by John Fowles
‘You know, of course, that something far more monstrous than my adolescent Arabian Nights was being imagined in the young mind of twentieth-century Europe. I was just eighteen. The war began. They were unreal, the first days. So much peace and plenty, for so long a time. In the collective unconscious, perhaps everyone wanted a change, a purge. A holocaust. But it appeared to us unpolitical citizens a matter of pride, of purely military pride. Something which the Regular Army and His Majesty’s invincible Navy would settle. There was no conscription, no feeling in my world, of necessity to volunteer. It never crossed my mind that I might one day have to fight. Moltke, Biilow, Foch, Haig, French – the names meant nothing. But then came the sombre coup d’archet of Mons and Le Cateau. That was totally new. The efficiency of the Germans, the horror stories about the Prussian Guards, the Belgian outrages, the black shock of the casualty lists. Kitchener. The Million Army. And then in September the battle of the Marne – that was no longer cricket. Eight hundred thousand – imagine them drawn up down there on the sea – eight hundred thousand candles all blown out in one gigantic breath.
‘December came. The “flappers” and the “nuts” had disappeared. My father told me one evening that neither he nor my mother would think the worse of me if I did not go. I had started at the Royal College of Music, and the atmosphere there was at first hostile to volunteering. The war had nothing to do with art or artists. I remember my parents and Lily’s discussing the war. They agreed it was inhuman. But my father’s conversation with me became strained. He became a special constable, a member of the local emergency committee. Then the son of his head clerk was killed in action. He told us that one silent dinner-time, and left my mother and me alone immediately afterwards. Nothing was said, but everything was plain. One day soon afterwards, Lily and I stood and watched a contingent of troops marching through the streets. It was wet after rain, the pavements were shining. They were going to France, and someone beside us said they were volunteers. I watched their singing faces in the yellow of the gas-lamps. The cheering people around us. The smell of wet serge. They were drunk, marchers and watchers, exalted out of themselves, their faces set in the rictus of certainty. Medieval in their certainty. I had not then heard the famous phrase. But this was le consentement frémissant à la guerre.
‘They are mad, I said to Lily. She did not seem to hear me. But when they had gone she turned and said, If I was going to die tomorrow I should be mad. It stunned me. We went home in silence. And all the way she hummed, I now – but could not then – believe without malice, a song of the day.’ He paused, then half sung it:
‘ “We shall miss you, we shall kiss you,
But we think you ought to go.”
‘I felt like a small boy beside her. Once again I blamed my miserable Greek blood. It had made me a coward as well as a lecher. I see, when I look back, that indeed it had. Because I was less a true coward, a calculating coward, than someone so innocent, or so Greek, that he could not see what the war had to do with him. Social responsibility has never been a Greek characteristic.
‘When we reached our houses, Lily kissed my cheek and ran in. I understood. She could not apologize, but she could still pity. I spent a night and a day and a second night in agony. The next day I saw Lily and told her I was going to volunteer. All the blood left her cheeks. Then she burst into tears and threw herself into my arms. So did my mother when I told her. But hers was a purer grief.
‘I was passed fit, accepted. I was a hero. Lily’s father presented me with an old pistol he had. My father opened champagne. And then when I got to my room, and sat on my bed with the pistol in my hands, I cried. Not from fear – for the sheer nobility of what I was doing. I had never felt public-spirited before. And I also thought that I had conquered that Greek half of me. I was fully English at last.
‘I was pushed into the 13th London Rifles – Princess Louise’s Kensington Regiment. There I became two people – one who watched and one who tried to forget that the other watched. We were trained less to kill than to be killed. Taught to advance at two-pace intervals – against guns that fired two hundred and fifty bullets a minute. The Germans and the French did the same. No doubt we should have objected if we had ever seriously thought about action. But the current myth at that time maintained that the volunteers were to be used only for guard and communication duties. The regulars and the reservists were the fighting troops. Besides, every week we were told that because of its enormous cost the war could not last another month.’
