men are mad now—those who aren’t mad haven’t the courage to put their maniacal fellows into strait-jackets.
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