by John Masters
She said, ‘None. But they are good mechanics and drivers, they really are. And all they – we – ask is that you men treat us as that, not as comforts for officers, or something … something fragile. What about you, Virginia? How’s life in the Women’s Legion?’
Parrish came past then, with a silver tray loaded with full champagne glasses. Naomi took one, but Guy muttered, ‘No, thanks. I’ll be flying in a few hours,’ and Virginia said, ‘I’m feeling silly already … It’s different for us, Naomi, because we work mostly with Other Ranks. Our section cooks and housekeeps for a big barracks with a thousand men in Aldershot. We cook, wash up, clean the floors and windows, run the laundry … all the things that women would do if it were an ordinary household in peace, but in the Army men used to do them before the war – before we were formed. Officers aren’t allowed to go out with any of us, as we’re the equivalent of privates.’
‘So am I,’ Naomi murmured.
‘Yes, but the people you work for are all officers. Ours aren’t, and we are allowed to go out with them, when we’re off duty, of course.’ Her colour heightened. ‘I went out with a Battery Sergeant Major a week ago. He won the D.C.M. at Loos but his left arm and a bit of his shoulder were blown off and he has an artificial arm now. He’s sort of permanent sergeant clerk at the headquarters.’
‘Is he nice?’ Naomi asked. ‘Rich? Madly in love with you? And a duke incognito?’
‘Oh, don’t be silly!’
‘Be careful,’ Naomi said. ‘Pursuiters can become bores … How are the girls in France, Guy?’
‘How should I know?’ Guy said, grinning. ‘A girl behind the desk in a hotel in Amiens gave me the eye once – but I was with Grandfather and two other M.P.s, so what could I do? And the farmer’s daughter where our mess is, at Mirvaux, is – well, I think “available” would be the right word.’
‘Guy! You are awful!’ Virginia said, gazing up at him with sparkling eyes.
Guy continued – ‘But she must weigh eleven stone, and looks extraordinarily like one of her father’s cows. I don’t want to find myself kissing Bossy in the dark, by mistake. But she’s really very affectionate, I believe. Her name’s Claudine, but we call her Poitrine, for two obvious reasons.’
Naomi laughed briefly, then said, ‘Seriously, do you have any romantic attachments? I thought handsome young R.F.C. pilots couldn’t avoid them – there, or here.’
Guy said, ‘I’m fancy free.’ He looked from one to the other of the two girls, ‘I want my first love to be important, and … worthy. I suppose men and women can play at love, as they can play at games. I want mine to be serious, and lasting.’
Neither girl spoke for a time, then Naomi said, ‘Don’t be too cut up if it doesn’t happen that way, Guy. I don’t think we can always control these things.’
Christopher Cate stood with Isabel Kramer, champagne glasses in hand, by the fireplace, where a small coal fire burned in the grate to disperse the damp of the day. They had not spoken for some time, but just stood, their backs half turned to the room, looking into each other’s eyes.
At length Cate said, ‘I would like to ask you to marry me, Isabel, but as you know I am not free to do so.’
She said nothing, but her expressive face was losing its composure, her lower lip beginning to tremble.
Cate said, ‘If I were able to get a divorce, would you be my wife? ’
She said, her voice shaking, ‘Of course, Christopher. You are the nicest man I have ever met … and, as I am a brash American, I’ll say it before you do – I love you.’
Cate stooped down toward her, longing to kiss her on the lips, then checked himself. He said, ‘I wish I could ask you to live with me at the Manor until I can get a divorce – if I ever can. At night, now, I dream that I am seeing you across the breakfast table, as man and wife – sleeping in each other’s arms – scrubbing each other’s back in the bath …’
She said, ‘And I dream that I can be a helpmeet to you in every way. I know –’ she rested a hand momentarily on his sleeve – ‘that you are having financial troubles, with the war taxes and prices. I would like to help here, too.’
He said grimly, ‘Only a miracle can make it possible – what we both desire. Visits – even extended visits such as you have made, are accepted by the village … and would be, even if we had taken advantage of the situation to enjoy the intimacy I think we both desire. They would understand that, approve of it – especially as they know my position with regard to Margaret. But, for you to live in the Manor would be …’ he stopped, searching for the words.
