No Hero-This Page 5

* * *

  It is a day early in September, and I have opposite me in the first-class carriage a combatant officer who is also going on leave. I look at the peaceful country, and marvel at the infinite and sweet greenness of it. There is a tinge of gold in the green. The harvest is in. I watch the cattle and the trees, and villages and isolated farms, and the pointed caps of oast-houses. I have a conviction that I am saying good-bye to all this, and that I must look at it with hungry tenderness.

  But the man opposite me wants to talk. He has a soft, pink, otiose face, and facetious manner, but his eyes and hands are uneasy, and his cheerfulness is thin ice. I realize that he is just as obsessed with the war and his individual fate in it as I am. He is secretly afraid, and afraid of all sorts of things, of being killed, and perhaps of making a shameful fool of himself.

  He says, “In the infantry we’re such utter amateurs. It’s easier for you doctors. You do know your job. We don’t, and we expect to be pushed out soon.”

  I sympathize with him, but confess that I have felt equally bewildered, and horribly unsure of things. His eyes set in a stare. He is looking into the future.

  “You know what Kitchener said about our crowd.”

  “What?”

  “That it would be our job to tear the guts out of the Germans.”

  He sniggers, and his mild, fat face is utterly unferocious.

  “Nice job, what! And we’re as raw as unhung meat. It isn’t only the bloody mess we’re in for, but the bloody mess we may make of it. The C.O. and the adjutant are the only regulars in our crowd, and the C.O. is sixty-three. Sometimes I feel so horribly sure that the Huns will do the gut-pulling.”

  I am ceasing to feel sympathetic. I wish he would stop talking about the war. I ask him what his job is in civil life. He tells me that he is a schoolmaster. But he reverts to the great obsession.

  “There is one comfort, we have a priceless little doctor man. If you are going to be smashed up, you do think of these things.”

  Pathetic forethought! But why had not my selfish little soul grasped the human fact that we doctors may help these poor devils who must suffer?

  My companion leaves the train at Pondbridge and I wish him good luck, and travel on alone. The country is becoming dear and familiar with its high woods and secret valleys, but the empty seat opposite me retains a presence, humanity in the shape of the average man. How little of the essential savage is left in most of us! We ask neither to kill nor to be killed, and yet we are involved in this bloody and senseless butchery. I find that I have been touched, and perhaps inspired by the schoolmaster’s ingenuous confession, and I so badly need inspiration. If I can feel convinced that I can help, and that my knowledge may be of use to some of these martyred men, I may attain to courage, the courage that quakes but endures.

  * * *

  Brackenhurst station. I lean out of the window and look for Mary, and with a sudden pang of disappointment realize that she is not there. Has my wire reached her? These tremblings of the heart-strings make one terribly exacting. I find old Sellers and his ancient fly in the station yard; he touches his hat to me.

  “Glad to see you, sir.”

  I gather that he has been sent to meet me, and I get into the vehicle that smells faintly of horsy things, straw and dung, the odours of the stable. Sellers wears a straw hat. He has always worn a straw hat over his whiskered face in summer ever since I remember him, and there is something both consoling and poignant in changelessness when the whole world is in flux. Sellers cracks his whip, and his horse goes clop-clopping up the hill towards the church. I see the squat stone tower and the high elms, and the profiles of cottages and houses that seem to emerge like friendly and familiar faces out of my subconscious. I pass our postman, and the vicar’s groom, and they salute me, lucky fellows who have not suffered change. I get a glimpse of old Vance in his butcher’s shop, rather like a burly red joint dressed up in blue, and busy hacking at some mass of meat with a cleaver. The elms are like ascending billows of green smoke. The cab stops outside my door, and Sellers gets down to manhandle my kit-bag. I open the familiar white door, and Sellers puts my bag inside and I pay him.

  The house seems strangely silent and I had not expected silence. Is Mary in? Surely——? I hear a door open, and a maid appears. I have not seen her before. She stares at me.

  “Is Mrs. Brent in?”

  “Dr. Brent, sir?”

