Fall of Giants

by Follett, Ken

  { IV }

  Ethel went upstairs to Mildred’s apartment. The place was clean but not tidy, with toys on the floor, a cigarette burning in an ashtray, and knickers drying in front of the fire. “Can you keep an eye on Lloyd tonight?” Ethel asked. She and Bernie were going to a Labour Party meeting. Lloyd was nearly four now and quite capable of getting out of bed and going for a walk on his own if not watched.

  “Of course,” said Mildred. They frequently watched each other’s children in the evenings. “I’ve got a letter from Billy,” Mildred said.

  “Is he all right?”

  “Yes. But I don’t think he’s in France. He doesn’t say anything about the trenches.”

  “He must be in the Middle East, then. I wonder if he’s seen Jerusalem.” The Holy City had been taken by British forces at the end of last year. “Our da will be pleased if he has.”

  “There’s a message for you. He says he’ll write later, but to tell you . . . ” She reached into the pocket of her apron. “Let me get it right. ‘Believe me, I feel I am badly informed here about events in politics in Russia.’ Funny bloody message, really.”

  “It’s in code,” Ethel said. “Every third word counts. The message says I am here in Russia. What’s he doing there?”

  “I didn’t know our army was in Russia.”

  “Nor did I. Does he mention a song, or a book title?”

  “Yeah—how did you know?”

  “That’s code, too.”

  “He says to remind you of a song you used to sing called ‘I’m with Freddie in the Zoo.’ I’ve never heard of it.”

  “Nor have I. It’s the initials. ‘Freddie in the Zoo’ means . . . Fitz.”

  Bernie came in wearing a red tie. “He’s fast asleep,” he said, meaning Lloyd.

  Ethel said: “Mildred’s got a letter from Billy. He seems to be in Russia with Earl Fitzherbert.”

  “Aha!” said Bernie. “I wondered how long it would take them.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We’ve sent troops to fight the Bolsheviks. I knew it would happen.”

  “We’re at war with the new Russian government?”

  “Not officially, of course.” Bernie looked at his watch. “We need to go.” He hated to be late.

  On the bus, Ethel said: “We can’t be unofficially at war. Either we are or we aren’t.”

  “Churchill and that crowd know the British people won’t support a war against the Bolsheviks, so they’re trying to do it secretly.”

  Ethel said thoughtfully: “I’m disappointed in Lenin—”

  “He’s just doing what he’s got to do!” Bernie interrupted. He was a passionate supporter of the Bolsheviks.

  Ethel went on: “Lenin could become just as much of a tyrant as the tsar—”

  “That’s ridiculous!”

  “—but even so, he should be given a chance to show what he can do for Russia.”

  “Well, we’re in agreement about that, at least.”

  “I’m not sure what we can do about it, though.”

  “We need more information.”

  “Billy will write to me soon. He’ll give me the details.”

  Ethel felt indignant about the government’s secret war—if that was what it was—but she was in an agony of worry about Billy. He would not keep his mouth shut. If he thought the army was doing wrong he would say so, and might get into trouble.

  The Calvary Gospel Hall was full: the Labour Party had gained popularity during the war. This was partly because the Labour leader, Arthur Henderson, had been in Lloyd George’s War Cabinet. Henderson had started work in a locomotive factory at the age of twelve, and his performance as a cabinet minister had killed off the Conservative argument that workers could not be trusted in government.

  Ethel and Bernie sat next to Jock Reid, a red-faced Glaswegian who had been Bernie’s best friend when he was single. The chairman of the meeting was Dr. Greenward. The main item on the agenda was the next general election. There were rumors that Lloyd George would call a national election as soon as the war ended. Aldgate needed a Labour candidate, and Bernie was the front runner.

  He was proposed and seconded. Someone suggested Dr. Greenward as an alternative, but the doctor said he felt he should stick to medicine.

  Then Jayne McCulley stood up. She had been a party member ever since Ethel and Maud had protested against the withdrawal of her separation allowance, and Maud had been carried off to jail in the arms of a policeman. Now Jayne said: “I read in the paper that women can stand in the next election, and I propose that Ethel Williams should be our candidate.”

