Love and the Loveless (46 page)

“How d’you reverse this thing?” he went on, peering at the engine dials. “Like this?” He pulled a couple of levers.

Steam expanded, wheels raced. The train began to move back towards the sky-lined German dots.

“That will keep them guessing,” said the sergeant-major, stuffing the last of half a loaf into his mouth, followed by butter scooped from a tin with his forefinger.

As far as could be seen, little groups of men were hurrying westward, down the road from Gonnelieu to the north-east, and crossing rising ground to the west. Explosions reverberated, as dump after dump was blown up by the Engineers. Warmed by whiskey and water, Phillip began to enjoy what was happening. Yet he was trembling: he realised that he was still half undressed.

*

286 M helped to hold a line in an old British trench running across the high ground beyond Gouzeaucourt. The Vickers guns covered open ground from a wood about half a mile north of the Peronne road to Revelon farm, a distance of nearly two miles. The defence was organised by a Brigadier-General who had lost his brigade. He had just had time to get out of his dug-out headquarters not far from Gonnelieu; and with clerks, cooks, and various stragglers had made a stand in Gauche Wood. Then behind him, he said, the Boche had come down in trucks drawn by a light railway engine going full-bore. The Boche were
dressed in khaki and wearing battle-bowlers and so obviously windy that he tried some of his German on them; whereupon they reversed the engine and went back the way they had come.

“Unfortunately we were out of ammunition or we’d have got the lot,” he said to Pinnegar. “It only shows you, one can never trust a Boche.” Then turning to Phillip, and looking at the pyjamas, “Where have you come from, the Ritz?”

“Oh no, sir,” replied Phillip, playing up, “I always fight like this!”

The General roared with laughter. Pinnegar’s gift of a bottle of whiskey had made him happy, too.

The line was held; an attack stopped. The Germans went back. Pinnegar produced some food with another bottle of whiskey; and best of all, the General told them that the Guards division was on the way from Havrincourt wood, to stop the rot.

*

Phillip took his transport section to lower ground near Havrincourt Wood a couple of miles back. There he was told by a rueful Barrow that his clobber had been left behind when the limbers were cleared to take ammunition boxes; so he wound a spare pair of puttees round his feet and legs, before returning on foot with Morris to the line. The best part of a bottle of whiskey and water had given him a sense of invulnerability, the shivery feelings had gone. His eyes still had the stinging feeling, otherwise he floated.

“It’s a good thing you fellows managed to lose your way last night,” said the General. “Your guns couldn’t have appeared at a more opportune moment, as far as I am concerned.”

By the rumble of bombardment behind them, the Germans were still attacking along the Bapaume road. “It was obvious that they would try to drive across the base of our bite into their Siegfried Stellung,” the General continued. “Both Division and Corps repeatedly warned Third Army that the Boche would return the compliment, but I suppose Army reserves have gone to Italy, after that affair at Caporetto.”

*

Battalions of the Foot Guards were forming up outside Havrincourt Wood. Phillip, sent back by Pinnegar to supervise the filling of belt-boxes in preparation for supplies that night, watched them getting into artillery formation. The sun appeared in rents of low cloud. Strings of pack mules were taking up Vickers guns and ammunition, for the barrage before the counter-attack.

Behind the Guards were gunners of some of the siege batteries which had been left behind in Gouzeaucourt. Other units, which had broken in retreat, were being collected and re-formed. The most amazing sight was the appearance of the Guards themselves, both officers and men. They had been relieved only the night before, after the fighting in Bourlon Wood; yet here they were on parade with boots shining and puttees free of mud, trousers and tunics neat, wooden casing of rifles brown with oil polish. Amazement changed to pride as he saw them advancing in diamond formation: watched them doubling out on the sky-line into extended order as they came under fire. He followed with others as the hammering of machine guns laying the barrage seemed to serrate the day: saw them pass through the old trench while others there, including some Americans of the 11th Engineer Railway Regiment, rose up and joined them: and hastening forward, under the machine-gun barrage, the attack went down the slope into Gouzeaucourt—where later the supply train, only partly raided by the Germans, was available for the Guards, whose quartermasters duly gave the A.S.C. lieutenant receipts for all supplies removed from the trucks. Nothing could have been more convenient; it fed the division for the next two nights and days.

As for the engine and trucks Pinnegar had started on its southern journey, they were reported to have passed, driverless, through Epéhy without stopping; the train continued on to Villers Faucon, where the engine ran out of steam. For the remainder of its time upon the 60-cm. line it was known as the Ghost Train.

