by John Masters
‘Don’t laugh,’ Quentin said sharply.
‘Ah canna help it … An’ colonel dear, don’t be worrying about your dauchter marryin’ the sergeant major. The times are changin’, sirr, an’ it’s nae use to fart agin the thunder. Let the puir lassie find her man where she will … aah!’ Again he grimaced in pain.
Quentin said, ‘I’ve got to go back. Get well soon. And when you reach a hospital in England, write … tell me where you are so that I can tell … her … And, Archie, do you hear me? I’m going to miss you. Archie? Archie? Do you hear?’
Archie was too exhausted and drowsy to respond, except to nod his head, and Quentin, after a moment more looking down at him, went on to his battalion headquarters.
At ten o’clock that night a runner tumbled down the steps – ‘Sir, the Leinsters is here … Come into our area, A Company, ten minutes ago. Mr Wildeblood sent me to tell you. They’re taking over from us. We’re to go back right away, before it gets light.’
‘Who says?’ Quentin said sharply. ‘Where’s the order?’
‘The Leinsters’ C.O. has it, sir, Mr Wildeblood said, he’s bringing him here as soon as they’ve got their leading company into our trenches and dugouts.’
Quentin said, ‘All right. Go back, give Mr Wildeblood my compliments and tell him the sooner he can bring the Leinsters’ C.O. to me here, the better for all of us.’ He turned to his batman – ‘Cottrell, you go and warn the company commanders of B, C, and D to be ready to pull out, on my written order, when they have been relieved. Run now, man! Wait – tell Captain Sholto in the R.A.P. first.’
Ten minutes later the commanding officer of the 9th Battalion, the Leinster Regiment, came down the steps, his hand to the brim of his steel helmet. He said, ‘Congratulations, Rowland! You got Nollehoek – and held it! You’ve been having a rough time, we could see from back there … Here are the orders.’
Quentin read them quickly then pocketed the paper, and said, ‘It’ll take us about half an hour to get ourselves clear, with what wounded we can move. I’ll show you the company areas … I ought to stay to point everything out by daylight.’
The other colonel said, ‘No need. We can look after ourselves. And I have a gunner O.P. with me.’
Quentin was relieved. He wanted to get out of this hell as much as anyone; and if he stayed, who would see the battalion back?
He said, ‘There are the remains of an officer of mine in C Company area … where our C Company was, at least … He was rather badly mangled. I would be grateful if you could give him a decent burial, here in Nollehoek. He was my nephew.’
‘I’ll see to it myself.’
Daily Telegraph, Thursday, November 15, 1917
HEALTH AND SUNSHINE
BOURNEMOUTH
Visitors continue to arrive daily, and the autumn season is one of the busiest on record. Yesterday a special gathering was held in the King’s Hall to celebrate the 70th birthday of Miss Wingfield Digby, president of the local Y.W.C.A., who has…
SOUTHEND-ON-SEA
The Mayoral procession was one of the most imposing in the history of the borough, and the accommodation at St. Mary’s Church was inadequate. Upon the return to the Municipal Buildings the Mayor presented Mr F. Myall, late private, Royal Fusiliers, with the Military Medal … Mrs. H. W. J. Hobbs has been elected president of the Needlework Guild which …
TENBY
Weather is mild and genial, and visitors have been able to enjoy outdoor pastimes and walks under pleasant conditions. Captain Hughes Morgan, who is serving his sixth term of office as Mayor, attended Divine Service at …
Illustrated Guide, Town Clerk.
Royal Lion Hotel, facing sea. Best position.
Imperial – South. On cliffs. Cui. bourgeoise.
EASTBOURNE
From the number of visitors arriving the prospects of a brisk winter season are considered to be unusually good. It is intended to maintain a full supply of high-class concerts and popular amusements. Official reports point to the continued remarkable healthiness of the town. There is a very low death rate.
Burlington for comfort and cuisine. Gordon Hotels.
