Everybody's Somebody

by Beryl Kingston

  As the day toiled on, she wondered whether she ought to write to him to find out how he was but thought better of it. If he was fighting, he wouldn’t have time for writing. She’d have to wait until he wrote to her. Oh she did so hope it would be soon.

  A card came four days later, to her heart-juddering relief, and such a pretty one, embroidered all over with pansies and green ribbons and inscribed, ‘To my sweetheart’. He’d written a short message on the reverse side.

  ‘I have been in action. I am ok. One of the chaps sewed this card and I bought it off him.’

  She took it with her when she went to meet Kitty at the Star on Thursday and Kitty was squeaking with delight because she’d had one too.

  ‘An’ all in Suffragette colours,’ she said, taking it out of her pocket and passing it to Rosie. ‘Ain’t he jest the best bruvver you ever ’eard of?’

  Rosie agreed that he was, but the sight of two embroidered cards worried her. A single card might have been embroidered in the trenches but two were most unlikely. And if he was buying them somewhere else, then where was he? Had he been injured and wasn’t admitting it? If only they didn’t have those stupid silly censors blue-pencilling everything out, he could tell her everything she wanted to know. As it was, she couldn’t even write and ask him because they’d probably censor that too. High time they got this stupid war over an’ done with, she thought fiercely. Then the curtain went up, so she settled down to enjoy the show and tried to put her thoughts aside. They came back to torment her in the middle of the night, of course, but even then, she did her best to be sensible. He would write again. She could depend on him to write.

  The next letter arrived on Saturday to say he was at rest behind the lines and everything was ticketty-boo. She was so relieved she wrote back to him at once to thank him for the lovely card and to tell him how glad she was that he wasn’t hurt. It didn’t matter where he was as long as he wasn’t injured. But the fear growled in her belly whenever she wasn’t working and no matter how hard she tried to be sensible it wouldn’t go away.

  Jim stayed in the field hospital until the doctor was sure he could see properly, then he was sent to the rear trenches for the usual fortnight’s rest. It was a sobering return. There were so few men there that he knew or could recognise. But when he was standing in line for his grub, mess tin in hand, he was suddenly thumped between the shoulder blades and, when he turned to see who it was, he found himself staring into the grinning face of Fred Feigenbaum.

  ‘Thought you’d gone an’ all,’ he said.

  ‘Not me!’ Jim told him happily. ‘Charmed life me.’

  ‘Me an’ all.’

  They were so pleased to find one another again they spent the next five minutes punching each other’s arms and backs and only stopped when the men behind them shouted that they were holding up the queue. But what Jim found out when they were settled on the benches eating their grub was dispiriting in the extreme. He knew there’d been hundreds of casualties. He’d seen them with his own eyes but to be told that there were only about a hundred of his own battalion left alive made his heart shrink with horror and pity.

  ‘Took ’em three days to clear the bodies, poor sods,’ Fred said bitterly. ‘An’ then we was sent over the top again. Bleedin’ ridiculous. They brought in another battalion fer reinforcements. Didn’t make a happorth a’ difference. That bleedin’ Haig should come down and try a bit of action fer hisself, instead a’ sitting in a bleedin’ castle miles away. Then we’d see some changes.’

  ‘It’s a stalemate,’ another soldier said. ‘Anyone can see that. We should pack it in an’ all go home. We’re never gonna get anywhere this way, keepin’ all on an’ on.’

  That provoked a growl of agreement all along the table and, in the middle of it, a familiar voice spoke above the growl. ‘Might a’ know’d it ’ud be you two,’ it said. And there was their sergeant grinning down at them, mess tin in hand. ‘Shift yer bums.’

  They made room for him at once and slapped him on the back, sergeant or no, because they were so pleased to see him still alive.

  ‘Heard you was wounded,’ he said to Jim, as he spooned his first mouthful into his face. ‘Bli! This is hot.’

  ‘Had it warmed up for you, special, Sarge,’ Fred told him. Oh it was good to see him again, with his cap on sideways the way they remembered and his grin as friendly as ever and those blunt, tobacco-stained fingers clutching his spoon.

