Armistice (9 page)

Jonathan broke off while the teas were delivered. He took out a hip flask and poured what smelled like rum into his. “Want some?” he offered.

“No thank you.”

“It keeps out the chill.”

“I'm not cold.”

“You're a proper northerner,” he said, putting his flask away, “while I am only an ex. So Dan explained the rules of three-card brag, with a bit of help from Major Chiltern, and we played a couple of hands—d'you play?”

“I've seen it played. It's very common.”

“Do you know the rules?”

“Three cards. Bluffing, betting. And you can play blind.”

“Indeed you can,” said Jonathan. “Your cards are dealt face down and you bet without seeing what your hand is.”

“Someone playing open against someone playing blind has to double the blind man's bet and they can't call a blind man,” said Philomena. “They have to wait for the blind man to call.”

“That is true but not material in this case. You do know the rules.”

Philomena shrugged. “And I know cribbage, whist and rummy.
But I only play for matches; spent matches at that.”

“Did Dan gamble?”

“Not when he was with me,” replied Philomena, defiantly.

Jonathan pursed his lips and nodded. She watched him pour additional rum into his tea. She wasn't surprised. She knew men who had left for war teetotallers and returned hardened drinkers. But for all she knew, Jonathan had drunk like this before.

“We'd played a few hands when Major Chiltern had to go outside, during which time we heard an incoming round. All three of us in the dugout stiffened and did the mental reckoning vis-à-vis incoming—the calculations you make based on the sound, pitch, trajectory, speed of approach, and a bit of guess work. Dan and I concluded that it wasn't going to directly threaten us. Anthony Dore, however, went under the table. Now, I'm not saying that he was a coward—it crossed my mind to go under the table, too. Even then things might have been all right—he could have got up and resumed his seat and nothing would have been said. Except while he was still under there Major Chiltern came back in and asked where Dore was. He saw where he was, or where he was emerging from, and I could see an ugly gleam in Chiltern's eye. Anthony Dore sat back down in his chair and tried to pretend nothing had happened. He was suffering, though. Shaking. You couldn't miss it. Dan took pity on him, I did too. And Dan said, really quietly: ‘I thought it had our names on it, too.' But Anthony Dore took it the wrong way and accused Dan of condescension. Dan protested that it wasn't,
and I backed him up, and Anthony Dore told me to shut up, whereupon Major Chiltern deliberately made things even worse by asking Captain Dore if he remembered flunking at school. Flunking what, he didn't specify, but it was a horrible thing to say at that moment. You could see Chiltern and Dore transported back in time, to school, where it had evidently been merciless. Men can be horrible to each other. They can be bullies and they can be bitches.

“The upshot of this exchange was that Dore was clearly riled. You could tell by his glower that he wanted to do something to Major Chiltern. Dan and me were being swept up in something beyond our control and I wish we'd just walked out and left them to it.

“Anthony Dore clenched his fists and declared that in order to prove who was brave we should play one hand of this three-card brag, all of us blind, betting everything we had. I think he meant at first everything we had on us,” said Jonathan, “but, because Dan said that playing a game of blind three-card brag wouldn't prove who was brave, the situation escalated. Dore misunderstood him again, I think. To my mind Dan was trying to say there was no need for any proof of bravery, but Dore thought Dan was saying that the stakes should be higher. The atmosphere was very heated. We'd been drinking, there were obvious conflicts between us, we were frightened, and it was nearly over—the war, I mean. An inflammable combination of elements.

“Major Chiltern said he wasn't playing anymore, which gave Anthony Dore something to crow about. That left Dan
and me. He turned to Dan and demanded to know what Dan owned. To which Dan replied that he owned nothing. Dore demanded to know what Dan would inherit. What did his family own? The lease on a shop, the stock, which he might not even inherit, Dan told him. Dore said he was an only son of a wealthy family and stated that he'd bet everything he was going to inherit against everything Dan and I were. I said I was out of it and I suggested that we all shook hands and forgot about it, but Dore started scrawling his pledge on a bit of paper. Major Chiltern said it was going too far and tried to leave with his pack of cards but Anthony grabbed them so Chiltern left without. I could see Dan was getting riled by Dore so I said aside to him, ‘Just walk away,' and I think he might have, except Dore seized on my wording and said, ‘Yes, Dan, why don't you just walk away?' That is, act like a coward. And Dan wouldn't do that. They pledged everything, and the cards were dealt, and—”

The bacon sandwiches arrived. Jonathan bit ravenously into his but Philomena couldn't face hers. She was feeling sick. Jonathan continued talking with his mouth full.

