Our Time Is Gone

by James Hanley

  ‘So they’re transferring me,’ he said. ‘Where in the name of God do I go next?’

  The war raged. It seemed an everlasting war. And this strange world was getting farther and farther away from the other one—the normal world, the healthy world, the world where he worked, where he was free, left alone.

  ‘Well, in seven months they ought to realize that I mean what I say.’

  A man shouted in through the door. ‘Any letters, conchie?’ and stood there kicking the wooden step. Joseph Kilkey replied;

  ‘Yes, I’ve two. I’ll get them for you.’

  ‘Hurry up then.’

  Another man came. A corporal. ‘Where you running off to?’ he asked, thumbs jammed in his belt. ‘Where the hell are you legging it to? Double!’

  ‘I’m just getting my letters,’ he said, ‘I won’t be a second.’

  ‘Be half a second instead,’ said the corporal, putting his foot behind Kilkey.

  The two men watched him skeltering through the mud. ‘Funny beggar,’ the corporal said. ‘All these stinking conchies are funny!’

  Joseph Kilkey came back with two letters, and handed them to the mail man.

  ‘What you bin told about sealing these bloody letters up. Here, open them again,’ and then he added quickly. ‘Never mind, I will,’ and he slit them open. ‘Can’t never trust you bastards,’ he said, and went away with the letters.

  ‘Get back on the job,’ said the corporal, and he too went off.

  Mr. Kilkey went back to his job. Half a barrel of potatoes. Some job. Still, it was a bit of a blow—a change from the lavatories and dishes.

  At one o’clock a man shouted through the door: ‘All right, conchie, chuck it.’

  Joseph Kilkey immediately left the hut. To-day was Saturday. Normally he had the afternoon to himself, provided he stayed within earshot. Somebody or other always wanted you. There were things one needn’t do—one could refuse to do, but it wasn’t worth refusing. ‘Ah well,’ he said to himself as he crossed the parade ground. ‘I’ll be out of this to-morrow.’ But he would not forget it. Not for a long, long time. He reached a small low-roofed hut, and went inside. Two other men were seated at a table writing letters. ‘Mail’s gone,’ said Mr. Kilkey. ‘Just taken mine over.’

  ‘I’m in no hurry,’ replied one.

  ‘Nor me,’ replied the other. They went on writing.

  In the far corner was Joseph Kilkey’s bed. A length of board, straw paillasse, two blankets, his own overcoat. He sat down, looked at the men, and then said: ‘I’m being transferred to-morrow. Have you heard anything about it?’

  A small parcel lay on the bed. He knew by the shape of it, by the rough handwriting on the envelope, who it was from. He took it up and opened it. Some tobacco and a letter from Mrs. Ditchley. The parcel had already been opened and fastened up again. ‘By heck,’ he said, ‘this tobacco isn’t half a do.’

  ‘So are we being transferred,’ replied the younger of the two men, who looked across at Kilkey. ‘We’re all being shifted to-morrow. Thirty-eight of us. To prison. Conton, I believe. But then you can’t believe a word these people say.’

  ‘And when I get there,’ said the other, ‘I’ll refuse to do anything.’

  ‘Do you think this war will last very long?’ enquired Mr. Kilkey.

  He looked directly at the younger man, Keele by name. He had taken a great liking to him. He had stood alongside him when the sergeant had made him touch his toes, then knocked his hat off into the mud. He, Keele, had watched him bend to pick it up, had seen him receive a push from behind, from a fat soldier who laughed as he fell into the mud. Yes, he liked Keele. Keele had caught his fingers as they stood in the ranks, had squeezed them to give him courage. And the sergeant’s quick eye had seen this, and he had barked: ‘Look here, you sods. What game are you up to?’ Had parted their hands with a downward thrust of his fist. Yes, he liked Mr. Keele.

  ‘They’ve tried every way they could,’ remarked the elder man, ‘to make us lose our tempers, but they haven’t been successful.’ He looked straight at Kilkey. ‘Once or twice, old man,’ he said—old man made Mr. Kilkey smile—‘once or twice I thought you’d give way. Good heavens! If you’d raised your hand only once they would have had you. You know I can’t understand what you’re doing here at all,’ he concluded. He got up from the table.

