Love and the Loveless (35 page)

Darkness came. All was quiet, except for the cries of the condemned. Going round the huts—he was in command of a company—Phillip felt strained and unhappy. The cries of the condemned arose in the moonless night, with fists battering on the doors.

“For Christ’s sake let me out! I ain’t a bad’n!”

“Help! Help! Don’t let them shoot me! I overslepp, and I were afraid to report late! Oh Gawd, please ’elp me!”

Other cries were roared out. Screams of despair ended in groans. Cries in the morass were bad enough; these were unbearable. He did not show himself until his eyes ceased to sting. It was time for dinner—bully beef and biscuit stew. No fresh rations had been drawn.

He sat at the top table, beside Traill, unable to eat. The meal, such as it was, had hardly begun when the mess sergeant came in and spoke to the Colonel. The Colonel looked serious.

“Keep your seats, gentlemen. Major Traill and Mr. Maddison, will you come with me.”

The Colonel went first and met a crowd of men almost at the door. He had got so far as “What are you doing in my camp——” when a flash-lamp was put on him and a shower of sand caught him in the eyes. He went back inside. Major Traill, lighting his face with his own torch, so that it could be seen, said quietly, “Now, men, we’re all as fed up with the war as you are, but this sort of thing can’t do any good, you know.”

Voices called out, “Make way for the ’major! This way, sergeant-major, old dear!” A little Scotty with half a bottle of whiskey cuddled in one arm came forward. “It’s a’ reet, sir! We’re only goin’ to let the boys out. We’re sent by Broncho Bill, ’specially to ask that the boys be let out. Then everything wull be all reet, sir! You’ll be all reet, sir! I’ll be all reet! We’ll all be all reet! Have a wee drappie, sir!” and the bottle was held out.

“No thank you,” said Major Traill.

“Go on, sir, we’ve got naught against ’ee!”

“Let me drink your health,” said Phillip. “Just a wee one. Now listen to me, boys. The authorities have got us all taped. Two battalions have come down from the line. This town is
surrounded. Soon there’ll be no food, if we keep this up. Neither you nor I nor anyone else can fight a system. We all know the war’s bloody awful. I was out, as a private, in 1914, with the London Highlanders. We were all up against it, and still are. But it’s no good trying to push the war out of the way——”

“Put a sock in it!” cried a voice.

“Fair do’s, fair do’s, let the gentleman speak!” cried the little Scot. “Now, sir, I’m a mon, see? You’re a mon, see? We’re all men, see? Even Jerry’s a mon, like me and you. So what t’hell?” He raised the bottle.

While he was drinking, a lilac haze arose from behind the mess building, and with it shouts and booing. At once the crowd by the open door began to surge away, with cries of “Up the rebels! Get the boys out!” There were cheers and whooping.

The line of cells, behind flat spirals of
wire, was lit up by the fizzling, astigmatic blaze. The light was unendurable, eyesight was stricken. Behind its impenetrable glare came the rattle of brass-and-canvas machine-gun belts, and an order to lay on. A barrage of cat-calls, cries, shouts, came from the mass of impotent faces. Chalk was thrown.

After an hour the last of the wandering groups had gone.

*

The mutiny fizzled out. In the days that followed various facts became known. Three junior officers, disguised as private soldiers, had been beaten up. The Commandant left, another took his place. Courts-martial were set up. For days handcuffed men sat on benches awaiting turn for trial. The corporal who had accosted the General in the town on the first morning was sentenced to be shot, with two others. Many other men got sentences up to twenty years’ penal servitude.

There were identification parades. Phillip was asked to pick out the Scots lance-jack who had offered him whiskey. He recognised him first by the fact that he was standing somewhat on his toes, apparently trying to increase his height—a customer, surely, he thought, for the Windup Company. The rigid figure stared straight to its front, and Phillip passed on down the line without stopping anywhere.

The sergeant of Military Police who had accidentally shot the Gordon Highlander was sent to prison for ten years.

