The Horizon (1993) (28 page)

He had certainly felt a sense of pride when the battalion had paraded in the early morning, ready to march the twenty-two miles to Southampton. They had looked fit, and some of them were obviously glad that the waiting was over.

I was like that before the Dardanelles.

The Royal Marine Artillery detachment had also left, but had taken the easier road in lorries supplied by the army. With any luck they would eventually be united with the promised howitzers when they reached France.

‘But you look far too young to be a captain!’ The girl named Hermione had been all over him at that last party at the Savoy.

He smiled, the strain dropping away from his face as he remembered her passionate kisses, the warm pressure of her body.

Maybe he was too young for his rank. Maybe they all
were. That was the thing about advanced promotion, his and everyone else’s for that matter. If the war ended tomorrow they would probably drop back to their original ranks. It happened often enough.

But the war was not going to end tomorrow; and although there had been comparative stalemate on the Western Front the French army was now ready to advance, with only the victory at Verdun recalled by thousands of conscripted soldiers, and not the chaos and disgrace which had followed it.

He stretched his arms, and winced. The wound still throbbed occasionally, but he had almost forgotten the intensity of the pain throughout his journey home on the hospital ship. Now it felt more like an old bruise after being kicked. That last fight was clearly fixed in his memory, however, with Blackwood’s face as he had helped drag him to safety always there.

Now they were together again, this time not by accident, but because of the new battalion.

He smiled again, recalling their discussion regarding extra marines. He had said, ‘No need, sir. We have all the men we asked for, everyone a volunteer.’

Why should he be surprised, he wondered. Even that slovenly hulk Bert Langmaid was with them. For good or ill, he was still not certain.

This time tomorrow there would be another battalion in their place, one which had been unlucky on the Western Front. Their numbers had been reduced by sixty per cent in one savage advance. Here they would be stiffened with new recruits, put together once more, and then maybe sent back.

So many came here, and to places like this: regulars, territorials, volunteers, yeomanry, and now the conscripts.

He allowed his mind to drift into more pleasant memories of the girl Hermione. He was sure his mother and father would approve.

A shadow fell across the tent flap and his friend, Lieutenant John Maxted, who commanded the H.Q. platoon and would be one of the last to leave, came in.

‘Are you busy, Chris?’

Wyke waved him to the one remaining chair. ‘Take a pew.’ Maxted was a funny chap, he thought, always calling him sir after his advanced promotion to captain, until he’d explained that it was only necessary to behave with such formality when duty required, or, as he had put it, laughing, ‘When you’re dealing with someone you really can’t stand!’ He said now, ‘Ready to leave, John?’

Maxted tugged at his Sam Browne. ‘I suppose so. Won’t be sorry to quit this place.’

Wyke took out a silver cigarette case and offered him one. He even managed to do that elegantly, Maxted thought sourly. Nothing seemed to dampen his confidence. The family name, he supposed, like Blackwood’s heritage of courage and honour under fire.

If only . . .

Wyke tapped his cigarette on the case with studied ease, but he had guessed something was wrong. Maxted had proved his worth in the field, and had done a lot to encourage some of the greener subalterns who had joined the new battalion. He was a decent fellow, reliable too. It had to be said that John Maxted did not have
enough imagination to be afraid; so what was the matter with him?

‘Something up, old son?’

Maxted stared past him. What would Wyke say if he told him? Perhaps it was really Wyke’s fault, always talking about that other life of girls and champagne, and restaurants of which he himself had never heard.

She had laughed at him when he had admitted he had never had a woman before, but it had been too late even then. He had had opportunities, some of which he had not even recognised. But the fear of doing the dis-honourable thing, and getting a girl ‘into trouble’ as his mother would have termed it, had always dissuaded him.

This girl had changed all that. It had been unplanned: a wild, uncontrollable passion. At first he had been shy until she had started to slip out of her clothes, then something like fire had seemed to consume him while she had guided and coaxed him into intercourse.

She had said afterwards, ‘You’ll be better next time.’

He realised that Wyke had asked him something. ‘Just wondering about France.’

