Loftus pulled out his newspaper with its glaring headlines about the Germans’ impending defeat, and spread it on the desk.
The general scowled. ‘I know. I’ve seen it. I sometimes think the enemy is on
this
side of the Channel.’ The marine returned with a tray, decanter and two glasses, then backed out of the door as discreetly as a butler. Loftus took a glass and peered over it, his blue eyes very hard.
‘They promised me, sir. The Fifty-First was to remain independent until my Grenville Division could move up to the front.’
‘Well, Herbert, your division isn’t going, not yet anyway. They need reinforcements everywhere, not least to prop up our Italian allies in the Alps, and of course the Russians are nearer to bloody revolution than they’ve ever been. I happen to know that the prime minister wants to get rid of Haig, but as I discovered at the War Office there’s no alternative to Haig’s plan, and who would replace him in any case?’
Loftus put down his empty glass without having even
tasted the whisky. ‘I heard as much, sir. Lloyd-George has never liked the G.O.C. . . .’
The general waved him down. ‘That’s not the point, Herbert. All this optimism, this pie in the sky about the Germans is rubbish. One more push will
not
cause their collapse, and in any case the army can never cover thirty-five miles to the Belgian coast before the weather breaks. How could
anyone
be so blind as to promise to complete the first fifteen miles in under two weeks? You’ve read my report. We lost all those men for a mere two or three miles. It’s not a battlefield, it’s a bloody cemetery!’
They were silent, each immersed in thought, while the muted murmur of London penetrated even to this office. Then Loftus said, ‘So Blackwood’s battalion remains under army control.’
‘Yes. I did everything I could, but . . .’ He shrugged. ‘They did agree to allow the battalion to fall back to the French coast for a rest period. The R.M.A. will remain to support the next big push.’ He stared at his glass. ‘End of next month. Top secret, of course.’
Loftus thought he had misheard. ‘But it isn’t even the end of June yet, sir! Our people gained an advance, albeit a small one, but the whole point, unless I misunderstood my orders, was to follow up the success before the enemy could regroup and make good his line.’
The general refilled the glasses. ‘I know, and you didn’t misunderstand. Haig intends to follow up when he’s ready, not before. There’s an even worse enemy than the general staff, Herbert. The weather. That land has been fought over so often it would become a bog. The army has put some new tanks into the field and they
seem to have done well enough, especially from the tactical point of view. Nobody wants to be rolled flat by one of those brutes, and they offer good cover for advancing infantry.’
Loftus said, ‘But in last year’s weather they would have been useless.’
The general turned over some papers without seeing them. ‘Absolutely.’
Loftus suggested, ‘I could spare another company, sir. All marines.’
‘Good thinking.’ Then he said sharply, ‘In your opinion, Herbert: should I pull Blackwood out, put somebody higher in command?’
‘No, sir. He’s the right man for the job.’
‘I think so too.’ He smiled. ‘Can’t bump up his promotion any more – they wouldn’t stand for that!’
Loftus said, ‘My Grenville Division is based at one of the big camps at Étaples near Boulogne, about fifty miles from the front at Ypres. The Fifty-First can withdraw to there for a rest and training period. If there’s to be no attack until late July, it might be useful, for both the battalion and the division.’ He tried to smile, but it was impossible. ‘Keep the discontent and mischief to a minimum at least.’
The general nodded absently. ‘Pig of a place, I’m told, but I’ll make certain your total authority isn’t challenged, until the advance anyway.’
Loftus said, ‘I think we should bring Blackwood to London, sir. His adjutant too. Bright young chap, very useful. I’ve seen his reports.’
The general studied him keenly. ‘Had to say that,
didn’t you? His father is a friend of yours.’ He smiled. ‘See to it then. I expect Blackwood is a little bitter about the change of plans – I would be, in his place. Make the necessary arrangements. His second-in-command . . .’ He frowned, groping for the name and face.
‘Major Vaughan, sir.’
The general’s eyes crinkled briefly. ‘Yes, him. Saw the young devil fight a few times – knocked the hell out of everybody. Well, he’s earmarked for promotion to half-colonel. Do him good to be left in charge for a while.’ He reached for the decanter. ‘Blackwood isn’t married, is he? I’d have heard.’
