But Armstrong had not been the only one. And there were other men who felt quite differently, who had suddenly known confidence that they would be all right this time. It was as though they were surrounded by an invisible steel cage, impenetrable by shell or bullet, so that they pushed ahead through a surge of fire and knew, were sure, that they would be safe, if only because they were marked out for death at some later date.
Once, Hilliard had been led over the open ground and then along a treacherous sunken road to the 8th Division trenched in the middle of a heavy raid, and the runner who led him had known exactly where and when to leap and duck, run or stay still, he had said afterwards, ‘I knew it was all right today. I had a feeling.’
That had been Baxter, who was still alive, Baxter, with the four front teeth missing and hair shaved as close as a convict’s. Hughin’s brother-in-law. A year ago, Hilliard would have scoffed at such forebodings and superstitions, ‘the feelings’ of the men in the line. Not now.
Now, Coulter was saying little, his face was worried.
‘Well, it’s quiet enough here for the moment. Don’t start putting the wind up everyone.’
The man looked hurt and reproachful. He knew more than the officers about the importance of morale.
‘Have you finished with the water, sir?’ He spoke politely, and the distance opened between them for a moment. Hilliard wanted to make amends, and could not think how.
He went inside. ‘Coulter’s got the wind up.’ The dugout was dark and stuffy after the bright sunlight of the trench. Barton was getting ready to go down the line and take a foot inspection – though, because the weather was dry and the spirits of the men were so good here, they looked after their feet well, obeyed regulations to the letter, changed their socks and oiled themselves as regulations dictated, they had the time and inclination, there were no problems with infection. Barton was tightening the laces on his own boots.
‘What makes him think that? Has anything happened?’
‘No.’
‘Perhaps it’s just too quiet for him all of a sudden. You know how he’s always longing to have a go!’
‘Maybe.’
‘Why is he bothered today, especially?’
Hilliard shrugged. ‘He’s got a feeling.’
To his surprise, Barton, who did not share his knowledge about the way the men thought, did not know the truth which so often lay behind their forebodings, looked worried himself. He sat on the edge of his bunk for a moment, entirely still.
‘I should think Coulter knows what he’s about,’ he said, ‘doesn’t he? He keeps his ear to the ground, he always seems to know what’s going on, long before we do.’
‘Yes.’
‘I should think he’s worth taking notice of.’
‘There’s nothing we can do.’
‘We can listen to him.’
‘We haven’t heard anything.’
‘But it is too quiet.’
‘Yes. I feel jittery myself, now and then.’
Barton looked concerned.
‘No, it’s all right. And this does happen, you know, and it can go on for weeks and months. Especially if they’re concentrating on another bit of the line We could perfectly well have a whole spell like this, mending the trenches, mending the wire, messing about with report forms and rifle inspection and nothing else at all.’
‘And you think we will?’
‘How should I know?’
Barton looked at him carefully. In the end, Hilliard moved quickly towards the table, the pile of letters waiting for censoring. ‘No,’ he said, ‘on the whole I agree with Coulter.’
Barton got up and went out and he looked cheerful then, looked almost relieved. John Hilliard realized that he knew so little about him, there were so many thoughts and feelings he could not share, reactions he was unable to predict. Was Barton tired of this suspended existence? Just as the men had become irritable and restless in the camp at Percelle. Did he want ‘excitement’ as he had teased Hilliard earlier, want something, anything, to happen? And if so, why? For he had no feelings about the justness of this war, no anger against the enemy, no desire to fight and kill for the sport of it and no reason for personal vengeance, unless you could count the death of Private Harris.
Hilliard did not know. But this was superficial, nevertheless, for the ease they felt in one another’s company was so great now. Hilliard had never shared so much of himself before, never been so simply content. There were times when he caught Barton’s glance, or walked behind him down the trench, when they sat in their dugout in the evening, reading or doing paperwork, listening to the gramophone, when Barton laughed suddenly, teasing him – at those times, he felt a welling up of pride and pleasure and love. Then, he wanted to say something, though he never did.
The letters from Barton’s family included him always and automatically now, there were long paragraphs from these people he knew and yet had never seen, addressed entirely to him, and he read and re-read them and could not believe that he had been so easily accepted, was part of that charmed circle, of Barton’s life and family, of his past and present. It was as though he had been standing in a dark street looking into a lighted room and been invited in. He had ceased to feel any alarm at the arrival of the letters, with their messages and questions for him, he ceased to want to draw back from their intimacy. So that, when he received a letter all of his own from Barton’s mother and then, almost immediately afterwards, from one of the married sisters, he had flushed with amazement and pleasure, had brought out the sheets of thin white paper again and again, to read when Barton was not there, unable to believe in them, unable to take in the fact that he meant something to them, that they had written to him. He stared at his own name on the envelopes.
