By the Green of the Spring

by John Masters

  He turned back to his aunt. He said, ‘I think she needs the baby. Tell her … she can keep it, if she wants to. But if she doesn’t, I’ll consent to the abortion.’

  ‘You must put that down in writing,’ she said. ‘Are you sure you’re doing the right thing, John? It would be so much easier, if the baby was not born.’

  ‘I don’t think so. I’m not against abortion at all. I just think that Stella needs, will need, the baby … I love her … and for her, because it’s hers, I’ll love it.’

  Isabel dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. ‘You’re a … a man, John. I promised General Pershing I’d go straight back as soon as I’d spoken to you. Then I’m going home … to California, to see Walter.’

  John stared at her, thinking – she’s leaving Father Christopher. She must be in misery, as great as mine. She leaned her head against him and sobbed on his shoulder, while he patted her back, wordlessly.

  Quentin Rowland, digging in on a showery hillside above the Somme, with a hundred men, from ten regiments, but mostly the remnants of his own Weald Light Infantry, said angrily, ‘This time we’re not going to move. I don’t care how many Germans surround us. Here we are and here we’ll bloody well stay. I’ve had enough of being pushed around by a pack of Huns.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Archie Campbell said. It was April 2nd, and the battle had been raging for twelve days. Four times in those twelve days the CO’s party had found rations. The men were hungry but not starving. Six times they had found ammunition points, and for the rest taken ammunition off the dead, or out of abandoned wagons and lorries. Half a dozen times the battle lines had coagulated into a front … almost. Then the ceaseless German infiltration, like water through a sand dyke, had trickled by, followed by more and heavier units, and the sand had crumbled … another retreat begun, disorganisation spread.

  A soldier ran in from the edge of the village, knelt, and saluted by tapping his rifle sling with his left hand – ‘Sir … Captain Kellaway says there’s a lot of men coming up from the next village. He thinks they’re ours.’

  Quentin turned on Archie, ‘Stand-to, Campbell. I’m going to Kellaway’s position.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Quentin hurried down the muddy lane and into the farmyard, inches deep in mud and cow dung, where Kellaway commanded all the Wealds in the motley force. He was standing by the bar gate, staring through binoculars when Quentin arrived.

  ‘Who are they? Can you see yet?’

  Kellaway did not turn his head, ‘French, sir – at last … a whole lot.’

  Ten minutes later Quentin was facing a French general of brigade. The general was cheerful, decisive, and informative. The German assault had been halted on the 28th, at least for the time being. Foch had been made Commander-in-Chief of all Allied forces. Pershing had offered all that he had. More immediately, Quentin and his men were under his, the French general’s orders.

  ‘Oui, mon général,’ Quentin said; then, to Kellaway, ‘Tell him I’ll accept any orders from him except to retreat.’

  Kellaway spoke fluently for a few moments; the general laughed and clapped Quentin on the shoulder – ‘Non, non, mon gars. Nous restons ici. Les Boches ne passeront pas … Tout le monde à la bataille, hein?’

  He started giving orders for occupation of a defensive position in depth, while Kellaway made notes. Half an hour later he was gone, communications were set up, and a French artillery officer with a field telephone was at Quentin’s headquarters ready to supply artillery support. Quentin took Archie aside, and said, ‘Any more news of Laurence?’

  ‘No, sir … just that one soldier saw him walking back out of Duke’s Wood Redoubt, five minutes before B Company’s attack.’

  ‘Send a message back … through the French gunners … to our army headquarters, that he is wanted for desertion, when under orders for an attack. Describe him.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘That’s under Section 39 of the Army Act.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘But I hope to God he’s been killed.’

