Tosh lies motionless, eyes closed, to all outward appearances asleep.
“Yes, I’ll tell you who else . . .”
We have not noticed the door of our room open. Frost from the opposite cubicle comes in, takes Skinny by the arm and pushes her outside.
“I’ll calm her down,” she whispers, and goes.
“Thank heaven,” sighs The Bug.
As the door closes Tosh laughs, a hard laugh that is like a blow. No one says any more. The party is definitely over. Etta Potato blows the candle out.
·····
Beyond the hill where lies Number Thirteen Hospital is a twin hill topped by a queer-shaped ancient tree that never buds into leaf nor yet rots, according to local lore. The hill is called the Hill of the Witch’s Hand, and the tree is responsible for the strange name by reason of the gnarled trunk that gives the curious illusion of a gigantic palm, and of the five malformed branches that stretch like fingers into the valley below, where is the military cemetery.
Square, undecorated, unfoliaged, with its muddy earth mounds and regular rows of plain crosses, the cemetery is as hideous as the war that has called it into being. No gentle resting-place for a world-weary head is this bleak track of upheaved earth fenced with wooden stakes—rather a swift place to hide men who have violently and dreadfully died. And over this bleak burial ground stretches the Witch’s Hand, hollow-palmed, sinister, greedy. Strangely symbolic of war. Reaching out and demanding. Demanding . . . never denied. Demanding . . . never content.
I fix my eyes on this evil black tree as I change down for the steep climb. The white glove that has so graciously hidden it for the last few weeks has disappeared, and to my fancy the recent load of heavy snow has bent the five fingers to the centre, making them more claw-like and avaricious than before. The Hand will have its fill of victims to-day. This is a sad record in the history of the convoy—the longest list of funerals since the beginning. I have already passed three ambulances coming from the cemetery since I began the ascent, and another has just rounded the brow. They are all tearing back for their next load of dead. There is much burying to be done before night falls.
My funeral is from Number Thirteen, and I am a quarter of an hour late on account of a puncture. The doors of the little corrugated-tin mortuary are open. The orderlies are impatiently awaiting my arrival. They extinguish their cigarettes and dive inside as I turn the corner that leads to the dead-house. Hardly have I pulled up than they have hoisted the first plain deal flag-covered coffin on their shoulders and are loading up. The corporal stands by giving orders. He complains aggrievedly to me at intervals that what with one thing and another he’s had no dinner to-day . . . everything simply chronic . . . men dying like flies . . . they’ll be running out of coffins before the week’s out . . . and no dinner to crown all. One of the strings that holds the Union Jack to a coffin has been carelessly tied. The flag slips into the mud.
“Now, then, Eminway,” he chides, severely, “what are you a-doing of?”
He runs into the mortuary for a fresh flag. The coffin carriers sink to their ankles in mud, squelching in and out. I sit staring straight ahead. The Witch’s Hand reaches out ghoulishly in the wind as the corporal ties a clean Union Jack on the coffin to the accompaniment of a running commentary on Eminway’s shortcomings.
I am very tired to-day, mentally as well as bodily. I have been conveying these flag-covered boxes for months now to the ugly little cemetery that scars the valley, and I see no end. I have lost count of the number of times I have been a supernumerary in the last scene of the great war drama that opens daily in a recruiting office and drops its final curtain amid no applause on a plain deal coffin draped with a Union Jack, to the tune of “The Last Post” from an orchestra of two. The last picturesque tableau in the masquerade. Countless young lives ending prematurely as numbers in a row of muddy earth mounds in a bare tract of hastily fenced-off ground. Victims of youth’s eternal lure—the lure of what may be waiting just round the corner.
Fine youth, eager youth, trusting youth. Five plain deal boxes of standard measurement. What has life in store for us, the occupants were wondering but a short while ago? Now they are about to be made numbers in a row of muddy earth mounds in a bare tract of hastily fenced-off ground. Fortunate perhaps in that they died, for once belief is shattered it is better to die. We young ones doomed to live on without belief in anything human or divine again are the ones to be pitied.
“O.K. All away.”