*

286 M went back that night to Ribecourt. The senior lieutenant-colonel of the Brigade was in command, the Boy General having been killed during the heavy assault of the Germans debouching from behind the uncaptured Siegfried Stellung north of the bulge.

The colonel was curt about the absence of the company. What had happened elsewhere, he said, was not his concern. There was no excuse for not having made every effort to get to Ribecourt the night before. The Brigade had been ordered at noon to move to Lock 7 of the Canal du Nord, to support another Division, and the 286th Machine Gun Company had been found wanting. The Divisional Commander had called for a report on the matter. The discipline of the Machine Gun Corps generally
was considered by the Third Army Commander to be unsatisfactory. It was realised that the Corps was new, and had expanded too rapidly for a proper esprit-de-corps to be properly cultivated; but now discipline was to be enforced.

Pinnegar was asked to read the acting-Brigadier’s report, and to sign that he had read it. When he came to tell Phillip, his eyes showed hurt under their anger.

“Why didn’t you tell him it was my fault, Teddy?”

“Why should I? I was in command, wasn’t I?”

“Then I shall!”

“Not with my permission.”

“Then I’ll apply in writing to be allowed to see him.”

“What bloody good would that do?”

“It wasn’t your fault, it was my fault.”

“Why split hairs? What the hell can they do? Only send me back to the school at Camiers, and take away my third pip. Or even send me home.”

“Stellenbosched?” Phillip started crying.

“What the hell’s the matter with you? I don’t give a hoot, I tell you, now the Boy General’s gone! He was a bloody good man. He’d have understood. We helped at Gouzeaucourt, didn’t we? I’m quite happy about going back to my regiment. Don’t let it get you down,
mein
prächtig
kerl
!
Let’s have a drink.”

“I won’t, thanks, Teddy.”

“Aren’t you well?” He put a hand on Phillip’s forehead. “You’ve got a temperature, old man. How d’you feel?”

“Oh, not too good.” More tears.

Pinnegar made him see the American doctor, who diagnosed “Perdoxia unknown origin”.

“Skrimshanker’s fever, doctor.”

“Wale, I have never heard a louse called that, young man. You are feeling mean, I guess?”

“Yes, I am, rather.” He wondered how the doctor knew about Pinnegar taking the blame. “But Teddy wouldn’t let me see the Brigadier.”

It was explained that mean in America meant poorly.

“I’ll send you down to Casualty Clearing at Edgehill, outside Albert, young man, with a recommendation to the Colonel there that you have a long rest in Britain.”

“But I’m not really ill, doctor!”

“Don’t you want to go home?”

“Not very much.”

“Is that so? Wale, I guess that attitude is most unusual. Haven’t you any young ladies you want to see?”

“No, doctor.” More tears.

At last the doctor got it out of him. “So your girl was killed, and you want to avenge her death. Now see here——”

“No, not that exactly, doctor. If I had been true to my great friend, who loved her, Lily might not have been there when the aerial torpedo fell.”

“Oh ho, I get it now, young man! But you must not assume responsibility for God, no sir! If that dear girl’s time was come, nothing you or anyone could do would have averted it. When the Lord calls, each one of us must answer alone.”

Phillip looked suitably receptive to the idea, without being able to accept such an aspect of God.

“Now don’t worry your head about what is beyond you, young man. You have had a long, long time out here, I guess, and what you need is a long, long rest. And be kind to yourself. Relax those taut nerves of yours. I am going to send you right down to Edgehill so soon as your man-servant has brought your pack.”

“Mayn’t I go out to see my friends before I leave, doctor?”

“No, sir, you will stay right here! One hundred and three temperature is not to be fooled with. You will go with the next convoy to Edgehill, and I will say goodbye for you to Teddy and the boys.”

“Thank you, doctor.”

He could write to Teddy, to Nolan and to Morris; but nothing could be done about Black Prince.

The first thing Phillip had done on arrival home was to ask where
The
Times
copies were; and on going into the front room he saw a neat pile of newspapers on the table, and on the top a list, written in the clear and careful handwriting of his father, containing all the casualties in both the Gaultshire Regt. and the General Staff for the past six weeks. At the bottom of the Gaultshire list, on two sheets of foolscap paper, was the word FOUND in large letters, and the entry

He sat down beside the aspidistra in its brass bowl, and cried.

Hetty saw, with pity that she tried to conceal, that he had a thin, staring look. She tried to tell herself that on no account must she question him about his doings in France. She was alarmed by his later manner, after he had refused a cup of Benger’s Food. He was so silent and restless, going from room to room, to see if everything was the same, and finding it the same, appeared to be unable to bear it. He could settle at nothing.

