Love and the Loveless (22 page)

Looking through his field-glasses he saw a column of troops
marching along the road from Wervicq, near the canal. The counter-attack was late: but it was coming. He hurried back to report, to be told that it had already been spotted.

“Well, so long, dear boy.”

When he got back to the picket line, he went for a ride on Prince. There was a spirit of optimism everywhere, especially in the Casualty Clearing Station, where the number of wards had been doubled, with the staff of doctors and orderlies; they had nothing to do.

But something now had gone wrong, judging by the remote crackle of small arms and machine-gun fire on the Ridge later in the afternoon, after the British barrage and attack at 3.10 p.m. Rumour said that the Germans had recaptured the position. Many wounded began to arrive. Rumours spread: some units had retired in panic. At 5.30 p.m., as he was waiting to go up again with the pack-mules, red SOS rockets arose into the sky. When going up, he heard that the British barrage had fallen upon an Australian brigade, in advance of the Oosttaverne line, having been mistaken for Germans. They had retired; the Germans had come forward again.

Phillip lost two mules, and a driver wounded, that night. On the return, green cross and yellow cross gas shells—phosgene and lachrymatory—made the wearing of box-respirators necessary. Despite the special anti-dimming paste, it was hard to see, with the mask over one’s face, and stifling hot. He had swallowed some tea, with rum, and had hardly got down for a bit of shut-eye when a runner came with the news that Captain Hobart had been killed, and that Mr. Pinnegar was in command.

A week later, when the battle was over, the company went to rest and refit at Nieppe, behind Armentières. Pinnegar was still acting C.O., but, he grumbled, there were rumours of a new major coming from Wisques, the Machine Gun School near St. Omer. A draft to replace casualties arrived, among them Cutts, from whom Phillip had heard nothing since he had been wounded by the egg-bomb in the fire-bucket.

On the third day out, an inspection was ordered by Lt.-Col. Wilmott, the divisional Machine Gun Officer, who accompanied the Brigadier-General of Group, from Corps. The Brigade Major came, too, with a second-lieutenant who was the Brigade Transport Officer and galloper to the Brigadier—both positions unofficial and honorary. Phillip had seen this junior subaltern only on one occasion, during the A.S.C. gymkhana at Ervillers: a graceful, willowy figure on a horse, son of a considerable Yorkshire landowner, and a winner of several point-to-point races in the Brigadier’s country before the war. One other figure approached with the visitors, the blue-hat-banded Assistant Director of Veterinary Services.

The day before the inspection, and again on the morning, Pinnegar urged everyone in the company to give a first-class turnout, hoping thereby to be given permanent command of the company. In the transport section chains were swung and shaken to-and-fro within bags of chaff, limbers were washed and oiled, saddlery soaped and polished.

Round the sections the inspectorate passed, the Brigadier once asking to see a Vickers gun stripped by its team. He wanted to look at the barrel. This took some time; a certain spanner was missing. The barrel rifling was seen to be worn. Why had it not been replaced, the General asked Col. Wilmott, who passed the query on to Pinnegar.

“Spares indented for have not yet come to hand, sir,” replied Pinnegar. “We are waiting for them.”

“Why haven’t you gone yourself to draw them?”

Pinnegar turned to his quartermaster sergeant. “You indented for them, Bowles?”

“Yes, sir. Immediately we came out of the line.”

Pinnegar passed this on; and was asked, “Why not before you came out of the line?”

“We had spare barrels then, sir.”

“Then why aren’t they fitted?”

“We used them in the later barrages, sir.”

“Then you had no spares when you came out of the line?”

“If you put it that way, no!” retorted Pinnegar, flushing.

The inspectorate passed down the lines of guns on their tripods, each crew stiffly at attention.

“Action!” said the General, suddenly.

Nobody moved.

“Don’t your men recognise an emergency order?” cried Colonel Wilmott.

“Well, what d’you expect me to do?” replied Pinnegar.

“I want to see how quickly your men can go into action,” said the General. “Target six hundred yards, between clump of trees at eleven o’clock!”

