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  “They have missed their chance of winning the war, now. They’re retreating on the Marne.”

  “Do you think the war will be over by Christmas, Phil?”

  “No, I don’t, Norman. I think Castleton is right, when he says in The Trident that it will be a long war.”

  “I hope we see some of it before it ends, anyway. It would be bad luck to miss the fun.” Distant cheers floated through the air. “That means we’ve stormed the trench. Don’t you think we ought to join them now?”

  “I votes we stop here, Norman. After all, we were ordered to sham dead. With any luck we can spend the morning lying down. No one can see us here.”

  “But we’re supposed to exercise some judgment, you know.”

  “I’m going to lie here. They can’t blame us if we obey orders.”

  Baldwin lay down again, his better judgment overcome, the sun soaking into him.

  “Did you see that wounded soldier the other evening, in the village, Phil?”

  “From the front? Good lord! What did he say?”

  “He said it was simply terrible out there.”

  He was startled; yet, somehow, he had known it was like that. He had known it when he had had the heavy dump-soles put on his shoes.

  “I had an uncle in the Boer War. He said it was hell.”

  “That’s what this chap said. He said nobody could have any idea of what it was like, unless they had been there. His regiment was cut to pieces with all the others, at Le Cateau. We lost most of our guns there. He said the retreat was as good as a rout. They went back ninety miles in twelve days, marching all night, and fighting all day, with little food and no sleep all that time.”

  “What else did he say?”

  “Kitchener was no good. He tried to take over from Sir John French, after some French general had been shot for cowardice.”

  He felt the shadow of life, that he had always felt, very near him. He had known it would be like that; he had never wanted to cheer, as most of the others had, after the Bishop had asked them to volunteer, and the Earl of Findhorn had spoken of the British Expeditionary Force meeting the Germans.

  He heard thudding hoofs in the ground. Then he was looking up into the almost sallow face of the Iron Colonel, crossed by its great sweep of brown moustaches.

  “What are you men doing there?” asked the deep bass voice.

  “We’re dead men, sir.”

  “Stand to attention when you speak to an officer!”

  Colonel Hatton wore the Queen’s ribbon of the South African War. Lance-corporal Mortimore joked about the Iron Colonel, calling him Tin Ribs. He said the only action he had seen was in the Modder River rout, when he was wounded in the bottom by a Boer bullet as he ran away. He carried a fly-whisk of white horse-hairs on a rhinoceros hide handle. His face was as brown as tea, deeply lined. From Morty had come the further information that he was the senior partner in a famous City firm of bullion buyers. He looked gold, somehow: dark leather, saturated with gold. The deep bass voice exclaimed,

  “Report to your company immediately!”

  They turned away.

  “You there! Salute an officer after he has spoken to you! Who is the older soldier of you two?”

  “I am, sir,” said Baldwin.

  “Then take charge! Order your squad to slope arms! Salute as you move off!”

  “Yes, sir. Squad, ’shun!” said Baldwin, red in the face. Phillip prayed he would not laugh. “Sloo-oo-oope—hipe! By the left, quick march! Squad, eyes left!” Baldwin struck his rifle butt with his right hand, as he trudged beside Phillip, who was now drawing his breath inwards with small clucking noises, a silent inverted laugh he had invented in the class-room for use with a blank face. It sounded like a donkey braying far away in a tunnel without echoes.

  “I knew I was right, you know, Phil. What’s the joke?”

  “I thought you were going to say sloo-oope—off! And the Iron Colonel telling the dead to salute him!”

  “Come on, you slackers!” shouted the Colour-sergeant in the distance. “At the double!”

  “Double, double, boil and bubble!” laughed Phillip.

  *

  Bleak Hill was now less bleak. A large Y.M.C.A. writing marquee, and another for the canteen, stood beyond the lines.

  The two friends usually went there to write letters in the evenings, at one of the small tables provided. Then there was the daily pint of shandy after morning parade. Sometimes Phillip saw Gerry or Hubert there, and the Wallace brothers, always together; but having their own friends all they said to one another was “Hullo”, or “How goes it?” Being in different companies made them almost like strangers.

