The Somme
Page 13
The engineers on the light railway confirmed our fears. There were no less than four hospitals at Trouville, and they laughed at our hopes of Blighty. Thousands had passed that way with a similar story. A few of the men swore whole-heartedly, but most were sullenly silent: the high hopes of the morning had turned to dust and ashes.
And that was the end of our dreams. Instead of an English hospital, a noisy Convalescent Camp in France, with trestle-beds, rough food, and all the fatigues and discomforts that went with them! The rush of reinforcements from England had cut down the available transport, and we were marooned at Trouville that we might not clog the lines of communication. But we found it difficult to look at the matter thus dispassionately, and after a scrambling half-hearted meal in the crowded mess-room, crept sullenly to our allotted huts and made shift to forget our troubles in sleep. For myself, I was not far from tears.
IX
But worse was to follow. After twenty-four hours in Camp a great number of the more obviously ill and helpless were transferred to hospital, myself among them. A week later the walking wounded were removed to a new and partially completed colony that resembled nothing so much as a builder’s yard. There was little to see but mud and cement, timber and ironwork; and everywhere stood the gaunt skeletons of huts and bungalows. An army of German prisoners was at work there, but for many weeks we lived in a limbo of muddle and makeshift. The ward at first contained only beds, bedding, and empty lockers, with a defective anthracite stove and three hurricane lamps. Outside, a sea of mud ended only at the doorway.
These discouraging surroundings underlined our original disappointment and sunk us in an apathy of pessimism. I in particular had creeping fears to keep me company. We had chummed together on the journey in the usual Army way, but birds of passage like ourselves could never stay long together. In each hospital we found new neighbours. The man who shared your rations to-day, to-morrow you lost for ever.
Those long lonely weeks at Trouville were a penance to me. I was haunted by the fear of discovery, and suffered almost the remorse of a murderer. Terrified by my dread of the death-penalty, night after night I dreamed that the worst had befallen me. I pictured to myself the firing-party and the word of command; the crash of the volley and ‘the nothing all things end in.’ Again and again I recalled the details of that eventful evening, and shrank again from the shock of the bullet. The rifle, the scorching of the wound, the sound of the shots, the chance of an eavesdropper – I brooded miserably over the most sinister possibilities and tried to fashion a line of defence against every shred of evidence. Or should I admit the fact, but insist on an accident? Or would it be best to confess and ask for mercy? Wrapped all day in this obstinate cloak of introspection, I feared above all to betray myself by words shouted in the morbid dreams from which I awoke trembling and dreading the beginnings of madness. I remembered that the others were still there in the line, doing their duty that I might live in safety. Thus despising myself, I almost grew to envy what I now called their happiness. The healthy thoughts of the past seemed banished for ever.
Towards the end of the third week the Sister told me that ‘an inquiry’ had been made about me, and for the moment I thought that the murder was out – that the message came from the battalion. ‘What’s the matter with you, chum? You’re as white as a sheet,’ said somebody; and I muttered some story of a headache and smoked cigarettes furiously. But a guilty conscience had betrayed me for nothing. A telegram had come from home, and my fears of a court-martial were groundless.
This indeed was the ebb-tide of my courage, and gradually, as the days passed without catastrophe, I recovered my confidence and attained almost to cheerfulness. Books were my salvation and helped me to forget. The memory of the crime grew blurred with distance, and time dulled its shame.
For nearly three months I remained at Trouville, in different wards and under different forms of treatment. At first I watched carefully the faces of nurses and doctors for the first hint of suspicion; but the slow cleaning of my scorched hand washed away the blackest evidence, and at last I told myself that I had definitely won the game. But it was still necessary to walk carefully. As soon as the wound had healed I volunteered for light duty with the Hospital Police, and so contrived to waste three weeks without massage. By this means I might evade a complete recovery, and with normal luck make a bid for a medical board, a low category, and a job at the Base.
But my good fortune went further, and at an hour’s notice I was warned for an English convoy. In mid-June I left France for good, and in due time the Army. Behold me now with a War Gratuity and a Pension, Gold Stripes and Service Chevrons, the reputation of a man who has done his bit, and the unconsciously ironical gratitude of strangers!
And was it, after all, worth while to barter self-respect for safety? Often I wish I had risked everything and taken my chance with the others. Often I tell myself that it was on the knees of the Gods whether in that event I should have emerged at all from the struggle; that death on a battlefield is merely the crowning absurdity to a life of folly; that self-preservation is no crime. Perhaps it is the knowledge of the thousands who evaded so successfully the horrors of the War – profited by them rather – that reconciles me most of all to my own weakness. There is a grim humour in the voluble explanations of those who somehow failed to bear the burden.
But though I protest until my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth, the coward is a coward still, and nothing can exonerate him. I hoped only to give you some notion of what war may mean to a weakling. At least I have hidden nothing. What you think of me I shall never know.
X
For the train had reached Exeter, and my companion vanished so abruptly that I had not even time to wish him farewell. I have never seen him since, and indeed I feel sure that it was only to a stranger that he could have made confession. To all of us in its season there comes the desire to tear aside the veils of reticence: it so happened that the time and the occasion were favourable to me. The unknown’s conduct I dare not judge. His story must speak for itself.
About the Author
Arthur Donald “A. D.” Gristwood was born in 1893. He enlisted in the British Army in 1915, joining the 5th London Regiment. He was later discharged due to injuries. After the war, Gristwood struck up a friendship with H. G. Wells, who was impressed by his writing and encouraged him. Through Wells’ influence, The Somme was published by Jonathan Cape in 1927. Gristwood committed suicide in 1933.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Originally published in 1927
A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library
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