by John Masters
‘And you’re still not fit to mount a Viceroy’s Guard,’ Lucas said. ‘This is a fucking Regular battalion. That’s why they picked us out of the division and sent us to this ’ole.’
‘Cologne’s not so bad,’ Halton said.
‘I been out in the country,’ Fletcher Whitman said. ‘It’s flatter than the Weald, and not so many hedges. The woods are all neat as new pins. Their gamekeepers must pick up every twig, just as though it was the lawn of a big house.’ He shook his head wonderingly. They were sitting in the Wet Canteen, playing dominoes. Outside sleet fell in long diagonals across the parade ground. The battalion had been parading inside the covered drill hall all afternoon, and now parades were over for the day.
‘The Germans isn’t so bad,’ Halton said, ‘considering they’re foreigners … better’n Frogs, that’s a fact.’
Lucas said, to Whitman, ‘’Ow much did the captain tell you your first book of poetry has sold for you?’
‘Two thousand, two hundred and forty-six quid,’ Fletcher said. ‘And the bloke what published it says there’ll be more in six months, and God knows how much from the second book.’
‘And you ’aven’t honoured that posh whorehouse by the cathedral with a visit? Or ordered champagne with your burgoo? Or stood all of us, your pals, pints of the best?’
Fletcher laughed, ‘I’ll stand you all a pint, why not? But champagne … women …’ He shrugged – ‘I’d rather be back in Walstone, out in one of his lordship’s copses after a fine fat pheasant, with my granddad … only my granddad’s his lordship’s ruddy head gamekeeper now.’ He laughed again, good-humouredly.
Sergeant Fagioletti entered the Canteen, glanced round, and headed for them. Lucas said, ‘Hey, sarn’t, you come to have a pig’s ear with us common soldiers? Or have they run out of wallop in the Sergeants’ Mess?’
Fagioletti said, ‘Whitman, report to the company office right away. You’re being demobbed. You’ll be leaving on the 8.27 demob train tomorrow morning.’
‘Hooray!’ Fletcher cried. ‘Home by midnight!’
‘In Minden Barracks, Hedlington, by midnight, if you’re lucky,’ the sergeant said. ‘The captain’s going, too. Orders just in. Captain Fry from the 2nd Battalion is coming to take over the company … And the Regimental wants to see you at nine o’clock ack emma in his office, Lucas.’
‘Me?’ Lucas said. ‘What have I done?’
Fagioletti said, ‘How much service have you got?’
Lucas said, at once, ‘Twenty-two years and ten months.’
‘The Regimental wants to know how much longer do you expect to serve?’
Lucas’s jaw dropped. The sergeant had gone. Lucas looked at the other three. Whitman was murmuring ‘Betty!’, his eyes closed, a slow beatific smile spreading across his face; Smith ’87 was saying, ‘Lucky bugger, that’s what you are, Whitman’; Halton was drinking deep from his tankard.
Lucas stared from one to the other of them. The Regimental was going to tell him his time was up. But where could he go? ‘Where can I go?’ he said in a sudden panic. ‘What can I do? I’m a soldier … Everyone’s dead … mum, dad, sisters, brothers, cousins … dead or never ’eard of me, ’cos I’m a soldier …’
Whitman opened his eyes and said softly, ‘They’re dead, but the Regiment lives. That’s what they taught us when we joined, wasn’t it? … The Regiment lives for ever. And you want to live for ever in it, eh?’
Daily Telegraph, Monday, January 27, 1919
OFFICIAL REPORT OF THE PEACE CONFERENCE
LEAGUE OF NATIONS
DELEGATES’ SPEECHES
PRESIDENT WILSON
President Wilson: Mr Chairman – I consider it a distinguished privilege to open the discussion in this Conference on the League of Nations. We have assembled for two purposes – to make the present settlements which have been made necessary by this war, and also to secure the peace of the world, not only by the present settlements but by the arrangements we shall make in this Conference for its maintenance. The League of Nations seems to me to be necessary for both of these purposes … You can imagine, gentlemen, I dare say, the sentiments and the purpose with which representatives of the United States support this great project for a League of Nations. We regard it as the keystone of the whole programme, which expressed our purposes and ideals in this war, and which the associated nations accept as the basis of the settlement … I hope, Mr Chairman, that when it is known, as I feel confident it will be known, that we have adopted the principle of the League of Nations and mean to work out that principle in effective action, we shall by that single thing have lifted a great part of the load of anxiety from the hearts of men everywhere … I have only tried in what I have said to give you the fountain of enthusiasm which is within us for this thing, for these fountains spring, it seems to me, from all the ancient wrongs and sympathies of mankind, and the very pulse of the world seems to beat to the surface of this enterprise …
Cate looked up at his guest, Captain Kellaway – ‘What do you think of this League of Nations idea? Or haven’t you had time to think about it?’
