by Leah Fleming
He walked back uphill to Waterloo with this maelstrom of feelings tumbling in his head. Of course he’d taken his chance selfishly. He didn’t want her prayers, he wanted her body to possess for a few minutes of oblivion, just in case…This need had overridden his common sense, his gentleman’s reserve, and he felt ashamed. Now he must face the wrath of his mother and brother, who would feel neglected in favour of another.
The sooner he went back to the front the better. He was out of touch with civilian life here. Time to pack up his troubles in the old kitbag and march.
I shiver even now at the thought of that last meeting. There are some moments in life when you wish you could turn back the clock with the wisdom of hindsight and reshape, rework the past into something more beautiful and romantic, into passionate scenes from a famous film: the beach scene in From Here to Eternity, which shocked everyone, or Scarlett’s surrender to Rhett Butler in Gone With the Wind.
Youngsters would laugh at our coyness today, this inbuilt sense of what was right and wrong instilled early. I was a country girl and knew the score: how pregnant girls were dealt with if no one supported them. It was the workhouse or the asylum.
I made a choice that afternoon and wondered ever after if that decision set in motion the chain of events that followed. So many years ago and still the pain of pulling his body from mine stings me. If only I’d known what was in store for all of us. First love cuts the deepest, they say, and I’ve carried that scar all my life.
9
The arrival of the wounded officers brought new life to Waterloo House, the corridors full of tobacco smoke, the piano tinkling at all hours. Angus was busy ministering to their every need, listening to their stories, copying their lingo. Angus was useful and content, despite his disability.
At his insistence Hester had framed his discharge certificate to prove he was no malingerer. Perhaps on one of his bad days, they might unfortunately see for themselves what ailed him and that he was in no fit state to take command. But so far his health was excellent.
The arrival of the men had taken Hester’s mind from Guy’s sudden departure. They had exchanged words over the Bartley girl but for some reason he didn’t dismiss her usual objections.
‘I expect you’re right, Mother, as usual. Perhaps we’re not suited. Perhaps she is too young, but just cut it out,’ he’d barked.
He’d never used slang before and he had been downright rude, turning his back on her when she expressed her disappointment that he’d not turned up when Daphne brought over her lovely nieces, Clarice and Marianne, to play tennis.
Now he was back and for once his letters were more cheery, as if he was glad to return to the thick of it.
For the first time I met a village face in the middle of a march on the road to—. In all that mud and chaos, would you believe, there was Frank Bartley, of all people, riding out with an officer of horse. They’d been in the thick of it and he looked exhausted but cheerful. Of course we can’t fraternise but he recognised me and nodded and saluted. He wouldn’t know that I’d just come back from England…funny old world. This is the first time that it’s happened.
What did she want to know that for? What was it to her that he’d met yet another Bartley brat? Guy was changing, growing away from her, hardening. She could see more of Charles in him recently.
Hester looked around her now. It had been a good suggestion of Daphne’s to open the house. Its aspect and its gardens and the surroundings lent themselves to healing.
There was no one too hideously deformed or injured or limbless, but some of them shook for no reason at all, calling out in the middle of the night, walking in their sleep. Some took themselves off on long walks and all of them drank like fish. She got to know their families and their sweethearts, nice girls with gracious manners. Why couldn’t Guy turn his attention to girls like these, from good homes? Even Angus was taking an interest, flirting with sisters and pretty wives. It was quite endearing except when she thought of his condition.
He’ll not make much of a husband, she mused, but we’re all doing our duty now. The war has come to my door and I have answered the call. The house is warm and provisions good, all is as it should be and yet—why do I feel a constant sense of unease? Have I done enough to keep bad fortune at bay? Surely this war can’t go on for much longer?
She would never relax her guard until Guy came home safe and for good.