  How queer not to be recognized in my own house!

  “Yes. I sent a telegram.”

  “Mrs. Brent asked me to say that she has been kept at the hospital, sir, but that she would be back any minute.”

  I leave my kit-bag in the hall, and go through into the drawing-room and out into the garden. How familiar all this is, and yet how strange! But I am a little piqued and hurt. This coming home has meant so much to me, and Mary is not here. I wander round the garden, and sit down under the lime tree at the end of the lawn. The borders are full of flowers; the grass has been cut, and the shadow of the tree lies gently upon the mown turf. I sit there, and look about me, and watch the french window. I see the sunlight on the leaves of the vine that covers the wall.

  Mary appears at the french window. She is dressed in that dark blue uniform and a kind of cap, and to me she looks taller and thinner. I rise and go towards the house, and we meet in the middle of the lawn.

  “I’m so sorry, dear; we had a convoy in, and I had to stay.”

  I kiss her, not on the lips but on the cheek, for I am conscious of a cold and active cheerfulness in Mary; she has become a woman of affairs, almost an official, and liking her new authority. She is more of the matron, and less the mother, and my secret self has been such a babe at the breast.

  “Did Sellers meet you?”

  “Yes.”

  I tell her that the garden is looking unusually lovely. Obviously, the man who gives three days a week to our garden has not yet volunteered. I find myself inwardly questioning his lack of patriotism, but, good God, am I becoming one of those who would push other men into the shambles? I remember that Carter is thirty-nine, married, and with four children. Meanwhile, the new maid appears at the window and tells us that tea is ready.

  Mary is very full of her new hospital. I want to talk about my affairs, and particularly about the advent and significance of Colonel Parker Steel, but Mary is so interested in her new responsibilities that I let her talk. Surely I should be interested in what interests her? Yet I am conscious of being a little peeved, and selfishly so, for I suppose that to my wife I want to appear the hero. It is the first time that our personalities have clashed, but Mary is not aware of it, or my sense of secret hostility. Am I jealous because my wife is interested in activities that are hers and not mine?

  I feel that I want to impress her. She is pouring me out a second cup of tea when I break the news that this is my last leave before going on active service. Her hand is stretched out with the cup and saucer; I see it tremble and her face change.

  “O, Stephen, I didn’t know.”

  I am filled with sudden remorse and shame. I have been behaving like an unpleasant child who in the passion for self-expression will hurt its mother in order to obtain raw self-satisfaction.

  “I’m sorry, I ought to have warned you.”

  “When is it to be, dear?”

  “Any day, I think.”

  “And where?”

  “I don’t know. The last fellow was sent to France.”

  She appears to forget all about her precious hospital, and comes and sits by me on the sofa. We are silent with the silence of two people who feel suddenly close to each other, so close that each self is inarticulate. I am still feeling ashamed, because it is obvious to me that Mary’s nature is so much more positive and generous than mine. I feel that I have played a rather mean trick on her, and that the judgment of Solomon is against myself.

  She says, “It may be a hospital in France. And yet, Stephen, when I have seen these wounded men I wonder whether one ought not to want to be
——”

  She hesitates and I supply the words.

  “In the thick of things?”

  She nods, and touches my sleeve.

  “Yes. I don’t believe that you will be satisfied with less.”

  How little she knows me!

  “Is that how you would feel, Mary?”

  “Somehow, yes. Even if it hurt me, and terrified me, I feel I should want to share some of the danger.”

  “And understand it?”

  “Yes.”

  I put my arm round her, draw her to me, and kiss her.

  “Thanks, my dear. I’ll remember. What you have said has helped me, perhaps more than you know.”

  About six o’clock I go up to see old Randall, and on the way I meet Guthrie, red and flamboyant and foolish as ever. By way of greeting me he says, “Hallo, Brent, not abroad yet?” I smile a little homicidal smile at him, and say that I expect to be sent overseas in a very few days. I feel like asking him to put his tongue out, and suggesting that he cuts off some of the whisky. It would be no more impertinent than the attitude he adopts to me.