She finished for him, ‘… a stain on the position you hold, and the example you must set, as squire of Walstone. I understand, my dear. Of course I do. Garrod now makes opportunities for us to be alone, when I am staying at the Manor. And I am sure she hopes that we have spent the night in one bed, yours or mine. But if I were to live here, she would have to acknowledge me as your mistress … and it is not proper that the squire of Walstone should flaunt his mistress in the face of his people, in their village.’
Cate said, ‘You understand perfectly. That is why you would make such a perfect mistress – in the other sense – of the Manor, hence of the village … For a divorce I have to prove that Margaret has committed adultery. Which will be very difficult unless she helps, provides the evidence, really – which would be collusion. But my solicitor told me that the judges are becoming much less strict in demanding proof of adultery. Like anyone else, they live and operate in a climate of public opinion, and that’s been changing rapidly, particularly since the war began. Most of them will now grant a divorce if an association is shown, from which adultery can reasonably be inferred.’
Isabel sipped her champagne; then looking up from her 5’ 4” to Cate’s 6’ 3” said in her flat down-Maine accent, ‘Will you spend a weekend with me, my dear? As man and wife. It doesn’t matter where, as long as it’s not in Walstone.’
Cate felt silly, light headed, about to jump over the moon, sixteen years old and gasping at the sight of his first girl’s hair spread on dandelion-gold grass. He said, ‘I will.’
A hush fell on the assembly and they both glanced round. Parrish was standing in front of Harry Rowland, bowing slightly. He straightened and declared in a loud voice, ‘Luncheon is served, sir.’
They sat at the long table, extra chairs crowded in among them, the younger people standing, waiting, for they were to eat at tables set up in the drawing room; but first their grandfather wanted to make an announcement to all the family, gathered for this solemn occasion.
Harry adjusted his spectacles on his nose, brushed his beard and found a paper in the pocket of his black frock coat. He peered at it, cleared his throat, and looked up – ‘My sons… daughters …’ he choked, recovered, continued – ‘my family … when your mother was dying, she gave me a message for you, all of you … two messages. She could not write, but whispered … I wrote them down, as she gave them to me.’ He looked down at the paper – ‘This is the first … I love you all. Forgive me for my faults as a wife, mother, mother-in-law… She had no faults as a wife but that is what she said. Forgive each other. Love each other. Pray that the war may be over soon. Forgive our enemies.’ There was a long pause, then Harry spoke again. ‘This is the second … Ireland must be free. Understand that Margaret is only doing what I should have done, if I had not chosen another path of life. Understand, and you will not hate. Work for this, and you will earn more for England than victory in war. Erin go bragh. Goodbye.’
Guy Rowland and Johnny Merritt walked Hedlington Airfield in the rain, Guy wearing a khaki trench coat and Johnny a mackintosh. At the east end of the field, before turning back, Johnny said, ‘Hold hard a minute, Guy … Seeing you in uniform, with that ribbon, makes me feel more of a shirker than ever. But, you know what I found out last week? I’m colour blind … not badly, just can’t tell blues and greens apart … so the R.F.C. wouldn’t have me. I’d have to join the Army.’
Guy said, ‘D
on’t do it, Johnny. Not our Army, anyway. America will come in soon – I don’t think she can stay out, however much she might want to – and then you wouldn’t worry, would you?’
‘I would not,’ Johnny said. ‘The day America comes in, I enlist … But it’s here and now that I feel such a shirker.’
Guy said, ‘When America declares war, enlist. Meanwhile, keep on making these aeroplanes for us. That’s a fair bargain, Johnny … The north side of the field is reasonably hard, except for that one patch over there. What will we weigh at take off?’
Johnny smiled and shook Guy’s shoulder, ‘Thanks … It depends on whether you want a full load of petrol.’
‘To fly to Amiens? No, but orders are we should always take off full, as we might run into bad weather and have to come back, or go another hundred miles looking for an open airfield … but it will be that much more difficult to get her off this soft ground if she’s fully loaded. There won’t be any passengers, will there?’
‘No.’
‘Good. You don’t want me to crack up one of your beautiful bombers, and I certainly don’t want to find myself nosing into that slush with five tons of aeroplane on top of me.’
