Heart of War

by John Masters

  He fetched the bottle of beer, and sat on the bed, developing a powerful, slow firm, erection, while Charlie undressed, drinking Bass from the bottle neck, until at last they both stood naked, and erect, embracing.

  Next morning they sat in the drawing room, both wearing civilian clothes – grey trousers, shirt without tie, odd jacket. Tom kept his in the flat while Charlie had brought a set down with him in his duffel bag, after spending two days with his parents in Dipton, County Durham – having first told them that his leave was very short, instead of the ten days it actually was.

  Tom raised his glass of sherry toward Charlie, who was drinking Bass, this time out of a heavy cut glass tumbler – ‘To the Immortal Memory.’

  Charlie looked puzzled and Tom motioned toward the picture of Nelson – ‘It’s October 21st, Charlie – Trafalgar Day,’

  ‘Aye, of course,’ Charlie said guiltily. ‘I knew it was about now.’ He drank and lowered his glass.

  Tom said, ‘People don’t understand the conditions of modern naval war. At Trafalgar they went into action at two miles an hour. Once the fleets had engaged, they could not disengage until one or the other was defeated. At Jutland we were closing at forty miles an hour. A ship could be out of range or back in the mist before you’d have time to bracket.’

  Charlie nodded, but Tom wondered whether he was really listening. Did he care? Did he have the education to understand what was being said, and the implications of it? He continued – ‘Modern fire at long range is always plunging – like throwing a stone over a high wall, to land on a saucer the other side – a moving saucer … which was throwing stones back at you.’

  ‘The Germans gave our battle cruisers a good hiding,’ Charlie said.

  Tom said, ‘I’m afraid part of the trouble is that our battle cruiser design has been at fault. There’s not adequate protection against flashback down the barbettes to the magazines. That’s what happened to all three of them – Queen Mary, Indefatigable, and Invincible.’

  ‘Some of our shells was duds, too,’ Charlie said. ‘Same in the army. My brother’s in the Durhams out there, and he says that a lot of our shells aren’t exploding, on the Somme. Cor, that’s a battle, innit? Been going on over three months now … proper slaughter house, that is … D’ye think the Germans’ll come out again, sir? … Tom?’

  Tom said slowly, ‘I don’t, though it’s always a possibility. That’s why we’ll have to keep the Grand Fleet in being until the war ends … I have a feeling our next battle isn’t going to involve the big fleets at all. The German leaders will see that if they devote all their naval energy to making more U-boats, and concentrate on our sea trade, they may bring us to our knees.’

  ‘Bluidy submarines, skulking under water,’ Charlie muttered. ‘Wish I could get my hands on some of them buggers.’

  The clock on the mantel chimed six. It was dark outside. They had had a quiet day, not leaving the flat, at lunch eating some cold meat which Jones had gone out to buy for them. Jones had kept his face impassive – called Charlie ‘Mr Bennett’ – acted just as though Charlie had indeed been a friend of Tom’s own age and class.

  ‘Well, what shall we do now?’ Tom asked. ‘Too early for dinner,’ he added hastily, remembering that the lower deck liked to eat at ungodly hours. With his parents at Dipton Charlie had probably had high tea at five or soon after, and then a bite of supper before going to bed.

  ‘I’ve never been to London,’ Charlie said. ‘I’d like to see Buckingham Palace and the Tower of London and Madame Tussaud’s and the Crystal Palace, and …’

  ‘So you shall,’ Tom said, smiling affectionately at the young man’s enthusiasm. ‘We’ll start sightseeing tomorrow … and go to the theatre, too.’

  ‘I’d like that!’ Charlie said, jumping up excitedly. ‘A real theatre!’

  Tom said, ‘I’ll see what’s on.’

  They sat in the gallery at the Villiers, high above the upper circle, peering steeply down at the distant stage through the haze of tobacco smoke. Tom had never sat in the gods in his life – always in the dress circle, or stalls, near the front; and always in evening dress. But Charlie had never thought of going elsewhere – he had been to the theatre three times, repertory in Newcastle-on-Tyne. Tom was learning much that he did not expect to when he arranged to spend this leave with Charlie. Charlie’s view of Buckingham Palace was reverent, but practical – ‘Cor, Tom, how do they get all those windows cleaned, without the window cleaner gawping in at the King and Queen, eating their suppers, maybe, or getting into a bath?’ And, at the Tower, scorn for the Beefeaters – until one of them told him sharply that he had been a Chief Petty Officer in his time. Tom was learning how the ordinary people of England really felt, and acted, close to, being for the moment one of them, not one of their masters.

