War Classics (19 page)

After tea the Hut Lady spoke. ‘You haven't got any paper from the RTO, have you?' she enquired. ‘I don't think they'll let us in to the station without that.'

But I had plenty of courage now. ‘I'll go back to him,' I said firmly. ‘We don't know the time of the train anyway.'

So we strolled back through the little side streets into the Grande Rue. The light was beginning to fade when we went into the cathderal. There were sandbags everywhere and wooden scaffolding to protect the windows. It was all very different from the peacetime cathedral. But through the prevailing grey and dun there shot one streak of splendour. The flag of France, in sudden bursts of scarlet, flamed down either side of the aisle in long array, and behind the high altar two hung crossed with the flags of all the Allies massed round them. The effect of the tricolour flaring out from the sombre background wherever one chanced to look, reminded me of nothing so much as of France with her back to the wall.

It was dark when we came out, but a few lights were glimmering from the blackness of the streets. The shops in the Grande Rue interested me – the few, that is, that were open. It was possible to buy coffee and the tiniest kind of little cakes – no sweets, naturally, or chocolate of any kind. Penny bazaars, or what seemed to correspond to them, were there – only the prices were far above a penny. At length, after a good twenty minutes' walk, we found ourselves near the station again and the RTO's office. The little wooden room was locked, so I presented myself at the wicket in front.

‘Well, little girl, and what is it?' a pleasant-toned voice from the heights greeted me after a minute or two. I must explain that this mode of address was really habitual with strangers. It was the natural thing to call me, for I am small and helpless-looking, and few, if any of them, knew my name. When I looked up, I found what ought to have been Captain Bairnsfather's Old Bill surveying me with a placid and expressionless stare.
2
It was the quaintest face, with an odd Spanish look about the eyes. It went, too, with the frank unconventionality of address – though I had learnt alas! that went with most things.

‘It's about the trains,' I ventured. ‘The RTO said we could go up the line.'

‘Where?' he questioned.

‘To Cambrai,' I said boldly, mentioning the extreme point to which the railway then went.

‘There's nothing to see there,' he pointed out blandly. ‘Who said you might go?'

‘A man with blue tabs,' I said in desperation, ‘blue all over.' He seemed puzzled. ‘He was a big man,' I explained, with patience, ‘with the blue here – ' I pointed to my shoulders, ‘– and blue there, and lots of blue and red …'

‘Yes, yes,' he interrupted hastily. ‘But you'd much better go to Roisel, you know. There's nothing to see at Cambrai.' I looked blank. ‘There are two officers going to Roisel tomorrow by the 8 a.m. train,' he said with determination. ‘I'll tell them to look after you. Corporal, make out two passes for these ladies to Roisel.'

‘Oh thank you,' I murmured through the wicket, ‘and what do we see there?'

‘Devastation – lots of it,' he replied tersely. ‘That's what you want, isn't it?'

Old Bill's eyes met mine – his were blank and fathomless. I returned his gaze. ‘That's what I want,' I said gravely, after a minute.

In the darkening, down the long Grande Rue and through the twisting side streets, we made our way back to the officers' hostel. The officers were at dinner. In the empty sitting room, I studied the map on the wall – it was the first one I had been able to see in France as the shops were forbidden to sell maps of war areas. Yes – tomorrow we would penetrate deep into the heart of the devastated zone. I turned away with a sigh – bed seemed very good. The orderly, with perspiring brow and an array of plates, was bustling through the sitting room. He stopped by me. ‘If you gives me your 'ot water bottle, Miss, – I sees it in yer room – I could give you some 'ot water when it comes to washin' up.'

‘Oh, could you really?' I said in relieved surprise. ‘I'm going to bed straight away, you know.' I felt too sleepy to stand. Never before had I thought it would be possible for me to sleep without a bottle. This indeed was bliss.

‘That's all right, Miss,' he went on. ‘I'll knock at the door and leave it, when it's ready.'

