A Different Kind of Love

by Sheelagh Kelly

  ‘After three direct hits we decided it would be safer here,’ explained Colonel Addison smilingly upon their reunion. ‘Welcome back, RSM.’

  Following the exchange of a few genuine pleasantries with his CO, Probyn’s first query was about the strength of the battalion. Gladly, no more of his young officers had been killed in his absence, though Lieutenant Riddell had been wounded, along with seventeen others. Informed of the four rankers who had died, he registered momentary sadness over their loss, before storing their names away at the back of his mind along with the dozens of others from previous conflicts. Thenceforth, his immediate impulse was to re-establish contact with those who had become his particular favourites.

  First, however, he deposited the rest of his kit in a similar excavation to the colonel’s, and with the help of his batman put Grace’s tins of cocoa to good use, boiling up two large containers of the beverage. It did not matter that on freezing nights to come there would be none for himself; these lads had been stuck here for three months, he hadn’t. ‘Shame there’s not enough for everybody,’ he told Arrowsmith, ‘but at least it’ll warm a few cockles. I suppose it’s too much to hope that we’ve got any fresh milk to put in it? I hate this condensed stuff.’

  ‘Let me just go and have a word with Violet, sir.’ Wearing a canny expression, Ralph Arrowsmith excused himself.

  The French had been very generous with their dairy produce, but Probyn was surprised by the amount of milk in the bucket that Arrowsmith brought back. ‘I hope your friend Violet hasn’t left herself short on our account.’

  ‘You can ask her yourself, sir, she’s only in the next dugout.’ Arrowsmith laughingly explained that the battalion now had its own cow. ‘I found her wandering loose. Well, I couldn’t leave her to fend for herself, could I?’

  Probyn was most admiring of his batman’s resourcefulness. ‘By, is there nothing you can’t lay your hands on, Ralph? You’d have made a good regular.’

  But the tailor was quick to dispel this. ‘Ooh no, sir, it’s all a trifle too windy for my liking. If I’d known how bad it would be I’d never have volunteered.’

  ‘At least you’re honest. Here, have a cup yourself.’ Wearing his new steel helmet and carrying a dixie in each hand, Probyn went out along the frozen line, picking his way amongst the shellholes and the bits of man and horse that dangled from the barbed wire, distributing cocoa along his way and instructing the recipients to, ‘Warm yourselves up, boys.’

  Leaving a ripple of appreciation in his wake, and with just enough cocoa left, he went to seek out his young officers, finding five of them in Louis Postgate’s dugout, four sitting round a table, the fifth pacing uncomfortably before a charcoal brazier that gave out dreadful fumes.

  Grown tired of Foxy Reynard’s complaints about the cold, Louis seemed immensely pleased to see the regimental sergeant-major and jumped up from his battered chair, his exclamation forming a cloud on the freezing atmosphere. ‘Why, Mr Kilmaster, welcome back!’

  ‘Good to be back, sir.’ Of course it wasn’t, what fool would gain pleasure from this? But there was partial truth in that he had missed the company of these brave young men. ‘Got your mugs handy?’ When these were hurriedly produced, plus an extra one for him, a smiling Probyn shared the last of the cocoa between them, receiving more expressions of gratitude. Steam began to drift around the earthen hovel.

  Now as dishevelled as his brother, his eyes holding that same haunted look, Guy Postgate wrapped filthy hands around his tin mug, the others doing likewise. ‘Whilst this is gratefully acknowledged, Mr Kilmaster, I sincerely hope it’s not all you’ve got with you?’

  Probyn returned his smile and took a sip from his mug, wiping his eyes that had begun to water from the pungent fumes of the brazier. ‘No, I’ve brought your reinforcements, sir, although they’re very green, as you might expect.’

  Louis grinned at his fellow troglodytes. ‘Does this mean we may now consider ourselves veterans?’

  ‘You certainly may, sir.’ It had been a gap of only three months since he had laid eyes on them, but long enough for those left behind in the trenches to have developed a layer of world-weariness. Saddened for their lost youth, Probyn turned his attention to the array of saucy postcards that were pinned to the sandbagged walls above Louis’s hammock and made tutting sounds of disapproval that he knew would amuse the young men.

