THE CINDER PATH (34 page)

and all he could really think of was that he had got one over on Slater.

But Slater had had the last word.

"Good effort. You'll be mentioned."

And would he himself mention that he had shot a

private, shot him dead? He'd have to because there was the sergeant, and men talked, and tales got distorted.

But the sergeant could vouch that this particular soldier had acted oddly since first coming into the trench.

Slater could win again; even dead Slater could win.

No! No! He mustn't win now, not now, not after that

effort, not the effort the major had referred to but the effort it had taken him to draw his revolver and

shoot. He must go and report it, report it to the

major.

He made to rise from the bed but instead he flopped

flat on to it, rolled on to his side, buried his

face in the crook of his elbow, and

and certainly not a man who had been made a

cuckold and been paid for it by being given a pip on his shoulder.

God Almighty! He mustn't think about it, he

must sleep, sleep. But when he slept he would still

think about it, he would never be able to stop thinking about it, not till the day he died. And pray God that would be

soon, because he couldn't live with the pictures in his mind.

Against his closed lids he now saw illuminated

as if by a battery flash, the office and the

lieutenant sitting behind the desk. He heard his own

voice, saying, "May I enquire, sir, when my

name was first put forward?" He saw the hand thumbing through pages on the desk; then the man sauntering to the

cabinet in the corner of the room; he saw the face

turn towards him and the lips mouthing, "Ten days

ago; of course, we go into these things."

Now the lips were moving again. "Your wife runs the farm?"

God! how they must have laughed! They had treated

him like a country bumpkin, a yokel, a fool.

Charlie MacFell the fool. The idiot, and that's

what he had been, otherwise he would have pursued the

thought that

I

made him enquire as to when his name was first put

forward. Hadn't it struck him as being too much of a

coincidence that the very day after finding his wife sporting with the major he should have been offered a commission?

Hadn't he known in that moment that his hands were being tied?

Yes, he had; but he thought he had tied them himself,

and all he could really think of was that he had got one over on Slater.

But Slater had had the last word.

"Good effort. You'll be mentioned."

And would he himself mention that he had shot a

private, shot him dead? He'd have to because there was the sergeant, and men talked, and tales got distorted.

But the sergeant could vouch that this particular soldier had acted oddly since first coming into the trench.

Slater could win again; even dead Slater could win.

No! No! He mustn't win now, not now, not after that

effort, not the effort the major had referred to but the effort it had taken him to draw his revolver and

shoot. He must go and report it, report it to the

major.

He made to rise from the bed but instead he flopped

flat on to it, rolled on to his side, buried his

face in the crook of his elbow, and

as sleep overtook him he muttered thickly,

"Don't cry. For God's sake, don't cry."

He was standing to the side of a long white scrubbed

table. Sitting behind the table was a colonel, a

major, and a lieutenant. He had met this

particular lieutenant and major yesterday for the first time, and he'd asked the major for a hearing on a

matter that was troubling him; and now he was getting that hearing.

The sergeant was speaking. Standing stiffly before the table he was saying, "As I said, 'twas pretty rough

there, sir. Under crossfire we were, and had been

for some time, when this Private Slater came

crawling out of a mud-hole with a wounded man. They were both in a pretty bad shape. The man Slater

I think was under shock, sir. He acted funny from

the start, aggressive like, jumpy. Later in the day

I made him relieve a sentry. It was just on

dark, sir. Second-Lieutenant MacFell

had told us what he intended to do to get us out of there.

The barrage had eased off; I saw him making an

inspection, talking to each man as he went along the

trench. I... I had just given orders about the

strappin' up of Lieutenant Bradshaw when I

heard the shell

burst. It was along towards the end of the trench where the lieutenant had just gone. I ran in that direction and

when I rounded the bend I saw the lieutenant lying

against one parapet and Private Slater against the

other. Private Slater had his rifle in his hands.

He had been shot through the chest. I said to the

lieutenant, "Are you all right, sir?" He

seemed dazed. He looked down at his pistol and

said, "Yes. Yes, I'm all right." I said,

"Did he go for you, sir?" and he said, "Yes; it... it must have been the reaction to the blast." . . .

Had he said that? He couldn't remember. No,

no he hadn't said that.

"He was a man who seemed to resent authority,

sir; he had turned on me earlier on when I

asked his name and number but I let it pass as I

thought he was under shock, sir."

"No doubt he was. Thank you, Sergeant. You

have been very explicit."

"Sir." The sergeant saluted smartly, turned

about and went out of the room.

Now he was standing in front of the table and the colonel was speaking to him. "Sorry about this business,

MacFell. We all understand how you must feel, and

it was very commendable of you to bring it to our

notice.

Under the circumstances we don't see what else you

could have done." The colonel now cast his glance

towards the major and then towards the lieutenant, and

they nodded in agreement; then he slowly fingered some

papers that were lying in front of him before lifting his eyes upwards again and saying, "A very good report here from Major Deverell. You got most of your

platoon back. Good work. Good work. Well, I

think that will be all, gentlemen."

"Sir."

"Yes, MacFell?"

"May I ask how Private Slater's

dependants will be informed of his death?"

"Oh ... oh the usual, died in battle . .

. bravely, you know. The man was definitely under

shock. It happens. Yes, died in battle. One

can't do anything else, can one?"

"No, sir. Thank you."

"Hope to see you at dinner then." The colonel now got to his feet, smiling as he said, "You

look a little more presentable than you did this time

yesterday."

