"Officers, may I have your attention, please!” bellowed Sarge. “You are all requested—ah, ordered to immediately assemble in the front entranceway.”
Looking forward to a quiet moment, I had just sat down to read more of Kipling’s delightful Just So Stories.
“That’s rather abrupt, I’d say,” retorted an officer sitting on the other side of the library.
“Quite so,” said a voice behind me. “Are you clear about your instructions?”
Sarge said happily, “Oh yes, from Major Mott himself, it were.”
I groaned. “Well, we’d better see what the good doctor is on about.”
Arriving in the foyer, we peered through the front doorway, admiring a few motor cars sitting in the drive with a mix of fine horse-drawn carriages, all of which seemed to be related to some anticipated visit.
Dr. Mott strode in from the matron’s office, beaming from ear to ear. “Welcome, officers. Thank you for assembling in short order.”
“What’s this about?” asked one of our hospital blue-clads.
“Are you joking?” asked another. “Look around you, man. This is nothing but a royal visit of some sort. Just look at the colors and the crest on the carriage doors.”
“What the devil?” I questioned.
“Definitely a royal entourage,” bellowed another officer. “Looking for directions, I wonder?”
Subdued laughter followed while we continued to focus on the developing event.
“Officers,” barked Dr. Mott, “may I have you line up on the grand staircase just there, please?” Then, with the tone of a schoolmaster speaking to his flock, “Won’t be a moment now before His Majesty pulls up.”
“His Majesty,” whispered an officer to no one in particular. I, too, was dumbfounded, thinking it might be Princess Louise or the Duchess Alexandra, but the King himself? How would anyone at home believe me when I told them? Did I look respectable, fit to meet our King? What in heavens does one say, if there was to be a chance to say anything at all? Looking around as we assembled on the staircase, I could see each of us was as perplexed as the other.
The crunch of a heavy motor car on gravel pulling in drew our attention to the doorway. We collectively craned our necks to get a good look at the King’s Daimler. His footmen stomped in.
“Presenting His Most Gracious Majesty, King George, and Her Majesty, Queen Mary of Teck,” announced a Captain Fausett, who then bowed. “Your Majesty, may I present Major Frederick Walker Mott, esteemed head of the Maudsley.”
Dr. Mott bowed to the smiling King and hesitated before taking his extended hand. “Your Majesty,” whispered Mott in total deference.
King George nodded.
Mott then bowed to Queen Mary. “Your Majesty.”
“Sir,” said Fausett, looking at the King, “Dr. Mott is treating patients for the increasing shell shock phenomenon.”
The King—bedecked in his British officer’s uniform, including a Sam Brown and spurred riding boots, and sporting his distinctive mutton chops—spoke for the first time. “Yes, I have kept up on the developments and the work being done by our physicians. We appreciate the efforts being put forth by you and your staff, Dr. Mott.” In spite of his deference, Mott grinned proudly. “Thank you, sir.
We are performing different kinds of work here, including a study of the prolonged physical strain on our good officers and men.”
“I see,” said the King.
“All with the focus on treatment and returning our men to the front lines, based on fostering an atmosphere of cure.”
“An atmosphere of cure, is it?”
“Yes, sir.”
His Majesty waved his gloved hand across the foyer, acknowledging the group of officers and soldiers before him. “What have we here? A good deal of our British Army present, I would say.” I laughed along with the others. This moment seemed surreal, so unexpected. I could see King George with my very eyes but was overwhelmed to see him looking like one of us, dressed in military uniform.
As the entourage moved across the foyer, I noted the Queen’s elegant yet simple white winter coat with ermine collar and her embroidered hat. I thought of the contrast her attire showed against that of the lads in the trenches but cautioned myself against judgment. She was our Queen and ought to look the part.
As the royal ensemble made their way up to tour the treatment wards on the second floor, it struck me why Dr. Mott had positioned us on each step: the King and Queen had to pass us. It was such an honor—goose bumps and all—to shake the hand of the most powerful leader on Earth. The Queen took a great interest in each of the men, compassionately looking them in the eyes. When it was my turn, I could see the tenderness that could not be embellished by words. I was deeply touched.
