Pass Guard at Ypres (13 page)

Lieutenant-Colonel James Wingate, Commanding Officer of the Southshires
Depôt, Carchester, was fortunate in that at a time when there was much
unsettlement and looseness of thought abroad his beliefs were fixed and steady.
Colonel Wingate believed implicitly and with almost equal fervour in the four
cardinal objects of his faith—God, his country's cause, his regiment
and the British soldier. He believed in God for the simple reason that it had never
occurred to him to do anything else. The God to whom he had been taught to pray had
brought blessings innumerable to the British arms: without Him, neither now nor at
any previous time could anything that he or his countrymen had sought to do prevail.
Some, he knew, spurned such faith or, as they called it, such superstition as this.
But he knew well enough what it was that had supported the great soldiers of the
past, and he was content to follow where Wolseley, Roberts, and Gordon of Khartoum
had led. Nor, if belief in their country's cause was good enough for such men
as these, did he see why it should not be good enough for him. And, however great
his devotion to his country had been in the past, in the Soudan, in India or South
Africa, it had never been so passionate as now. Was there ever a war in
which the British flag had stood more visibly for the cause of
righteousness. Martyred Belgium, tortured France—was ever the issue of good
and evil more clearly manifest?

So much for the faith of every man, but Colonel Wingate swore allegiance in addition to the soldier's creed. Might Heaven but grant that the Southshires, whose history, as blazoned on banners stored in regimental messes or hung in cathedrals, had been so glorious, not be wanting now, when the greatest of all calls was made upon them. His responsibilities in this respect were heavy, for it was his duty to take those inexperienced and untrained civilians who poured into his depôt and imbue them within a few short weeks with that blind devotion to their regiment and reverence for its tradition which went so far to make the British soldier. Thank God that those with whom he had to deal were Englishmen: that granted, the rest would follow. The Englishman and the British soldier, in him in the last resort Colonel Wingate was content to pin his faith. How well he knew the British soldier! Hard swearing, perhaps, and hard living at times, but true as steel and unshakeable as rock in hours of stress—what heed did the British soldier pay to life or safety when King and country called him? Was there any limit to his heroism, to his blind obedience to the call of duty? All honour to the British soldier, and praise be that some at least of the grand old breed had survived those first few awful weeks, which might easily have spelt annihilation. So long as he had some to help him, and infuse their spirit into others—so long as there were still left men like Sergeant-Major Sugger, who, in a hurricane of shell-fire, had
stuck to his post at Hooge till he became unconscious. With men like that by his side, and his God and country to sustain him—yes, the Colonel recognised it with thankfulness, he was fortunate indeed in that he possessed the soldier's fourfold faith. Would that he could impart it to others even more widely than he had. It was of that, more than any training or experience that those with whom he had to deal stood in need—those boys especially, those young rankers and subalterns, they needed it most of all. This young officer, for example, this Lieutenant Munn, or Mann, or whatever he called himself, whom Gregory, his second-in-command, had complained about—probably that was all he needed. Possibly Gregory was right in making a disciplinary matter of it—nobody could be allowed to misbehave, or sit grinning openly through a lecture on “The Soul of the War” by a visiting General, but from what he'd seen of him he didn't seem to be a bad chap; he'd seen some service, and he'd got a nasty wound. Probably that nine months hanging about in hospitals and in convalescent homes had soured him a bit—now that he was here, and getting down to the war again, it would probably be all right. Why not send for him, and have a chat? It was rather important, after all, that the officers who had seen active service should set a good example to the others. He'd have a chat. Gregory wouldn't know, and he didn't suppose he'd mind if he did. He'd just get him tomorrow evening, and have it out: help him to see things as they were, and give him a touch perhaps of the soldier's faith.

It wasn't quite so easy after all. Colonel Wingate was very glad that he had sent for the erring subaltern. Gregory had a habit of boxing up little affairs like this: he didn't really understand non-Regulars, who had been pitchforked straight from school into the war. He was always making mountains out of mole-hills: he probably would have done so this time if he himself hadn't stepped in in time. There was nothing after all against this fellow: he knew his job, and had carried out his routine depôt duties well enough. But it was a bit tricky. He liked the chap, but it was difficult to get at what was in his mind: and those rather hard lines round his mouth were in unpleasant contrast with his fresh face and frank eyes. He had apologised handsomely enough for that business Gregory had made all the fuss about: but it was more than that he wanted. Well, damn it, he'd gone some way in asking him to have a private talk at all: he wasn't going to be beaten.