  He was a tall, lean man, named Carruthers, and in the early thirties. So far as Mr. Kilkey knew he had once been an accountant, and Mr. Keele had worked in the same office, but what he was, Mr. Kilkey did not know. What he did know was that he liked both these men, and more and more he realized that but for them he would not have come through. They had been for seven months the butt, the joke of the battalion, whilst somewhere—the authorities were considering their destiny.

  ‘Well, I won’t be sorry anyhow,’ Mr. Kilkey announced. He went out and had a wash at the pump. Then he went back, lay on the bed, lit his pipe, and for the first time that day rested, felt peaceful. ‘So we’re off to-morrow! Well! Well!’ The two men went out.

  He picked up Mrs. Ditchley’s letter and read it. Her letters were all the same, and none failed to show her extraordinary interest in the casualty lists. If it wasn’t Tom it was Dick; if it wasn’t Dick it was Harry. Now she announced that Willie Evans had been killed. Seventeen out of Price Street. From this she turned to Mr. Kilkey’s son. She had been twice to see him. ‘I’m not a Catholic myself,’ she wrote, ‘but I do like your nuns.’ Dermod was very well. She had not been able to find where Mrs. Fury lived. She hoped he was well and that he wasn’t being treated too badly. She prayed every night that the war would soon be over. ‘And with good wishes to you, I remain your friend, Mary Ditchley.’

  He closed the letter and put it under his pillow. He got up and went to the table. ‘Well, I will now, anyhow,’ he said. He tore a page from his pad and rolled it into a ball. Later he wrote:

  IN CAMP,

  August 13th, 1916.

  DEAR MRS. FURY,

  I daresay you’ll be surprised to hear from me. I have been in this camp seven months now. I don’t know whether you heard about it. But I got papers calling me up, which was a mistake. I shouldn’t have been called up at all, as I’m a skilled man at the ship. I told them that, and they said the War Office will see about that, and here I am after seven months and they’re still making up their minds. Well, at the moment I am as well as can be, and I trust this letter finds you the same. I was very sorry to hear from Denny that you had been in hospital. I hope your family are well. I suppose Denny and your boy Anthony are still at sea. This is an awful war. Well, I don’t know of course what you will think about me, but I’m a conscientious objector. But you will have heard of them by now. I refused to fight. Well, Mrs. Fury, I do hope the war will end soon. Poor people never get anything out of war. But everybody doesn’t believe this. [These two sentences were later blacked out by the sergeant censor]. There’s not much to say about myself, except this, that since I came here I have met one or two very nice gentlemen, and we often talk. They seem to be very well-educated men. I’m sure you would like them. I was surprised to get your new address, and hope you haven’t shifted again before this letter arrives.

  I got your address from Father Moynihan. One of the lads in the parish, whose mother cleans the ships, gave it to me. D’you ever see Father Moynihan? I get a letter from him now and again. Before I was taken away—I was forcibly taken away from my house—before I went, I saw the priest and I told him everything about what I thought, and that, and he said: ‘Well, Joseph, you must make up your mind, and then hold to that.’ I did, which is the reason why I write from this camp. It’s miles from anywhere. I never knew England could be so dreary—this part anyhow. Oh, I just wanted to mention Dermod. Poor little chap. I had to put him into the convent. I’ve put the address at the bottom of the letter, and I’d be very grateful to you if you would call there some time to see him. The nuns are very good. And once or twice my neighbour Mrs. Ditchley has been t
here, and she took quite a liking to them. Anyhow, I would be glad if some time you’re round those parts, if you went to see him. He’s a fine big lad now, a fine big lad and he looks like you, Mrs. Fury. You’ll be surprised when you see him. Have you been able to see your other son yet? I often think of him. I wrote him a letter about five months ago but never had a reply. I hope when this war is over that everybody will get together and be friends again, like in the old days at Hatfields. If you had bad days there, you had good ones too. I will close now with sincere greetings and remain,

  Yours sincerely,

  JOSEPH KILKEY.

