“It’s not really an inspection,” said Hugh, thinking that war seemed to consist too much of this endless parade of troops and vehicles forever marching somewhere else. “It’s just me having a look round, trying to get out of the operating room and get a better feel for how it all works.”
“He’s just having a look round, Archie,” repeated the driver, in a thick Cockney accent. “A day trip like?”
“We can give you the full tour, guvnor,” said Archie. “With a stop at the souvenir shop on the way home, right, Bill?” They both laughed, and Hugh heard the insubordination but knew how they felt. His casualty station was always being visited by dignitaries—from senior-ranking army officers to the occasional lady journalist—who seemed to have no problem getting orders that allowed them to poke around and interrupt even the operating rooms with ridiculous questions and requests to review reports and logbooks.
“My only cousin is a lieutenant somewhere over towards the ridge there,” he said, nodding forward to the dim line of low gray hills in the distance. “We haven’t heard from him in a while, so I’m hoping to see him.” There was a small pause, and then the driver, Bill, spoke in a less jocular tone.
“Been a rough time up there,” he said. “They had to call us in to help a few times, and we was piling ’em in, right, Archie?” Archie was quiet and looked out the window. Bill fumbled in his pocket and produced a match, which he struck against the dashboard and used to light his cigarette.
“I’m sorry,” said Hugh.
“We lost two of our stretcher bearers, and they lost more from who was up there already,” said Archie.
“Last week we seen a bearer come staggering out of the trenches, covered in blood,” said Bill. “A shell took out his partner and half the poor sod they was carrying, and he was so gone in the head he didn’t even notice.” He laughed and sucked hard on his cigarette.
“Is he going to be all right?” asked Hugh.
“We gave him a shot of brandy and a cup of tea and pointed him back in the right direction,” said Archie. “Long as you got both legs and both arms, you’re qualified to carry stretchers.”
“It’s been a bit quieter since,” said Bill. “Expect your cousin is holed up in a nice dry cellar, sir. Playing whist and eating mulligatawny.”
“I doubt that,” said Hugh.
“Some mix-up with the quartermasters,” said Archie. “Sent this area twenty thousand tins of mulligatawny. Everyone’s sick of it.”
“You can get two tins for a twist of baccy,” said Bill. “Not that we would be trading government supplies, of course.”
“Of course not,” said Hugh.
“Locals are sick of it too,” said Archie. “ ‘I say, got any pandy burr?’ and they wave their hands about. ‘Non, non, pas di mully-tawnaay,’ they say.” Hugh smiled at Archie’s phonetic approximation of the French pain de beurre. It was surprising how quickly the British Tommies had adapted the French language for their own use, though their vocabularies seemed to cover only food, drinking, and cursing.
“I heard some enterprising lad pasted chicken soup labels on his mully tins and sold ’em to a local farmer for rabbits,” said Bill.
“I heard the locals been pasting on labels of everything from pâté to spotted dick and selling to us right back,” said Archie. “Somewhere along the line someone’s going to get shot, if you ask me.”
“So are you fixing up the injured?” asked Bill. “We just drop the poor buggers off and never get no reports of whether they live or not.”
“We have a good system now from the casualty station onward,” said Hugh. “Of course some of them never get past us. If they are too far gone, we give them morphine and offer to pass on any messages to their families.”
“We got our own system,” said Bill. “Anything more than three quarters of a man and we bring him in. Less than that, we give him a cigarette and keep his morphine for some other poor sod. Funny thing, but they don’t seem to feel the pain when they’re that far gone.”
“Funny business all around,” said Archie. “Cigarette, guvnor?”
—
The ambulance let him off outside the ruins of a village that was little more than half a church and a huddle of cottages with all the thatch burned from the roofs. Beyond the village, shell-pocked woodlands rose gently to the low hills. An encampment of British army tents made a new village, clustered around a small barn on a riverbank.
Harry Wheaton looked up from a long trestle table and gave a shout of welcome as Hugh entered the barn. “Good God, you’re a sight for sore eyes, Grange,” he said. “Any news from home?”
“I had some letters yesterday,” said Hugh. “My aunt and uncle are doing well, but Miss Nash wrote to tell me, among other things, that your sister’s nanny is leaving in rather a hurry.”
