Tom Bedlam

by George Hagen

  THE RECRUIT

  “HOW OLD ARE YOU?”

  “Eighteen and a half, sir.”

  The officer's magnificent mustache was waxed into two perfect semicircles. His eyes were a startling blue, and his tie was perfectly set between a khaki collar and polished brass buttons. Now he put down his fountain pen and stared at the boy with formidable intensity. “What was the date of your eighteenth birthday?”

  “Second of September, sir, nineteen seventeen” came the reply.

  The officer's gaze remained fixed on Arthur. It was an interminable moment.

  Arthur had memorized the date on the tram ride; it was six months before his actual birthday—today. If they sent him away, he would be disappointed, but he was determined to enlist now, for he suspected that his father would keep a much closer eye on him once he reached his official recruitment age, in six months.

  “Very good,” the officer said. He noted the date and directed Arthur along the hall for a medical examination.

  Arthur passed everything without difficulty until he came into a small room for his vision test. “Cover your left eye,” said the doctor, “and read down the chart.”

  Arthur hesitated. Ever since Mr. Bench's ultimatum, he had had difficulty distinguishing his left from his right. But now he remembered that his left eye was weaker. Slowly he read out the letters, trying to commit them to memory in preparation for the other eye, but the doctor rapped the table with his pencil. “I've got a line of men waiting behind you, sonny. Can you read the letters or not?”

  Arthur finished quickly. “Cover your right eye,” said the doctor. At that moment, the nurse called him away. Arthur quickly scanned the three smallest lines, then covered his right eye again.

  “Get on with it,” said the doctor, returning.

  Arthur recited the lines and waited.

  “Good,” snapped the doctor. “Down the hall, second left.”

  An officer presented Arthur with his reporting papers and a railway warrant. “Next Monday you're to report to Fort Wynyard, Green Point, Cape Town.”

  TOM KNEW WHAT HIS SON was planning. It was one of the reasons he had employed Arthur in the surgery even before the boy had finished his studies at King Henry's. He trained Arthur to clean wounds, set broken bones, and deliver anesthesia. One evening he called his son in from the house to help him cauterize the leg of a man whose foot had been crushed under a tractor wheel. Margaret chided her father for exposing the boy to such a horrible sight, but Tom wanted to prepare him for the things he would see at war.

  If he couldn't talk him out of enlisting, he planned to recommend Arthur for a position in the medical corps. At least he could ensure his son's safety in one of the mobile hospitals.

  But Arthur mentioned none of his medical training to the recruiting officer—he was afraid the man would call his father for confirmation, then send him home.

  IN THE WEEK THAT Arthur was to report for duty, Tom went to Pretoria to attend a conference. Arthur left a note for Margaret, went to Johannesburg Station with one of the Horvath boys, and boarded a train bound for Cape Town—eight hundred miles south of the only place he knew in the world.

  In the Cape Garrison Artillery, he was taught to roll his puttees, polish his buttons and boots, salute, and march. The second week he was trained to load the naval guns at Fort Wynyard, slamming hundred-pound shells into the open gun breeches. The guns were six inches in diameter, and the shells were rammed into position with handspikes. As Arthur staggered under the weight of one, a couple of burly regulars from the garrison striding by laughed at him; each of them had two shells balanced on his shoulders.

  After a month of drills, Arthur received his orders to board ship with about seventy other men from the South African Heavy Artillery. The Walmer Castle was a commercial steamer that had been turned into a troopship. Another two thousand men came aboard before she left her berth and anchored in the middle of Table Bay, where she waited for a convoy of eight ships to assemble, then sailed north.

  The convoy stopped in Sierra Leone, where the cruiser HMS Britannia left them in the care of the King Alfred. They sailed for twenty-eight days across tropical waters that glittered with phosphorescence as bright as the stars above. One evening a soldier let out a cry when he saw the glowing white tracks of what appeared to be torpedoes heading towards the Walmer Castle.

  “Those are dolphins, you fool!” replied a more seasoned hand. “They stir up the phosphorescent algae in the water.”