  “Good lor’, look at this, Norman! The Trident suggests that women be armed, and formed into commando bands, in case of invasion. Tommy rot!”

  “I bet it’s the suffragettes.”

  “Oh no, they aren’t like that, Norman.”

  “Here’s an interesting article in the National Review, Phil. It shows what a near thing it was, our declaring war. No, keep it, I’ve read it.”

  While he was reading, there was shouting outside. They ran out with the others. In the sky, with churring engines, was an airship. Someone said it was a Zeppelin. He was excited. Would it be fired on? If only he had his rifle! Then the Iron Colonel galloped up, saying it was the Beta, from Aldershot.

  “Lucky for it there isn’t an aeroplane gun on Bleak Hill,” said Baldwin. “Or some fool must have shot it.”

  Phillip went back into the marquee to send the news, a little exaggerated, to his mother.

  *

  Two days later, Hetty took the letter next door to read to Papa and Aunt Marian. She left out the passage that he had asked her not to tell Gran’pa, substituting one of her own, which in effect reversed what Phillip had written, about the socks.

  Crowborough Camp.

  14 September 1914

  Dear Mother,

  Please don’t join a Commando Band. You are not fitted for such work. (Though that bee-hive hat with flowers on it might do to give protective coloration!) We have not fired our rifles yet. How is Father liking the Rifle Drill and special police work?

  You mention again the Russians which many people say they have seen. It is all rot about them landing in Scotland. It has been officially denied, besides they may as well go via the North Pole. Thanks for the sweater. It keeps me warm at night. We have only one blanket each. I now have four pairs of socks (not sox, as you write) so don’t trouble to send me a lot, except one thick pair made by yourself, which I shall treasure highly.

  I can bear the hard work now without any trouble. We had manœuvres today, and each man had to dig a mound for himself as cover when lying on the ground under fire. It is a greyish black soil, tough with heather roots, and round pebbles.

  I am in the Y.M.C.A. marquee here, with writing paper, tables, chairs, etc., where one can sit for nothing and write letters.

  An airship sailed over camp just now and was lit up by a searchlight. Great excitement, we nearly shelled it, but the Iron Colonel galloped up in time and pointed out that it was an English type, in fact the Beta. A narrow escape for the ship, as we had already charged our magazines, and loaded the aeroplane gun!

  We are all to be inoculated soon, a nasty and unhealthy business.

  You must not mind my going abroad. It is not probable that we shall relieve regulars at Malta, as you suggest, because the Colonel has said that we should if needed (when trained) go to Belgium to guard lines of communication, etc. It is probable that if the L.H. does go (and in my opinion we shall be needed against those never-ending masses) only about one-fifth will return alive: the others will join their comrades in the deep, deep, sleep.

  Still, I must not alarm you: I have had a very happy life, and I have volunteered because I know you and Father want me to help the Allies in my best manner.

  Why does not Desmond write? Is he coming down on his Rudge? Don’t forget to ask everyone to write occasionally, as it is
nice to receive a letter when the others do. Your letters are always rather scrappy.

  Desmond is quite happy with Eugene, I suppose. If he does not cycle down soon, it may be too late; his holidays will be over, anyway. I hope Grandpa is well and all right. Don’t tell him, but the socks he sent are unwearable, a thick ridge all down the middle of the feet under the sole. Who made them, Aunt Marian? Say nothing, I don’t want to seem ungrateful; but they are unwearable. However they can be used for bedsocks (not sox).

  Give my love to Father and dear Doris and Mavis.

  It is very hard to leave home and friends and have only the memory of them left.

  I wonder if I shall ever see Reynard’s Common again, and play tennis on the Hill?

  My tame jackdaws and my jay, the kestrel with a broken wing, where are they? I would like to think that the kestrel can now fly, that he hangs aloft the scenes of my boyhood, guarding the spirit of those days under the sun. But all I can do is to wonder; for ’tis in Higher Hands than mine.

  I must close now with great love to yourself and all the others,

  Your loving son, Phillip.

