As it’s Saturday night, Charlie is joining her for dinner and he’ll spend the night. He’s been given the rank of Lieutenant, a natural leader. His steely exterior has no doubt communicated that he has all his emotions under control, but the bravado’s been slowly leached away by the growing death toll, and his first act on entering the house is most often to reach for the paper and, with lit cigarette, start scanning the lists for people he knows. He usually finds a few.
Sarita’s started praying, although she’s not sure who to approach, and wishes she’d made some sort of diplomatic advances towards the creator in a time of peace as now she’s obviously in a disadvantaged position. A week earlier, she’d taken her father to Eton to see Roddie, who was marching in some sort of parade. And there the boys were, in their ceremonial top hats and tails, all in step, and—a horror—carrying rifles. Some of these boys, like Roddie, were only twelve years old. She’d looked from face to face in the onlookers to see if anyone recognized the terrible image that this presented, but the women had their faces composed in stoic sacrifice and the men were aping pride. Her father had taken her by the elbow and led her to a tent where tea and biscuits were provided as some sort of civilizing restorative.
Charlie is cheerful. Apparently he’s found some willing girl in the village, but he is not yet inclined to supply her name. He’s worked his way through recent events, his routines, and she’s listened to him go on and on about what they do all day. March—which is essentially walking, which he already knew how to do. Shoot, which he also knew how to do. And order people around, at which he’s a natural. To the regular soldiers, however, listening to Charlie must be a novelty: something to learn. Training has been conceived to replace actual thought with reflex. One naturally runs from bullets and this training brainwashes you into running towards them. If somehow you manage to overcome the training, your own officers will shoot you for cowardice. All of this Charlie finds obvious and as it should be as he’s already been trained—brainwashed—through his years in the British public school system. He finds her opinions entertaining in their bizarre singularity.
“But that’s really it. We’ve been drilling in the same formation for the last week. We’ve got it.”
“Best that you get it right.” She pours herself some wine, shifting in her chair that responds by releasing a ghost mold from the cushion. “You do understand I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Charlie smiles. “I can’t believe you’re letting Herbie go in for flying.”
“Since when is anything my decision?”
“The trenches are one thing, but you know the life expectancy of the pilots is really bad. They send them over Germany when they’ve had half an hour of flying time. That’s it. They’re playing an odds game with planes.”
“An odds game?”
“If ten percent get back, it’s worth it.”
“What are the chances of them calling him up? Herbie will live out the war in Rolleboise driving your father around. Maybe all this exposure to hospitals will make him want to become a doctor.” She can’t believe she’s comforting Charlie. But they always do this. In another ten minutes, they’ll be talking about Herbie again and he’ll be bringing her back from the cliff edge.
Charlie sips the wine, and sips again. “What is this?”
“It’s one of the bottles that we took when we evacuated. It ended up getting tucked into a bag of my clothing. Perhaps I should have saved it, but what’s the point?”
“Definitely one of the good bottles.”
The chops are overdone as this local girl cannot cook, but the food—at least for Sarita—is just an excuse for the wine. “Charlie,” she starts in, but what exactly does she want to say?
“Chris Landsman is dead. Do you remember him?”
“I remember you talking of him.” She chases the peas around the plate with her fork, then gives up. “Charlie, what will you do in Flanders?”
He considers carefully. “I will have men under my command. I will lead them wherever they need to be led.”
“A lot of them won’t come back.”
Charlie tears at the mutton, gets a large piece off, and chews it thoughtfully. He hasn’t bothered to tell her not to worry, as he has worn out that phrase. He’s also stopped telling her to eat. He swallows and takes the wine again. “I know that.”
It’s her move. “We need to figure out a way for you not to go. There is money for that.”
“Money for what?”
“If you had a condition—”
“Do you mean to buy a doctor’s statement? Do you think that anyone would believe that I have a weak heart? Or bad eyesight? Or do you mean to send me to Argentina to hide until it’s over?”
“Those are all good ideas.”
“I’m actually good at soldiering, Mother.” His voice is measured and calm. “I’m a good soldier. I’m a good leader. I’m as fit a man as there is in England and people know that and I need you to know that.”
“This is not about being good at something, Charlie. You’ve won everything you tried your hand at. But it’s not about winning, it’s about surviving.”
“Mother, in times of war—”
“You think I don’t know what I’m talking about, because I know nothing of battle. But if anyone would take me, I would fight. And I would shoot a man. If I thought he might shoot at me, I could do it. I might even like it. And you know why?”
Charlie is listening, curious if nothing else.
“Because I am a survivor. I know what it is like to be hungry and barefoot and scared. This life that you’ve been living—boxing, Oxford, girls—that’s a game. But there are times when it isn’t a game. This is one of those times and the loser does not get second place.” Her voice is cracking and there are tears, but she is still strong.
