By the Green of the Spring

by John Masters

  It was not raining, but all the road surfaces were slippery with mud, and the convoy was collecting wounded from far places now, and driving greater distances each day as the war moved towards Germany. The RAMC orderly beside Naomi on the front seat of the ambulance said, ‘Well, miss, it’s over, at last … Didn’t seem to be doing much celebrating up front, did they?’

  Naomi said, ‘It’ll take them time to realise that it’s really true.’

  The orderly said, ‘The further back we get, the happier they are, seems … look at them girls rushing up!… Gawd, they want to give us a kiss and a hug!’

  Naomi slowed and the seven following ambulances slowed behind her. Half a dozen young women were hurrying alongside, blowing kisses, holding out their arms. Naomi looked down at them, took off her steel helmet with one hand, and shook out her hair.

  ‘Une femme!’ the nearest girl shrieked.

  ‘Oui,’ Naomi called back. ‘Mais la guerre finie, quand même! … Poor dears,’ she said, pressing again on the accelerator, ‘they really thought they’d at least get some men to hug.’

  ‘Never seen the FANYs through ’ere, that’s why,’ the orderly said. He was in a talkative mood, but Naomi barely listened. The wounded soldiers in the back were too drugged to make a sound and she drove on, concentrating on the road with her eyes and intuitions, and the skills she had learned … her mind moved into newly familiar channels: the factory in Hedlington. Ron. Finance … Grandfather would help there, though perhaps not much. She might go to Toledano’s, if Uncle Richard would give her an introduction. But before she saw old Isaac she’d better have all her facts and figures right, and reasonable. She knew that from family gossip ever since the JMC had been founded, part of the financing having been Toledano’s.

  A sign pointed left – NO. 27 ADVANCED BASE HOSPITAL – and she turned into a muddy field. Several huge marquees had been set up in it, and white flags put out to mark the ‘roads’. A soldier of the RAMC with white gloves directed her to the second of the large tents, all of which had big red crosses painted on the brown canvas roofs. She drew up outside the entrance and at once several men came out with stretchers, followed by a man in a white coat. He was carrying a bottle of champagne in one hand, a full glass in the other. He walked up to the side of the ambulance and peered in – ‘Ha, Lance-Corporal Rowland as I live and breathe.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ she said. It was Captain Freeland, a surgeon of the hospital, where she had delivered wounded often enough in the past month. The hospital itself had moved three times in that month, but always on the axis that was being served by No. 16 Convoy of the FANY.

  Freeland tilted his head and emptied the glass, poured to refill it, and handed it up to her – ‘To peace, corporal.’

  ‘I can’t drink on duty, sir … or at all, in France,’ she said.

  ‘What if I give you an order. Corporal? The bloody war is over, at bloody last. Soon I won’t see any more young men, young lovers, torn to ribbons under my hands, chewed, mangled, as though a mad tiger had been at them …

  None saw their spirits’ shadow shake the grass.

  Or stood aside for the half used life to pass

  Out of these doomed nostrils and the doomed mouth,

  When the swift iron burning bee

  Drained the wild honey of their youth.

  Isaac Rosenberg. Here, drink, for God’s sake.’

  Naomi took the glass, drank it in one gulp, gasped and coughed as the bubbles tickled her throat and palate, then said, ‘Thank you, sir. It’s …’

  He interrupted – ‘Or would you prefer Théophile Gautier?

  Des déesses et des mortelles,

  Quand ils font voir les charmes nus,

  Les sculpteurs grecs plument les ailes

  De la colombe de Venus.

  Sous leur ciseau s’envolent et tombe

  Le doux manteau qui revêt,

  Et sur …’

  Naomi said, ‘Thank you, sir … that is not a proper poem to recite to an unmarried woman.’

  The FANY lieutenant had appeared and was signalling to her to move off. She engaged gear, looking straight ahead, as the RAMC orderly climbed back up beside her. It was hard to keep her face straight. That was another of the indecent poems about women’s private parts which poor old Rodney Venable used to recite to her while they were … better not think of that; though it would help when she came to do the same with Ron Gregory, as his wife. But Ron wouldn’t recite French poetry to her, certainly not at such moments.