  P.S. Tell Father to read the September National Review. He will be surprised at the warning of the writer against the Cabinet.

  It is well worth reading. It says that in the Black Week, Haldane didn’t want any interference on the part of England: Asquith didn’t want any Expeditionary Force: and Churchill saved the situation by ordering Naval Mobilisation ‘on his own’ before declaration of war.

  Also: the Territorials at the event of war are untrained: we have no army really: all are practically raw recruits now in England. A glance at the other battalions here proves this. They are a frightful lot, weedy and undisciplined.

  P.P.S. If we start for an unknown destination, I don’t think I shall ask you to see me off, at say, Southampton or Dover, because it would perhaps unsettle things for you all.

  Thank you for the tobacco (Father). And also for the cakes and chocolate (Mother). We share all parcels in our tent. We are now used to hardships and enjoying ourselves.

  The Bishop of London came down for a bit. He called in at every tent. The tents were grey-black, thick with dust; but we beat them before the Bishop arrived in the lines. His sermons were excellent.

  I will send you a little book he gave each of us.

  P.P.P.S. Jack Hart, who was expelled from school (remember?) is now I hear with the Royal Flying Corps in France. He joined at outbreak of war.

  Don’t forget my list of things. And please buy me a little oil lamp from Benetfinks in Cheapside. We have only candles in the tent. And send my old water-bottle in the servants bedroom. I am reading a very funny book Lance-corporal Mortimore lent me, the Diary of a Nobody. It is awfully funny. Try and get it. I think I must be rather like Lupin, Mr. Pooter’s boy—a trial to poor Mr. Pooter with the beard (??!!)

  So please get Lupin’s old water bottle from the servants bedroom, with the straps. Most of the bottles here are busted and we can’t get any more. Now I must close, with anxious expectation of clothes, lamp, bottle, etc.

  Your affec. son Lupin (nicknamed Maggot).

  P.P.P.P.S. I apply every week for leave—no luck, so far.

  Dinner was the usual skilly which had steamed away until the fresh vegetables added were nearly dissolved, and the meat threaded or fibrous. There were sometimes dumplings which had white unkneaded flour at their cores. Skilly was followed by treacle tart, the spécialité de la cookmaison, said Mortimore, who had a weekly hamper from Fortnum and Mason in Piccadilly. The thin pastry was invariably burnt, the treacle dried brittle and brown. Skilly was preferable to the hunks of leathery mutton or frizzled and blackened beef. They ate outside their tents, on or beside the neatly piled blankets. Morty dished out the skilly for the members of his tent, while making his usual sort of joke about the food, such as,

  “Even Doctor Watson would not need to be told that the chef had not received his training at the Ritz. Maggot, dear boy, take away that horrible crock and return it, clean, to the so-called cookhouse, will you?”

  Each man in the tent took his turn at what was called orderly dog, fetching the grub from the cookhouse, returning dixie and baking pan after cleaning in the heather.

  “It’s not my turn, Morty, today. It’s Kirk’s.”

  “Kirk is on headquarters guard at six o’clock tonight, and has to get his equipment smartened up, dear boy, as well as go on parade this afternoon, so don’t argue, but take those beastly things away. Whatever names they bear, they smell the same, as the Bard certainly would have said, had he been here. Go on, be a sport, dear boy.”

  Phillip sat still.

  Morty raised his handsome eyebrows.

  “Skedaddle laddy, skedaddle. It won’t take you a couple of minutes.”

  “But I want to take my spare shoes to the snobs shop, to be re-soled, ready for all eventualities.”

  “You can take them tonight. And don’t let the Quartermaster-sergeant charge you for them, the old robber. He tried it on me. The Army pays now. Come, show your elasticity, dear boy!”

  When Phillip did not move, he said, “Come on, Phil, don’t muck about with discipline. You could have done it and been back by now. Don’t try and fight the army.”

  Still Phillip did not move.

  “Very well, since you ask for it.”

  After early parade next morning for Swedish drill, an orderly came with a message that Captain Forbes wanted to see Maddison.

