‘I have some letters from Hamish and Dertha. Shall I read them to you?’
‘Yes, please. Maud, come and listen. Letters from the children.’
Maud comes in and sits with the duke. She places her hand on his. Helen smiles. It is a great comfort to her that Maud is so caring to her father.
My dear Father,
Here we already have signs of autumn – bright and sunny during the day, but frosty at night. Here is my daily routine: I get up between 7 and 8, breakfast (cocoa, roll, butter, jam). 9 a.m. Appel (roll call) outside our building. 9 a.m. to 10 a.m. tennis on the gravel court we have made. 10.30 to 11.25 English lessons to French pupil. 12, luncheon, usually fillet of beef and potatoes. 1.30 to 2.30 lesson in English to Russian pupil. 3.15 tea. 4 to 4.45 football on a somewhat sandy riding track, followed by a bath. 5.40 Appel. 6.30, supper, soup, oatcake and butter (could have more if I wished). Everyone has to be indoors at 6.30 and I usually read till 8, after which I receive lessons in German from a Russian. By 10 p.m. I am in bed. I have only just lately started to learn German and despair of ever being able to remember the genders and declinations.
Your affectionate son, Hamish
‘Bloody hell, it sounds like a holiday camp. He’ll be telling us next they bring in floozies from the local town!’
‘Oh, Father, it sounds all very well for a single day, but seven days a week, week after week, cooped up like that!’
Helen produces another letter from her bag. ‘So, this is from Dertha.’ She reads again.
Dearest Father,
Harry has been passed fit again and given the 40th Division in the New Army. Of all queer things, it is the Bantam Div., that is, men under 5 foot 3. They are odd to look at, but mostly stocky little men. I saw a Welsh brigade of them, and they looked like they were meant to be that size. They will take some time to collect together, and Harry will be at Aldershot for the next month and then probably Bordon. Meanwhile, I am going to be living at Hythe, and he and I will meet at weekends, either here or there.
Of course, this makes Harry a Maj. Gen. for the present.
Your affectionate Dertha
‘Bantams! I say, that’s very appropriate. Although Harry’s quite tall, he’s a bantam in every other respect!’
‘Father, don’t be unkind! Harry’s very nice, and Dertha thinks the world of him.’
The Duke ignores Helen’s rebuke. He is still laughing at his derisory comment about his daughter’s husband.
‘Here’s another from darling Dertha. It was posted just two days ago.’
Dearest Father,
I dare say you will be interested to hear that a Zeppelin came over us last night. It came from the north and had nothing to do with that dreadful attack on London, where I believe dozens have been killed. It dropped bombs over the artillery camp at Otterpool, 3 miles off. 14 men were killed, many more injured and lots of horses killed and maimed, which had to be put down. It then came back close to this house and over the main street and went back out to sea. All the little guns here lost their heads and went on popping for ages.
They say the camp brought it on themselves by having their lights blaring, even though they were warned.
Thought you’d like to know. Keep your eyes peeled up there.
Dertha
‘War from the sky. What a terrible world we live in. We don’t even fight wars like gentlemen any more!’
Maud gets up and heads towards the sink. ‘I’ll make a pot of tea, Helen. Iain, would you like some?’
‘Yes, darling, I would, and a toasted teacake, perhaps?’
Helen’s eyes light up. ‘Me, too, please.’ She moves closer to her father. ‘Papa, I have a plan I’d like you to agree to.’
‘Sounds ominous.’
‘No, not at all. You know I’ve been organizing food parcels for the troops?’
‘I do – been costing me a bally fortune!’
Maud taps the duke on his wrist. ‘Don’t be so mean, Iain. They deserve every little comfort we can send them.’
Helen smiles. ‘I want to do more.’
‘Sounds even more ominous.’
‘Lots of people with room available are opening up their houses as hospitals for the wounded. I want to turn the ballroom into a ward.’
‘Good God, woman! The place will be running alive with lice, diarrhoea and light-fingered soldiers!’
Maud scolds the duke. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Iain. Helen, that’s a wonderful idea. How thoughtful of you.’
The Duke looks at the two women, who are both beaming at him. He knows any more resistance is futile. ‘Oh, very well, but tell Inglis to keep a strict eye on the costs and that I want a monthly report on expenditure.’