Kellaway, spreading marmalade on a piece of toast, said, ‘I think it’s a good idea, sir … anything’s a good idea, that might prevent us having another war like that. But whether it will work, I don’t know. It’ll take a long time, and perhaps another war or two, even worse than this one, to make the big countries let any League tell them what they can and can not do. We can only hope for the best … but I think it’s a bad omen that Russia isn’t in it, nor Germany – they’ll have to be, sooner or later … and I suspect that America might not join, in the end, in spite of Mr Wilson.’
Cate was silent. Kellaway had arrived from Germany the night before last, and telephoned him yesterday morning, asking if he could see him. He had been Laurence’s company commander throughout Laurence’s time in France. He had come to the Manor and Cate had asked him to stay the night. They had talked late, about Laurence, and the war, recognising in each other a common view of civilisation, a common sense of tragedy.
Now Kellaway said, ‘I have to go back to barracks soon, sir. They’re supposed to complete my demob procedures this afternoon … they want to get us in and out as fast as possible. They don’t have the accommodation to hold anyone for long … The regiment had twenty-one battalions in the field at the armistice …’
Cate said, ‘I would not like to lose touch with you. Where can I reach you?’
‘91 Albemarle Street,’ Kellaway said. ‘My telephone is Mayfair 7744. Call, any time.’
Cate said cautiously, ‘How will it feel, being a civilian again? Pretty good, I suppose.’
Kellaway didn’t answer for a long time. Glancing up, Cate was astonished, and moved, to see his good eye filling with tears. Kellaway adjusted the eyepatch on the other eye, and said, ‘Lost, sir. Orphaned … I have been incredibly lucky to survive … losing no more than one eye and bits of unimportant flesh here and there. But my real luck, my real privilege, is to have served with the men – and women – of this country, in the war. The war itself was unbelievably horrible. They – the men – were unbelievably magnificent … from our CO, Quentin Rowland, and Boy, to such as Private Lucas, Private Whitman, Sergeant Fagioletti … and the uncountable dead … Laurence knew that, too, sir, before he died. His last words were “Thank you” – to the firing squad.’
Chapter 20
London: February, 1919
Panting, Guy Rowland ran back to his place in the line-out. The cold wind slashed through his thin jersey in the parti-colours of the Harlequins’ Rugby Football Club. His body ached from the many times he had been tackled; his calves and thighs were stiff from running, jinking, and kicking; and he had been at it since practice began an hour ago. He would be twenty-two in a couple of months, but he felt a hundred. Still, covered in mud, bleeding from grazes on cheek and hand, he realised that for a long time he had not thought of Werner von Rackow or any other of his victims: he was not the Butcher, but an out-
of-practice stand-off half. The cockpits of Sopwith Camels didn’t prepare you for thirty minutes each way of top-class rugger.
The wing lobbed the ball down the line out, a Colour got it, and slung it back at once to Guy. Before it reached him a White was on him, burly, blond-headed, coming like an express train. The ball and W. W. Wakefield arrived simultaneously, and Guy went crashing to the ground, holding tight to the ball. Then the heels were over him, and he rolled up, letting the ball loose from him to the Colours’ side. A big boot got it out, kicking him in the stomach in the process … the scrum was gone, the pack dribbling loose, David Toledano in the lead. Guy ran to his position … perhaps it would bounce right, and they could start a passing movement … the White full-back tried to fall on the ball and failed … There, it bounced up into David’s hands, and he’d swung round and thrown a beautiful pass back to the scrum half, who was running, jinking, about to be tackled … passed to Guy, just in time … the White full-back was on his feet, the Colours’ forwards pounding up … no way to sell a dummy to his opposite number … thirty-five yards out … Guy pivoted, swung, and sent a drop kick arching up between the tall white-painted goal posts.