An armed gang of Australians, led by Broncho Bill, it was said, got away in time from the town. They robbed supply trains at
night, and hid in woods by day. Eventually they reached the old Somme battlefield, where in that immense and ruinous warren, now overgrown by long grasses, brambles and other weeds, shots were heard in the darkness; for they had entered the territory of other gangs, particularly one known as the International Battalion, made up of French, British, and German deserters, all bearded men. Cavalry patrols had been sent periodically to hunt them down in that vast golgotha, but without result.

*

There was a dog in the camp, a black retriever known as Windy Bill. It was the first to dash for the underground tunnels when it heard the growling engine notes of approaching Gothas. Squalls of shrapnel fire arose from around the camp. Bombs swished down. Screams arose from the canvas hospitals. One night on picket duty beside the railway, lined with tents and marquees, Phillip heard a dreadful noise behind one canvas wall, and peering in, saw that the beds were jumpy with epileptics having fits. Another night he was on duty in a listening post on a hillock, with signal lamp and whistle. But Windy Bill, who had attached himself, had keener ears. Lifting up his snout, Windy Bill gave the alarm, and then fled to his tunnel. Soon there was a general stampede for the three tunnel entrances in the slope above the mud of the Canche estuary, and the four entrances to dug-outs in the chalk of the camp ground.

A sickly sweet smell of iodoform and gangrene floated up on the night air, with the wailing cries of epileptics who now slept out at the edge of the shafts. Many were killed, together with some W.A.A.C.s and nurses. Thermit bombs were dropped, some marquees burned. He found he was yelling at the long black shapes circling against the veils of thin cloud around the moon. In the morning it was said that hundreds had been killed, and thousands wounded.

There were dances for the Base staff. Officers only were permitted to dance with the W.A.A.C.s. No dancing was arranged for the tommies, so they danced among themselves.

*

Phillip had written to ‘Spectre’ West, telling him where he was, and what doing, but with no mention of the mutiny. He knew that all letters were being scrutinised. No reply came. When the course was nearly ended he asked Traill if anything was known about his return to the line. Had anything special come into the Orderly Room?

“I am wondering if I am supposed to be going back to my M.G. company, sir.”

Mindful of the report from the Signalling School, Phillip had determined to give a good account of himself, as Father would say.

On passing-out day extra charges of gun-cotton were blown for the new General’s benefit. Louder cheers were yelled as jumps were made into shell-holes occupied by straw dummies with painted faces, after rifle-grenades had burst among them. Smoke bombs were tossed frantically into pillboxes made of wood, asbestos sheets, and painted corrugated iron, after masks had been worn for twenty minutes continuously, five of them in the gas chamber. It was all eye-wash: who could charge like that in the Salient?

The officers were told to report to the Orderly Room for further instructions.

“Lieutenant P. S. T. Maddison?” asked a sergeant, running his nail down a list. “You are to proceed to your unit at Poperinghe. There’s a train leaving in half an hour for Hop-out.” (Hopoutre was one of the branch rail-heads, with Dosinghem, Bandighem, and Mendinghem.)

He felt faint with relief, and went to the mess. Yet doubt remained, centred on Downham. In the ante-room there were letters from his mother, Mrs. Neville, Eugene, Nina, and ‘Darky’ Fenwick. He put them in his pocket to read on the way up the line; then stoked up with three more large whiskeys with soda; and having settled his mess bill, stuffed a packet of sandwiches and a bottle of red wine into his haversack, and said goodbye to the Colonel, Traill, and others. Windy Bill accompanied him to the station and then, with a wave of tail, trotted back to camp, to seek further excitement from new arrivals for the Bull Ring.

A
T
Hopoutre there was no transport, so he left his valise in the R.T.O.’s office, where he found a message from Pinnegar,
I’ll
be
in
the
Aigle
d’Or,
come
there.
In the hotel, to his immense relief he saw a new Teddy wearing three small cloth stars on his shoulder straps. They hurried to one another.

“I’m awfully glad to see you, Teddy!”

“I came in to m-meet you, old m-man!” stuttered Pinnegar, his face beaming. “Come in and have a drink, and I’ll give you all the news.”

“Congratulations on your promotion, Teddy.”

“Yes, Wilmott told me this morning to put up my third pip! I’ve got the company!”

Pop went the cork, out foamed
Veuve
Cliquot.

