It had been meant to be over in an hour. Instead, for the observers there was only confusion. By ten o’clock all communication with the troops of the 70th Brigade in the German lines had been completely cut off, runners were unable to cross no-man’s-land and every telephone line was severed.
At midday General Gordon reported to Divisional HQ that until the enemy machine guns had been put out of action he could neither communicate with the German front line nor withdraw troops.
Not until nightfall was it safe for the exhausted remnants of the attacking force to limp in. Twenty-five officers and 736 men of the 9th Battalion York and Lancaster Regiment had gone out. Three officers staggered back. At roll, only 180 men were to call out their names.
* * *
In England, no proper news had come for days but there were unconfirmed rumours that Colonel Addison was missing, reported wounded, and Probyn had the gnawing sense that all had not gone well. He was on the parade ground, bathed in sunshine, when a corporal interrupted his training schedule to tell him that the colonel of the depot wished to speak to him.
There was a sombre atmosphere in the office and the CO found it difficult to meet Probyn’s eye, even more difficult to know how to break the news. ‘Grave tidings, I’m afraid, RSM.’ His thumbs rubbed agitatedly at the document he was holding.
Probyn spared him, asking in quiet tone, ‘Is it Colonel Addison, sir?’
A grave shake of head. ‘Still missing. I’m afraid it’s somewhat more serious than we imagined.’ Slowly, his eyes devoid of spark, the colonel pushed the leaf of paper across the desk. ‘Those are confirmed dead.’
With growing horror, Probyn read the names on the list: Major H. Lewis, Captain G. Postgate, Lieutenants H. Faljambe, R. Gaylard, B. Geake … L. Postgate …
Something leaped inside him, not a leap of love but a leap of horror. He was consumed by ice as one after another, dozen after dozen, those familiar names and faces sprang from the page. It was as if some malevolent claw had reached inside him and ripped out his heart. He had thought himself inured to death after seeing so much carnage, but one did not have to witness it to be affected. A vortex of reflections whirled around his mind: they had trusted him, under his tuition thought themselves invincible so long as they listened to what he told them. He had taught them how to advance, warned them of the sly tricks the enemy might play, taught them everything he knew, but he had forgotten one thing for never could he have visualized such an abominable outcome: he had omitted to tell them what to do in case of failure. They had been transported to the front in livestock wagons and that was how they had died, like beasts in a charnel house. His poor, brave gentlemen.
The colonel watched his face, knowing what he suffered. ‘You haven’t heard the worst of it, I’m afraid.’
Worse, how could it be worse? The battalion he had so lovingly nurtured had been annihilated. His poor boys, so much ahead of them.
‘Altogether,’ the colonel sighed, ‘we accrued almost sixty thousand casualties.’
Overwhelmed by despair Probyn closed his eyes but remained stock-still. Sixty thousand – on a single day.
‘I know, it’s impossible to take in.’ Faced with his RSM’s acute shock, the colonel seemed eager to talk now, desperate to fill that painful hiatus. ‘I can’t stop thinking what this will mean. Of course it must be much worse for you who knew them all, but on a less personal scale it couldn’t be more disastrous. Anyhow, Mr Kilmaster, I’m instructed to tell you that we shall be keeping you on home ground from now on.’ He tried to inject a note of kindness, wringing his hands. ‘You’ll be very glad of that, I suppose.’
Probyn barely had the capacity to nod. How could he be glad of anything? Sixty thousand. My God … my God. His heart went out to those wretched survivors forced yet to dwell in that necropolis.
The colonel kept talking, trying to appear brisk. ‘We need you here to drum up those replacements as quickly as possible. It’s the devil’s own job, I’m afraid…’
Probyn barely heard the rest, such was the daze he was in. When the CO had finished, he saluted and left the office.
Standing in the corridor, he fought to compose himself, to calm his anguished heart, wanting to lean against that cool wall for support but refusing to allow his mask to drop lest others witness this. What rubbish had he spouted to Hugh Faljambe – a callus of the soul?