“Letters from Miss Nash, you sly dog?” said Wheaton, raising an eyebrow. “So what does Miss Nash say about Fräulein?”
“Some whispers of suspicious activities and letters from Germany,” said Hugh, ignoring Wheaton’s insinuations. “Nothing proven, it seems, but enough fuss that your family found her a job in America and paid her passage.”
“Poor Fräulein,” said Wheaton. “I told Eleanor she would put the poor woman in difficulties.”
“What has Eleanor to do with espionage?” asked Hugh.
“Nothing, nothing at all,” said Wheaton. “Perhaps a few love letters. Perfectly harmless, but I told her she should not involve the German nanny.”
“I see,” said Hugh.
“Eleanor always does what she wants, as if no rules apply to her,” said Wheaton in a breezy tone. “I’m glad she is safe, and I’m sure Fräulein will love America.”
“Have you had letters?” asked Hugh.
“Been a bit hairy up this way,” said Wheaton, indicating his arm, which sported a large canvas sling. “Mail was the first casualty of the shelling. Still waiting for deliveries to resume.”
“Did a doctor look at it?” asked Hugh.
“Flesh wound,” said Wheaton. “Not enough to win leave. The old man has me in charge of putting on a full regimental dinner, like I’m a factotum from Claridge’s, but I suppose I should be grateful for the brief respite from the fire trench.” His face grew stiff and gray as he spoke, and Hugh could see that even Harry Wheaton could not pretend the front line was some sort of gentleman’s adventure.
“How is the Colonel?” he asked gently.
“Between you and me, he’s a bit old for this kind of war,” said Wheaton. “Impatient with all the digging in and wants to be in Berlin by Tuesday.”
“No one quite expected the efforts to bog down like this,” said Hugh. The battle lines, so fluid in the autumn, had gradually become fixed all over Flanders and northern France, and over the winter the armies had dug increasingly elaborate networks of trenches. It was a slow, grinding way to fight, and Hugh’s hospital received a steady flow of the injured, not just from large offensives but from the snipers and shelling that made every day some middle ring of Hell.
“It’s a new way of waging war, that’s for sure,” said Wheaton. “I had to explain to the Colonel that it is not unsportsmanlike to use the machine guns and barbed wire.” He grinned again and rubbed his cropped hair impatiently. “Funny thing, when so many are worried about their husbands and sons, that I’m out here worrying about my father,” he added.
“Quite the HQ you have here,” said Hugh, looking around the dark barn, with its cavernous rafters, mud floor, and canvas tarpaulins screening a few stalls in the rear. There were piles of tables and folding chairs to one side and a heap of bunting waiting to be hung for the festivities. Two soldiers worked a large wooden box radio in one corner, and the smell of cooking came from a tented area beyond a side door. “Where do you keep the regimental silver?” he asked.
“Silver and full dinner service is coming up from the coast by cart today,” said Wheaton, consulting some large plans spread on the trestles. “Real meat is hanging
in a cellar. Soup is in cans. The cooks are making some new dessert with surplus Christmas puddings, and we have champagne in the icehouse.”
“So much planning,” said Hugh. “One wishes such detail went into our offensives.”
“An army marches on its stomach, and the senior officers like to be well fed,” said Wheaton. “This could mean another promotion if all goes well.”
“I hear young Snout—Dickie Sidley—has been helping you?” said Hugh. “Good of you to keep the boy back from the front line.”
“Scrappy sort of lad and a real nose for foraging,” said Wheaton. “Sorry to say he got badly shelled last week.”
“Is he all right?” asked Hugh with alarm. He imagined the thin boy bloody and lifeless.
“He’s fine, but his bloody dog ran off after the blast, and the boy keeps wandering off looking for it,” said Wheaton. “I’ve been trying to make excuses for him, but any more and he’ll get himself shot as a deserter.”
“May I take a look at him?” asked Hugh. “We’ve been getting a lot of shelling victims who seem disoriented. I’m trying to document their symptoms.”
“I sent him up to your cousin in the trenches,” said Wheaton.
“But he’s just a boy,” said Hugh, with horror.
“Exactly,” said Wheaton. “I wasn’t joking about the deserting. I thought the boy would be safer with Daniel. Less chance to wander off in a small trench.”
