Kipling's Choice (10 page)

"Poor Davis," Alex whispers. "He's lost two brothers. One was just a couple of meters from me. Shrapnel was flying all around. The splintered tree stumps were full of that glowing metal. Davis's youngest brother was bent over, seeking cover. It happened quick as lightning. One moment he was watching me, waiting for a sign to go over the top. I can still see his friendly, confident gaze. A boy who was burning with energy. A second later there he was, blown to pieces. Not a pretty sight."

***

The map is jerked from above John's face. There is a flash of light. The German soldiers look up in alarm. The smashing blow from the mortar shell comes quickly, taking them by surprise. Unable to run for cover, the three are blown away. Although John lies protected in a ditch, for a moment he can feel himself being lifted up in the air. The explosion sucks all the oxygen from his lungs in one fell swoop. He lands hard on his side, unconscious.

Minutes later his eyelashes begin to flutter. From the corner of his eye, John looks in a daze through the blades of grass. He sees a gray cap with gilded piping a couple of steps away. Thinking is painful. The German officer, yes, now he remembers. A contorted body lies a few meters beyond, smashed against a tree. Between the cap and the corpse are the blood-spattered remains of his map. John is suddenly aware of a total silence; he has been completely deafened by the explosion. The pain begins to pound in his brain like a battering ram. Once again blood oozes from his open skull onto the remains of his neck.

Jesus, no!
John screams without a mouth, without a voice.
Oh God! Let me go!
His body twists and shakes. For many minutes.

 

My head is about to explode. How can I fight off the pain? Swallow, gasp for air, clench a fist. Help me! Isn't there anyone coming this way? Then let me drift away, please! Or die, perhaps?

The pale evening sun reflects off the chalky-white wall of the limestone quarry. The mysterious glow that it casts over Pit 14 is in sharp contrast to the darkening surroundings. The eerily calm trees of the Bois Hugo and Chalk Pit Wood are veiled in the twilight. Silence rules; the void is complete.

John Kipling is quiet now. He draws on the last reserves of his strength. He has never felt so lonely, not even in the dreary dormitory of Saint Aubyns Prep School. He realizes that no one can see him. All hope is lost. As he lies near the pit, he thinks about Celle once again.

 

"
Ne pleures pas,
don't cry,
ma petite,
" John whispers. He has had only two minutes to give Celle the bad news, for her mother is coming around the corner. He wants so very much to comfort the girl.

It is Monday, September 20, 1915. John is spending the whole evening in the company of his host, the mayor of Acquin, and his wife and daughter. His marching orders came this afternoon. Tomorrow they must move up toward the front. Their destination is Linghem, twenty miles to the southeast. Their quarters in the cozy little French village must be evacuated in a hurry. The battalion spent the entire day breaking up camp, packing, and loading up the horse carts.

A carton full of tinned goods has been set on the kitchen table. It is a gift for Celle's family: fish, meat, and fruit, all overstocks that the battalion doesn't want to drag any farther.

Celle's father, an admirer of Rudyard Kipling, is surprised at the sudden departure of the troops. He wants to ask for a favor, and quickly. On the table next to the tins is a pile of Kipling's books in French translation.

"
Mon papa
Mister Kipling is coming to France at the end of the week to report for the newspaper," John says. "To Rheims."

"
Une petite chance
perhaps that he'll corne visit Acquin?" asks the mayor, beaming.

"
Ah non, désolé, monsieur.
He knows that I'm moving. But I'm not allowed to tell Daddo where I'm going."

"Daddo?"

"
Son Père, Papa.
" Celle jumps in to help.

"
Ah, bon,
" says the mayor.

During this whole time the girl has been staring at John with a dreamy look in her eyes. The young man can barely keep his mind on the conversation; the mayor must explain everything two or three times.

"
Ah, mon anglais,
" says the good man, who hardly knows the difference between "yes" and "no." "My English is not that great,
excusez-moi, mon lieutenant.
"

"I often think about my
pauvre maman,
now that the big day is approaching," John lies.

