Heart of War

by John Masters

  ‘You came … You dance very well, Mr Cowell.’

  His speech was not as precise as normal, and his face was a little flushed. Had he had a drink or two before coming to the dance? He said, ‘You dance very well, too, Miss Rowland … May I call you Alice?’

  She said, ‘Why not?’ feeling a little faint, and warm all over. His Midland accent was more noticeable now that he was, well, a little tiddly. So why was she encouraging him to familiarity, and letting him press his body steadily against hers in this indecent new dance, that was making her breathing come unevenly and causing a tingling in her nipples and between her thighs?

  He said, ‘Do you know about birds, Alice? Will you call me David?’

  ‘David … A little. My nephew, Laurence Cate, has tried to teach all of us in the family something about birds.’

  ‘I go out most Sundays, on my bike … to Sheppey, or the Downs … sometimes a long way, beyond Canterbury.’

  ‘How nice,’ she said. ‘It must be wonderful to know all the birds and their calls.’

  He said, ‘Would you like to come with me, Alice?’

  Obviously his wife didn’t go on these bird-watching expeditions with him; or the daughters. He went alone. She would be alone, all day, in the country, with a married man.

  She was thirty-seven, and there was a war on. Look at what the young women were doing, here and in France. Why should she be passed by?

  She said, ‘I’d love to, David.’

  ‘Sunday after next. You have a bike?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Meet me a mile out on the road to the airfield … that corner where young Guy Rowland, your nephew, killed the Hedlington Ripper … ten o’clock … We’ll have lunch in a pub somewhere – just bread and cheese and ale, it’ll be.’

  ‘I shall love it.’

  ‘Oh, and binoculars, and a little notebook … I’ll bring a book I have on birds, for you to keep.’

  ‘That’ll be very kind of you.’

  Goodness, how stilted and proper she sounded, with her nipples now openly throbbing and hard as stones in her bodice. His eyes met hers, and they were very soft as he said, ‘I haven’t known you for very long, Alice, but … you are one of the nicest women I’ve ever met … kind, gentle, sympathetic … and very nice looking.’

  ‘Not that,’ she said, bridling in spite of herself. Men felt they had to pay that sort of compliment; what she needed, they didn’t understand, was a sense of personal affection, which might even become love.

  ‘Truly,’ he said, ‘I want to be with you as much as I can. It can never be enough.’

  She flushed with pleasure. It was a mercy that he was over forty, and had not enlisted of his own accord. Besides, surely they wouldn’t take him if he had to wear those big glasses, nearly as thick as Richard’s?

  ‘I—’ she began, when a commotion in the hall made her pause and look round. A dozen men and women were coming in through the big doors, flung wide, the cold breath from the autumn street pouring in with them. A little man at their head ran, limping, through the dancers to the bandstand and yelled at the musicians, ‘Shut your noise!’ The band wheezed and groaned to a halt. She recognized Bert Gorse, and now, beside him on the bandstand, the girl who had been Naomi’s friend at Girton, Rachel Cowan. The soldiers and sailors all stopped dancing, holding their partners. She saw anxiety in all their faces. Was there some terrible crisis in the war, and they all called back to their duty at once, in the middle of the night?

  ‘Soldiers! … sailors!’ Bert Gorse shouted. ‘Don’t go back to your regiments, your ships, your barracks! We’ve got to stop the war! Who’s keeping it going? The rich men, the owners, Hoggin and the likes of him! We could end it tomorrow and be no worse off than we were in August 1914 … except that we’ll never get back the men they’ve killed – husbands, sons, fathers … the sixty thousand they did for the first day of the Somme!’

  The crowd on the floor began to growl, becoming not a collection of individuals, men and women linked in separate pairs by arm and hand – but a slowly fusing, welding entity, fuming, snarling … Bloody conchies! … shirkers… traitors …

  Rachel had taken over from Bert. She was addressing the women, in a high-pitched desperate cry, almost a scream – ‘Women … don’t let your men go back! Join us in the struggle to stop the war, stop the profiteering, stop the useless slaughter! Don’t do any war work … don’t …’

  Alice felt a pamphlet pushed into her hand, and turned to stare into the face of her brother, John Rowland. She looked down at the paper, and saw the huge black headline STOP THE WAR!; and, below, in smaller, smudged print: Join the Hedlington No-Conscription Fellowship & Anti-War League – with an address, and a telephone number.