The corporal signals that I am loaded. The padre is already at the cemetery, also the buglers. Now he hopes he can have a bite, or I’ll be coming back to fetch him next trip. All this he tells me, very tickled at his little joke, as I back the ambulance for the crawl into the valley.
The mud is a foot deep. We turn the corner, the orderlies squelching solemnly alongside, cursing amiably each time they strike an extra deep puddle. Overhead is a blue sky streaked with long scurrying clouds; the wind is rough, but lacks the cutting quality of the past weeks, the winter sun shines weakly, and there is an indefinable something in the air that whips the blood and heartens the flagging spirit. Perhaps it will end soon. Who knows? Sad indeed to be hidden from sight for ever to-day in the ever-growing cemetery shadowed by the Witch’s Hand. It is a day for life, not death. A day for striding the Sussex Downs with a joyful barking dog. A day to return home happily tired at sunset to a leaping fire of friendly logs. But not a day to be made a number in a row of muddy earth mounds in a bare tract of hastily fenced-off ground. When I am buried I would wish it to be a grey day of desperately sad wind and slanting rain, a day when to leave this earth behind would be a gladsome thing—and this I think I could not do willingly on a brisk day of windy winter sunshine.
The padre meets us at the cemetery entrance. I clamber down. I examine my tyres anxiously. I have come a little too far in. No joke sticking in the mud near the cemetery gates. Once before . . .
The orderlies advise me to risk it. I decide to follow their advice. I stand to attention as the coffins are carried inside. Near the graves the buglers are waiting. They are tired and bored. The five graves are side by side in the centre of a row. The mud is awful. Twice I go in over my ankles as I walk down the avenue of black crosses. A coffin is placed near each yawning cavity. The padre clears his throat, an orderly deftly unties each Union Jack and adds it to the neat little heap. Creak, creak, the coffins are lowered while we stand to attention. A hitch occurs and the orderlies whisper among themselves.
The padre begins the service. I glance at the khaki-clad men. Their mouths are tightly set—grim, disillusioned mouths for mere boys of eighteen or nineteen. Hard-lipped, unseeing, they stare upwards at the Witch’s Hand. I shiver. It is not my imagination; the snow has bent it over. It reaches down evilly, the claws snatching at us as we stand defenceless, as though to squeeze the youth from us until we are dry and lifeless.
The padre drones on—I do not hear his words. At last he finishes. He makes a gesture. We bow our heads. Under my lashes I take a last peep at the five deal boxes and sigh. The five dead will sleep soundly enough in their muddy beds to-night. When I raise my head a few seconds later the buglers have their bugles in readiness to their lips. The taller one nods imperceptibly to the other. “The Last Post” fills the valley; the notes are caught by the hills and flung back. Once more the curtain rings down on the drama that can already boast one of the longest runs on record. When will the final performances be announced?
The padre stands lost in a reverie, tapping his finger against the book he carries. Seconds pass. One of the buglers blows down the mouthpiece of his instrument to dislodge something, the other fidgets uneasily on one leg. At last an orderly gives a loud significant cough. This rouses the padre. He starts and moves away. His shoulders are drooping. He looks very weary. We follow him. The service has taken barely five minutes from the lowering of the coffins.
The orderlies examine my wheels. They have not sunk further into the morass, as I had fe
ared. I offer the padre a lift, but he points without speech to another ambulance slowly crawling down the hill. His mouth is set in lines of infinite weariness as we watch. This is an imposing funeral compared with mine. There are six officers and several nurses. A dead V.A.D., I remember suddenly. A gust of wind shakes the Witch’s Hand until the fingers tremble with horrible eagerness. I turn my back quickly and start the engine. There is something human and reassuringly earth-earthy in its vibration.
The orderlies throw the Union Jacks aboard. One of them clambers up beside me and lights a cigarette directly we have passed the incoming procession. He tells me he wants his tea—it was fish for dinner and he never could stand fish. From inside comes the noise of the others chatting and laughing. We dash up the hill as fast as the engine will travel. On the way we pass two more ambulances descending into the valley. “My Gawd, we’re winning the war,” remarks the man beside me, sarcastically. I drop my passengers at the turning leading to Number Thirteen mortuary. They go down the lane marching and whistling “Tipperary.” They will be in good time for tea. I discover I want my own badly.