“Come on, jump to it!” yelled the section sergeant. “You ’eard! Action!”

The crew dashed themselves upon the ground, No. 1 at the spade grip, No. 2 at the belt, No. 3 observing, No. 4 writhing to grab spare belt-box, etc. Pushing the belt tab through the feeding porte, No. 1 grabbed it, jerked it twice, thus feeding a round into the breech; and in the excitement raised the safety bar, pressed the thumb-piece, and a dozen rounds kicked up the dust between the tents and the picket line, where Phillip was waiting, dismounted, wearing a new pair of silver-plated racing spurs he had bought for 10/6 from an advertisement in
The
Tatler.

A hoarse cry from Driver Cutts, sitting on a trace mule, made him realise that he had not been cured.

When it was the turn of the transport another demonstration was being given overhead. Several anti-aircraft batteries were pooping off at an old 2-seater Cody-Wright Birdcage sent over, said Phillip afterwards, to take photographs for
The
Birmingham
Smoke
Trumpet
in anticipation of Teddy Pinnegar’s appointment. Little white balls of smoke were bursting ten thousand feet up, in irregular chains, following a tiny pale midge-like object. Splinters began to sing and hum around the camp, their notes of descent
varying with the size and pattern of fragmentation. Drivers looked to their front during the inspection; they knew that “Vinegar” was on trial, and anyway the shelling by archie of an aeroplane was a common sight. Col. Wilmott, accompanied by Pinnegar wearing his best Harry Hall’s salmon-pink breeches, and Phillip, was passing the tall grey mule when Jimmy gave a tremendous double kick with its hind legs and threw its
forty-five-year-old
driver, M’Kinnell, at the feet of the General, who said, “What’s this?”

“Can’t your drivers control their mounts?” asked Col.
Wilmott,
sharply.

“I’ve never known this mule kick before, sir,” said Phillip.

“Your drivers should anticipate what their mounts are likely to do.”

Phillip knew enough to keep silent; he saw a thin red weal near the mule’s off point of hip, but said nothing. When the inspection was over, he pointed out the wound to Pinnegar.

“Driver M’Kinnell was lucky not to have his head bashed into his shoulders.”

“What is it?”

“A nose-cap of an archie shell. Poor old Jimmy.”

The mule was led away to the Mobile Veterinary Station, and the casualty recorded without comment in the return that night to Brigade.

“That bloody fool Wilmott told me that the General said he’d never seen such a poor turn-out!” grumbled Pinnegar. “What does he expect, with a third of the men, and three officers, casualties? I’m fed up. I’m quite happy to go back to my
regiment
. After all we’ve been through together, to have some bloody stranger from the C.O.’s pool at Wisques planted upon us! Probably only just come out from England, and never been in action! It would be just our luck to have someone like your pal Downham again.”

“Oh God. But I suppose anyone can apply to go to a
particular
company?”

“Why not? It’s all done off a roster in some orderly room at the base. You’ve got to grease the orderly room sergeant’s palm, of course.”

“Oh hell. Sergeant Rivett’s been corresponding with Downham. It might very well give him an idea to try and get here, to someone he knows.”

When Phillip returned from a visit to Jack Hobart’s grave
in Kandahar Farm Cemetery, he had a shock when Nolan, on picket duty, said, “The new C.O.’s arrived, sir, the one we ’ad temporary in H Lines when Capt’n Ho-bart got jaundice.”

“What?”

Devastated by his premonition having come true, Phillip went to his tent, where he drank a tooth-mug of one part of whiskey and two of water. Then he put on a record of Destinn singing in
Tosca,
and lay on his bed, while passionate and tender contralto tones brought back poignantly an awareness of Hobart, whose favourite opera it was. Why had it happened to Jack like that—a chance in a million: a dud howitzer shell passing within a few inches of his head had sucked out his breath and broken the tissues of his lungs, so that he had been drowned in his own blood. He felt weary and hopeless. All the decent people seemed to get killed, just as life was beginning to have possibilities. Now it would be the same old muck-up all over again.