It sounded so lame that Wyke said gently, ‘If you ever want to discuss anything, off the record so to speak, old son . . .’ He saw his friend’s doubt and anxiety. ‘I’ll never forget what you did for me.’

The shutters came down behind Maxted’s eyes. He had thought it a mere irritation when he had first become aware of the soreness. There was some pain now, and it was not going to disappear. One night he had had to stuff the corner of his blanket in his mouth to stifle his sobs of
anguish and despair. She must have known she had been diseased.

A corporal bobbed his head through the flap.

‘Colonel’s comin’, sir.’

‘Thanks.’ Wyke waited for the man to leave. ‘Chin up, John – we’re going to need all our wits before long.’

He was still puzzling over it when Lieutenant-Colonel Blackwood entered the tent. He looked around with an indefinable air of finality, like someone saying goodbye.

‘Maxted all right, Christopher? Seemed a bit fed up, I thought.’

He seated himself in Maxted’s vacated chair and crossed his legs. Wyke always noticed how he tried to hold his back clear of anything rough or uneven. It must have been hell for him.

‘Nerves, I expect, Colonel.’

‘They’ve given me a motor car.’ It seemed to amuse him. ‘My M.O.A. is furious. He can do most things but driving isn’t one of them!’ He smiled, but there was a trace of something else in it, some unhappiness. ‘I’d like you to ride with me. Should be quite a pleasant drive.’

So that was it, Wyke thought. He didn’t want to go back to it; but he knew he couldn’t stay behind.

The corporal reappeared. ‘H.Q. platoon ready to move out, sir.’

Wyke stood up. ‘I’ll see them off, sir. We’ll meet up at Southampton. At least I’ll be arriving there in style!’

Jonathan heard the car pull up nearby, the sudden stamp of boots as the last of the battalion began to march out. An N.C.O. bawled, ‘Sling yer bund ’ooks! March at
ease!’ and he tried to remember the man’s name. It seemed necessary, although he had served with plenty of officers who had never bothered to remember anybody.

She might have got his letter by now. He tried to recall each part of it, from the moment when she had found him sitting by the path. Their path. Smiling at him over the old stile. Friends . . .

What might she think? Most likely regret what she had told him, unwilling to become involved with someone she would never see again . . .

‘Oh, God!’ He thought of the Scotch Payne had packed, and suddenly needed it.
What is the matter with me?

‘Is the colonel in there?’

He stood up, angry and ashamed. It was probably the driver.

He heard someone answer, ‘Yeh, mate, inside.’

A burly military policeman blocked the entrance. ‘Beg pardon, sir.

‘What is it, Corporal?’

‘Didn’t want to disturb you, sir, seein’ as you’re leavin’ soon . . .’

He waited. New orders? A despatch from headquarters?

The redcap answered awkwardly, ‘I didn’t think you’d allow it, sir, but there’s a young lady at the perimeter fence. Says she wants to see you.’ He added doubtfully, ‘I can easily get rid of ’er if you like.’

‘No, I’ll come at once.’ He walked out into the sunshine where Wyke was standing admiring the car and watching his gear being packed into it.

She was by the guard hut, her hand shading her eyes while the long chestnut hair ruffled in the warm breeze. The redcaps stared from their little hut but Wyke, with rather more sensitivity, took one look and then turned towards the car as if he were afraid of disturbing them.

She said, ‘An ambulance gave me a ride.’

‘But how will you get back? What will people think?’ Empty, meaningless questions. ‘You came all this way!’

‘I shall be all right. I’ll manage.’

He wanted to hold her, press his face into her hair, tell her everything. The next moment they were walking together, across the hard-packed earth which had been stripped of grass and pounded flat by many thousands of marching feet. She slipped her arm through his.

‘I couldn’t just let you go without seeing you. I got a train to Salisbury. There were lots of army ambulances there. I – I brought your letter with me.’ She looked up at him, her eyes very clear and bright. ‘It was a beautiful letter.’

‘It’s all true.’ He hesitated. ‘Alex . . . I’ve never met anyone like you before. Never wanted anybody the way I want you. Perhaps it’s as well we’re leaving when we are.’

