It was now the middle of October. The war had been going on for nearly three months. For at least two of them, Gabriel calculated with some sarcasm, he’d been on board ship. Anyone would have thought he’d joined the navy.
Gabriel and Charis had returned from their shortened honey-moon on the thirtieth of July. Gabriel had gone at once to London in search of instructions but had been told to go away as there was nothing anyone could tell him. They then spent an uncomfortable few days at Stackpole—no one was expecting their return, the cottage was not ready, Cyril was still distempering the bedroom walls—watching the slide into war. He and Charis had been unhappy. Charis had been cool and distant. Every day she pointedly reminded him that they could be walking along the promenade at Trouville. Every day, that is, until the fourth of August when war was declared, thereby vindicating what had seemed like precipitate caution on Gabriel’s part. On the night of the fourth they had also been able to move into the cottage and, as if by magic, some of the happiness and intimacy they had experienced in Trouville returned. But it was clouded by the knowledge that Gabriel would soon have to go away. Diligently he telephoned to London every day, keen to get his orders. On the sixth, he was instructed to report to Southampton where he would find a berth on the SS Dongola, a P&O liner, which would take him to rejoin his regiment in India.
The Dongola left Southampton on the thirteenth, crammed with officers rejoining regiments in Egypt and India. Sammy Hinshelwood, and a few others from the West Kents who had been on leave, were also on board and the first days of the voyage out were passed in frenzied speculation about the possible length of the war and what role the West Kents would play in it, assuming it lasted long enough. As they sailed slowly across the Mediterranean the now familiar boredom began to infect them all. Interminable games of contract bridge were the main diversion, sessions starting at breakfast and lasting long into the night.
From time to time the odd wireless message brought snippets of news of the progress of the war in Europe: the German advance through Belgium, the fall of Liège, the disastrous French attack in Lorraine, the battle of Mons. The sense of frustration at missing out was acute. But there were no mails at Gibraltar (they were not even allowed off the ship) and none waiting at Port Said either. As they neared Port Said the weather became noticeably hotter. Awnings were stretched over all available deck space and most of the officers forsook their cramped cabins to sleep on deck during the night. Gabriel, fortunately, had a cork mattress that he could lie on and so passed the night in some comfort. The others had to make do with blankets, or at best a deckchair. One break in the routine occurred when they were all inoculated against smallpox and yellow fever. Gabriel was incapacitated for two days with a high temperature.
It took the Dongola a week to chug through the Red Sea. The thermometer rose to 114° (140° in the stoke hold) and everyone went about stark naked at night in an attempt to keep cool. “Just as well there are no ladies on board,” Gabriel said to Sammy Hinshelwood one evening as they picked their way through naked bodies towards their mattresses. “On the contrary,” Hinshelwood laughed, “it’s a great shame.” That night as they lay side by side Hinshelwood talked for a long time about sex. About a girl he knew, a tart he’d picked up at the Adelphi theatre. Gabriel lay beside him, uneasy and embarrassed. Hinshelwood made some coarse jokes about his interrupted honeymoon, and described Charis as ‘a truly charming girl’. Gabriel made no response, but the muted talk of women made him excited and he had to roll onto his stomach to conceal his arousal.
One of the stewards died of heatstroke in the Red Sea. Gabriel attended the small religious service and watched as the weighted body was tipped into the water with a forlorn splash. Gabriel found that the death depressed him unusually. He found his thoughts continually on the armies in Europe and the war ahead. One night somebody said that a quarter of the troops would surely be killed. That gave each individual a one in four chance, Gabriel thought. Even when it was figured as personally as that Gabriel found, to his vague surprise, that the idea of war seemed even more exciting.
After the Red Sea the Indian Ocean was cooler. However the Dongola caught the tail end of the monsoon season and rolled and pitched the rest of the way to Bombay. Everyone on board suffered terribly from seasickness. Often there were two hundred or more men leaning over the leeward side of the ship being sick into the sea. The sides of the Dongola became streaked and spattered with dried vomit and the faint acid smell of sick hung in every corridor and companionway.