  P.S. I am leaving here to-morrow so do not write here. I mean if you are writing any time. I’m going to a prison at Conton. Thirty-eight of us. I hope you will see Dermod.

  He folded and sealed this letter, and left the hut to go to the guard-room, hoping there would still be time to have it censored and go out with the other mail.

  On his way back a soldier named Giles came up to him and said: ‘Hello, mate.’

  Joseph Kilkey halted, and stared at the man. He knew him only too well. His ‘hello, mate,’ he had heard often before. There was no reason why he should stand there, looking at him. He turned away to go back to his hut. It was a quarter past two. The camp seemed deserted. A good many men had gone out, some to meet girls, some to the local pub a mile away. But not the conscientious objectors. Now Private Giles put his hand on Joseph Kilkey’s shoulder and said in a slow, hesitant manner. ‘I’d like to speak to you, mate.’

  Joseph Kilkey made to go again. ‘I’ve often heard you say it,’ he said.

  ‘You don’t understand,’ said Giles.

  There was something in his utterance, in his attitude towards Mr. Kilkey, earnest enough to make the other wonder if something had happened. He had no concern with this soldier. He did not like him. He had suffered through this soldier. Why should he stop him and say: ‘Hello, mate?’ What could it mean to Kilkey? What did it matter? He would see the last of the fellow to-morrow and then that would be the end of the matter. No doubt he would go to France like all the others, be wounded, or killed, and all that he had said, all that he had done to Joseph Kilkey wouldn’t matter any more. On the other hand he might come back from France. That would be a miracle.

  ‘I don’t know what you want to talk about. Is it something I haven’t done?’

  He walked away, but the soldier followed. Joe Kilkey was more than ever certain that there was something behind this. Another joke—another dirty trick. He stopped at his hut door. When he looked round Giles was behind him. Now his look was sheepish, his hands rested on the door posts.

  ‘When I said “Hello, mate,” I meant it,’ he said quietly. ‘I mean “Hello, mate.”’

  The hut was empty, Mr. Kilkey said: ‘You’ve often said it. But it doesn’t mean anything to me—I mean now. I’m going to-morrow, thank God! What d’you want?’

  ‘It’s bloody awkward,’ Giles said. ‘I can’t explain yet. I’d rather talk inside.’

  ‘I don’t know what you want to talk about,’ Kilkey said: ‘you ought to know it better than me. And calling me mate doesn’t make any difference. I’ve seen a lot of you and I’m off to-morrow.’

  Joseph Kilkey went into the hut, Giles remained standing by the door.

  ‘I’m bloody sorry, mate,’ he called. ‘You don’t understand.’

  ‘Sorry,’ thought Kilkey. ‘Sorry about what? About the war? About what?’ and he stood leaning on the table, his back to the soldier. Then he heard him walk in. What the devil did the fellow want? Following him round the camp. He had something up his sleeve. ‘I’ve kept my temper for seven months,’ reflected Joe Kilkey. ‘I’ve kept as cool as any man could. I know their game so well now, that only a saint out of Heaven could make me believe he’s sorry for anything.’

  The soldier walked up the hut, moved round, and stood facing the other. For a few seconds they stared each other out. Suddenly the soldier stretched out his arm.

  ‘Would you shake hands with a feller, mate?’ and this made Kilkey stare harder.

  Like an automaton he put his hand out and Giles grasped and held it.

  ‘I’m sorry, mate, and I mean it. You’re a decent bloke. I did you lousy.’

  Joseph Kilkey remained silent. He couldn’t understand. It was too surprising, too staggering. What was it all about, anyhow? What had come over Giles?

  ‘You’re going to-morrow, mate, aren’t you?’ said the soldier. He still hung on to the other’s arm.

  Joseph Kilkey nodded his head, then gave a quick smile. The funny part of this was the outstretched hand, the arm across the table. Mr. Kilkey wanted to drop his. It seemed ridiculous standing like this, holding hands. And no meaning in it. Probably in the end a dirty joke.

  ‘I am,’ replied Kilkey. ‘Why?’ and then he let go the soldier’s hand.

  He went to his bed and sat down, lit his pipe, filled the hut with smoke from shag.