“Are you joking? Where’s Downham?”

“Gone! Pushed off a week ago! I’m damned glad to see you back!”

“Downham gone?”

“Yes, thank God. We’ve seen the last of that swab! Cheerio!”

They drank. “But how did it happen?”

“I’ll tell you in a jiffy. The point is that you’re all right! Wilmott’s set aside that report, you know, about not being fit for promotion. I knew Downham, given enough rope, would hang himself sooner or later.” Pinnegar drank, and said, “Here’s to us!”

“Where is Downham now?”

“Probably in England by this time. Sick. P.U.O. Louse fever! If he hadn’t gone sick, I was going to report him. I put him under arrest, you know!” beamed Pinnegar. “Cheerio, old thing!”

“Cheerio, Teddy.”

“It came to a head over Cutts,” he went on, with an expression of complete satisfaction. “You remember Cutts? Well, we’ve had the Gothas over almost every night, and one scored a direct
hit on a Nissen hut next to our lot. Cutts ran out, yelling his head off. When I arrived, there was a scene of complete chaos. I’ve never seen such an exhibition of wind in all the time I’ve been in France! Not only Cutts, but Rivett. He was bawling at Cutts, saying he was under arrest. I was asking what the hell he was doing when Downham appeared in his pyjamas, under his British Warm. He made a bee-line for Cutts, and burst out that he’d been sentenced to death once before for cowardice, and he’d get him court-martialled again. Can you understand it?”

“Yes, I can.”

“Damned if I can! I told Downham to pipe down, and he turned on me, shouting, before all the men, that he’d put me under arrest if I wasn’t careful! If I wasn’t careful! I wasn’t afraid of the swab. I—I wish you’d been there. Honestly, if anyone had told me, I’d never have believed it. While Downham was yelling at Cutts, Nolan was holding him up. Cutts was absolutely gibbering, poor sod, while those two combed-out Sharpshooters were behaving like a couple of raving lunatics!”

Phillip felt warm with satisfaction. “Go on, Teddy.”

“As I said, I was bloody well fed to the teeth, so I told
Downham
to pipe down. Then he bawled at me, so I said I’d put a bullet in him if he didn’t shut up. He said something about getting me shot for insubordination, so I put him under arrest. All this, mark you, outside a Nissen hut after a direct hit, men staggering out, covered with blood, arms dripping, crying and moaning—and all Downham could do was to screech at poor bloody Cutts! Can you beat it?”

Courage is a habit, it has to be grown from small beginnings, Phillip thought. Of course! A child had to be
encouraged
by its father! And all its school-teachers!
Thou
shall
:
not,
Thou
shall
not!

“Well, as I was saying,” went on Pinnegar, filling the glasses, “that quietened Downham all right, and we went back to bed. I’d hardly got to sleep again when he came to me full of soft soap, told me he had a fever, had had it for weeks off and on, that was why he wasn’t really responsible for what had occurred. Showed me a thermometer registering 106. Any bloody fool could have seen that he’d put the end on his cigarette! I told him straight that what he said cut no ice with me. He offered to shake hands, and forget all about it. I told him that if he was as ill as he made out, he ought to see the doctor. There’s an American one now, you know, attached to Brigade. Anyway, I said, I’d report him if
he didn’t. So he saw the doc, and went down the line, and now I’ve got the company! How have you been getting on?”

Phillip told him; and then asked after the others.

“Bright went back to the infantry. He wrote to me the other day, and asked me to press for what he called justice. I didn’t care much for him, and told him it was nothing to do with me. Old ‘Lucky’ has gone, too. He got splashed with mustard gas, and went into hospital with burns. We’ve had three new officers since then. Two more are due tomorrow. Cheerio!”

“Cheerio. Has the company been in any stunts, Teddy?”

“Only the usual stuff, night strafing when we were in the line. There’s a big push coming off soon. We’re for that. Plumer’s taken over some of the Fifth Army sector, you know. About time, too.”

“How’s Nolan?”

“I was going to ask you about him. Would you like him promoted sergeant? Well, ask him when you get back, and if he’s agreeable, I’ll have it put in Orders right away. Morris? He’s still here. Black Prince is all right, too. In fact I’ve been riding him. He’s yours, when you want him.”