  She gasped, ‘John! Have you joined these people?’

  The crowd sound was increasing fast, a roaring bellow of male bass and female treble, so that John had to raise his voice, though he was only a foot away – ‘Yes, Alice. The war must be stopped, before it destroys all our sons, and England itself.’

  Some men were beginning to break for the platform now, others herding their women out of the melee toward the door, where a police constable had appeared, looking majestic but puzzled. Two sailors and a soldier grabbed Bert by the arms and threw him bodily off the platform. Two women seized Rachel’s hair and pulled in different directions, while hairpins flew. Another woman, hurrying up, took out the long hairpin that had held up her bun and began to jab three inches of it in and out of Rachel’s buttock’s, screaming, ‘That’s for my ’usband, Regimental Sergeant Major Nelson, dead for the likes of you!’ Everyone was shouting, ‘Take that, you nasty little fucker!’ ‘Bitch, bitch!’ ‘Traitor!’ ‘Owww! Oh! Ah!’ On the floor men were kicking Bert in the ribs with heavy boots.

  ‘Put your arm round me, John, quick!’ Alice cried. ‘Pretend we were dancing!’

  She saw David Cowell take position back to back with her brother and experienced a warm glow of pride. He would fight to protect John.

  Naomi pushed to them through the mob, gasping, ‘Daddy! What on earth are …?’

  ‘I came with the pacifists,’ he said quietly.

  ‘You didn’t tell me!’

  ‘I didn’t want to trouble you. Or have an argument, which would upset all of us. My mind was made up.’

  ‘But Daddy … how can you, when the men are dying by thousands in France to win the war?’ The poor girl was in tears, Alice saw, her voice trembling.

  ‘That is exactly why I must,’ John said. ‘Your mother does not agree with me. We are really each doing what we think right, for Boy’s sake.’

  ‘But Boy would …’

  She broke off. Lance Corporal Seddon had pushed her way into the crowd of men kicking Bert Gorse, and now barked, ‘That’s enough now! Stand back! … You, stand back! Do you want to be charged with murder?’ The police constable’s burly figure loomed close as he strode forward, and the men obeyed. Bert lay on the floor, writhing in agony, his face a ghastly green-grey, his nose dripping blood, blood staining his mouth, his lips bloodied. He pulled himself to a kneeling position and began to retch.

  Rachel, beside him, croaked, ‘Savages! Bloody, murdering savages!’ She caught Naomi’s eye and stared, not recognizing her through her own bruised and bloody eyes. Then she whispered, ‘See, this is what your class lives by!’

  Naomi put out a hand – ‘Rachel …’ She wanted to say, let me help; let’s talk about it later; you’ve really asked for trouble, coming here, but …

  Rachel turned her back. Lance Corporal Seddon said, ‘You have some strange friends … Don’t move him yet … let him lie down.’

  Gradually the crowd dispersed. Rachel said to Lance Corporal Seddon, ‘You saved his life.’

  ‘Unfortunately,’ Miss Seddon said coldly, and walked away.

  Daily Telegraph, Monday, November 6, 1916

  FUTURE OF POLAND

  LATEST GERMAN SCHEME FOR

  A NEW KINGDOM

  From Leonar
d Apray, Rotterdam, Sunday. Germany’s bestowal of ‘sovereignty’ on Poland is a surprise. This is true, notwithstanding the fact that a long time ago rumours spoke of such a move being contemplated … In the Allied countries, of course, no sensible person will take Germany’s Polish ‘gesture’ seriously. But many of the Pan-German party take it seriously as – well, they take themselves. For a large section complete annexation, not sovereignty, of Poland is regarded as one of the essentials of Germany’s ‘war objects,’ namely the so-called protection of East Prussia. This large and influential group includes Prince Bülow and nearly all the other open or secret enemies of Herr Bethmann-Hollweg.