At last she said, “Are you sure you are all right, Phillip?”—stopping herself just in time from calling him “dear”. “Is anything the matter?”

“I think I’ll go down and see Mrs. Neville.”

“I did hear Mrs. Feeney say that Desmond is home on leave, Phillip. He’s got his commission; something to do with anti-aircraft guns.”

“How did Eugene get on with Mavis—or should I say Elizabeth?”

“Oh, I don’t think she saw him after that one time, Phillip.”

“I didn’t think he was quite her sort, Mother. So she saw him only once?”

“Yes, dear. He took her to the Coliseum.”

“And then wanted her to go to his flat?”

“Your sister Mavis—oh dear, what am I saying—Elizabeth didn’t say, Phillip. It was a long time ago.”

“I think I’ll go next door and see Gran’pa and Aunt Marian.”

“Yes, do, dear. I am sure they will be most pleased to see you.”

Afterwards she saw him sitting on the first seat of the Hill opposite, where so many times, looking from the verandah of her bedroom, she had seen all the children playing happily in the summers of long ago. Was he hoping that Desmond or Mrs. Neville would see him? For he had not gone down the road after seeing Papa.

Elizabeth—she
must
remember never to say “Mavis” by mistake—was the first home that day. Hetty asked her to be very very careful what she said.

“He’s in the sitting-room, playing the gramophone.”

“Father’s, or his own?”

“Father’s, Elizabeth. His own was lost in France, he says.”

“Yes, and if Father comes home unexpectedly, he’ll blame you!”

“Now, Mav—I mean Elivabif—oh, what am I saying——” She laughed, the mood swiftly changed, she felt like crying, but said gaily, “Go down and see your brother, Elizabeth, and do be nice to him, won’t you? He isn’t very well. I’m just going to make some dripping toast; it will help keep out the cold.”

Mavis saw Phillip sitting over a glowing coke fire. “Hullo, how are you? Haven’t you put on a lot of coke? Father will say something if he sees that! Coal and coke are awfully hard to get now. Didn’t you know? There’s no need to stand up. I know very well you don’t think much of me!” She felt distress. Why didn’t he say something? “Well, how are you? Can’t you answer, eh?”

“Quite well, thank you. How are you?”

“Aren’t you pompous! Well, you don’t look well! In fact, you look ill! Is anything the matter with you?”

“I’ve had a touch of trench fever.”

“I hope it isn’t catching! Well, go on playing the gramophone, I shan’t tell Father! I’m not that sort, you know!” Tears came into her eyes. She went out as abruptly as she had come in, and he heard her calling out as she went upstairs, “Mother, hurry up with my tea! I’m hungry. Nina is coming on leave this evening, and I promised to meet her at the station.”

He had been returning from a long walk around the darkened streets—unable to face Freddie’s Bar or the Gild Hall—hurrying past the ruins of Nightingale Grove with clenched hands and ruinous thoughts—and was approaching the Fire Station when he heard whistles, and then past a stationary, empty tram came the tinkle of a familiar bell, and there was Father bicycling slowly down the street, blowing his whistle. Upon his chest was slung a white placard, printed with red letters

He followed the figure in the now empty High Street, while guns began to open up for the apron barrage protecting Woolwich Arsenal. Soon bits of shrapnel were coming down.

“Take cover! Take cover!” called out an urgent voice. Phillip recognised ‘Sailor’ Jenkins, standing under the railway bridge by the Conservative Club. Bowing shoulders, hands in pockets of driver’s coat, he replied in a Cockney voice, “Don’t get the pushin’ wind up, chum,” as he slouched past.

Richard had come home, put on arm-band and steel helmet, stopped only to swallow a cup of hot water (the tea in the pot had been made too long, and he must look after his “nervous stomach”) then down to Randiswell Police Station on his Sunbeam, and so on duty. No longer an upright figure, a little bowed after nearly forty years of office life, he pedalled on at the regulation pace of eight miles an hour, regularly blowing his whistle, while fragmentary thoughts passed through his mind—relief that his son was home again; bewilderment, scorn, and anger at the idea of Lord Lansdowne, whose letter to
The
Times
asking for a negotiated peace had been referred to in
The
Daily
Trident
as “the white flag of surrender”, being ready to betray his country; depression that the great victory of Cambrai, for which the bells had been rung, had turned out to be a defeat, with hundreds of guns lost, thousands of prisoners taken, and no doubt as many killed. Someone had blundered; and according to the
Trident,
that someone was in a very high command.