  There was a moment of stunned silence, then everyone tried to speak at the same time.

  Ethel was taken aback. She had not thought about this. Ever since she had known Bernie, he had wanted to be the local M.P. She had accepted that. Besides, it had never been possible for women to be elected. She was not sure it was possible now. Her first inclination was to refuse immediately.

  Jayne had not finished. She was a pretty young woman, but the softness of her appearance was deceptive, and she could be formidable. “I respect Bernie, but he is an organizer and a meetings man,” she said. “Aldgate has a Liberal M.P. who is quite well-liked and may be hard to defeat. We need a candidate who can win this seat for Labour, someone who can say to the people of the East End: ‘Follow me to victory!’ and they will. We need Ethel.”

  All the women cheered, and so did some of the men, though others muttered darkly. Ethel realized she would have a lot of support if she ran.

  And Jayne was right: Bernie was probably the cleverest man in the room, but he was not an inspirational leader. He could explain how revolutions happened and why companies went bust, but Ethel could inspire people to join a crusade.

  Jock Reid stood up. “Comrade Chairman, I believe the legislation does not permit women to stand.”

  Dr. Greenward said: “I can answer that question. The law that was passed earlier this year, giving the vote to certain women over thirty, did not provide for women to stand for election. But the government has admitted that this is an anomaly, and a further bill has been drafted.”

  Jock persisted. “But the law as it stands today forbids the election of women, so we can’t nominate one.” Ethel gave a wry smile: it was odd how men who called for world revolution could insist on following the letter of the law.

  Dr. Greenward said: “The Parliament (Qualification of Women) Bill is clearly intended to become law before the next general election, so it seems perfectly in order for this branch to nominate a woman.”

  “But Ethel is under thirty.”

  “Apparently this new bill applies to women over twenty-one.”

  “Apparently?” said Jock. “How can we nominate a candidate if we don’t know the rules?”

  Dr. Greenward said: “Perhaps we should postpone nomination until the new legislation has been passed.”

  Bernie whispered something in Jock’s ear, and Jock said: “Let’s ask Ethel if she’s willing to stand. If not, then there’s no need to postpone the decision.”

  Bernie turned to Ethel with a confident smile.

  “All right,” said Dr. Greenward. “Ethel, if you were nominated, would you accept?”

  Everyone looked at her.

  Ethel hesitated.

  This was Bernie’s dream, and Bernie was her husband. But which of them would be the better choice for Labour?

  As the seconds passed, a look of incredulity came over Bernie’s face. He had expected her to decline the nomination instantly.

  That hardened her resolve.

  “I . . . I’ve never considered it,” she said. “And, um, as the chairman said, it’s not even a legal possibility yet. So it’s a hard question to answer. I believe Bernie would be a good candidate . . . but all the same I’d like time to think about it. So perhaps we should accept the chairman’s suggestion of a postponement.”

  She turned to Bernie.

  He looked as if he could k
ill her.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  November 11, 1918

  At two o’clock in the morning, the phone rang at Fitz’s house in Mayfair.

  Maud was still up, sitting in the drawing room with a candle, the portraits of dead ancestors looking A down on her, the drawn curtains like shrouds, the pieces of furniture around her dimly visible, like beasts in a field at night. For the last few days she had hardly slept. A superstitious foreboding told her Walter would be killed before the war ended.

  She sat alone, with a cold cup of tea in her hands, staring into the coal fire, wondering where he was and what he was doing. Was he sleeping in a damp trench somewhere, or preparing for tomorrow’s fighting? Or was he already dead? She could be a widow, having spent only two nights with her husband in four years of marriage. All she could be sure of was that he was not a prisoner of war. Johnny Remarc checked every list of captured officers for her. Johnny did not know her secret: he believed she was concerned only because Walter had been a dear friend of Fitz’s before the war.

  The telephone bell startled her. At first she thought it might be a call about Walter, but that would not make sense. News of a friend taken prisoner could wait until morning. It must be Fitz, she thought with agony: could he have been wounded in Siberia?