  Daily Telegraph, Wednesday, April 10, 1918

  PREMIER’S APPEAL FOR MEN FOR THE ARMY

  MILITARY AGE 50

  CONSCRIPTION FOR IRELAND

  ‘The fate of the Empire, the fate of Europe, the fate of human liberty throughout the world is at stake in the present battle.’ Those were almost the opening words of the Prime Minister yesterday, as, in a crowded House, he began a most momentous speech of two hours’ duration. From time to time he kept striking the same note – that Germany is bent on forcing a military decision this year, whatever the consequences to herself, that the battle will rage from the North Sea to the Atlantic, and that there is a possibility of it lasting seven or eight months on end. Never was a graver speech delivered by the Chief Minister of the Crown …

  A STRING OF NEW PROPOSALS

  Mr Lloyd George said that we had to prepare for the advent of 550,000 additional young men into the struggle, as Germany is calling up another class, that of 1920. Briefly stated, the measures of preparation are these:

  1. A very strict comb-out is now in progress …

  2. The occupational exemptions are to be cancelled by age blocks …

  3. It may be found necessary to curtail the existing rights of appeal on medical grounds … Other proposals, however, are quite new:

  1. The military age is to be raised to 50 and in some special cases – e.g., doctors – to 55

  2. The whole range of exemptions is to be revised …

  3. The areas and compositions of the tribunals are to be revised …

  4. The clergy and ministers of religion will be pressed to undertake non-combatant services …

  5. The extension of the Compulsory Service Acts to Ireland on exactly the same footing as they apply to the United Kingdom.

  IRISH UPROAR

  Mr Lloyd George’s moral case for bringing Ireland under compulsion was overwhelming. He quoted from speeches of Mr Redmond and Mr Dillon to show how absolutely the Irish Nationalists had accepted this war as their own; indeed he read one passage in which Mr Dillon himself had said that he would not oppose conscription if it were needed to secure victory … Irishmen, said the Prime Minister, were being conscripted for the war in the United States, in Canada, and in New Zealand … How then could he ask young Britons of 18½ and men of 50 to stand in the breach to defend Irish liberties while young Irishmen of military age slouched and sheltered themselves at home? …

  At this the uproar broke out anew. ‘It’s a declaration of war against Ireland,’ shrieked Mr O’Brien. ‘Enrolment will never begin’ yelled a score of voices, young Captain Redmond, prominent in khaki, leaning forward in a great state of excitement. Then the Prime Minister went on to speak of the report of the Irish Convention … and announced the intention of the Government to introduce without delay a measure of self-government for Ireland, enacting what is just to both Irish parties, and what he hoped could be carried without violent controversy. ‘Keep it!’ shouted the ragged chorus. ‘Keep it!’

  Cate flinched whenever he saw the word ‘Ireland’ in the paper, because Margaret was there, and his happiness, any chance of a life with Isabel depended on finding her. That seemed as impossible as finding any common ground between the Southerners and the Ulstermen.

  He forced himself to read on, finished the piece, and leaned back. Enough of Ireland, world affairs, and the war, for the time being. Stella was home, at this moment having her breakfast in bed, upstairs. Isabel was in mid-Atlantic, and he prayed briefly for her safety. And Lady Walstone would be honoured, she had written in a small formal note, if she could call on him at eleven o’clock this morning; she needed his advice on some personal matters.

  Personal matters, he thought; perhaps to ask if he had any suggestion as to how to get Frank Stratton to forgive his wife, Anne, soon to have a baby by another man; perhaps some questions about the Women’s Institute and village charities – work which Margaret used to do, as Lady of th
e Manor, more recently Lady Swanwick, and now fallen, with the title and the great estate, to this little mousey woman, Ruth Stratton, Baroness Walstone, daughter of his father-in-law’s works foreman.

  Perhaps it was about the staff at the Park. Hoggin – sorry, he apologised to himself – Walstone, was converting the great pile into the headquarters of his Hoggin’s Universal Stores Limited empire. Workmen were all over the place, putting in new plumbing, partitioning off great halls into office space, fitting in canteens, men’s rooms, heaven knew what else. Lady Walstone might want to ask him about suitable local girls to hire as maids, canteen cooks, dishwashers, and the like.

  He glanced at the letter again. Below her signature she had written ‘PS. If there’s anything my husband or I can do, or pay for, with respect to Mrs Merritt, please ask us.’ Stella, she meant. Alienists were very expensive, he had heard. Is that what she meant – that they would pay for an alienist’s services for Stella – or wasn’t psychiatrist the new word? It was a touching offer; but he had been slowly reappraising Ruth Walstone. She wasn’t a lady, but she was a very good woman, of the best. Perhaps she could help Stella, somehow, as she was trying to help Frank and Anne Stratton, and, he knew, many others in the village. Noblesse oblige was the old saying; how did you translate that in her case? Bourgeoisie oblige? Humanité oblige. That was better.

