“Let me out. Let me out.”
The madman is calling that. Lily Elsie, I think it was. Lily Elsie. . . .
“Stop screaming. You’re not the only one going through bloody hell.”
A different voice that one. That must be one of the sitters. . . . Satin slippers with buckles on the toes—little pearl buckles shaped like a crescent. Aunt Helen or Trix gave me those.
“Shut up screaming, or I’ll knock hell out of you with my crutch, you bastard. Shut up screaming.”
What was that crash? They’re fighting inside. They’re fighting inside. . . . Scream, scream, scream. . . .
“I’m dying. Oh, Jesus, he’s murdered me. I’m dying.”
What are they doing? Are they murdering one another in there? I ought to stop the ambulance; I ought to get out and see. I ought to stop them. . . . I ought. A driver the other night stopped her ambulance, and a man had gone mad and was beating a helpless stretcher case about the head. But she overpowered him and strapped him down again. Tosh, that was. But Tosh is brave. I couldn’t do it. I must go on. . . .
They are all screaming now. Moaning and shrieking and howling like wild animals. . . . All alone with an ambulance of raving men miles from anywhere in the pitch blackness, . . . raving madmen yelling and screaming. I shall go mad myself. . . .
Go and see . . . go and see . . . go and see.
I will not. I cannot . . . my heart is pounding like a sledge-hammer. My feet and hands are frozen, but the sweat is pouring down my back in rivulets. I have looked before, and I dare not look again. What good can I do? The man who spewed blood will be lying there dead, . . . his glassy eyes fixed on the door of the ambulance, staring accusingly at me as I peep in, . . . cold dead eyes, blaming me when I am not to blame. . . . The madman will curse me, scream vile curses at me, scream and try to tear himself from the straps that hold him down, . . . if he has not torn himself away already. He will try to tear himself from his straps to choke the life from me. The shell-shocked man will yammer and twitch and jerk and mouth. The man with the face like raw liver will moan. . . . I will not go and see. I will not go and see.
Crawl, crawl, crawl.
Number Eight, where are you? Have I missed you in the monotony of this snow-covered road. I have been travelling for hours. Am I travelling too slowly? Am I being over-careful? Could I accelerate ever so slightly . . . cover the distance more quickly? I will do it. A fresh scream from someone as I jolt over a stone . . . I’ve hurt someone. I slow down again.
Scream, scream, scream. Three different sets of screams now—the shriek of the madman, the senseless, wolfish, monotonous howl of the shell-shock case, and now a shrill sharp yell like a bright pointed knife blade being jabbed into my brain. One, two, three, four, . . . staccato yells. Which one is that? Not the little fair-haired boy. He is too busy choking to death to shriek. Another one has joined in . . . inferno. They are striking one another again . . . hell let loose. Go and see, go and see. . . .
I will not go and see. I will not go and see.
Crawl, crawl, crawl.
The sitter sleeps through it all. A pool of snow has fallen in his lap. We have missed Number Eight. I must have missed the turning in the snow. The black tree-stump on the left that leads to Number Eight . . . snow-obscured. I must have missed the turning in the snow.
Crawl, crawl, crawl.
The screams have died down, but a dreadful moaning takes their place. Oo-oo-oh . . . oo-oo-oh . . . dirge-like, regular, it rises above the sound of the engine and floats out into the night. Oo-oo-oh . . . oo-oo-oh . . . it is heart-breaking in its despair. I have heard a man moan like that before. The last moans of a man who will soon cease moaning for ever. Oo-oo-oh . . . the hopelessness, the loneliness. Tears tear at my heart . . . awful tears that rack me, but must not rise to my eyes, for they will freeze on my cheeks and stick my eyelids together until I cannot see to drive. Even the solace of pitying tears is denied me.
Crawl, crawl, crawl.
I have given up all hope of reaching Number Eight by now. I will go on until there is a place to turn.
Crawl, crawl, crawl.