  Portholes were blacked out at night, and no smoking was allowed above decks. Nine ships kept formation in the darkness; not a single light was exposed for fear of giving away their presence to prowling German submarines. But Arthur was oblivious to such dangers, consumed with the thrill of being at sea for the first time, headed for lands he couldn't imagine.

  MRS. MANSWORTH

  ANY INTERESTING CASES, TODAY, DOCTOR?”

  Tom's gloom seemed to have reduced his hearing and vision. Bonney put the question to him again, and Tom tried to muster enough concentration to reply. “No.”

  Though he administered to his patients without difficulty, he found himself walking blindly from the consulting room to the house, oblivious to the fragrances in the garden, the cries of the Horvaths' lonely old parrot, and the greetings of his future son-in-law, whom Margaret invited to dinner every evening. She let her father drink in peace, but there was always a moment during the meal when she turned to him with a patronizing air, as if he were the child of the house. “Not hungry, Papa?” she asked.

  “No,” Tom replied. Of course he had no appetite. He hadn't felt hungry for months. Wine and water tasted the same to him, and Margaret had never been much of a cook. She could boil the flavor out of horseradish.

  “Surely, sir, you must ponder the incurable cases as philosophers ponder life's paradoxes?” said Bonney.

  “Here's a paradox,” Tom snapped. “A man doesn't know how wealthy he is until he has lost everything—or everyone.”

  Margaret's reply was quick: “Everybody will come back, Papa, I'm sure. They have to come back for our wedding, don't they?”

  Tom gave his daughter a hard stare. “We'll ask the Germans and the Turks to suspend hostilities, shall we, so that Arthur can be here? Perhaps a letter to Lord Kitchener will do the trick!”

  “Papa, please!” said Margaret.

  “Actually” murmured Bonney “Kitchener hasn't been minister of war for two years. He died on the HMS Hampshire off the Orkneys …”

  “I know that,” muttered Tom, though, in truth, he had forgotten. “Good riddance! He was a butcher. I treated his victims—hundreds of Boer women and children. Their crops burned, livestock slaughtered, wiped out by malnutrition, typhoid, malaria, hundreds, thousands—”

  “As you've told us many times …” Margaret replied.

  Tom's rant was stifled by the condescension in her tone. He glanced at his son-in-law hoping for sympathy, but Bonney was busy aligning his silverware. Tom nursed his embarrassment. Had it come to this? Was he to be cast as the elderly lunatic of the household? Would Margaret be Goneril to his Lear? Without Iris and Charity in the house, his eldest daughter, he decided, was a monster.

  Bonney broke the long silence. “What's the new fellow's name? The new minister?” He looked to Margaret. “Mansworthy?”

  “His name is Mansworth,” corrected Margaret.

  Tom lowered his glass. “Mansworth? Geoffrey Mansworth?”

  Margaret paused. “Yes. That's it.”

  “I went to school with him.”

  “Really?”

  “I did,” insisted Tom. “He was a monster.”

  “You knew … this Mansworth fellow?” said Bonney.

  “He murdered my best friend,” Tom replied.

  With a glance, Margaret warned Bonney not to encourage him. It had to be nonsense. Her father had never referred to Mansworth before. She was beginning to think Arthur's departure had unhinged him.

  “Well,” replied Bonney,
with astonishment, “there must be some mistake. Murderers do not become ministers of war!”

  Tom shook his head. “No. I'm sure it takes years of training.”

  He rose from the table, picked up his mail from the desk, and retreated to the garden. Amid the delphinium, larkspur, foxgloves, and hollyhocks, he heard the subsequent murmur between his daughter and her fiancé. The words spoken were familiar: “impossible” “bitter” “miserable” and then “out of his mind”

  He sifted through the letters—there was nothing from Arthur. His son's last news had been that he had become an assistant bombardier, which was better than being in the infantry but not as safe as the medical corps. Tom surmised that Arthur had kept his medical experience to himself. Tom had searched his files for any patient who might have had influence with the army, but even Mrs. Gantry admitted she had none with the South African war machine. Tom's stomach churned. If only he could do something, anything—it seemed so wrong that a parent could devote himself to raising a boy only to see him sacrifice his life at the first opportunity.

