Heart of War

by John Masters

  Negotiations are broken off owing to the action of the Liverpool men in their ‘slow gear’ method, which is ruinous to the country, disastrous to negotiations, and instead of injuring the railway companies is merely aggravating the position of the poor in obtaining food.

  A flat rate advance of ten shillings a week, Cate thought, why, a private in the infantry was now getting half a crown a day, or seventeen shillings and sixpence a week, so the Liverpool railwaymen were demanding an increase which would amount to over half a soldier’s total pay. A railwayman was usually a skilled man, and some held in their hands considerable responsibility for the lives of the travelling public; but when you compared their sacrifice – even their essentialness – to those who were daily, hourly risking, and giving their lives … it was obvious that equality of sacrifice and universality of effort, were very far from being realities in England yet, in spite of the politicians’ platitudes. Yet, what right did such as he, or Hoggin, or Lord Swanwick, or Richard, or the Governor, have to complain – though they all would? What had any of them suffered, when compared with the soldiers’ sufferings?

  He turned to another headline:

  ACTING FOR THE GOVERNMENT

  The Railway Executive Committee state: ‘In the Press comments on the negotiations now in progress with the railwaymen the statement has frequently occurred that the railway companies’ representatives are meeting representatives of the National Union of Railwaymen. This is not correct: the Railway Executive Committee is acting strictly on behalf of the Government, and under their instructions, in the negotiations with the union, and the railway companies, as such, are not parties to the discussion.’

  Perhaps not, Cate thought, but it so happens that the interests of the railway companies, in this situation, coincide with the interests of the Government – and of the country, at war. He glanced down an adjoining column:

  AIRCRAFT STRIKE

  The strike at Coventry, which is so seriously retarding the output of aircraft and thereby interfering with the whole of the Government military programme, still continues, in spite of the fact that the employers have offered to meet the men’s trade union representatives as soon as work is resumed…

  A Coventry correspondent says that hundreds of men and girls were walking about the streets in idleness yesterday. The factories were picketed, and staffs were not allowed to enter, with the result that there will be no wages paid at the end of the week on account of the wages sheets not being made out.

  Idiocy, Cate thought – worse, treason.

  34

  England, Palestine, Ireland, America: December, 1917

  The pub where Anne Stratton met Mr Chambers was the Lord Nelson, up the hill near the gaol. Mr Chambers chose it because he never went there with his wife or his male cronies. He was a portly man of medium height, with a tobacco-stained walrus moustache – a well-to-do plumber who wore a bowler hat almost as universally as Bob Stratton had, at least in part to hide his bald patch and the thin greying tonsure round it.

  They were sitting in the saloon bar, with four other couples, each couple an island of its own, linked only by the men’s trips to the little counter to refill their own or their women’s glasses.

  Anne was saying, ‘I had another letter from him yesterday. He says the big fighting’s finished till spring now, because it’s winter …’

  ‘The war will be over by spring,’ Mr Chambers said confidently. ‘Then you’ll have him back.’

  He had learned never to say anything derogatory about Frank Stratton. It didn’t take much effort to get Anne into bed but she still loved her husband, and you had to watch your step – listen when she talked about Frank, and say the right things, to make it clear that you, too, thought he was a wonderful fellow. Well, that he was, really. Frank was no chicken, and there he was, badly wounded with the infantry and no sooner mended than gone back to France with the R.F.C. He was the sort of man that was protecting the rest of them, so they could have a pint in a pub, raise a family, eat decently, and get a little slap and tickle on the side now and then.

  She was drinking port and lemon and she felt a pervasive anxiety, which for weeks now even alcohol could not assuage or remove. Making love to Mr Protheroe or Mr Chambers did, in a way, and for a time – just being under them, thrusting up, weeping, crying out – make her forget. Only to remember and know all the more strongly when they had gone. She was pregnant.

  ‘Have another,’ Mr Chambers said softly.

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t, Mr Chambers … well, a little one, then.’ He got up and went to the bar.