There was no such thing. How could he go back out there and look into those faces, knowing what awaited them? Fortifying himself with a deep breath, he prepared to return to his instruction, but in that moment a decision was made: he could no longer allow himself to know them nor to like them; not when he was sending them to that.
When the RSM returned to the parade ground, to the men under his command, his demeanour was barely changed. Under his vicious treatment they damned him for a heartless tyrant. No one could have guessed that inside he was sobbing for his poor dear boys.
Part Two
10
‘“He pulled her petticoats up to her knees, tra, la, la-la-la-la-la! Made the old woman shiver and sneeze, tra, la, la-la-la-la-la!”’ Deeply relieved to have her husband permanently back on home soil, Grace was in fine voice that Saturday morning as she went about the house with her offspring, each undertaking their own task. Accustomed to using Mother’s moods as a barometer, the children were always delighted to hear her sing, for it meant that everything in the world was well and Father was safe. Nothing could hurt them if Mother was trilling.
Warbling like a linnet, Grace did not immediately hear Beata’s call. When the little girl rushed up and tugged at her skirt she looked startled. ‘Beat, I almost trod on you! Have you got those sills nice and clean?’
‘Aunt Charlotte’s coming!’ At Beata’s information the rest of the children poured out of the house with expressions of joy. Grace gave fond exclamation too and went out into the sunshine to meet her friend, wiping her hands on her apron.
But, as Charlotte neared, the puffy eyes and half-hearted greeting told immediately that her visit was not a cause for celebration. Quickly excusing the children from their unfinished chores, Grace evacuated them from the premises. ‘Go and pick your aunt some flowers!’ Employing a tone that brooked no objections, she closed the door on them.
Pre-empting Charlotte’s announcement in the hope of lessening her friend’s pain, she whispered in trepidation, ‘It’s George, isn’t it?’
Nodding, Charlotte heaved a deep breath to steady herself. ‘He’s been wounded.’ Then she burst into tears, hiding her big square face in a handkerchief. Upon recovery she was able to give snivelling explanation. ‘He’s in a French hospital. I might never see him again!’
Grace embraced her friend. ‘Oh, you must go to him, dear! You don’t need a passport, you know.’
Damp handkerchief bunched in a fist, Charlotte sniffed and hung her head. ‘I know … but I’ve just spent all my wages on a new dress.’
Grace was astonished; extravagance was not in her friend’s character.
‘He wrote to tell me he’d soon be coming home on leave and I wanted to look nice for him. I tried to explain to the shop but they wouldn’t take it back.’
This was no deterrent to Grace. ‘I’ve read the authorities will pay in needy cases.’
‘Yes, but only for one relative per soldier,’ wept Charlotte. ‘His sisters wanted to go too but we decided his mother must be the one.’
Grace did not falter, reaching for a tin on the mantel. ‘Here!’
‘Don’t be silly!’ A tearful Charlotte pushed away the offering. ‘You’ve got seven children to feed. I couldn’t let them go without in the face of my stupidity.’
‘You think I’d let them go without? Take it!’ Grace’s cool fingers pressed it firmly into her friend’s hand.
‘Probe’ll be cross with you…’ Desperate to take the cash, which was her main reason for being here, Charlotte knew how much Grace’s impulsive generosity enraged her husband.
‘He’d never begru
dge you, Lottie! He’d say the same if he were here. And I’m just so happy to have him home for good. Oh, I didn’t tell you, he’s not going overseas any more, I just feel so, so lucky when there’s you here worried out of your wits about George.’
After playing down the danger whilst away in France, since the butchering of his regiment Probyn had finally confessed how terrible it had been, the loss of all those friends having shaken him to the core.
‘Please take it. Pay me back whenever you can, but for heaven’s sake, take it, stop wasting your time here and go to him.’
Blessing the other’s kindness, Charlotte tarried only long enough to take succour in a cup of tea and to receive the children’s flowers, then embarked straight away on her mission.