Cate sipped his coffee. It was nice to know that there was a low death rate somewhere on earth. The letter beside his plate was addressed in a crabbed, old hand … Blyth’s. He began to open it, hoping to learn that the old man was enjoying a happy, and healthy retirement. Through the windows movement caught his eye, and he got up to investigate. It was John Rowland, looking like a ghost, his feet dragging, his shoulders sagging, his face grey and old, the hand of death on it. Cate dropped the letter and hurried round to the front door, reaching and opening it just as John was raising his hand to knock. The two men stared at each other, wordlessly. Then John began to cry, and Cate went forward and took him in his arms as John’s head sank onto the rough Donegal tweed of his shoulder, sobs racking him.
After a while Cate heard the quiet voice of Garrod behind him – ‘Let me help you bring him in, sir.’
33
America, England, France: November, 1917
The wind howling in from the north off the Wichita Mountains carried a hint of snow in its teeth. Leaden clouds hurried south low over Fort Sill, the thousand tents of Camp Doniphan, and, beyond, the compact little town of Lawton. The six officer candidates stood in a row behind the 75-mm field gun on the park at the west end of Camp Doniphan. Facing them was a Regular Army sergeant in breeches, leggings, and a short coat with sheepskin collar, his campaign hat pushed well forward over his forehead, the red cord and acorns dulled by age.
‘Take post!’ he shouted.
The six young men ran to the gun and took post beside it, some facing inward to the gun, some forward, one back.
The sergeant barked, ‘Call your duties! Gunner!’
The recruit officer at the Gunner’s post bellowed, ‘Set the deflection – apply the deflection difference – give direction to the piece – set the site – give elevation to the piece – call READY – move my head out of the way before the piece is fired – measure a deflection – measure a site – measure an elevation – measure the minimum range – refer the piece!’
‘Cannoneer Number 1.’
This was Johnny Merritt’s post, and he bellowed, ‘Set the range – open and close the breech – call set – fire the piece – use the rammer!’
‘Cannoneer Number 2!’
The next man shouted, ‘Load the piece – throw the empty cartridge out of the way – in volley fire, call out the number of the round …’ His voice trailed away.
The sergeant screamed, ‘What have you forgotten, Anspach? Think now! … Anyone?’
Cannoneer Number 4 shouted, ‘Handle the sight extension bar.’
‘Right! Cannoneer Number 3!’
‘Set the corrector – set the range on the fuse setter – set the fuse when the hand fuse setter is used – distribute the fuses for shell to Numbers 4 and 5 – receive the fused shell from Numbers 4 and 5 and pass them to Number 2.’
‘Cannoneer Number 4!’
‘In time fire, complete the setting of the fuse – in shrapnel fire, pass the round to Number 2 …’
Johnny’s attention wandered. The telegram had been bad enough, but the letter, from Father Christopher, even worse. He still found it an effort to believe that his child, his first born, was dead. Poor Stella … it was all very well for the doctors to say that apnea was a normal condition of infants; that their lungs had not been functioning for those nine months in the womb and often started very shakily … ‘death from natural causes’ sounded soothing, inevitable … but how must Stella be feeling, having carried the child all that time, and then, after suffering the pains of parturition, lost it?
‘Change!’
He returned to reality with a start, and took the Gunner’s post. The recruit who had been acting as Gunner ran to Cannoneer Number 5’s post, Number 5 went to Number 4, and so on. The sergeant barked, ‘Prepare for action!’
Johnny remo
ved the sight support cover, released the elevating latch and operated the elevating and traversing mechanisms, leaving the piece in the centre of its traverse on the axle. Cannoneer Number 1 handed him the sight; he seated it carefully, and checked that the deflection setting was Plateau 1, Drum 100. Then he set the sight at zero, levelled the bubble, opened the sight extension bar case, and waited motionless at his post.
The sergeant barked, ‘Change!’
Johnny doubled back to the post of Cannoneer Number 5. His hands were freezing in the cold wind, and his ears were blue and numb with pain. The cords on his hat were that colour – infantry blue … one day, five or six weeks from now, they’d be the red of the Field Artillery … no, they wouldn’t, they’d be the gold and black of an officer….
‘March order!’