  She hurried out to the hall but Grout got there first. She realized with a guilty start that she had forgotten to give the staff permission to go to bed.

  “I will inquire whether Lady Maud is at home, my lord,” Grout said into the apparatus. He covered the mouthpiece with his hand and said to Maud: “Lord Remarc at the War Office, my lady.”

  She took the phone from Grout and said: “It is Fitz? Is he hurt?”

  “No, no,” said Johnny. “Calm down. It’s good news. The Germans have accepted the armistice terms.”

  “Oh, Johnny, thank God!”

  “They’re all in the forest of Compiègne, north of Paris, on two trains in a railway siding. The Germans have just gone into the dining car of the French train. They’re ready to sign.”

  “But they haven’t signed yet?”

  “No, not yet. They’re quibbling about the wording.”

  “Johnny, will you phone me again when they’ve signed? I shan’t go to bed tonight.”

  “I will. Good-bye.”

  Maud gave the handset back to the butler. “The war may end tonight, Grout.”

  “I’m very happy to hear it, my lady.”

  “But you should go to bed.”

  “With your ladyship’s permission, I’d like to stay up until Lord Remarc telephones again.”

  “Of course.”

  “Would you like some more tea, my lady?”

  { II }

  The Aberowen Pals arrived in Omsk early in the morning.

  Billy would always remember every detail of the four-thousand-mile journey along the Trans-Siberian Railway from Vladivostok. It had taken twenty-three days, even with an armed sergeant posted in the locomotive to make sure the driver and fireman kept maximum speed. Billy was cold all the way: the stove in the center of the railcar hardly took the chill off the Siberian mornings. They lived on black bread and bully beef. But Billy found every day a revelation.

  He had not known there were places in the world as beautiful as Lake Baikal. The lake was longer from one end to the other than Wales, Captain Evans told them. From the speeding train they watched the sun rise over the still blue water, lighting the tops of the mile-high mountains on the far side, the snow turning to gold on the peaks.

  All his life he would cherish the memory of an endless caravan of camels alongside the railway line, the laden beasts plodding patiently through the snow, ignoring the twentieth century as it hurtled past them in a clash of iron and a shriek of steam. I’m a bloody long way from Aberowen, he thought at that moment.

  But the most memorable incident was a visit to a high school in Chita. The train stopped there for two days while Colonel Fitzherbert parlayed with the local leader, a Cossack chieftain called Semenov. Billy attached himself to a party of American visitors on a tour. The principal of the school, who spoke English, explained that until a year ago he had taught only the children of the prosperous middle class, and that Jews had been banned even if they could afford the fees. Now, by order of the Bolsheviks, education was free to all. The effect was obvious. His classrooms were crammed to bursting with children in rags, learning to read and write and count, and even studying science and art. Whatever else Lenin might have done—and it was difficult to separate the truth from the conservative propaganda—at least, Billy thought, he was serious about educating Russian children.

  On the train with him was Lev Peshkov. He had greeted Billy warmly, showing no sense of shame, as if he had forgotten being chased out of Aberowen as a cheat and a thief. Lev had made it to America and married a rich girl, and now he was a lieutenant, attached to the Pals as an interpreter.

  The population of Omsk cheered the battalion as they marched from the railway station to their barracks. Billy saw numerous Russian officers on the streets, wearing fancy old-fashioned uniforms but apparently doing nothing military. There were also a lot of Canadian troops.

  When the battalion was dismissed, Billy and Tommy strolled around town. There was not much to look at: a cathedral, a mosque, a brick fortress, and a river busy with freight and passenger traffic. They were surprised to see many locals wearing bits and pieces of British army uniform. A woman selling hot fried fish from a stall had on a khaki tunic; a deliveryman with a handcart wore thick army-issue serge trousers; a tall schoolboy with a satchel of books walked along the street in bright new British boots. “Where did they get them?” said Billy.

  “We supply uniforms to the Russian army here, but Peshkov told me the officers sell them on the black market,” Tommy said.