After a tour of the upper floor, the Queen paused one step above me and the King one step below. He waved his gloved hand up and down the staircase, drawing attention to all of us. For an instant he glanced right at me, making it feel like he stopped to speak directly, but then he directed his voice to all. “Officers and soldiers of the British Army, I do thank you for serving your country during this time of need. The Queen and I offer our wishes for your speedy recovery.”
There were smiles and murmurs of approval among those present. “As your King, I address you in the dearest of terms. To enable our country to organize more effectively its military resources in the present great struggle for the cause of civilization, every able-bodied man between the ages of eighteen and forty-one must now enroll. To you who signed up earlier, I express my appreciation of your splendid patriotism and self-sacrifice.”
All the soldiers were speechless, frozen in their attention, although I knew they wanted to cheer.
“That enlistment, over five million men since the war broke out, demonstrates an effort far surpassing that of any other nation in similar circumstances in recorded history and will be a lasting source of pride to future generations. I am confident the magnificent spirit that has hitherto sustained you through the trials of this terrible war will inspire you to endure any additional sacrifice that may be imposed on you going forward, and that it will, by the grace of God, lead us and our allies to a victory that shall save Europe.”
A cheer finally burst from the soldiers, whose hearts and minds had listened intently to the King’s speech. I felt the sense of collective patriotism that filled the building, as emotional a moment as any. The King shook the hands of a few officers standing there. I instinctively held out my hand, which he readily took, and I felt my smile stretch from ear to ear.
The King and Queen gracefully descended the staircase and took their leave after thanking Dr. Mott again for his work at the Maudsley.
Chapter 16
30 October, 1916
“Here is our lieutenant. You are looking so well, Robert, so very well with those rosy cheeks.” Mrs. Clarke had stridden to the front gate as soon as I rounded the corner off Scarborough Road as if she had been lying in wait for some time. Perhaps she had. “Give us a hug!”
More of a command than a gesture, I obliged, managing to squeeze free after a bit.
Mrs. Clarke stood back, giving some distance as she appraised me. “My, what a handsome young man you have become, all grown up since I last saw you as a sixteen-year-old going off to a new world. And now look at you in your smart uniform!”
I couldn’t help beaming, standing there on display. “Yes, I am feeling rather well, Mrs. Clarke. The hospital offered me wonderful rest. It is so good to be in the city and so good of you to put me up until I return to the Continent.” I explained that I was to stand before a medical board on 25 November, which meant I would be staying for a few weeks.
Mrs. Clarke seemed to take delight in that. Reaching up to pinch my cheek, she retorted, “Nonsense, Robert! You’re like a son to me. Your mama, my dear Annie, must be so worried about you fighting overseas. Oh dear, how is she?”
“I’m sure she is well. Papa would have said otherwise in his letters. They are now calling me Bob,
not Robert anymore.”
“Oh, Bob, you will always be Robert to me. However, if it must be Bob, then Bob it will be. Bob, Bob, Bob.”
After settling my few effects in the bedroom, we spoke for over an hour about the past year. I was reticent to explain too much about the war in western France, as I had found many British civilians preferred to shun the conversation, yet she needed to understand the horror if she was to understand my shell shock.
Although determined to be the strong soldier I wanted Mrs. Clarke to see, I found that talking about battlefield experiences with her elicited deep emotions in me. She reminded me that she had nurtured me since I was born and told me not to hold back. I explained exactly what had occurred and described the symptoms. She surprised me with her understanding.
“You have gone through hell and are to return to hell. You know, that braided wound stripe on your sleeve sets you aside as a warrior who survived.”
“I had no idea—”
“Some civilians do understand a bit of what you have experienced, even if we cannot fully comprehend. Wear that stripe proudly.”