  Chapter 7

  The West Swin, Thames Estuary: Thursday, April 18, 1918

  The ships dotted the oily sheen of the estuary, fifteen miles off the Essex coast, invisible from those flat marshes, nothing in sight over the shallow waters but the tower of the West Swin light, darkened for years now by the exigencies of war. A line of three old cruisers heaved rheumatically at their anchors in the slow, shallow swell. To one flank another more modern cruiser, but still not of very recent vintage, rode ahead of two tubby ferry boats, and an ancient battleship. A third row contained seven destroyers in line, but these were all fast, modern ships of war. A fourth row contained twenty miscellaneous craft – tugs, minesweepers, and two monitors – low, flat, distorted ships the size of cruisers, but mounting only two enormous guns, and obviously of shallow draught. The haze of the estuary hid the fleet from anywhere but close, and no ship lane passed close; also, a destroyer on guard far to the south patrolled slowly back and forth at the edge of the normal passage to seaward, to ensure that no ship did stray off course to where it could observe the ill-matched fleet.

  On board one of the three old cruisers, HMS Orestes, Commander Tom Rowland, the captain, was talking to the officers and ratings of his ship: ‘We’ve been disappointed twice, but we mustn’t lose the edge of our training. We’re dealing with sea and weather, and you all know how they can change, especially in these waters … Last time, we delayed the fleet forty seconds because we didn’t get our anchor up fast enough.’.

  He looked at Lieutenant Hardwick RN – ‘You’ve got to do some more work with the cable party, Number One.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir,’ the lieutenant said. There were only four officers on the ship – Tom, Hardwick, Sub-Lieutenant Sherwood, and Engineer Lieutenant Arrowsmith. The crew numbered eighty instead of the three hundred or so which would be normal for such a vessel. Another peculiarity of Orestes and the other old relics anchored ahead of her was that below decks they were filled with bags of cement, and they carried no guns.

  Tom continued, ‘Since the beginning of the month we’ve lost nearly forty men to this damned influenza. Once something like that hits in a ship, it’s going to spread … so half of you are replacements, and I want to make sure you understand what we are trying to do, and the reasons for the way we are going to do it. You are all highly trained seamen. I think we have a higher proportion of killicks to ODs in this ship than in any ship of the Grand Fleet … which isn’t strange as half of you have volunteered to join us from up there …,’ A subdued chuckle from the men crowded together on the foredeck showed that they appreciated his reference to the hated Grand Fleet. He went on – ‘Well, there is a large force gathered here, in Dover, and at one or two other places, and its job is to block the routes by which U-boats get to sea from their main base at Bruges, in Belgium. That means blocking the harbours of Ostend and Zeebrugge, which are linked to Bruges by short canals. Both places are defended by heavy shore guns, and harbour defences of all kinds – mines, more guns, concrete pill boxes, barbed wire, machine-guns, soldiers. Both harbours will be dealt with in much the same way, but this ship is in the Zeebrugge force, so I’ll talk about that now … The heart of the force is these three old wrecks, this one and those two up there. We’re going to be sunk across the harbour channel, blocking it. But we’ll never get there unless the defence guns are silenced, so a force of marines and volunteer matelots in khaki is going to land on the Zeebrugge Mole itself, right on top of the German guns, and put them out of action so that we can reach our positions in the channel. The men who are going to make that attack will be carried to Zeebrugge in those two Liverpool ferry boats, Daffodil and Iris II. The cruiser Vindictive there will go alongside the Mole and engage the German batteries on it at point-blank range with armour-piercing shell … they should do some damage … Two submarines loaded with explosive are going to ram that section of the Mole which is actually a bridge, to allow the tide to flow back and forth, and blow themselves up, so that the Germans can not send reinforcements out to the pill boxes and batteries on the end of the Mole … Any questions, so far?’