  ‘So what they got planned fer us this time?’ Jim asked.

  ‘You got three weeks lolling around like the great lazy lumps you are,’ the sergeant told them, ‘what you’d better make the most of, let me tell yer, then we’re off to another section.’

  ‘Where’s that then?’ Fred wanted to know, ‘or ain’tcher ’lowed ter say.’

  ‘Got it in one, private. Not that you’d be none the wiser if I did on account of no one’s ever ’eard of it.’

  That night Jim composed the longest letter he’d ever written to his Rosie, telling her he was well but missed her more than he could say, that he’d got a bit of leave from the front line and wished he could spend it at home with her, that the grub was good but he wished he could be back with her eating their pie an’ mash, ‘What woulden I give for some fish and chips’ and signing it by writing her name in crosses for kisses.

  Her answer came by return of post and from then on, they wrote to one another every day, sending their love to one another and signing off with kisses. His final letter at the end of his three-week rest, was to tell her it might be a day or two before he could write again ‘on account of we’re on the march again’ and ended with her name and surname in an elaborate pattern of kisses, yearning to see her with every mark he made.

  She understood the message at once. ‘They’re sending him back to those horrible trenches,’ she told Kitty, when they met up that evening. It upset her so much her eyes were brimming with tears. ‘God rot the lot of ’em. Why can’t they stop it?’

  Kitty put her arms round her neck and kissed her. ‘Don’t take on our Rosie,’ she said. ‘He’ll be orl right. You’ll see. Come up the pub an’ get yerself warm. Your ’ands are like ice.’

  ‘We don’t even know where he is,’ Rosie wept. ‘He could be anywhere.’

  He was in a narrow and extremely uncomfortable trench, looking out over a total wasteland towards a village the sergeant said was called Courcelette, ‘if you ever ’eard such a damn silly name. I seen plenty a corsets in my time but never a one of ’em was a town.’ It was hilly territory and had originally been wooded but now the trees had all been blown to bits and there were only blackened stumps sticking out of the mud like rotten teeth and the long slopes were gouged with trenches, as far as they could see, one line behind the other.

  ‘They seen some action here,’ Jim said.

  Fred sucked his teeth. ‘An’ now they’re gonna see some more,’ he said. ‘You got a gasper?’

  Jim took his battered packet of Wills from his tunic pocket and lit up for them both. ‘When d’you reckon it’ll be?’ he asked as he handed Fred’s one over.

  ‘Don’t ask me, mate,’ Fred said, bitterly. ‘We’re just the poor bloody infantry. Yes sir, no sir. That’s us. I’ll tell you somethin’ though. It’ll be the same bleedin’ shambles as all the others.’

  But he was wrong. This time it was different although it began with the usual routines, early rise, tot of rum as the barrage continued, inspections, breakfast, stand-to. But then they were suddenly warned to keep their heads down and seconds later a huge engine roared above them, and an enormous machine dipped towards the trench, juddered, righted itself and rolled straight across the gap. It was made of metal, painted khaki and instead of wheels it had long rollers that turned slowly, churning up the mud but moving inexorably forward toward the German lines. They had never seen anything like it in the whole of their lives. Even a motor bus seemed puny compared to a machine so large and powerful and dominating.

  ‘Cor, strike me blind,’
Fred said, gazing at it. ‘What the hell is that?’

  ‘It’s armour plated whatever it is,’ Jim said watching it. The German machine guns were firing straight at it and it didn’t seem to have taken a single hit.