  There is no question that an announcement of the new scheme in the Reichstag, whilst doubtless receiving a large amount of approval, would also have provoked another stormy attack on the Government. This, after the recent damaging experiences, Herr Bethmann-Hollweg dared not face. The latest echo of the experiences alluded to is a remarkable article by Maximilian Harden, who makes an attack, covert but evident, on Dr Helfferich, the Home Secretary, demands in effect a peace offer by the German Chancellor and declares that Europe’s horrors cannot be ended by force of arms.

  Cate thought, Poland … one knows of it as a nation, a country; one knows roughly where it was; one knows of Poles and reads about Poles: Paderewski was a Pole, so were Pachmann, Pilsudski, Conrad, whose real name was Korzeniowski; Chopin had been … but when did Poland last actually exist? There had been three dismemberments at the end of the 18th century; after the last of which Poland ceased to exist as an independent country. Then the Congress of Vienna had re-created it – Congress-Poland – with its own constitution but really united to Russia. But soon Russia and Austria and Bismarck’s Germany had once more swallowed it piecemeal. This latest move of Germany’s was obviously aimed at turning Polish resentment and latent patriotism into fervour for Germany, and as a consequence, increased antagonism to Russia, which had made no such declaration in favour of re-establishing a sovereign Poland; though what sort of ‘sovereignty’ Poland would actually receive, if Germany won the war, was a big and unanswered question.

  The real interest of the article lay in the last sentence. Herr Harden’s whole article had not been translated and reprinted, so one could only guess at its full content; but if an influential German was publicly demanding that Germany initiate a move toward peace … well, who knew what might come of it?

  Garrod came in and refilled his cup. ‘Thank you, Garrod,’ he said. She returned to the sideboard with the coffee pot. Watching her, he said, ‘You have a sister in Eastbourne, don’t you?’

  ‘Oh yes, sir,’ Garrod said, turning, ‘ten years older than me, she is. Widowed five years ago.’

  ‘I remember. You went to the husband’s funeral … Would you like to spend Christmas with her this year? It’d be a change … a rest.’

  Garrod looked shocked – ‘Why, sir, my place is here for Christmas, with Miss Stella and her husband coming, and Mr Laurence home.’

  ‘He’ll be at the barracks in Hedlington,’ Cate said. ‘Most officers have to spend Christmas with the men … What about inviting your sister to have Christmas here with us, then?’

  Garrod said, ‘Why … why, thank you, sir. That would be very nice. I’ll have another bed put in my room.’ Cate thought a tear was forming in Garrod’s eyes, and wondered if he was seeing straight; Garrod never cried or became emotional. She continued – ‘It’ll cheer her up a bit, sir. Her eldest son was killed last week. The last day of the Battle of the Somme, the papers said. Thirty-eight he was – been a carpenter all his life, until this war came. Left four children, sir, but I’m sure he died happy. He was doing his duty.’

  17

  The Western Front:

  Wednesday, November 22, 1916

  The rain fell steadily on the British trenches, on the German trenches, on No Man’s Land, and on all the men, living, wounded, and dead, in them. The earth was torn and misshapen, hills and vales alike scarred, gouged, blackened by four months of shell fire. The south-west wind blew the stench of putrefying bodies toward the Germans, and their sentries often wore gas masks after the sun (if there was sun) had been shining for two or three hours, causing a visible miasma of decay to rise and hover, like a poisonous gas, over what had once been the lovely curves of the downlands by the Somme. The battle of the Somme had been officially declared over on November 1st, four months to the day after it began. The British line had advanced a mile, in places.

  In a front line British trench opposite Thiepval, under two groundsheets tied together and fastened on one side to the parados, and on the other to sticks stuck into the soggy floor of the trench, a large ration box, upended, had been covered with an oilcloth, once white, marked out in squares; four bore the devices of club, diamond, heart and spade: one a crown, one an anchor; and the seventh was bare, but on it stood a tiny table with bead legs, and on the table a box big enough to hold, and shake, five dice. Round the box six soldiers of the 1st Battalion, the Weald Light Infantry, wearing steel helmets, slung rifles, and groundsheet capes, stood or sat on other boxes, playing Crown & Anchor.

  Private Lucas shook the dice in the box, chanting in a low voice, ‘Lay it down, me lucky lads … You come on bikes, you go away in Rolls Royce motor cars … Jessop, are you sure you can afford one ’ole tanner? … The Old Firm, the Best Firm, all the way from the Scrubs! Lay it down, Ikey Mo … the old Mudhook’s badly backed … Any more for any more?’