‘All right.’ They walked past the control tower shed and into the passage way between the big construction hangars. The wooden skeleton of a fuselage passed, carried on two wheels, pulled by a plough horse. ‘Ancient and modern,’ Johnny said. ‘That’s on its way from the fuselage shed to the assembly shed.’ He walked into another shed, Guy following. ‘This is the chassis forging unit … see, the root section of both wings, attached to the chassis, the two sets of landing wheels.’ He slapped the wing stub – ‘This is where the outer wings are attached … the bolts attaching them go here … Then they can be folded back for more economical storage – just like the Handley Page 0/400. Ginger brought that idea over – and many others, of course.’
They walked out and into another shed, this one full of frames from which complete engine units, less the spinners and propellers, were suspended.
‘Rolls Royce Eagle Ills, aren’t they?’ Guy exclaimed. ‘I thought Handley Page was going to get the first allotment.’
‘So did they, but we managed to get some … Our Leopard Mark II’s going to have Libertys. Come along … tail units are assembled in the back of the chassis shed … The main planes need a separate shed for trueing-in on the jigs. It’s quite an operation and we’re working on ways to cut down the time spent … Here’s our works foreman, Frank Stratton. You know him, of course?’
Frank Stratton put out his hand eagerly. ‘Saw you in the church, Master Guy … Mister Guy … but didn’t have a chance to speak to you … Could I have a word with you, in private, sir?’
Guy glanced at Johnny – ‘All right? We’ve done our business, haven’t we?’
Johnny said, ‘I’d like to have half an hour with you, Guy, going over the plans for the Mark II. So would Betty and Ginger. We’ll wait for you in the drawing office.’
Guy nodded and walked off with Frank at his side. He said, ‘Hadn’t we better go inside somewhere? It’s wet out here.’
Frank said, ‘I’d rather talk outside, sir. I won’t be a minute … Sir, I want to get back to France.’
Guy stopped and stared at him, rain running down their faces. He said, ‘But I understand that you have been severely wounded, and invalided out, unfit for any form of military duty.’
‘That’s right, sir … I’ve been out of hospital seven months, foreman here nearly six months … I can’t stand it any more … when I hear the guns at night and think of the blokes out there, in the mud, and us eating our beef and drinking our beer, and women everywhere, acting like prossies … and them in the regiment, out there.’ His voice trailed away to burst out suddenly, ‘My wife’ll cry her eyes out, but I’ve got to go. England’s a … a shithouse, sir.’
Guy began to walk on, thinking. He said, ‘Did you mention this to my father when you were speaking to him?’
Frank said, ‘No sir. I wanted to, but … my wife would have heard.’
Guy rubbed his face thoughtfully. He said, ‘You’ll never get back to the Wealds, Frank. It would be suicide on your part to go – and murder on mine to help you – because you’d have no chance in the trenches. The Royal Flying Corps is the best corps in the world … as good as any regiment, I don’t care whether it’s the Guards, the Rifle Brigade, the Royal Welch Fusiliers, the Black Watch, anyone. You’ll never fly, but you’re as good a mechanic as any in the world. Our success in the air depends on the mechanics as well as on the pilots. Would you like to be a fitter in 333 Squadron of the R.F.C.? It’s a Scout Squadron, now equipped with D.H. 2s … my squadron?’
Frank said, ‘Mr Charles used to tell me I ought to transfer to the R.E. or the R.F.C. … but I didn’t want to, because I belonged in the Regiment. Now I can’t belong, can I, not in France?’ Guy nodded, though he knew the question was rhetorical. Frank said, ‘I’ll come, sir. I’ll be your fitter and you’ll be one pilot whose engine never goes dud on him. Can I come with you now?’
Guy laughed and slapped Frank on the shoulder. ‘My major would have me for breakfast, and you for lunch! I have to explain what a wizard mechanic you are, and then I have to get my grandfather to see the right man at the War Office. And then, suddenly, you’ll find yourself on your way to France, wearing the uniform of a private in the R.F.C. … but you’ll be a sergeant before long, or I’ll eat my cunt cap.’ He grinned. ‘That’s what we call these.’ He touched the wet forage cap on his head.