  “Serves us bloody well right for supporting the wrong side,” said Billy.

  The Canadian YMCA had set up a canteen. Several of the Pals were already there: it seemed to be the only place to go. Billy and Tommy got hot tea and big wedges of apple tart, which North Americans called pie. “This town is the headquarters of the anti-Bolshevik reactionary government,” Billy said. “I read it in The New York Times.” The American papers, which had been available in Vladivostok, were more honest than the British.

  Lev Peshkov came in. With him was a beautiful young Russian girl in a cheap coat. They all stared at him. How did he do it so fast?

  Lev looked excited. “Hey, have you guys heard the rumor?”

  Lev probably always heard rumors first, Billy thought.

  Tommy said: “Yeah, we heard you’re a homo.”

  They all laughed.

  Billy said: “What rumor?”

  “They’ve signed an armistice.” Lev paused. “Don’t you get it? The war is over!”

  “Not for us,” said Billy.

  { III }

  Captain Dewar’s platoon was attacking a small village called Aux Deux Eglises, east of the river Meuse. Gus had heard a rumor there would be a cease-fire at eleven A.M., but his commanding officer had ordered the assault so he was carrying it out. He had moved his heavy machine guns forward to the edge of a spinney, and they were firing across a broad meadow at the outlying buildings, and giving the enemy plenty of time to retreat.

  Unfortunately, the Germans were not taking the opportunity. They had set up mortars and light machine guns in the farmyards and orchards, and were shooting back energetically. One gun in particular, firing from the roof of a barn, was effectively keeping half of Gus’s platoon pinned down.

  Gus spoke to Corporal Kerry, the best shot in the unit. “Could you put a grenade into that barn roof?”

  Kerry, a freckled youth of nineteen, said: “If I could get a bit closer.”

  “That’s the problem.”

  Kerry surveyed the terrain. “There’s a bit of a rise a third of the way across the meadow,” he said. “From there I could do it.”

  “It’s risky,” Gus said. “Do you want t
o be a hero?” He looked at his watch. “The war could be over in five minutes, if the rumors are true.”

  Kerry grinned. “I’ll give it a try, Captain.”

  Gus hesitated, reluctant to let Kerry risk his life. But this was the army, and they were still fighting, and orders were orders. “All right,” Gus said. “In your own time.”

  He half-hoped Kerry would delay, but the boy immediately shouldered his rifle and picked up a case of grenades.

  Gus shouted: “All fire! Give Kerry as much cover as you can.”

  All the machine guns rattled, and Kerry began to run.

  The enemy spotted him immediately, and their guns opened up. He zigzagged across the field like a hare chased by dogs. German mortars exploded around him but miraculously missed.

  Kerry’s “bit of a rise” was three hundred yards away.

  He almost made it.

  The enemy machine gunner got Kerry perfectly in his sights and let fly with a long burst. Kerry was struck by a dozen rounds within a heartbeat. He flung up his arms, dropped his mortars, and fell, momentum carrying him through the air until he landed a few paces from his rise. He lay quite still, and Gus thought he must have been dead before he hit the ground.

  The enemy guns stopped. After a few moments, the Americans stopped firing, too. Gus thought he could hear the sound of distant cheering. All the men near him fell silent, listening. The Germans were cheering, too.

  German soldiers began to appear, emerging from their shelters in the distant village.

  Gus heard the sound of an engine. An Indian-brand American motorcycle came through the woods driven by a sergeant with a major on the pillion. “Cease fire!” the major yelled. The motorcyclist was driving him along the line from one position to the next. “Cease fire!” he shouted again. “Cease fire!”

  Gus’s platoon began to whoop. The men took off their helmets and threw them in the air. Some danced jigs, others shook one another’s hands. Gus heard singing.

  Gus could not take his eyes off Corporal Kerry.

  He walked slowly across the meadow and knelt beside the body. He had seen many corpses and he had no doubt Kerry was dead. He wondered what the boy’s first name was. He rolled the body over. There were small bullet holes all over Kerry’s chest. Gus closed the boy’s eyes and stood up.