“Well now, look here—I say, sit down”—in tones of genial imitability. “Never mind all that. We aren't on parade now. Look here.” He prodded his writing pad with his pencil. “What would you do if somebody attacked your sister?”

Good Lord, the attack on the sister again. In spite of the unfortunate events of the preceding day Freddy Mann felt tempted to laugh aloud. It was always his sister. They started with that in 1914.

“Well——” He stopped.

“Go on.”

“They haven't.”

“Don't be a fool.” Colonel Wingate had sat on committees dealing with conscientious objectors, and this gambit rarely failed to work.

“They've done the same thing. They fell on Belgium.”

“Belgium! Why——”

But again Freddy Mann stopped. Why argue? He wasn't Dick Leverett. He stopped.

“There you are,” the Colonel had scored his first point. “Worth fighting for them, isn't it? Your sister's honour is worth fighting for? Or perhaps there's a young woman you're interested in: no offence, you know.” The Colonel spoke in a kindly voice, and he was a kind man. There was no suggestion of offence.

“Perhaps.”

“Well, her honour. Isn't it worth defending?”

Freddy Mann had a shrewd suspicion that in any case his pretty little Irene's honour would look after itself in its own way, whether British or German were abroad: this also it was difficult to say.

“That's it—see what I mean? That's all it is, this war. That's what the British are defending, as they've always done—the weak and helpless.”

Freddy Mann looked at the Colonel, his marks of rank, the ribbons on his breast. For thirty years he'd been defending the weak and helpless: roughly, he'd drawn in pay and allowances £20,000 for defending the weak and helpless. He'd earned the K.C.B., the D.S.O. and Lord knows what else for defending the weak and helpless.
He'd—he'd made a damned good thing out of defending the weak and helpless. He was a good chap, but it had paid him well.

“Don't you see, my boy?” The Colonel rose and put his hand on Freddy Mann's shoulder. (He would, thought Freddy Mann.) “That's all it is: you're tired, that's all—natural enough after Ypres and a nasty shaking-up like that. But just see it as it is. Think of the cause, and the regiment—that's something worth fighting for, too, the regiment.”

More to fight for. There was always something new to fight for. There was humanity to fight for, Belgium, England, home and beauty, the putting an end to war, the liberation of Europe, and now the regiment. One tended to get confused. As for the cause of the regiment, he couldn't say that it appealed to him particularly. His own old crowd was one thing, but the regiment another. The Regulars had never seemed particularly anxious to see him. “Got to have these fellows in the mess, I suppose,” they had remarked when the battalion had first arrived at Aldershot. “Oh well, it's only for the war.”

“Damned hard on the Tightshirts to have these fellows round.” Yes, the regiment. . . .

“Men like Sergeant-Major Sugger, you know. He's only one N.C.O. I know. But think of him, and all it has meant to him.”

Yes, Freddy Mann was perfectly prepared to think of all it had meant to Sergeant-Major Sugger, but he preferred once again to do this in silence.

“And he's not the only one.”

Freddy Mann was hardly surprised to know that he was not the only one.

“Think how many times those splendid fellows have stared death in the face.”

Yes, when they couldn't bring off a Blighty.

“It's just the regiment, you know, the Cause, and—there's one thing more,” in rather deeper accents. “There's God above, you know.”

Was there then a God above?

“ ‘There is none that fighteth for us, but only thou, O Lord'—we mustn't forget, my boy.”

“Gott mit uns.” Freddy Mann thought of the metal clasp upon the belt of the first dead German he had buried, in those early days—that little schoolmaster chap with the letter in his pocket.

“And you still say you don't believe?”

It wasn't fair. Suddenly Freddy Mann's indifference changed to something approaching what he had felt on that night when poor Bill had cracked at Ypres. This was altogether so damned like an interview in the Headmaster's study two years ago; he was past this now.

“I'm sorry, sir—I haven't——”

“Never mind that, my boy; never mind. Nothing, that. Just a touch of the shell-shock. Never mind.”

“No, it's not that. But—may I go, sir? I'll carry on as long as I'm here.”

“Of course you will, of course, of course. Good lad. Get on with that bombing of yours. That's the stuff. Put
some life into it. Tell the men about it, you know. Tell 'em about Messines and—the Cause, you know. We've got good enough bombs now. Kill anything within thirty yards. But that isn't enough—bombs aren't enough alone. It's the belief behind that's wanted. Just try to believe, my boy—believe—believe—let your sword be a sword of faith.”

