Other nights I’m in London with Double-Trouble, and everywhere we go women come rushing up to him and put their arms around him. They’re all his wives, and he has a marriage certificate for each one of them. I ask him how he can have all these documents, and he says he prints his own. We take a bus with a lady bus driver, and she says we don’t have to pay the fare because it turns out she’s one of his wives too. ‘See you at home, darling,’ shouts Double as we get off at Piccadilly, and he tells her to drive carefully.
Often at night I think I’m up on the Monaro, the snow country, shearing alongside Bluey. Once I dreamt we had a contest to see who could shear the most sheep, and to my surprise I won it. I know bloody well he let me win. He laughed and told the whole shed that I was now the gun shearer, but that was typical Bluey Watson, so big-hearted, brave and likable. He haunts my thoughts.
I had another dream about Bluey. We were in London on leave, and we met Major Carmody, the Pommy officer who put me on a charge and lost me my stripes. Still the same shiny Sam Browne and spotless uniform, with his crowns of rank gleaming on his epaulets.
Excuse me, Bluey said, blocking his way, would you by any chance be Major James Carmody, of military headquarters?
I most assuredly am. Salute when you speak to me, soldier, he said with the same arrogant look, as if we were a bad smell somewhere beneath his nose and his neat little clipped moustache.
I want to ask an important question, Blue told him, then we’ll salute. You’re real good at slapping blokes on charges, aren’t you?
When they deserve to be, the major said, glaring at me.
What if they just think something, Major? Can anyone be put on a charge just for thinking?
Of course not, he retorted. You can think whatever you like.
Well, in that case, Carmody old man, Bluey said, I think you’re a real arsehole and a fucking bastard.
We each gave him a two-fingered salute and strolled off. That was one of the good dreams. The last time I saw Bluey he told me he was about to join up again, so he could get back to England, find his girl and marry her. I promised to be his best man.
There are other nights with very different delusions: more intimate ones. These take place in beds that have clean sheets and fleecy wool blankets where I’m making love, sometimes at the French farmhouse with Marie-Louise, other times at the Carrington Hotel in the bridal suite with Jane. Even more confusing is when I wake from these encounters palpitating, and more often than not I’m gazing into the soft grey eyes of Elizabeth Marsden. It’s strange how well I can remember Elizabeth from a few hours spent talking in a teashop, and from a hasty kiss on my cheek. Even stranger that no matter how hard I try, I cannot recall the name of the place where she lives, although I feel certain she told me.
It’s this memory of Elizabeth that sometimes makes me feel guilty and disloyal to Jane. Which is peculiar, because nothing really happened between me and Elizabeth, and absolutely everything happened between Marie-Louise and me. If I think of M.L. in bed naked, the heat we generated, how we could hardly bear to stop even when our love-making left us completely exhausted, it was the most erotic experience of my life. It arouses me just to think of her wild cries and the way her body trembled against mine. But at the end I did walk away from Marie-Louise — and now I remember her less and less with each passing month. Which is something I cannot seem to do with Elizabeth, who is so often in my mind.
Too often, perhaps. Is that it? Is the real unfaithfulness, the act of unforgivable adultery, is it in the mind? Perhaps that’s why I feel so disloyal. But after all, memories are all we have here to keep us sane. I can so easily remember Elizabeth — our parting on Kings Cross Station — whereas there was no real farewell for Jane and me. No waving goodbye, no tears, no last hug or last streamer from the ship to bind us; instead there was just disappointment and the extinguished hope of a few days together before embarkation. Then nothing. Except three years of letters.
I know — it’s hardly fair that Jane’s careful letters have to compete with the unruly thoughts in my mind. I sometimes complain, but I know it’d be unbearable without them. They arrive in batches, ten or more at a time after months by sea. One of my simple pleasures is assembling them in the correct order, even though they nearly always say the same things: telling me how our son is growing up so fast, and how much they and my parents all miss me.
Once, back in the days when we first came to England, to the camp at Salisbury, I used to find this repetitive, now I draw a sort of comfort from the similitude. Even if it is on the other side of the world, it is consoling to realise that in the thoughts of these few special people I am remembered and loved.
Yesterday, August the 4th, was the third anniversary of the war. Nobody lit candles. All week there were constant rumours there might be a truce, like on Christmas Day in 1914 — when both sides met in no-man’s-land, exchanged a few handshakes, buried their dead, even played a game of football that Germany won 3–2, before they went back to killing each other. But they say that could only have happened in the first few months when the war was fought along more chivalrous lines, before the hatred corroded us.
There was no truce this day despite the rumours. Instead there was mayhem, some treachery and bloody carnage. All because a German general issued an infamous battle order forbidding his troops to ever retreat. Some mad militaristic Prussian declaring it was better to die than surrender, and if the enemy wanted to advance it must be over heaps of German corpses. It seems that Haig or one of his acolytes decided this was a fair invitation and they’d take the Hun at his word.