‘Thank you, Papa, but you know the Red Cross will bear most of the costs.’
‘I should think so. Where will you keep the staff?’
‘The doctors in the main bedrooms, and the nurses in the servants’ quarters.’
‘Well, my room is out of bounds … and don’t expect me to be changing bedpans!’
‘Of course not. But I do expect you to play Father Christmas.’
On 13 October, in one of the continuing encounters in the Battle of Loos, a twenty-year-old captain in the Suffolk Regiment called Charles Hamilton Sorley takes part in an attack on the Hohenzollern Redoubt, just beyond Vermelles. A son of Aberdeen and, like Siegfried Sassoon, an alumnus of Marlborough College, he is shot in the head by a sniper and dies instantly. When his body is recovered, thirty-seven complete poems are found in his kitbag, including ‘All the Hills and Vales Along’. It ends as follows:
From the hills and valleys earth
Shouts back the sound of mirth,
Tramp of feet and lilt of song
Ringing all the road along.
All the music of their going,
Ringing, swinging, glad song-throwing,
Earth will echo still, when foot
Lies numb and voice mute.
On, marching men, on
To the gates of death with song.
Sow your gladness for earth’s reaping,
So you may be glad, though sleeping.
Strew your gladness on earth’s bed,
So be merry, so be dead.
Saturday 16 October
British Army Field Hospital, Provost Lace Mill, Poperinghe, West Flanders, Belgium
‘Where is he, Sister?’
‘Over there, third bed beyond the stove.’
‘How’s he doin’?’
‘Not good, I’m afraid. We can’t get the bullet out. It’s lodged in his vertebrae. We can’t operate, and every time we move him the bleeding starts again.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘The doctors think he’s got forty-eight hours at most. He shouldn’t really be alive now, but he’s a strong boy. He’s survived for three weeks, which is remarkable. We have to treat him like a china doll.’
The sister leans forward towards Cath. ‘He told me you were coming and how fond he is of you, but he is very ill. Try not to get him upset.’
Cath Kenny’s eyes fill with tears. She and Mary Broxup have come to see Morgan. They have only just heard that he is wounded. When they reach his bedside his eyes are closed, his head wrapped in a bandaged splint to stop him moving. He has been sedated with morphine to help fight the considerable pain he is feeling.
Mary kisses him on the forehead; Cath does the same, but full on the lips.
‘Eh up, ’ansome. Tha looks reet smart wi’ that bonnet on tha heed.’
Morgan blinks so that he can focus properly. He speaks, but with difficulty. ‘I asked for it specially to impress you.’
‘Aye, well, it works a treat, dun’t it, our Mary?’
‘Aye, looks grand.’
Morgan’s eyes swell with tears. He tries to move his head to look at his visitors.
‘Tha marsn’t move tha heed, Morgan.’
He swallows hard and draws a breath, which makes him wince with pain. ‘He shot me in the back, Cath.�
��
‘Who did?’
‘An officer from the Sussex Regiment.’
‘What fer?’
‘He said I was running away, a deserter. I’d lost my pack and rifle – a shell burst. I was frightened. But I’d been told to report that we were gassing our own men. I had to try to tell someone.’
‘Have you told the doctors what happened?’
‘No, I don’t trust anyone, because I know they’ll cover it up.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Don’t know. He was a captain in the Sussex Regiment – 2nd Battalion, I think. His CSM was called Capstick. I heard the officer call his name.’
‘We’ll find t’bugger, don’t worry. Now you need to get some rest. We’ll be back soon.’
Both women kiss Morgan goodbye and dash off in search of the men of the Sussex Regiment.
They drive south for over 30 miles, negotiating huge convoys of men and materials, and are at the HQ of 1st Division at La Rutoire, a hamlet east of Vermelles, the base for 2nd Brigade, and for 2nd Sussex Battalion. The acting CO of the brigade is Brigadier Henry Fleetwood Thuillier, a Royal Engineer by background who has been in command for only two weeks. His two predecessors were both killed in September. He is a squat man with greying temples and a thin, neatly trimmed moustache. Were it not for his uniform, he could easily pass for a provincial bank manager.