·····
Tosh meets me at the mess-room door and draws me aside. Commandant wants me. There is a notice on the board to that effect. We have long suspected there was a “policeman” in our midst—now we are certain. Last night’s scene has leaked out. Someone has carried tales to Commandant. She wants to pump me. Tosh has been through the third degree for an hour.
“She got nothing out of me,” says Tosh, “but The Bug, caught napping, admitted that Frost calmed Skinny down in the finish. So she’s in it now. In Commandant’s room with Skinny.”
“What about Etta Potato?”
“She isn’t back yet, but I’ll catch her. Not that she knows anything to tell. Mrs. Bitch is well on the warpath; she thinks there’s something at the back of all this. So go easy.”
“I’ll go easy.” I set my lips obstinately. I am no policeman for Commandant. She will get nothing out of me. I gulp down a cup of tea. I am in exactly the right mood when I enter the office a few minutes later.
Skinny and Frost are sobbing hard. Frost is a thin, weak, spineless creature called “The Chinless Wonder” by those who take the trouble to dislike her. It always amazes me how such a stupid-looking girl can drive better than anyone I have ever met. She is a marvel with a car. Now she is red-eyed and red-nosed, a revolting spectacle. Skinny is weeping for effect; I note that at a glance. A ruse to evade Commandant’s questionings. Well, Commandant will not make me weep. She can punish me till she is green in the face, but she will not dissolve me into tears. Neither will she make me talk. I become quite reckless. It will be interesting to see how much punishment I can get and still survive.
“What do you know of last night’s disgraceful episode, Smith?” she begins without any preliminaries.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? You were there.”
“I was asleep.”
“That is a lie. You were assisting at a farewell celebration for a failure who was leaving—Farmer.”
I say nothing.
“Breaking rules like small children.”
I would like to ask what can she expect if she treats us like small children, but I will not give her any opening.
“You also had two bottles of strong drink.”
I smile at the flattering tribute to the vin rouge.
“It is no laughing matter, Smith. Is it true?”
I make no reply.
“Very well, tea-orderly all next week. Now perhaps you will answer my questions.”
I make no answer.
“You realise you risk being sent back to England in disgrace for insubordination if you refuse to obey my orders?”
The threat leaves me cold. She will not send me back. I only wish she would. She will punish and make our lives a misery, but she will not send us back. Drivers who stick it because if they went home they would be bullied by their people into coming out again—perhaps into something even worse—are few and far between in this convoy where they come and go like tourists on lightning trips. Six drivers out of every ten. We call them “The Seeing-Francers”!
“What did Toshington say to make Skinner attack her?”
The expected query is unexpected, somehow. I go scarlet. I can feel the blood dyeing my neck, my face, even my hands. Commandant’s eyes bore me like gimlets.
“I—I don’t know.” My tone lacks conviction even to myself, although I am technically telling strict truth. I do not know what Tosh said to Skinny, but Commandant will never believe me. I can surmise what I choose, but I definitely do not know. “I—I was half-asleep.”
“You were the one to drag Skinner from Toshington when she vulgarly attacked her. You were not half-asleep.”
I become calm again.
“Skinner must have had some terrific provocation. What was it?”
“I am as ignorant as you are, Commandant.”
“That is a lie. What was it?”
“I do not know, Commandant.”
“You do.”
“I was half-asleep.”
And there I stick. She cross-examines me until I nearly scream. Now and again she switches over to Skinny, who takes refuge in tears. Frost weeps continuously. Commandant finally dismisses me. I have acquired a month’s punishment duties, but I could not get through them in that time if there were forty-eight hours to a day. Nevertheless, my head though bloody is unbowed. I feel I have got more than a little of my own back. I sink exhausted on my bed.
Tosh has the kettle boiling. She makes some tea. Revived, I tell the horrible details. Etta Potato has not arrived in yet, but Tosh has left a note on the board. We speculate as to the identity of the policeman. Tosh threatens awful retribution if she can trace the source of the leakage. Whom does Commandant favour most? We cannot think. She treats everyone with impartial hellishness, excepting perhaps myself. . . .