  ‘I’m sorry you’re going, mate, and I’m not sorry you’re going. You come from Gelton. From Hatfields. You used to be a stevedore at the docks.’

  ‘That’s right,’ replied Mr. Kilkey, but he never even glanced at the soldier.

  ‘I saw it down on your papers. I have charge of all papers here. I mean—well, it doesn’t matter anyhow. I come from Gelton too. I live in Dingle Street. My dad and mother lives there. He works in a foundry.’

  ‘Oh,’ Mr. Kilkey said and asked himself: ‘I wonder what this is leading to.’

  ‘You’re the same as me. I’m the same as you,’ went on Giles, and he now left the table and stood at the foot of Joseph Kilkey’s bed.

  ‘I suppose—I expect you are,’ replied Kilkey. ‘But what’s all this about? Is there something up? Have I done something wrong? It generally was that way when you shouted: “Hello, mate” after me. You know that well enough.’

  ‘But you’re the same as me—and I’m the same as you,’ went on Giles, ‘’cept that you haven’t uniform and I have. See! Well, mate, I’ve done some lousy things to you, and I’m bloody sorry about it.’ He bent forward, shot out his hand. ‘I’m sorry, mate.’

  Mr. Kilkey shook hands for the second time. This time he had to laugh.

  ‘Well, it doesn’t matter now, Giles, does it? You’ll see the last of me to-morrow.’

  ‘Perhaps the fellow’s a bit drunk or something,’ thought Kilkey. He’d known Private Giles for seven months and this was strange conduct. Actually shaking hands with a conchie. The soldier sat down on the edge of a neighbouring bed, looked steadily at Mr. Kilkey. He spoke again.

  ‘Jokes are over, mate,’ he said, ‘I’ve been worried for days. And d’you know why I’ve been worried——’ He paused, but interrupted when the other opened his mouth to speak. ‘I’ve felt rotten because these last days I’ve said to myself, he’s a decent bloke, and I’ve treated him like shit! And I have, mate, and I’m bloody sorry about it. Fact! I mean it. I did you lousy—just like the others. It’s made me feel a——’

  ‘Oh, why talk about it? That’s all over,’ said Mr. Kilkey and waved a hand through the air.

  The language he was well used to, but these demonstrations of guilt, no. It was hard to believe that Private Giles wasn’t drunk. And he wasn’t in the mood for listening. He wanted to rest. He’d have to be about after tea, cleaning again, till eleven at night, and then getting his things together for the next day’s journey to Conton.

  ‘Ah! Don’t worry, son,’ he said. ‘Forget about all that. It’s over.’

  But this was not what Giles thought. He hadn’t even begun. From what source had this burst of feeling arisen! And why? And what was the worth of it? It sounded like a lot of blather in the ears of a man who had had to run Private Giles’s gauntlet for seven long months. It would be hard to forget Giles, but here was the fellow sitting opposite him and talking by the yard, when it didn’t matter any more. But to the soldier this hour was important.

  ‘When you first arrived here with those other
blokes I didn’t like you. I knew you were a Catholic too, with them funny things on your neck. I hated you. I hated all you fellers too lousy to fight for your country. I stood behind you that day the sergeant knocked your hat off, and I booted you into the mud. I’ve been thinking of that a long time. I——’

  ‘Yes. That’s all right, son, I forgive you. Is that what you mean?’ And suddenly Mr. Kilkey was full of suspicion. He couldn’t help it. He had learned these months through how hard it was to trust prople. ‘Oh! Forget it,’ he said. ‘I wish you’d go away, son. Let’s forget everything.’

  ‘But I can’t! I can’t! You’re the same as me, mate, and I did you lousy.’

  Joseph Kilkey could no longer doubt the sincerity behind these words. He now believed him. He understood him. He saw through the whole thing. That ‘hello, mate’ was no joke. It was the end of the jokes, the dirty, sly, cruel jokes. Yet it was hard to believe, to accept. As if it mattered a damn now! It mattered a damn to the young soldier on the bed. Joseph Kilkey was moved by it. It touched him, yet he couldn’t believe in it.