My dear John.
Dear John Hilliard.
They had begun so. And at the end of Barton’s own letters, the messages.
Love to your friend, John.
Remember us all to John H.
We do hope you are both of you well and in good spirits.
Do let us know if John gets any leave, and he can come and see us, even if he is not with you.
Thank John for his messages.
You are to share the things in the parcel with John, of course.
He said again and again, ‘They don’t know me. They don’t know me,’ holding the envelopes, looking at the writing upon them, feeling the smoothness of the letter paper between his fingers.
As always, Barton laughed, ‘Of course they do!’
‘They haven’t seen me, we have never met.’
‘Oh, that’s practically superfluous by now.’
‘They …’
‘What?’
But he could not say. He only lay awake, and heard Barton turning over in his bunk and listened to his breathing, and thought about these people, thought, let it go on, let it go on. He did not mind Barton’s teasing now, had even come to want it, did not mind anything he said or did. It was enough that he was here with him. In the night he woke and heard the guns and his heart thudded, he sat up and said aloud, ‘Jesus God, don’t let him be killed, don’t let him be killed.’ And did not even mind, at that moment, that Barton might have woken and heard him. ‘Don’t let him be killed.’
Barton had not woken.
12 October 1916.
I don’t know quite when I’ll get the time to write again. We are said to be moving up to the front line within the next day or so, though we have no official news. Things are apparently rather bad up there but so far we have had very little direct shelling in these trenches and only two casualties. I think we shall be spending most of our time on fatigue parties, and especially at night, as there is a terrific lot to be done. John says all this is bound to mean Business, but we can’t say more than that – and in any case, know nothing for sure. But they have been in battle over to the east of us. I should think it must soon be our turn.
You ask me if the memory of things I have seen stays with me and if I
am continually upset. Yes, I suppose so – that is the answer. Yes. There are two things which I shall not be able to forget, I think. One, the death of Harris. But the other may seem to you more trivial. As we were coming up here from the town in which we spent that awful night, the men were in quite a cheerful mood, in spite of what had happened, I suppose because they had had some sleep and the sun was shining. They were singing and marching rather gaily and in place of Harris’s harmonica someone had got a pipe – we were like soldiers in those poems about the Jacobites! The road was very busy and we passed a good many men coming from the front. But once, just as our song was particularly rousing, we came face to face with a Regiment who had come from some of the worst fighting since July. They were obviously a very depleted lot: their uniforms looked as if they had been on their backs for a year, they were dirty and exhausted, marching raggedly and in total silence. When they saw and heard our men, going so cheerfully up the road, their faces were shocked and grey and they stared at us – Oh, it was like meeting ghosts, their looks were so knowing and so accusing, they were so old and worn and sad. And as they were so silent so our men, too, faltered and the song died away and we went on very soberly. The grins and laughter in our Battalion turned sour, I looked at one or two of my own platoon and saw that they were remembering – it was like being caught roistering at a funeral. We were ashamed of ourselves. And I know I shall not forget that – those men, the expressions on their faces, everything about that moment. At the next halt our men were very quiet, smoking and lying about on the edges of the grass, suddenly face to face with it all again.
And yet – why shouldn’t they sing while they can? One asks oneself that too.
What else is there to tell you? It is still good weather, we are still sick of the food, but your parcels keep us going, and John gets some quite amazing things in his expensive Fortnum’s hampers. We had jars of preserved ginger and figs and chocolate liqueurs and goodness knows what else. It’s rather sad that his family can spend so much money on parcels and so little time in writing to him – and such short letters. It’s easy enough to order a hamper for someone else to pack up and despatch. But it has nothing to do with me, and who am I to talk, since I so much enjoy what comes in the hampers! He likes to hear from you, though, I do know that, so perhaps if you can find the time you could go on writing to him occasionally? He doesn’t say much about it, but I know him well enough to be able to tell from the slightest sign whether he is pleased or depressed or whatever. We are really quite happy here, it has been the greatest good luck, our meeting and coming together. It has meant my missing all of you has not been quite so bad – I do, of course, terribly, but somehow, having John about has taken the edge off it. I am sure you will all be glad of that, too. And I think I may have been good for him. He is a different person, even in so short a time – more relaxed, if nothing else. He doesn’t seem to be so afraid of himself. Perhaps that sounds strange?
I must write to Nancy today. I was very pleased about the prospect of her new infant. Tell her I cannot possibly have another godchild, four is quite sufficient for anyone, but she is welcome to call it after me if it is a boy! I told John about it. He looked surprised that I should know, so early on. I gather his family don’t talk about these things – he ought to have been a doctor’s son!
