Small Wars (26 page)
Colonel Burroughs put in a long-distance call to Hal’s father in Somerset. Burroughs was in his office at Episkopi, looking across at the wall of ‘wanted’ faces; Arthur Treherne was in his cold study, seated by the draughty window, the trees outside moving in the wind.
Hal’s fall from grace was dishonour but they had both known dishonour before and had risen above it.
‘I’ve never heard of anything like it. If it were anyone else, Arthur, if it weren’t for his rank, they’d have packed him off back here for court-martial. He could get fourteen years.’
‘I’ll speak to him.’
‘Will you go there?’
‘If I could knock some sense into him…’
‘It’s gone too far for that.’
‘Did he not say – was there no sign of it at all?’
‘I can only think this awful business with Clara unbalanced him.’
They both remembered
awful business
of their own. Brothers lost. Horrors encountered and absorbed. They had not gone absent. They had managed. The line crackled and split between them. It was a great shame. A shame.
Arthur Treherne had driven from Somerset to the barracks the next morning. He walked quickly behind Captain Harris, not looking at the soldiers who saluted them as they passed.
‘Well, at least you’re not in the bloody guardroom,’ he said, on seeing his son for the first time in more than three years.
He knew him, he had thought, knew everything that mattered to him, but the meeting was brief and fruitless. Hal had refused to go with him, or offer any explanation. The only time he looked at his father was when Clara was mentioned.
‘What about her? What about your children?’
‘I don’t know.’
But he hadn’t been able to get anywhere with him, and left more afraid than when he’d got there.
He spoke to his wife when he got home, by the front door in his coat, not bothering to pretend they were not in crisis. ‘He says he isn’t cracking up. That’s what he kept saying, but –’ They stood close to one another in their cold hall and unspoken words hung between them. All the thirty-one years of defining their son.
A man like Hal…Hal is the sort of boy who – Hal always –
‘I didn’t like the look of him,’ he finished at last. ‘If he offers no defence for himself then – I don’t know. He won’t see sense.’
Hal remained under guard at the barracks for two more days. If he had gone absent, there would have been a summary hearing. He was a major. Majors did not go absent. It had never happened. He would be questioned informally, instead.
They met in the big room that adjoined the lieutenant colonel’s office in the brick and white Queen Anne barracks – it was pretty, made with conscious beauty to house soldiers. Hal was to be questioned by Lieutenant Colonel Hay. His adjutant, Captain Harris, who had first dealt with Hal, was seated on his left, with Major West on his right.
Hal entered just as sunlight, finding sudden gaps in the torn clouds, filled the room, with quick urgency. The smell of beeswax polish and across the gleaming table, facing him, the officers – stiff-decorated, dark green uniforms, red, gold, brass – were lit sharply in the acid light. The sunlight faded from the room. Dimness returned.
Salutes. Chairs clunking on the thick carpet as they were pulled back. Throats cleared.
Hal was asked to state his name and rank, and did so. The three men watched him carefully; he seemed perfectly correct.
Lieutenant Colonel Hay had met Hal many times, shaken his hand, welcomed him, praised him, served with his father, and saw him now, disgraced. ‘Sit down, Hal,’ he said.
They had written evidence of him sent from Cyprus.
Captain Harris shuffled the papers, cleared his throat and read them out. There was a statement from Mark Innes, describing Hal as ‘distracted…depressed’, from Colonel Burroughs, citing his recent ‘somewhat erratic behaviour’ as evidence of mental disturbance, contrary to his normal ‘exemplary running of his company’. They even had a statement from Kirby, about Hal’s departure from RAF Nicosia: ‘Of course I was surprised, but he said the orders had changed so I didn’t think nothing of it…He didn’t look any different than usual. He just went off.’ Everybody allowed a smile at Captain Harris’s dry delivery of Kirby’s statement, a man of a different class.
Lieutenant Colonel Hay spoke to him civilly, and with real curiosity: ‘Are you aware of the consequences of what you have done?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Do you have something to say in explanation?’
‘No, sir.’
‘No? You don’t want to offer anything in defence of your actions?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Do you regret it?’
Silence.
‘Surely, Hal, this was the behaviour of a man distressed by his personal circumstances?’
Silence.
‘Let’s try and have this out man to man. Was it planned, your leaving Cyprus?’
‘No, sir.’
‘So it was a spur-of-the-moment decision?’
‘Yes.’
‘Because of your wife’s accident? And yet you aren’t on your way back there. Why?’
Hal did not answer.
‘Is there something else we should know? Was there some issue at the barracks, then, prior to your wife’s accident?’
‘Issue?’
‘Anything that happened, at Episkopi Garrison, that might enlighten us.’