Loftus’s face was impassive. The general certainly would have known: he missed nothing.
‘No. Not married, sir.’
‘Pity. Plenty of time though. Have to think of the future.’ He sighed. ‘Well, keep him in London, where I can have an eye on him. We’ll be able to get him back to his men soon enough if the balloon goes up prematurely, and it might do him some good as well. Bit more life than down at that godforsaken place in Hampshire.’
They both looked at their watches and the general said, ‘Leave it to you then, Herbert. I must be off. Dining with the fourth Sea Lord tonight. Useful of course, but it does tend to mess up one’s other arrangements.’
The marine orderly entered with Loftus’s cap as if to a signal. Loftus accepted it with a wry smile.
‘I know, sir. Hell, isn’t it?’
So Jonathan Blackwood’s life was arranged.
A few days later Alexandra Pitcairn was sitting in the
garden, depressed after a long session with one of the patients at Hawks Hill. He was a young subaltern, no more than nineteen, who had been blinded in France when a flare pistol shot from another officer’s hand had exploded. There was no hope of his recovery and he lacked any sense of purpose, and even her efforts to explain how successful the Braille training could be had made no impression upon him. It often began like that, until she was able to win a man’s confidence and remove from his own mind the stigma of cripple.
She had let him talk for much of the time, his young husky voice telling her what it had been like. How he had lain for two days in a shell hole before anyone had found him. He told her about his girl, how he had hoped to marry her when it was all over. His parents had been to visit him at the previous hospital, and his mother in particular had kept saying he was not to worry, that everything was going to be just as it was. It was no help at all.
Once he said, ‘I wish they’d left me out there to die!’
She had held his hands in hers, wanting somehow to reassure him. But even that was different now. Once they had been only instruments, coaxing minds out of darkness into understanding. Now they had become hands, human, physical things, not to be ignored when she had tried to move stiff fingers, and guide them to learning.
There had been no word from Jonathan Blackwood. She had told herself countless times not to be so silly. He would write again when he had the opportunity. She was amazed by the hunger she felt for the briefest message, anything that might sustain her.
‘So this is how the idle rich carry on!’
She looked up and saw Kitty Booth grinning over the gate. Kitty came into the garden and sat beside her.
‘Bad day, my dear?’
She sighed. ‘I get so tired sometimes – and the work just goes on and on. And I think waiting . . .’
‘No word, then?’
‘No. I . . .’ She hesitated. ‘After I told you about him I thought perhaps I was imagining it, because I wanted to.’
Kitty smiled. ‘Don’t you even think such things! Anything I can do?’
Good old Kitty. ‘My father’s up at the hospital, giving the medical officers a hand.’ She forced a smile. ‘You could make us some tea . . .’ Then she broke off and stared beyond Kitty’s shoulder. Her face was suddenly ashen.
Kitty exclaimed, ‘What is it?’
She could neither breathe nor speak. The gate was half open and the post girl was leaning her bicycle against the wall beyond it. She opened her bag.
‘Telegram, Miss Pitcairn.’
‘Oh my God –
no
—’
The post girl pulled it out and they saw the official stamp.
Kitty said sharply, ‘I’ll take it.’
The post girl waited. She had delivered so many, and yet she had never got over seeing the anguish on the faces of the recipients.
Alexandra held out her hand but it was visibly shaking. ‘No, it’s all right. He wouldn’t want . . .’
But her eyes were almost blinded with tears. Kitty opened it and read the brief message, then she put her
arm around her friend and whispered, ‘He’s coming home, Alex love. He’s not hurt – or anything.’
Eventually she wiped her eyes on her sleeve and took the telegram with unsteady fingers. It seemed a long time before she could read it.
My very dear Alex. I am coming to London. Please meet me. Letter following. With love, Jonathan.
The word love seemed to steady her more than anything.
‘He’s coming home, Kitty!’ She hugged her, and then the post girl, who grinned and said, ‘Well! Must be quite a man, I’m thinkin’!’
When they were alone and Kitty was at last brewing the tea she asked, ‘What’s London like, Kitty? I only went once, when I was a child.’
‘I don’t know – I’ve never been. Don’t have that sort of money.’ But she smiled. ‘You’ll get his letter soon, I shouldn’t wonder. You will go to him, won’t you?’