‘Ladies, if we could make this quick, I would appreciate it. There is to be another attack this evening.’
Before Cath and Mary can respond, a succession of shells lands in a line within yards of the maison d’maître which is acting as Thuillier’s HQ. The shells explode like a series of rhythmical thumps on a big bass drum. The whole building shakes, and the glass in those windows that are still in their frames shatters into tiny fragments. Clouds of dust fill the air. When it clears, the brigadier and his two visitors find themselves on their backsides on the floor.
They all get up and dust themselves off. Thuillier bellows to his adjutant, ‘Report, Captain?’
The adjutant shouts from the next room. ‘One has hit the stables, sir. There were no men in there, but I’ll check the horses.’
‘Are you all right, ladies?’
‘Yes, sir, thank you.’
‘So, as you can see, things are a bit hairy here.’
‘Yes, o’ course, sir. We’ll be reet sharp abaht it. We’re lookin’ fer a captain from 2nd Sussex. We don’t know his name, but his colour serjeant is called Capstick, we think.’
‘And what do you want to see him about?’
‘He shot a Welch Fusilier lad. He’s dyin’. The captain made a mistake. He needs to know that, and he needs to answer fer it.’
‘I see. And what is your role in this?’
‘Morgan Thomas is a friend o’ mine.’
‘Boyfriend?’
‘Kind of.’
‘I see – a wartime romance. And your name?’
‘Cath Kenny. This is Mary Broxup.’
‘I assume from the ring on your finger that it’s Mrs Kenny?’
‘It is. Me ’usband’s a tunneller. Fer all I know, ’e could be 60 feet under us reet now.’
Thuillier sneers, making it obvious he disapproves of Cath’s behaviour. ‘I see: a brave man, your husband.’
Cath’s ire rises. She looks at the brigadier’s nameplate on his desk. ‘Look, Henry, that’s none o’ yer business. But tha must remember, we lasses don’t ’ave red or blue light houses to visit like you lads. An’ Morgan’s a lovely lad, and a long way fra ’ome, as we all are. Think on it, Henry, next time tha’s wi’ yer little mademoiselle from Armentières.’
The brigadier blushes noticeably and changes the subject.
‘You are making a serious allegation, Mrs Kenny. You should go to the Provost Marshal’s office in Béthune.’
‘Aye, wi’v been there. They said they can’t do owt wi’out a name, and they don’t ’ave time to look ’im up, so we’re doin’ it.’
The brigadier looks at his watch impatiently. ‘You are, to say the least, Mrs Kenny, a forthright woman.’
Mary interrupts. ‘She is, but she’s quite calm at t’moment. Don’t get her moithered, though.’
‘ “Moithered”?’
‘Annoyed.’
The brigadier relents. ‘Captain, please bring in your reports for the past three weeks. When do you think this incident happened, Mrs Kenny?’
‘Would have been 25 September, first day of the big push.’
The brigadier’s adjutant runs his finger down his daily reports for the end of September. He pauses before looking at Cath and Mary. ‘CSM Capstick, Colour Serjeant B Company, 2nd Battalion Sussex Regiment. Killed in action 25 September, body retrieved. The CO of B Company was Captain John James Rhodes. Killed by shell burst, 26 September, body not found.’
The adjutant pauses. He looks at Cath closely. ‘He was a friend of mine, and a good man.’
Cath begins to speak, but Mary digs her in the ribs. She goes up to the brigadier and captain and shakes their hands. ‘Thank you. We’ll be on our way now. You lads are busy. Come on, Cath.’
Cath trudges towards the door. When she gets there, she stops and turns. Her eyes are full of tears. ‘They’re all dyin’ fer nowt, aren’t they, Henry?’
‘I hope not, Mrs Kenny. I hope not.’
‘Please call me Cath; I ’ate formality.’
‘Very well, Cath. I think our cause is just, despite the dreadful losses. By the way, you were right; your relationship with your Fusilier is none of my business. I hope he recovers.’
‘Thanks, Henry. ’E won’t, but it’s nice of yer all t’same.’
Cath and Mary say very little to one another on the way north to Poperinghe. By the time they reach the town, it is late. They go straight to Pop-Hop. There is a different sister on duty.