The colonel leaned forward. He said again, more slowly, ‘I’ll ask you again, Hal. Was there an issue at Episkopi that – in your mind – prompted you to leave in this way?’
Everything about Hal had altered. They examined him. The silence stretched out.
‘Hal?’
‘I can’t –’ A sort of smile.
‘Continue. Please. This isn’t sufficient. We’re getting nowhere.’
A long silence.
‘You’re not being co-operative.’
‘No, sir. I am. I am co-operating,’ he said clearly.
More silence. All eyes examining him.
Then, at last, ‘Am I to understand, then, that you, a senior officer in Her Majesty’s Army, walked out on your fellow officers, and your company, leaving them in a time of crisis, and went absent, avoiding your duty, with no intention of returning, and that you have nothing
whatever
to say in your own defence?’
They waited.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And what do you expect us to do with you?’
Silence. Then, ‘I’ll take the consequences.’
‘Well,’ the colonel was bitter, but it was because of his regret, ‘there’s nothing more to be said.’ He got up abruptly, and there was a hasty pushing back of chairs and salutes to him as he left the room, not looking at any of them again, but on passing Hal, he stopped, and said fiercely, under his breath, ‘
What is all this?
’
Hal kept his eyes front. He couldn’t have been expected to do otherwise.
Burroughs, at Episkopi, found he could not wait to hear from Lieutenant Colonel Hay and had a call put through to him the moment he thought the hearing might have finished. In response to his questions, Hay came straight to the point. ‘Something’s going on and he won’t come out with it.’
Burroughs didn’t respond, but the static on the line might have been his brain turning the thing over. ‘Did he give the impression,’ he said slowly, ‘that his going was a matter of
conscience
?’
‘Possibly,’ answered Hay. ‘Does that surprise you?’
Burroughs was decisive. ‘It’s completely unthinkable,’ he said.
Hay spoke very lightly. It was as if he were describing the weather. ‘Is he a loose cannon?’
‘He could very well be.’ Burroughs’s response was brief, too, belying the threat.
‘He’s disgraced whatever happens,’ said Hay. ‘But I’ll be perfectly plain: it’s the disgrace of others that concerns me.’
‘Yes, that’s exactly my thought, too.’
Resenting his hand being forced, with distaste, Hay began to form a new plan for Hal. He telephoned General Marcus Emery – quite unofficially. They met at the Army and Navy Club at St James’s where the general, since his retirement, spent much of his time.
The general was sanguine. ‘Good man, I hear. Or was. Horrible business with his wife.’
‘There might be more to it. His CO has the idea he might kick up a fuss.’
‘The press? We can’t have that.’
‘We’re still not clear what exactly he’s up to. To say he’s just “gone absent” isn’t exactly right. He’s a major, after all, and he has been through a uniquely difficult time.’ Hay didn’t say it in sympathy, but in calculation.
The general considered. ‘Let the poor blighter go quietly – if he must go. No need to haul him over the coals. No good for anybody. Let’s find grounds to do it nicely.’
The long car passed the sentry guards at the gates to the Bulworth Military Hospital and pulled up at the main door. Lieutenant Colonel Hay and Hal, getting out of the car, paused for a moment before entering.
The hospital was a converted barracks of grey stone, two storeys high. It could have been a barracks still, but for the windows, which were barred on the upper floor; barracks windows are not barred.
They passed nurses and soldiers along corridors with small white wooden signs screwed to grey walls. ‘Wards 1–3’, ‘Waiting Room’. The doors had divided glass panes in their top halves and were painted grey, too.
Through some double doors, along a narrow corridor, and on the other side of a small, square vestibule, with two chairs, was the psychiatric clinic. Dr Robin Tait was the consultant there. The colonel, having greeted him and introduced Hal, left them.
‘Come into my office. Do sit down, Major Treherne,’ said Dr Tait.
The room was not big; the desk took up most of it. Dr Tait was in uniform and had a neat moustache. He was a small, barrel-chested man; his eyes were hidden behind reflective glasses. He sat at the same time as Hal, folded his hands in front of him and rested them on the desk.
‘You know better than I what this is all about,’ he said pleasantly.
‘There’s no need for me to be here.’
‘Do you think you’re here so that I can pronounce you mentally incompetent?’
Dr Tait watched Hal with detachment. He thought he had a stubborn look about him. ‘I’m fifty-seven years old, Major Treherne, and I have never once, in all my career, seen a major go absent without leave.’
‘I haven’t gone absent.’
‘Aren’t you supposed to be in Cyprus with your regiment?’
‘Yes.’
