Our Time Is Gone (74 page)

I got your address from Father Moynihan. One of the lads in the parish, whose mother cleans the ships, gave it to me. D'you ever see Father Moynihan? I get a letter from him now and again. Before I was taken away—I was forcibly taken away from my house—before I went, I saw the priest and I told him everything about what I thought, and that, and he said: ‘Well, Joseph, you must make up your mind, and then hold to that.' I did, which is the reason why I write from this camp. It's miles from anywhere. I never knew England could be so dreary—this part anyhow. Oh, I just wanted to mention Dermod. Poor little chap. I had to put him into the convent. I've put the address at the bottom of the letter, and I'd be very grateful to you if you would call there some time to see him. The nuns are very good. And once or twice my neighbour Mrs. Ditchley has been there, and she took quite a liking to them. Anyhow, I would be glad if some time you're round those parts, if you went to see him. He's a fine big lad now, a fine big lad and he looks like you, Mrs. Fury. You'll be surprised when you see him. Have you been able to see your other son yet? I often think of him. I wrote him a letter about five months ago but never had a reply. I hope when this war is over that everybody will get together and be friends again, like in the old days at Hatfields. If you had bad days there, you had good ones too. I will close now with sincere greetings and remain,

Yours sincerely,

J
OSEPH
K
ILKEY
.

P.S. I am leaving here to-morrow so do not write here. I mean if you are writing any time. I'm going to a prison at Conton. Thirty-eight of us. I hope you
will
see Dermod.

He folded and sealed this letter, and left the hut to go to the guard-room, hoping there would still be time to have it censored and go out with the other mail.

On his way back a soldier named Giles came up to him and said: ‘Hello, mate.'

Joseph Kilkey halted, and stared at the man. He knew him only too well. His ‘hello, mate,' he had heard often before. There was no reason why he should stand there, looking at him. He turned away to go back to his hut. It was a quarter past two. The camp seemed deserted. A good many men had gone out, some to meet girls, some to the local pub a mile away. But not the conscientious objectors. Now Private Giles put his hand on Joseph Kilkey's shoulder and said in a slow, hesitant manner. ‘I'd like to speak to you, mate.'

Joseph Kilkey made to go again. ‘I've often heard you say it,' he said.

‘You don't understand,' said Giles.

There was something in his utterance, in his attitude towards Mr. Kilkey, earnest enough to make the other wonder if something had happened. He had no concern with this soldier. He did not like him. He had suffered through this soldier. Why should he stop him and say: ‘Hello, mate?' What could it mean to Kilkey? What did it matter? He would see the last of the fellow to-morrow and then that would be the end of the matter. No doubt he would go to France like all the others, be wounded, or killed, and all that he had said, all that he had done to Joseph Kilkey wouldn't matter any more. On the other hand he might come back from France. That would be a miracle.

‘I don't know what you want to talk about. Is it something I haven't done?'

He walked away, but the soldier followed. Joe Kilkey was more than ever certain that there was something behind this. Another joke—another dirty trick. He stopped at his hut door. When he looked round Giles was behind him. Now his look was sheepish, his hands rested on the door posts.

‘When I said “Hello, mate,” I meant it,' he said quietly. ‘I mean “Hello, mate.”'

The hut was empty, Mr. Kilkey said: ‘You've often said it. But it doesn't mean anything to me—I mean
now
. I'm going to-morrow, thank God! What d'you want?'

‘It's bloody awkward,' Giles said. ‘I can't explain yet. I'd rather talk inside.'

‘I don't know what you want to talk about,' Kilkey said: ‘you ought to know it better than me. And calling me mate doesn't make any difference. I've seen a lot of you and I'm off to-morrow.'

Joseph Kilkey went into the hut, Giles remained standing by the door.

‘I'm bloody sorry, mate,' he called. ‘You don't understand.'

‘Sorry,' thought Kilkey. ‘Sorry about what? About the war? About what?' and he stood leaning on the table, his back to the soldier. Then he heard him walk in. What the devil did the fellow want? Following him round the camp. He had something up his sleeve. ‘I've kept my temper for seven months,' reflected Joe Kilkey. ‘I've kept as cool as any man could. I know their game so well now, that only a saint out of Heaven could make me believe he's sorry for anything.'

The soldier walked up the hut, moved round, and stood facing the other. For a few seconds they stared each other out. Suddenly the soldier stretched out his arm.