Shrapnel fragments rained down, tinkling on paving stones, clattering on slate roofs, and wood-block roadway; some falling with whizzing noises, some like little sighs, even moans. He pedalled on.

Phillip saw his father returning from the Obelisk, and was glad that he was all right. The white blur passed. He looked for a coffee stall, but it was not in its usual place. Food scarcity,
he thought, and went home by way of the mill in the lane called Botany Bay, with its rows of little houses, and so to the Hill, in darkness and silence.

From the dark cavern of Liverpool Street station Phillip had gone to Ipswich, then by slow branch line to the terminus of Landguard Fort, where he arrived in darkness. As he was finding his way along a road suddenly it was lit up by clusters of Very lights rising above rifle and Lewis gun fire and the gruff coughs of hand grenades. For a moment he sweated; then realising it was a night assault practice, walked on until he came to sea glimmering in pale rushes upon the shore. He went along a row of terraced brick houses, at the end of which were dark shapes of hutments. On his left was a fort-like house, standing on turf at the shingle edge.

He reported to the Orderly Room. He was posted to “C” company, and told to share a billet in No 9 Manor Terrace with
a subaltern named Allen. If he went to the Officers’ Mess across the barrack square and enquired of the mess sergeant, he would be given an orderly to show him the billet.

“Mess dinner is at seven thirty. It’s Guest Night,” said the assistant adjutant. “Have you got your kit with you?”

“It was lost in France. I only heard yesterday that I was to come here, and so haven’t had time to see my tailor for infantry knickerbockers.”

“The breeches are all right, but you’ll need ankle boots and puttees for parades.”

“Very good, sir.”

No 9 Manor Terrace had a cast-iron gate which had not yet been taken for salvage, because it was rusted open on its hinges, and more or less unshiftable except by blows of a sledge hammer, explained the orderly, as he pushed open the front door, to reveal a floor hair-light down a passage. His guide went in, a servant came out of the end room and showed him a bedroom with a small fire in the grate, and lit by a gas-mantle, under which sat a young officer reading at a three-legged table. He stood up, putting down his book, hesitating whether or not to say good-evening. In his fatigue Phillip mistook this attitude for aloofness, and after a pause gave the other a curt good-evening.

“Good evening, sir,” replied the young officer.

The servant waited. Then he said, “Have you got a camp bed, sir?”

“No.”

“May I lend you mine?” enquired the young subaltern, gravely.

“No, thank you. I can sleep on the floor.”

“In your valise, sir?” asked the servant.

“I have no valise.”

“Right, sir, I’ll soon fix you up!” He spoke in so cheery a voice as he left the room that Phillip felt ashamed of his curtness.

“Do sit down, sir, won’t you?” said the junior subaltern, offering his chair, as the door closed.

“No need to call me ‘sir’. I’m only a lieutenant. Just been turfed out of the M.G.C. That’s why I’m in this get-up,” he said, as he took off his driver’s coat. “My name is Maddison.”

“Mine is Allen.” The chair was placed forward.

“Thank you, Allen. What’s the book?” as he sat down and stretched his legs.

“Oh,” hesitatingly, “Euripides.”

Phillip saw that it was in Greek. “My only acquaintance with Greek is through the
Smaller
Classical
Dictionary.
Have you been here long?”

“A fortnight.”

“Cadet Battalion?”

“Abbreviated course at Sandhurst.”

“Oh, a regular.”

“Well, yes—for the time being.”

A series of jangling bumps came through the walls, followed by scrapings and a blow on the door, which opened, to admit two soldier servants with an up-ended wire-bedstead. The new batman explained, “I thought I’d borrow Major West’s, sir, as he went up on leaf s’afternoon.”

“Major West? With a—with a—you know—wounded—lost a hand, and one eye——?”

“That’s right, sir. The major told me to fix you up with anything you wanted in the meantime like. I’ll bring in a table and chair, sir. I’ve already got a spare harticle.”

When Allen went to the mess, Phillip, who had returned there to sign off, sat in the room and read the newspaper he had bought for the journey. Among the items was an announcement that the Army Council had approved the issue of a watered rainbow silk riband to be worn by all members of the British Expeditionary Force who had served or were serving in France or Belgium up to and including 14 November 1914, when the First Battle of Ypres had ended. The riband would shortly be available.

He read the item several times, and felt a glow, but the glow lost its warmth when he thought of Baldwin, Cranmer, and all the others…. He opened the new copy of the Oxford Book which he had bought on returning home, and copied out one of the poems in his letter to Pinnegar.