Tell Amy the socks are fine. I don’t need them yet but when the weather gets colder, as it is surely bound to do before very long, I shall be pretty glad of them. The men tell horrifying stories of almost freezing to death, once autumn and winter set in, of having to break the ice on the water and toes freezing and dropping off, and heaven knows what else.
I am not really afraid of going right up into the front line permanently now, since my whole war so far seems to have been a succession of stages, I am being gradually broken in. And there have been respites in between. I suppose this is one. It is just so dull and boring and, at the same time, so tiring. One longs for a bed! (The bunks do not qualify for that grand name.) Thank you for the records, which came beautifully packed and quite undamaged. We have been playing the Elgar and the Schubert – especially the latter, most of all. The ‘Winter Songs’ somehow don’t clash with this golden autumn weather at all, they contrast, and besides, they are so beautiful to hear, after the unharmonious crashing of shells and guns in the distance. Not to mention the singing of our own men and Coulter’s whistling and the clatter of dixies and bayonets. Oh, it is not quiet here, not really! Only it is rather better towards the end of the day.
The Adjutant came in yesterday and listened to the whole of the ‘Frühlingstraum’ (it is John’s favourite) and then just walked out again, so we could not tell if he approved, or enjoyed it, or was puzzled, or what! He is a strange character but most efficient, and the morale and general state of the company is very high. I have to give him a good deal of credit for that, though John would hate me for saying so, since his dislike of the man has not waned. And I agree that he does view the pair of us very coldly. But one does not know what his circumstances are, he may be a very unhappy man. He is a lone wolf, certainly, and maybe he thinks we should all follow suit. But then, John has always been a lone wolf, I think, until now. Perhaps out of necessity rather than choice, however.
Someone has come in with a message for me. Do send more apples if you can, they are marvellous.
‘David …’
‘All right. I’m ready.’
‘I wish you weren’t going.’
‘Why?’
‘I mean – I wish I were going instead.’
‘Do you? Whatever for?’
Hilliard stammered, ‘It’s only that you …’
‘What?’ Barton looked up, grinning. It was late in the morning. Warm again. Barton was to go up into the front line, led by Grosse, and along to an Observation Post from which there was a good view of the ridge and Barmelle Wood, and the few ruined walls to the west of that, which were all that now remained of Queronne. The whole site was held by the enemy. He was to make a map and bring back as much information as he could about the area.
‘Why you?’ Hilliard asked now.
‘I’m better at drawing.’
Hilliard felt his heart swollen with fear. He thought, he does not know what it could be like, he doesn’t know. It was, apparently, a straightforward job, no more dangerous than anything in the front line now. But how dangerous was that? It had been clear and quiet and still here all day. When the order came down and Barton had gone to see Franklin, Hilliard had sat at the table in the dugout and trembled with fear. He would rather go himself, he would rather anything. As usual, Barton had laughed at him, and he had seemed excited, too, proud to be given this job. When he was getting himself ready there had been a gleam in his eyes of something like real pleasure.
Hilliard thought, he won’t come back. Anything can happen between here and there, one small thing is enough. The front line had been under heavy fire all week.
He won’t come back.
Perhaps this was the feeling that Coulter and the other men got when they were sure, when they knew. And they had generally been right, hadn’t they? Perhaps this was it.
He wanted to go to Franklin and demand to be sent on the job himself, though he knew he could not, and that it was all insane, for sooner or later Barton had to come up against a real danger, the risk was constantly there of his being hit, wounded, mutilated, blown to bits. Or simply shocked, as he had never been shocked before, by some appalling sight or sound.
But Hilliard had never known this kind of fear, not even on his own behalf during the summer, and certainly this agony of feeling on behalf of someone else was entirely new to him, he could not cope with it all. All that morning he had scarcely been able to look at Barton, and yet when he had looked, had not wanted to take his eyes away. For he was there, now, across the tiny, dark space of the dugout, everything of him was there, his skin and flesh and bone, whole and unblemished, he was there, calm and confident and cheerful, his manner as always easy, amus
ed. Hilliard could still reach out a hand and touch him if he chose. He was there. Later, he would not be there.
He shook his head, and in a second of absolute clarity, he saw that nothing mattered except Barton and what he felt for him: that he loved him, as he had loved no other person in his life. The reason for this and the consequences of it were irrelevant, the war was irrelevant, something for them to get through. Nothing else could be truly important again. Nothing else.
Acknowledging this for the first time, he felt as though his head had been rinsed through with clear water, and he was no longer perturbed, he had seen and accepted it all. Everything else was far away. He looked down at the pile of ammunition returns on the table in front of him, at the black lead pencil and the box of matches. At his own hand. And then the fear hit him again, broke over him like nausea. If Barton were killed what would he do? What would he do?