He lay on his bed, thinking of old days, and fortifying himself with more whiskey.

He was lying back, with some sort of interior comfort, and resolution not to care a damn, when Downham’s lean ruddy face looked in at the tent flap.

“Hullo, you young blighter! Why the hell didn’t you come and see me when you returned from wherever you’d been joy-riding?”

Phillip got up. “I was just coming, sir—I felt a bit tired——”

“Sit down. And don’t bother to pretend.”

“Would you care for a spot, sir?”

“Subalterns don’t ask field officers to have a drink, at least not where I’ve come from. Well, how are you?” He held out his hand, and gave Phillip a crushing grip. Jack’s handshake had been gentle, not the hearty stuff.

“Very well thank you—sir.”

“Drop the sir, man, we’re not on parade! What I came to tell you is that a chit has come in, about sending an officer to the Divisional Signalling Course. I don’t see how we can spare a section officer, so it’ll have to be you. Sergeant Rivett can look after the transport while you are away. No need to look so depressed. It will probably be your turn to go on leave by the time you come back.”

After four days Phillip was sent back from the course. Returning to the picket line, he learned from Sergeant Rivett that Black Prince was “now the charger of the Officer Commanding”.

“Which horse am I supposed to have, d’you know?”

“It’s beyond me to say,” replied Rivett, buoyantly.

“But I’ve had Prince since October! The Riding Master at Grantham made a point of letting me have him, at Captain Hobart’s special request! Didn’t you tell Major Downham that, sergeant?”

“Sir, I consider it to be outside my duties to question the decisions of the Officer Commanding.” Phillip went to see Downham about it, to find that he already wanted to see him about the report that had come in from the Divisional Signalling School.

“Well, my young friend of a Christian bloody fool, still true to form, I see! Who the hell d’you think you are? What sort of a fool d’you think you’re making of me, when I’ve just taken over the company, to have the first officer I send on a course kicked out for sheer damned laziness? You always did dodge all the work you could! And a fine reputation your transport has got with Division! The A.D.V.S. was here this morning. I had to take him round, since you’d gone off on a joy-ride, leaving all the work, as usual, to your sergeant! And there’s another matter, over which you’d better watch your step! I don’t know what sort of a pervert you are inside, but take my tip, young Maddison, and watch your step when you come back! Here’s your leave ticket. Your leave starts at midnight tonight. Well, what is it?”

“Sir, may I have permission to leave camp for one hour this afternoon.”

“What for?”

“Urgent private affairs, sir.”

“What are they?”

“I want to go to Kandahar Farm Cemetery, sir, to see Captain Hobart’s grave.”

“Very well. But you can’t take the black gelding.”

“I understand, sir. May I take any other horse, not in use?”

“I should have thought that the brown mare would be more in your line.”

He knew then that Sergeant Rivett had reported what he had seen on the night before the Messines show to Downham.

He rode the bay mare to Kandahar Farm Cemetery, and planted some pansies, taken from the Commandant’s garden during the darkness of the previous night, on All Weather Jack’s grave, now set with a plain wooden cross.

H
E
went to rail-head with Bright, the rather grim silt-lands farmer, whom he managed to lose at Boulogne. They had nothing to talk about. A few days later he was to realise what had been wrong with Bright; meanwhile he was glad to be on his own in a bunk among unknown others, crossing the Channel in darkness. There was an escort of three destroyers. To his surprise and satisfaction, he felt no qualm of sickness.

Taking a taxicab from Victoria, he looked about him eagerly for a manifestation of his own feelings, but saw none. Trafalgar Square was but a place in memory of the many occasions shared with Desmond, Eugene, Jack Hobart and others, including Aunt Dora and cousin Willie. He told himself that he must expect nothing: all scenes had an existence but in the mind, and would fade with a man's death. Away with personal desires; only poetry endured. What time did the War Office open? He thought to see Colonel Orlebar, to ask for a transfer back to the Gaultshire Regiment.