"
Naturellement.
I wish that your papa,
monsieur
Rudyard, was here, lieutenant.
Hélas!
But would you be so good as to write something in my books?
Un souvenir.
"

John can forget about having a little time alone with Celle. The mayor tells him his thoughts about each and every book, droning on and on while John inscribes them. It is growing late. Celle's mother stands up.

"The men are sure to have a lot to discuss," she says. "Come, Marcelle."

There is an awkward silence as John and Celle part with a respectable, but very prolonged, handshake. They can barely get the words "
au revoir
" across their lips.

John spends the entire night on the guest bed, staring at the shadows that are dancing in the lantern light. He waits for Celle, but the steps never creak.

***

The march to the southeast to Linghem via Estrée-Blanche is spread out over two days, much to everyone's relief. Yet the company commander has little compassion for his foot soldiers and devises some drills to compensate for the possible time loss. The men have no idea what the front will be like, and they are worried about the events to come. Will I survive the baptism by fire? Will I be wounded? Where? I must be strong. But still, will it be a bullet, or a piece of shrapnel, or chlorine gas? Not a bayonet, please!

In the meantime the senior officers are driving their Irish Guards to the ends of their patience. The young lieutenants are overwhelmed with orders which they must unwillingly impose on their men.

"Horrible, isn't it?" John exclaims, when the exhausted boys are obliged to perform their shooting maneuvers while wearing a suffocating gas mask.

"I'm not going to contradict you," Rupert says grimly. Twice each soldier must creep and crawl around wearing that heavy canvas cap while shooting off a full load of cartridges.

"They won't be in any condition for the
real
fight later," John says to his friend. He sighs.

"Don't show your displeasure. It's bad for your authority."

"
You
should talk, Rupert!"

 

On the way to the front the troops are provided with more equipment, munitions, and reserve weapons. The junior officers must throw out half their personal belongings, for the horse carts are overloaded.

"
Dear old F
—," John writes to his family on Thursday, September 23.

 

It made my heart bleed to leave a lot of my splendid
kit by the wayside. My finest shirts and underclothes, all my books and magazines, my luxurious toilet kit and my supply of Colgate and shaving powder. Even my Orilux lamp. We are quickly approaching the front line now and will soon be engaged in our first battle. In the meantime send me a really good pair of bedroom slippers (with strong soles). And a toothbrush. I'll let you know what else I need later on.

 

Saturday, September 25, 1915, is a busy day. Muster is sounded at five o'clock in the morning. John Kipling and the Second Battalion Irish Guards leave their quarters in Linghem and join the rest of the brigade ten kilometers away, in Auchy-au-Bois.

Field Marshal Douglas Haig is watching the smoke wafting from his cigarette at that same predawn moment. The wind is okay, or nearly, anyway. The commander of the First British Army Corps makes a bold decision, from the safety of his plush headquarters, far behind the firing line. For the first time he orders British soldiers to use the new weapon, poison gas. The command comes five months after the Germans launched
their
first gas attack north of Ypres, which took thousands of British, French, and Africans by complete surprise and caused them to die in a most gruesome manner. Field Marshal Haig hopes that his use of this suffocating gas will force a decisive breakthrough in northern France.

Eighteen-year-old Lieutenant Kipling doesn't know this as he marches in the direction of Loos, between Arras and Ypres. The wind is unpredictable. The main consequence of Haig's decision is that the British will be sowing death and confusion among their own men. Adding to their failure is the fact that the Germans are far too well prepared for a gas attack and will shell many of the British gas cylinders. Furthermore, it will take hours before all those cylinders can be turned on, because someone brought along the wrong keys. It is a series of blunders of monumental proportions. But John doesn't know any of this. He dreams of heroism in the starring role of his life.

