Death of a Hero (48 page)

The night before he left, the runners and officers' servants got rum and beer and champagne and made him drink with them. They exhorted him not to forget his old pals, and not to be a swine to his men when he was an officer. He promised, regretting all the time the subtle difference which was already dividing him from them. “Fancy ‘avin' to salute old George!” said one of them. Fancy indeed! He wished so much he had stayed with them. He drank a good deal, and for the first time in his life went to bed tight.

He got to Rail Head just before eight, hot and perspiring from a rapid walk in full kit under a July sun. An immense drum-fire was thundering from the north. The Division was under orders to proceed there in two days. There was to be another great offensive at Ypres. He shuddered, thinking of the showers of bursting metal, flogging and
churning the ground, shearing and rending human flesh; the immense concourse of detonations hammering on human nerves.

The R.T.O. gave him directions and he got into a waiting train. It was empty, except for a small group of leave men at the other end. Glad of a little solitude, he did not join them.

The German heavies gave him a last amiable farewell. They began dropping shells on Rail Head. That sickening apprehension of the explosion came on him, and he felt sure that a shell would fall on his carriage before the train left. He fought the apprehension savagely, as if the only thing he wanted to do in life was to repress his fear reflex. The shells came over, one at a time, at regular intervals of a minute. He listened for them, sweating, and gripping his rifle. Either let the train start or get it over. The train waited interminably. ZwiilNG, CRASH! to the right; ZwiilNG, CRASH! to the left; ZwiilNG, CRASH! to the right; ZwiilNG, CRASH! to the left. He sat there alone for thirty-five minutes – thirty-five ZwiilNG, CRASH! It was somehow more awful than drum-fire, a more penetrating torture.

At last the train started and puffed slowly out of the station. Winterbourne sat quite still, listening to the crashes growing fainter and fainter as the train gathered speed. At last they disappeared altogether in the rattle of wheels. In place of the long, slow crawl coming up, the train clattered along at great speed. He passed undamaged stations, thronged with French peasants, French soldiers on leave, and British troops; he saw the lovely Corot poplars and willows shimmering in the sun as they wavered in the light breeze; there were cows in the fields, and he noticed yellow iris in the wet ditches, and tall, white hog's-parsley. A field of red clover and white daisies made him think of the old days at Martin's Point. An immense effort of imagination was needed to link himself now with himself then. He looked almost with curiosity at his familiar khaki and rifle – so strange that ten years later that boy should be a soldier. Then he noticed that he had forgotten to sheath his bayonet. It had been fixed so long that he had to wrench it off. There was a little ring of rust round the bayonet boss. He got out his oily rag and anxiously cleaned it. The bayonet sheath was so full of dried mud that he had to clean that too.

At Boulogne he sent a telegram to Elizabeth. The R.T.O. told him to leave all his kit on the quay, and to take only his personal belongings. He slipped off his equipment and laid his rifle beside his dinted helmet, feeling as if he were carrying out some strange valedictory rite. He went
on board ship, holding his razor, soap, tooth-brush, comb, and some letters, wrapped in a clean khaki handkerchief. He managed to scrounge a haversack and strap on board.

The troop train from Folkestone to London was filled with leave men and others returned from France. As the train puffed up to the junction, the men crowded to the windows. Girls and women walking in the parallel street, standing in the doorways, leaning out the window, waved pocket-handkerchiefs, cheered shrilly, and threw them kisses. The excited men waved and shouted to them. Winterbourne was amazed at the beauty, the almost angelic beauty, of women. He had not seen a woman for seven months.

It was dark when they got to Victoria, but the station was brilliantly lighted. A long barrier separated a crowd from the soldiers, who thronged out at one end. Here and there a woman threw her arms about the neck of a soldier in a close embrace which at least at that moment was sincere. The women's shoulders trembled with their sobs; the men stood very still, holding them close a moment, and then drew them away. At once the women made an effort and seemed gay and unconcerned.

Many of the men were proceeding elsewhere, and were not met.