  I find Randall in the surgery. He is looking tired, and to me, older, but his face and eyes light up when he sees me.

  “Hallo, Stephen, well this is good. Bring Mary round and have some supper with us.”

  He grips my hand hard, and his eyes are full of affection. I am glad that he does not know what a petty, self-centred little egoist I am. The outer room is full of people waiting to be seen, and I turn to and help Randall. I am still thinking over Mary’s words, and the particular message they have for me. I had been more deeply moved by them than she will ever know. Who was it who said that emotion is like alcohol, in that it stimulates the animal appetites without exercising any positive effect upon our intelligent and social actions? I don’t believe it. With me emotion seems to be like a flame setting one’s willing of the good alight. I cannot do things coldly. I must be touched, warmed by emotion before that which is creative and consciously purposeful in me is capable of the higher courage and the more selfless striving. Is this childishness? If so, it explains why I am rendered inert and sullen by the supercilious matureness of an intellectual adult like Parker Steel. Randall is so different, like rich, good, simple soil, and that is why I have found it easy to work with and for him.

  * * *

  Each day of my leave seems to pass more swiftly than its predecessor. Too much loafing encourages too much thinking, and I am coming to the conclusion that in these mass upheavals it may be more comfortable to diminish cerebration, and sink oneself in the careless crowd. War is a primitive business, and one should adapt by becoming primitive. I turn to and work, and drive round visiting some of my old patients. They are kind to me and tell me they will be glad to have me back.

  My God, how I wish I was home for good, and part of this gentle English landscape, this Sussex that I love.

  Randall has had no holiday, nor does a holiday for him seem possible. I suggest that he goes away for three days or so while I carry on. He smiles at me and says that he is not afraid of being tired provided that his temper remains sweet. Work is a sedative.

  “Saves me from thinking too much about things I can’t alter.”

  So, he too is feeling how futile it seems for any individual to attempt a solution of this riddle of the Sphinx. I suppose the only ultimate and valid solution will be the refusal of all the workers in the world to allow their old men to muddle them into war. There must be a universal strike against war. The individual who rebels is sure to be crucified. Our autocrats cannot crucify a whole continent.

  * * *

  On the fifth day of my leave I receive a telegram from Southcliffe.

  “Report immediately.”

  So, the call has come. This must mean that I am detailed for foreign service.

  Mary decides to go with me. We reach Southcliffe about three o’clock in the afternoon, and drive to The Chequers and secure the same room there. I walk up to the hospital to report. The first person whom I meet is Bisgood, and he assumes a sympathetic air, and tells me that the C.O. expects me. I enter the office and salute. Steel pulls a paper towards him, and then glances at me.

  “You are to report at Chester to-morrow, Brent.”

  “Chester, sir?”

  He pushes the order towards me, and I read it mechanically.

  “Why Chester, sir?”

  “For Liverpool, I expect.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Gallipoli, probably.”

  I am conscious of a sagging of the stomach. Gallipoli! It seems so dreadfully far and strange.

  “You had better clear up everything in the Company Office to-night.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “Don’t fail to report at Chester before six. It is important.”

  I hurry off to the Company Office, and find Cooper alone there. He has heard the news, and appears depressed. I sit down in my chair, and suddenly there is a crash, and the splintering of glass. I start up and look round, and so does Cooper. A picture has fallen, the photograph of some pre-war group of officers and N.C.O.s that had been relegated to the Company Office. The thing has fallen on its face, and broken glass litters the floor behind my chair.

  Cooper has a shocked face.

  “The cord must have rotted, sir.”

  I know that he is thinking of the old superstition, and I try to say something facetious. Cooper is busy picking up glass.

  “I have got to clear up other things, Cooper, to-night.”

  “That’s all right, sir. I’ve got everything in order for you.”

  “You always have.”

  I feel that I must rush down and warn my wife, and I tell Cooper that I shall be back after tea. Moreover, I have some kit to collect from No. 7, and I want to say good-bye to Bicky and Bertha, and thank them for all their kindness. As I go down the hill I realize that I need not tell Mary about Gallipoli; I can assume that I shall be detailed for Malta or Egypt.