  At least most of them. A look of discomfort on his pimply face, after a few sips Reynard had left his mug on the table and started pacing again, stamping his feet and beating himself with his arms, moaning about how numbingly cold it was.

  As was customary, everyone ignored him, demanding to hear from the RSM what was going on at home.

  Before Probyn could relate this Faljambe interjected with a snarl of condemnation, ‘For the last time, Foxy, will you stop blocking the fire!’

  Mumbling apology, a pain-faced Reynard sat down and, whilst Probyn relayed his news, began to remove the mud-caked boots.

  Gaylard presented his schoolboyish face with its old man’s eyes, eager to know. ‘Can you give us any inkling of how much longer we might be here, Mr Kilmaster?’ Rumours abounded of impending pushes, but still they were kept motionless in the cold.

  Speaking truthfully, Probyn said he did not know but doubted that they would be going far in this atrocious weather.

  ‘I told you I had bad circulation!’ A triumphant Reynard held up one of his socks, to which adhered two blackened appendages that had once been his toes.

  Whilst others beheld the spectacle with disgust, Probyn stepped forward with calm advice: ‘Better hop down to the aid post, sir. Come, let me give you a hand.’

  Reynard’s expression of triumph had quickly turned to one of dismay as he gazed upon his frost-bitten foot. Disregarding the RSM’s offer of assistance, he looked up with a stunned expression on his face. ‘Does this mean I’ll be going home?’

  ‘It does, sir.’ Probyn saw the briefest flicker of relief take over Reynard’s face before being replaced by manufactured woe.

  ‘Oh, but I feel such a fraud! I did so want to make a contribution.’

  ‘And you have, sir.’ Probyn spoke genuinely and took one of Reynard’s arms, Louis hurrying to take the other, Faljambe and his companions gathering round to voice concern.

  ‘Bad luck, Foxy.’ His face sincere, Guy delivered a sympathetic pat to the victim’s shoulder. ‘We’ll be sorry to lose you.’

  Showing disbelief that his valiant career had been cut short after just six months and still holding the sock with its putrefied attachments, Reynard uttered a forlorn goodbye that totally concealed his gladness to be going from this shambles, before allowing himself to be supported to the aid post.

  There was no time to dwell on his departure for the scream of shells heralded an attack, sending everyone diving for cover. It was too dangerous to move, so Probyn stayed put, his ears and nerves tortured by the constant bombardment as his own howitzers set up retaliatory fire. When he finally returned to HQ after darkness he found that the cow had been hit by a splinter of shell and had bled to death.

  * * *

  Lieutenant Reynard was not the only one to suffer from the freezing mud of winter. Coming out of the line and removing their louse-ridden garb, many more were to discover they had become unwitting victims of frostbite. Private Porks barely had time to observe that one of his toes had turned black before it subsequently dropped off.

  Trying to hide his distress at being parted from his close friend, a cheerful Hamm piggy-backed him to the ambulance and, along with other comrades, waved him off to Blighty, telling him how lucky he was.

  Hugh Faljambe looked particularly despondent as the ambulance pulled away.

  ‘Don’t take it to heart, Hugh,’ said Louis.

  ‘What?’ The tone was confused.

  ‘I know you were fond of Pork but—’

  ‘Oh, it’s not that!’ Rather haughtily, Faljambe set his friend straight. ‘No, I’m just put out that I appear to
be losing my charm.’ His arrogance blinding him to the others’ shared mirth, he told them, ‘I was snooping around the village and came across this old landaulet which would be absolutely ideal for jaunts into Estaires. Unfortunately the wretched woman wouldn’t let it go. It’s sitting there covered in cobwebs – what use is it to her? I threatened to commandeer it but she refused to budge. Got quite rude, in fact.’

  ‘I can’t imagine why,’ murmured Louis, sharing a sly smile with the RSM before addressing Gaylard. ‘Go find some petrol, Bob – er, don’t get lost – we’ll show him how it’s done.’

  ‘You’re very certain of yourself,’ scoffed Faljambe as Gaylard went off.

  ‘Not at all, but I have two friends who are certain to sway Madame’s opinion.’ Ducking into his lair Louis rifled through the Fortnum and Mason hamper bequeathed by Reynard and emerged, hands laden with luxuries.