Winterbourne saw Elizabeth standing, in a wide-brimmed hat, at the end of the barrier. Again he was amazed at the beauty of women. Could it be that he knew, that he had dared to touch, so beautiful a creature? She looked so slender, so young, so exquisite. And so elegant. He was intimidated, and hung back in the crowd of passing soldiers, watching her. She was scanning the faces as they passed; twice she looked at him, and looked away. He made his way through the throng towards her. She looked at him again carefully, and once more began scanning the passing faces. He walked straight up to her and held out his hands:

“Elizabeth!”

She started violently, stared at him, and then kissed him with the barrier between them:

“Why, George! How you've altered! I didn't recognize you!”

12

W
INTERBOURNE had a fortnight's leave before reporting to his Regimental Depot. He came in for two or three air raids, and lay awake listening to the familiar bark of Archies. The bombs crashed heavily. It was very mild – all over in half an hour. Still, the raids affected him unpleasantly; he had not expected them.

He spent his first morning wandering about London by himself. He was still amazed at the beauty of women, and was afraid they would be offended by his staring at them. Prostitutes twice spoke to him, offering him “Oriental attractions”. He saluted them, and passed on. The second girl muttered insults, which he scarcely heard. There seemed to be a great many more prostitutes in London.

The street paving was badly worn, but looked marvellously smooth and kempt to Winterbourne, accustomed to roads worn into deep ruts and reft with shell-holes. He was charmed to see so many houses – all unbroken. And buses going up and down. And people carrying umbrellas – of course, people had umbrellas. There was khaki everywhere. Every third man was a soldier. He passed some American marines, the advance-guard of the great armies being prepared across the Atlantic. They had wide shoulders and narrow hips, strong-looking men; each of them had picked up a girl. They walked in London with the same proprietary swagger that the English used in France.

A military policeman stopped and roughly asked him what he was doing. Winterbourne produced his pass.

“Sorry; thought you was a deserter, old man. Don't go out without yer pass.”

The second night after his arrival Elizabeth took him to a Soho restaurant to dine with some of her friends. Fanny was not there, but the party included Mr. Upjohn, Mr. Waldo Tubbe, and Reggie Burnside. There were several people Winterbourne had never met, including a man who had made a great hit by translating Armenian poetry – from the French versions of Archag Tchobanian. He was extremely intellectual and weary in manner, and took Winterbourne's hand in a very limp way, turning his head aside with an air of elegant contempt as he did so.

Winterbourne sat very silent through the meal, nervously rolling bread pills. He was amazed to find how remote he felt, how completely he had nothing to say. They talked about various topics he didn't quite follow, and titteringly gossiped about people he didn't know. Elizabeth got on wonderfully, chattered with every one, laughed, and was a great success. He felt very uncomfortable, like a death's-head at a feast. He caught a glimpse of himself in one of the restaurant mirrors, and thought he looked ludicrously solemn and distressed.

Over coffee they shifted seats, and one or two people came and talked to him. Mr. Upjohn dropped clumsily into the next chair, thrust out his chin, and coughed.

“Are you back in London for good now?”

“No. I've a fortnight's leave, and then go to an Officers' Training Corps.”

“And then will you be in London?”

“No; I shall have to go back to France again.” Mr. Upjohn irritatedly clucked his tongue – tch, tch!

“I mildly supposed you'd finished soldiering. You look most grotesque in those clothes.”

“Yes, but they're practical, you know.”

“What I mean to say is that the most important thing is that the processes of civilization shouldn't be interrupted by all this war business.”

“I quite agree. I – ”

“What I mean to say is, if you get time, come round to my studio and have a look at my new pictures. Are you still writing for periodicals?”

Winterbourne smiled.

“No. I've been rather busy, you know, and in the trenches one –”

“What I mean to say is, I'd like you to do an article on my Latest Development.”

“Suprematism?”

“Good Lord, NO! I finished with
that
long ago. How extraordinarily ignorant you are, Winterbourne! No, no. I'm working at Concavism now. It's by far the greatest contribution that's been made to twentieth-century civilization. What I mean is…”

Winterbourne ceased to listen and drank off a full glass of wine. Why hadn't Evans written to him? Died of the effects of gas, probably. He beckoned to the waiter.

