Love and the Loveless (18 page)

With a haversack full of field dressings, and feeling light-hearted, he left Prince with Morris, and walked down the valley. Here the railway followed the stream on the edge of Croiselles. He walked on beside the shallow flow of water, remotely wondering if any trout were left alive in it. He scoffed at himself for the very idea. Trout fishing in the midst of such world-accepted madness! Yet some people in England might be fishing at that very moment; in England it was
May,
and most things still going on as usual. Thinking of England unsteadied him. Why was he risking his life like that? To appear as a hero? Did he
really
care for Darky so much? They had never really been friends. Not close friends, anyway. Fenwick had seemed to think they were pals after the visit to Sleaford, and the Silk Inn, so he had played up to it. In
a way it was true, but to be quite truthful, he—— It was the same with Pinnegar, who seemed to regard him as a great friend, ever since they had ridden together in the same carriage from King’s Cross. He did not
really
like Teddy, nor Fenwick, much. Why then was he going beyond his job to find him? Was he showing off—even to himself? Was it because Fenwick had told him he was a foundling, and had been so happy to have someone to care for him at last, the girl in the pub? It was
easy
to go to the rescue of a wounded man—it made one feel fine, and free. Had Father Aloysius felt as he felt now, led on by something, outside the “little ego”, as he had called it? To be truthful, it was rather fun, walking on grass up the slope, with the sun behind him now, and his shadow moving before him, under German eyes.

He came to an uneven line of dead men. Some lay face down, as though asleep; others were on their backs; a few seemed to be hiding their faces. He stared at them, and knew one reason why he had come: to have the feeling of being quite clear, in the presence of the dead. What were their spirits, if still about, thinking? Or had they gone home. One had a face the colour of the terracotta carpet in the front room at home, and a hole through his neck. Now the rough grass was torn with shell holes, lipped with chalk. Near the final skyline he sat down, and looked at his map. He must find Fenwick. No more idling. If only he had a prismatic compass, which he had despised as home-service nonsense when attached to the Cantuvellaunians, two years ago to the month, he would be able to set the map and find the sunken track. He tried to set it by the sun. Oh hell, get on and see where Bullecourt lay, then judge the position by the fact that Croiselles and Bullecourt lay almost in an east-west line, the sunken track with it.

He walked on up the slope, passing an occasional dead man in the grass. Already their tunic pockets were slit, their
haversacks
open and the contents pulled about for the cigarettes and chocolate they might have contained—usual sight on a battlefield, for the dead didn’t want anything more, and why waste what might help their pals?

A few thorns were visible a couple of hundred yards ahead, and as he got near them he saw a magpie sloping away and thought it had a nest there. The bushes were on the brow of the hill. Many more dead lay in the grass there, they must have been seen in silhouette as they advanced, or had to cross the pre-arranged criss-cross streams of machine-gun bullets. He got to the thorn
clump without drawing fire, though now Bullecourt, dark brown with the colour of a crab-shell—he remembered thinking that of Messines in 1914—lay directly in front, less than a mile away, in rack and ruin externally, but strong with the power of death in the thoughts behind many thousands of invisible eyes. Sure enough, there was a magpie’s nest in one of the thorns, and only about six feet from the ground. It was just as he had read of in books: a dome of thorns on top, to keep off other egg-suckers. The magpie did not want to be done by as it did to other birds! While he was gingerly putting his hand through the spines to the side of the nest, a Yorkshire voice said, “It were too ’igh for me to get at th’ eggs, ulse I’d ’v sooked ’em meself.” Turning, he saw a cheerful face grinning from the ground a few yards away. The speaker was lying in a slight chalky hollow, with several
water-bottles
and bayonet-stabbed bully beef tins around him. Other tins had been hacked and beaten almost flat, and when he saw that the man had an arm missing Phillip knew why the tins were battered.

“I didn’t want these eggs to eat. I used to collect one egg
from each different nest. I think I’ll take this one back with me.”

“Aye,” said the wounded man. “It takes all sorts t’make world.”

