Love and the Loveless (8 page)

Phillip thought that few would be likely to do that, for not only had his girl a plain face, but was rather fat as well. Then, lest Fenwick interpret his silence, he exclaimed heartily, “You certainly do not, Darky old boy! By Jove, I’ve enjoyed my day! Only Sunday now to get through, and we’ll be posted to All Weather Jack’s company! A month’s training, and then we’ll be overseas!”

“Aye, thet’s about it. Tell you what, Phil, when I came here I didn’t care how long the war lasted. I’ve got no home to go to, I never knew father or mother, I were reared in Foundlings’ Home. But now ’tis different, I’m thinkin’.”

He blew two hoarse honks on the horn, because his bonny lass had kissed him good-night in the darkness. Phillip checked a slight impulse to sneer: sitting suddenly loose, he thought, why did I want to sneer? It was dreadful of him. His sister Mavis had sneered at Lily, in the same way. Was he unable to change his old self, after all? Fenwick had trusted him with his sacred thoughts. No father or mother, no known relations; now he had found his home. Home! Mother’s face, so gentle and patient, giving all for her children; and he had not gone home on leave to see her, through utter selfishness. With eyes closed, he breathed deeply, releasing slowly his breath, so that he could feel dissolved and floating, nothing of himself coming into his being.

*

“My God,” said Teddy Pinnegar, a few mornings later, “what d’you think of this, Phil. The Skipper’s got jaundice! He’s been sent to hospital, and they’re sending another C.O. from the Training Centre to take over!”

Hundreds of mules were walking in all directions over Belton Camp, drawing grey limbers fixed to long poles. These limbers, painted grey, rolled on artillery wheels, together with water
carts, G.S. waggons, and cooks’ carts. At night the vehicles were drawn up in long lines upon what was left of the grass of his Lordship’s park. Companies were now going out in greater numbers. Nightly the theatre was packed with enthusiastic subalterns; so was the bar of the Angel. You had to go early to get an evening seat at the Electric Palace. Phillip forgot himself in the hilarity of a Charlie Chaplin film; but his shadowed self arose through the popular tragic actor Sessue Hayakawa—the favourite film hero of Desmond, he remembered—a Japanese actor appearing in frock coat, Indian turban, and the grief-frozen face of a hero without hope. He also saw
The
Somme,
not a cinema story of any particular man or men, but of sights behind the actual fighting, guns, waggons, “plum pudding” mortar bombs on long iron rods, ambulance convoys and distant shell-bursts—sights drawing him back again to the night-world of flares, gun-flashes, and coloured rockets, far from the home he had left, in spirit at least, for ever. In that home, he thought, he had always come between Father and Mother; perhaps his death would bring them together.

*

There were a couple of days of cushy life, sitting around the stove in the new company headquarter hut. So far the company officers were Darky Fenwick, Montfort, Teddy Pinnegar, a subaltern who was a farmer in Lincolnshire before the war, and himself. At the other end of the hut sat the company sergeant major and quartermaster sergeant, at a trestle table covered with a brown army blanket. This cosy respite ended when the new C.O. arrived. Phillip got a shock when he saw Downham sitting at Jack Hobart’s table. The same afternoon sixty gunners were marched in from the Training Centre; and next day, nearly two score drivers followed, led by a sergeant. Phillip felt that the army was indeed different from the old days when he realised that this young man, short, fresh-faced, and plump, with a snub nose was to be his right-hand man in France. For very soon he was explaining to Phillip that he had been “offered a commission”, but hadn’t taken it, as he had been “compelled for domestic reasons” to remain home-service.

“I’ve got a widowed mother, you see,” he added, dropping the “sir” at which Phillip became scrupulously polite.

“Did you have to do with horses before the war, sergeant?”

“Only indirectly, in a manner of speaking.”

Maintaining his attitude of aloof ease, Phillip waited for the young man to continue making the impression he hoped he was making.

“I was, owing to my father’s death, following financial losses, compelled to forego education at Oxford, and to take a position with a firm of old-established country auctioneers, where I gained some experience of both riding and draught horses, waggons, harness, and fodder.”

“Where was that, sergeant?”

“I followed my profession in the county of Surrey. On the outbreak of war, I joined up with the Sharpshooters. That’s how I came across Major Downham, he was my company commander. We came up to the Training Centre together, in a manner of speaking.”

This news Phillip received with further disquiet. He was already depressed by the thought that Downham knew the rumours about Hallo’e’n 1914, at Messines, when he had failed to get up the ammunition during the German attack on the Windmill, and so many of the London Highlanders had been bayoneted. Still, it was unlikely that Downham had discussed that with a sergeant, before he had even met him. He must act up to his part.