It was half-past eight. The Strand was crowded with soldiers and sailors, all going somewhere. Many had wives or sweethearts with them, and carried full kit and rifle; they were returning from leave. What could he do to kill time, until ten o'clock? It was a Saturday, too, and perhaps Orlebar would be away for the week-end. The weekend! How to face it at Wakenham? Should he go to Flowers' hotel? On the excuse to tell Miss Flowers how All Weather Jack had died? Would it be the thing to go there for breakfast only? Hardly. He went into the Strand Apex House, and had eggs and bacon, while reading in
The
Daily
Trident
of the successful offensive in Russia; about Kerensky, “the new strong man”; 122 British ships had been sunk in June by German submarines, totalling417,925 tons. He thought it odd that the May figures, which he remembered reading in the
Trident
in White
Rose Camp, had also been 122 ships. Perhaps they made up any odd figures to deceive the enemy, or someone in the Admiralty had muddled them.

Outside in the Strand he saw a team of Boys' Brigade nippers hauling a sort of limber by ropes, with a board on it saying
Prince
of
Wales
Waste
Paper
Fund.
He added
The
Daily
Trident,
thinking of Father. Why not go and see the old fellow after his visit to the War House?

He filled up a form, and was led along passages by a much smaller Boy Scout than before, to the M.S. department. To his pleasure he was greeted by Colonel Orlebar, who remembered him, but said nothing of the last meeting in the Café Royal, at the luncheon for “Spectre” West's gong, when he had drunk too much wine and had to go out.

“If you'd been here this time yesterday you'd have seen 'im. He crossed over last night, to take up a special appointment. Perhaps in the circumstances you might care to consider going down to see the Militia Battalion on the East Coast, and have an interview with the Colonel there, and get him to apply for you. Is your present Commanding Officer willing to release you?”

“I am fairly certain that he is, sir.”

“In that case the better course would be to go down to Felixstowe, and see the Colonel; and if you get his approval, to forward your papers through your C.O. in France. If and when the transfer goes through, you may be posted to a line battalion, or more probably, be sent home to Felixstowe, and then take your turn.”

“I suppose, sir, there's no chance of my going direct to a line battalion of the Regiment in France, without coming home first?”

Colonel Orlebar looked shrewdly at the young man before him. “You're pretty keen, aren't you? How many times have you been out so far?”

“Four, Colonel. But I have only done fourteen months in all.”

“That's a fair stint. Well, the best of luck!” He half rose across the table, and held out his hand. Phillip thanked him, saluted, and left; with a glance at the clock on the wall. It was a quarter to eleven.

Should he go to Flossie Flowers'? Sasha, would she be there? The image of her winsome face drew him, her breasts slightly
repelled. He felt a cad, and said of his mean self “Damn you!”, then was discomposed because a man in a seedy purple velour hat and mackintosh walking the same way heard, and gave him a quick, as though alarmed, look. Phillip drew on his gloves, assuming an easy expression; but for some reason the man in the old mackintosh abruptly crossed the road, dodging between the two streams of taxis and buses, and then walked in the opposite direction. Had he dodged the call-up, and thought he had been spotted?

Phillip walked to the City along the Embankment. He was already used to women bus-conductors, in short skirts, black button'd leggings and cocked hats, but the sight of a woman in trousers pulling on the long sweep of an empty barge beside a terrier dog seemed a bit queer. He watched her go under Blackfriars Bridge with relief, then wondered why she was looking up at the sky, over the north bank and the City. Other people were looking up, too, and following their gaze, he saw a V-formation of what to him was a new type of aeroplane, bombers by the size. They were fairly low. He watched them coming nearer, they made quite a heavy growling. They turned in some sort of formation above the gilt cross of St. Paul's, shining in the summer sun, and he saw four others behind the V-formation, and was wondering why they flew so raggedly when a gun went off behind him, from the direction of Whitehall.

People began to cry out and run. Traffic was stopping. The aircraft broke formation, and he heard the whine of a bomb. It exploded with a deep
crum-m-p.
Others followed.

