by John Masters
John stood grim and silent to the right of the right-hand gun of the battery, by the telephone. He could see the battlefield for himself, 5000 yards ahead, and with the binoculars, or Chee’s bare eyes, could see the exact moves of the Germans, of his own infantry, and the British tanks supporting them; normally he did not give the fire orders, but relayed those passed to him by Captain Hodnett, the OP officer.
‘New target … right seventeen mils … elevation plus two … ranging rounds!’
John barked the new orders; then – ‘No. 2 gun – fire!’ The binoculars to his eyes he waited for the telltale burst on the hillside. It wasn’t as easy to see them now as it had been in summer, when a puff of dust rose even in a planted hayfield. Now there would be a spout of mud, but small, for the 75 was a very light gun. He saw nothing, but Chee Shush Benally, beside him, said, ‘In the middle of the dark field, shaped like this.’ He made a triangle with his fingers and thumbs. John took Chee’s word for it and gave the correction order from his slide rule, then barked – ‘No. 2 gun – fire!’ Four rounds later, they’d bracketed the target.
John stooped to the telephone – ‘Ranged in, sir.’
‘Record as Target Four Seven Emma. There’s a German company in front of it and we think they’re going to pull back across it any moment … Here – ’
The telephone went dead. John waited a moment, then cranked urgently. The bell rang; so the line wasn’t cut. He said, ‘Captain? … Captain?’
Another voice came on, ‘Captain’s been wounded, sir … bad, in the chest.’
‘Are the enemy moving on Target Four Seven Emma?’ John interrupted. He was sorry that Captain Hodnett was wounded; but his business, as a Field Artillery officer of the United States Army, and as John Merritt, was to get the war over.
‘Yes, sir, they’re just coming out, going back. But …’
John turned away, ‘Battery fire! Previous target, rapid – fire!’ He turned back to the telephone – ‘I’m coming up … Top!’
‘Sir?’
‘Take over as Battery Exec till Lieutenant Potter gets back. The captain’s been badly wounded. I’m taking over the battery until the colonel sends someone else.’
‘Right, sir.’
‘There’s the Firing Chart … Chee, get our horses!’
The Indian ran back and returned in a minute, mounted, leading John’s big stout rough-haired chestnut. He swung up and stuck spurs into the horse’s flanks. Boughs rattled on his helmet as he galloped through a wood on the flank of the village, then out into the open … across country, like old prints of foxhunts. For a moment wild exhilaration swept the hard misery out of his system. Chee, riding neck and neck with him, yelled, ‘You gone crazy, Johnny? We’ll kill the horses!’
John said nothing, but bent forward, hurled the horse over a hedge into a lane, turned right in a shower of mud, and galloped through a deserted hamlet of ten houses, and out again. The Germans were retreating up the hill a bare 500 yards away. Tanks’ machine-guns spat as the monsters growled and grunted forward. The doughboys were moving, in long straight lines. He heard ragged cheering.
‘It’s over,’ he shouted. ‘It’s over. They’re beaten!’
Chee slowed his horse to a walk, pulling a bottle out of the horse’s wallet. He put the bottle to his lips and tilted it back, letting the liquor gurgle down his throat in a torrent.
‘What in hell are you doing, Chee?’ John shouted. ‘We’ve got a job to do still.’
‘Not me,’ Chee said. ‘It’s over. You said so, Johnny.’ He hiccuped and slid slowly off his horse, falling head first on to the ground by its off hind leg.
Christ, John thought, he must have been drinking all day; didn’t notice anything. He had a head like teak; but eventually even teak got sodden. He jumped down, grabbed the bottle and put it in his own horse’s wallet. Five doughboys were working on a field telephone nearby and he called to them, ‘Soldiers … my striker’s been wounded. Send him back to Battery D, 137th, as soon as you can, or when he can move.’
The nearest soldier came over and peered down. The smell of brandy emanating from Chee’s mouth and nostrils was overpowering. The soldier looked up – ‘Wouldn’t mind getting some of that wound myself, lieutenant … snake oil, them Indians call it, don’t they?’
‘Try to hide him,’ John said urgently. ‘He’s got the Medal of Honour.’