  ‘Well done, Corporal,’ the FANY lieutenant said. ‘You’ve made excellent time. One more trip today … same collecting point … I’ll be following in fifteen minutes with six more ambulances.’

  ‘Very well, madam.’

  The guns were aligned in a straight line, facing due east, exactly twenty yards apart. All harness and saddlery and steel work shone in the wintry sun, glittering through the pall of cordite smoke that hung round the guns in the still, damp air. Captain John Merritt, confirmed in command of Battery D of the 137th Field Artillery, stood at the right of the line of guns, his binoculars to his eyes, his mouth set in its now habitual grim line. He flung out one hand without lowering the binoculars, and shouted, ‘Cease firing! Elevation, plus six mils … resume firing!’

  Sweat ran in streams down the necks of the cannoneers as they brought up shells from the piles behind each gun, rammed them into the gaping breeches, slammed them shut, pulled the lanyards, checked the quadrants to see that the guns were back at the same elevation after each recoil. Sweat ran down the necks of the drivers and darkened their tunics as they galloped the caissons up to the guns, emptied them of ammunition, and galloped them back for refilling from the reserves stacked in the rear.

  ‘Six minutes to go, Captain,’ 1st Sergeant Clay shouted in John’s ear. ‘Those barrels will melt if we don’t slow down a bit, sir.’

  John said nothing. There were the Germans, breaking and running in disorder across the fields two miles away, in plain view. They thought that because the war was nearly over they could relax, and recoup, and maybe, pretend they hadn’t been thrashed. And these huge stocks of ammunition had been piled up for a final push to break right through and stream on into Germany. He wasn’t going to let it lie here. Who would want to reload it and take it back to the States? So, the guns showed red hot, the crews struggled and sweated and strained, their red faces becoming stained with yellow and black.

  Another change of fire order … four minutes to go … another … this time seven mils left. The Huns were streaming into a transverse lane up there, and heading off left-handed. ‘Cease firing! Shrapnel! Time setting – five point zero!’ One minute to go … the firing rate increased to a frantic desperate madness, but still the shells were falling on target … ‘Left, two mils!’ Ten seconds … four three two one … eleven o’clock.

  John’s left hand shot out horizontal from his body and he barked, ‘Cease firing!’

  There was a naval order, ‘Finished with engines.’ Could he say now, ‘Finished with guns’? But in the artillery there was no such order. He turned to the 1st Sergeant – ‘Have the men fall out behind the guns and relax, Top.’

  He walked away, his hands behind his back. Silence. Total silence. Not a bird singing, not a man talking, not a gun barking. No wind to whine in the boughs … silence, his boots silent in the heavy grass … he heard something rhythmic – soft and close. He swung round sharply, frowning. ‘What …?’ he began.

  It was Private Chee Shush Benally. Chee said, ‘We got to get out, John.’

  John said, ‘I know. Just as soon as we can.’

  ‘Why we not just disappear? They never find us, won’t bother … too many others …’

  They stood facing each other, two young men, the squat dark Indian private and the tall white captain. John said, ‘What’s your hurry?’

  Chee said, ‘Mother dying … younger brother sick … sheep dying because no one look after them. I’m going to skip, tonight … soon�
�s I can.’

  John said, ‘Don’t do it, Chee. The MPs will be out in force looking for deserters, now they don’t have any battlefield work to do. You’ve got to get on a ship, remember. You can’t ride freights from here to Gallup.’

  Chee scratched his head, then resumed his position of attention, remembering that they were in full view of the battery. He said, ‘I got to go, Johnny.’

  John said, ‘You won’t help your family or your sheep if you’re spending six months in the stockade … I’ve got an idea. You’re a hero. An Indian hero. You have the Medal of Honour.’

  Chee said, ‘That and a nickel, I can buy a beer. Here, not there. No Indians served.’

  ‘I’ll cable my father, to have Newton Baker bring you back for a national tour, as …’

  ‘Show what good citizen red man is?’ Chee said. ‘Don’t want to go touring, just get to Sanostee.’