I heard him move in his chair. In the silence that followed I waited for him to continue. But he said nothing. The stars shimmered in their dustless, glittering clouds; the terrace was like a stage beneath them.
‘A glass of brandy?’
‘I hope you’re not going to stop.’
‘Let us have some brandy.’
He stood up and lit the candle. Then he disappeared.
I lay in my chair and stared up at the stars. 1914 and 1953 were aeons apart; 1914 was on a planet circling one of those furthest faintest stars. The vast stretch, the pace of time.
Then they came again, those footsteps. This time, they approached. It was the same rapid walk. But it was much too warm for rapid walking. Someone wanted to reach the house urgently, and without being seen. I got quickly to the parapet.
I was just in time to glimpse a pale shape at the far end of the house move up the steps and under the colonnade. I could not see well, my eyes had been dazzled, after the darkness, by the candle. But it was not Maria; a whiteness, a flowing whiteness, a long coat or a dressing-gown – I had only a second’s sight, but I knew it was a woman and I knew it was not an old woman. I suspected, too, that I had been meant to see her. Because if one wanted to get into the house unheard, one wouldn’t cross the gravel, but approach the house from the rear, or the far side.
There was a sound from the bedroom and Conchis appeared in the lamplit doorway, carrying a tray with a bottle and two glasses. I waited till he had set it by the candle.
‘You know someone has just come in downstairs.’
He betrayed not the least surprise. He uncorked the bottle and carefully poured the brandy. ‘A man or a woman?’
‘A woman.’
‘All.’ He handed me my brandy. ‘This is made at the monastery of Arkadion in Crete.’ He snuffed the candle and went back to his chair. I remained standing.
‘You did say you lived alone.’
‘I said that I liked to give the islanders the impression that I lived alone.’
The dryness in his voice made me feel that I was being very naive. The woman was simply his mistress, whom for some reason he did not want me to meet; or who perhaps did not want to meet me. I went and sat down on the lounging-chair.
‘I’m being tactless. Forgive me.’
‘Not tactless. Perhaps a little lacking in imagination.’
‘I thought perhaps I was meant to notice what obviously I’m not meant to notice.’
‘Noticing is not a matter of choice, Nicholas. But explaining is.’
‘Of course.’
‘Patience.’
Tm sorry.’
‘Do you like the brandy?’
‘Very much.’
‘It always reminds me of Armagnac. Now. Shall I continue?’
As he began to speak again I smelt the night air, I felt the hard concrete under my feet, I touched a piece of chalk in my pocket. But a strong feeling persisted, when I swung my feet off the ground and lay back, that something was trying to slip between me and reality.
19
‘I found myself in France a little more than six weeks after I enlisted. I had no aptitude with the rifle. I could not even bayonet an effigy of Kaiser Bill convincingly. But I was considered “sharp” and they also discovered that I could run quite fast. So I was selected as company runner, which meant that I was also a kind of servant, I forget the word
‘Batman.’
‘That is it. My training company commander was a Regula
r Army officer of thirty or so. His name was Captain Montague. He had broken his leg some time before and so had been unfit for active service till then. A kind of phosphorescent pale elegance about his face. A delicate, gallant moustache. He was one of the most supremely stupid men I have ever met. He taught me a great deal.
‘Before our training was finished, he received an urgent posting to France. That same day he told me, as if he were giving me a magnificent present, that he thought he could pull strings and have me posted with him. Only a man as blank as he would have failed to see the hollowness of my enthusiasm. But unfortunately he had grown fond of me.
‘He had a brain capable of only one idea at a time. With him it was the offensive à outrance – the headlong attack. Foch’s great contribution to the human race. “The force of the shock is the mass,” he used to say – “the force of the mass is the impulsion and the force of the impulsion is the morale. High morale, high impulsion, high shock – victory!” Thump on the table – “Victory!” He made us all learn it by heart. At bayonet-drill. Vic-tor-ee! Poor fool.