Guy couldn’t believe how quickly he had settled back. It was a relief to see his company had not been disbanded. But many of the old faces had vanished and the new raw recruits needed taking in hand and firming up. They needed a constant show of his confidence but at the first stand to, the old familiar twitches and shakes had made him blush with shame. Once over the top, it was strange. There was so much to do just staying alive. Funny how the old panic seemed to evaporate when death was all around. It would be so easy to drift into danger. He couldn’t understand how calm he felt, making sure his men were safe and following orders. If he focused on them he felt no fear, if death came, it came. It was long overdue.
What troubled him most was that strange encounter with Frank Bartley on the road north of Peronne, the last person he expected to see. There had been some shelling and a group of horses had taken the brunt of it. He’d seen a lad kneeling down, watching his dead officer’s horse trapped under debris, torn by shrapnel and dying. The boy was weeping, wanting someone to put it out of its misery and Guy, being first on the scene, took his pistol and shot it.
‘Bloody Hun!’ screamed the boy. He stood motionless, pointing his finger in the direction of the guns like a statue, transfixed. That’s when Guy recognised him.
‘Frank—Frank Bartley?’ he whispered.
But the lad wasn’t moving, unable to answer or do anything but stare ahead with such hatred in his eyes. He was frozen to the spot, uncomprehending.
‘Bartley!’shouted the next officer in charge.‘Move along!’
But still the private didn’t move and Guy sensed trouble. Here was a boy at the end of his rope, ready to wander off in a dazed condition and in danger of a serious charge of disobedience. He was quick to his defence.
‘If everyone cared for their animals like this chap and showed such fury towards the enemy, we’d soon be winning the war,’ Guy offered. ‘Young Bartley here…he’s from my own village and saved my brother’s life once. Good man all round but looks to me as if he needs to stand down and rest up.’ Guy patted Frank on the shoulder.
Taking his cue from these words, the officer nodded. ‘Fall back…go and get a cup of tea then,’ he ordered. ‘Bit of a mouth on him, that one, but you’re right, he cares more for the horses than any of the other men. Melody was one of his favourites. This bloody war! No horse can fight the gun in this mud. Their days are numbered, what?’
‘You may be right there,’ Guy replied. They saluted and rode on as Frank was guided down the line for a rest, still staring back at the horse. How could he tell Selma what he had just witnessed? Frank was in big trouble, of that he was certain.
The chapel harvest supper was in full swing, tables laden with apples, pears, quinces, bowls of blackberries and fresh cream. All the vegetables dug up made a colourful display around the chapel windowsills and the smells were tempting. Sugar had been saved to make jams and chutneys. Bottles of fruit like shining jewels, ruby, gold, amber and amethyst, lined up for the auction later, along with fresh eggs from ducks and hens. There was even a few bowls of hazelnuts and sweet chestnuts. From the mill owner, Mr Best’s, walled garden and greenhouse came plums and grapes and other exotics, which Selma eyed with longing.
She loved harvest home and a chance for a bit of a shindig with the Sunday school scholars, the last remnant of her former teaching role. There was talk of cancelling the event this year for lack of produce, and no one was in the mood for jollity, but Pastor Rathbone insisted that the Lord be honoured for His bountiful goodness.
‘Seedtime and harvest never faileth and the earth’s rich
es are for us to garner. We have to be grateful,’ he had said. ‘Trust in His mercy.’
Now, after the service, it was time for the supper and Mam had baked apple pies by the dozen as well as cooking potatoes in the big forge fire until they were golden and crisp. There were jugs of elderberry cordial that would warm the throats for a singsong, and Selma and her Sunday school pupils promised to provide a little entertainment; some sketches that were simple to do but funny.
She had to stay busy so as not to think too much about letting Guy down with her prudishness. How could she have been such a fool as to let him go back to war without showing him how much she loved him?
His letters still came on cue and they tried to pretend she hadn’t rebuffed him with gossip and news. He was relieved his batman, Bostock, was still safe but disappointed that he had been assigned to someone else. Then there was the intriguing note that he may have seen her brother on the road one evening. He sounded glad to be back with his men.