  ‘You won’t go touring,’ John said impatiently. ‘Once you’re in the States, you tell my father what the real situation is and he’ll see that they release you, with all the money that’s due to you.’

  ‘How you going to send this cable?’ Chee said. ‘No one can’t send cables like that.’

  John said, ‘I’m going to tell the colonel that I want to see the general on a personal matter. General Castine never comes by the artillery without asking after my father and the Secretary. If you ask me, he’s fishing for a job in Dad’s bank, after the war. He’ll see that the cable gets sent, especially as it’s about a man from his division … and that will be advertised, too …’

  Chee said, ‘All right, Johnny.’ He brought his hand up to the salute – ‘When I come tonight, to clean boots and gun … I’ll bring a bottle … cognac. We get a little drunk … sir!’

  John watched him go, shaking his head. Now, how was he to get out of this man’s army? His need was just as great as Chee’s, in every way except the sheer physical. No one was starving. They were just dying in other, more subtle ways. General Castine was the key. He might not have authority to release him at once; but he might have, or be able to get, authority to send an officer to England for some military purpose. They’d be very strict about letting fellows jump the line for getting back Stateside, but to England … that would be easier.

  Looking down and ahead from his place in the pilot’s cockpit in the nose of the big bomber, Guy Rowland thought, I can see people. The land was dead, murdered, cut to ribbons by some gigantic Sweeny Todd, but the maggots were alive and crawling out of the depths where they had lived for so long. There was a battery of guns, out in the open, no gun pits, the men standing round, looking up as he flew over at 500 feet, well below cloud level. There was a battalion of infantry marching along a road, in column of fours … women in a village street … A man behind a house there, ploughing, not a mile from the front line … but the lines, as he had known them all these years, were far back now, the deep wriggling trenches, like agonised worms crawling across the land, through the shattered woods, across the flooded marshes … The Germans were fifteen miles further east, marching on eastwards in good formation. In a day or two they’d be crossing the Rhine. He wondered where his father and the 1st Battalion of the Wealds were … Down there perhaps, or over to the north, where the ruins of Ypres Cloth Hall made a bigger lump in the myriad lumps of the landscape …

  He’d seen all that he needed to see … Out over the coast near Zeebrugge … the Germans had removed the block ships long since … west for Dover, the white cliffs coming up now, the four radials humming steadily out between the wings. His copilot sat silent beside him in the dual cockpit … the navigator, behind … a photographer lay in the belly of the Buffalo, taking pictures … Dover Castle, the flag flying, smoke everywhere … ah, bonfires, rockets! It was over.

  Now soon he would see Maria von Rackow. General Sykes would let him go over as long as it was part of his job: and that it would be … An election would come soon, everyone said, and the RAF might be fighting for its existence … Hendon coming up ahead; the Big Smoke underneath and to his right … the wind sock hanging nearly limp on its staff atop the control tower. He gave her right rudder and came straight in from the south-east. She glided down, engines sputtering and banging. These monsters were a lot easier to land than a Camel, as long as everything was working all right. They were steady … had to be, to make a stable platform as a bomb launcher … and that would also make them easier targets for enemy scouts … Ease back on the stick … down … rolling … throttles all the way back … turn, taxi, stop.

  The station commander was a major, waiting for him on the turf as he finally jumped down off a wheel. He said, ‘General Sykes called, sir. He wants to have your report tomorrow. Ten o’clock at the Air Ministry.’

  ‘Thanks … Is my car ready?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The Crossley rolled up and Guy climbed in, immediately struggling into his greatcoat. The streets had been full of tension on his drive out this morning. Now, four hours later, they would be exploding, as he had seen, from a height, at Dover. If they saw his uniform and ribbons they’d drag him out of the car and then …. God knew. Tear him limb from limb, one way or another.