They arrived in Bombay after a twenty-six-day voyage. Gabriel and Hinshelwood were given instructions to proceed directly to the regiment at Rawalpindi. “I’m damned if I’m getting straight on a train after a month in that accursed ship!” Hinshelwood swore. He and Gabriel booked in to the Taj Hotel for a night. They bathed, had two enormous meals and went shopping. The next morning they boarded the train at Bombay Station and spent a dusty, but tolerably comfortable, fifty hours crossing the Punjab to Rawalpindi.
For two weeks life regained its sense of composure. News of the German retreat to the Aisne caused great belligerent excitement. Gabriel returned to a means of existence that he had known before his marriage. Except on this occasion there was no Charis nearby. Nor was there much time for entertainment of any sort as the Regiment was busily preparing itself for embarkation. The main Indian expeditionary force for the European theatre was in the process of being despatched, and in addition two subsidiary forces were being raised. One was for the Persian Gulf and one for the invasion of German East Africa. Rumour had it that the West Kents would be embarking for Europe in early October, but no one was sure. Gabriel thought it was typical of the army’s Byzantme reasoning to send him all the way to India just to send him back to Europe. It was, he later realized, equally typical of the army to decide that, of all the officers in the regiment, he was the one chosen not to accompany it. The fateful Movement Order telegram arrived from headquarters in Simla. It informed him that he was being ‘attached’ to the 69th Palamcottah Light Infantry, who were due to embark for East Africa in mid October as part of Indian Expeditionary Force ‘B’.
East Africa! The Palamcottah Light Infantry! Gabriel’s disappointment was bitter and acute. A third-rate Indian regiment from the little-regarded Bangalore Brigade in Madras. His prompt protestations and appeals had no effect. His colleagues sympathized but their patience over his relentless moaning and complaints was limited. Sammy Hinshelwood reminded him that the West Kents could end up guarding the Suez Canal and that at least Gabriel could be sure of some action before the war ended.
So, for the second time in a month Gabriel crossed the Punjab, but on this occasion, as if cruelly to remind him how his plans had gone awry, the journey took ninety hours. He shared the train with a hospital unit full of Indian sub-assistant surgeons and with dozens of coolies and bearers. They, it transpired, were are going to East Africa; but the British doctors seemed quite content with their lot. A place called Nairobi, they said: apparently the climate was superb. Gabriel spent most of the journey in a corner of the crowded compartment (the fan wasn’t working) trying to read a book. The doctors repeatedly congratulated themselves on their good luck. All they seemed to care about, Gabriel reflected,. was the weather. One day they spent a full ten hours motionless in a railway siding with nothing to eat or drink except some petit beurre biscuits and warm soda water.
Gabriel’s spirits had been set in a decline ever since he’d received the news of his transfer. At the barracks in Bombay they took another plunge when he was united with his new battalion. The 69th Palamcottah Light Infantry hadn’t seen active service since the Boxer rebellion in 1900, which battle order for that campaign hung proudly in the mess. A little inquiry on Gabriel’s part provided him with the information that the Palamcottahs had in fact only got as far as Hong Kong.
There they had been pressed into service with a regiment of Army Pioneers and had made roads for nine months, an activity for which they had shown a sur
prising efficiency and which had earned them an official commendation from the Governor of the colony.
It was small consolation also when it turned out that the Palamcottahs were so undermanned and ill-prepared that six other officers, apart from Gabriel, had been separated from their official regiments to bring the battalion up to something like operational strength. The seven new boys swiftly formed a circle of malcontents in the mess, ignoring and being ignored by the regulars. Gabriel was the last to arrive and was happy to contribute his own grumbles to the dark mutterings that continually preoccupied the disaffected group.
There proved to be virtually no chance to get to know the men under his command because the day after his arrival embarkation orders were received. The Homayun was a dirty little steamer which before being drafted into war service had plied the route between Bombay and Arabia, conveying pilgrims to Mecca and back again. About a thousand men were finally crammed aboard: the Palamcottahs, a detachment of sappers, the Punjabi Coolie Corps and about thirty mules and four dozen sheep, which had to be tethered on one of the decks.