The rumours were spread deliberately by our own side. Word was leaked to the Germans that both armies should discuss a day’s cease-fire, even perhaps a few days’, and the thought was planted it could possibly be the prelude to something more permanent. Clever and persuasive. Everyone was tired; three years was time enough. We believed it — because we badly wanted to — and so it seems did they. It brought some of their senior officers to the front-line to cautiously find out more.
For months past a division of British Royal Engineers had been tunnelling deep under their lines. Now with an urgent need to complete the tunnel, some of us were compelled to work with them. Day and night we dug below no-man’s-land, crawling and chipping our way for hundred of yards like coal miners. Rails were laid, small coal trucks used to excavate the tons of earth. After us came the sappers rigging explosives and laying cables directly beneath the German line of trenches. At noon on the anniversary there was a curt exchange of messages.
The Germans demanded to know if this rumour of a possible cease-fire was a false alarm, or some kind of trick.
The British indignantly denied this and asked if senior officers were there with whom they could seriously discuss the matter?
The German reply was terse. A field marshal and his staff were available, hoping their journey to the front had not been wasted.
Not wasted at all, was the answer, and the signal passed down the line to engineer headquarters. The explosives went off with a deafening roar. The earth trembled and shook — we could feel our own trenches shudder as if they might collapse and bury us. The sky was filled with a choking miasma of dust and debris, after which there was silence. A long appalled silence. We were supposed to fix bayonets and charge, but there was no one left alive for us to kill.
Just a single letter from Jane this month, which means it’s likely a ship with the rest of our mail has been sunk. Whenever there is a gap in letters from home it’s almost certain a ship, either naval or merchantman, has been torpedoed by a U-boat. There has been news for months that the German subs are causing serious food shortages in Britain, and the grapevine says this is why the Huns keep fighting in France, even if they lose thousands of men and don’t gain a yard for weeks. They feel certain they can win as soon as they starve Britain into submission. I don’t know if it’s true but it might be; there has to be some reason for this insanity to continue like it does without p
rospect of an end.
I went looking for a dry spot to sit down and read the letter, away from the water that swirled in the trench and smelt like piss. Well, why wouldn’t it, since half of it is piss? Nobody goes outside for a leak when you could get blown to bits like poor old Double, or get a bullet, an unlucky one right in the family jewels.
The letter was a surprise: longer than usual, and very different:
My dearest,
I’ve had a serious falling out with my mother, and because my father felt bound to support her, I’ve had a falling out with him too. Which I feel bad about, because I love my dad. I love Mum, too, only not all that much, not just at the moment. But never mind that for now.
I’ve been sitting here tonight, thinking of us, remembering all kinds of things. Do you remember the train — that moment when I was so ready for you to make love to me? Remember the sour faces of the old couple opposite? Do you think they were ever young and wild for each other like I was for you?
I keep wishing we’d done it in the train. It would’ve been exciting. Something to look back on in years to come. Do you think, when you come home, we could park Richard for the night and take another train, book a sleeper and fuck — I know girls are not supposed to use that word, but that’s what I want to do with you — fuck each other to the rhythm of the wheels and be absolutely alone in a locked compartment where nobody can interrupt? I’ve never described the feelings I had when we did it the first time in bed — how it was arousing but slightly painful, but I didn’t mind as you were so pleased and exhilarated. I did just slightly wonder what all the fuss was about. But then the second time… Oh, darling, the second time! And every time afterwards in our marvellous but horribly short honeymoon it was so thrilling — pure heaven — and even thinking about it now and writing this makes me feel excited and full of longing for you.
I wish I’d written like this before, but the row with Mum today seemed to provoke it. I confess, my darling, I’ve dreaded writing letters to you for the past two years, because there appeared nothing new or interesting or the least bit important that I could say. All those questions you asked — about the morale at home, about people going to the races and the football, even about those soldiers rioting — I found them so difficult to answer that it was easier for me to ignore them.
Why were they difficult? Because we were constantly being told that soldiers’ wives and families should be careful not to air subjects that might upset them. Everyone kept saying this. My parents, Father Geraghty, all our friends — they said it was unfair and unkind to cause any of our lads so far from home the slightest concern. It was best to stick to uncomplicated domestic matters.
So I did. Dull and trivial things that would not upset you; things like the weather, local gossip, or my mother taking care of Richard while I found a job as a kindergarten teacher. And of course our son’s first words and first steps — although that wasn’t the least bit dull or trivial to me, and I know it wouldn’t be to you, if only you were here to share it.
What I really wanted to say, and will say now, is that I hate the wretched war. I hated the way it created such excitement, as if fighting was all that mattered. I hated the cheering, and the crowds. I even thought I hated you for a time, because I had this stupid idea that you felt sailing off to war was better than settling down to married life. That you preferred it to me. I hated reading stories in the newspapers about some of our boys living with, or even bigamously marrying English girls. That made me afraid. You were a long way from home, you were young and handsome: why wouldn’t I feel scared?
And I was completely terrified at the sight of anyone delivering a telegram. I still am. There’ve been four in our street already.
Darling, perhaps I’ve said too much, but these are things in my heart and I must say them. If I don’t share them with you I will tear myself apart, and I’ve been doing that for too long. Nearly three years — perhaps it will be three by the time you read this, and today I made a decision about my life. I need to tell you about today, and it seemed like a good time to tell you all the rest.