  He settled back, huddled into the greatcoat, collar turned up. It was over, at last it was over. Poor Frank would soon have to face Hedlington, and his life without Anne, if he insisted on cutting her out, and the three children which were certainly his …

  The Buffalo ran like a bird. There was no limit to what could be done with a machine like that … Cairo … Cape Town … Delhi … Australia … even America. But what about bad weather, which meant bad visibility? On a long leg the weather could change totally between takeoff and landing. He must learn more about wireless …

  They were entering the centre of London, crowds everywhere, a madhouse, women kissing and hugging any man they could get hold of … buses overflowing with soldiers, sailors, and men in the blue uniform of the convalescent depots … everyone waving flags, shouting, singing, weeping … the car was slowing down and the driver threw over his shoulder, ‘Sorry, can’t get on any faster, sir. Look at ’em … Well, we’ve all got something to celebrate, thanks to you …’

  ‘And a few million others,’ Guy said.

  The crowds had begun to infect him. Why not get down and join in? He wouldn’t be killing now, just loving. He said, ‘I’m not going to the Grosvenor now, driver. Take me to No. 14 Half Moon Street, please.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  Slowly the car advanced through the streets, till at last it reached Half Moon Street. Guy jumped down, crying, ‘Thanks!’ He ran up the steps of No. 14 and rang the bell. Soon a maid came to the door and Guy said, ‘I’d like to see Lady Jarrow, please. Tell her it’s Guy Rowland.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’ She left him in the drawing-room to the right of the hall and disappeared. Five minutes later the door burst open and Florinda rushed in – ‘Guy, darling! Oh, darling darling darling!’ She hung her arms about his neck and swung round, her legs in the air – ‘It’s over! I can’t believe it! I thought it was immortal … like God!’ She pressed her lips to his and kissed him, as they had not kissed since they were making love in his Uncle Tom’s flat, nearly two years ago.

  He broke loose and cried, ‘Let’s go out!’

  ‘Just what I wanted to do … but I didn’t want to go alone … We’ll drink, kiss everyone … but only one kiss per girl, for you … Oh, Guy … you’re looking tired … and sad, in spite of everything … Let’s have a bottle of champagne, and then …’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Let’s go out.’

  The door opened and the maid came in – ‘Lieutenant Bidford to see you, m’lady.’

  ‘Good God!’ Florinda cried. ‘Show him in.’

  Guy stood back and Florinda said, ‘Now, don’t be jealous, love, not today.’ Billy Bidford walked in, wearing naval uniform with a long blue greatcoat, swinging a pair of goggles in one hand. He stopped on seeing Guy and saluted formally.

  ‘This is Guy R
owland,’ Florinda said – ‘Billy Bidford – he’s with the Dover Patrol.’

  The two men looked at each other; each knew that the other loved, and had been the lover of, Florinda. Guy said, ‘I was flying over Dover a couple of hours ago, in a Hedlington Buffalo.’

  ‘I saw you, sir,’ Bidford said. ‘I had just made up my mind that Admiral Keyes would not need my services for the rest of the day and was about a mile out of Dover proceeding to London, as the navy says, with all despatch.’

  Guy whistled. An hour and three quarters from Dover to here, with the crowds in Town. ‘What sort of car were you flying?’

  ‘A Sunbeam, sir.’

  ‘Please don’t call me “sir” … not today. We were going out to celebrate. Come along.’

  ‘I’d love to … all day, and all night.’

  Florinda linked her arms between the two men’s and said, ‘You’re afraid you’re going to get mobbed, with your VCs? But think what the women out there are going to do to me, with two of you, one on each arm!’

  ‘We’ll look after you, between us,’ Bidford said, laughing. ‘The navy and the RAF always work together.’

  Just for today, Guy thought.

  ‘He’s not greedy,’ Helen said, looking down fondly on the seven-month-old baby kneading her bared breast with small hands and smaller fingers. ‘He’s like his father, a perfect officer and gentleman … Aren’t you, Boy?’ She teased the back of the baby’s neck with her finger and stooped to kiss him on the top of his head, which was covered with fair curls. The window was open wide, though the day was raw, because Helen wanted to let in the sounds of Soho celebrating – barrel organs, accordions, mouth organs, the lyric plunking of a mandolin from an upper storey across the road, a piano thumping away in the prostitutes’ house next door, and above all, singing – in Portuguese, French, English, Spanish, but mostly Italian.