‘I spent a last two days with my parents and Lily. She and I swore undying love. The idea of heroic sacrifice had contaminated her, as it had contaminated my father. My mother said nothing, except an old Greek proverb: A dead man cannot be brave. I remembered that later.
‘We went straight to the front. One of the company commanders there had died of pneumonia, and it was his place Montague had to take. This is early in 1915. It sleeted and rained incessantly. We spent long hours in stationary trains in railway-sidings, in grey towns under greyer skies. One knew the troops who had been in action. The ones who sang their way to death, the new recruits, were the dupes of the romance of war. But the others were dupes of the reality of war, of the ultimate Totentanz. Like those sad old men and women who haunt every casino, they knew the wheel must always win in the end. But they could not force themselves to leave.
‘We spent a few days on manoeuvres. And then one day Montague addressed the company. We were going into battle, a new sort of battle, one in which victory was certain. One that was going to bring us to Berlin in a month. The night of the next day we entrained. The train stopped somewhere in the middle of a flat plain and we marched eastwards. Dykes and willows in the darkness. Endless drizzle. It crept down the columns that the place we were to attack was a village called Neuve Chapelle. And that the Germans were to receive something revolutionary. A giant gun. A mass attack by the new aeroplanes.
‘After a while we turned into a field, thick with mud, and were marched up to some farm-buildings. Two hours’ rest before taking up position for the attack. No one can have slept. It was very cold, and fires were forbidden. My real self began to appear, I began to be afraid. But I told myself that if I was ever to be truly frightened, I should have known it before then. This is what I had willed to execute. That is how war corrupts us. It plays on our pride in our own free will.
‘Before dawn we filed slowly forward, many stops, to the assault positions. I overheard Montague talking with a staff officer. The entire First Army, Haig’s, was engaged, with the Second in support. And there seemed to me a safety, a kind of warmth in such numbers. But then we entered the trenches. The terrible trenches, with their stench of the urinal. And then the first shells fell near us. I was so innocent that in spite of our so-called training, of all the propaganda, I had never really been able to believe that someone might want to kill me. We were told to halt and stand against the walls. The shells hissed, whined, crashed. Then silence. Then a splatter of falling clods. And shivering, I awoke from my long sleep.
‘I think the first thing I saw was the isolation of each. It is not the state of war that isolates. It is well known, it brings people together. But the battlefield – that is something different. Because that is when the real enemy, death, appears. I no longer saw any warmth in numbers. I saw only Thanatos in them, my death. Just as much in my own comrades, in Montague, as in the invisible Germans.
‘The madness of it, Nicholas. Standing in holes in the ground. thousands of men, English, Scots, Indians, French, Germans, one March morning – and what for? If there is a hell, then it is that. Not flames, not pitchforks. But a place without the possibility of reason, like Neuve Chapelle that day.
‘A reluctant light began to spread over the eastern sky. The drizzle stopped. A trill of song from somewhere outside the trench. I recognized a hedge-sparrow, the last voice from the other world. We moved forward again some way and into the assault trenches -the Rifle Brigade was to form the second wave of the attack. The German trenches were less than two hundred yards ahead, with our front trench only a hundred yards from theirs. Montague looked at his watch. He raised his hand. There was complete silence. His hand fell. For some ten seconds nothing happened. Then, far behind us, there was a gigantic drum-roll, a thousand tympani. A pause. And then the whole world ahead exploded. Everyone ducked. A shaking of earth, sky, mind, all. You cannot imagine what the first few minutes of that bombardment were like. It was the first massive artillery barrage of the war, the heaviest ever delivered.