  The show was a frothy revue called Maisie and Company, which had already been running for over a year. It deserved its success, Tom thought – good songs, good dancers, good acting in its skits, and several very funny comedians. Most of Penrith’s officers had seen it when on leave, and its tunes were played for hours every day on the wardroom gramophone.

  Russell Wharton was in it now, Tom had seen when he went to the ticket agency in the morning. And Russell Wharton’s name in the cast was, he admitted, why he had chosen this show rather than another; for Russell Wharton was known to be ‘one of them,’ a follower of Oscar Wilde; which actually meant, Tom could now admit, ‘one of us.’ He had watched Wharton through opera glasses whenever he was on stage until Charlie had said, ‘Let me have a look, Tom!’ Raising the glasses to his eyes, he’d stared a moment, then muttered softly, ‘He’s … nice. He’s looking at us.’

  Tom said, ‘Let’s go backstage, after it’s over, and tell him how much we liked his performance.’

  Charlie said, ‘That’ll be good.’ He caught Tom’s eye.

  The curtain fell on the last act, the players took their bows, and the audience filed out. Tom and Charlie walked round the side of the theatre to the stage door and went in. A man with a cigar in his mouth said, ‘Who do you want?’

  ‘Mr Wharton,’ Tom said. The man rolled his cigar to the other side of his mouth, glanced at Charlie, and said, ‘Second door on the right, up there.’

  They went to the door, and Tom knocked. The familiar voice, clear, high, a little nasal, called, ‘Come in.’

  He was seated at his dressing table, removing his makeup. He looked at them in the mirror in front of him and said, ‘Did you like the show?’

  ‘Very much,’ Tom said. And, almost simultaneously, Charlie said, ‘It was wunnerful, Mr Wharton … I’m Charlie Bennett.’

  ‘Tom Rowland,’ Tom said, taking Wharton’s hand.

  ‘Major Tom Rowland?’ Wharton said slyly. ‘Your hair is so short … back so straight … but do I not detect the ruddy touch of the sun, the rough caress of the sea wind … Commander Rowland?’

  Tom nodded.

  ‘And … Able Seaman?’

  ‘O.D.,’ Charlie said, blushing.

  ‘How nice for you … but I suppose your admirals are so stuffy and pompous you can hardly get a moment together.’

  ‘We’re on leave,’ Tom said.

  Wharton’s face was free of makeup at last and he said, ‘Have you had dinner?’ Tom shook his head. ‘Care to join me for a bite of supper, then? Us, I should say, because Ivor Novello will be there, too.’

  Why not? Tom thought. But perhaps a press photographer would take a picture of them and … It was no good worrying about everything that might happen. He said, ‘Thanks. We’d like to. And it’ll be interesting to meet Mr Novello. The sailors must sing “Keep the home fires burning” more than any other song.’

  ‘Good! You like spaghetti, Charlie?’

  ‘Never had it,’ Charlie said, grinning. ‘My mother doesn’t cook any dago food, and nor does the Navy – just beef and potatoes.’

  Wharton smiled at him and said, ‘I’ll be five minutes. No, don’t go …’

  T
hey sat round a small table with a red and white checkered tablecloth. It was near midnight, and they had been there over an hour and drunk four bottles of Chianti between them. Charlie, unused to wine, had fallen asleep, his head on the table. Wharton, Novello and Tom held little glasses of grappa, their heads close. They were all a little drunk.

  ‘You mustn’t mind,’ Novello said. ‘You mustn’t feel guilty about it. The Greeks lived this way … and they are the founders of our civilization.’

  God, he is beautiful, Tom thought, so young, his eyes so deep and dark – a genius, too. ‘I wish I could feel like that,’ he mumbled, ‘but … I feel that I’m a freak.’

  Wharton said, ‘People think we only have to meet a nice girl, and we’ll see the light … but it’s in us. You have to be proud of it – it’s you, it’s the way you intend to live your life, and that’s all.’

  ‘They’d throw me out of the Navy in a flash,’ Tom said.

  ‘Why not? There are plenty of other ways to earn a living. We help each other … I know half a dozen fellows who would take you in.’

  Novello said, ‘Do you love the Navy?’