“I——” Freddy Mann stopped. Again, why argue? He only knew that British and Germans fought in the same manner, lived in the same manner, bled equally when wounded, stank and rotted the same in death. And this, after all, seemed about all that it was worth while to know. Perhaps the spirit of one was of God, and one the Devil. Perhaps the British soldier's life was hallowed in sacrifice, his regiment a holy thing. Perhaps, perhaps not, why argue?

“I'll carry on, sir, and do the bombing. It doesn't matter, as far as the bombing is concerned, whether I believe or not.”

“But, my boy——”

“You can't believe without thinking, and I don't want to have to think. It was thinking that made me go mad that night. I don't want to go mad like that again.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty.”

“Is there nothing you believe in?”

“No.”

“Now, mark you, lads, what you want to remember is that there's
only one good German, and that's a dead 'un. Remember
that.”

Freddy Mann, standing by himself at the end of the field, watched with interest the red-faced Sergeant-Major Sugger putting the latest class of recruits through the first stage of bayonet instruction. He had during the last few weeks grown more or less accustomed to Sergeant-Major Sugger, more accustomed, perhaps, than Sergeant-Major Sugger had to him. It had at first been something of a shock to see the braggart so thoroughly established in a post of honour at the depôt, and Freddy Mann's first instinct had been to make some short but sufficiently clear statement on his military record to the Carchester authorities. But nothing, after all, was to be gained by that. Sergeant-Major Sugger was what he was, and in his heart of hearts Freddy Mann, his own ideals now dead, rather admired the manner in which he had “got away with it.” That lucky piece of shrapnel that had got him as Harry had appeared round the traverse had just saved the situation: he had been carried down the Menin Road that night in the state of helplessness that he had striven to attain, and Carchester, as he had shrewd reason to
suspect that it would, had taken him at his own valuation. There were few Private Bamfords about, few who were his equals at the game, and those few whom he had found were soon to their mutual advantage in league with him. Get the Regular N.C.O. to the regimental depôt, and his path is easy.

Sergeant-Major Sugger soon established himself on parade ground and in the sergeants' mess, and proposed now and for the duration to remain there and pass on to the youth of the country something of his spirit of martial valour. After all, why worry? If it were not him, it would be somebody else probably of his sort who would stand there twirling his moustache, every now and then seizing a rifle and bayonet and making some showy lunge at a red patch on a swinging sandbag, and mouthing like a gramophone the doctrines and exhortations that enable a man the more efficiently to strike steel through bone and flesh. Good old Sugger. That was exactly what Robbie had always said he would be doing in the second summer of the war. That's how they had pictured him, talking just like that.

“That's where you want to get 'em, me lads —there by the patch. Ain't no use ticklin' 'em, or takin' a bit o' cheek. Good and proper in the middle, then get yer foot on the carcase—carcase, mind—and get it out clean, with a jerk like this.”

Out came the steel from the sacking.

“Red up to the 'ilt, that's what yer want to see. Inch or two o' red ink, that ain't no good. Red up to the 'ilt, and
there's one bloody Boche the less—same as what we used to do.”

He was, after all, so much of the spirit of the place. From Colonel downwards, they all taught this, and, it was to be presumed, believed in what they taught. Had he himself taught differently as he trained his bombing squad?

“And, mark you, the sooner it's done the sooner it's over, and you'll all be back at 'ome again. Kill 'em off and get it over quick.”

The sun suddenly shone out and threw the scarlet patches that marked heart and lungs upon the sandbags into sharper relief.

“Get 'em there, and there, like this.”

Sergeant-Major Sugger lunged again, driving his bayonet through the dummy's heart. The sand poured out.

“Imagine that's his guts. Only a swine's guts, after all.”

Was he worse than others?

“That's yer job, me lads, to kill 'em off. That's the first job of any Britisher today.”

The General had said the same thing in his lecture to the officers of the depôt the week before. Freddy Mann watched the group, standing attentive, rifles in hands, in the peace of the summer afternoon, and smiled. Was Sugger the only humbug and hypocrite? Weren't they all the same?

“That's how we treated 'em when I was there. That's how we stopped 'em up at Ypres—I tell you, lads, at Ypres. . . .”

But at that Freddy Mann came forward. He was, after all, in charge of the parade. He came quickly forward, and
spoke to Sergeant-Major Sugger in a low tense tone that others could not hear.

“You can leave Ypres out of it. Don't taint Ypres with those lies of yours, or . . .”

“What d'you mean, sir?” Sergeant-Major Sugger stepped back.

“Leave Ypres alone, I tell you. You know the reason. Tell them any other lies you like, but you'd better leave Ypres alone.”