‘Hello, Sister,’ says Cath. ‘We’re ’ere t’see Fusilier Morgan Thomas? He’s on t’reet beyond t’stove.’ The sister looks at them both with a pained expression.
Cath peers into the darkness of the ward. Morgan’s bed is empty. ‘No!’ She rushes into Mary’s arms, convulsing with anguish.
The ward sister ushers them into her office. ‘He died this afternoon. Must have been the onset of pneumonia, which I’m afraid was always inevitable. He started coughing, which set him off bleeding again. We gave him some morphine, so he wasn’t in much pain at the end.’
Mary sits Cath down. ‘Nurse, bring some tea.’
‘Bugger that!’ Cath gets up and wipes her eyes. ‘Sorry, Sister, didn’t mean to be rude, but I need more ’n tea. Come on, Mary, beer an’ chasers is called fer.’
The sister reaches into her apron pocket. ‘I take it you’re Cath.’
‘Aye.’
‘He scribbled a name for you.’ She hands Cath a small folded piece of paper. It has a name on it, written in bold capital letters – BRONWYN. ‘She’s his twin sister. He asked if you would tell her he loves her and always did, and that he was sorry that he didn’t come after her when she left home. We’re very fond of Bronwyn here. A wonderful girl. She went to the Dardanelles at the beginning of May with Sister Margaret Killingbeck. QAIMNS in St Omer will be able to contact her for you. Their older brother, Hywel, was also here. He’s a sniper. He went to the Dardanelles but will be harder to find. But there’s a School of Sniping run by a chap called Hesketh-Pritchard, a major, I think. He might know where he is.’
‘Thanks, Sister.’
The sister puts her hand on Cath’s arm. ‘He also asked me to tell you that he loved you very much and that you had made the last few weeks of his life the most wonderful time he’d ever had.’
Cath turns to leave, her chest heaving with spasms of grief. ‘Thanks, Sister. I’ve got t’go. Come on, Mary.’
‘One last thing. He said please don’t forget him.’
Cath starts to run. ‘I won’t! I promise, Morgan, I won’t forget you.’
An hour later Cath and Mary are watching the staff of
the Maison de Ville in Pop’s Grande Place as they begin to stack the chairs and clear the tables at the end of another long day. For the staff, the war is a bizarre experience. Soldiers come and go; they get to know some of them quite well, then they disappear and never return. Some of the girls have brief affairs with these transient figures in khaki so, for them, the turnover of smiling, innocent young men is particularly painful.
Cath and Mary look at the empty bottles of beer in front of them and the half-empty bottle of marc d’Alsace, a pomace brandy made from leftover skins and stalks from the vineyards. It is not cognac, and is barely drinkable, but Cath in particular has made a significant dent in the bottle’s crystal-clear but potent liquid.
‘I’ve been a reet tart, ’aven’t a, Mary?’
‘You are who you are, Cath. Tha’s not gonna change now. But Mick loves yer, and so do I … and so did Morgan. I’m reet sorry abaht wot happened t’ ’im.’
‘Thu’s no point tekin’ it any further wi’ Provost Marshal’s office, is there?’
‘No. Let it rest, Cath.’
‘Aye. But that’s not t’end on it.’
‘ ’Ow d’yer mean?’
Cath takes another mouthful of her beer and pours another glass of marc.
‘Tha’s ’ad enough, Cath,’ says Mary. ‘Let’s away.’
‘Aye, but tha’s summat I ’ave to tell yer. I’m in a reet pickle.’
‘No, Cath!’
‘Aye, I’m pregnant; three month.’
‘Bloody ’ell! Are you sure?’
‘Aye.’
‘It’s Morgan’s?’
‘ ’Course. Unless I’m the bloody Virgin Mary!’
‘I think we should ’ave that drink after all.’
Sunday 31 October
Hoe Farm, Hascombe, Surrey
F. E. Smith is spending the day with Winston at Hoe Farm. While Winston’s political star has been waning, FE’s has been waxing. In May he was made Solicitor General in Asquith’s government and given a knighthood, and he has just heard that he is to be made Attorney General, with a seat in the Cabinet, in succession to Sir Edward Carson, who has resigned from Asquith’s coalition government over its policy in the Balkans.
The Darkness and the Thunder Page 34