“Bring me another bottle of wine.”

“Yessir.”

“George!” came Elizabeth's voice, warning and slightly reproving. “Don't drink too much!”

He made no answer, but sat looking heavily at his coffee-cup. Blast her. Blast Upjohn. Blast the lot of them. He drank off another glass of wine, and felt the singing dazzle of intoxication, its comforting oblivion, stealing into him. Blast them.

Mr. Upjohn grew tired of improving the mind of a cretin who hadn't even the wits to listen to him, and slid away. Presently Mr. Waldo Tubbe took his place.

“Well, my dear Winterbourne, I am very happy to see you again, looking so well. The military life has set you up splendidly. And Mrs. Winterbourne tells me that at last you have received a commission. I congratulate you – better late than never.”

“Thanks. But I may not get it, you know. I've got to pass the training-school.”

“Oh, that'll do you a world of good, a world of good.”

“I hope so.”

“And how did you spend your leisure in France – still reading and painting?”

Winterbourne gave a little hard laugh.

“No, mostly lying about, sleeping.”

“I'm sorry to hear that. But, you know, if you will forgive my saying so, I always doubted whether your Vocation were really towards the arts. I felt you were more fitted for an open-air life. Of course, you're doing splendid work now, splendid. The Empire needs every man. When you come back after the Victory, as I trust you will return safe and sound, why don't you take up life in one of our colonies, Australia or Canada? There's a great opening for men there.”

Winterbourne laughed again.

“Wait till I get back, and then we'll see. Have a glass of wine?”

“No-oeh, thank you, no-oeh. By the way, what is that red ribbon on your arm? Vaccination?”

“No; company runner.”

“A company runner? What is that? Not runner away, I hope?”

And Mr. Tubbe laughed silently, nodding his head up and down in appreciation of his jest. Winterbourne did not smile.

“Well, it might be under some circumstances, if you knew which way to run.”

“Oh, but our men are so splendid, so splendid, so unlike the Germans, you know. Haven't you found the Germans mean-spirited? They have to be chained to their machine-guns, you know.”

“I hadn't observed it. In fact, they're fighting with wonderful courage and persistence. It's not much of a compliment to our men to suggest otherwise, is it? We haven't managed to shift ‘em far yet.”

“Ah! but you must not allow your own labours to distort your perspective. The Navy is the important arm in the War; that and the marvellous home organization, of which you, of course, can know nothing.”

“Of course, but still…”

Mr. Tubbe rose to move away.

“Delighted to have seen you, my dear Winterbourne. And thank you for all your interesting news from the Front.
Most
stimulating.
Most
stimulating.”

Winterbourne signed to his wife to go, but she ignored the signal, and went on talking earnestly and attentively with Reggie Burnside. He drank another glass of wine, and stretched his legs. His heavy hobnailed boots came in contact with the shins of the man opposite.

“Sorry. Hope I didn't hurt you. Sorry to be so clumsy.”

“Oh, not at all, nothing, nothing,” said the man, rubbing his bruised shin with a look of furious anguish. Elizabeth frowned at Winterbourne, and leaned across to get the bottle. He grabbed it first, poured himself another glass, and then gave it to her. She looked angry at his rudeness. He felt pleasantly drunk, and cared not a damn for any one.

Coming home in the taxi she reproved him with gentle dignity for drinking too much.

“Remember, dear, you're not with a lot of rough soldiers now. And, please forgive me for mentioning it, but your hands and fingers are terribly dirty – did you forget to wash them? And you were rather rude to everybody.”

He was silent, staring listlessly out of the taxi-cab window. She sighed, and slightly shrugged her shoulders. They did not sleep together that night.

Next morning at breakfast they were both preoccupied and silent. Suddenly George emerged from his reverie.

“I say, what's happened to Fanny? She's not out of town, is she?”

“No, I don't think so.”

“Why wasn't she at dinner with us last night?”

“I didn't ask her.”

“You didn't ask her! Why ever not?”