  She thought of Frank … the heavy fighting was over, he said. Well, the men of the R.F.C. who didn’t fly – the mechanics and so on, like Frank – were never in much danger, except from German airmen dropping bombs or firing at them on the airfield sometimes. So Frank would come back. How could she think for a moment that it would be best if he didn’t? She’d be having the baby in May. She had not seen Frank for months when she conceived … Mr Protheroe or Mr Chambers? Who knew? How could she tell him? Suppose she smothered the baby as soon as it was born, and dropped it in the Scarrow? Suppose …?

  Mr Chambers returned with her glass. ‘Here you are, my dear … You are looking pretty tonight, pretty as a picture.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Chambers,’ she said. She drank deeply.

  She couldn’t kill a baby of hers! But what would Frank do? She began to sob silently and Mr Chambers put a protective arm round her. ‘There, there,’ he said, ‘he’ll come back safe and sound, you’ll see.’

  As he climbed into his car, Richard Rowland paused a moment to watch a Hedlington Lion start its take-off run. It was loaded to its full take-off weight, plus a thousand pounds, for it was powered by two American Jones & Gatewood A.4 radials of 500 h.p. each, giving it 250 h.p. more than it embodied with its normal Rolls Royce Eagle VIIIs. This was one of a series of tests the company was carrying out with the J. & G radials before installing them in the newfour-engined Buffalo. A crew of four were on board, comprising the chief test pilot, a second pilot, Betty Merritt, and the American mechanic from Jones & Gatewood who had come over with the first batch of engines.

  The machine was going fast now, the engines roaring at full throttle. The tail gradually lifted. For a few seconds more the Lion ran on over the heavy turf, then, without changing the angle of the fuselage relative to the ground, it rose in the air, skimming, rising steadily.

  Richard sighed with pleasure, climbed into his car, and said, ‘Home, please, Kathleen.’ He settled back in his seat … Things were going well. The United States Army had ordered two hundred and fifty J.M.C. lorries – they called them trucks – for delivery to them in France, with the possibility of increasing the order to a thousand before the end of January … The prototype Buffalo was almost ready for its first tests … But danger was lurking beneath the surface: Morgan, the works foreman at J.M.C., had warned him that a number of men there were secretly joining the union – the Union of Skilled Engineers – Bert Gorse’s union. Morgan said he could not speak for Hedlington Aircraft but it was probably true there, too. Richard doubted it, but it would be wise to get Joe Mattingley, the Hedlington plant foreman since Frank Stratton left, to keep his eyes and ears open. Assuming he found it true – then what? Ignore it till they came out in the open and took some action? Even then, the proper response would depend on what action the union did take. As Overfeld had pointed out, a strong well-led union could be a great stabilizing influence – they’d drive a hard bargain, but they were in a position to enforce their side of it. That was all right in theory, but in practice … they were bolsheviks down there on Stalford Street. If he hired a private detective it would not be hard to find out who were in fact secret members of the U.S.E., in both plants, and simply sack them. The rest, who were not members, would not take any action, especially if the sackings were accompanied by some benefit – a small increase in wages, some improvement in working conditions … but Morgan was dead against it. He was an A
merican, but at the same time Welsh through and through – he understood the men; and he said, ‘Don’t do it, boss. It might work now, but they’ll remember, and as soon as the war-time codes are ended they’ll turn on you and have you down with the knife at your throat … Wait. We might be able to persuade the U.S.E. to send someone down here to take over the local branch. Someone we can deal with at J.M.C. – and at Hedlington Aircraft – would help us.’ Perhaps; but it wouldn’t do any harm to hire the private detective as a first step. What use was made of the information obtained would have to be decided at the time. He’d go and see the Chief Constable tomorrow and get some advice on private detective agencies in the county … Must get that done before the weekend, when he had to look at those three prep schools that had been recommended to him for Tim. He would be nine next September, and should certainly start in the Michaelmas term. After that Tim was down for Wellington, in the Lent term of 1921, as it was going to cost less money than Eton, Richard’s own school; and though he was doing very well, now, the financial future looked black with a radical like Lloyd George at the helm … a great war leader of course, but not a friend of the capitalist, or the entrepreneur, and a dangerous demagogue … And Sally was to have a governess, but Susan had insisted that she be an American. ‘You’re taking Tim,’ she’d said, ‘and you’ll take Dicky, too, I know, and make them both English gentlemen, but I’m going to have Sally. She’s going to know that she’s half American … that she doesn’t have to believe in all English shibboleths … just the good ones.’ Privately, Richard didn’t believe that there was such a thing as an American governess; a sort of companion-teacher, perhaps, but there’d be no discipline … well, that was Susan’s business.

