Love and the Loveless

By one of the platforms of Charing Cross station Red-cross vehicles were drawn up. Civilians were moving towards them. Phillip, walking through the ticket barrier of the suburban line, followed by a porter wheeling his valise, went with the crowd. Near the ambulances, on the asphalt, stretcher cases were lying in rows. They had the usual greyish yellow faces, weary of pain. Beyond the ambulances, peering from open windows of the train, were to be seen the optimistic faces of lightly wounded men. Heads and arms had been newly bandaged, judging by the absence of blood stains; while from the dried mud on some tunics, and khaki aprons over kilts, they were not long out of the line.

Talking with the men at one window, he learned that they had been in action on the morning of the day before, at Thiepval and the Zollern Redoubt, north of the Ancre. How quickly they had come home! The attack had been mentioned in the
com
muniqué
from G.H.Q. only that morning, with headlines, in
The
Daily
Trident.
It was now nearly October; half of the objectives of July the First immediately south of the Ancre valley had only just been taken; attack and counter-attack had crossed the chalky upheaved soil during all the intervening days and nights since that brazen sunny morning, which appeared with voiceless glassy pain in his mind at odd moments of the day and night.

Moving down the train, longing to see a known face, he spotted the Gaultshire badge on a trench cap, and asked what battalion had been in action. “The seventh! Were you, by any chance, at Carnoy on July the First? When the battalion got all its
objectives
?”

“That’s right, sir!” There were three chevrons on the hanging sleeve belonging to the unshaven face above him.

“Then you knew Captain West, sergeant?”

“I was with ‘Spectre’—beg pardon, sir—when the Captain was hit, in White Trench, sir.”

“How extraordinary! I was talking to him only the other day, when he went to Buckingham Palace for his D.S.O.”

“If ever a man earned a decoration that day, it was Captain West, sir, or Major, I should say.”

He noticed the riband of the Military Medal on the sergeant’s tunic, as he stood upright at the window to let a man pass behind him.

“I’m not with the Gaultshires any longer, sergeant. I’m with the Machine Gun Corps—in fact, I’m on my way now back to the Training Centre.”

“So you’ve joined the Suicide Club, sir!”

“I’d say the infantry was that, sergeant.”

“Give me bombers and bayonet men every time, sir, and my mobility!”

The young subaltern opened a new silver case, twenty-first birthday present, and put a cigarette in the sergeant’s mouth. Pushing the wheel of his lighter upon the flint he blew the spark to smoulder on the fusee; and was offering it when a reporter with a camera called out beside him. “Now then, boys, let’s show ’em—Are we down-hearted?” At the massed yell of ‘No!’ he pressed the shutter bulb; after which he went from window to window, asking names of regiments. A dialection of voices broke forth—Manchesters, Northumberland Fusiliers, Dorsets, Green Howards, Borderers. They were full of beans, thought Phillip, their minds saw brightly because they were out of it.

“How do you feel about going back again, sergeant?”

“When my turn comes, sir, I’ll be ready.”

“But is that how you
really
feel?”

The sergeant gave him a look, between surprise and caution, before replying, “Not much good thinking about it, is it, sir? Job’s got to be done, we’re all in it, aren’t we?”

“Yes, including the
prächtig
kerls
on the other side.” When the sergeant looked puzzled he said, “That’s what the old Alleyman in 1914 called the Crown Prince. You know, they like him as much as we like the Prince of Wales. It means ‘decent fellow’. Well, goodbye, and good luck!”

He shook the uninjured hand; the sergeant came to attention; Phillip saluted him, also at attention, before turning away to the porter waiting with his valise on a trolley. Then he saw the station clock.

“My hat, I’ll miss my train! Taxi to King’s Cross! Drive
like hell!” as he leapt in over his valise, and gave the porter
half-a-crown.

The taxi, with its modest single-cylinder engine that had thumped beside many a jeering cabbie in the early years of Edward the Peacemaker’s reign, arrived with its big-end no hotter than usual, with five minutes to spare. Another half-crown changed hands, the driver touching his cap-peak on receiving so substantial a tip as a shilling. Having bought a copy of
The
Times
at the bookstall for a penny, the tall young subaltern, with no ribands on his breast but two wound stripes of gold braid on his left sleeve above the cuff, followed the porter wheeling the valise to an empty carriage, wherein, having let down the window, he leaned out in the hope of discouraging others from entering. Far away beyond the end of the platform he saw the engine blowing off steam, as it waited to draw the dark carriages to the North.