  “But I haven’t shaved,” he cried, in panic. His face was lathered, his cut-throat razor was open in his hand. His looking-glass was fixed on the outside of the tent below.

  “That baby fluff can wait,” said Church, appearing in the tent-opening. “Why ever they let you into the battalion, I can’t imagine.”

  “You Leytonstone lout! Will you fight?” shouted Phillip, in sudden rage at the sight of Church’s rabbit teeth.

  “Any time you like!”

  “After parade tonight, then!”

  Ironical cheers came from the lower tent. Collins’ face looked out, with Kerry’s “Yah boo, von Maggot!”

  “Leytonstone louts!” cried Phillip.

  “Choice of weapons rests with the challenged,” laughed Morty. “Entrenching tool handles, or do you prefer the razor? No offence, dear boys!”

  Phillip wiped his face hurriedly, put on tunic and glengarry, and ran to the Officers’ Lines.

  An angry Fiery Forbes cried, “If this sort of thing occurs again, I won’t take you overseas! I don’t want, and won’t have, any petty trouble-makers in my company! The discipline of my company is based, in every particular, on loyalty between all ranks! Now if you waste more of my time, or Corporal Mortimore’s time, you’ll go back to the second battalion. Have I finally made that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then go and apologise to Corporal Mortimore.”

  Phillip remotely hoped that he would not be taken overseas; yet it would be awful if he were sent away as a washout.

  When he got back to the tent, he found Morty in a state of glee. An orderly had come with a chit from the Adjutant to say that his commission had come through. He was a second-lieutenant in the Roughriders. Already he was gazing at the new pair of fawn cavalry twill breeches he kept in his kitbag.

  “I’m sorry about the dixie, Morty.”

  “That’s all forgotten, dear boy.”

  More excitement was to come a few minutes later. The Colour-sergeant came down the lines, and, looking into the open flap of each tent, spoke while holding a paper in hand. From each tent as he left it there arose cheering.

  “Morning parade is cancelled. The order has just come that the London Highlanders will proceed overseas at forty-eight hours notice.”

  The effect on the members of the tent who were inside at the time was varied. Elliott threw himself on his back and waggled his legs in the air, cheering happily. Douglas, a dark, handsome rugger-playing Old Blue, looked thoughtful, then happy. Slade, a
big, quietly genial fellow, always the same, red of face and country-looking although he had worked all his life in a bank, smiled contentedly. Little Blunden, who looked so sturdy and tough, said, “Well, anyone who wants to help himself to my food box is at liberty to do so.” Tommy Atkins, apple-cheeked gospeller, who read his Bible morning and evening, and prayed kneeling down, with hands clasped, said: “Well, that is what we all have trained for, boys, and it is God’s will.” Kirk, a delicate youth with pince-nez spectacles, sat with thin nostrils open wider than usual. Baldwin flushed as he smiled quietly. A chill struck into Phillip, which remained, although now he had a good excuse to get out of fighting Church.

  Morty dug into his kitbag and produced a bottle of champagne. The whole camp was lively, cheering arose everywhere.

  “A loving cup, dear boys! You’ll have to drink out of your tooth-mugs, I’m afraid.”

  When the human effervescence had subsided, with that of the liquid in the tooth-mugs, the subject of leave became linked with speculation about the battalion’s destination. Gibraltar? Malta? Egypt? Perhaps India? Lines of communication in France? Possibly even South Africa, since some of the Boers were known to be openly on the side of the Germans.

  Excitement settled when it became known that there would be no embarkation leave. Thinking of his mother, Phillip felt darkness filling him. Why had he asked her specially not to come and visit him? The other chaps had had their mothers and fathers down. But he could not very well have asked her without Fathe: and he did not want the others to see him. It was nothing to do with being half-German, that was all rot. It was—well, Father might say awkward things, or be cross with Mother. He had envied the others of the tent, Douglas, Kirk, Morty, Norman, who had been so friendly with their fathers.

  Morty had already packed. “Help yourselves to the hamper, dear boys.” He said he intended to give himself a week’s leave in London, to be fitted for his uniform before reporting to the Roughriders depôt.