  After a moment of silence a small Scots voice said, ‘Please, sorr, if we’re gan tae sink oorsels in the channel, hoo do we get oorsels hame?’

  A titter spread through the sailors, and the two younger officers hid smiles.

  Tom said, ‘We are being accompanied into the channel by CMBs – Coastal Motor Boats. One is specially allotted to each of the block ships to take off the skeleton crews as soon as we’ve opened the sea cocks … Time is very important. In order not to be seen by shore observers on our way in … and to be out of range of the heavy coastal guns when light comes on our way out, we must arrive just outside their range at dark … and we have to be out of range by first light, which is changing from day to day, but is now close to 4.30 a.m …. It’ll take the ships an hour and fifty minutes to get out of range … which means we have to break off the action by 2.40 a.m …. By the same reasoning we can’t get there before midnight … so in that two hours and forty minutes we have to subdue the Mole defences, take the block ships in, sink them athwart the channel – not along it … and get everyone off again … the crews of the block ships and of the submarines that are to be blown up, plus the main storming party on the Mole … That’s all for now. I want Petty Officers to run through the exact jobs of their detachments the rest of the day.’ He turned to the sub-lieutenant – ‘Sub, I want to see you. Dismiss the rest, Number One.’

  The ratings saluted and doubled aft. The 1st Lieutenant called, ‘Boatswain, pipe cable party muster on the fo’c’sle.’

  Tom said to the sub-lieutenant, ‘Our CMB – the CMB allotted to take us off – is coming to the port gangway at one o’clock. Bring its captain to my day cabin when he arrives, and we’ll talk about how we actually get our people on to his tub while we’re sinking … where will we put the scrambling nets, do we use Jacob’s ladders as well, which side is he to come up on? And then tomorrow we’ll have another practice … unless the balloon goes up, again, in the meantime.’

  The young man smiled, white teeth flashing in a smooth young face, the face of an Italian renaissance page – olive skin, dark hair, dark eyes, full curved lips, the body as lithe and graceful as the face was hedonistic. Tom searched for an excuse to keep the young man on deck, just talking, drinking in his beauty, untouched by any sense that there was a utilitarian purpose for it; as, looking at women, he would think, she is here to produce children; and that beauty is to attract men so that they will fertilise her and continue the race. This beauty, of Botticelli or Fra Lippo Lippi, had no purpose but itself, beauty for beauty …


  He was being unfaithful to faithful Charlie Bennett, even to think of Sherwood in such a way. But there was nothing sexual about it … or was there?

  ‘That’s all,’ he said brusquely and turned his back.

  Tom sat in the wardroom of the old battleship HMS Dominion, moored with the rest of the force in the Swin; but Dominion was not to go to Zeebrugge with the others: she was the mother ship, hastily sent to the wastes of the Swin when the men jammed into Daffodil and Iris II and the block ships began to get verminous, and restive from lack of any place to eat or sleep in comfort, rest, bathe. Tom said, ‘Another pink gin?’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir,’ Lieutenant Billy Bidford RNVR said with a grin. ‘Never refuse an invitation from a straight striper, especially one with honourable gold lace all over honourable cap.’

  Tom began to frown; lieutenants RN did not speak so flippantly to commanders, especially not to one who was also captain of a ship. But Bidford was not RN, he was Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve; he was one of the young madmen who drove the CMBs at thirty-five to forty knots up and down the Channel, chasing German boats and looking for destroyers to use their two torpedoes on … and Bidford was a multimillionaire, racing motorist, and aviator.

  When the Maltese steward brought the drinks to them at their little table, Tom said, ‘I was expecting Settle. He was commanding the CMB allotted to us, only the day before yesterday.’

  Bidford said easily, ‘Down with the flu. We’re all supposed to be able to do the job … we’ve all practised, and now the Commander CMBs swears he won’t change it again … If I go down with the bug, my CPO will take over, but you’ll get the same boat, Number 148 … I call it Florinda, unofficially.’

  Tom looked at his companion and said, ‘Wait … didn’t I see a picture of you in the papers with the Marchioness of Jarrow at the Savoy, at a benefit for wounded soldiers and sailors?’