Love and the Loveless (34 page)

“Are you British soldiers, or are you hooligans?”

“Now, General, we have nothing against you personally. We’ve been doing the fighting so far, and now it’s over. We can all go home, if you sign the orders. I’ve told you—the war’s over!”

More men were now pressing around the car. The two M.P.’s in front sat still. The look on their faces, Phillip thought, was put on to give the impression that they were with the mob. The A.P.M. sat as though indifferently in the back. A man said, “How’d you like a stretch, copper? We know all about you. Why don’t you go ’ome and do some more scalpin’ among the Red Indians? G’rrt, you bleedin’ bully, you!”

The Assistant Provost Marshal was said to have served before the war in the North West Canadian Mounted Police. With his horn-rimmed spectacles he was hauled out of the motorcar and rolled in the dirt of the road. Meantime the driver and his mate looked straight to their front.

*

When Phillip got back to camp the order had come that all ammunition was to be collected and returned to the Ordnance Depot. He was in charge of No 3 Company and, changing his tunic, went at once to see his second-in-command, whom he heard, as he entered the door of a hut, saying, “My orders are that any man objecting is to be made a prisoner.”

“Suits us, sir,” replied an old soldier. The second-in-command, a new officer, was about to reply sharply when Phillip said, “Less to carry on a route march!”

“Yes, sir.”

Cartridge clips were collected in mess tins. When this was done, the old soldier remarked to Phillip, “I never in my born days bin so insulted, sir, not to be trusted wiv me rounds! Why, sir, I got ’em off twenty to a minute wi’ me rig’m’nt las’ day October fourteen, no one didn’t need to take’m off’v me ven!”

“Who were you with?”

“Worcesters, sir!”

“Then you helped to save Ypres! Good for you.”

Traill said that the G.O.C. had telephoned to Montreuil to report that he was unable to depend on any unit for fire orders. There was a pause, then the padre said, “To be fair to our boys, Major, I think we ought not to rule out that there are Bolshevist agitators among the men, trying to stir up trouble.”

“What, Russians in France, padre?”

“Oh yes. I was down on the Aisne front last April, visiting
some friends, and three Russian brigades were there. One was a Kerensky brigade, and the other two real Bolshies. All three were in Nivelle’s disastrous offensive, and were the first to start trouble immediately afterwards. They refused to go into the trenches, and in fact did as they pleased; for there were no reliable French troops to quell them. In fact, it was said at the time that fifty French divisions were affected, or should I say, infected.”

“We heard in May, I was down south then, in front of the Hindenburg Line, padre, that two army corps set out to march upon Paris.”

“Oh yes, they did. It was common knowledge. The whole countryside was filled with roaming soldiers. Even German prisoners who had escaped were not apprehended. In fact, some got back to the German lines. Why the Germans didn’t advance, I can’t imagine. They would have got to Paris, with nothing to stop them.”

“Exactly! That’s why the attacks in the Salient never let-up, to draw the German reserves!” exclaimed Phillip. “Why didn’t they let our fellows know? It would have made all the difference. I was in First Ypres, and we all knew the risks, and that’s what held the old army together. Officers and men had a wonderful friendship, no saluting, no shaving, General Sir John French, as he was then, right up the Menin road, walking on foot, passing howitzers coming down, Haig right up there, too, I saw him myself! Lord Roberts died of pneumonia at the end of the battle and I know for a fact that many of the old sweats were very sad about it. ‘Bobs’, they called him, ‘little ole Bobs’.”

“It’s a different army now,” said Traill. “Some of the men here are new out from home, combed-out conscripts who have been in munitions since the beginning of the war, getting high wages. Now they don’t like the idea of a bob a day.”

“But do you really think this show here is organised, Major?”

“I only know that similar uprisings have been reported from Calais, Havre, Rouen, and Dunkerque.”

“Yes, it does look as though there’s some sort of organisation behind it, as the padre said. At the same time, the men, all mixed up like this, have been virtually prisoners, lacking all
esprit
de
corps.
They have been treated as cattle by bad drovers who are afraid of them. The General said this morning to a crowd in the Place, ‘Are you British soldiers, or are you hooligans?’ The answer is that they are not British soldiers. They are hooligans, because they have not been properly led. Why, what
little hope or pride they may have had, has been destroyed by being mixed up, and then sent off to any regiment, any strange crowd! I don’t blame the men, I blame the system!”