  In a single movement he dived off the ammunition box into the stained chalk of the trench floor. A moment later the others followed as the rumble of a heavy shell became apparent to them, too. As they grovelled the shell burst, five yards behind the parados.

  The shelter was in ruins, the ‘table’ overturned, the oilcloth and dice box in the mud. The soldiers began to pick up the pieces and set them all in order once more.

  ‘Just six more hours,’ Bob Jevons said. His voice was trembling and his hand shook as he set up the little dice table.

  ‘That bugger came too fucking close,’ Private ‘Ikey Mo’ Leavey said. He blinked and licked his lips continuously.

  The youngest of the six, Private Cyril Jessop, who’d given a false age to enlist earlier in the year, said, ‘None of them fuckers is going to get me till I’ve had my greens.’

  ‘Don’t worry, we’ll fix it,’ Stan Quick said. ‘Pity Harry England caught a packet, he could smell a willing cunt a mile away.’

  Private Brace frowned. He’d only been in France a month, and his mind was still attuned to the ponderous decencies of Laburnum Lodge, where he used to be houseman for Mr and Mrs Harry Rowland.

  They knelt again. Quick said, ‘Can’t understand why you haven’t had a piece of skirt already, Cyril. You must be seventeen.’

  Lucas began his chant again, ‘Lay it down, me lucky lads, the more you put down the more you pick up …’ Jevons stiffened. Five shells rumbled over, to burst a hundred yards to the left and a quarter of a mile back, somewhere on the reserve trench area … ‘The old firm, the firm you can trust, all the way from Pentonville … Any more for any more? Lay it down me lucky lads lay it down, thick and heavy … Right, up she comes … Two jam-tarts, the Mudhook, Kinkie, and the Curse … Double on the Tarts … Lay ’em down, pick ’em up – see Jessop, you always win with the old firm …’

  The sentry behind them muttered, ‘Officer coming!’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Mr Jonson.’

  ‘He’ll pretend not to see. Rare good young officer.’

  2nd Lieutenant Benjamin Jonson passed. He pretended not to see the Crown & Anchor game, the soldiers pretended not to see him, decorum was observed. The game continued.

  ‘Lay it down me lucky lads lay it down, look, there’s nothing on Kinkie …’

  ‘… all I want is some cabbages, eggs, bread, a chicken … anything fresh.’

  ‘Up she comes … Two of the darling Majors, and two Mudhooks, and a Shamrock … Thick and heavy! Up she comes �
�’

  ‘ ’Ere, ’ere, look where you’re putting your bleeding boots.’

  Lucas looked up at Ikey Mo Leavey’s angry exclamation. A private soldier staggering down the trench had cannoned into Leavey, knocking him onto the oilcloth. The other soldier had now fallen back against the rear wall of the trench. ‘He’s drunk,’ Lucas said. ‘Half seas over. Wonder where the lucky bastard got the rum.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Never seen him before … must have come along the trench from A Company.’

  The soldier slid slowly down the back wall, his hands slipping off the revetments, and fell on his back in the mud and water in the bottom of the trench.

  The sentry above muttered, ‘Officers coming!’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Gawd, three, four … old Rowley … a brass hat … the Regimental …’

  Lucas swept the stakes off the oilcloth and into his pocket. He whipped the oilcloth off the ‘table,’ rolled it up and stuffed it under his tunic. The little dice table and box he put inside the ammunition box ‘table.’ He hissed, ‘Sit down on the fire-step! We’re talking, see?’

  ‘What are we going to do with this bloke?’ Brace asked.

  The drunken soldier lay on his back, a beatific, twisted smile on his face. Lucas ripped off his groundsheet cape, covered the drunk’s upper body and face with it, then sat down again, the rain dripping off his steel helmet onto his tunic and the box respirator slung on his chest.

  Mr Campbell the adjutant came round the traverse into the bay, followed closely by a lieutenant general in a red-banded gold-leafed cap, Lieutenant Colonel Quentin Rowland, and Regimental Sergeant Major Dalley. The lieutenant general had short, white hair and a fierce, upswept white moustache. He barked at Lucas, ‘What’s your name, my man?’