  ‘Would you care for some pâté, Mr Kilmaster?’

  Gratefully accepting the offering, Probyn smiled as he watched the young men embark on their sortie, Faljambe in the lead, Gaylard lugging a can of petrol and Louis advising Faljambe that he should keep out of the woman’s way once they arrived and to let him do the talking.

  * * *

  Probyn was not to see the results of their foray until some days later. Making an impromptu decision to spend his final night of rest enjoying a night out in Estaires, he was walking the three miles into the town when, at the insistent honking to his rear, he turned to see a motorcar pull alongside him. Polished and painted with the battalion sign, the landaulet was a very superior vehicle to the one he had imagined.

  A merry invitation pierced the rumbling of war in the background. ‘Can we offer you a lift on the Postgate Express, Mr Kilmaster?’

  Before the surprised RSM could respond another voice leaped in, sounding rather indignant. ‘Er, why not Faljambe’s Flyer? I was the one who found it.’

  ‘But I was the one who won it,’ insisted a grinning Louis, and explained to Probyn how the vehicle had been transformed from its previous cobwebby state. ‘Madame even helped us find some paint. Jump in, Mr Kilmaster!’

  Susceptible to Louis’s laughing blue eyes himself, Probyn could well imagine how the owner of the car had fallen to his charms. Accepting the invitation, he squeezed in beside the gay young officers and, though contributing few words, he smiled in quiet appreciation of their youthful repartee during the journey that remained.

  Upon reaching Estaires he thanked them for the lift and, refusing Louis’s invitation to join them, said he had a prior engagement and saw them on their way, chuckling at Faljambe’s murmur of relief. ‘Thank God, I thought he was going to ruin my night.’

  Taking the opposite direction, the RSM went off to a concert, alone.

  Some of the turns were excellent, others atrocious, consisting of bad jokes, monotonous monologues and caterwauling fiddles. Deciding to leave if the next act did not show more talent, he was jerked back into his seat by the announcement of a name that was most familiar to him. Smiling broadly, he sat back to enjoy the dulcet tones of Michael Melody.

  It was a sentimental ballad, of course; what else could one expect from Mick? But he enjoyed it as much as the rest of the audience and there were many shouts of ‘Encore!’ before, to rapturous applause, the Irishman was allowed to leave the stage.

  Pleased with himself, Mick was going along a corridor when a disembodied voice called, ‘Halt! Who goes there?’

  He stiffened at first, then a hint of recognition came into his stance. ‘’Tis meself,’ he answered, a cautious smile playing at his lips.

  ‘Advance yourself and be recognized!’ The owner of the voice emerged from his hiding place.

  ‘Pa, you old sod!’ Mick beheld him with obvious pleasure, his manner still that of a friendly young animal, though he must be over forty now. ‘Didn’t I know it was you! In God’s name, will ye ever look at him – wasn’t I always saying you’d make RSM!’ Grinning widely, he enjoined in a strenuous shaking of hands with Probyn, looking the bullish figure up and down in amazement.

  Despite joining the army at the same time and sleeping side by side until Mick had been transferred, they had little in common and had never been close, Probyn regarding the Irishman as a wastrel for not using his many talents to improve his status. Even so, he was an immensely likeable sort and Probyn was happy to see this chummy face, not much altered, despite the hint of grey around the temples and widow’s peak, and the ribbing he gave was not malicious. ‘I see you’ve still managed to avoid a stripe, Mick.’ The other’s khaki sleeve bore only the insignia of the RAMC.

  ‘I have indeed, though they tried their very best to force me into it! Well, fancy that, among all these millions of soldiers we manage to bump into each other!’

  ‘Oh, never underestimate such coincidence,’ smiled Probyn, still engaged in the other’s grip. ‘Only last week I found myself next to Grace’s brother.’ Amidst thousands, passing on the road, he and Fred had exchanged news and cigarettes before marching their separate ways.

  Mick could not rid himself of the incredulous expression. ‘How are ye? Oh, ’tis great to see ye! How long has it been?’

  ‘His Majesty’s Coronation, I think!’

  ‘Aye, it must be!’ Another vigorous shaking of hands.