"I would need to, sir."

They all smiled at him as if he had

come out with some witticism. He stood straight, he

looked cool, self-possessed, the kind of

officer that men would follow into and out of tight corners.

And hadn't he proved he was that type of man?

Slater hadn't won. Conscript, cuckold,

fool, loser, not any more, not any more. Cover up,

lie, play the officer and gentleman, anything to show

him, and keep on showing him for he was still alive, in his mind he was still alive.

I

T'So over! It's over! Can you believe it?

It's over!" The nurses were running round the ward; they were kissing everybody in sight. Two of them

took the crutches from Captain Pollock and, their

arms about him, made him hop into a dance. One of the

nurses slid along the polished floor, then fell

on to her bottom amid roars of laughter.

Six of the ten men in the ward beds were sitting up

shouting and joining in the fun, but the other four lay still.

Charlie was one of the four, but he laughed when Nurse

Bannister, her big moonface hanging above him,

said, "I'm going to do it, Major, I'm

going to do it. There!" She kissed him full on the lips, a long, hard, tight kiss, and when she had

finished he laughed at her and said, "I won't

want any sweet today, Nurse."

"Go on with you. But isn't it wonderful! It's

over. Can you believe it? I can't, it'll take time

for it to sink in."

Another nurse came running to the foot of the bed

and, amid laughter, she chanted:

"I do love you. Major MacFell, But why,

oh why, I cannot tell; But this I know, and know full

well, I do love you, Major MacFell."

Nurse Bannister picked up an apple from a

bowl standing on the bedside locker and threw it at her tormentor, who caught it and then threw it to Charlie,

but when he caught it he flinched visibly and

Nurse Bannister, all laughter disappearing from her

face, said, "That was a damn silly thing to do."

"Sorry. Sorry, Major." Nurse Roper

was bending above him now, and he grinned at her and said,

"Well, if you're sorry, show it."

"O.k." Her eyes lifted to the nurse standing

on the other side of the bed before she bent and kissed him on the lips.

"You've got a nice mouth." She

patted his cheek, then hissed, "Oh Lord! look

out, here she comes!" and proceeded to straighten the sheet under Charlie's chin, all the while talking down to him in a quiet conversational tone, saying, "Armistice or no armistice, Major, we must remember who

we are, where we are, and with whom we are dealing.

Titiddly-aye-ti . . . ti-ti!"

Charlie wanted to laugh, but laughter

expanded the chest and that was painful.

As Sister Layton walked up the ward, the

hilarity died down somewhat, but the men sitting up in

bed called to her in various ways yet all asking

much the same question: "When are we celebrating,

Sister? . . . How are we celebrating? . . .

Having a dance?"

The last might have been said with bitter irony for

most of those in bed had lost at least one leg and the

sister, showing that she wasn't without a sense of humour below her stiff ladylike exterior, said, "Why not!

And the first of you to get out of bed within the next week can have the honour of accompanying me."

There was a pretended scramble which caused the

muscles of her face to relax into a prim smile

before her usual manner took over, and she was issuing

orders to her staff as if this were an ordinary

hour in an ordinary day.

When she stopped at Charlie's bed she looked

down on him and asked, "Comfortable, Major?"

"Yes, Sister."

"Doctor Morgan is very pleased with you."

"How many did he unearth this time?"

"Oh, quite a few."

"Did he get the main one?"

She bent over him and smoothed the already smoothed

sheet.

"Main one? They are all main ones. Now lie

quiet; that's all you're called upon to do for the next few days."

As she went to move away he asked, "When will it

be possible for me to be moved, Sister?"

"Don't you like it here?" She turned her haughty gaze down on him.

"Yes, yes, I like it, and would be prepared to stay for ever if it was three hundred miles nearer

home."

"We'll have to talk to Doctor Morgan about

that."

He watched her continuing up the ward. You were in their hands, you were helpless. He had already talked countless times to Doctor Morgan who had

promised that after the next do he would see about having him moved up North. He wouldn't have minded staying

here, not in the least, if it hadn't been for Nellie.

It was only a week since her last visit, but it

seemed like years; it was a long way for her to come, first to London, then another hour's train journey. It

meant her taking three days altogether for a few hours

spent sitting by his bed. Yet it was all he

seemed to live for, all he wanted to live for. But

would he live if they didn't get that last bit of

shrapnel out?

How many times had he been down to the theatre? How

many pieces had they taken out of him? Peppered they

said he was. He didn't remember being brought

over from France but the last words he recalled as he

awoke in a clean bed in the middle of the night with a

nurse wiping his mouth with something wet was a voice

saying, "He'll never make it, he's like a

sieve."

And that is what the doctor had said to him. "You're very lucky you know, Major; when you came in you were just like a sieve."

It was odd when he came to think of it, he had

gone through battle after battle without a scratch, right up till two months ago; then one day

he walked right into it. It was just after returning from leave, his second leave, one as disappointing as the

other. On his first leave shortly after the Messines

do, he had found Nellie still at the farm with her mother.

She had once again just returned from hospital, after

having an appendicitis operation this time, and

Florence Chapman had guarded her against him as if

he were

bent on rape. He experienced the strong feeling that

she hoped he would be killed for he knew that she

wanted her daughter to herself. She was lonely and

prematurely ageing.

He knew before his second leave that Nellie had

long since left the farm and gone in for nursing

training, and when he returned to the North it was to find that she had been transferred to a hospital in