I felt safe enough with Mrs. Clarke that I cried; actually, I sobbed with relief at what she said. I had held back so much at the hospital in my desire to prove I was well, that I was worthy of again wearing an officer’s uniform. My recuperation at the hospital was necessary, but it was that moment when I realized every single one of us was fighting for all of England, and that all of mankind was fighting for civility and freedom. I felt I had come through the hell and could return to the front with courage.
I was relieved when Mrs. Clarke finally served supper, as that gave me a chance to change the conversation. Through the meal she hinted at some financial concerns, and although this was a deeply personal issue, I probed carefully.
“Well, I’ve managed to hold on to this house. It’s a struggle to make ends meet after so much was lost during the financial crisis. When Mr. Clarke died earlier that year, I was left quite sound, with savings and, of course, the life insurance proceeds. He cared for me very well.”
“What happened then?”
“On the advice of my bank manager at Coutts, I was to diversify, putting a little bit here and investing a little bit there. ‘Safe bets,’ I was told, although at the time I did not think about the word bet; rather, I felt secure with the regular income coming in. Oh, Bob, everything was good until that nasty Bosnian murdered the poor Archduke.”
“Did things change as suddenly as that?”
“Yes, it happened quickly. Banks were closed for a while, but even when they opened again, withdrawals were restricted. In spite of the losses, I’ll be all right as long as I continue my clerical work at the post office. I daresay male labor shortages have helped me to make ends meet.”
“Indeed, but surely that will halt when the lads come home. Are you worried you will be set aside in favor of soldier re-employment?”
“We will have to wait and see what happens then, but for now I will carry on. I am so much better off than you lot who are saving our civilization, you who are giving your lives. We will never forget that.”
Over the next days I settled in to a pretty good routine: going for walks to familiar haunts such as Walthamstow while Mrs. Clarke was at work, helping her prepare supper, and trying to locate friends who weren’t serving overseas.
Returning from a walk one morning, a neighbor greeted me on the sidewalk with an urgent message, handing me a slip with the telephone number. For an instant I wondered, but realized that although most homes had telephones, the line itself was shared between two or more neighbors. No name was provided, so I wondered if it might be the medical board.
A male voice answered that I instantly recognized as Cousin Eric, my caution turning to excitement. We chatted for a few minutes, then agreed to meet at the Strand Palace on Tuesday, 14 November, where he had already arranged to meet some friends. I was eager to soon link up.
I sent word to both Sam and Minnie about the night out and urged them to join. I knew Sam was training in the London area, so was looking forward to seeing him again. As the only contact I had for Minnie was at Bristol, it was unlikely he would make it, but I was hopeful.
Chapter 17
14 November, 1916
I exited the Charing Cross Station in order to walk the short distance to the Strand Palace Hotel. I understood why Eric had chosen this location; it was accessible by the Underground, then by foot, a requisite since taxis and buses did not operate after dark. Due to London’s being the target of zeppelin bombing raids, street lights were shut off or kept dim. In fact, the streets were so dark in places that sometimes pedestrians collided.
The crowded, smoke-filled club held patrons of all kinds, as many military as civilian. The round tables, each covered with dark cloth and a center lamp, were crammed, many with ten patrons seated in the eight available chairs. Daisy saw me enter before I had my coat off and pushed her way through the crowd. “Hello, Robert,” she sang. “Over here. Come, we have a table!”
I was surprised, pleasantly so. “I did not expect to see you. I thought it was just Eric coming.” We shared a long, loving hug.
“Mum’s babysitting.”
Following Daisy to the table, I looked around the night club, admiring the wonderful décor and feeling the beat of the four-piece band playing in the corner. As we arrived at the table, Eric, in uniform, stood up to take my hand and pulled me toward him for a slap on the back. Over his shoulder, I noticed a naval officer, a gentleman in civilian clothes, and a young lady strikingly dressed in the vogue of the day.