It is very difficult.
A silence falls.
“We’re wrong, Tosh,” I break out at last. “We ought to tell Commandant. Carrying tales is rotten, but there are some tales that ought to be carried . . . and you can carry that honour business too far. . . .”
“No.” Tosh frowns. “I was a fool to let Skinny know I knew in the first place. Personal dislike’s a queer thing. I’ve always loathed that girl, and I let out at her just because I loathed her. Her morals don’t affect me one way or the other. You couldn’t shock me if you tried. I should have shut my mouth; none of my business at all. Anyhow, let Commandant find out for herself. She rather fancies herself as a detective—remember old Thrumms? Pushed home at two hours’ notice for being caught in an ambulance with a man? The man wasn’t pushed home, of course, but the row—remember it? Well, that would be a gentle ruffle of wind compared with this one. No . . . let Commandant do her own dirty work. If she’d had two ounces of sense she’d have twigged Skinny months ago; blasted fools these females they put in charge—all bust and no brains. Why should I get mixed in it? No, I’m too wide a bird. Commandant is dying to sack Skinny, ever since she found Skinny sneaking back from the heavy convoys before final permission was given at the station; only she daren’t sack her because Skinny Senior is a big pot at the W.O., and he’d make trouble and perhaps lose Commandant the fattest job she’s ever had. Oh, she’d love a good excuse to sack Skinny, simply love it . . . well, I’m not being the scapegoat and providing it. Immorality, what a chance! Doesn’t it make you sick? Slack as much as you can, drive your bus as cruelly as you like, crash your gears to hell, muck your engine till it’s in the mechanic’s hands half its time, jolt the guts out of your wounded, shirk as much as you can without actively coming up against the powers-that-be—and you won’t be sent home. But one hint of immorality and back you go to England in disgrace as fast as the packet can take you. As if morality mattered two hoots when it comes to convoying wounded men. Personally, if I were choosing women to drive heavy ambulances their moral characters wouldn’t worry
me. It would be “Are you a first-class driver?” not “Are you a first-class virgin?” The biggest harlot or the biggest saint . . . what the hell does it matter as long as they put up a decent performance behind the steering wheel and can keep their engines clean? You can’t get up to much immorality with dying men, can you? They give me a pain at headquarters the way they’ve all got morality on the brain. Thrumms the sinner was like an angel with an ambulance of wounded; our saintly B.F. has started more hæmorrhages than any ambulance driver of her size and weight in the whole British Expeditionary Force, I should think. . . .”
She walks up and down, smoking furiously.
The door bangs open.
“I say, what a storm in a tea-cup,” gasps Etta Potato. “Commandant is certain there’s something fearfully sinister behind all this, Tosh. She grabbed me as I got in and started questioning me, and when I told her all you’d done was to taunt Skinny for not being able to attract men . . .”
“You didn’t tell her that. . . .”
“Yes, why not? That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?”
Tosh and I look blankly at one another.
“Gawd’s teeth,” ejaculates Tosh.
“Well, she wants you at once,” says Etta Potato.
Commandant’s whistle blows.
Tosh goes out slowly.
·····
An hour later we sit huddled round the canteen fire—Tosh, The B.F., The Bug, Etta Potato and myself. We have been forbidden to go upstairs until Skinny has packed. She and Frost are leaving for Boulogne to-night.
“Sacked for refusing to obey orders,” says Tosh for the umpteenth time. “Commandant was determined to get Skinny out and she’s got her out. Without my assistance, though.”
“I think it was with your assistance,” says The B.F. “Aren’t you sorry now, Tosh?”
“No, she was a dam’ bad driver and I’d push any dam’ bad driver out if I had a chance,” retorted Tosh. “I regret the row, certainly. Commandant absolutely refused to believe anything. ‘I am not imbecile enough to believe Skinner would attack Toshington for insinuating that she couldn’t attract men’—those were her exact words. ‘No girl attacks another for merely being catty, and Toshington is not the catty type.’ ”
Not So Quiet... Page 8