  Tom said, ‘I’ve been in it since I was twelve … that’s a long time … made good friends … it’s my career.’

  ‘But you must have always felt – this?’

  Tom said slowly, ‘Yes … but I pretended I didn’t … tried to commit suicide once, when I first really gave in … with him.’ He nodded at Charlie’s reclining head.

  Novello said, ‘Seriously, what talents do you have? What would you turn to if you were kicked out of the Navy?’

  Tom said slowly, ‘I don’t know … I look at all the dress designs I see – women’s dresses – and think I could do better … I work on them with a pencil … then, of course, I have to tear up the paper, or burn it somehow …’ Novello shook his head wonderingly – ‘I once designed a dress for my sister. She said it was beautiful, but I don’t know …’

  Novello looked at Wharton and said, ‘Arthur Gavilan.’

  Wharton nodded, ‘Just the man.’

  Novello said, ‘Have you ever heard of Arthur?’

  Tom said, ‘Yes. He designs clothes for a lot of duchesses and countesses, doesn’t he? And always wears velvet suits?’

  ‘That’s the man. Arthur makes a fortune because he has taste – because he knows materials – because he knows what a woman ought to look like – and because he treats them all as rather stupid animals … a firm hand, clear instructions, no back talk and, of course, no affection, let alone love. We’ll introduce you to him.’

  ‘Well, thank you, that’s very kind of you,’ Tom said. He felt excited. He would be going to go into a designer’s studio for the first time in his life.

  Wharton said, ‘You’ll get on fine. Arthur loves the Navy. His drawing room’s full of pictures of Jellicoe, Beatty, Battenberg, Jackie Fisher, Hood, Rodney, and of course Nelson – every admiral even you’ve ever heard of.’ He glanced at his gold wristwatch – ‘I have to be going. Give me a call tomorrow, or the day after.’ He handed over a card, and Tom, glancing at it, saw a Dean Street address and a Gerrard telephone number – ‘Don’t join the Army – join us.’

  Novello said, smiling, ‘I must go too. And when you fix that date for Tom with Arthur, Russell, include me.’ He walked out, waving.

  On an impulse Tom said to Wharton, ‘Have you been called up?’

  ‘Oh yes, but they couldn’t take me – bad heart – rheumatic fever when I was a kid. But I do my bit – been to France four times with troupes … a lot of charity appearances for soldiers here at home. I was down in your home town once – Hedlington. We had a good crew, with Harry Lauder, Jenny Jenkins, and Florinda, Marchioness of Jarrow, whom you’ve doubtless heard of. She’s a widow now.’

  ‘Oh,’ Tom exclaimed, ‘I know her slightly. She was very pretty as a young girl.’

  Wharton said, ‘Still is. And not afraid to show her legs and tits. She’ll never be really good, but everyone likes her, audiences too. Most women of that sort are hard as nails, but she’s not … Good night.’

  ‘Good night,’ Tom said, putting out his hand. ‘And … thank you, really. You’ve made me feel much better. I don’t feel that I’m in some terrible prison any more.’

  ‘That prison’s your mind,’ Wharton said, patting him on the shoulder. ‘And now you’d better wake up Charlie.’

  Four days later Tom awoke in the early light and, as he had done every morning of the leave, turned to look down at the young sailor’s head on the pillow beside him. Once, when he was a lieutenant he had brought a girl from the Gaiety chorus here, on a Saturday night; and had tried, without success, to do what he had brought her here to do; and in the morning, awakened before her, and stared down at her tousled woman’s hair all over the pillow and the swell of her naked breasts, and felt, how strange, that she should be in my bed with me.

  But each morning, with Charlie, it seemed right that the young, close-cropped head should lie there, snoring gently, breathing evenly, a little flushed, his neck so thick like a young bull’s. Russell Wharton’s words kept echoing in his head – Don’t feel guilt, remorse, shame … It’s natural … The Greeks did it … everyone does it. It was hard to accept, but, this first time that he had ever actually accepted homosexual behaviour in himself, it had semed natural, and right; and he had not felt shame, guilt, or remorse. This was the only way he could live.

  He slipped out of bed and, pulling on his dressing gown, went to the door, picked up the newspaper, and took it to the drawing room. Jones would be here in an hour. He should get Charlie up soon, and send him to his own room, as they had done every morning. Or should he? As a first step to a new way of life, why not stop pretending, leave Charlie’s bed plainly unslept in?