I was awestruck by this young lady smiling directly at me, hopefully not so absorbed that the others thought me rude. Her yellow dress, which offset her dark brunette hair, was clasped at the shoulder with delicate fasteners, leaving bare shoulders, arms, and neck. The finely pleated material flowed like a waterfall from her bustline, down through a tightly cinched belt and on to mid-calf.
“Robert,” chortled Eric. I knew he had caught me red-handed, staring as I was startled back to reality. “Thanks for coming. It is so wonderful to see you after all these years. And spiffy for us to get together after serving time in that dreadful French mud, I daresay. And how are you, cousin?”
I knew I was blushing, forced myself to direct my attention to Eric. “Rather quite well. Recovered from a month in hospital and feeling mended. What about you? How long is your leave?”
Eric shrugged, accepting his destiny. “I return in two weeks, I’m afraid, so am making the best of it, being able to spend time at home with Daisy and Stanley. I’m so glad you popped over to see them. He was quite intrigued by your hospital pajamas, I daresay. Now, might we know anyone at this table?”
I extended my hand to the civilian gentleman, who looked at me with a grin. “Robert, it’s Tom, Tom Wellum from Blackhorse Road. You surely remember?”
I recognized him through his more mature features before looking over to the naval officer and then placed both of them. “Percy Wellum from our Marsh Street Academy, and your big brother, Tom! After all this time! How are you both?”
I suppressed the mixed feelings I experienced with so recently losing one Percy in my life, then meeting up with another. I shook hands and semi-embraced Percy Wellum, my Walthamstow school chum, as the excitement of the evening grew.
“Robert,” said Daisy, “we can’t forget my very good friend, Miss Cissy Anne Taylor. She lives near Eric and me.”
If Daisy only knew the restraint I was keeping while waiting to be introduced. Surely this was the munitionette friend she had spoken of. I tried to keep my composure and not splutter her name, but was unable to shed a silly grin. “Hello, Miss Taylor, it’s very nice to meet you.” I hoped that stick-in-the-mud look I had given Daisy didn’t re-emerge.
“Hello, Lieutenant. I have heard so much about Eric’s younger cousin. Oh, but do please call me Cissy. I find those Victorian formalities a tad boring.”
“In that case, Cissy, call me Bob, w
hich is my Canadian name now.” I glanced around the table. “I’d be pleased if everyone called me Bob.”
Cissy was delightful, full of that new self-awareness that so many young women were expressing. She was slender, of medium height with a round face and blue eyes under long eyelashes. Her brunette hair—in contrast to the upswept Edwardian pompadour look—was cut short, meeting her collar at the back and sweeping up under her chin to a point on each cheek, highlighting her upturned mouth, with bangs covering her forehead. Her skin was white and satin-like, her whole look sharpened with lip salve of a rouge tint. She was beautiful.
“Well,” said Eric, “now that’s settled, let’s have a drink, shall we?” His timing was good. I am guilty of not knowing how long I may have been staring and smiling. When the drink order was placed, we all got to talking. “Cissy is a munitionette,” said Daisy, “doing her bit for the war and all.”
“I certainly am, and not just for the war, I might say. I’m quite happy to pocket the wages from the Brunner Mond munitions factory over in Silvertown, which are much more than I earned working in service for a Belgravia family from ‘09 to ‘14. This freedom is wonderful! And what about you, Bob? You are Canadian, I understand?” I’m not sure if I could have brightened any more, but hearing Cissy say my name seemed to make it that way. “English by birth, now living in Saskatoon, Canada, which is why volunteering for service was an easy choice. Like you, I am enjoying newfound freedom to pursue dreams over there.”
After more familiarization, I turned to the Wellum brothers to learn more about their current lives. Tom, being four years older than Percy, was now holding a mechanical engineering degree and employed for strategic war purposes at a supply factory in Sheffield. There was little disclosure beyond that, presumably due to the Defence of the Realm Act. Percy, my schoolmate who was born only one month later than I, attended university like myself, which is why he was chosen as a naval officer. He expressed displeasure that his service thus far was with Home Establishment in London. He wanted to see action on the Continent.
Seeking Courage Page 10