‘We’ll see that he gets back safe and sound, sir. It’s over, after all, ain’t it?’
‘Not quite,’ John said, and again spurred his horse forward.
Daily Telegraph, Friday, November 8, 1918
BERLIN’S ENVOYS TO ARMISTICE MEETING
TIME OF ARRIVAL
At 11.10 yesterday morning the subjoined message was circulated by the Press Bureau:
(Admiralty, per Wireless Press)
News transmitted through the wireless stations of the French Government.
To the German High Command from Marshal Foch.
If the German plenipotentiaries wish to meet Marshal Foch to ask him for an armistice they are to advance to the French outposts by the Chimay-Fourmies-La Capelle-Guise road.
Orders have been given that they are to be received and conducted to the place fixed for the interview.
SIGNIFICANT REQUEST.
THAT FIGHTING CEASE AT ONCE
That fighting cease at once, Cate thought: that was what mattered. For when the fighting stopped, the killing would stop; and Stella would have a hope of seeing her husband again. He knew that John had received his letter about the baby – nameless, as yet – but he did not know how he had taken it.
From the far end of the table Stella said, ‘It looks as though it’s really ending now … Is John coming back?’
‘Oh, I think the chances of his being badly hurt now are very small.’
‘I meant, is he going to come back here … or go straight home to America?’
Cate put down the paper. ‘My dear child … of course he’s coming here. It was he who said that there must be no abortion, that you must bear the child. He wouldn’t have done that unless … unless he means to continue to accept you as his wife, and, I am sure … the baby, as his.’
Stella said, ‘He may. I don’t know whether I can.’
She bent again over her toast. Cate, aghast, watched her for a few moments; then returned to the newspaper.
REVOLUTION IN GERMANY
HAMBURG IN REBEL HANDS
THE OUTBREAK AT KIEL
REVOLT AT CUXHAVEN
The latest information available last night serves to confirm fully the serious nature of the outbreak at Kiel. The whole town and, it is now stated, the surrounding districts, are in the hands of the revolutionaries. The report that …
He threw down the paper and stood up. ‘Come, Stella. Let’s go to the church and pray. For the world. For England. For Germany. For you and me, and John and the baby. For all creation.’
Chapter 16
Armistice Day, Monday, November 11, 1918
Alice Rowland limped fast down the vociferous High Street, deafened by Klaxons, men standing on top of anything they could reach, yelling, waving flags, girls draped round soldiers’ and sailors’ necks, engines whistling on and on in the station.
She turned down Plumer Street to No. 79 … she went slowly up the steps, for steps were always difficult with the artificial leg. She took the door knocker and rapped twice, then again. It opened at once and Daisy Cowell faced her, tears streaming down her cheeks, a slip of pink paper in one hand. Alice stopped, her hand to her heart, ‘Oh Daisy …’ she cried. She had recognised the slip, as anyone else would have, since 1915, as a telegraph form: the biggest sender of telegrams was the War Office.
‘No, no, Miss Alice,’ Daisy gasped. ‘I mean, yes – it’s Dave … He’s wounded … left hand and wrist … he’s all right.’
‘Then he’ll be home soon! Oh, Daisy, he’s safe … safe at last!’ The two women fell into each other’s arms, sobbing, laughing, and crying.
At length Alice stood back – ‘I was coming to tell you that the Governor has accepted an offer for Laburnum Lodge, and we must move out by today week.’
‘I have everything ready for you,’ Daisy said. ‘Your room’s been fresh painted, just like your bedroom at the Lodge. It’s much smaller, but it’s nice and cosy … and Dave’ll come back to us soon.’
‘Any day,’ Alice said. ‘The wound might be a blessing in disguise, if it hasn’t done any permanent damage. Otherwise he might not be demobilised for ages. Now we can start the accountancy firm we’ve been talking about, at once.’
The two women smiled at each other. He’ll be back, Alice thought, soon I’ll be in his arms, his body in mine, his strength crushing me, my female to his male.
He doesn’t love me, but he’ll make love to me sometimes, Daisy thought, and he’ll be happy and when he’s happy, I am. And Alice Rowland is a lady, and my friend, whatever there is between her and Dave, and she and I will always have that.