“I’d like to go forward and see them,” said Hugh. “Can it be arranged?”
“They’ll be down tomorrow,” said Wheaton. “Perhaps you haven’t heard, but Lord North has been made the new brigadier of this command.”
“You can’t be serious?” said Hugh. “Craigmore’s father? The man’s an ass.”
“He’s coming to dinner with our regiment tomorrow, and there will be a full-dress drill and parade before the dinner,” said Harry. “You are invited, if you’re staying?”
“Thank you, I’d be delighted,” said Hugh. “But I really would like to go up and see the conditions for myself. I’m sort of on an inspection tour.”
“Bloody unusual request,” said Wheaton. “Most are asking to go the other direction. But be my guest. I’ll have someone lead you up as soon as the evening bombardment is over.”
“Bombardment?” asked Hugh.
“Regular as clockwork, first thing in the morning and right after teatime,” said Wheaton. “We pound each other to pieces for an hour or two, and then the rest of the day we wash our socks and play draughts.”
—
The walk up the lines was dark and treacherous. The smell of smoke and gunpowder hung in the mist, and fires burned in shell holes all along the low ridge where the sandbagged front fire trenches faced the German lines in the valley beyond. Long dark slashes in the earth showed the communications trenches zigzagging back towards the rear, where troops on duty might snatch a few hours of sleep in rotation. Further back more platoons were bivouacked in reserve in whatever shelter they could find. As Hugh was led up, parties carrying water barrels and food jogged up ahead, and several teams of stretcher bearers came down carrying the injured and dead from the evening’s action.
Hugh found Daniel settled in a stone hut, half built into the hill and providing stout cover from stray shells. His men were camped below the stone wall of a pasture and had fashioned shelter from blasted tree limbs and canvas sheets. Small fires were banked to boil water for tea, and as Hugh stood in the doorway of the hut, he felt the strange domesticity amid a hellish landscape. The door of the hut was covered with an old sheet. Hugh gave a loud cough, and a voice invited him to come in.
Daniel was reclining on a folding cot, reading a book by candlelight. A small fire burned in a stone hearth, and a pot of soup simmered. In a corner of the hut, the boy Snout lay asleep on a pile of straw, covered by a rough blanket. A second cot was empty. A couple of small watercolor sketches tacked to the wall, and a bedding roll, suggested that a second officer shared the cramped quarters.
“I must be dreaming,” said Daniel. “My cousin Hugh on a rambling holiday through France?”
“Just passing by coincidence,” said Hugh. “Smelled the soup.”
“It is mulligatawny,” said Daniel.
“I heard as much,” said Hugh. In a moment, Daniel was on his feet and he and Hugh embraced. It occurred to Hugh that in all the long years of affection, they had never hugged each other, or so much as slapped each other on the back, and he thought it sad and strange that it would take a war to wipe away the cold formalities of life.
“War makes our needs so much smaller,” said Daniel. “In ordinary life, I never understood how much pleasure it gives me to see you.”
“You are too kind,” said Hugh. “Have you heard from home?”
“Aunt Agatha has sent me many letters, Hugh,” he said. “And I am trying to find the forgiveness within me to write back, but I have only burned many drafts.”
“I brought all my letters to show you,” said Hugh, taking a small oilskin package from his coat. He was disappointed in his cousin’s stubbornness, but the evening was too precious to start an argument. “Is that cot free for the night?”
“Yes,” said Daniel. He hesitated and then added, “My old pal Worthington, from the Rifles, drilled through the head by a sniper two days ago. I must send his paintings to his wife.” Hugh did not know what to say, and Daniel jabbed a smoking log further into the fire.
“How is the boy?” asked Hugh at last, nodding to the sleeping Snout.
“All a bit too much for him, what with the shell destroying his cart and the dog running off,” said Daniel. “No injuries we can see, but he is definitely a bit off his head. I’m trying to get him sent home, but it’s not so easy, even though a fool can see he’s not nineteen.”
“Does he fall asleep at strange times?” asked Hugh. “Only we’ve been seeing cases of this sort of neurasthenia.”
“Hard to wake him up too,” said Daniel. “You know there’s something off when a boy sleeps through the smell of a fried breakfast.”