The moans have ceased. I strain my ears. The madman is shouting again, . . . a hoarse vituperative monologue. I cannot catch his words. I do not want to catch his words. But I strain to catch them just the same. He will start the others again. . . .
Crawl, crawl, crawl.
If only I could find a place to turn. The road seems to grow narrower. How many journeys shall I make to-night? Was it a big convoy? I didn’t notice at the station, . . . I always forget to notice. Perhaps I shall have shrapnels next time . . . shrapnels, too exhausted from loss of blood to scream. A sitter who will talk and smoke. . . . The madman is screaming again . . . he will start the others.
Crawl, crawl, crawl.
Is that a light? No . . . yes! Number Eight! The big canvas marquee gleaming dully in the darkness . . . the front entrance flaps already parted . . . white-capped nurses waiting in the doorway. They can see my lights. The orderlies are standing by. . . . Number Eight . . . Number Eight. . . . I am there at last. The tears are rolling down my cheeks . . . let them. Let the tears freeze my eyelids together now . . . let them freeze my eyelids. . . . It doesn’t matter now . . . nothing matters now. . . .
CHAPTER V
THE B.F. is leaving for England in the morning. She says she is ill, but the truth is she is too bored to stick it any longer. We are having a farewell party, to the great annoyance of those who are trying to sleep in the adjacent cubicles. We have drawn our beds closely together and have spread a large sheet of brown paper on which repose our joint contributions—biscuits, a few ounces of real butter, two tins of sardines, twenty-three cigarettes, a jam-pot of potted meat, a stale seed cake, and, last but by no means least, two bottles of vin rouge which we are drinking out of cups borrowed from the canteen. It tastes, candidly, rather like red ink, but we are not fussy. It is contraband, of course. If Commandant discovered it in our room . . . but why worry? it is worth the risk. It is wet and warming and will run to three cups each, and we toast the daring of Tosh, who is responsible for its presence. On arriving at the station this forenoon she discovered the train would be two to three hours late—a mere trifle here—took a chance, dashed into the town some miles away—out of bounds except to special permits—secured the wine, and managed to return in time to pick up her two hospital sisters.
The butter we owe to The B.F., who has been saving it since last mail day; the sardines are from Etta Potato; the potted meat from Skinny; The Bug has given the biscuits, while the stale cake is my contribution to the feast.
We are all a trifle hilarious, partly because of the vin rouge, and partly because the thaw is beginning, which makes it several degrees warmer already. We sit, feet in flea-bags, laughing and deriding the protests from those who want to slumber. The provisions disappear quickly. The potted meat is home-made and goes down amazingly well with sweet biscuits. Tosh invents a savoury, “Sardines à la B.F.”—slices of cake with mashed sardines in between. It is surprisingly good.
“It’s time we toasted The B.F.” Tosh glances at her wrist-watch. “I expect we ought to let those poor long-suffering wretches sleep before the midnight convoy.”
“I should say so,” agrees a voice from next door.
“No,” we cry selfishly. “It isn’t every night we have a farewell party. We don’t want to go to sleep. Let’s have some speeches. We’ll all make speeches. Etta Potato first.”
“Etta Potato! Etta Potato!”
“Shut up,” yells the voice.
“Bottoms,” retorts Tosh, rudely; “large ones, like Commandant’s.” And the voice says, “Disgusting”; to which Tosh replies, “I agree, but why question the Creator’s handiwork?” and the voice subsides with a giggle.
“Come on, Etta Potato.”
“There will never be a better B.F. in this convoy,” declaims Etta Potato with unintentional wit. We shriek with joy.
“Now the
Bug.”
The Bug smiles. “I wish The B.F. all the luck that she can’t help having. She will always fall on her feet. She is the type life loves. Life will give her its best gifts generously, with both hands. She has youth, money, beauty. I envy her all of those, but most of all I envy her genuine love of conventional things—the little things of life that make for happiness. Good luck, B.F., and happiness. The B.F.’s of this world are to be envied.”