  She met him at the door, in the dark of late afternoon, and kissed him. ‘Dicky all right?’ he asked.

  ‘Quite all right,’ she said. She lowered her voice – ‘You must remember to ask after Sally and Tim, too. They can hear.’

  ‘Of course,’ he muttered; then, louder – ‘Sally and Tim?’

  ‘They’re fine,’ she said. ‘We’re playing snap in the drawing room. They’ve had their supper.’

  He hung up his hat and coat and went into the drawing room. The children jumped to their feet and ran toward him – ‘Good evening, Daddy … good evening, Daddy.’ He stooped and kissed them in turn.

  ‘Play snap with us,’ Tim wheedled.

  Oh dear, he wanted a long whisky and a short soda … and a bath … but they’d be sent up to bed soon. He ought to read to them. His father had never read to him – nor had his mother – the one too preoccupied with the bicycle factory, and then the cars … and the other – remote, just remote; brave, and just, but remote, her thoughts perhaps lost in the mists of Ireland.

  ‘All right,’ he said, sitting down, while they screamed, ‘Hooray!’ and clapped their hands.

  They began to play. The cards were flung down with great force, or crept out sneakily, giving the player time to see the face a fraction of a second before the others did … Snap! … Snap! … The hands of the clock crept round. The fire crackled in the grate.

  ‘Snappool!’ Tim screamed, grabbing the pool.

  A smell of burning filled the room with acrid smoke. Sally leaped up, ‘Crikey! We were roasting chestnuts on the shovel … they’ve got burned.’

  ‘Never mind,’ Richard said. ‘Throw them in the fire and put some more on.’

  Susan came down, baby Dicky in her arms. He blinked in the light, not sure whether to cry or coo. ‘He was awake,’ she said, ‘and needed potting.’

  ‘Daddy,’ Dicky said.

  Richard felt warm and loved, and fulfilled. Good heavens, he felt better even than when he was in the factory watching a lorry or an aeroplane take form before his eyes … Home now was more than its component parts of shelter, food, service, sex, affection, rest. It was more valuable to him than his work – it never had been before.

  He shook his head, feeling guilty. How could he feel so happy, when his brother had lost his only son? And Quentin apparently lost a close friend, severely wounded … well, that must happen often enough in this war – except that Quentin had never had any close friends.

  He could not feel guilty. The sun would rise tomorrow and his sons would grow up in a world at peace, English ladies and gentlemen.

  ‘Start again,’ he said; and, soon – ‘Snap!’

  Captain David Toledano, Royal Horse Artillery, stood rigidly at the salute as General Sir Edmund Allenby, Commander-in-Chief of the British forces in Palestine and Egypt, strode past, his head high, gold braid gleaming on the peak of his cap, his demeanour somehow radiating a massive humility; for this ancient arch that he walked through, a conqueror, on foot, was the Jaffa Gate of Jerusalem.