‘A runner came from the front trenches, down the communicating trench. His face and uniform were streaked with red. Montague asked if he was hit. He said everyone in the front trenches was splashed with blood from the German trenches. They were so close. If only they could have stopped to think how close …
‘After half an hour the barrage was moving over the village. Montague, at the periscope, cried “They’re up!” And then- “The Boches are done for!” He leapt on to the parapet, and waved to all of us around him to look over the edge of the trench. A hundred yards ahead a long line of men trotted slowly across the scarred earth towards some shattered trees and broken walls. A few isolated shots. A man fell. Then stood up and ran on. He had simply tripped. The men about me began to shout as the line reached the first houses and a cheer came back. A red light soared up, and then we in our turn advanced. It was difficult to walk. And as we went forward, fear was driven out by horror. Not a shot was fired at us. But the ground became increasingly hideous. Nameless things, pink, white, red, mud-bespattered, still with rags of grey or khaki. We crossed our own front trench and traversed the no-man’s-land. When we came to the German trenches there was nothing to see. Everything had been either buried or blown out of them. There we halted for a moment, lying down in the craters, almost in peace. To the north the firing was very intense. The Camerohians had been caught on the wire. In twenty minutes they lost every officer except one. And four-fifths of their men were killed.
‘Figures appeared between the wrecked cottages ahead, their hands high. Some of them being held up by friends. They were the first prisoners. Many of them were yellow with lyddite. Yellow men out of the white curtain of light. One walked straight towards me, lurching, with his head tilted, as if in a dream, and fell straight into a deep crater. A moment later he reappeared, crawling up over the edge, then slowly standing. Lurching forward again. Other prisoners came weeping. One vomited blood in front of us, and collapsed.
‘Then we were running towards the village. We came into what must have once been a street. Desolation. Rubble, fragments of plastered wall, broken rafters, the yellow splashes of lyddite everywhere. The drizzle that had started again gleaming on the stones. On the skin of corpses. Many Germans had been caught in the houses. In ten minutes I saw a summary of the whole butcher’s shop of war. The blood, the gaping holes, the bone sticking out of flesh, the stench of burst intestines – I am telling you this only because the effect on me, a boy who had never seen even a peacefully dead body before that day, was one I should never have predicted. It was not nausea and terror. I saw several men being sick. But I was not. It was an intense new conviction. Nothing could justify this. It was a thousand times better that England should be a Prussian colony. One reads that such scenes give the green soldier nothing but a mad lust to kill in his turn. But I had exactly the contrary feeling. I had a mad lust not to be killed.’
He s
tood up.
‘I have a test for you.’
‘A test?’
He went into his bedroom, returned almost at once with the oil-lamp that had been on the table when we had dinner. In the white pool of light he put what he had brought. I saw a dice, a shaker, a saucer, and a pill-box. I looked up at him on the other side of the table, at his severe eyes on mine.
‘I am going to explain to you why we went to war. Why mankind always goes to war. It is not social or political. It is not countries that go to war, but men. It is like salt. Once one has been to war, one has salt for the rest of one’s life. Do you understand?’
‘Of course.’
‘So in my perfect republic it would be simple. There would be a test for all young people at the age of twenty-one. They would go to a hospital where they would throw a dice. One of the six numbers would mean death. If they threw that they would be painlessly killed. No mess. No bestial cruelty. No destruction of innocent onlookers. But one clinical throw of the dice.’
‘Certainly an improvement on war.’
‘You think so?’
‘Obviously.’
‘You are sure?’
‘If it was possible.’
‘You said you never saw action in the last war?’
‘No.’
He took the pill-box, and shook out, of all things, six large molars; yellowish, two or three with old stoppings.
‘These were issued to spies on both sides during the last war, for use if they were interrogated.’ He placed one of the teeth on the saucer, then with a small downward jab of the shaker crushed it; it was brittle, like a liqueur chocolate. But the odour of the colourless liquid was of bitter almonds, acrid and terrifying. He hastily removed the saucer at arm’s length to the far corner of the terrace; then returned.
‘Suicide pills?’
‘Precisely. Hydrocyanic acid.’ He picked up the dice, and showed me six sides.
I smiled. ‘You want me to throw?’