David was slapping him on the back – ‘Well done, Guy’; and the ref was blowing No Side. Wakefield, coming up beside him, said, ‘Good kick, colonel … Little out of training, aren’t you, though?’
Guy nodded, still gasping – ‘I’ll try to get fit again … but the general keeps sending me to Paris and Cologne.’
Wakefield said, ‘Think you can play regularly, Toledano?’
David said dubiously, ‘I hope so. But my father’s not very well, and wants me to start taking over the bank. If I could just turn out on Saturdays …’
‘But you can’t,’ Wakefield said, ‘not for the Club side. If you could train and play regularly you could get an England cap next year.’
David said, ‘I don’t know …’
They walked on, towards the changing-rooms. There, as David and Guy sat side by side on a narrow bench, after their showers, slowly pulling on their clothes, David said, ‘What are your plans, Guy? Long-term plans?’
Guy stood up in front of the mirror, tying his Old Wellingtonian tie. He said, ‘I want to do something for civil aviation. I’m thinking of flying a British aircraft to Buenos Aires.’
David whistled long and low – ‘That would make a sensation. What’s the length of the sea crossing?’
‘Eighteen hundred and fifty miles from Bathurst to Natal.’
‘Would you use a Buffalo?’
‘I’d like to, if we can work out a way to carry extra fuel … and feed it into the tanks in flight. Our present maximum range is not much more than eleven hundred miles, with eight hundred gallons of fuel.’
It was David’s turn to stand up before the mirror, adjusting his tie. Guy watched him, admiring the placid honesty in the big, broken-nosed face, the thoughtfulness in the deep brown eyes. David spoke without looking round, but now watching Guy in the mirror – ‘When you’ve done that, would you consider coming into the bank with me? My father may have mentioned it to you … may have told you he would like you to. But now I’m telling you – I want you to.’
After a time Guy said, ‘It’s a great honour … and compliment … for you to invite me into something that you’ve made on your own … like being asked to become a member of your family. I just don’t know, David … Ever since the war ended … no, before that … I’ve been drifting. Oh, I can do individual tasks that are set to me, or that I set myself, such as this flight, but the general direction of my life … its purpose … that’s unknown to me. I keep searching, in a sort of haphazard way. I don’t find.’
David turned and Guy saw that he was blushing. He said hesitantly, ‘About being part of the family … you are … you would be, if you joined us … even without marrying Rebecca, though I’d be very happy if you did. She really admires you …’
‘But no one can make her love me,’ Guy murmured.
‘I think she does,’ David said, ‘but she can’t show it, even to me, unless … well, unless you do, too. It would make her and Father so happy, too. We all love Rebecca.’
‘David,’ Guy said, ‘I’ve been in love with one girl nearly all my life. I still am. Now, there’s another … I don’t love her, but I owe her more than love. I owe her a life … Maria von Rackow. What the hell am I to do?’
They were walking down the narrow street together – Guy, David Toledano, and Helen Rowland. David was pushing a pram, containing a ten-month-old boy, with curly fair hair and blue eyes. Anyone who had known Boy Rowland would know that it was his son. Those two – David and Helen – were talking animatedly. Guy, walking a little behind and to one side, listened and watched. Most mornings he motor-cycled up to the Park from the little flat he’d found in South Kensington, and rode an hour on horses from Watkins’ livery stable; and sometimes David Toledano rode with him. Yesterday Lady Barbara Watkins – Helen Rowland’s sister – had mentioned that Helen would very much like to see him. Guy had determined to visit her – they had been friends all their lives – and David, overhearing, had wanted to come; for he had known her slightly … and now, the old contact re-established, a new direction came into Guy’s thoughts. If old Isaac Toledano, and David, could try to produce suitable women for him, he could do as much for David. It might work. There were obstacles, of course, and they were both too sensible to be pushed into anything they didn’t really want, but … it had great possibilities.