“I agree,” said Traill. “In fact, I find it hard to have any enthusiasm for my job here. I’ve asked several times to be allowed to go back to my regiment, but unfortunately the medical board won’t raise my category above B2. So I’m stuck. I was hit at the Butte de Warlincourt,” he went on. “It was pretty grim there, but from all I hear it’s worse in the Salient. Many of the chaps we’ve got coming in now were only slightly wounded on July the thirty-first, but they aren’t like the wounded coming back from the Somme.”

“Yes, there’s been a change since the Somme,” said the padre. “A very noticeable change, I should say. You spoke just now about cattle being driven, Maddison. Oddly enough, when I see the trains coming in, it recalls to me the sight of Irish cattle boats docking at Liverpool before the war, what with the mud, and other things. The night bombing hasn’t improved matters, either. Why the authorities put the hospitals alongside the railway, I cannot imagine.”

*

Late at night a detachment of troops arrived from G.H.Q. Montreuil. They were said to be guardsmen, but turned out to be London territorials. They bivouac’d beside the river, having first set up Lewis guns pointing up the rue du Pont.

“Wrong place, mate! Try up the Menin road! Jerry’s waiting, don’t disappoint ’im!” These and other good-natured taunts were shouted.

*

Later, other detachments of the Manchesters and Royal Welch Fusiliers arrived by train, some with white mud on them, as though they had come from the Arras front. Pickets were marched through the streets of the town. The H.A.C., having removed their greatcoats, began to wield picks, with which they prised up cobble-stones, and the packed earth underneath, for trenches. Hundreds of idlers watched, and shouted witticisms.

“Wrong army, aren’t you, mates, in them Jerry coats?”

“Saturday afternoon soldiers!”

“Cor, what a bleedin’ waste o’ man power!”

“Write to
John
Bull
about it!”

“Brought yer boats, and little old bucket and spade, dears?”

The idea was soon seen: they were entrenching to form a
bridge-head. Rumour said that their commander had an order written by Haig himself, to open fire if necessary.

At an estaminet in the Boulevard Billiet on the river-front, while Phillip was listening to the talk, most of it shouted, he recognised across the room the face of Tom Ching and at once felt alarm. He got back behind others. Ching’s face was redder than he had ever seen it, but the thick lips, outstanding ears and rounded forehead were unmistakable. Yes, the brass shoulder numerals read
Artists
Rifles.
If Ching spotted him, it might be awkward, so he got up to go out. At the same moment Ching saw him and his mouth opened, then he cried out, “Hullo, Phillip! It’s me, Ching!” Phillip at once turned to get away. While he was crossing the room Ching called out, “Hi, Phillip! Wait for me! What’s the matter? I’ve got something to tell you! Hi, Phillip!” Inwardly cursing the persistent Ching, who never had known when he wasn’t wanted, Phillip was stopped by a wedge of soldiers coming in the door. Ching writhed his way forward. “You are Phillip Maddison, aren’t you?”

“Go away!”

“But what’s happened? Have you lost your commission?”

“Oh, do be quiet!”

“But, Phillip, I’m your pal——”

“Go to hell!”

Several looks were coming his way. He got to the door, pushed his way through, and ran down beside the river, then up another street. If he were caught, they’d throw him in the water and let him drown. Curse Ching, why the hell was he always so awkward and everlastingly saying and doing the wrong thing? Thank God he had got away in time.

What could he report? He could only say that from what he had heard it did not appear to have been a planned uprising, but a spontaneous break-down among the men recovered from wounds, and due to go back up the line without leave; in some cases, after fourteen months’ continuous fighting since the Somme. What was the Staff about not to
know
this? What had anyone below the rank of captain in the infantry to live for, if there was no leave? Had the Adjutant General’s staff at G.H.Q. absolutely
no
idea of how the men
really
felt? Did they think they thought as they themselves thought? The ruling classes had ruling ideas, because they were on top and had a secure way of living, based on money. What could the high-ups know of the deep, almost hopeless suffering from winter weather and poor food? As young
officers they had been in little
fracas
like the North-West Frontier, Egypt, Sudan, and the Boer War. They were, literally, picnics, especially for the cavalry. Joy of battle taking them by the throat and making them blind, yes, that had been the feeling, from unbroken reserves of
élan
vital
and
joie
de
vivre,
before the look in the eyes became remote, before the legs dragged mile upon mile to nowhere through the watery crater-zones. Had
nobody
told Haig? Was his world, the world of the great and rich, so utterly removed from the lives of the poor?