The doctor smiled at him. ‘Well, we need to sort a few things out, then, don’t we?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Now. Let’s begin with preliminaries. There are things I need to be able to tick off. Do you mind if I just ask you questions, to start with, and you answer?’
‘That’s fine.’
‘Good, thank you. I see your Christian name is Henry but you’re known as Hal, I believe. What would you rather be called?’
‘It’s up to you.’
‘No preference?’
‘None.’
‘Fine. Good. Let’s get on, then. You had a medical at the barracks, is that right?’
‘Yes. Monday afternoon.’
‘And they passed you fit.’
‘Fit for detention. Yes.’
‘These questions are personal, and I’m sorry for that, but it’s all necessary.’
‘I understand. You have to do your job.’
‘How are you sleeping?’
‘Fine, thanks.’ The ‘fine’ was automatic.
‘Let’s not beat about the bush.’
‘Of course. I’m sorry. Not awfully well.’
‘How long have you been sleeping badly? Is that normal for you?’
‘No. I’m a good sleeper normally.’
‘How long, then? Approximately.’
‘A few months. Look, this is all pointless –’
‘Can you date it from any particular incident?’
‘We were fairly busy.’
‘At Episkopi?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you found you were sleeping badly?’
‘On and off.’
‘When did you last have a good night’s sleep, would you say?’
‘I’m not cracking up.’
The doctor leaned forward. ‘Why don’t we just leave all that to me? I shouldn’t think it’s your area of expertise.’
Hal nodded. ‘Fair enough.’
‘Good, then. You’ve come home like this. Got yourself into all kinds of trouble. Now they’ve hauled you off to see me. What do you think might happen?’
‘I think they want to get me discharged. Or put on long leave – I don’t know.’
‘If it were you, what would
you
want to do with you?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re a senior officer. How would you deal with yourself?’
Hal smiled. ‘I’d tell myself to pull myself together,’ he said.
‘And you would, if you could, wouldn’t you?’
Hal didn’t answer him. Tait glanced down at his notes. ‘You’re good at your job, aren’t you?’ he said.
‘I tried to be.’
‘Shall I tell you something? I’m sure you know it already.’
‘Go on.’
‘Anything you say to me here is strictly between us.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘No. Treherne, this is really significant to our conversation. I want you to realise, absolutely, that nothing we say here will ever leave this room.’
‘All right.’
‘Do you mind my asking you, does your wife know about the way things have been for you?’
‘She’s not well.’
‘I know. Sorry to hear it. Is she feeling better?’
‘I think so. I haven’t –’
The doctor saw him suddenly look away. After a moment he looked back again. ‘I haven’t been able to explain to her.’
‘What is it – take your time – that you haven’t been able to explain?’ He waited in silence.
Many of the men who were sent to see him, when it came to the crisis, looked down at their hands or out of the window. It was an almost predictable stage in the conversation: the confession. This man seemed to rise to his breaking, if such a thing were possible. He looked him in the eye and said, slowly, ‘I am aware, I
know
, I have let everybody down. You can’t say I’m mad or that I don’t know – because I know, completely, that I have let everybody down. That I
am
letting everybody down. I should go back. Don’t you think?’
‘It’s not –’
‘Let’s put all this aside, shall we?’ Hal was clear, not hesitating at all, quite calm, and met Tait’s eye all the time he spoke. ‘All this medical business. Putting all of that aside, don’t you think it’s a pretty poor show?’
Dr Tait should have liked to allow him a break in eye contact, but Hal would not allow it in himself.
‘I have let down my wife. I have let down my subordinates. I have let down my CO. I’ve let down my men. Do you understand? Everybody. You’re an army man: you know what that means. I have let down
everybody
.’
Dr Tait said steadily, ‘I imagine you had your reasons.’
Hal laughed. ‘I don’t think there are any reasons that are good enough, do you?’
‘It’s not for me to say. What were they?’
‘What?’
‘The reasons.’
‘I can’t –’
‘Nobody will know. You could ask for leave. It was an awful thing that happened to your wife. Look for understanding. I’m sure you’d find it.’
‘No. Because –’ He stopped.
‘Because?’
‘I can’t go on doing the things I was doing.’ He was angry, but not in a rage – he didn’t have that release. ‘It’s pathetic that I can’t.’
He stopped suddenly. He said, almost lightly, ‘My wife nearly died – lost our child and nearly died – because of an EOKA terrorist. They say it wasn’t them. I don’t know. But, still, I’m not prepared to go and do my job. To fight them. Doesn’t that sound – if you’re looking for madness – doesn’t that sound like madness to you?’
‘All right, but why can’t you?’