  He went to the little kitchen, put on the kettle, and sat down to look at the headlines … the Somme battle seemed to be winding down at last, in increasingly bad weather … mob riots continuing in Athens … Sinn Fein outrage in Cork: police constable shot in back and murdered. He read on … the constable lured with another into a narrow alley by cries of a woman apparently in distress; then shots fired, one constable killed, the other wounded; the notorious traitor, Mrs Cate, believed responsible, as second policeman thinks he recognized her when she and others were fleeing the scene of the ambush.

  He read the item once more, then put the paper down … poor Margaret. Yet the situation in Ireland disturbed him. It had been hard to believe that a man of Sir Roger Casement’s eminence had turned traitor, but now it was being whispered that Casement was also a homosexual pervert. He stirred uneasily. That was the way the world thought: homosexuality was more detestable than treason.

  The kettle began to sing, and Tom made tea. Charlie came in, rubbing his eyes and yawning. He was wearing a pair of pyjamas that Tom had lent him, for he did not own any such garments himself. Like the other sailors, he slept in his purser issue drawers and singlet.

  ‘Smelled tea,’ he said. ‘Cor, my head hurts. An’ I stuck to beer, like Mr Wharton said to.’

  ‘Yes,’ Tom said, laughing, ‘but you insisted on having a couple of whiskies with the beer, didn’t you?’

  He looked affectionately at the young man. They’d learned much about each other in these six days; and Tom had found increasing pleasure in opening new windows for Charlie, bringing him to the edge of a way of life that he had not been exposed to in Dipton, or on the lower deck of H.M. warships. The two visits to Arthur Gavilan’s salon, and the one to his luxurious flat, had been particularly wonderful.

  Charlie said, ‘It was that rabbit that upset me. It smelled right horrible!’

  ‘Rule’s famous jugged hare,’ Tom said, laughing again, ‘and if we had another week, we’d eat roast grouse at Wilton’s and roast pheasant at Boulestin’s, by Covent Garden. And oysters at Prince’s … They’re all in season.’

  ‘Fish and chips for me,’ Charlie said, sipping the tea Tom had poured for him. He looked up – ‘I have to go ba
ck tonight.’

  ‘I know.’

  They fell silent.

  After a time Charlie said, ‘You remember what I said to you after you fell in the sea?’

  Tom nodded: the young sailor had said, ‘I love you, sir,’ and then rushed out of the cabin, tears in his eyes.

  Charlie continued, ‘I mean it still … I wish we could be like this all the time. I could learn to cook and clean the place up better than that Jones with his bun face, pretending he doesn’t know I’m a plain matlo.’

  Tom said, ‘I love you, too, Charlie. We mustn’t give this up, whatever happens. After the war …’ He stopped.

  Charlie said, ‘We might be at the bottom of the North Sea, feeding the herrings.’ He cheered up, ‘What shall we do today? Madame Tussaud’s, eh? It’ll give me the creeps, so’s I can stay awake all night on the train up.’

  ‘All right, Madame Tussaud’s this morning, and a football match in the afternoon – rugby. Look in the paper and see who’s playing.’

  Charlie turned the pages – ‘A Harlequins side against a London Hospitals side, at Twickenham, it says.’

  ‘That’ll do us well.’

  ‘Never seen rugby before.’

  ‘Then … it’ll be goodbye until I rejoin the ship, in two days time. I won’t come to King’s Cross with you.’

  ‘’Course not … Here’s Jones.’ Tom did not move, but reached for the paper, and shook it out to read, as Jones let himself in at the outer door.

  Daily Telegraph, Monday, October 30, 1916

  SOMME FIGHTING

  From Perceval Gibbon, British Headquarters (France) Saturday. Men wounded in this week of white-hot fighting in the blasted fields between Les Boeufs and Le Transloy speak chiefly of the mud. They are to be found in the casualty clearing station behind the battle. The great tents lead one into the other – long, shadowy halls where the wounded lie to each side. Such tents I have seen a hundred times in Russia, but never such wounded. The Russian wounded man has always the childlike side of him most developed. Then it was, Well, where have you got it? ‘In the leg, sir – and, God help me, it hurts a lot.’ But here, ‘Got a puncture, sir. Machine gun bullet while we was going over the top … Yes, sir, a rest was all I wanted … No, it don’t hurt nothin’ to speak of!’