I’m Number 5, Johnny thought to himself – so, replace or otherwise dispose of unused ammunition … but there isn’t any … help Number 3 lower and secure the caisson door and raise and secure the caisson apron … secure aiming stakes on the right side of the piece’s trail … take post …
Change … change … change … Prepare for action … March order … change …
The hours wore on.
The electric lights burned bright overhead in one of the hutted lecture rooms of the School of Fire. There was no heat, and all the students and instructors alike were wearing thick uniforms and heavy coats, either long greatcoats, or shorter coats lined and collared with wool. The instructor, a 1st Lieutenant of Field Artillery, stood by the blackboard, which was marked with a diagram of four field pieces labelled G1, G2, G3, and G4, and parallel dotted and solid lines labelled by other letters and figures. Under all was scrawled in the lieutenant’s handwriting DEFLECTION DIFFERENCE.
Johnny listened, eyeing the lieutenant the while. His name was George Burress and he was a tall, scholarly man of about thirty, not unlike President Wilson in general appearance. He smelled of the classroom, not of the gun park or the stables … his wife Jean was a year or two younger and was very pretty – in Stella’s roses and peaches sort of way … she liked entertaining the young officer candidates … so lonely and far from home, she chirped … Heaven knew there were enough of them here to keep her knee deep in admirers: that’s what she seemed to want …
Lieutenant Burress was speaking, ‘The deflection difference is the difference in deflection which is applied to the several pieces so that each piece may be brought to bear on its own part of the target … What are the planes of fire of the various pieces, taken as a whole, called? Private Anspach?’
‘The sheaf, sir.’
‘Right … the base piece – G1 on the diagram there – having been established on the base line, the other pieces may be laid parallel to it by the use of a common aiming point … establishing each of the other pieces individually parallel to the base line by using an aiming circle or some other angle measuring instrument, or … Corporal Merritt?’
‘Reciprocal laying in the base piece, sir.’
‘Right … Now, let’s form a parallel sheaf by using a common aiming point … The aiming point may be …’
Corrections for angle site … determination of the deflection difference … convergence difference … distribution difference … For distributed fire the deflection difference is equal to the convergence difference increased algebraically by the distribution difference; or DD = p – t + F/N – 1…
Johnny’s head swam. At least, he realized, he wasn’t thinking of Stella and the lost baby …
Application of rules … formation of a parallel sheaf using a director … First case – Orienting line materialized …
He jerked himself awake. He must learn, he must graduate, or he’d never get back to France, or England …
Lady Helen Durand-Beaulieu walked briskly down Walstone’s winding street, a basket of tinned goods on her arm. Her boots crunched satisfyingly into the frosty gravel of the road, a sharp wind made her cheeks tingle and glow. It was three o’clock of a Sunday afternoon and few people were about except some boys dribbling a soccer ball past Mr Fulcher’s cottage and police station. A train was chuffing out of the station, headed for Ashford, its steam a dense cloud in the damp air, the clanking of its coupling rods to be heard a mile away in the general winter silence.
Lady Helen left the village proper behind her and a few minutes later came to Probyn Gorse’s cottage, made her way through the gap in the hedge, and walked through the frost-starched grass to the front door. No dog barked; so Probyn was out, with the Duke of Clarence, she thought. That would make it easier, though he would know as soon as he came in, for the Woman would tell him, as she should.
The Woman opened the door and Helen said, ‘May I come in?’
The Woman stood back, but said nothing. Helen walked in and put the basket on the table. She said, ‘Mr and Mrs Rowland wanted you to have these in good time before Christmas. They’re not very exciting, but we all hope you’ll like them – baked beans, bully beef, stew, some jam … and a bottle of rum.’
‘All from H.U.S.L.,’ the Woman said, glancing at the labels. ‘Mrs Rowland wouldn’t have gone there six months ago.’
‘We’re having a hard time at High Staining,’ Helen said simply. ‘Not compared with others, but we can’t afford to be extravagant.’ She began taking the tins out of the basket. She said, over her shoulder, ‘This is not what I really came about.’ She turned to face the Woman squarely – ‘I’m going to have a baby.’