Gabriel found himself sharing a small cabin with two other officers, a doctor from the Indian Medical Service, and a tall thin major from the Welch Regiment called Bilderbeck, who had been at the staff college at Quetta but was now attached to the expeditionary force’s headquarters staff as intelligence officer because he’d served in East Africa before the war.
Embarkation was completed by the thirtieth of September. The last mules were winched on board, the last lighter had deposited its load of excited coolies and had returned to the wharves. The Homayun got up steam and moved slowly out of Bombay harbour until she was some three miles offshore.
Then with a rattle of chains the anchors were released and she stopped once more. Gabriel assumed, as he looked over the railing at the distant shore, that they were waiting for the rest of the fleet to form up.
The days went by with an inconceivable slowness. Two, three, four, five. The Homayun rolled heavily at anchor in the ocean swell and to a man, it seemed, the coolie corps went down with seasickness. A widening slick of human effluence polluted the sea around the immobile ship. Gabriel inspected his company twice a day, just to give himself something to do. They were thin-faced, resentful men in baggy uniforms and thick khaki turbans. The Indian officers—the jemadars and subadars—seemed too old and slack, and treated Gabriel with caution and suspicion. On the seventh day new Maxim guns were ferried out and each company supplied with two. Seizing the opportunity, Gabriel held machine-gun drill every afternoon, teaching the lethargic sepoys how to strip down, load and fire the bright, shiny weapons. They fired at empty barrels thrown over the side, kicking up the scummy surface of the sea with a flurry of bullets.
Ten days went by and still the Homayun swung listlessly at anchor. Gabriel fell into a state of thoughtless passivity of which he would never have believed himself capable. After breakfast he would make a cursory inspection of his troops, send the sick men to the surgery, and then retire to the shadiest part of the ship and try to write letters. His life was so empty that once he’d got beyond, “Dear Mother and Father, here we are still on the Homayun…” there seemed little point in going on. He tried several times to write to Charis on more personal matters but to his consternation he found that even harder. He did think about her a lot, and the emotions he experienced were genuine, but when it came to giving them some shape, pinning them down in a few heartfelt words, he found it impossible to identify and name correctly what were in actuality only the most vague and nebulous sensations.
“My Darling Charis,” he would write. Then he would pause. What could he say? That he loved her? But surely she knew that; it wouldn’t do to state things so bluntly, he needed a more elegant turn of phrase…And he would drift off into a doze until it was time for luncheon. In the afternoon came yet more sleep, or else vacant staring at the shoreline. Sometime she would plunge into the sailbath that had been rigged up and for ten minutes feel more alive. In the evening he’d mix uneasily with the other officers, but nobody really knew each other and the talk was desultory and formal. No orders had been issued and Lt Col. Coutts, the portly, ageing commanding officer, had nothing to report at the few briefing sessions called. As on the Dongola most officers ended up passing the time by playing cards, or deck quoits. Gabriel played a few hands of whist, but he didn’t know how to play contract bridge and couldn’t be bothered to learn.
Eventually, sixteen days after they had embarked, the Homayun finally weighed anchor and took its place in the convoy that sailed out of Bombay harbour. No explanation for their wait offshore was ever forthcoming: it was assumed that someone had forgotten about them. As India gradually disappeared from view Gabriel was possessed briefly of a thrilling and venomous anger at the nameless staff officer whose order had condemned them to the two-week purgatory they had lived through. Sixteen days, roasting motionless offshore. Sixteen entire endless days of petty irritations, extreme discomfort and near-fatal boredom. Gabriel felt his face go taut with frustration and his eyelids twitch with angry tears. He felt sure that he could have killed the man responsible without a qualm, slowly, intricately and with excruciating pain…Calm down, he told himself, calm down, at least they were on the move.
Just before they left a launch delivered mail from Europe. There were three letters: from his mother, Felix and Charis. The news was six weeks old. He opened his mother’s first.