Frank said eagerly, ‘So did we in the Regiment, sir … I suppose I’ll have to shave off my beard for the R.F.C.?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ Guy said. ‘We don’t have Pioneer Sergeants in the Royal Flying Corps. Now come along and join us in this talk we’re going to have about the Leopard Mark II.’
The engine whistled imperiously for the Litchfield tunnel and the roar of the train increased as the rattle of the wheels and the rush of the wind bounced back and forth between the sides of the carriages and the walls of the tunnel. The six officers in a first class compartment of the London & South Western Railway stared blankly ahead, except for one who had been reading a book and chuckling to himself. None of them knew each other, and had not felt any need to make conversation since leaving Waterloo over an hour ago. Besides, if one initiated a conversation, he might be snubbed.
Quentin closed his eyes. His mother was dead. He had been afraid of her, but at least she had taught all of them to face life with heads up. He had seen his son, looking bronzed and fit, but older than his nineteen and a half years. He had seen his daughter, and noted her new low-class accent. He had seen his wife. She had been polite, remote, never mentioned the man she loved, or what had happened. He had waited for her to say something, so that he could tell her he still loved her. She never did.
Well, he was on his way back to the battalion, at last. He knew they’d been in two major shows since he was wounded, and wondered how many more once familiar faces would have vanished. How had the shows been planned, and how had they gone, really? You couldn’t trust what you read in the papers. It seemed disloyal to question the tactical doctrines on which all the Somme attacks had been made so far – think of the consolidated experience of all those generals and colonels, men who had been commanding companies in action in Afghanistan and Africa while he was a small boy … and all those brass hats with their staff tables … and the artillery fire charts, which he could not make head or tail of …. and eighty-page orders, with twenty appendices. Still the German lines were bent but not broken, and the ground reeking with the unburied dead. He gritted his teeth. They’d just have to go on till the Germans couldn’t stand it any more …
It would be good to talk to Campbell again. That fellow had led an interesting life. He was a bit of a radical in some ways, but you could learn a lot, listening to him … he could draw marvellously, too. His sketches of the men – in the line, on fatigue duty, limping back wounded, wiring
at dusk – they really were the men …
The Telegraph, Saturday, September 16, 1916
GREAT ATTACK BY BRITISH ARMY
NEW ARMOURED CARS
Sir Douglas Haig, in his report sent off early yesterday afternoon, records the opening phases of another tremendous attack by the British Army on the German positions in the neighbourhood of Combles.
A special feature of this attack was the employment for the first time of a new form of a heavy armoured car, which appears to have fully justified expectations …
CAPTURE OF FLERS
FROM OUR SPECIAL CORRESPONDENT:
BRITISH
HEADQUARTERS, FRANCE.
Friday 2 p.m.
To-day our troops, in a great assault, have broken through the enemy’s third line of defence. It is reported that Flers is in our hands, and that the infantry is advancing further in the direction of Morval. On our left we are at the moment in the outskirts of Martinpuich, and thence to the right we have moved forward along the whole line, encircling High Wood and occupying the main part of Bouleaux Wood.
Our men are filled with the spirit of victory, and in several parts of the line the enemy is fleeing back to his next line of trenches. Prisoners are coming in fast …
‘A new form of a heavy armoured car,’ Cate thought. That sounded interesting. From everything he had heard and read, the problem in attack was the number of bullets that could be fired by machine guns these days. The more men you massed to attack, in the hope of overwhelming the enemy by sheer weight of numbers, the more men you put up as targets for their machine guns. Each gun fired 600 rounds a minute, Quentin had told him; and their range was 2,000 yards, or over a mile. Suppose you had forty such guns in a mile of front – and the Germans seemed to have at least that number, in places – why, they could fire 24,000 rounds a minute. In that minute the attacking soldiers could move forward perhaps fifty yards, weighted down as they were with so much equipment, tools and arms … If the German trenches were two hundred yards away they’d have to face 96,000 bullets …So, if it were possible to mass 96,000 men on a single mile of front … you’d lose them all in two minutes. These new cars, armoured to protect the men inside from bullets, could presumably advance over that two hundred yards in half a minute … but he had read a great deal about mud, even in the chalk of the Somme area. The heavy cars would get their wheels stuck in the mud, and the heavier they were, the thicker their armour, the more guns they carried, the deeper they’d sink in …
