Mr. American

by George MacDonald Fraser

  He must have been dozing; a hand was tugging gently at his sleeve; one of the other passengers was leaning towards him. '... I was just asking if you had any objection to these soldiers sharing our compartment? The rest of the train is full, you see.'

  The door to the corridor was open, and Mr Franklin saw the khaki tunics, the diced glengarry caps, the dark tartan of the kilts. One of the soldiers had his arm in a sling; the other, his foot swathed in bandages, was leaning on a crutch. At once he understood - they must be wounded from France, and with the train packed to the seams his companions had obviously invited them in; the sanctity of first class could go by the board for the nation's heroes.

  'You don't mind?' the man was asking.

  'Good heavens, no! Certainly not.' Mr Franklin hastened to make room, and the two soldiers were helped in and seated, grinning bashfully. 'Och, to verra much, sir. Ye're a toff, so ye are.' The man with the crutch, small, sharp-faced, and wiry, sank down gratefully beside Mr Franklin. His companion, large and sandy-haired, with a huge barrel chest and massive red knees beneath his kilt, sat opposite, bringing with him a strong odour of antiseptic and damp serge. 'Thank you, shentlemen,' he said, and Mr Franklin was astonished at the soft, almost effeminate cadence of the voice issuing from that rugged presence.

  'Are you quite comfortable?' inquired the big man's neighbour, a round-faced businessman, and the little soldier echoed the question: 'Ye a'right, big fellah?' The large Highlander nodded and said. 'She's fine, thank you kindly.'

  As the train pulled out the round-faced man inquired: 'Were you at Mons?'

  'Aye, right enough,' said the little soldier. 'No' much o' a place. Sure an' it wisnae, big yin?' The larger soldier nodded and said nothing. 'Were you wounded there?'

  'Naw. Le Cateau.' The little man glanced at his foot, and at the passengers, and being a Glaswegian, decided to elaborate. 'It wis a shell-burst that Ah stopped - most o' oor casualties wis shell-fire, ye see. Ah never thocht they had that many guns in the German Airmy - sure that's right, big fellah?' He chuckled at his friend. 'Bastard guns 'a ower the place, so they wis. Sure an' they wis, eh?'

  Mr Franklin had heard many Scottish accents in five years in England, but the noise issuing from the small soldier was something new to him - a rapid, slurred guttural croak of which he could make out only a word here and there. From the expressions of the three other passengers he gathered that they were almost equally at a loss; fortunately the large soldier seemed to sense it too, for after a moment he remarked at large, in that mild, accentless voice:

  'The Cherman artillery is fery accurate.'

  'As accurate as ours, do you think?' asked one of the gentleman, and the soldiers looked at one another.

  'Ah dae ken aboot that,' said the small one, and then grinned cheerfully. 'Mind you, Ah hivnae been hit by oor guns, so it's hard tae say.' When the laughter had subsided he went on: 'But their snipers isnae much good, sure an' they're no', big fellah? Sure they couldnae hit a barn door if they wis inside, hey?'

  The large soldier considered this. 'I don't know but what you're

  right,' he said. 'But their artillery is nott bad. Nott bad at all.' 'Were you wounded by artillery?' asked another passenger. 'No.' The big soldier paused. 'No,' he said again. 'How were you wounded, then?'

  The big Highlander reflected and then said gently: 'It wass a bayonet. Aye. A Cherman put his bayonet in my arm.'

  'Good heavens!' exclaimed the round-faced man, and there were murmurs of shocked concern. The small soldier cocked a bright eye.

  'Tell them where you pit your bayonet, big yin.' He winked at the passengers. 'It's no a sair arm that German's got, Ah'll tell ye. Fact, he's no' feelin' any pain at a' - is he, big fellah? Go on - tell them!'