We applaud, but we are puzzled at The Bug’s tone. Tosh shoots her an inquiring glance, but The B.F. smiles rather vacantly and says, “Thank you, dear, so sweet of you.”
We cry for Tosh.
“Tosh! Speech!”
“Shut up, you noisy hounds. . . .”
“Ladies and those sluts next door with flapping ears . . .”
“Tosh, darling. . . .”
“This sad, sad parting would never have happened had a simple English girl been able to have—I mean do her bit in France,” declaims Tosh. “For five months she has laboured unceasingly. Admit it, all of you. Never has driver been so worked up. She could have started off in top on any frosty night on the self-starter. To no purpose. My sisters, I ask you, is it her fault there are no stray bits in the area? Despairing, bursting with love . . .”
Tosh pauses dramatically.
“. . . of country . . .”
We yell with joy.
“. . . The wench is forced back to England. In the face of this, does France deserve her reputation? I say, ‘No.’ Does France merit the pornographic snigger the very mention of her name earns from those who have never crossed the Channel?”
“No!” we shout. “No, no!”
“I agree. The B.F. has killed that illusion for ever. So she returns to London, where, judging by a rumour that a certain hotel is proposing to erect a memorial tablet to the brave Englishwomen who have fallen there during these early days of the War, one feels she will do her bit not once, but many times. Of such stuff are the women of England made. The pioneer spirit that populates our colonies. As Mahomet had to go to the mountain that refused to come to him, so does The B.F. go all out for the bit that would not come to her. Ladies, raise your teacups . . . The B.F.”
Convulsed with laughter, we drink the toast to the accompaniment of catcalls from the adjacent rooms. The B.F. nods. Though aware Tosh is pulling her leg, she has no idea to what extent.
“Speech! The B.F. Speech!”
“Girls,” says The B.F.; “honestly, I think it’s topping of you. Of course, I’m sorry to go, but, honestly, work is dreadful and my hands are simply vile, and no sleep either. I adore being here and helping our brave lads in khaki . . .”
“Oh, Gawd!” from Tosh, sotto voce.
“But I feel I have done my bit, and rest assured I’ll do it in England, as Tosh says.”
“Unaccustomed as I am to public speaking,” murmurs Tosh.
“Go to sleep,” shouts a voice.
“I say, Skinny and Smithy haven’t made speeches.”
“May you always be able to tell Mother everything you do, B.F. Chin-chin.” I lift my cup hastily. I detest making speeches.
“Now, Skinny,” insists The B.F.
Tosh deliberately withdraws from the party by turning her back and opening a magazine. The insult is deliberate, as deliberate as earlier when she refused to sample Skinny’s potted meat. Skinny ignored the first slight, but now, possibly owing to the unaccustomed vin rouge, she sits up and stares in a hostile fashion at Tosh’s back. I feel uneasy.
“Let’s all go to sleep,” I suggest.
“Yes,” from outside.
“No, Skinny must make a speech first,” insists The B.F.
Tosh lights a cigarette and begins to read.
“Go on, Skinny.”
“No, Tosh doesn’t want me to,” replies Skinny nastily. “She resents me being here at all. Pity I’m in the damned room, isn’t it?”
“Shut up, Skinny; don’t be an ass.”
“I won’t shut up. Why should I? I’ve as much right here. I can speak as well as her. This is my room as well as Tosh’s, isn’t it?”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” mutters Tosh.
The sound of her voice infuriates Skinny. She leans forward, yellow and corpseish in the candlelight. She is in a direct line with The B.F., whose pink-and-white prettiness throws her into hideous contrast. “If you had your way I wouldn’t be here at all, would I? You’ve already asked Commandant to move me, haven’t you?”
“Don’t be absurd, Skinny. You asked Commandant yourself to move you into a two-bedder with Frost,” says The B.F. “I was there; I walked in when Commandant was saying ‘No.’ Frost was there, too.”