Winston Churchill was in the Prime Minister’s room in the Palace of Westminster. Both men were flushed and exuberant, talking in short energetic phrases, moving about jerkily, stopping, gesticulating. ‘We did it!’ Lloyd George said fiercely. ‘Did it … spite of everything … the Huns … even Asquith!… the U-boats! … Jellicoe … you know I had to order him to institute convoys …’
The window was a little open and the sounds of celebration filtered in, with the music of a brass band somewhere far off, and the bells of the Abbey ringing wildly across the road, and high, formless female shrieking.
‘What now?’
‘Election! I’m going to the Palace … must be seen with HM … and I’ll tell him, we’ll have an election as soon as the law allows.’
‘When’s that? Twenty-one days … Good heavens, at the end of the month?’
‘No,’ Lloyd George shook his heavy mane violently. ‘No, no! Can’t fix it properly by then … in December.’ He darted to his desk and turned over the pages of a desk calendar – ‘What’s wrong with the 14th – Saturday? Though it’ll take a couple of weeks to count the soldiers’ ballots.’
‘Is it wise, do you think, to force the election so soon?’
Lloyd George said, ‘Winston, think! I will have to go to a Peace Conference. Wilson will be there, and Clemenceau, and Cadorna from Italy, though what they’ve done … Well, I must go with a set of cards in my hand, and the first ace, which I must have, is a strong mandate, a big majority for me. Not for the Liberal Party – Asquith’s a member of that, and I’m going to crush Asquith, and anyone who goes with him.’ He looked out of the window – ‘Squeeze Germany for all she’s worth … perhaps a thousand million pounds! Hang the Kaiser!’
Churchill removed his cigar from his mouth – ‘I very much doubt whether the Kaiser can be indicted under any international law.’
‘We’ll find some greedy lawyer who says he can … and it doesn’t matter a damn whether he is or not. What matters is that we go into the election with proposals that the voters can get their teeth into … peace! money! revenge! We’ll be swept in by a landslide. You’ll see … Now, before I go to the Palace, what are you proposing to do about the munition factories? I won’t have them all shut down’ – he snapped his fingers – ‘just like that. That’ll throw two million people out of work, just before an election.’
Churchill said, ‘I was thinking of making an arbitrary decision that all orders more than, say, 60 per cent finished should be completed. Orders less than that, scrapped … I’m also proposing not to bring back anyone who’s now out with the flu – give them wages for the next month, and …’
‘Wages till after the election,’ Lloyd George cut in.
‘Very well, Prime Minister.’
‘Talking about the damned flu, HM will ask me for the latest figures.’ He sat down behind his desk and reached for the telephone.
‘They’re going down, at last,’ Churchill said, ‘but they’re still very high.’
The Prime Minister said disgustedly, ‘Engaged!’
Churchill continued, ‘World-wide, it looks as though this epidemic may kill off more people than the war has.’
‘I don’t believe it,’ Lloyd George gasped. ‘Why … why … Loos, Champagne, Verdun, Gallipoli, the Somme, Passchendaele, Tannenberg, Jutland, the Argonne … all that?’
‘More than all that,’ Churchill said.
The 9th Earl of Swanwick stood in the window of his big drawing-room in Cornwall Gardens, looking out. It wasn’t raining, the church bells were ringing, people seemed to have poured out of the houses all round the square and were congregating in the actual garden in the middle. The railings had long gone, melted down to make steel for shells, guns, tanks. Bloody children went in and picked flowers, urchins who didn’t belong in the surrounding houses at all kicked soccer balls up and down, skivvies and soldiers copulated among the bushes … Everyone was kissing everyone else now, all yelling their heads off … What was there for him to celebrate? – both his sons dead, his younger daughter an unmarried mother, running a bloody little shop selling stockings, hats, gloves, scarves, feathers – trade!
He heard the countess’s footsteps behind him but did not turn. She came up and put her hand on his shoulder … ‘So it’s over at last,’ she said.
‘Too late for us,’ he said.