“Thanks. How are the sections? Up to strength?”

“No. It’s the same tale everywhere, half-trained drafts, about fifty per cent of what we ask for, coming in. The infantry’s being messed about, too, from what I hear. Same old story—Jocks into riflemen, riflemen sent to kilted regiments, the bloody fools at the Base don’t seem to care what happens to regimental
morale,
so long as they shove up the line any old lot. Anyway, Phil, you’re back, that’s something! I was awfully pleased to see your face again,” he said a little shyly. “By the way, I told the Colonel I’ve no complaints about how you’ve done your job.”

“Thank you. What about Cutts?”

“I told the Colonel about him, too. It’s damn silly letting a bloke like that come anywhere near the line. Wilmott isn’t a bad chap, when you know him, in spite of being a cavalryman. We had a frank talk, he says he’ll always do all he can to help, that’s what he’s there for. Cutts’ll probably be sent home, he’s enn bee gee out here.”

“What about the new push?”

“Plumer’s going to have a smack at the Gheluvelt plateau, where all the Hun guns are.”

“Pity he wasn’t put in charge of that sector first go off!”

“I know.”

“Have you had any rain up here, Teddy?”

“Damn all. The ground’s pretty dry now, except in the areas of the beeks.”

“If the weather holds there’s a good chance of getting forward.”

“You’re right. The rear areas are simply stiff with guns. Many more than we had at Messines. Also they’ve run up a lot more light railways, and trams. The whole of the old battlefield up to the Steenbeek looks like a lot of old corsets, with tram-lines and duck-board tracks spread out in all directions. We’ve even got a traffic manager in front of one of the new bridges over the Canal. They shunt empty trucks there, fill them up with shells, and send them up the line again, just like any goods-yard.”

“What about the Alleyman shelling?”

“Their guns have been playing merry hell among the working parties.”

“Working by day?”

“Got to. Thousands of them, going on day and night. I saw your pal ‘Spectre’ West, by the way, and had a crack with him. He’s a bloody good chap, isn’t he? Asked after you.”

“What was he doing?”

“Goes right up into the outpost lines, to see for himself what’s happening. Reports direct to G.H.Q.”

“I’m glad you like him, Teddy.”

“He’s the kind of staff officer I can see eye to eye with! Says he wanted to be a parson after the war! Can you imagine it? He told me, incidentally, that fifty German divisions so far had been brought up from down south, and most of them been smashed. All the same, I reckon we’ve had just about as bad a pasting as they have. How about another bottle? I’ve got half an hour before I see Wilmott.” Pinnegar looked at his watch. “I’ve ordered our horses to be in the Square at five o’clock, by the way. They’re bringing the Maltese cart for your kit.”

Phillip ordered the second bottle, they toasted each other, and Pinnegar went on, “Yes, this time Plumer’s running most of the show. Limited objectives. No more staggering on beyond the five to six thousand yards’ range of the 18-pounders. Nor even beyond extreme Vickers-gun range. We’re doing five barrages this time, to a depth of a thousand yards.” He became reminiscent. “I remember our opening attack on the Pilckem ridge. On our left were the Cockchafers, the Kaiser’s crack corps, you know. They were overwhelmed by our barrage, and the Welshmen scuppered what was left of them, taking five hundred
prisoners. That was because the German tactics then were to hold the first position in strength. They soon adapted themselves to our barrages, withdrawing most of their men before the attack behind their pillbox line. Then, when our chaps had got forward, too far ahead of our field gun and emma gee barrages, they put down a barrage and reversed the process.”

“Guns from behind the Gheluvelt plateau?”

“Most of them, yes.”

“Well, supposing they let us take the plateau, and then reverse the process, their guns being already withdrawn?”

“I—I think there may be something in what you say. But surely the gunners will know about it? There’ll have hundreds of aerial photographs——”

“Anyway, you will mention it to Colonel Wilmott, won’t you?”

“If you like. Now I must push off. See you in the Square about five pip emma. Now look after yourself, don’t go and get a——”

“Not me, Teddy!” said Phillip, before Pinnegar could say what still made him wince a little when others spoke of such things.