‘Miss…Miss, please is it time for us to do a sketch yet?’ said Polly Askew.
‘In a minute. Wait while the tables are cleared away and the auction of produce begins,’ she replied.
This was when everyone bid against each other for jars and fruit, eggs, hoping to raise a goodly sum towards The Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Comforts Fund.
Pennies, sixpences, shillings and sometimes if it was a special item, the odd ten shilling note, were bid. Even the leftover pies were offered until all that was left were bags of carrots and parsnips, a moth-eaten cauliflower or two and bags of windfall cooking apples.
Every year it was the same familiar routine, war or no war, and that was a comfort somehow.
Selma borrowed a sheet and a lantern and then dimmed the gaslights from the schoolroom to create a shadow picture behind a white screen.
‘Doctor, Doctor, my throat hurts.’ Polly Askew went behind the sheet to be examined and Selma opened up her mouth and pulled out a hairbrush, throwing it over the curtain for the audience to see. Out came Polly: ‘That feels better.’ Off she went and next Jimmy Cowgill stepped up on the platform behind the sheet.
‘Doctor, Doctor, my belly aches.’
‘Lie down on the bench then,’ Selma ordered, bringing out a pair of sheep shears and waving them about so everyone laughed, and then a hammer, banging it down and pulling out a line of mock sausages on a string to more laughter, and then a stick with a string, with which she pretended to sew him.
Jimmy staggered out, rubbing his stomach. ‘Eeh, that’s better!’ he said, and everyone applauded. Selma liked making them laugh. The old ones were always the best. So they managed six little items and then Elvie Best stood up and everyone groaned. Being the mill owner’s daughter she had to have her hearing. But after a few bars of her rendition of Bless This House everyone was ready for home.
Things were hotting up again. Guy had watched the great tanks rolling forth like giant iron monsters. It was slow progress but capturing the village of Thiepval inch by inch was a start. They were making headway, the infantry had followed behind in hope of a breakthrough, but the rain and the mud swallowed up any advantage. The Germans were in no mood to retreat so it was stalemate again.
How far away home seemed now. Selma’s letters were full of harvest home and frolics. The only harvest he could see was one of torn flesh and bones, chunks of metal and machinery. His new recruits were proving a windy lot and needed chivvying into position in the observation posts.
He had tried to instil the need for foot care and gas mask training, something now routine to the veteran troops, but no one wanted to struggle to cover themselves with those old choking gas masks. He had hated feeling trapped inside such a small place, but now he had the Small Box Respirator, with hose pipes attached, round his chest and a breathing tube and eye mask. This was better, but relatively untested. Worst of all now was the continuous mud and duckboard tracks. It was like wading through thick brown gruel, up to the waist at times, a slow squelching progress and what came rising up out of its bowels was a very hell itself: bodies, helmets, limbs. Sometimes, he felt his spirit just leaching away into a dull stupor of aching cold, a miserable depression that he knew it would be fatal to show.
Did everybody in war have a personal account of courage…courage that could be quickly spent up in conditions like these? Day by day he felt his account dwindling; soon he’d be overdrawn if he didn’t buck himself up. It was an effort to be the last man seen to duck into a dugout when the shells came over, just to prove to his men he could take it.
Tonight just putting one foot in front of the other was enough as he waded from the forward observation post. He was trying hard to find something to put his weight on, and dusk was approaching. Then he stumbled, losing most of his equipment into this brown soup, fumbling, cursing to high heaven. He ferreted around, trying to retrieve his gas mask bits when he sniffed that old familiar, peppery pineapple smell and saw the green cloud drifting in his direction.
Damn and blast, they’d sent over a gas shell and bits of his SBR were lost in the mire. ‘Gas! Gas!’ someone was shouting as he struggled away from the nauseating cloud, with so little protection. Terror of its effects forced his limbs into action, pushing through the gloop, but with each laboured breath he was feeling more wretched and floundering, knowing now that one careless slip might cost him his life. Without gas protection, he couldn’t last long.