The window in my little room was so high up that I could see nothing but a few chimneys and the sky. But I looked longingly at the warm grey Army blankets – that were minus sheets. The clean white English pillowcase daintily laid over the ample pillow, reminded me of my country even more effectively than her orderly did. And tomorrow, oh! tomorrow, I thought, as I laid my tired body with rapture on my bed, tomorrow I shall see where my brothers have been and all the things they've never told me of these weary years.

There was a sharp rap at the door, and I had my bottle. I remember thinking, as I fell asleep, that sheets were a mistake.

1
.  The 51st (Highland) Division served with distinction in the major battles of the Somme, Arras and Cambrai. Many Caithness men served as part of this division, particularly in the 5th Seaforth Highlanders, the territorial battalion of Caithness and Sutherland. No doubt Christina had particular friends and relatives from home in mind. Her brothers were not part of the 51st (Highland) Division – Barrogill was in the Scottish Rifles, William in the Navy, and Edward was too young to serve.

2
.  Captain Bairnsfather (1887–1959), a British cartoonist, created the character of ‘Old Bill', a British soldier in the trenches. The cartoons were published in the popular weekly magazine
The Bystander
.

I
t was quite dark next morning when I became aware of a persistent and violent knocking at my door. The orderly was used to rousing officers of the British Army, and with the patience acquired in that art, was proceeding to arouse me. After a minute or so, I realised what he was saying. ‘Six o’clock, Miss, an’ ’ere’s your ’ot water,’ and then he began again. I felt that I should associate him with hot water and with six o’clock till my dying day – but it was effective. I got up and cheerfully told him so – otherwise, though he would not have come in, he would have continued to chant.

Once up I began to feel excited. This was the Day. But, first I had to dress. All went well till it came to doing my hair. Then, I stood on my suitcase and endeavoured to get my head within range of the small, square glass. But then the candle would not shine on the glass. And it is impossible to do one’s hair with one hand and hold the candle with the other. So I gave it up and using both hands I did my hair, as the children say, from memory. Then I collected our provisions – eggs and chocolates and bread – which were to do us for the day – and went down to breakfast.

‘Did you sleep at all?’ said the Hut Lady plaintively. ‘I couldn’t – not without sheets.’

‘Like a top,’ I said firmly. ‘Oh, what a nice breakfast.’ It was being served by candlelight at a plain wooden table. There was more white bread – English and lots of it – jam and butter, and bacon and a real brown teapot. So English was it all that I looked involuntarily for someone with a newspaper on the opposite side. And sure enough, behind the
Daily Mail
, there sat an officer calmly and stolidly partaking of his breakfast. He lowered the
Mail
, however, at our approach – a tribute which France never failed to wring from the British Army.

The Hut Lady poured out her tea. ‘Really, Tiny,’ she said unexpectedly, ‘you do your hair very much better when there’s no glass than when there is.’ I shall not add here the Army brother’s remarks about its condition ‘when there is’.

The officer was not very communicative, but when we rose to go he turned to me. ‘Going up the line, aren’t you?’ he said, as if he knew all about it. ‘I will see you on the train.’

It was still dark when we left the Rest Club – the Hut Lady with the bread under her arm, I with the rest of our provisions in a parcel. We also carried our trench coats, in case we had to sleep in them. Not a soul seemed to be astir. Through the many by-streets we found our way easily enough to the cathedral, but which of the many streets from there led to the station, puzzled us. With the aid of a candle and match, we endeavoured to read the names of the streets, so as to find one familiar. It was in vain. The candlelight would not reach to the name. The candle flickered and went out. Eventually we chose one and after many minutes, came upon a solitary pedestrian – rather like a nightbird. ‘Oh, but we were much out of the way! Back, back!’ he waved us. ‘Back to the cathedral.’ And he vanished down an alley. Anxiously we retraced our steps until the vast form of the cathedral loomed again before us. I looked at my watch. It was very nearly half past seven and our train – the only one – left at eight. We had been warned to be there early.

Round and round the cathedral we went, looking for landmarks or a guide. Neither was forthcoming. As last, down one of the side streets, I spied a man and woman hurrying along, the man carrying a suitcase. I called to them, but they either did not hear, or at any rate did not answer. In a moment they would be out of sight.