My dear Gabriel,
The news from France is most depressing. Your father says we have lost a battle at a place called Mons. He has pinned a large map on the library wall where the entire household is invited each day to hear the latest news of the fighting.
Charis is well, despite a slight cold. She was so sad after you had gone, but has buckled down with a will helping us organize collections of provisions for the poor Belgians. She has decided to stay on in the cottage even though there is so much room in the house. However she comes to us for most luncheons and dinners.
Felix received a letter from the War Office telling him to go to the OTC recruiting office at Oxford. But it now seems they can’t take him because of his eyes. I always knew that boy read too much. Your father refuses to speak to him so he has gone up to London to stay with his friend Holland. I think it’s for the best, for the meanwhile, anyway.
Henry is up to his ears in work at the Committee of Imperial Defence. He told Albertine not to worry; he will see Greville gets a staff posting (Greville is not to know about this, it seems). Nigel Bathe, however, is going to a place called Mesopotamia. Henry says there is nothing he can do. Poor Nigel is most disappointed: he so wanted to go to France…
His mother’s letter continued in this vein for several more pages. Felix’s was briefer.
…you will have heard I am not to be called to the colours. Such a disgrace. Father practically accused me of arrant cowardice. It was pointless to remind him that there are so many volunteers that anyone not 100% fit is turned away. Cyril, of course, was snapped up. I’ve never seen anyone look so pleased…
Your dear wife has wisely decided to remain in the cottage. She seems well, running about the county with Dr Venables collecting blankets for the Belgians. Life at home is more intolerable than ever, what with Father’s nightly (compulsory) briefing on the course of the war.
I am going to stay with Holland, also rejected by the Army. We will be going up to Oxford together in October, though goodness knows what the place will be like with everyone off at the war. Nigel Bathe has been sent to guard some desert wastes. He thinks the war is some vile and complicated plot to thwart and discomfit him…
Gabriel saved Charis’s letter until last. He sat and looked at her handwriting on the envelope trying to conjure up an image of her face in his mind. They had had three nights in the cottage before he had left for Southampton. Three nights in which they had managed to repeat the solitary success they had enjoyed in Trouville. Gabriel leant back on his bunk and shut his eyes. He could feel his hear
t beating faster at the uncomfortable, somehow embarrassing memories. He opened the letter.
My Darling Gabey,
How I miss you! Our little cottage seems so quiet and empty. I want my big strong boy back beside me, and to take me in his arms. You will be careful, won’t you, darling? I want my Gabey back in one piece so don’t go trying to be a hero…
Gabriel found it impossible to read on: he could hear Charis’s voice echoing through each word. He put the letter down and thought back to their last nights together and the pattern of arousal that each one seemed instinctively to follow.
Each time as he had changed into his pyjamas he felt almost sick with mounting apprehension. He would go through the door into the tiny upstairs bedroom which was almost entirely filled by their soft double bed. And there Charis lay. Her long wavy dark hair down, her white nightdress crisp and fresh. Then she would scold him, gently, for some misdemeanour. One night it was for not brushing his hair, another night for a mismatched pyjama top and bottom. “You naughty boy!” Charis would say and sternly resist his imploring pleas for forgiveness and understanding. “No! You may not give me a kiss and I’m very cross with you.” The tone of voice, the situation, worked like a magic charm on him, Gabriel realized. All the fumbling apprehension, the shaming absence of arousal, the fear—even of slipping into bed—disappeared.
They played out their parts with the instinct and assurance of professional actors. Charis strict but ultimately forgiving, Gabriel alternately fawning and sulky. The teasing, coyly bullying Charis of those nights had his erection pressing against his pyjama trousers within seconds. He would lay his head on her small breasts, kissing her throat, plucking at the cords that held her bodice together. “Stop it!” she would cry with fake horror. “You dreadful, dreadful boy! What are you doing?” But somehow the cords always came undone and he would uncover her small white breasts, smearing his face over them, dabbing at the tight nipples, hunching himself into position between her parting thighs. Then clumsy thrusting, a feeling of heat, moistness, a glove-like grip.