  The passengers, intent on gory details, looked expectant, but the big soldier merely thought for a moment and said 'Aye.' He reminded Mr Franklin of an unusually docile steer; there was the same quiet, ruminative air about him, a heavy delicacy in the way he adjusted the bandage on his slung arm with a hand that looked as though it could have tied knots in a poker. But he was not prepared to talk about himself, evidently, and the passengers turned their questions on the smaller man. How were conditions in the line? Were the rations and comforts adequate? Were the people of France and Belgium friendly to the British Expeditionary Force? How, was the morale of the troops? They clearly wanted to ask what prospect there was of the German advance being checked, but hesitated to do so. The Glaswegian was voluble in his answers, his interrogators straining visibly to comprehend, while the big Highlander listened in benevolent silence; once his mild blue eye met the American's, and Mr Franklin wondered if there was just a glimmer of patronising amusement in it - for his garrulous companion, for these eagerly inquiring civilians, for his own situation as an early casualty of the war who could be stared at with something like reverence and ushered into a first-class carriage - it would be different later, the big man might well have been thinking; they're all curiosity and morbid interest now, but they'll have enough of wounded soldiers by and by. And reading that glance, Mr Franklin's thoughts went back to that other soldier who had been in his mind when the train stopped at Crewe.

  'He is a quite dreadful person, really.' The tears in Lady Helen's eyes ... 'He kept me out of prison. Oh, yes - influence counts for everything ... Are you faithful to your wife? ... Would you care to accompany my great-uncle back to Berkeley Square? Or if that is out of your way . . .' The level impersonal glance, the gloved finger-tips touching his. .. 'Didn't you want to go to bed with her?' The knowing, evil old face. 'You've got gun-fighter's eyes ...'

  Gunfighter's eyes ... the Remingtons on his hips ... Peggy as Marie Antoinette . . . Pip in glittering silver, the hysterical laughter and strident music of the Savoy . . . and then that hideous car ride home. .. `Pip Delys, your little side-show . . . if I told you I was a goody-goody meek little wife, would you be content with that? . . . I've never asked you questions and I never expected you to ask me any, either . . . I don't mind -and you mustn't mind either . . . you're a jolly good catch . . . '

  Crawford's sleepy eyes . . . `A pistol similar to those you're wearing . . . I put it to you that you wilfully shot and murdered Harvey Logan. ..'Peggy's hand slipping into his. `It just doesn't matter . . . I'm the scarlet woman anyway, aren't I? . . . you might have known . . . I won't be a hypocrite and say I'd have married you if you'd been penniless - I'd have made love with you, though, because I like you. .. I've done very well out of you ... I really don't care one way or the other... it just doesn't matter . . . '

  Well, if it didn't matter to her - then nothing much mattered, not to him. It had been coming apart, gradually, and then that morning it had all fallen to pieces with a vengeance, and he had realised that it had all been a dream with a bad ending. Nothing had seemed quite real since then - even the coming of the war had been more a disquieting distraction than a tragedy; it did not affect him. And it should not - that had been his mistake, five years ago; he had allowed himself to become affected. He who had been self-sufficient, solitary, dependent on no one, had become entrapped, imperceptibly but surely.

  There had been so many things to weave their different spells: the bustling, glittering, magic city which had opened its doors to him and his money-belt; the cheerful, sensual, friendly Pip; the romance of antiquity and coming home enhanced by the warmth of England's welcome- not only the spurious friendship of King and court, but the honest kindliness of folk like Thornhill and Jack Prior; the peace of a quiet haven after wild adventuring; the loyalty of a man like Samson which went to the limit and beyond; the growing knowledge of what wealth could mean, and the vaunting feeling of power that went with that knowledge, whether it was exercised in spending hundreds on a diamond necklace, or thousands on fine houses, or just a few pounds to secure Bessy Reeve forever; the curious, exciting attraction of such a woman as Lady Helen, belonging to a world to which he had suddenly found himself able to aspire - even that dreadful old satyr, her great-
uncle, had exercised a strange charm of his own, with all his unabashed, even boasted, faults and vices.

  But that was true of even the worst that he had found in England; it had still worked its mysterious attraction, so that whatever he had recognised as good or bad, worthy or corrupt, admirable or detestable, had held his imagination still, above all with that abiding atavistic magnetism of earth and air and sky and wood and water, working on him as on some modern Anteas.