“There are men fighting with more money than us. There are earls and dukes in the trenches. I need to do this in order to have a life on the other side of it, after the war. Avoidance of this is guaranteed to create failure in my life.”
“You’re reasoning with me,” she says. “You are trying to push me back so that I will not have false hope.”
“What else can I do? If there was a way out, I wouldn’t take it.”
“You wouldn’t take it,” she repeats, a bitter whisper. How could he put such little value on his golden life? She pushes the chair away from the table, pulls at her face with the back of her hands to clear the tears. He seems surprised to have her approach and what is she doing. She finds herself smoothing his hair almost violently, down on his head. She takes his hand, looking at each perfect finger. “Charlie, I cannot send my child to war.” She gets it out, but broken with sobs.
At least she’s upset him, disturbed that unearned sense of purpose. He says, “All mothers feel this way.”
“No,” she says. “No, that is impossible. No one can feel this way.”
“I’ll be careful,” he says, looking up at her, scared to see her so unhinged.
“If you don’t come back,” she says, “it will kill me.”
She sits in the chair beside him. He’s smoking and she’s not sure how long they stay there, silent. The food grows cold, the fat congealing. He walks to her place for her glass and the bottle of wine. Their silence comforts her with its brutal chill. She reaches for his cigarettes and lights one, inhales.
“Mother?” Charlie says, chiding.
“What?”
“I didn’t know you smoked.”
She blows out a series of rings, sends the smoke streaming into her nostrils, exhales completely. “And now you do.”
VII
Limburg
January 1915
Casement can’t understand a word they’re saying, but from the frequent glances delivered by the front-seat passenger, a Hauptmann Molden, he knows they’re talking about him. Adler says h
e’s paranoid, and he often is, but not right now. He should be steeling himself for the spectacle of Irish prisoners of war, for the reek of the camp, for the sight of malnourished, hopeless men. He should be working out some phrases to get the blood boiling, to inspire them to once more pick up the rifle and fight, but he has thus far not been successful. Five men—that is the extent of his Irish Brigade, and what can five men do?
What can one man do?
His hands are shaking and he can feel cold leather pressing into his seat bones through the wool of his pants as he is worn to nothing and there’s no more flesh to cushion. He has a crate of Alice’s The Making of Ireland and Its Undoing next to him on the seat, although the author no longer supports him. Alice. Clearheaded Alice. She says he is now in league with the Americans, who can fight all they want because they suffer no consequences. Certainly she would buy weapons from the Germans, but that is not the same as inviting them as conquerors. Does he not see how many Irish have enlisted with the Allies? Does he not see how they’ve suffered at the hands of the Kaiser? What happens when those men come home? But he is trying to recruit Irishmen, not Germans. And her book might work as a weapon, bought on the sly in Ireland and shipped from the United States.
Does he really want to send these men back into battle?
He has not seen the trenches but several months ago was brought to tour the site of an August victory in Ardennes. This was to impress on him the might of Germany. Victory, apparently, was embodied by a mass grave. His translator, a tall, dark-haired man from Tubingen, a tutor of literature, had related the chatter from the higher-ups, citing figures, casualties in other fronts, the disorganization of the French, but as the man drew up to the edge of the pit, he grew silent. The stench of spilled blood and rot made them cough. Together he and Casement witnessed the incomprehensible tangle of limbs, the gape of mouths and eyes, muddied hands, tufts of hair and torn flesh. The image was untranslatable, impossible as a whole, resistant to being broken down into the men who formed its elements. Someone had desired this carnage and was now pleased. Casement looked to his companion, who was cleaning his glasses with a handkerchief. He placed them back on his face, looping the stems over his ears, and exhaled carefully. A look over to the higher-ups, who were hacking words into the air with practiced vehemence, and he said, “They say it is good for morale. But it is not good for my morale.”
Casement, looking into the pit, said, “Are they all French?” And immediately regretted the insensitivity, which was intuited by his companion.
The translator managed, “Who is it who said, ‘War condemns all who yearn to peace’?”
“I don’t know,” Casement replied. “I don’t know if I ever knew.” But he is so condemned.
In his quiet moments he acknowledges that he has lost his faith in Germany, but not in Irishmen: these Irishmen who will form his Irish Brigade, fighting on the side of Ireland, against the English tyrant. Again, he sees Molden peering at him and realizes that the lip is wobbling again, in and out, like a toothless man masticating his bread.
There is the usual officious rubbish at the entrance to the camp. They all know who he is. The driver of the car is laughing, as is this Molden, and the guard, letting the rifle slip from his shoulders and holding it in both hands, comes over to inspect Casement, who is trapped, like an exotic animal, for anyone to ogle. The sun is breaking through the cloud cover and the men are assembled, standing in the clear air. Guards hover at the perimeters, but these men look beaten to the extent that it seems hard to imagine them attempting to overcome anyone. No one has tried to escape. Casement comes to the front, and instantly the barrage of insults begins.