They drank soup, and a batman brought in a hunk of strong cheese and a fresh baguette. Where there might still be a local bakery producing bread, Hugh could not imagine, but the baguette tasted of peacetime.
“Something about fresh bread in this place makes you want to cry, doesn’t it?” asked Daniel. He offered a flask, and Hugh took a sip of strong rum. “I’ve been trying to explain in a poem, but I’m miles from capturing it; something about sun-warmed squares and girls giggling in other languages and friends walking through summer landscapes with a backpack and no responsibility…blah, blah.”
“Most of the hospital bread is mealy and tastes of the tin it came in,” said Hugh. “Plenty of sustenance in the British army, but not a lot of taste.”
After their simple meal, Daniel offered Hugh a spare pipe from Worthington’s bedroll and the two cousins smoked and tended the small fire.
“Is it that our needs grew smaller?” asked Hugh. “Or is it just that the fear and deprivation makes one appreciate simple things more?”
“I think our ability to be happy gets covered up by the years of petty rubbing along in the world, the getting ahead,” said Daniel. “But war burns away all the years of decay, like an old penny dropped into vinegar.” He paused and added more tobacco to his pipe, tamping it down slowly and relighting it with a stick poked into the fire. “Here there is nothing but doing our duty; and when duty cannot turn aside the stray sniper’s bullet, one gives up the hubris of thinking man can control his destiny.”
“War is truly humbling,” said Hugh. He thought of his early attempts to save those with the head injuries, and how his written notes became more hurried, and more bloody, and how he stopped taking notes at all because all the notes in the world could not change the truth that those with holes in their skulls mostly died and that he could save more people operating on almost anything but the brain.
“It’s a kind of freedom,” said Daniel
. “I am free, not from fear of death, but from believing I can control death.”
“The warrior poet speaks,” said Hugh. “I foresee much rhyming of mud and blood.”
“You joke, but perhaps now I could really write about the David,” said Daniel, his face earnest. “Not as a beautiful shepherd boy, but as a frightened young soldier who knew his duty.”
“David thought God protected him,” said Hugh.
“Which makes him no different from any soldier who goes over the top,” said Daniel. “Pray to God and keep your knees bent!”
“I’ll drink to that,” said Hugh, taking another swig of standard-issue rum from Daniel’s flask. “Good God, you could run a lorry on this stuff.”
“Good old Hugh,” said Daniel, laughing. “You always keep me steady. No use talking poetry with you, although you might appreciate one or two limericks I’ve been collecting from the men.”
Despite being only a couple of miles from the German lines, Colonel Wheaton had insisted on a full brass band to accompany the drill and parade. The regiment was hosting Brigadier Lord North and high-ranking officers from several other regiments, and no German menace could be allowed to diminish the prestige of the occasion. The Brigadier came with a small army of aides and, shackled in a wagon, a group of prisoners who had been court-martialed for various capital crimes but not yet shot. The executions had been delayed by a bureaucratic issue, the absence of a chaplain to offer them the required pastoral offices. Unfortunately, the Colonel was discovered to be importing a chaplain to lead the dinner’s opening invocation, and so the festive occasion would be followed by firing squad at dawn. Neither the Colonel nor the chaplain, who had made the trip on the promise of a fine dinner and would now spend the night with the condemned, was happy.
A stage of wooden planks nailed over barrels had been erected from which the guests might enjoy a view of the parade. Horses had been groomed and beribboned, uniforms had been brushed, muddy boots scraped and polished, and every man had been harried and insulted by the sergeant majors until they and their equipment formed sufficiently presentable ranks. Those just down from the trenches were staged at the perimeter, where their dirtier uniforms might be less noticeable, along with the way they swayed on their feet with tiredness. Given past animosities, Harry Wheaton had made sure that Daniel’s unit was well to the rear, away from the Brigadier’s eye. In the front ranks, senior officers had unwrapped dress uniforms and swords, and the Colonel had imported, along with the regimental silver, the official regimental ram. The ram wore a scarlet coat trimmed with gold braid and gold tips to his curly horns. He maintained a grimace as disdainful as that of any general and tossed his head, pulling on his heavy brass chain whenever he spied a patch of grass.
The Summer Before the War Page 43