* * *
All that week Grace waited to hear the outcome. When the letter came she was initially delighted to read that Charlotte had met the challenge and had managed to visit her fiancé in the French hospital. Charlotte was now back in York and was writing to reiterate her gratitude and to set Grace’s mind at ease over the loan. ‘My dear, dear friend, I will repay the money as soon as possible, yet I shall never be able to repay your generosity of spirit in giving me the chance to see my beloved George before he passed away…’
Her excitement cruelly terminated, Grace uttered a little moan. The children watched her face as tears bulged over her lower lids and trickled down her cheeks as she conveyed the terrible news.
One or two of the girls shed tears of sympathy and came to lay their arms around Mother.
‘Where’s he buried?’ Joe wanted to know.
Dabbing at her eyes, Grace consulted the letter. ‘France, I think.’
‘Will they dig him up after the war?’
‘No!’ Grace sought to warn her son, ‘And I don’t want any silly talk like that when Aunt Charlotte comes.’
Later, when alone, she reread the letter, horrified by Charlotte’s description of the hospital and its occupants. ‘It was awful, truly horrendous, Grace. You see the lists of wounded in the newspapers but you can’t really imagine the reality until you go amongst them.’ Grace skipped the grisly catalogue of injuries that followed; reading them once had been enough. Instead, her eyes focused on Charlotte’s closing words. ‘I know I have no need to tell you how lucky you are to have Probyn safe at home. Were I capable of feeling any happiness I would rejoice in your good fortune. I hasten to add that there is no bitterness over my own loss, I am truly glad for you, my dear friends. God bless you both and keep you safe. I shall come to visit when I feel able. I don’t know when that will be, I have been awfully muddled lately. I am certain only of one thing: I shall never marry…’
* * *
Charlotte’s tragedy was the precursor to a string of bad luck in her friends’ household. Falling victim to scarlet fever, that same month Joe, Maddie and Beata were packed off to hospital at Conisbrough. Whilst the two elder siblings were quick to recover, poor Beata was to be detained with complications. It was a lonely and bewildering time for the little girl who, isolated from her family, waited day after day for them to come, beginning to fear she had been abandoned.
Working nearer to home, though not quite close enough to be able to live amongst his family, Probyn was kept informed by letter. The fact that Beata had scarlet fever was bad enough, but when he received news that, whilst in the hospital, she had also developed typhus, his emotions took over and he applied to take immediate leave. During the frantic train journey to her side came the memory of his dead sister Beata. Had it been ill-omened to have named his daughter after her?
Nor was this mood to be relieved upon visiting the hospital, but rather exacerbated, for, due to the highly contagious nature of the disease, he and Grace were forced to view their daughter from afar through glass, to watch her shaven head with its dusky face roll deliriously from side to side, her little figure performing sporadic jerks beneath the sheet. They tried to be cheerful whilst in Beata’s view, even if she was unaware of their presence, but upon their exit all stoicism collapsed, Probyn depicting an even more fraught example than his wife, wringing his hands at his own ineffectualness.
‘I just feel so useless … and I know it’s daft and superstitious but I can’t help thinking it was tempting providence to name her after my sister. She was always a sickly lass.’ Having been only small at the time of his eldest sibling’s death, he had no real memory of Beata himself, but a legacy of warmly uttered remembrances from his other sisters made it seem as if he had. ‘She was just a lovely person, you know, that’s why I called Beata as I did…’
Her brow furrowed by concern, Grace linked arms with him, rubbing him briskly as if trying to draw strength from the beefier limb. She wanted to tell him it wasn’t his fault, but felt that if she started crying she would never stop.
The forty-eight-hour leave showed no sign of improvement in Beata’s health, and, his presence of no value to his daughter, the RSM was soon compelled by duty to return to barracks, though he insisted on daily letters from Grace and was to make periodic visits to Conisbrough over the fraught weeks to come.
It was therefore miraculous, upon his latest arrival with Grace, to see his little girl no longer in the isolation ward, but propped up, reading a book, still wan and terribly thin, but nevertheless snatched from death’s door.