‘Would you shake hands with a feller, mate?' and this made Kilkey stare harder.

Like an automaton he put his hand out and Giles grasped and held it.

‘I'm sorry, mate, and I mean it. You're a decent bloke. I did you lousy.'

Joseph Kilkey remained silent. He couldn't understand. It was too surprising, too staggering. What was it all about, anyhow? What had come over Giles?

‘You're going to-morrow, mate, aren't you?' said the soldier. He still hung on to the other's arm.

Joseph Kilkey nodded his head, then gave a quick smile. The funny part of this was the outstretched hand, the arm across the table. Mr. Kilkey wanted to drop his. It seemed ridiculous standing like this, holding hands. And no meaning in it. Probably in the end a dirty joke.

‘I am,' replied Kilkey. ‘Why?' and then he let go the soldier's hand.

He went to his bed and sat down, lit his pipe, filled the hut with smoke from shag.

‘I'm sorry you're going, mate, and I'm not sorry you're going. You come from Gelton. From Hatfields. You used to be a stevedore at the docks.'

‘That's right,' replied Mr. Kilkey, but he never even glanced at the soldier.

‘I saw it down on your papers. I have charge of all papers here. I mean—well, it doesn't matter anyhow. I come from Gelton too. I live in Dingle Street. My dad and mother lives there. He works in a foundry.'

‘Oh,' Mr. Kilkey said and asked himself: ‘I wonder what this is leading to.'

‘You're the same as me. I'm the same as you,' went on Giles, and he now left the table and stood at the foot of Joseph Kilkey's bed.

‘I suppose—I expect you are,' replied Kilkey. ‘But what's all this about? Is there something up? Have I done something wrong? It generally was that way when you shouted: “Hello, mate” after me. You know that well enough.'

‘But you're the same as me—and I'm the same as you,' went on Giles, ‘'cept that you haven't uniform and I have. See! Well, mate, I've done some lousy things to you, and I'm bloody sorry about it.' He bent forward, shot out his hand. ‘I'm sorry, mate.'

Mr. Kilkey shook hands for the second time. This time he had to laugh.

‘Well, it doesn't matter now, Giles, does it? You'll see the last of me to-morrow.'

‘Perhaps the fellow's a bit drunk or something,' thought Kilkey. He'd known Private Giles for seven months and this was strange conduct. Actually shaking hands with a conchie. The soldier sat down on the edge of a neighbouring bed, looked steadily at Mr. Kilkey. He spoke again.

‘Jokes are over, mate,' he said, ‘I've been worried for days. And d'you know why I've been worried——' He paused, but interrupted when the other opened his mouth to speak. ‘I've felt rotten because these last days I've said to myself, he's a decent bloke, and I've treated him like shit! And I have, mate, and I'm bloody sorry about it. Fact! I mean it. I did you lousy—just like the others. It's made
me
feel a——'

‘Oh, why talk about it? That's all over,' said Mr. Kilkey and waved a hand through the air.

The language he was well used to, but these demonstrations of guilt, no. It was hard to believe that Private Giles wasn't drunk. And he wasn't in the mood for listening. He wanted to rest. He'd have to be about after tea, cleaning again, till eleven at night, and then getting his things together for the next day's journey to Conton.

‘Ah! Don't worry, son,' he said. ‘Forget about all that. It's over.'

But this was not what Giles thought. He hadn't even begun. From what source had this burst of feeling arisen! And why? And what was the worth of it? It sounded like a lot of blather in the ears of a man who had had to run Private Giles's gauntlet for seven long months. It would be hard to forget Giles, but here was the fellow sitting opposite him and talking by the yard, when it didn't matter any more. But to the soldier this hour was important.

‘When you first arrived here with those other blokes I didn't like you. I knew you were a Catholic too, with them funny things on your neck. I hated you. I hated all you fellers too lousy to fight for your country. I stood behind you that day the sergeant knocked your hat off, and I booted you into the mud. I've been thinking of that a long time. I——'

‘Yes. That's all right, son, I forgive you. Is that what you mean?' And suddenly Mr. Kilkey was full of suspicion. He couldn't help it. He had learned these months through how hard it was to trust prople. ‘Oh! Forget it,' he said. ‘I wish you'd go away, son. Let's forget everything.'

‘But I can't! I can't! You're the same as me, mate, and I did you lousy.'