The guard stood by, a large silver watch in his hand. He looked to be a kind man, elderly, the sort called Dad by his children, and not Father. Phillip was musing about him, wondering if he had any sons in the war, when he saw a figure coming through the ticket barrier that caused him immediately to withdraw his head. Downham! Hell, if he came in the carriage! He held his head down in the far corner, pretending to be looking in his haversack. Where would Downham be going? Perhaps beyond Grantham, to Catterick camp, which he had heard was as bleak as its name. Downham—one of his seniors in the office—Downham, who had been a private in the London Highlanders like himself, at the outbreak of war, but had not volunteered for foreign service—Downham, now major, never having been to the front!

Thank God, he had gone past the carriage.

Phillip returned to the window, and looked at the guard’s face. A splendid fellow, tall, dutiful, a little anxious, as he waited for the last minute to pass. His zero hour—exactly to the second. Well, now he would have the carriage to himself, to think his own thoughts, to be able to rest in the presence of Lily. Yes, the guard was anxious: he showed it by the way he checked his watch with the station clock. Now he was staring at the second hand, whistle in mouth. And then—a shout from the ticket barrier made him turn his head. A latecomer was hurrying through, followed by porter with valise. At once the guard made for the carriage and pulled open the door, while Phillip stood back. “This way, sir, please!” Rapidly the valise was lifted in, the officer
followed, and as the door was shut without slam a long
whistle-blast
and waving of green flag sent the train gliding down the platform.

“That was a close shave,” remarked the newcomer, with a smile. “The taxi I bagged was running on paraffin, with a
vapouriser
, and broke a piston.” With a slight stutter he continued, “My God, I’ve had a bon time!” He went on to describe how and why he had almost missed the train, mentioning, with complete lack of reserve, incidents in a Torrington Square hotel with a girl he had met on leave. Phillip was relieved when the account was over, and he need pretend interest no more. Seeing the crossed Vickers gun badges on the other’s lapels, he tried to recall the face opposite, as one among many others seen months ago at the theatre bar in Grantham.

Opening his newspaper, he found the
London
Gazette,
and looked for the regiments with which he had served. One item, in the first territorial home-service battalion to which he had been attached for training after he had been commissioned, made him see again the heavy veldt-tanned face of an elderly
second-lieutenant
at Heathmarket, long ago in the summer of 1915. Brendon, the Boer War veteran who had snubbed him—‘
Maddison
as a soldier, simply
non
est’
—was in the
Gazette
seconded for duty as an Assistant Provost Marshal, with the temporary rank of Major. Portly Brendon, complaining of having to support a wife and child on second-lieutenant’s pay, would be feeling pretty happy just now.

Glancing at the man opposite, he saw with relief that he was lying back, with eyes closed.

The train, beyond the cavernous darkness of King’s Cross, was leaving veils of steam between drab backs of houses of the inner northern suburbs. Gradually the space cleared on either side, until they were racing through a countryside almost as
meaningless
as the streets and buildings left behind. Fields, hedgerow timber, spinneys with rookeries visible in the treetops now that autumn had broken the pattern of leaves, teams of heavy horses ploughing up grass and stubble, even cock pheasants unconcerned by the rushing of the train, were equally of a flatness through the glass of the window.

Terror for a moment possessed him: every moment he was going farther from ——. But, even if he returned, she would not be there. Never, never would he see her again. If only this was the train to Folkestone, and the front.

He wondered if his wound would prevent him from re-joining the Transport Course. He must say nothing about it when he arrived, lest a slightly gammy leg, with its crater-like scar on the left buttock, disqualify him from riding. If so, he could hardly be returned to the infantry, for if he couldn’t ride, he certainly couldn’t march. No home-service job for him: he must get back to France, to the only life that was left.