He felt deathly pale. There was no harm in all these poor devils mooching about. They thought they were sticking by their pals. Would it happen with them, as in the French regiments which had mutinied? One man in every ten selected at random, to be marched away and shelled in a cordon’d-off area,
pour
encourager
les
autres.
Encouragement
—a bitter, bitter jest! If only ‘Spectre’ West could speak to Haig. Haig would listen to him. But would he? Rawlinson, the Boar’s Head, wouldn’t listen before July the First. No, the best thing was to be killed, and the sooner the better.

He could not sleep, and saw the dawn without hope through the open flap of his tent.

*

After an early breakfast he was down again to the river-side, hoping to God that he wouldn’t run across Ching again. How had the men fed themselves? He asked one man. He hadn’t. So they’d be starved into submission! He felt a little sad about it; but put aside the thought as he followed the crowd of whistling, singing men from the Place down the rue du Pont to the bridgehead. There stood a tin-hatted subaltern, holster flap open. He had a clean-shaven rather full face, and looked around with almost theatrical unconcern.

“Where’s yer moustache, Harry Tate?” cried a voice. “‘Why won’t the car go, Papa?’”

The crowd laughed.

“Come on, David Devant! Show us yer first trick! Where’s old Chung Ling Soo?”

More laughter at the mention of well-known music-hall stars.

The subaltern drew his revolver, on a blanco’d lanyard, from the holster. Ironical cheers arose.

“Oo’d’jer think you are, Percy? Broncho Bill?”

“You wait till Broncho Bill sees yer! ’E’ll give you pistol, you naughty boy!”

“Mind it don’t go off, Percy! It might break yer wrist!”

“I’ll shoot the first man dead who advances! And my Lewis guns will open fire at the sound of the shot.”

He raised his hand. Helmet’d heads popped up out of holes in the
pavé,
waterproof capes were whisked off Lewis guns. The sight of the black tubular bodies was ugly and cruel. Cries of anger and disgust arose. A shrill voice from the rear shouted, “Chuck ’im in the river!” To which a deeper voice from a lance-corporal in front replied, as he turned away, “No! They ain’t worth it!” The crowd thinned as little groups of men wandered off.

Pickets, armed with entrenching tool handles and tin hats, searched the estaminets. Drunks were arrested. A few were rescued but the anger had gone out of the protest, for that was all it was, Phillip told Traill.

“You know, Major, in spite of what the Padre said last night, I can’t see that this is a planned job. There’s no real organisation behind it. Surely, if there had been, the ring-leaders would have known enough to arrange beforehand to have special squads ready and prepared to seize the key points, such as the arms depot, the A.S.C. dumps of food, the water-supplies, and above all the telephone exchanges? It’s a sort of inevitable protest which one heard everywhere up in the Salient after the sixteenth of August when the second main attack from the Black Line failed—most of them ‘back to the starting tapes’.”

“Yes, there was remarkable unanimity in the letters of the wounded—both the Padre and I had to do a lot of censoring, you know. Again and again the phrase cropped up—‘It s been murder this time’.”

The telephone bell rang. Traill listened; and putting down the receiver said, “Hospital nurses going on duty are reported to have been pushed off their bikes. That’s serious! The order has just come to hold the prisoners in the Field Punishment Compound at all costs. There’s been a raid there, and some of Broncho Bill’s pals have got him away. Five hundred men with machine guns and a searchlight are on the way. All officers are to stand by, with all equipment including revolvers, to act under my orders. The men remaining in camp will be confined to their huts. Sentries will be posted, but without ball, and no bayonets are to be fixed. This is to minimise provocation.”

When the new troops marched in, squads were told off to mount guns, dig pits, and put wire around the prisoners’ block.
The searchlight and generating lorry were put on a flank, to sweep light in front of the first line of cells wherein men, sentenced to be taken up the line to be shot in their corps’ areas, sat in solitary and narrow confinement. Rolls of concertina wire were pulled out, to complete the strong-point.