‘Why? There is no “why”. Why is unacceptable. Whether or not I can
square
it with myself, the things that I was doing, allowing, agreeing to. Whether I can –
live with myself
doesn’t matter – it doesn’t matter.’
‘Square it with yourself?’
‘It doesn’t matter. It’s my duty. People are relying on me. You must see this! “
Why
” doesn’t
exist
.’
‘And yet you’re here.’
‘Yes. I’m here.’
‘All right.’ Tait sat back. ‘I think I understand. Thank you.’
He picked up his notes again, carefully leaving Hal, unobserved, as if to rest. ‘Let’s get back to things that do exist then, Treherne.’
‘Good.’
‘This sleeping.’
Hal, perfunctory, ‘One or two hours a night.’
‘Nightmares?’
‘Yes.’
‘About?’
‘Things that happened.’
‘Such as?’
‘There was a bomb, some casualties. I dream about them. It’s all fairly standard, I should think.’
‘Specifically?’
‘I’d rather not say.’
‘And when you’re awake, are you troubled by memories?’
‘Yes. No more than the average person, probably.’
‘What sort of memories? Pictures?’
‘Yes. Sounds sometimes. Often, which is silly, I smell things. I mean I smell burning.’
‘Burning what?’
‘Burning bodies.’
‘Are you drinking more than usual?’
‘Not usually.’
‘How much do you drink?’
‘Not very much. The odd beer in Cyprus. Some brandy. Occasionally.’
‘Would you say you’ve changed?’
‘Changed? Yes.’
‘How have you changed?’
‘In minor ways. I can’t leave things alone. I was working longer hours than I needed to, just to – well, just to…’
‘How’s your temper? Are you short-tempered?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Yes?’
‘I was – I was not very fair to my wife. Once or twice. I’m ashamed of that. Amongst other things.’
‘Amongst other things you’re ashamed about?’
‘Yes, as I said, amongst the other things I’m ashamed about. Anyway, all this, what are you trying to get at? Not battle fatigue?’
‘It’s not a term we use now. But why not?’
‘Are you not familiar with my record, Dr Tait? I haven’t been in any battles.’
‘I think it’s important to recognise when we have been under tremendous mental strain –’
‘I haven’t been. You’re just looking for excuses.’
‘If you like. But I’m finding them, aren’t I? Your wife –’
‘That’s personal to me.’
‘Surely the distress of that, on top of other things, the things you were facing out there –’
‘I haven’t been in any conflict but the most trivial. I haven’t faced anything my father or his father or my CO hasn’t faced a hundred times over. None of this is significant.’
‘What were you facing in Cyprus?’
‘Nothing much. Routine. One or two incidents. Small things.’
‘And yet here you are.’
‘Again. Yes. Here I am. If it were up to me I’d – well, it seems there’s no honour in any of it, but if it were up to me, and probably you, too, it would be like those old stories. You’d go out and leave the pistol on the desk, have a cup of tea and come back to clean up the mess. Except for Clara. It’s no good. There’s nothing. There’s no honour to be found in it.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
Hal brought his head up sharply. ‘What did you say?’
‘I’m so sorry you feel this way. That you have been under such tremendous strain and have found yourself feeling this way.’
‘Don’t feel sorry for me. Feel sorry for the hundred men, one woman and two young children I’ve walked out on to indulge my –’
‘Conscience?’
The word hung between them in the long silence. The doctor, determined to make him answer, waited.
Eventually, Hal leaned towards him. He was unmasked. ‘I will not say a word against the army,’ he said quietly. His hands were on the desk. He looked at Tait, open, hopeful. ‘Do you think they know that?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I’d hate to think – I’d hate to think they, you – that I’m the enemy.’
‘Nobody wants you disgraced.’
‘Nobody wants it – but,’ he was still reaching forward, he said carefully, ‘I am disgraced. You know that. I know it. They can afford to be generous. I just want them to know I’ll put up with it. I mean, I won’t kick up a fuss.’
‘I understand.’
‘I can’t seem to explain to anybody.’
‘It’s all right. I’m glad you’ve told me. It will reassure everyone.’
A long pause. Hal nodded.
‘Is there any other erratic behaviour you’ve noticed in yourself recently?’ Tait asked.
‘What?’
‘We were discussing your mental state, weren’t we? The worry – we sometimes call it “anxiety neurosis”– that prevents you doing your job.’
Hal gave him a long look. He wavered. Tait saw the blood come into his face. Then he blinked, looking down.
‘Come now. Perhaps you’ve found your appetite has suffered?’
Hal brought his chin up. He was changed. ‘My appetite?’ he said.
‘Yes.’
And Hal answered, giving the doctor the reasons he needed to let him off, because he was weak, and had found, under pressure, that he couldn’t manage.