  There were two items: a postcard and a letter. The postcard bore a photograph of an ocean liner. Iris's large, emphatic print was unmistakable:

  Dearest Papa,

  Finished with Lear! New production is a war protest revue!!! Smashing response in Melbourne!!! Lots of controversy, esp. from politicians saying we're aiding enemy!!! Full house for last six performances!!! Leaving Austral. for Liverpool to do more damage. Love to Piglet, Marg., and the Right Reverend!!!!

  Iris

  The stamp on the letter caught his eye. King George's bearded profile was flanked by caducei. It was not a colonial stamp or an armed forces stamp; this missive was from England. The handwriting was vaguely familiar, but it was neither Arthur's nor Audrey's. Tom tore it open as he circled the hibiscus.

  My dear Tom,

  Why do I choose to write now, after so many years? Not for lack of trying, I assure you. How could I forgive my sister for stealing the man I loved? And how could I forgive you for stealing my dear sister?

  With the news of Lizzy's passing, I felt the most acute grief, and the guilt that my own envy was in some way complicit in her illness. I realize now that I need to reconcile such matters. Tom, I am so sad for you and your family. I miss Lizzy more than ever.

  I have a family of my own, Tom. A husband whom I love and a daughter on whom I dote. I also realize that I owe my dear sister a debt, as aunt to my nieces and nephew, just as I hope you will honor your role as uncle to my daughter, Josephine. Please forgive my silence, send me news of them and their dear father, and permit me a role in their life, as any loving aunt deserves.

  Eve Harding

  (Mrs. Geoffrey Mansworth)

  Margaret and Bonney observed the doctor from the window. As still as a fence post, he stood amid the purple blossoms. A yellow butterfly alighted on his shoulder and slowly batted its wings; Tom tipped his head slowly to one side, almost as if the butterfly were whispering into his ear. The letter in his hand fell into a spray of Shasta daisies.

  Finally, he turned and walked back towards the house. “I shall book passage to London!” he said.

  “Why?” asked his daughter.

  “I'm going to bring your brother home,” he explained. “I've just learned that the minister of war is also my brother-in-law. If I cannot appeal to the War Ministry, I will appeal to the minister himself.”

  “But, Papa, Arthur's probably on his way to France!”

  The doctor paused. “France?” Suddenly, a thought struck him, and he smiled. “He's still underage. I'll write to London. That should delay him for a few months, and allow me time to find a doctor to run things here.”

  “Why not write to the minister?” suggested Margaret. “Some favors are best asked in person.” “And if Arthur doesn't want your help?” asked Bonney The doctor paled. Then he said, “He'll come to his senses. I know he will.”

  A TASTE OF IT

  I AM SERGEANT FANNING, AND THIS IS A SPECIALIST CLASS FOR observers. The guns you will be trained on will not be the same as those used in the field as every one has been dispatched to the fronts. We shall be using muzzle-loaded guns, without wheels.”

  A soldier with half an unlit cigarette in the corner of his mouth glanced at Arthur, tipping the butt in derision; the sergeant seemed to anticipate this reaction.

  “Some of you men are probably wondering what the point of learning to operate ‘antiques’ is. The answer should be clear. No gun is the same as any other, but the same principles apply. Breech, dial sight, elevation wheel—each gun has them but in a different place. If you remember these principles, whether you are dealing with a muzzle loader, a howitzer, a rifle, a pistol, or even a ruddy popgun, you may save your life or the lives of your fellow soldiers. The burden rests upon you to use the intelligence God blessed you with to adapt on the field. If you cannot adapt, God help you, and God help your fellow soldiers. Is that clear?”

  A murmur of grudging humility circulated among the boys, and the lesson proceeded.

  Afterwards, the soldier with the cigarette introduced himself to Arthur. “Georgie Goode,” he said. “I'm with the Lancashire Fusiliers, over there.” He pointed to a series of white bungalows and remarked, with considerable pride: “We have the biggest crop of potatoes in Scotton Camp.”

  Arthur had to smile.