It’s been getting more and more difficult at home. When Mum first suggested I live here with the baby it seemed the ideal solution. She would look after Richard during the day so I could finish my studies and take a job as a teacher. After all, trying to survive on the army’s matrimonial allotment and whatever you could send me would mean a rather lonely existence in a cheap room and a bit of a struggle. Whereas you know our family home has plenty of rooms and a garden, as well as my loving parents who were so keen to look after their first grandchild.
And it was a perfect arrangement while Richard spent his days in a basinet or a playpen. But then he learnt to walk, and Mum began to find it difficult. He was forever climbing out of his cot, and when he was a few months older began trying to climb the fence or open the gate. She was often angry, reprimanding him, and her attitude was having an effect on him and making him resentful and cheeky. It’s awful, but they’ve begun not to like each other. He’s a lively child — a bit too lively for my mother. Today it seemed to come to a head and we had a blazing row.
I was late home from school, and Mum was in one of her moods again. She complained he’s been disobedient and naughty, swinging on the front gate waiting for my return, and asking her the time every few minutes. Eventually he ran out into the street to start looking for me, and Mum had to roam the district asking neighbours had they seen him, and getting very agitated because there seems to be so many more cars on the roads now, and she was scared he’d be run over.
I understand her worry, he was a very naughty boy, but when I came home she blamed me — said I was a rotten mother, and you and I had been rash to marry so soon, that we were irresponsible and stupid to have a child when you couldn’t be here to help with his upbringing. I tried to calm her down — made her a cup of tea and told her the reason I was late was because the headmistress had asked me to remain for a chat, and that I had some good news. News that I’d hoped for: I’ve been promoted to take on the second form, which means slightly longer hours and an extra two shillings a week.
I was thrilled, but my mother said it was out of the question. In fact, for weeks she had been intending to tell me I had to give up the job and take care of Richard like a proper mother should. We could stay on in the house and pay no rent, but Richard had now become a problem she could no longer manage, and I was to tell the headmistress that not only must I decline the new promotion, but I would be leaving the school and my job altogether at the end of the month.
We started shouting at each other; I can hardly believe the things we said. I think I told her she was a selfish bitch, that my dad would soon be home from work and he’d agree with me. I do remember she laughed and said if I thought I was still ‘Daddy’s girl’ I had a shock coming, because he was greatly concerned she was being treated as an unpaid nanny or nurse, and if it came to a question of who he supported, they had decided last night that inviting me to live there had been a bad mistake. I’m afraid I cried, then I saw this small face gazing at the pair of us and felt ashamed that we — his mother and grandmother — were behaving like a pair of fishwives.
I told Mum I was sorry, but much as I loved my own child the job made life endurable. It occupied my mind and prevented me from brooding over the way fate and this wretched war had seemed to play such a mean trick on us. I said I’d take Richard to the park where I let him play on the swing until it was almost dark, then I walked around to see your parents. They were expecting me. They knew.
They asked me to come and live with them. Your mother sat me down and said she would love to look after Richard all day so that I can go on working. She seemed to read my thoughts when she said I need work to properly occupy myself until you come home. Because that is the truly important thing in our life, my dearest, our future and our child. Your mother seems to understand what mine can’t; that teaching helps me to stay calm and able to believe this frightful war will soon be over a
nd you’ll come home safe and sound. I have to say that I love her, and it makes me understand why I’ve loved you all my life.
Finally, my darling I’m trying to think of what else there is to tell you. I’m sitting here with pen poised over the inkwell. The truth is all this pen will allow me to write. So, this is my truth.
I’m twenty-one years old, and I’ve been privileged to know what love is like, but only for those few beautiful days and then deprived of it ever since. I often wake in the night and need you, dearest.
Need your flesh in mine. If this isn’t over soon, God alone knows what will become of us.
I sat reading the letter over again, and I felt the prickle of tears in my eyes. I was still in an emotional state when a group of young British squaddies came into the empty dugout. I wished them to hell, but they were a bunch of newly arrived recruits who proceeded to take over the place. Then the youngest of them, who looked as if he should still be at prep school, let out a yell and pointed in horror to where a human arm and a leg projected out from the wall. On the skeletal arm a helmet was hanging; on the leg a gas mask and cape were draped.
What the fuck are those? he shouted.
I asked him what did he think they were, and told him it was obvious: one was a coat rack, the other was a hat stand.
Jesus Christ, another boy said, those are real arms and legs. They were actual people!
I agreed that they were. And told them all these were good blokes in their time. Now, I explained, they were doing their best to be helpful as coat racks and hat stands.
The first recruit voiced the perception that everyone here was fucking mad. He said this while still staring at the embedded limbs jutting from the clay wall.
I confirmed his opinion that we are — fucking mad and no two ways about it. Mad because we were volunteers here by choice, whereas they were dragged here as conscripts. Which means we were simpletons who came to the slaughter without even being forced. Were there ever such fools in the history of war?
Barbed Wire and Roses Page 13