Joseph Kilkey could no longer doubt the sincerity behind these words. He now believed him. He understood him. He saw through the whole thing. That ‘hello, mate' was no joke. It was the end of the jokes, the dirty, sly, cruel jokes. Yet it was
hard
to believe, to accept. As if it mattered a damn now! It mattered a damn to the young soldier on the bed. Joseph Kilkey was moved by it. It touched him, yet he couldn't believe in it.

‘But why worry?' he exclaimed; ‘it's all over now. Forget it.' There was the feeling that all this chatter was nothing but irritating. ‘I understand,' he said, ‘quite.'

‘That time you came in and you were loaded up,' continued Giles. ‘Remember? And you were supposed to go right to your hut with those other blokes. And I said a man was wanted to help carry pans and buckets for the cook, and I made you carry them with the pack still on your back. You'd come with the others that nine miles from the station. Remember. That's only one lousy thing, and I don't know why I did it. Fact! And you were—well, you said nothing—you just did it. And then that time I had to make a report to the sergeant. I didn't like you—I hated all you fellows. I told him you were lousy—I mean, that way. Remember! They turned you out of your bunk about half-eleven that night. We chucked you in the tank, scrubbed you. That was me. I put holes in the sandbags. I put itchy cotton in your trousers that time you had to carry stores.'

There was no pause.

Now Joseph Kilkey realized that there was only one thing to do. Sit and listen! If he didn't, the fellow would haunt him. What on earth had come over the fellow? He might be Father Moynihan and this man Giles telling him his sins. Let him talk on until he had completely emptied himself. ‘To-morrow I'll be gone. Far away. And we'll have forgotten all those things. All of them,' he told himself.

The stream of words became a drone in his ears, but again he sat up with a jerk. It was listening to a man's confession. No man had ever done this before. At least, Joseph Kilkey had never seen one do just what this soldier was doing. ‘Bit of a lad,' said Mr. Kilkey to himself—‘only a kid really.' But he had put him through the ropes all right. Not a doubt of it. And he was old enough to be Giles's father. He hoped those two others would not come in now. He got up and went to the hut, shut the door, returned to his bed.

‘You know, son, all this you're telling me now, what good is it? It's all finished long ago. See! I'll shake hands again. There.'

Holding the hand Giles said. ‘Bin asking myself this week now, why I done all them things to you. You never done anything to me. Nor the other fellers. None of them! And yet I hated the sight of the bloody lot of you. Remember that time you give me a letter to post addressed to some Catholic Sister or somebody. I read it. I laughed. I opened all your letters, read the lot. All these fellers has their letters read. There's a fellow named Diver here. His missus sent him her photo. We read his letters to her. Laughed like hell. I done that with your letters. I tore some up. Two came for you a month ago. One H.M.S. I said. ‘Bloody conchie getting letters.' I chucked them in the fire. I used to go into the cookhouse just before they were serving out. Remember that time you got stuck in the guard-room for saying something I
made
you say with my boot, mate? I put sand in your grub.' Suddenly the soldier paused. Perhaps it was the strange look on Joseph Kilkey's face that made him do so.

‘Go ahead! Get it off your chest. I've seen worse things in the world than you think I have, me lad. Nothing makes me scared, or sick or anything.'

‘I'm bloody sorry you're going, mate. Will you have these?' Giles said. He pulled a small tissue-paper parcel from his pocket and held it out to Mr. Kilkey.

‘Oh!' said Kilkey. ‘I don't smoke cigarettes, son. You keep them. I smoke a pipe.'

‘I'll change them. I'll get you tobacco,' said Giles. ‘I'll get it to-night.'

‘You're only a kid,' he said, ‘a bit of a kid. Well! Well!' and he gave him a hearty slap on the back.

‘You don't—you fellers don't believe in war, do you?' asked Giles.

‘No! I don't. I wouldn't have the heart to kill anybody. That's just it.'

‘You're a worker and I'm a worker too,' the soldier said. ‘That's it. I joined two years ago when I was sixteen. My brother was blown up at the Marne. I joined his old regiment. Next month I'm going over with the rest of them. Sometimes I'd like to be like you fellers, but I couldn't I don't think. You require guts. I know. I've been at this camp long enough to find out. Last week when you had to empty the tank and somebody had emptied a bucket of filth into it, I wanted to tell you about that, and d'you know what I said? I said: ‘Aw, blast him!' that's what I said. So you see what kind of mate I am. Real human, mate. I used to work in the foundry with my dad.'