  It is nearly five o’clock when I reach The Chequers. Mary has waited for tea. She looks at me steadfastly for a moment, and then sits down on the large sofa.

  “When do you go?”

  “To-morrow.”

  “Where?”

  “Chester, for Liverpool, I think.”

  Her hands lie clasped in her lap.

  “Liverpool. O, Stephen, that means the Dardanelles!”

  I sit down beside her.

  “O, possibly. But it may be Egypt or Malta.”

  We are both very unhappy. I tell her that I have to go back and clear up all the work in the Company Office, and that she is not to wait dinner for me. She says, “Of course I shall wait. When have we to be at Chester?” Does she want to come with me on the last stage? She does, and though I know that it will mean a prolongation of the pain for us both, I want her with me to the last.

  * * *

  I go up to the hospital, find old Macartney and say good-bye to him. Cooper is alone in the Company Office. He has everything ready for me. I sign chits and letters, with Cooper standing by me. His manner is curiously gentle and paternal. I notice that he has cleared away the broken picture.

  We finish. I push my chair back, and get up. I put out my hand to Cooper.

  “Good-bye, Cooper. We’ve been good friends here.”

  He wrings my hand, and I go quickly to the door. Something makes me look back. Cooper is blubbing in a corner by his pay-books.

  * * *

  There are a number of R.A.M.C. officers on the train to Chester, and it strikes me that we all look very new and raw. Mary and I travel with a delicate, black and white little man who also has his wife with him, and we strike up a conversation, and compel ourselves to seem cheerful. My fellow M.O.’s name is Clayton. Worry and sadness stick out of his eyes, and I feel protective towards him. He has been in uniform for just three weeks, and the situation in which he finds himself is as strange as his clothes. His outfitters have supplied him with an immense pair of brown le
ather field-boots, very loose in the upper part of the leg, incongruous, Charles I contraptions. Clayton keeps looking at them as though he is worried about these boots.

  At Chester we all four of us crowd into a taxi and drive to the Grosvenor Hotel. It is teeming with R.A.M.C. officers. I go to the office and ask if they can let us have a double room for the night. The reception clerk seems wise as to the situation. Have I a lady with me? I have. She suggests that a single room may suffice.

  Does this mean that officers are to be accommodated in barracks? I leave Mary in the lounge, and hurry out to report. I have no need to ask the way, for R.A.M.C. officers are coming and going like bees in flight to and from a hive. I find myself at the door of a semi-Gothic looking building, and go in. An orderly directs me to a room on the ground floor where an officer and clerk are sitting at tables. I salute the officer, and give my name.

  He says nothing at all, but pushes across the table a scrap of paper that appears to have been torn from a piece of foolscap. On it is scribbled in pencil, “Secret. You will embark to-night at Liverpool on the Gigantic.”

  I crumple up the piece of paper and go out. It seems to me an extraordinary way of giving one an order, an order that to me is so abrupt and significant. It means that I am to leave poor Mary alone in a strange hotel. I hurry back wishing that I had not brought her with me. Surely, the official world might have a little more human understanding? But how foolish of me to feel aggrieved! Wives are accessories that cannot be trailed about on active service.

  I find Mary in the crowded lounge. I suppose my wretched face betrays the bad news to her, for I see her give me a little, flinching smile.

  “Is it to-night?”

  “Yes. I’ll go and book your room. I’m sorry I dragged you down here.”

  “But you didn’t, dear. I wanted to come.”

  We dine in the hotel. The train for Liverpool leaves soon after nine. It is a dreadful dinner, mute and anguished, and I do not notice what I am eating. I have ordered a bottle of claret, but Mary hardly touches the wine. The room is crowded and noisy, and brittle with artificial excitement. Two tough-looking officers are drinking champagne at the next table. They keep glancing at us, and I feel that they think me an uxorious sop to have brought my wife with me. Damn them! More than one man in the room has had more drink than is good for him. I see Clayton in a corner looking like a lost child.