  Even with Peggy. It was impossible to disentangle his feelings for her from his feelings for England - so much beauty, so much warmth, so much love, so much coldness and cynicism and bitter disappointment. They were as one in his mind, and the disillusioned longing remained, for England and for her. And he was leaving them, a good deal poorer than he had come; he had paid a high rent for a short five years. And he was going probably no wiser; certainly less certain of anything except the knowledge that something of him would always stay.

  'Do you expect to be going back to the front?' one of the passengers was asking, and the Glasgow soldier was shaking his head emphatically.

  'Nae fears. It'll be a couple o' months afore my foot's better, an' it'll a' be ower by then. It cannae last - it'll be ower by Christmas - that's what they're sayin'. Eh, big yin?'

  'The German army,' the round-faced man asked carefully. 'Is it as ... ah, powerful ... as we've been led to believe?'

  The Glaswegian shrugged. 'Ah dae ken. There's an awfy lot o' them. Sure there is, big fellah? See, at Le Cateau, there was far more o' them than of us, an' they just kept pushing us back, an' back, until the fellahs wis so tired, they couldnae retreat nae mair. Sure an' they couldnae?' He looked to his friend for confirmation. 'So we jist had tae stop, becuz we couldnae march nae further. Aye, we stopped in a wood. An' it wis there we stopped the Germans. That's where the big fellah here got his arm wounded. An' Ah caught my shell a wee bit after.' He frowned and shook his head. 'We lost a lot o' fellahs at Le Cateau.'

  It was a name that Mr Franklin thought he remembered from the papers, but without details. The public had still to learn about Le Cateau, and how a British Corps, too exhausted to retire farther, had turned in its tracks and with that machine-gun-like rapid rifle fire which was to become a fearsome legend in German memory, had halted attack after attack - as they had done at Mons where, in the words of a German general, his army had been 'shot flat' by the aimed volleys of the Lee Enfields. But it was easy enough to envisage the tattered remnants in the wood, too tired to retreat, but not too tired to fight until they had recovered the strength to stagger up again on the road from Belgium. The bandages were a reminder of what General Flashman had said - wars were not between coloured blobs on the map, but between people. Suddenly the war was very close, and there was silence in the compartment until the round-faced man burst out angrily:

  'It's disgraceful! Why weren't you properly supported? Weren't there any - ' he gestured helplessly ' - any reinforcements?'

  The small soldier laughed uncertainly. 'Ah dae ken. Ah didnae see any - sure an' we didnae, big yin?'

  'It's damnable!' said the round-faced man angrily. 'I don't know what the government's thinking of- or the general staff Sending in a token force, ill-prepared, just to satisfy the French! Typical mismanagement by the politicians, I don't doubt. What about the French?' he asked. 'How are they behaving?' He was plainly ready to believe the worst, but he was disappointed by the inevitable reply.

  'Ah dae ken. We didnae see many French; they werenae in oor sector, like. No' many Belgians, either - except the refugees. There wis an awfy lot o' them on the Le Cateau road, tryin' tae get awa' frae the war, poor souls. Sure they wis, big yin?'

  The big Highlander broke his silence. 'Aye,' he said.

  'Hellish, yon, though,' said the small man. 'Auld wives an' bairns, an' wimmen, an' gran'faithers, wi' a' their gear piled on cairts an' barrows and prams - onything at a'. Jist whit they could carry, an' a' fleein' as fast as they could. Ah door a lot o' them wullnae get far.' He shook his bullet head. 'Hellish, so it wis.'

  There was silence for a moment, and then one of the other gentlemen said hesitantly: 'Is it true, d'you think, that the Germans have been behaving ... behaving badly - to civilians, I mean? One hears stories. . . .' He looked round doubtfully. 'Of course, one can't tell whether they're true or not - '

  'I heard they turned the dogs on them in Lille,' said the round-faced man fiercely. 'Simply turned the dogs on the people - those damned great shepherd dogs. Like wolves. I won't disbelieve it until it's proved otherwise. Did you hear about that?' he demanded of the small soldier, who looked uncertain.

  'Och, ye ken whit they say. Ye aye get that sort o' story. Ah dae ken. Whit aboot that, big fellah? Is the Germans bein' hard on the folk?'