“Let me have a copy of the nominal role of the section as soon as you can, will you, sergeant? What have we so far?”

Sergeant Rivett had his book ready. “Twenty-two drivers, sir, including one each for cook’s cart and water-cart. One stitcher; one cold shoer; seven grooms for officers’ chargers. Thirty-one all told, thirty-two with myself. I have already made a copy of the nominal role, sir.”

“Well done. I’m going to the company orderly room now, so come down and check your roll with that of the company sergeant major.”

Events were certainly moving fast. Just before twilight that afternoon sixteen Vickers guns, with tripods and ammunition boxes, were ranged along one side of the Orderly Room hut. The next morning there was a chit from the Centre: Senior Supervising Officer (Transport) informed O.C. Company that a Mule Convoy would arrive at the station at 8.30 p.m. the following night and arrangements should be made to collect forty mules.

Phillip said to Major Downham, “We’ll want head-stalls and chains, if we’re going to lead our mules back, sir. With your
permission I’ll try and wangle the use of a Driving School limber to collect them in.”

“Very well. Only report back when you return.”

The Corporal-storeman at Ordnance was not easily persuaded. He said that an order had come reserving all head-stalls for the Senior Supervising Officer of Transport. But after some talk about the Menin road in 1914, during which the corporal, a regular soldier, took in the well-fitting driver’s coat, boned cavalry-pattern boots and fawn twill buttoned breeches, while warming to the young officer’s easy politeness of manner, he said, “I think I can manage that little lot for you, sir.”

Forty head-stalls, which had been taken from a heap set aside by the Staff Q.M.S., were exchanged for a chit signed by P.S.T. Maddison, Lieut., for O.C. 286 Coy; and carried back in the “borrowed” limber for Sergeant Rivett to hang up on racks under some covered stables Phillip had occupied in lieu of the open standings allotted him. Then he reported to Downham in his cubicle.

“I shall have to ask permission to sign out for mess dinner, sir.”

“All right, only report to me when you get back tonight. And don’t go and do anything stupid, such as tweaking the Senior Supervising Officer’s ears with fire-tongs, as you did to Hollis in the office.” Why did Downham want to drag up the past?

At 7.30 p.m. the section paraded, and he led them to the town station. The train from Liverpool was two hours late. That meant hanging about until half-past ten. The men were allowed away in two relays, each of half an hour, to the pubs. Closing time was now half-past nine.

“Now be good fellows, and return promptly to time, won’t you?” A chorus of
Yes,
sir!
made him feel in touch with them.

Sergeant Rivett was with the first section, and when he returned, Phillip went into the town, hoping to buy bread and cheese for the men. All shops were closed, food was becoming scarce owing to unrestricted submarine warfare. His search produced nothing. He returned after closing time, and stood about with the others, feeling dull and cold as time went on, having missed mess dinner in his determination to see that everything was done properly.

At last rosy steam of an approaching train. Soon orders and
counter-orders arose amidst hooves clattering on asphalt and sett-stone, and an occasional angry squeal and walloping of heels on wood. The mules came out, bunching, pushing, their eyes bloodshot and staring, their coats clotted. The spirit of fear ruled under arc-lamps making livid the damp night scene. “They’re sods, these South American mules,” said the heavy officer who had organised the mass bribery of the sergeant. “Most of ’em are only half-broken. They won’t get away with it with me!”

“What will you do?”

“Put a nose twitch on any that shows resistance, and put on a pack-saddle loaded with old iron. Break its spirit.”

“I don’t agree with that. I believe that mules, like horses or any other animals, respond to care and kindness. Just think what these poor old donks have suffered since leaving their native pampas—sea-sickness, blows, curses, and at best indifference.” Clewlee replied with one explodent word, and walked away.

Forty beasts were allotted to the company. With a start he saw that they already wore head-stalls. His drivers had extra difficulty, holding their charges, while trying to strap the spare head-stalls over their own shoulders. This delayed departure, and caused criticism from the S.S.O.

“So you’re the culprit who took away my equipment from my stores, are you? And caused me to be short by the very number by which you now try and turn your men into jackasses? Who the devil d’you think you are?”

“I’m sorry, sir, I meant to help arrangements forward.”

“What d’you think would happen if every trainee officer in the Centre took it upon himself to run the show? You’re part of an organisation, a team. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir!”

The days and nights that followed put all thought of evening pleasure in the town out of mind, because a staff inspection of the section was soon to be held. The drivers worked from before dawn to nearly midnight, for there was an enormous amount of work to be done. Steel hooks and chain links, by which traces and pole-bars drew the limbers, were deeply corroded by rust. Phillip bought, with his own money, paraffin and silver sand. Also cocoa and tins of biscuits. The men worked hard, rubbing with the abrasive on pieces of old puttee. On the night before the inspection they rubbed for three hours, then shook the chains in sacks containing chaff for a further two hours, but
at the end only streaks of brightness shone through. They worked until shortly before 1 a.m., then stopped to lie down on their palliasses, stables having been ordered for 4 a.m.