He felt rough and angry, and yelled “Bastards!” The policeman on point duty was waving his arms and yelling, “Take cover! Take cover!” Phillip shouted, “Keep calm! No wind up!” as men and women ran to shelter, some screaming. He stood calmly, feeling scorn. Waitresses from a tea-shop ran out, also screaming, then ran back into the shop. Where the hell were our guns, he thought angrily. Then shrapnel began to burst in the air overhead. More bombs. Splinters hissed and whined down, rattling on paving stones.
Plop!
That was a nose-cap, which had cracked a stone ten yards away. He thought of Jimmy the mule, and found he was trembling when the biplanes had flown away; but not with fear, he told himself.

As he hurried up Ludgate Hill, making for Haybundle Street where Father and Mavis worked, an omnibus stopped at the corner of Old Bailey. It was covered with sawdust. Blood, he
thought; then, why no glass broken? He crossed over to hear what the conductress was saying, again and again. “Sawdust, I ask you! They dropped sawdust all over us! A dark cloud come down! Sawdust! I ask you! They dropped sawdust on us! What if it's poisoned, like their gas? Oh Gawd, isn't it awful? Don't touch it! It may be poisoned!” A man said angrily, “Where's our Flying Corps, that's what I want to know!
John
Bull
will want to know the answer! No flies on Horatio Bottomley!”

“No flies on sawdust,” said Phillip, walking away.

Later, he heard that a bomb falling on the Central Telegraph Office of the G.P.O. in Newgate Street had blown up the wooden huts on the roof, which were dry in the heat, and up they had gone in dust, just as the Zeppelin bomb which had killed Lily had blown glass to powder over poor old Father. How interesting all these details were; but they never got into the papers. He would put them in his diary.

“Well, old chap,” said Father, in the Moon Fire Office, “you've arrived at a queer time! It just proves what I've said from the start, that the Germans will stop at nothing! Nothing!” he repeated, pale and agitated. “You saw what happened? You heard it?” He stopped himself from adding, Now perhaps you'll believe what these Prussians really are. After a pause, “Well, how are matters out there? On leave, are you? For eight days, well——Still with the same Corps? Well—this is quite a surprise!” He was relieved that his son seemed to be settled down. “Your sister is upstairs, but no doubt you'll be seeing her at home. I mustn't keep you. You'll be wanting to go down to see your mother, I'll be bound.” He had not the power in him to ask if his son would be staying at home. The boy had his own plans, no doubt; and he himself was quite an old stager now having turned of fifty. He wanted to say, ‘You are always welcome, you know', but the words would not come. Rather than risk a rebuff he turned away, with a wave of his hand, to his desk in the Town Department.

*

Phillip went on to Wine Vaults Lane, where the news of Downham having command of the company was already known.

“It's the same everywhere,” remarked Hollis, the head clerk. “Downham stays in England nearly three years and rises to field rank, and others do all the real work. It's exactly the same here in this office. As you know, I got most of the new business
before the war, and Howlett got all the credit for it. He's been out for the past two hours, while I've been here with Phillpots, doing the work. Now tell me, when's the war going to finish? This year? Or next, when the Americans come over in force?”

“I think it will be next year, Mr. Hollis.”

“Have you got any particular reason for your assessment of the situation?”

“Oh yes. We've got the stuff now. It's bound to be a slogging match, you know.”

“So you think it'll be all over in 1918, do you? Even with Downham in command of your company?”

“Oh, we've got a good sergeant major, and the men know their jobs, Mr. Hollis.”

“Good. Then I'll try and hold the fort here until you come back, although I suppose you'll both be too big for your boots by then, what?”

Phillip thought that he would never want to go back to that dreadfully tame life.

It was Saturday, he suddenly realised; soon offices and warehouses would be closing; so saying goodbye he hurried away to Houndsditch, hoping to see Eugene at the C.M. Corset factory. He caught his Brazilian friend as he was drawing on his chamois gloves, boater on head, nosegay in button-hole, attaché case and silver-topped ebony stick ready to hand. His face showed great pleasure when he saw Phillip.