‘Captain Charles’s.’ It was a statement, not a question, but she nodded. ‘You want me to get rid of it, now that he’s been killed…’
‘Certainly not! Will you help me find a place where I can live, earn some money, do something useful, while I’m waiting for the baby? And will you come and help me have him when the time comes, wherever I am?’
The Woman’s naturally harsh face softened. She said, ‘It will be a boy. You’re sure, are you not?’
Helen nodded. ‘Yes.’
The Woman said, ‘Sit down, milady. There.’ She put some slivers of wood into the stove and moved a simmering pot a few inches. Then – ‘You’ll best go to London. There’s work everywhere for women these days, but London has more … and it will be harder to find you.’
‘I’m not ashamed,’ Helen said. ‘I’m glad. But my father will be terribly upset … My mother, too, for a time, I suppose. And Mr and Mrs Rowland. I don’t want to rub all their noses in it by staying.’
The Woman said suddenly, ‘Do you know Ethel Stratton, that was? Mrs Fagioletti?’
Helen said, ‘Yes, vaguely … She married an Italian waiter and then he divorced her or something. Mr and Mrs Rowland have talked of her.’
The Woman said, ‘They’re back together – except that he’s in the Army, in France. She has two rooms in London, and has been trying to find a boarder, to make a little money, till Fagioletti comes home. Fletcher wrote us about her …’
‘Do you have her address?’ Helen asked eagerly.
‘No, but I know who will have it – her sister, Ruth Hoggin, or her mother, Mrs Stratton. Mrs Stratton’s living with the Hoggins now.’
‘I’ll go and …’ Helen began.
The Woman raised a hand, ‘You’ll go home and get yourself ready. Probyn will give you the address tomorrow.’
‘Then I’ll leave at once.’
‘When will you have the baby?’
‘About the end of March.’
‘Is it kicking?’
‘Just started. Here, feel.’ She stood up, unbuttoned her overcoat and jacket, and laid the Woman’s hand on her belly. Through the thick wool of her shirt she felt the baby kick once against the Woman’s hand, then lie still, a minute, more … another. She found herself smiling with joy.
The Woman said, ‘I’d best take a look to make sure everything’s all right. It’s cold in here, but I won’t be long. Take off your breeches, milady.’
Helen began undressing, tears filling her eyes. The Woman said gently, ‘I’m sorry abou
t the captain. But the boy will make it better for you.’
‘I know. But now … I remember, too much.’
She lay down on the little table and the Woman began gently palpating, while tears ran down Helen’s cheeks onto the bare wood.
Fiona Rowland stared at the letter uncomprehending … token of esteem … happy to give the young couple goods to the value of one hundred pounds from the H.U.S.L. stores in Hedlington, or Aldershot … small compared with what Battery Sergeant Major Robinson has given for his country … modest start on married life … obedient servant, Bill Hoggin … What on earth was this about? She had been looking for a letter from Archie … or from Quentin about Archie … but this? Ah, it was to do with Virginia’s engagement, which had now been announced in the papers: that dreadful man Hoggin was offering to give them a present.
She hurled the letter to the floor and began to pace the flat like a caged tigress. It was a week since Quentin’s letter had reached her. But where was Archie? Quentin should have sent a telegram at once, then perhaps she might have been able to get out to France and intercept him on his way back through the Base Hospital … She was being silly. That would have been impossible. And Quentin had probably done right not even to write until he knew that Archie had survived at least through the first sort of hospital. Quentin had written, ‘You will be as sorry as I to learn that Archie Campbell was severely wounded on November 6, in Nollehoek. I know he reached the C.C.S. (that’s Casualty Clearing Station) all right, but he had just been evacuated when I was able to visit it the day before yesterday. I spoke to a doctor who told me he was not out of danger, from complications, because the bullet had chipped a piece out of his liver and punctured the intestine. That is the last I have heard…’
Archie would write soon – as soon as he could. He knew she would do anything for him, and now he needed her … now he was free of Quentin and the awful magnetic pull of Quentin’s sacred ‘regiment.’ He would come back to her now, for he had done what he had said he must – face the same dangers that Quentin did. He would live, he must, for her … but where – was – he?