*

The idea to see ‘Spectre’ West, in whose presence he felt calm and sure of himself, became obsessive. He went to the rue de l’Hôpital, and
Abandon
rank
all
ye
who
enter
here.
Up two flights of stairs and into the hop-loft chapel. A service was being held.

While in the train, uncertain of his immediate fate—whether or not he would be ordered to the infantry on arrival—he had thought to send no replies to the letters from home, even to Mrs. Neville: to shut off all things of the life that was lost, lest he begin to hope again, and so break down under the test of battle.

Now, with feelings of optimism and even joy, he knelt down, and became clear and simple. He must write a cheerful letter to Mother. And be firm with Eugene, refusing to lend him five pounds, as asked for. But how could he be curt with Gene? Perhaps the Brazilian bank had not received the usual allowance from Gene’s father. What was a fiver between friends? Gene owed him over twenty pounds now. What a thing to think about, while kneeling at prayer—or supposed prayer. He would send three pounds. That was settled. Now he must pray. But he could feel nothing. Others were going up for Communion. Young infantrymen, soon to be in action perhaps for the first
time. Into that hell. Dear Mother, I hope you are in the pink, as it leaves me at present. The dead turned pink, or wax-rotten, after a week or two in water. Stop the brain thinking in terms of fear. Think of Father Aloysius. But Gene’s face persisted. Poor Gene, he must live a very lonely life, an almost bare attic at night, that awful corset factory by day. Not much life for a fellow, alone in London, his only friends being ones he picked up. He would send Gene five pounds. Doris, too, would want some new clothes. He would send her five pounds, too. He must ask Mother to promise not to say where it came from. And five pounds for Mav—Elizabeth. Elizabeth was a better name, stiffer, stronger, like a Queen’s ruff, or whale-bone corset. Mavis was like somebody slipping on wet yellow clay. Tears filled his eyes. He saw Father scoffing at Mother’s tears. Sentimentality was a favourite word of Father’s, in criticism of Mother—no, not favourite, a
desperate
word. Anyway, he was being what Mrs. Rolls would call
morbid.
Because he was half-tight? He felt too remote, too apart, to go up for Communion. He stayed in quietude, thinking of Mother—what could he write to her? But all he could think was that the guns were vibrating in the timber frame of the loft, and rocking the air against his ear drums. How strange, that once he had felt that gunfire was exhilarating—from a distance! It was terrible and utterly dreadful. If only he could become clear, and truly brave, like Father Aloysius.

Men were leaving, trying to tip-toe across the margin of bare-boards, their boots awkwardly clopping. One awkward little tubby man almost hobbled past, the rectangular bulge of a miniature Church Army khaki Bible in left breast pocket of his tunic. His mouth was half-open, his eyes slightly apprehensive. Phillip kept his eyes averted, for it was Tom Ching. But what could he have done, had he spoken to him? Ching was like an invertebrate parasite, he seemed to insinuate himself always. And he was lasciviously treacherous, as when he had told Detective-Sergeant Keechey that he and Lily had gone into the Recreation Grounds that night. Ching was a teller of smutty stories, while he rolled his eyes. What
was
it about Ching that made him repulsive? Had he any decent thoughts? Always as a boy he had been—slimy. But
why
?
Ching seemed to have a permanent, profound illness-at-ease. No one could ever help Ching, who would always be—Ching. What
was
it about Ching that made him so repellent? He didn’t seem to be afraid. Perhaps he was; and being insensitive also, he couldn’t explain himself to himself, and so know.

Damn Ching! And yet—poor Ching. That dreadful home, a palsied fat father, and mother with settled anxious face.

What to say to his own mother? What
could
he say to her, when he could only express what he really felt; and by doing so, only reveal to her that he was further and further alienated from what she used to
think
she knew of him? Neither Mother nor Father had ever wanted his idea of truth; it was quite beyond their narrow world.
Hush,
Phillip,
hush
my
son,
you
must
not
say
such
things.
Fear, fear, fear! Fear of Father, fear of her son being himself, or trying to be. He had started a score of letters to both parents; come to an inevitable petering-out in each; and torn the letters up.