  Appealed to directly, the large Highlander stirred. 'There was much devasstation about Le Cateau,' he admitted. 'Farms and houses burning, and the beasts aall killed. But I don't know about atrocities. I've seen none.'

  `The reports tell a different story,' said the round-faced man grimly. 'And we probably don't know the half of it. A man I spoke to the other day had heard of entire villages wiped out, old and young alike - civilians, you understand. And, the women . . .' He drew in his breath. `The rape of Belgium may be a more terribly apt description than we realise. I don't doubt it - the German, the Hun. ..' he added in disgust, 'is capable of anything.'

  'And the advance - the German advance, I mean, is going on?' One of the others had finally decided to ask the question. `You saw no signs of their being checked?'

  The small soldier looked uneasy. 'Aye, weel - they were still advancin' - or we were still retreatin,' onywye - when the big fellah an' me came oot. Sure an' they wis, big yin?' He looked at the silent Highlander, who nodded.

  'Aye, well,' said the small man doggedly, 'they're sayin' it'll be ower afore the New Year.'

  There was another silence, and then the round-faced man said ominously: 'So we know what France can expect.' His silence invited them to picture that country overrun by hordes of bestial Teutons intent on pillage, rape, and destruction.

  'Thank God for the Channel,' said his friend. 'And the Navy.'

  Mr Franklin remembered the men in the Fleet Street pub; they too had put their faith in the Navy. But now the prospect of war in their own countryside and homes was that much closer, and perhaps they were beginning to ask themselves if all was as secure as they imagined. A British Army - an admittedly small army, it was true - was being driven back, step by step; even the huge French military machine, supposedly the equal of any, seemed powerless to stop the onward sweep of the German advance. Of course, the Navy was a different matter - but if the war went on and on, who knew how the balance of power and chance would turn? Like the men in Fleet Street, they were thinking of German armies in the fields of Kent and Sussex, and pondering the horrid rumours that were seeping out of Belgium as that country was trampled under the jackboots.

  Mr Franklin was sceptical about the atrocity stories; he imagined they were inevitable in any war, and that even the slightest irregularity would make ready fuel for propaganda. He could guess the origin of the tale of dogs turned on the helpless inhabitants of Lille - he had seen the sketch in one of the papers of German military police patrolling the city with shepherd dogs on leashes. But there might be something in the rumours, of course - no doubt rapes and murders had taken place in Belgium - and even the sober imaginations in that carriage could conjure up pictures of jackboots in the Strand, and field-grey uniforms and coal-scuttle helmets on guard at the House of Commons. It was impossible to take seriously -and yet that England should suffer

  the fate which Sir Harry had graphically sketched for Belgium, and which the round-faced man at least believed she was even now undergoing, was not beyond the bounds of possibility.

  And plainly his companions in the carriage, from their solemn silence, had less difficulty in envisaging it now than they would have done a few weeks ago. Germans in London ... strutting through Trafalgar S
quare, gazing up at Nelson's column, ejecting beefeaters from the Tower, swaggering in the restaurants and bars, commandeering the taxis ... occupying the boxes at Pip, Squeak!, ogling the principal, calling with haughty politeness at Wilton Crescent and demanding billets, establishing command posts in Lady Helen's flat in Curzon Street, rounding up suspected persons, crushing all resistance mercilessly, taking over the administration of the greatest city on earth, imposing their own Prussian rule, invading its society ... how would Peggy and society - but Peggy and society would be long gone by then, he was fairly sure of that. Unless Peggy decided to take her own independent line, as was always possible. If any woman in England was capable of dying in a ditch, literally fighting for her country, she was. Germans at Oxton? Germans at Castle Lancing? No, it was all too far-fetched - or had they thought that in Lille and Amiens, too?

  'Ah, well,' said one of the passengers consolingly, 'our wars always start with disasters and end with victories, don't they?' He looked round hopefully.

  'One of these days,' said the round-faced man sternly, 'the exception is going to prove that rule. We can't go muddling on forever - especially against people as active and unscrupulous as the Germans.'