‘Come on, sir.’ He felt himself manhandled into a dugout tunnel, through the thick gas curtain, but his throat and his eyes were burning. ‘Don’t scratch your eyes, sir, and keep coughing it out…’ Someone tied his hands to stop him tearing at his throat.
So was this it, death by stealth in the sodden mud? Not in some heroic battle but lying in this fetid hole, struggling for breath, gasping at his burning throat, cursing like fury. This was not how it should be.
Someone was bandaging his eyes with a wet cloth to soothe them. He wanted to scream in agony but not a sound could he make as he gasped for air, utterly useless now, a burden to his men. What an example, mud-coated and writhing with not a bloody mark on him!
The journey to the clearing station was like some nightmare. His head felt as if it was going to explode and he cried out, but nothing would come. He had seen enough men die from chlorine gas, a slow lingering death. His chances were slim, even though his exposure was not long enough to kill him outright.
With each stumbling jolt through the trench, coughing and spluttering, he felt the darkness enclosing him. How could he have been so stupid as to lose part of his SBR? What a waste of all his training, to peg out for want of a breathing tube. But as he grew weaker, he sighed in resignation, thinking how death no longer seemed an agony of panic. He had no strength left to fight. It was as if he was in some strange dreamlike journey. So this is it, your time to go. Don’t fight it, give in to the bastard, he’s bigger than you.
Hester was doing her rounds like the Lady of the Lamp. She liked to see the men tucked in, and the house put to bed. Its smells had changed from garden fragrances to carbolic Lysol, a hospital smell. How eight men could make so much work and smoke so much tobacco and make so much noise was beyond her.
They came in quiet enough, subdued, full of their ailments but day by day got stronger, noisier and more demanding, with loud patrician voices calling for their batmen and orderlies, and Angus scuttling around at their beck and call.
It was pathetic to see him so grateful, so eager to please but, so far so good, he’d not had a fit in months. Perhaps a miracle was happening and he was returning to normal, but it was still early days, too soon to hope. If he remained stable he would want to go before another army medical tribunal.
She found him pacing up and down the drawing room like an agitated horse, back and forth, on his face a look of anguish.
‘What ever is the matter?’
‘I don’t know. Something is wrong—I can feel it.’
She had spoken too soon. He was working up to one of his turns aga
in.
‘Have you taken your pills?’
‘Of course, but I can smell pear drops up my nose, a strong smell of pear drops, and my head aches…I’ve been doing so well. I feel sick,’ he groaned, looking pale.
‘Then go to bed. I’ll ask the nurse to come and look at you.’ She felt his forehead. ‘You’re hot. Perhaps you have a fever coming on.’
‘Don’t fuss…I just feel odd. It came on suddenly. One minute I was chatting to old Smithers in the dorm, and then I started to feel sick and shivery. My head feels tight as a drum. I thought I might be in for another bloody turn but this feels different.’
‘Angus, don’t swear!’
‘Sorry, Mother, but I feel so wretched. I wanted to read that spiffing book Smithers lent me, The Thirty-Nine Steps. All the men are talking about it but now my eyes are itchy and sore. My throat hurts. I hope it isn’t catching.’
‘Just go to bed and it will pass. I’ll keep an eye on things.’ Hester felt sick seeing his crumpled face. It didn’t pay to anticipate, to plan ahead. Just when she thought everything was settled, Angus goes down with an infection—or worse. When was she ever going to find some peace in these wretched times?
Guy had no recollection of how he arrived at the military hospital near Etaples. Only that every breath was agony, that his eyes were bandaged for a while, that his head was bursting like a shell into his ear drum, that he was so weak he couldn’t lift his head, that every movement was agony, and his chest was so tight he was sure someone had bound it with wire. Why was he here?
‘Had a lucky escape there, Cantrell,’ someone said, and he was aware of a brass hat with many pips leaning over him, breathing whisky fumes. ‘You’ll live.’