When Phillip returned at 4.30 a.m. he found Sergeant Rivett asleep in his cubicle at the end of the hut. In his anxiety, he shook the sergeant’s bed and cried, “Come on, Rivett, if you don’t want to be the last on parade!” Sleepy-eyed, the sergeant stared, then he leapt up. Phillip thought that they would never be on parade by 9 a.m.

And so it turned out. Feeding and grooming so far had taken anything up to an hour and a half. The mules were half-broken, and afraid; the men afraid and half-trained. So it was this morning. The section was late for 6 a.m. breakfast, a hasty mouth-cramming of bread used to scoop up brown bacon fat in which brittle scraps of rasher were congealed, washed down by boiled bitter tea and sugar, upon which globules of oil floated from yesterday’s skilly. The same dixies were used for all meals. Then to wash and shave in cold water, to scrape wet mud from puttees, breeches, tunics, and coats, ready for the next struggle in more mud with mules, many of which resisted attempts to harness them. It was chaos in darkness; but without shelling. Phillip, who had slept for two hours in his clothes, went from driver to driver, giving a hand; but the parade was half an hour late.

The inspection by the Senior Supervising Officer was swift and decisive. Forty years old, swarthy, powerful of frame and voice, giving forth the feeling that disciplinarianism was all his mind, he stared at the ingenuous, boyish face showing hesitant dejection before him, and then between pauses, each followed by a tap of short leather-bound cane upon open gloved palm, he said,

“Rusty chains.” Tap. “Dirty harness.” Tap. “Muddy limbers.” Tap. “Mules not groomed.” Tap. “Drivers imperfectly shaved.” The gloved palm closed over the end of the cane, holding it stiffly, while he continued to stare into the young man’s face, at the large blue eyes with their long lashes.

“We’ve had no time, sir——”

“I’ll see your drivers’ rifles.”

These had lain under limber covers since leaving Ordnance. After trying, in vain, to look down the first three barrels, the S.S.O. took Phillip aside. “How long have you held your
commission
? Nearly two years? Then what possible excuse can
you have for allowing your men to appear on parade with rifles the barrels of which are still bunged up with
store
grease?”

“I wasn’t going to let the men bring them on parade, sir.”

“Good God!” said the S.S.O., almost in a whisper. “I’ve heard some odd things in my time, but this beats them all. You know I’ll have to report this, then you’ll lose your job. Why shouldn’t I report it? Can you give me any good reason?” He gave a sort of smile, while looking straight into Phillip’s eyes. Simulating innocence, Phillip replied, “Well, sir, I thought that as we weren’t going to fire the rifles yet, and as the men had more than enough to do——”

“So you thought it a sensible idea to hide them away, did you?”

“No, sir.”

“And you find the work too much for you?”

“Not for me, but my men have had too much to do. Those chain links take many hours to burnish. We’ve been up, shaking them in chaff bags, until midnight for five nights in succession; and I’ve had morning stables at four o’clock in the morning.”

Abruptly the S.S.O. mounted his horse and rode away to the next inspection. Two days later Phillip had a chit from Pinnegar, to report to the Orderly Room.

“Downham wants to see you about some report or other. I’ve tried to tell him it’s all tripe. Don’t let him bounce you. If it were Jack, he’d take it to the Colonel.”

Downham said, “Well, I can hardly say I’m not surprised, from what I know of you. You’ve had a damned bad report from the Centre. Better read it.”

The next day Phillip left 286 Coy. His new company commander in “B” lines was a tall upright Canadian with ginger hair and moustache, who soon told him that he had passed through Kingston Military College, Ontario. Phillip shared a cubicle with Clewlee, who snored unbearably at night, and had a habit, in the morning, of washing his face in his canvas basin after he had cleaned his teeth in the water. He also had mustard with his porridge, and bit his nails. Both were
members of what was called among themselves the Punishment Squad, passing the first few days in arms drill on the square, under a sergeant-major.

On the third night Phillip cut mess dinner and made for the theatre bar, where he drank whiskey in intervals of watching the variety show. He made friends with another lonely subaltern, and they had a glittering, glassy time until the late-night reaction. With aching eyeballs and head he appeared on parade the next morning, not having been able to face breakfast. He got through the day somehow, without lunch, and at tea, sitting beside the new company commander, was asked to help him in the orderly room. This was encouraging: if he worked hard, it might lead to a second-in-command job, since apparently he had been kicked out of the transport section.