‘I’m making plenty of money now,’ she said. ‘And we’re all better off in London than mouldering in that old pile in Walstone … I know it’s hard for you, darling, but things really aren’t too bad … except for losing Cantley and Arthur.’
The door behind them burst open, and they turned, to face their eldest daughter, Lady Barbara Durand-Beaulieu, dressed in her usual clothes – men’s riding breeches, Newmarket boots and spurs, a hacking jacket, and a hard, dark blue hunting cap, a crop under her arm. The countess grimaced, then controlled herself; Barbara had smelled of the stables since she was two years old, and it was no different now – just more noticeable, because more confined in an SW7 flat than in a Kentish country mansion. There was a man at Barbara’s side. She recognised Ben Watkins, Barbara’s employer, the owner of the livery stable where Barbara worked as groom and riding instructor to the many children who hired Watkins’s horses.
Barbara rushed forward to hug both her parents, in turn. ‘It’s over,’ she cried. ‘It’s over!’
‘Yes, it’s over,’ the earl said. He was staring at Watkins, who was dressed the same as Barbara. Barbara noticed and cried, ‘Oh, of course you haven’t met Ben … Mr Watkins, Daddy.’
Her mother said, ‘I have, of course. How do you do, Mr Watkins?’
Barbara took Mr Watkins’s hand, and her face turned a deeper shade than its normal healthy, rain-swept red. She said, ‘Mr Watkins … Ben … and I … are going to get married – ’ The last words tumbled out in a rush.
‘Good God!’ the earl exclaimed.
‘Oh! How wonderful,’ the countess said. ‘You’re a lucky girl, Barbara. I know how Mr Watkins has worked to make his stable a success … and I think you’re lucky too, Mr Watkins, though I shouldn’t say it.’
‘Oi’m lucky, oi know thaat,’ Watkins said, in his natural, broad Wiltshire. ‘But oi love her, yer ladyship, and that’s what matters, bean’t it?’
‘It be – it is,’ the countess said.
Barbara said, ‘We must get back … ten children due in half an hour … don’t know whether they’ll turn up, because of the armistice, but …’ She hurried out, dragging Watkins with her.
When the door had closed the earl exploded – ‘He’s a roughrider sergeant, ex-3rd Carabiniers! That’s what Barbara told me when she went to work there … joined the army off the tail of a plough from the depths of Devon or Dorset or …’
‘Wiltshire,’ the countess said.
‘Forty years old if he’s a day!’
‘Forty-three. Barbara’s thirty.’
‘Bloody yokel, marrying my daughter! Can’t rub two pennies together, and …’
&nb
sp; ‘There you’re wrong, Roger. Mr Watkins has made a lot of money with his stable. I’ve seen this coming for the past three months, so I’ve been making enquiries. Barbara needs to be married. When Lady Barbara Watkins is one of the owners the stable will get still more clients, and can charge more.’
‘Do you realise … can it be possible? … that we might have grandchildren called Watkins?’ the earl said, suddenly deflated and hopeless.
‘Yes,’ the countess said firmly. ‘And we must accept it. Times have changed … Now, I must be about my master’s business. Lord Walstone will not regard Armistice Day as an occasion for celebration, but as a day to make more money.’
Christopher Cate stood in his library, his violin tucked under his chin, the bow sweeping across the strings in the main theme of the last movement of Beethoven’s 9th Symphony. Today, overwhelming joy was not enough; there must be grand sorrow mixed with it, and compassion, something of the greatness of humanity, and the puniness of man. Only Beethoven would do … In the servants’ hall they were playing the tunes from ‘The Maid of the Mountains’ over and over again on their gramophone. The green baize door had been left open since the moment when Garrod and Tillie, shrieking, had rushed in to throw their arms round his neck, and yell – ‘It’s over, it’s over!’ – adding ‘sir’ much later, as an afterthought … the musical comedy baritone was off-key, but the tune was catchy, under Beethoven’s immensity. They didn’t clash. It was right, even. He was playing for them, and they were playing for him, each in his own way. He was playing, too, for his son, whom he should have protected from the war; and for himself, who had lost his son, and the woman he loved … and for Stella, upstairs, in her room, with them but not with them, smiling, with no joy behind the smile.