“How much is the Kaiser paying you?”
That’s the favorite, and emanates from all quarters. And then longer phrases, shouted, and impossible to decipher given the cacophony, but he knows what they’re saying, that his presence and recruiting for the Irish Brigade make the conditions for the Irish prisoners miserable—shortened rations, beatings, refusal of blankets.
“If you would just let me explain what our goals are,” tries Casement. He can see the guards rolling their eyes, chuckling to each other. “England is not our friend. England is what landed you here, in this prison, not the Germans. The Germans did not bring you here, but the English.”
It had seemed a good enough argument when he conceived of it in the black of night that had turned to a cold, perverse morning light. But the men are not having it. And something just hit him that might have been a rock. No, just a pebble. He has an odd moment of humor and wonders if he should yell, Whoever threw that is a good shot and we could certainly use you! He looks out at the group assembled, maybe a hundred men, although the current count of Irish prisoners that he has spoken to is now close to two thousand. “Will no one talk to me?” There’s a knot of conversation in the back, and a young man steps out. He has black hair and light blue eyes and such a worn and patient expression that Casement finally breathes. He sees the man exchange a quick volley of words with one his friends, and then he raises his hand, fingers relaxed, to ask for a moment’s understanding.
“Mister Casement,” he says. There’s a smattering of Sir Roger called out, a derision, a cause for humor, from all corners of the assembled men.
“And you are?” asks Casement.
“Sergeant Gordon Kelso.”
“I am listening.”
“A word in private, sir. Do you think that can be arranged?”
They sit across a plain table on bare wood chairs. A guard posted at the door exercises his boredom by chewing his nails like a schoolgirl, and then examining his work. Kelso is composing his thoughts and he looks over to Casement.
“Do you not remember me, sir? It was a long time ago.”
“I’m sorry, Sergeant Kelso. When did we meet?”
“Ten years ago. It was at Mister Biggers’s house. You gave me an award for reciting a poem.” The man waits to see if Casement can find that boy somewhere in all those years filled with all those faces. “I also captained one of the hurling teams.”
“Those were good years,” says Casement. He doesn’t remember the boy, and so does not know the man. “The Irish Brigade could use a man like you,” he says.
Kelso responds by shaking his head. “You come here thinking that we don’t understand, but I’m here because I know you and I know that if you understood, you would not be asking us to do this.”
“Sergeant Kelso—”
“Listen to me,” says Kelso, and his voice is pleading. “I don’t want the English in Ireland, but I don’t want the Germans either. And after spending time here, I’m sure that you too see that would not be good for Ireland.”
Casement searches around the worn arguments for something that is perhaps not too shabby, not rote. He thinks he might remember this boy now, from Biggers’s time, because the gentle of timbre of his voice is something that would earn him a prize in the recitation of a poem. “Sergeant Kelso, the whole world order will be altered by this war. We have never had an allegiance to England. We are merely making a wise decision in allying ourselves not only with the victors, but with a party uninterested in governing Ireland.”
“German greed leads me to believe otherwise,” says Kelso, eyeing the guard, who seems to understand no English. “I believe that we will achieve Home Rule, but that we must do so through peaceful channels. We are not a nation of thugs but of thinkers, and by gaining the respect of powerful nations, we will achieve our goals.”
“Our long history,” says Casement, “makes such a statement seem naïve.”
Kelso covers his face with his hands. “No one is listening to you,” he says, his voice reedy. “You have no followers. Look at the numbers, Mister Casement. Redmond is a Nationalist. We enlisted because we are fighting for ourselves, not the English.”
“Sergeant Kelso—”
“I was less sure before Flande
rs. Before that, as a prisoner, I would be standing by your side begging the men to see reason. We all want a free Ireland.” He pushes back from the table, searching around the corners of the bare room as if reason lurks there, as if it can be shaken free of the torn curtain or found in the margin of dark shadow by the door. “You have not seen the Front, have you?”
And Casement has not, only its aftermath. His war has been fought in cheap hotel rooms and offices with German officials who cannot disguise their disdain, who speak a tongue of their own and can therefore conceal their intentions.
“The English need us, but we also need the English, because if we cannot stop the German advance now, we will all be overrun.”
Casement drops his voice to a whisper. “The situation is not ideal, but as Irishmen, we have few choices.”
“True, true.” This man speaks gently, in the same voice that men use to calm nervous horses. “I have led men into battle, delivered orders, obeyed orders. I have sent men over the top to be mown down. I was captured, as is obvious. I was close to the German line, in a hole, and I sat there for hours—with a man that I knew from the trenches. He was English, from Dorset, and I held him as he bled out. It took a long time. I don’t know how long. The bullets never stopped flying. When the Germans found me, he had died. I was covered in his blood. He was a brave man and he was my brother.”
“Your brother?”
Valiant Gentlemen Page 43