  Toledano thought he would cry, but contained himself, though a strange fierce joy was coursing through him. ‘Next year at Jerusalem,’ he had heard his father say a score of times, at Passover. The Sephardic rabbis at the synagogue in East London where his father used to take him, spoke passionately, in Ladino, of the Holy City, long lost; but he had never been there, and had never thought he would. Turf at Wellington, Big Side, Chapel (which he attended, with his father’s permission, for there was no synagogue closer than Reading), the Iffley Road field of the Oxford Rugby Union, gay evenings at Claridge’s with beautiful young women – very few of them Jewish – Colonel Billy Williams’ ‘cabbage patch’ at Twickenham and a hard game in the second row against the driving Harlequins; or out to Old Deer Park, to maul in the mud against Richmond … these had been the memories of his life, and the substance of his dreams. Now, as he watched the Commander-in-Chief march on, alone, unescorted without pomp of lancers or hussars, or the tramp of marching infantry, the words of Balfour’s recent declaration echoed in his mind and heart:

  His Majesty’s government views with favour the establishment in Palestine of a national home for the Jewish people, and will use their best efforts to facilitate the achievement of this object, it being clearly understood that nothing shall be done which may prejudice the civil and religious rights of existing non-Jewish communities in Palestine …

  He and his father would take the forefront in that work, with money, advice, and planning for the oppressed Jews who’d come here from Russia and Germany, after Germany was beaten. The Toledanos – the English branch at least – would not themselves move here. England was their home and they were not oppressed. But they could help others.

  Bugles blew, flags fluttered in the winter air. The watchers returned to their places, David Toledano to the tented camp of QQ Battery. He went quickly to his own tent, and, seeing that he had an hour before he was due to inspect the horse lines, sat down to write a letter:

  Outside Jerusalem, December 11, 1917:

  Father – An hour ago I watched General Allenby enter Jerusalem on foot. It is ours, as Englishmen. Soon it will be ours, as Jews. I have never felt very strongly Jewish, and you have never tried to force it on me. But I felt it today, and will always do so now. Thank you for giving me this foundation for my life, without my even knowing it.

  The details of the Battle of Cambrai at the end of last month are slowly filtering out here. It was a notable victory and apparently could have been much more decisive if there had been fresh troops available to exploit the initial success of the tanks. What a sight it must have been, 450 tanks crunching forward together! At last a way seems to have been found to escape from the wrestling match in the mud that the Western Front has been for so long. We could use massed tanks almost anywhere out here, of course – but of course we shall not get any. They’ll be kept in France.

  I have officially got my Jacket, and am now Battery Captain of an R.H.A. Battery in an Indian Cavalry Division. I am well, and fit. After all, I am home again!!

  With affectionate best wishes, your respectful son,

  David Toledano

  P. S. To get your Jacket is to be accepted into the Royal Horse Artillery from the Field or Garrison artillery. No one is pos
ted direct to the R.H.A. When on parade with our guns we march at the right of the line, ahead of any other troops. I’m looking forward to trotting the 13-pounders past a regiment of Dragoon Guards who had been thinking they would go before us!

  The man in rough Irish peasant clothes sat on the right side of the jaunting cart, the whip in his hand; the woman, hands work hardened, shawl round her grey hair, head bowed to the winter wind, heavy skirt bedraggled with mud, boots holed and worn, sat on the left side, back to back with the man. The shaggy little brown pony trotted out manfully along the wet yellow road, bending its head a little away from the rain sweeping off the sea to the left, the east, two hundred feet below the end of swelling green fields.

  The man threw over his shoulder – ‘There’s three of them coming in now, Peg.’ Margaret Cate shielded her eyes against the rain and could just make out three low dark shapes, miles out to sea yet, steaming in line ahead for the narrow entrance to Cork Harbour, below them.

  ‘American?’ she asked.

  ‘Aye … come in from a convoy. Another few hundred thousand tons of ammunition reached the British… or wheat … or airyplane engines.’

  Margaret eyed the distant vessels, streamers of black smoke trailing behind them across the ocean, with venomous hatred. America’s entry into the war had obviously much reduced the chances of a German victory, and so of Ireland’s early release from British bondage. But it had also cut away much support for the Sinn Fein movement in America, among ordinary Americans. The stream of dollars that used to arm the revolutionaries had become a trickle.

  The jaunting cart approached two members of the Royal Irish Constabulary, leaning on their bicycles beside the road, looking out over the harbour toward Queenstown in the distance. Margaret burrowed deeper into her shawl. Doyle raised his whip in salute as he passed. One of the constables nodded in acknowledgement. The jaunting cart clipped on.