At Loos nine hundred boys in the King's Own Scottish Borderers also dream of their part in that great adventure. Encouraged by the squealing of bagpipes, they set foot on the black plain at Loos on Saturday, as well. Doesn't Field Marshal Haig know that they don't stand a chance, for they won't find cover anywhere? Certainly he has heard about the German underground bunkers, hasn't he? Hasn't he examined the aerial reconnaissance photos, the maps with German trenches and barbed wire notated on them? The Scots are like walking targets as he sends them directly toward the safely hidden machine guns of the enemy. Two men of the nine hundred men will survive. For weeks the open field will be strewn with the bodies of the dead men, their kilts flapping in the wind. Corpses will be hanging all along the barbed wire, too. The Scots of the Black Watch won't fare much better: all their officers will be killed, and more than half their men. And to their horror, the next day the British officers will receive the same orders to attack from the superior army command. Of the ten thousand British troops at Loos, over eight thousand will perish, in less than four hours. And not a single German.

But luckily John Kipling will never know any of this. On that rainy Saturday morning he proceeds with the Irish Guards from Auchy-au-Bois to Burbure. In spite of the overwhelming stress of the past days, John enjoys watching the endless rows of soldiers marching in their ranks behind and in front of him. What kind of enemy could ever take on these boys? "The biggest battle of all time." General Haking's words echo in his head.
Great generals can see into the future,
John muses.
Perhaps a page of history will be written here. Julius Caesar must have felt like this, or Hannibal.
John marches proudly next to his platoon. He gives a pat on the shoulder here, an encouraging word there. This is the real stuff. All his weariness has fallen away.

The situation changes at about ten o'clock. The narrow cobblestone roads become clogged with the bustle of men, animals, and army cars. Hundreds of cavalry rush past John. Marching in orderly rows is all but impossible. There is practically no way to get through the villages. Startled horses slip on the wet
pavés.
John's platoon scatters. A young sergeant falls under his mount and breaks a leg. He lies groaning in the gutter while a group of men tries to catch the snorting mare.

The chaos reaches its peak before noon. Military police must direct traffic at the intersections, with red flags and whistles. Whole companies are being turned away from their frontline destinations. Dark figures in grimy uniforms come hobbling in small groups from the side streets; they don't look like the fresh troops at all. They are returning from the trenches for a break. Usually they are relieved after four days and nights at the front line—if they are still alive. The boys seem as though they are from another world. They have a strange look in their eyes that they try to hide under the dripping-wet visors of their caps. The noise and chaos on the roads doesn't affect them.
Where are their officers,
John wonders.
Don't they have an ounce of respect in the least?
Neighing and shouting resounds on all sides. Carts rattle past. The
clickety-clack
of horseshoes on the paving stones is making the troops crazy. Teamsters curse and brush past the Irish Guards as they drive their skittish horses and stubborn mules toward the front. The route is dotted with manure, stinking garbage, soggy food remnants, and discarded gear. The Irish treat the advancing cavalry to the choicest curse words that their rich Celtic language has to offer.

On the way a courier delivers a telegram from Major General Cavan, who wishes them "God speed" and a "good journey." The nervous boys are now beginning to realize that the great battle has actually begun. What will it look like? The main road becomes even more obstructed by the onrushing vehicles. Ambulances honk as they thread their way through the disorganized crowd. The men are finally getting a taste of the war. The first shocking images pass by scarcely one meter away: farmers' carts stacked with corpses. Sometimes those carts are stalled in traffic. You can touch these bodies; they are real. And they are clad in British uniforms. Rain mixed with blood leaks out of the wagons and runs in red streams onto the cobblestones. The commotion dies down for a little while. Horribly mutilated boys ride in open wagons past the advancing troops, crying fearfully. The spectacle sends shivers down John's wet back. You can actually smell the front now.

 

Quarter to two. Burbure is an ants' nest. The Irish want to pitch their wet tents in the unprepared village. The officers seek accommodations with the citizens, but army quarters are completely full. Everyone is dead tired. Reproaches fly through the air. The men are pushing and pulling and fighting among themselves. The company receives an order to continue to a couple of villages farther on.

After marching feverishly for fifteen hours, the Second Battalion Irish Guards are absolutely soaked when they reach their temporary shelter. It is one o'clock in the morning. Tents, sheds, barns, huts, empty stalls—anything is good enough to house the more than one thousand soldiers, corporals, noncommissioned officers, the horses and mules, and almost thirty officers. The men bed down amid a great deal of moaning and groaning. John and Rupert then drag themselves to the officers' briefing.