He felt her fingers tighten on his arm as she said, ‘I saw some of your men marching along the road just now. They looked fine.’ She did not repeat what the ambulance driver had said to his stretcher-bearers.
Poor sods. More bloody cannon fodder!

She said, ‘And I have never met a man like you. I was a fool to behave the way I did. And now we are being parted.’ She shivered but there were no tears. ‘Write to me when you can. I’ll write too.’

Another car was driving in past the guard hut. Officers: the first of the incoming battalion.

Jonathan turned her in his arms. ‘Don’t forget me, Alex.’

I must go
. He had seen men break down at times like this, but he had never before known how easily it could happen. ‘Do something for me, will you?’ She nodded, her hair partly hiding her face. ‘Take that walk again. I’ll be with you, even if you can’t see me.’

He lowered his mouth to her cheek but she turned slightly, so that their lips brushed, and then sought one another’s.

She said in a small voice, ‘I haven’t had much practice, I’m afraid.’ Then she touched her cheek as he stepped away from her, and walked towards the waiting car.

Only after he had gone did she realise that the tears on her face were not her own, but his.

After all the urgency, the battalion’s arrival in Southampton was something of an anti-climax. Nobody seemed to know what to do with the marines, and out of desperation Jonathan Blackwood decided to contact the Royal Navy directly and without persisting in the accepted channels. As he later explained to Wyke and his second-in-command, Major Ralph Vaughan, the delays were caused by suspected enemy mine-laying in the Channel off Boulogne, the favoured crossing point for troops to France. The naval operations officer had speculated that the Royal Marines would be sent on a longer but probably safer route to Le Havre.

Vaughan muttered, ‘Bloody bad organisation, that’s what it is.’ He was a burly, aggressive officer whose face had been badly battered in the boxing ring, where he had represented the Corps in many inter-service contests, and he was greatly respected for his qualities as a leader. The marines admired him, and were wary of his hot
temper. He went on, ‘Didn’t do all that damned training to end up on the bottom of the Channel, what?’

The battalion, the Fifty-First as it was now officially titled, had settled in where it could: in the loading sheds of the docks, in empty railway waggons, even in makeshift tents, and queues formed throughout the days at the mobile kitchens where men consumed bully beef, sausages and baked beans by the hundredweight. They grumbled about the food, but not too much. Every man knew he was receiving a larger ration than any civilian could hope for.

While his officers tried to keep the marines occupied and out of trouble, Jonathan had attempted to discover the true situation on the Western Front. The news for public consumption was optimistic. A rising star in the French army, a general named Nivelle, had the solution to the bloody and costly stalemate. There was to be a further Big Push, in which all of the French army’s divisions on the Western Front would participate. The enemy’s front line would collapse, and the others would soon follow suit.

But after the promises at Gallipoli and a similar brand of optimism from the G.O.C. there, Jonathan was doubtful. He recalled, too, Loftus’s frankness concerning the Verdun mutinies.

As he went about his daily rounds and visited the navy over the water at Portsmouth, Alexandra Pitcairn had been much in his thoughts. He had written to her, very conscious of the strict censorship and the eyes that would read every word, and even dared to hope that he might be able to see her again before the Fifty-First was eventually ordered to France.

At the end of April he was surprised to receive a summons to Portsmouth, where he found Major-General Sir Herbert Loftus waiting at the commodore’s house in the dockyard.

They shook hands gravely. ‘Better meet here, I thought. If they saw me at Eastney or somewhere it would hardly take a genius to put two and two together.’ Loftus seemed on edge, his mind elsewhere. Then quite suddenly he said, ‘This is strictly confidential – secret, if you like.’ His blue eyes fixed coldly on Jonathan. ‘Later on, you can use your own discretion.’

He already knew; it was like an icy hand closing around his heart.

Loftus said directly, ‘I think you’ve anticipated me, Blackwood. The French attack has completely failed, and there is a real mutiny this time. Can’t say I blame them, but it leaves us right in the dung-heap. You will embark your people this evening. There will be escorts available – the C-in-C Home Fleet has promised that at least. I am informed that Sir Douglas Haig’s original plan to relieve the pressure on the French is to be executed, but remember, Blackwood: your battalion is to take a
supporting role only
, at least until my whole division can be properly deployed.’