  But there was no time for speculation. No time for thought. Whistles were blowing, they were scrambling over the parapet plunging through the gap the machine had torn in the barbed wire, marching out into no-man’s-land. Jim had a brief impression that there were a dozen of the things all round him, maybe even fourteen, then he ran to get behind the nearest protective flank as quickly as he could. The sky was full of whizz-bangs, the stink of foul mud, cordite, shit and rotting flesh was as foetid as ever, but at last there was a safe place to run to. Even when the fight grew bloody, shells were exploding all round him and men were falling and screaming, the sound of those engines was a steadying roar that made him feel confident. He walked behind his one, following the track it was making and after a while he thought he could hear cheering and Fred appeared out of the smoke to shout, ‘We’re through! We’ve broken through!’ He shouted back at him to keep his bleedin’ head down, but the message made him feel triumphant, as if it was possible to win this war after all. It was a momentary feeling because the pulse of their attack was beating hard. There were orders to obey, a clear trail to follow through the German barbed wire, now flattened and neutered by the ponderous weight of the new vehicles, and then they were jumping down into the German trenches and the only Germans there were dead ones. All the others had gone. And it was time to dig in.

  In the days that followed, the Germans counter-attacked and they had to fall back again which they did without taking too many casualties. Then it was a long battle to and fro among the decaying dead and the putrid filth of no-man’s-land until their uniforms were more mud than cloth and they were so dumb with fatigue they hardly knew where they were or even noticed the loss of their mates. And then the whole thing petered out and they were back in control of the German trenches and not long after that they were allowed to trudge back to their own lines for a few days’ rest.

  ‘It’s the third bleedin’ Christmas of the war,’ Fred said lugubriously. ‘All that rot about how it was only gonna last fer six months an’ look where we are.’

  ‘Reckon we should be owed some leave,’ Jim said. ‘I’ve a good mind to ask the sergeant.’

  He was surprised to find that leave was not only owing to them but was going to be granted.

  ‘We shall be there in the new year,’ he said to Fred. But the words were empty in his mouth and he didn’t believe them. It wasn’t until he stepped off the train at London Bridge and saw Rosie standing on the platform waiting for him that he finally realised that good things could happen to him again. He ran to pull her into his arms and stood on the platform kissing her hungrily and publicly for a very long time.

  ‘Oh Rosie!’ he said when he finally paused for breath, ‘this is just…you don’t know how…’ But there were no words to tell her how he was feeling.

  Not that either of them needed words. What they felt was clear on their faces.

  ‘I got time off,’ Rosie said, linking her arm in his and leading him out of the station. ‘They been ever so good. Nearly a week. Kitty’ll be home in an hour or two. She said to tell you. What d’you fancy to eat?’

  He was so happy to be back home with her he felt as though his chest was bursting. ‘Anythink ’ud be nectar,’ he said.

  They lived on kisses and nectar for the next ten days, walked in the park, cold though it was, ate well and went to the Star and the pictures in the evenings. Once, he told her about Fred and what a good mate he was; on another occasion, he told her about the tanks and how they might be the thing to end the war, ‘if they can make enough of ’em’ and Kitty told him they were making shells as hard as ever they could. ‘They turn yer yeller,’ she said, which was true, because her face looked decidedly jaundiced, ‘but it’s got ter be done.’ And he kissed her and said she was ‘one a’ the best’. But for most of his leave they simply enjoyed themselves and put the war out of their minds. By the time he went to London Bridge to catch his train back to France, they’d spent every penny they’d saved.

  Their last kiss was more anguish than pleasure.

  ‘Come back soon,’ Rosie begged, as the train began to pull away.

  His face was so bleak it made her want to weep. ‘Soon as ever they’ll let me,’ he promised, hanging out of the window. ‘An’ if I live through this lot, we’ll get married the day it’s over.’ And he just had time to snatch one last kiss before the train picked up speed and she had to jump off the step and let him go.

  She waved until his face was just a pale blur, his waving hand small and white as a petal. Then she wept with distress. If only they’d stop this horrible war, she thought. It’s gone on far too long and there’s been far too much suffering.

  But there was worse to come and some of it was to hit East London.

  Rosie was hard at work on that particular evening. The restaurant was full of regulars, many of them army officers, and many of whom she knew. She’d noticed Anthony Eden as soon as she walked into the room. He’d grown a neat moustache and looked slightly older but there was no doubt who he was, sitting there so confidently among his fellow officers.