“Anthony asked Dan to remind him of the value of hands in three-card brag, which are, in ascending order: highest card, then highest pair, then a run—ace, two, three being the highest, then a flush, then three of a kind—the highest being three threes. Yes?”

Philomena nodded gravely. So this was it. Dan had lost all his family's possessions in a card game.

“Two hands. Three cards each, blind. Dore threw his pledge
into the pot. Dan was about to do the same, when he hesitated. Dan was about to speak, perhaps to call it off, but Dore ignored him and turned his first card over. The king of hearts. Dan really couldn't walk away now. He turned his first. It was the two of clubs. Anthony Dore was winning. He turned his second. The jack of hearts. He's definitely winning. Dan turned his second. The five of spades. He's going nowhere. Dore turned his last card. It's the ace of spades. He had three picture cards but only ace high. Dan turned his third card and didn't look down at it. I did, and Anthony Dore did. It was the two of diamonds. Dan had won with a pair of twos. He still didn't look.”

Philomena frowned and sat back sharply; so what was the point of the story if not that Dan lost everything at cards?

“Nobody spoke,” said Jonathan. “I have to say I was glad that Dan had won. Are you going to eat that?”

She hadn't touched her bacon sandwich. She pushed it toward Jonathan, who took it up and bit into it. Chewing, he went on:

“After a while Dore stood up and walked out. Still Dan hadn't looked at his last card. He asked me: ‘Did I win?' I told him that he was an idiot. He saw his hand and grunted: ‘It's just a game, just a fucking game.' He took Dore's pledge and pinned it to a beam with his knife. You're still under oath that you won't let on to anyone that I'm telling you all this.”

Jonathan took another ravenous bite. For a few moments she watched him chew. When he'd sufficiently cleared his mouth he said, “Anthony Dore came back in. He tried to
smile. Dan was standing by Dore's impaled IOU. Anthony said something about a chap taking a joke too far and Dan said he wasn't a ‘chap' and what joke? Anthony tried to make out that the game had been a bit of fun, but Dan wasn't having it. He asked him exactly how much he'd won off him and Anthony turned on his heel and left and I said to Dan that the situation wasn't at all funny.”

Jonathan's face contorted. “Dan was stupid! I told him to just give the pledge back to Dore. It would never be honored! But he just turned away, and we got on with ignoring each other for a while. The next time I looked, the IOU wasn't pinned to the beam. I don't know where they went.

“So. Unbeknownst to us at the time, the next day the Armistice was signed at five a.m. Paris time. The attack was for six a.m. It was put back, which made us think we would be spared, then put back again, until nine a.m. when we stood-to—got ready, that is—and we were told that an armistice would come into force at eleven a.m. At that time we should stand fast and must not fraternize in any way with the enemy. That would be treason. Naturally, we still hoped for the order to attack to be rescinded, but it wasn't. Major Chiltern, Anthony Dore, Dan, me, sergeants, corporals, privates; husbands, sons, brothers, lovers; good and bad. We waited, we waited; we attacked. Pockmarked terrain; you could see men for a few moments then lose track of them for a while. I knew where Dan was mostly, and occasionally I glimpsed Major Chiltern, and very occasionally I saw Anthony Dore.

“I could see Major Chiltern walking into trouble. Two of
their lot had caught him in a pincer movement that he was totally unaware of. I tried shouting, but he couldn't hear me. I gestured to Captain Dore—whom I could see—that he must go to Chiltern's aid. I don't know what he did do, but it wasn't that. So Dan and I started trying to have a pop at Chiltern's stalkers, but before we succeeded we came under pretty accurate fire ourselves and we had to skedaddle. We became separated at that point. When I could look again I saw that Chiltern had spotted one of his stalkers and was taking aim. He winged that one but the other one shot Chiltern several times, killing him. I shot that one, then the winged one. When I got him in my sights I realized he might only be aged fourteen or so, but he had a gun, and he'd used it, and was making as if to do so again. I was nearly at the ruin by now but another of their lot jumped me. A big man. We fought on the ground. It was pretty nasty. He started shouting at me to listen! Listen! And there were voices ringing out. ‘
C'est finis! Der Krieg ist vorbei
! It's over!' When I looked there were men from both sides gesticulating hopefully, some waving bits of cloth in lieu of anything white. It was eleven o'clock on the morning of the eleventh of November. The sounds of battle began to subside, bar the shouts that it was over. There was almost silence, and I was looking into this pleading man's eyes, suddenly feeling completely different about killing him, wondering if I could trust him not to kill me if I let him go, when a shot, and another rang out—”