He explained that he had been one of a patrol which had set out eight nights previously, to report on the enemy wire. The patrol had been surprised and dispersed by hand grenades and light machine guns. His left arm had been blown off, and he had lain down that night, weak with loss of blood, and all the next day, having crawled to the cover of the thorn brake. There he had stopped, “knowing the boys would be back”, keeping himself alive on iron rations and water taken from his dead mates. He held up his arm, off below the elbow. Maggots were on the discoloured and liquefying flesh of the stump. “They fookin’ maggits ’ave kep’ meat from gettin’ too proud.” Phillip gave him a cigarette, and seeing the miniature cloth stars on his tommy’s tunic, the man said he was sorry for using bad language.

“But they are just what you said they are, or will be, when they’ve got wings!” replied Phillip. “Anyway, I’m glad I came across you. Perhaps you can direct me to a sunken lane near here.”

“That’s just over brow of yon hill, sir. That’s where my mates copped it, the Jerry patrol wor’ lying there, when they chooked their stick-bombs.”

“I’m looking for a friend, who was hit there this morning. I think I’ll go on, and have a look.”

“Aye, ’tis quiet now, sir. Jerry’s ’avin’ a coop’r tea now.”

“I’ll come back for you.”

He found the dog, rasping with excitement and thirst, lying beside Fenwick, whose dark eyes were burning in a taut face. He was feeble of voice. Near him lay Sergeant Butler, dead. Butler, time-expired after many years in India, had survived several attacks; he had seemed to be the hard core of his section, but one night, when he had come to sit round the picket fire, he had spoken hardly at all, but kept touching the fire with a stick, burning the end into flame and then knocking it out again, until the stick was small, when he thrust it into the glowing coke, staring at it with lifeless eyes as it changed from flame to ember and finally to ash. Then without a word he had got up, saluted, and gone away, leaving the impression with Nolan that he had already made up his mind that he was going to be killed.

The long afternoon turned to twilight. Phillip helped the Yorkshireman to the line of outposts, where he handed him over to the first-aid post, and waited to lead the stretcher-bearer party that was going out. Asked who he was, he explained about
Fenwick
; back he went, and helped to bring him in, then returned up the valley, followed by Little Willie, as the moon was rising over Bullecourt. Morris was waiting with the horses. From the echoing ruins of Croiselles white flashes of field-guns seemed to increase the singing of two nightingales on the hillside.

When they got back to camp, Phillip heard from the picket that the company had come out of the line, and were asleep; so he did not report to Captain Hobart until the next morning, by which time news had come from the Dressing Station in Ervillers that Fenwick had passed through to the C.C.S. at Achiet-le-Grand.

“Good effort, Sticks! You’ve got plenty of guts, to go out there alone, in full view of the Boche.”

“Honestly, skipper, it was no more than going for a walk on Blackheath, on an August Bank Holiday evening. With all the bodies lying about; only there weren’t any females.”

“Talking of home, there’s a possibility of leave coming up again soon. The division is going out to rest and refit, I hear.” Hobart shoved over an Order of the Day, which said that the General Officer Commanding Fifth Army congratulated the Second East Pennine Division on its performance in its first great Battle.

Phillip kept his own War Diary in the pocket note-book.

The company, marching south from the green expanse of chalk country, passed through the brick-heap villages. Phillip saw one maimed fruit tree in leaf, momentarily a startling sight. So they re-entered the crater-zone, green with young grass, at the head of the Ancre valley. It would take a hundred years, he thought, looking around from the saddle, to clear up the ruin and
desolation
. Magpies were back, and kestrels; a relief.

All that morning, and part of the afternoon, the short column moved, easily, down the road from the high ground to the low ground, into the valley of the Ancre, Phillip at the tail, behind the last limber with its red, white, and black German privy. Many faces turned to it, many remarks made. “Some souvenir!” said the R.T.O. at Albert.

Little Willie the German dog trotted with them, sometimes leaping on a limber to rest. At Beaucourt they were passing a stationary lorry convoy, when Little Willie, looking up from his couch, began to whine. He had come upon his lorry-driver pal, who whistled to him from a cab.