  ‘That’s Captain Eden,’ one of the new waitresses told her. ‘Ain’t ’e good looking.’

  ‘I know,’ Rosie said feeling superior. ‘He comes in a lot. I was his housekeeper before I come here.’

  The waitress was very impressed. ‘Never!’ she said.

  Rosie gave her the correct London answer. ‘Straight up,’ she said and walked off to take her first order.

  There were two familiar faces sitting at that table too, so she greeted them both by name. ‘Good evening Mr John. Good evening Mr de Silva.’

  The two artists looked up and smiled. ‘It’s our Rosie, bigod,’ de Silva said, sparkling at her. ‘And as gorgeous as ever. Have you missed me?’

  She decided to sauce him. She was in the right mood to sauce somebody and he was asking for it. ‘Have you been away then, sir?’

  ‘Have I been away?’ he said, holding up his hands in mock horror. ‘How can you ask such a thing, pretty though you are? I’ve been in France, serving king and country.’

  Rosie looked at his luxurious beard and his curly hair and thought of Jim’s poor shaven head and the terrible bleak look he’d had on his face the last time she saw him, and she was suddenly full of anger. But she held onto her control and simply asked, ‘Are you ready to order sir?’

  He picked up the menu and began to study it and Rosie stood and waited for him while the buzz of conversation in the restaurant rose and fell in soft waves of polite sound. And then without any warning, the comfortable air was shattered by the noise of an enormous explosion. Several of the diners jumped to their feet, looking startled, some called, ‘Good God! What was that?’ as the roar of the explosion reverberated round the room and made the chandeliers chime like bells. The officers and the two artists were impressively calm.

  ‘That was an explosion,’ Augustus John explained to the table behind him. ‘Pretty big one. Munitions I should think.’

  ‘Let’s nip out and see what we can see,’ de Silva said.

  It’s excited him, Rosie thought, noticing the flush on his cheeks, and the thought made him drop even lower in her estimation. That was a terrible explosion, she thought. It’ll have killed people and injured them. Then it occurred to her that if it was a munitions factory it could be the one Kitty worked in and that thought frightened her so much, she had to put one hand on the table to steady herself. She noticed that the maître d’ was walking from table to table smiling and reassuring the guests and that people were calming but her heart was racing with alarm.

  De Silva came back in a matter of minutes to report that the sky was red and ‘full of sparks’, that he’d made a sketch of it and that the taxi driver reckoned it was the Silvertown munition works. And that
made her relax a little.

  The newspapers the following morning proved him right. It had been the munition factory at Silvertown. Sixty-nine workers had been killed and there were ‘many more’ casualties. Rosie read the paper in a mixture of shamed relief and anguished horror. There’s no end to the terrible things war does to us, she thought. It’s as wrong and vile as anything can be. Why doesn’t somebody stop it?

  But nobody did. In April, the papers were full of the news that the Americans had declared war and were sending troops to France ‘with all speed’. The diners in the club told one another that this could make all the difference. ‘Fresh blood,’ they said, without seeming to understand the irony of the words they’d chosen. Rosie winced to hear them and thought of all those men coming over to Europe to be shot to pieces.

  ‘It just goes on an’ on,’ she said to Kitty, when they were in the Star next day.

  ‘Keep yer pecker up!’ Kitty advised. ‘It don’t do to think about it too much, our Rosie. Jest keep on keepin’ on.’

  But that was easier said than done. There seemed to be one ‘push’ after another all through the year, and each one kept her tense with fear that Jim would be hurt. He wrote to her as soon as he could, to tell her he was all right, but that only reassured her until news of the next battle. And there didn’t seem to be any sign of them letting him home on leave again. In June, the first convoy of American troops arrived in France and were christened doughboys by the British, which Rosie thought was a very peculiar thing to call them. In August a third battle began at Ypres but that didn’t worry her so much because she knew Jim wasn’t anywhere near it. Christmas came and went; the weather was bad and there was a lull in the fighting. But then they were into the fourth year of the war and they were still no nearer the end of it.