“I'm on leave, Gene! How lovely to see you. What about a spot of lunch with me in Piccadilly? And a theatre afterwards? Or are you doing something?”

“I've arranged to go with a bird to Brighton for the week-end.”

“Oh, I see.”

“I can't very well get out of it, because such an opportunity may not occur again.”

“How d'you mean?”

“Her husband's gone to Dublin on business, and will be back by next week-end.”

“I see.”

“Otherwise I'd come with you, like a shot, you know that. How about next week?”

“I'll be going back next Sunday, and ought to spend Saturday with my people.”

Eugene's sallow face showed indecision. His eyes narrowed as he weighed up the idea of a week-end with dear old Phil, in
uniform as a full lieutenant and two wound stripes, on leave from the front, against the pleasures to be had with someone ten years older than himself, whom he had already taken to his attic flat opposite Paddington station. She had offered to pay for everything—first-class fares, oysters and white wine at the Old Chain Pier Bar, dinner at the Ship, and suite at the Metropole. At the same time, he wanted to keep in with Harry Spero, who might take him in partnership in his scheme for after the war, he told Phillip, for cheap suitings for soldiers returning to civilian life. Hence the visit to Dublin, to buy up hundreds, thousands of bolts of cloth, before prices rose any further.

“Harry's in army contracts for uniforms for the WAACS now, also omnibus conductresses and police-women, and it would be all u.p. with me if he found out about Leonora. So I'll call it off. Where shall we go? Piccadilly Grill? Then how about the Lilac Domino? I've seen it six times already, and still think it's the best show in Town. Here's my new card, by the way. My mother's father was General Goulart, you know. Would you like to see his photograph?”

“You showed it to me, Gene.”

“Oh, did I?” He was a little disappointed.

Having arranged to meet at 7 p.m. outside Swan & Edgar's in Piccadilly they said goodbye. Gene went to telephone his regrets that, owing to a sudden attack of
grippe,
he would not be able to go to Brighton. He longed to say that an officer friend had just returned from the front, his great friend Major Maddison, of the Staff; but he did not want to offend Leonora, and through her, his business acquaintance Jack Spero.

Phillip walked to Pimms' in Old Broad Street, where he bought some smoked salmon and ham at a stout-and-sandwich bar to take home. Then a taxicab to Charing Cross.

In the train he looked at Gene's flowery new card, obviously not printed from an engraved copper plate, like his own cards, which had been done properly by Gran'pa Turney's firm.
Mr.
Eugene
Franco
Goulart-Bolivar,
with flourishes and twirls—rather vulgar, he considered. After all, Gene was a foreigner.

He got out at St. John's station, meaning to walk over the Hill, and so avoid letting all of Hillside Road, on the other side of the Crest, as he thought of it, know that he was back on leave.

He imagined a battle for the Hill, as he walked up the long flag-stoned road, rising gradually until green slopes extended
before him, and the gravel path beyond the spiked iron gate and railings. No hope for the 1st Guard Reserve Division, hastily entrained from the Arras front to Wervique, marching up that way. A nickel lattice curtain would hiss sixteen-fold over the Crest, and catch the column in
feld
grau.

On the grassy Hill, with its keepers' huts, shelters, and bandstand, somehow all looking so much smaller, he walked between the two armies of his imagination, thinking to hang about until the imagined figure of Father appeared, straw boater in hand, swinging along as he had seen him a hundred times, and always with a feeling of life stopping abruptly, in the summers of boyhood. How strange that the damping feeling was still in him, despite the war. Of course! That feeling underlay the war! It was the war! The war was different view-points upon the same thing, each view-point felt to be the truth, and so believed by Germans, English, French, Belgians, Russians, Roumanians, and among all people in the entire world. And because each fighting nation believed in its feelings, or ideas, the same feelings and ideas, the war would not end until one side was broken by the other. If only people would try to understand the points of view of others, and not strive to force their own exclusively. When he got back, he must try and help Downham, who must feel rather nervous, having a command when he had known no action.