  Amid much smiling and incredulity, it transpired that Mick was billeted in Estaires for the moment. Flouting regulations, the regimental sergeant-major immediately accepted the hospital orderly’s invitation to have a drink with him, and off they went together to the Ping-Pong Café.

  Upon entering there was a welcome draught of warm air from the stove, and the not so welcome sight of Private Tom Unthank, who was obviously the worse for drink, for he was slumped low over the table and his face was even more morose than usual as he lectured his drinking partner, stabbing his finger to make his point. Probyn almost turned round and went out, but then Unthank was quiet compared to Hugh Faljambe’s braying laughter that now assaulted him.

  At the centre of the room, in a soft pool of light provided by oil lamps, the group of young officers was having a whale of a time, Louis apparently in his element surrounded by daughters of the owner Agnes, Estelle, Berthe and Pauline, the champagne flowing freely.

  ‘Don’t go, Mr Kilmaster! There’s plenty of room.’

  Quietly acknowledging Louis’s greeting, but declining the offer to join his table, Probyn deftly steered Mick to one cast in shadow and less obtrusive. The last thing he wanted was attention from the drunken Unthank.

  Madame approached with a jug of beer from which Mick accepted a glass, his companion choosing coffee.

  Then, between bursts of loud laughter from the officers’ table, the friends’ questions began. ‘Still living in York, Mick?’

  ‘I am! And you?’

  ‘No, Denaby Main.’ Probyn explained that after his military term was over he had gone back to mining. ‘And how’s Mrs Mick these days?’

  ‘Ah, she’s a wonderful woman!’ The other’s ruddy face projected ecstasy. ‘Wasn’t too pleased at me coming here, I can tell ye, but a man has to do his bit, doesn’t he?’

  ‘He does indeed.’ Probyn took a sip of his coffee. ‘You were expecting your first bairn the last time I saw yo—’

  ‘Ah yes! Mary’s four years old now, God love her.’ Mick looked fond. ‘Then there’s Brendan, he’s three, and another on the way. Yourself?’

  Probyn gave a sheepish laugh. ‘Seven.’

  ‘God love us! And you accusing the Catholics of taking over the world.’

  A wry smile. ‘You’re forgetting I’m one of your lot now.’

  ‘Ah, that’s right. There’s nothing like a convert for taking the teachings so literally.’

  ‘Well, I suppose I’ve an excuse. I did have a head start on you.’ Probyn had been married seventeen years to Mick’s five.

  ‘Aye, fair play to ye – and how is the lovely Grace?’

  Thus the conversation went on, the old pals reminiscing
of former comrades and their early days in the army, to every one of Probyn’s sentences Mick rattling off ten. Someone began to play a mouth organ, its sentimental songs of home reducing the Irishman’s volume, his face becoming dreamy.

  ‘So what d’ye think of France? ’Tis beautiful light here, don’t ye think? When the bombs are not dropping, I mean.’

  Lacking Mick’s artistic eye, Probyn had not noticed until having this pointed out to him. ‘Yes, I suppose it is – Oh deary me, that’s not such a beautiful sight, though.’ The door had suddenly opened and the convivial atmosphere changed dramatically, all heads turning to the military policeman framed within its jambs. From beneath the slashed peak of his cap a suspicious glare encompassed those in the room, seeking out offenders and coming to rest on the regimental sergeant-major. Though apprehensive, Probyn met the gaze squarely, hoping the redcap might use his discretion and overlook the lower rank of his drinking partner. But one glance at those eyes and his heart sank, intuition telling him even before the other opened his mouth that here was a stickler for the rules. Out came a notebook and the MP began to stalk across to him, pencil at the ready to take his name and number. Uttering an inward groan, Probyn mentally cursed Michael Melody as a jinx. What infernal stroke of fate had caused their paths to cross? He prepared himself for arrest and trial for the breaking of Divisional Orders, to be demoted from the rank he had coveted so long.

  But then, the MP’s eye was distracted by another pair of transgressors at a table and he made a sudden diversion.

  ‘You know the rules about drinking with lower ranks!’ The MP addressed Unthank’s drinking companion, the unfortunate Corporal Bebby, who had been corralled by Unthank and dragged in here against his will; rather than pulling rank he had decided to take the easy way, or so he had assumed; he was not so sure now.