  “Once you've tried the slop in the canteen,” said Georgie, “you'll be planting away boyo, mark my words!” He seemed to know everything about Scotton Camp. “Forty thousand men, regiments from Scotland to Australia,” he said. He also knew his gardening and encouraged Arthur to help with his plot.

  Georgie couldn't have been much older than Arthur. He was slight, but his narrow mustache and perpetual smirk gave him a randy leer. Arthur suspected that Georgie was all pretense, but they became firm friends nevertheless.

  On days off, they rode bicycles out of Catterick and across the countryside. Once, when they passed an attractive young woman walking along the road, Georgie stopped to ask her for a light. A conversation led them to the public house where the girl worked. The soldiers spent an hour chatting with her before going on their way. It was the only time that Arthur saw any practical purpose to his companion's cigarette. When he tried to keep a soggy half cigarette in his mouth for an hour, he realized what a skill Georgie had mastered.

  “I'm going to America when this is over,” Georgie explained on the ride back that evening.

  “New York?” Arthur replied.

  “Yes.” Georgie grinned. “I'm going to be a millionaire.” He kept a stack of postcards sent him by a cousin: the St. Louis World's Fair, the brilliant lights at Coney Island's Luna Park, and the Statue of Liberty. There was also a picture of a man, in a double-breasted pin-striped suit, having his shoes polished at Grand Central Terminal. Georgie cherished that one; he would examine it every night and practice the careless, worldly expression of the dapper man with the cigarette projecting over his lower lip.

  Early one morning a chorus of bugles sounded across the camp. Georgie burst into Arthur's tent and ordered everybody to get dressed. “Fall in on the parade grounds! There's an air attack!”

  Quickly, Arthur joined thousands of sleepy young men as they lined up by regiment in the misty darkness. They were warned not even to strike a match. After half an hour of waiting in the damp half-light, a rumor circulated that a zeppelin raid was in full swing.

  Everyone scanned the horizon, more in excitement than fear. Suddenly, they heard a muffled burst of explosions, and Arthur's heart pounded.

  “Good gosh!” one of his tent mates said with a laugh. “Has anyone ever seen a zeppelin?”

  “Not me,” replied Arthur.

  A flash in the sky lit up his neighbor's grin. “Crikey!”

  The horizon settled into darkness, and somebody called that the zep-pelins had moved on. There were giddy cheers and a spattering of applause, as if the men had scored some victory by shivering in the darkness. As his f
ellows walked back to the tent, Arthur hesitated, wondering why his heart was still thumping. Was it terror at the earthshaking power of man? Or the camaraderie of thousands assembled at dawn? Or even the idea of the carnage that now lay at the site of those flashes? Perhaps the combination of these sensations had set his heart into a gallop. All he knew was that he wanted more of it.

  The next day Arthur was called to the office of his commanding officer. “Gunner Chapel,” he said, “I've a letter here from your father. He says you're two months below enlistment age.”

  “I'm ready to fight now, sir,” Arthur replied.

  “Anything wrong with your hearing, Chapel?”

  “No, sir,” said Arthur.

  “You shall remain at camp until you are of regulation age. Is that understood?”

  Georgie Goode and Arthur had a farewell drink together before Georgie departed for the front. He gave Arthur three tomatoes and half a dozen small potatoes—the bounty of his vegetable plot. “We'll meet in New York,” he promised. “I'm fighting for the sake of my reputation. A businessman needs one, and medals are the fastest way a fellow can earn one.”

  Over the next two months, Arthur repeated his drills and classes with a new company of enlisted men. His pleasure in being at Scotton evaporated. The last child in his family to leave the nest, he now feared he would be the last man sent off to war.

  A FISH IN THE WRONG CURRENT

  ALTHOUGH MRS. MANSWORTH'S LETTER OFFERED A RAY OF HOPE TO Tom, many other factors would prevent his departure for England. Ships were overbooked, convoys were delayed, and it was September 1918 before he gained passage on a steamer. The Allerton Castlehad been refitted to carry troops and armaments. Several thousand soldiers were berthed on the lower decks—South Africans headed for the Western Front. When Tom left his porthole open for the little air it allowed into his cramped cabin, he heard the incessant chatter of the recruits and imagined Arthur having much the same conversations.