‘Come along,’ I said to the Hut Lady, ‘let’s run after them.’

‘Heavens! What on earth for?’ she enquired naturally enough, but I was already running and she followed. Presently we were within shouting distance. They were rapidly threading their way round corner after corner, avoiding the main streets and chattering rapidly and anxiously to each other. It appeared to concern them little or nothing that they were being hotly pursued by a pair of shouting foreigners, for they never once turned their heads in our direction.

At last I gasped out, ‘
S’il vous plâit
,
monsieur
,
où est la gare
?’ [‘Please, monsieur, where is the station?’]

‘
Suivez
,
suivez toujours
,’ [‘Follow, keep following’] he called out hurriedly, without turning round, and resumed his conversation with his companion. Anyone watching us would assuredly have considered – and small blame to him – that here were a band of fugitives making their way with all possible speed from the clutches of justice. At last we suddenly turned the corner, and the man in front for the first time turned his head, beckoned with a sweep of the wrist in the opposite direction and then vanished quickly with his companion behind a large block of buildings. The direction of his hand took us to an open square and there beneath us lay the station.

But there was still the dragon at the
guichet
to be braved. I presented the RTO’s pass and in a firm voice asked for ‘
deux premiers militaires à Roisel
,
s’il vous plâit
,
monsieur
’. [‘two first-class military tickets to Roisel, please, monsieur’.]

Monsieur, from behind the wicket, growled out, ‘
Pas militaires – civils
.’ [‘Not military – civilians.’]

‘
Non
,
non
,’ I retorted sweetly, ‘
militaires
,
monsieur. Monsier le RTO l’a dit
.’ [‘No, no, … military, monsiuer. The Railway Transport Officer said so.’]

Monsieur was disposed to argue. The Hut Lady, who had now regained her breath and was standing behind me, called out, ‘Oh, never mind the tickets, Tiny. We’ve only three minutes to catch the train. Come away.’ But I am not Scotch for nothing, and I was not going to pay anybody four times as much as I need – which represented the difference between the civil and military ticket. So I whipped out my passport, with its magical ‘
permis rouge
’ enclosed.

‘
Regardez
,
monsieur
,’ I began affably, ‘
nous n’avons que trois minutes pour attraper le train. Mais regardez
,
c’est écrit ici que nous devons aller
.’ [‘Look, monsieur, … we have only three minutes to catch the train. And look, it’s written here that we must go.’] This was sheer bluff and it was also my last card. He had only to look at the very official-looking ‘
permis rouge
’ to see that nothing of the sort was written there. I suppose I ought to have been ashamed of this statement – as of many another thing I did in France, but then and now I was unable to feel any shame for it. The French ‘did’ us so thoroughly in most things that I felt quite justified in getting a little of my own back. Also, if the RTO said we were ‘
militaires
’ it was for no petty French official to say we were not. This time he just glanced at the ‘
permis rouge
’, banged out the tickets, and we dashed for the platform.

It was a military train and the guard had already signalled for it to depart. But an English officer was still standing on the platform, with his carriage door open, though the train had begun to move. We were flying past him, when he suddenly caught me by the arm. ‘Going up the line aren’t you?’ he said amicably. ‘We thought you were going to lose your train. Here are your seats.’

Almost head first we entered what seemed an already crowded carriage. Someone took my parcel from me, someone else my trench coat, and I realised that my hair was falling in vast confusion over my shoulders. My face must have been peach coloured and my breath was coming in short, quick gasps. I never am any good at running. The Hut Lady opposite me sat immaculate but breathless. My friend who had pushed me into the carriage, was seated beside me – in leisurely fashion inspecting me. Four other officers were doing the same, two languidly and with some amusement in the far corner of the carriage; the two others with more matter-of-fact attention. I had given up apologising for abrupt entrances into railway carriages since I came to France. Nothing else seemed to have been my fate since the days when the Corporal at Rouen had flung me into the Dieppe train. So I endured the stares until my breath came back and then, because I must, took off my hat. The Hut Lady engaged two of the officers in conversation while I hastily, but quite composedly, did my hair.