The train rushed on. Gravelly soils changed to the heavy clays of Gaultshire. He felt his spirits lift as he thought of boyhood days—only to sink in shade once more at the thought that cousin Percy Pickering had been killed less than two weeks before.

Seeing that the other man was now awake, and looking as though he wanted to talk, he said, to forestall further details of Torrington Square, “I suppose cast-iron pistons would crack with the heat of paraffin? With too much carbon on the piston top, glowing red hot? The oil probably got thin, too, with black spots in it?”

“I don’t know about that, but I do know I’ve got black spots in my eyes! My God, my tongue feels like the bottom of a parrot’s cage. She was a damned fine girl, a Roumanian brunette——”

The speaker rubbed his eyes, which gave Phillip the opportunity to say, “I felt when you got in at King’s Cross that I remembered your face. Pinnegar?. ‘D’ mess at Belton Park?”

“Yes. I’ve seen you before, too. In the bar of the theatre at Grantham? Weren’t you one of that lot that got off with some of the chorus girls of Razzle Dazzle, one Sunday, and went with them to Sheffield——”

Phillip shook his head.

“No, you’d hardly be here now if you had been, now I come to think of it.”

“How d’you mean?”

“You didn’t hear about the court-martial? There were five of them—they got to Sheffield on a forged railway warrant, the ticket collector there suspected it was dud, and before he could get them to go with him to the R.T.O.’s office, they cleared off. They didn’t like to risk returning by rail, so they pinched a taxi, but it ran out of juice near Nottingham, late at night, so they walked back, but arrived too late for parade on the Monday. They were spotted, hauled up, and put under arrest. Now I remember, it was July the First! They gave the excuse they were celebrating the opening of the Big Push! That’s right; the first of July was on a Saturday! I remember now. The news came through in the
afternoon, and was there a hell of a binge in the Angel and the theatre bar that night! The five fellows got on the stage from a box, and started dancing with the wimps in the chorus.
Afterwards
they had a party in the girls’ digs, and followed them next day to Sheffield. The whole lot were court-martialled and
dismissed
the service.”

“Yes, I remember there was quite a number of fellows like that, giving dud cheques, and being pitched out about that time. Most of the battalions were asked to send two officers to the M.G.C. when it was first formed, and I suppose sent their duds. That’s how I got to the M.G.C.,” laughed Phillip.

“You don’t remember that Saturday?”

“No, I was in the C.C.S. at Heilly that evening, with a blighty one.”

“Lucky for you! I went out in August, and had petrol-sickness when we were relieved after Flers. I went into hospital for a few days, but it was cleared out for expected casualties, so I found myself at home, with ten days’ leave. I managed to get four days’ extension, and was ordered to report at Grantham, and here I am. Damned lucky, too. I see there’s been another push south of the Ancre.”

“Yes! We’ve got the Schwaben at last! But tell me about Flers. It was a good show, wasn’t it?”

“
Good
show? It was a bloody muck-up!” cried the other angrily. “The blasted newspapers cracked it up as a victory. The usual tripe—Beach Thomas’ larks singing through the barrage, our men keen as mustard, right on top of the trembling Hun! Of course all prisoners tremble, after bombardment!”

“What was it like in September?”

“Well, if you haven’t seen the Somme since July the First, you wouldn’t recognise it. Everything churned up and
rechurned
, roads, villages—in fact, you only know where a village is because the roads, if you can call them roads, are red instead of grey, from the bricks put down. Not so much as a blade of grass anywhere, swarms of bloody flies, the woods all heaved up by the roots, dead men unburied, mixed up with mules and horses, rifles, waggons, limbers, all blown to hell, and my Christ! the ponk!”

“But Flers—didn’t the tanks put the fear of God into the Alleyman?”

“A newspaper stunt! One bloody tank, left alone for a couple of minutes or so, did go down the main street, and that was all!
The bloody thing broke down just outside the village. I saw the crew crawling out, delirious with heat and fumes. One of our sections had lost some guns, so I put a team in, to work the Vickers. The Boche concentrated emma gee fire on it while they were dismantling a gun, until one armour-plate was red hot, then bullet splashes came through, and knocked out one of my gunners. Those tanks are death traps.”