‘I’m afraid the boutique’s not doing so well since the war ended,’ Helen was saying. ‘Women don’t seem to need to spend so much on themselves, now that their men are home. You’d have thought it would be the other way round, but it isn’t …
Guy cut in, ‘Isn’t Ethel Stratton, that was, helping you?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘She’s very good, too. But I don’t know how long she’ll stay with me. She’s desperate to have children, and Sergeant Fagioletti – her husband – is staying on in the army, and he will be allotted a married quarter in Germany in June. Then, of course, she’ll go over to him.’
‘Won’t get any babies unless she does,’ Guy murmured. Helen smiled at him and turned back to David.
David said, ‘I don’t know much about boutiques, exactly, but I know something about business in general. Could I come and have a look at your place? See how you manage things … what your buying procedures are, accounting, stock records, and so on?’
‘You are very kind,’ Helen said.
‘And afterwards, please let me give you lunch.’
‘I don’t really have time for a good lunch,’ she said. ‘And at the normal lunch hours I have to be in the boutique because that’s when a lot of women come in to buy something.’
‘Dinner then?’
Guy sighed silently, kept his face impassive, and made cooing noises at the baby; who was called Charles Durand-Beaulieu Rowland, but was always addressed as ‘Boy’.
The main banqueting room upstairs at the Café Royal was full to overflowing, of men and women in every variation of attire, from morning coats to velveteen jackets, from long silk gowns and sweeping hats to defiant trousers and bare, bobbed hair. The time was half-past noon; and the level of the noise in the big, red-hung room with the golden Ns embroidered on everything in sight, had been rising steadily since the reception in honour of Mr Fletcher Gorse and his new book The Blood of Poppies had begun at noon. Champagne and white wine were being served by waiters; many of the new-fangled American cocktails were also available. The noise increased as the invited guests increased their intake of alcohol; and the eclecticism of the dress reflected the variety of the worlds where Fletcher’s poetry had struck the heart … Bloomsbury, Chelsea, Mayfair, the City, Westminster; politics, fashion, art, literature, commerce; the army, navy, air force, society …
Fletcher had a glass of champagne in one hand, the other hand stuck into the pocket of his khaki trousers, for he was wearing uniform. He had been de
mobbed a week before, but his publisher, Mr Edgar Kajayan, had specially asked him to appear as a private soldier. He supposed that he ought to be saluting all these officers – there was Mr Guy, now a lieutenant-colonel; and there was a general, or p’raps a ruddy Field-Marshal … and that must be an admiral, with gold braid half-way to his shoulder; but he didn’t have his cap on, so he couldn’t salute: just stand to attention, and the hell with that. Old Rowley would have given him what for, but old Rowley was in India, a ruddy Brigadier-General at last.
‘Their faces are getting red as beets, with the booze,’ he muttered in an aside to Betty Merritt.
A tall, imperious, youngish blonde swept up, glancing at Betty as though she were something the cat had just brought in. ‘Mr Gorse,’ she said, ‘how can I tell you what your poetry has meant to me? I had two brothers out there in the Grenadiers, my husband, too – the Duke of Kendal … I’m the Duchess of Kendal … Philippa … You made me feel what it was really like. But …’ again she glanced at Betty, close at Fletcher’s side, as though to ask, who is this woman? She continued – ‘One thing I cannot understand … you are a poet, so sensitive, so spiritual … how could you tolerate the filth, the brutality?’
Fletcher said, ‘Oh, you can live through anything if you think of what’s coming later … a few bottles of van blong, and a fat French whore.’
‘Really!’ the duchess gasped. Her eyes gleamed – ‘Ah, Mr Gorse, I don’t believe for a moment that you ever have to pay for I’ amour.’
‘Never a penny,’ Fletcher said. ‘Oh, Duchess, this is my fiancée, Betty Merritt.’
The duchess turned, and recognising defeat, said, ‘How nice! Well, I hope you are both very happy.’ She drifted away. Betty hissed, ‘We’re not engaged! I never promised!’
‘You better had, now,’ Fletcher said, ‘otherwise women like that’ll eat me up, starting with my cock.’
‘Shhh! I …’