Philomena's hand went to her mouth.

“And I knew it was Dan. I just knew. And I ran toward
the sound. He was on the ground, barely conscious. Badly wounded. Anthony Dore was suddenly by me. He said: ‘I got the Hun who did it.' I looked where he indicated and there was a boy, a dead German, on his back, clutching a rifle almost as big as him. I looked into Dore's eyes and … It's hard to describe. It was like watching a child who has done something wrong try a little bit too hard to look as if they're surprised that the thing has happened at all. I saw him make a deliberate attempt to appear to be innocent. Dan went into a spasm and he died in my arms.”

Jonathan stopped speaking. He didn't look at Philomena for a while. She stared blankly out of the cafe window, into the night. Her mind struggled to accept what she'd just been told. It held the image of Dan spasming in Jonathan's arms just after the war had ended, but it wouldn't take on the implications of his description of Anthony Dore.

“I made an allegation which was denied and investigated and I withdrew it,” said Jonathan. “Gave my consent that it should be withdrawn. By not pursuing it.”

“You believe that Anthony Dore killed Dan?” Philomena tried to say, but it only came out as a broken whisper.

Jonathan listened hard, nodding as if he understood. “All I will say is that I looked into Anthony Dore's eyes and saw what I said I saw … I'm not saying anything more,” said Jonathan.

But Philomena couldn't let him rest there: “There was an investigation?” Again her voice broke as she tried to speak.

“Dore said that there was no card game, which is actually
very clever. He of course denies that he shot Dan, but to deny there was ever a card game is very smart because—in the absence of the IOUs—it removes the motive, too. And what with Major Chiltern having perished, it's my word against his.”

Philomena thought, this story can't be right, can it? There must be holes in it. Yes, here's one: “But what about the IOUs; they would have proved—?”

“I don't know what happened to them,” said Jonathan. “I think either Dan had returned Dore's to him and hadn't got around to telling me yet—but then why kill him? Or Dore stole them, either off Dan's body before I got to him, or afterward, from his belongings, while I was reporting him.”

“But you told Dan that the IOUs would never be honored. Anthony Dore would have known that, too, wouldn't he?”

“I said that in order to persuade Dan to relent. They were legal,” replied Jonathan. “Notwithstanding Dore's lawyers would have tied it up forever. Nothing would ever have been paid except lawyer's fees. The full force of Anthony Dore's family would have been brought to bear on Dan and he would have had to give up any claim or be crushed.”

“What does Anthony Dore stand to inherit?”

“Up to a million,” said Jonathan. “As far as I can tell.”

Philomena allowed herself a moment to imagine being the wife of a millionaire. That big house. A motor car. But they were only flat pictures of worldly goods. She had no feelings about the money.

“But if Dan had returned Anthony Dore's pledge, what happened to his own?”

“Dore stole that, too. They're both evidence of a wager; a wager implies a game,” said Jonathan, fiddling with the crumbs on his plate.

Philomena studied the top of his head, wishing that there were some infallible way of truly knowing another human being.

“Dore denies everything, and in the absence of any witness or any proof, he must be regarded as innocent. But you can see why I had to tell you.”

Would she ever have learned of this incredible possibility if she hadn't come down to London? For the first time in a while she noticed that her hands had fluttered into life and were making new shapes in the air. An officer murders a subordinate on the battlefield? She didn't know whether to believe Jonathan. But why make such a story up? Why make up this whole story if it weren't true, or if he didn't believe it was true? She felt sure that he'd been close to Dan, but close friends fall out, don't they? But how would a falling out lead to this story? She needed to get another view of the situation before she would know what to think about Jonathan and his story. She'd only known him a few hours. Less.