Probyn’s huge relief at Beata’s total recovery was manifested in an extravagance hitherto unknown in the Kilmaster family. ‘She must have aught she wants, Grace! What would you like, Beaty? A dolly’s pram?’
Gazing at her father’s tanned, beaming face, Beata wanted to say that she would like a book. Whilst most of the nurses had been far too busy to tend anything other than medical requirements, Beata had endeared herself to one in particular, who had brought her an illustrated volume to alleviate the boredom. There was no library at home and Beata would have loved to acquire such an item. Yet, because it would make her father happy, she answered that a doll’s pram would be lovely.
‘Then a dolly’s pram you shall have, me lass!’ And exalting that his child had been spared, he bent to deliver a rare kiss to the top of her stubbly little head.
A source of much envy, the brand-new perambulator complete with occupant was trundled around the streets of Denaby by its proud owner, who, also excused daily chores for the time being, was to become rather unpopular with her siblings until Grace, realizing that such favouritism was doing Beata no favours at all, returned her name to Battalion Orders and life resumed its normal course – as normal as life could be with a war still decimating the nation’s manhood.
Following the scare over Beata’s health, Grace resolved to be extra generous with the child’s diet in an effort to build her up, though it was difficult with the scarcity of food, and if she succeeded in restoring her daughter’s wellbeing it was only at the expense of her own.
This was quite evident to her husband when next he came home on leave several weeks later.
‘You’ve lost weight!’ Probyn eyed her malnourished frame accusingly. ‘I hope you haven’t been skimping on food?’ In times of strife, Grace had shown a tendency to neglect herself in favour of the children.
She tried to laugh it off. ‘Well, what do you expect with all the shortages?’
‘I know you!’ He wagged a finger.
‘I can’t think what you mean!’
‘Look at you. You’ve hardly any colour.’ The physical change in her alarmed him.
‘Oh, stop worriting!’ And she put paid to any speculation by laying on a fine tea and heartily partaking of it herself.
But if Probyn had noticed a change in his wife then Grace was to undergo similar experience. He seemed distant and unhappy and, under his accusations that she was neglecting herself, she began to worry that he no longer found her attractive, her fear of losing him swiftly blowing this fear out of all proportion.
Finding her sobbing quietly in the scullery after the children had gone to bed, Probyn was astounded to discover that he was the cau
se of her distress.
‘Nay I didn’t mean anything!’ He took her in his arms. ‘I just don’t want to see you fading away to a shadow through your generosity to others!’
‘But is that all?’ Still tearful, her blue eyes searched his face. ‘You’ve hardly said a word other than to pick at me, Probe, and you seem miles away. There isn’t anyone else is there?’
His jaw dropped. ‘You daft clot, of course not!’ He hugged her tightly and shook his head in exasperation. ‘Eh, if I’d known what was going through your head … I’m sorry if I’ve been quiet – and picky.’ He gave a little smile and dealt her a peck on the nose before turning sombre. ‘We’ve just had word that they’ve found Colonel Addison’s body.’
Grace exclaimed over her own selfishness. ‘Oh, dearest, I’m so sorry!’
He shook his head and held onto her, saying nothing more.
Drawing perverse comfort from her husband’s bad tidings, Grace rested her chin on his shoulder and gazed at the white-painted wall behind him, scolding herself for not immediately guessing the reason for his abstractedness – of course it would have to be something to do with the army! Was not the army his life? As if it were yesterday, she remembered how, as a young bride, those words had broken her heart. Now, of course, she had matured enough to know that love came in many forms; just because he adored the company of men did not mean he loved his wife any the less.
When he next spoke his announcement surprised her. ‘I’m going to write to Aunt Kit and ask if we can spend a few days with her. The children aren’t learning much at school, what with all the disruption. They need a break as much as us and the fresh air will do you a power of good – not that I’m being picky again!’
There was no argument from Grace. She had not enjoyed a trip since the year before Beata was born. Coincidentally, it had been to Aunt Kit’s they had gone then too. It had not been a happy time but Grace was determined not to let bad memories get in the way and she gave her blessing to the proposal now.
A Different Kind of Love Page 20