This is news to us. Tosh has asked Commandant; she made no secret of it; but Skinny. . . .
The Bug catches my eye.
“So would you want to go if you had rotten things thought about you.” Skinny begins weeping hysterically. “I hate people with dirty minds.”
“Shut up, Skinny.” The Bug puts her hand on Skinny’s shoulder, but Skinny pushes her away roughly.
“You keep away from me or she’ll be saying rotten things about you too. You want to be careful with a mind like hers.”
Tosh turns the magazine page elaborately. I hastily collect the wine bottles and hide them. The others conceal the cups. If the noise brings Commandant on the scene we don’t want to be caught with the incriminating evidence. The B.F. is very distressed. She is rather like a puzzled Persian kitten. There is an ominous quiet from the adjacent cubicles. No one is demanding silence now: they are much too thrilled by the unexpected entertainment.
“You’re spoiling my party, Skinny,” pleads The B.F.
“I don’t care,” shouts Skinny angrily. “You no don’t know what she said to me last week. She thinks I’m a something.”
Tosh lights a fresh cigarette from her old butt and goes on reading.
“And I say she’s a horrible, bad-minded liar, if she thinks things like that about me. And she does think them or she wouldn’t have insinuated what she did to me last week.”
“Be quiet, dear,” wails The B.F. “We don’t want Mrs. You-Know-Itch up here. I’m sure Tosh doesn’t think horrid things about you.”
“Then why doesn’t she deny it? Why doesn’t she deny it?” sobs Skinny.
Tosh says nothing, though we all wait expectantly.
“You see? You see? You don’t know what she said to me last week. If you knew. . . .”
She begins to sob violently, terribly. We stare at each other in helpless uncomfortable silence. There is a pause.
“Well, what did Tosh say?” asks The B.F.
We have been dying to ask that question, but have not dared. The silence is intense. The guns in the distance, Skinny’s painful, grotesque sobs, and everyone listening. We can almost see the straining ears in the adjacent cubicles. Skinny is working herself up to a pitch of violent hysteria. Her tears are falling on the bare floor like rain, making splashes on the boards. It fills us with a sort of shame instead of pity; it is so primitive and unrestrained. Someone implores her to control herself, that everyone is listening, but she is beyond control.
“I expect she called you a flirt,” says The B.F. complacently. “She often calls me that, but I don’t behave like a silly ass over it.”
“No,” sobs Skinny, “that’s just what she didn’t call me.”
She begins to sob again, long, frenzied, drawn-out sobs. Tosh goes on smoking. The Bug and I avoid each other’s glance elaborately. The B.F. laughs her little affected laugh.
“You silly old thing, Skinny. With all the men being killed off there have to be some superfluous women in the world. And you’re an awfully good driver, darling, and terribly useful. All the same, I do think it rather unkind of you, Tosh, to rub it into poor old Skinny that she hasn’t any admirers, really I do, and I think you ought to tell Skinny you’re sorry; it’s only fair.”
Tosh throws the magazine on the floor. “Good night, everybody.”
She curls into her flea-bag. The gesture finishes Skinny completely. She screams. “There, I told you, I told you, I told you.” She screams again. Commandant obviously has not returned from Number One Hospital, where she is visiting her great friend the matron. Let us hope she will stay there until the storm is over. All at once Skinny springs from her bed and rushes at Tosh, beating her about the head with clenched bare fists. It is ghastly. Like a street-woman brawling in public. She uses vile language, not like Tosh’s good-natured swear-words that always sound characteristic of Tosh and therefore exactly “right,” but low, shameful, foul somehow. I want to hide my head under the Army blankets; instead I help the others tear her away. She appears on the verge of an apoplectic fit, almost foaming at the mouth. The B.F. wrings her hands and asks if she will go for Commandant. Skinny struggles, panting, shouting, “Yes, and I’ll tell you who else she thinks things about, too. I’ll tell you . . .”
Not So Quiet... Page 7