Alex nodded, fingers gripped tightly together as the young subaltern’s had been.
‘I – I want to ask you things, Kitty.’
Kitty said softly, ‘You won’t need to ask me. But I’ll tell you whatever you like.’
‘What will he do? Take me to a theatre, or one of those restaurants they’re always talking about? Where would I stay? What . . . would I do?’
Kitty looked for the biscuit tin. ‘He
loves
you, Alex. He’s not some fumbling lout at the village dance. He’s Jonathan Blackwood, and he’s trying to tell you.’
Doctor Pitcairn wandered through from the hall, and they both fell silent.
‘You know, I think the nights are drawing in already. Doesn’t seem possible.’ He smiled at Kitty. ‘Anything unusual happen today?’
Alex turned her face away and heard her friend reply casually, ‘Can’t think of anything.’
The doctor was so immersed in his notes that he hardly noticed.
‘That’s good. Now let’s have some tea.’
The London rail terminus of Waterloo was busier than ever, or so it seemed to him: packed with people saying good-bye, or waiting nervously to welcome someone home from the war.
Jonathan had arrived far too early, just in case he missed her. She would have received his letter but had not had time to reply to it. There was another possibility, of course. She might have changed her mind, or recognised the danger in what she was doing.
He had been to the R.T.O.’s office to check on schedules, and had managed to avoid two Royal Marine captains he knew who were returning to Portsmouth.
Beyond the rank of ticket barriers the trains lay waiting to leave, or came to a halt amidst clouds of steam with doors flinging open like fins along their full lengths. The passengers were mostly in army or naval uniforms. At the gates military police stood double-banked, their eyes everywhere as the inspectors took or clipped the outthrust tickets while the crowds surged through: looking for deserters, men overstaying their leave, or others who were improperly dressed. By the sharp contrast in their appearance Jonathan recognised those
from a barracks or some training depot: smart as paint, eager to get on leave. The veterans, in stained uniforms and scarred boots, were dull-eyed, empty of expression as they stared around until a familiar face or waiting family emerged from the crowd. There were trolleys piled with kit-bags and sailors’ hammocks, a boozy-looking chief petty officer with a party of boy seamen on their way to complete their training. Some appeared to be no more than about fourteen.
Jonathan thought of Harry Payne with regret and a certain sadness. He had asked him what he would do on this brief leave, and Payne had been vague.
‘Might look up an old pal. If not I’ll beg a place at Eastney. I’ll give the gate my whereabouts,’case you need me.’ One thing he did not intend to do was visit his mother and stepfather.
Wyke had said he was going to see his young lady, then take her to meet his parents. He had seemed very confident that it would turn out well.
Both Payne and Wyke had probably guessed why he himself wanted to remain alone. He had heard no rumours around the battalion, so obviously the pair of them, like Swan, knew a secret when they saw one.
He recalled the depression and dismay when the Fifty-First had received its new orders for moving to the French coast. They had been ready, keyed up to the limit after the army’s success at the Messines Ridge, and the order to wait while reinforcements and more artillery were brought up had seemed like madness, particularly to company commanders who would eventually be expected to lead their men against a rested and well-prepared enemy.
He saw some women from the Salvation Army with collecting boxes, and others handing out pamphlets to the passing throng. No one took any notice. He was reminded of the trio of soldiers he had seen on his way here, still wearing khaki uniforms from which the badges and ranks had been stripped. They had been standing near the Savoy Hotel playing their instruments, a mouth organ, a concertina and a flute, and there had not been a whole man among them. One had an arm missing, one a leg, and the third was badly scarred in the face. They had not been openly appealing to the passersby, and in turn, no one had appeared to notice the khaki cap upended on the pavement.
Take me back to dear old Blighty . . .
They had seemed to be in good spirits: maybe it was enough merely to be back in dear old Blighty, away from the mud and the blood and the lice and the smell of death. He had been deeply moved, and had stopped and put some notes in the cap, probably more than they usually collected in a week. The one with the concertina had given him a broad grin and said, ‘First time I’ve ever ’ad a blinkin’ colonel on ’is knees to me!’ His one eye had fixed on Jonathan’s D.S.O. ‘Give the bastards ’ell, sir!’