Pass Guard at Ypres (16 page)

He'd stay here a minute or two, for here of all places in Ypres was where he would choose to be—here, between the ramparts and St. Jacques Church, before the tunnel where they had halted on that first evening, when Baggallay and Field and Bill were still with them, and Ypres and the war were new. He had come, as he knew he would have to come, for Ypres had called him back. He was afraid at one time last year that she'd forgotten him, but no, she hadn't done that: she wanted something from him still, and that was why he had not been left to drown in the wastes before Gheluvelt or allowed with the passing of winter to linger in hospitals or camps at home. He had come direct, and with speed, for the call was swift. There was no need for a Madame Fouquière to point to the red glare to the south, beyond the Lille Gate, or bid him listen to the incessant thunders round. But he'd always known at heart that this would be so, that one day Ypres would call him back. Why else did she allow Robbie to get him back from Forward Cottage, or that stretcher bearer fellow to find him just as he was sinking headlong in the mud last year? She always knew exactly whom she wanted, and how she wanted them. Some she wanted dead, like Baggallay, but others, like himself, were to remain alive, so that they could come to be with her at her call.

She knew him, too: he guessed that that would be so as well. That wasn't the midnight wind whispering between the broken towers of the Cloth Hall, that was the voice of Ypres. It was hard to know what she was saying, but it was to him she spoke. She knew him, as well she might: there wasn't much he hadn't done for her, or given when she asked it. Perhaps she was asking for more yet; he couldn't make out what the voice was saying, perhaps it was that that it was telling him all the while. He couldn't find out here, but he'd know perhaps if he went through the gate and down the road. It wasn't so far this time; no footslogging, like last year, to Clapham Junction and Glencorse Wood—no further than just past the White Château and on to the railway crossing and the little shrine, for the circle of lights was very close to Ypres, and the towers and ramparts were near to watch you, to see that you stood your guard. That was why she wanted him, because her hour of greatest need had come. She'd stripped him of friends, strength and hope, and she called him again now to keep barred the gates that bound the Menin Road. She'd taken all he had, but what of that? She wanted him, and those, he knew, whom Ypres wants have to come. And he could still hear her speaking to him, as he passed eastwards down the road.

Colonel George Harvey bent over the motionless form of his young company commander. For two hours on end he'd watched him, trying from time to time to detect the
faintest flicker of his pulse, or the smallest sign of colour in the bloodless cheeks. He was breathing still, but it didn't seem that now he could breathe much longer, even if the shelling stopped and they could get him down to the G.H.Q. trench and back along the Menin Road. He'd asked for this, of course; sooner or later it had to come. For the whole of those last mad weeks, as the British line fell further back to the south of Zillebeke and the iron grip closed more tightly upon them here at Ypres, it seemed that he'd sought this end. What fury of possession was it that had caused him blindly to leave trench or shell-hole upon the smallest hint of attack or raid? What madness had been working which had led him so often to turn backwards and speak aloud to Ypres as if in savage rejoicing in the moments of most awful and paralyzing thunder? Partly, perhaps, he was himself responsible. Long ago—he'd forgotten, until Freddy Mann had reminded him, of that chance meeting before Witteport when he, George Harvey, had watched him bury those early dead, those first guardians of the Salient. It was he who had told him that June evening how they'd fallen hanging on. Perhaps it was just that—some madness of association and memory working in a schoolboy's mind.

But Freddy Mann was no longer a schoolboy, no longer the Cherub now. Old—old. George Harvey looked at those lines graven so deep in the white chalky face—the drawn lips and hunted eyes now nearly closed. His head had once been a mop, he remembered, of lighted curls—there were only dank, lifeless strands now where the gold had been. His cheeks had been full, his forehead white and clear—there
was parchment now for skin, and cheek-bones showed high above the sunken hollows of his face. It could not only have been the schoolboy's madness, for Freddy Mann had seen too much. Perhaps it was just the old story, the old lust for death that would not come to end the torture when men sought it most. Or perhaps again not even that, but—George Harvey bent low as the lips moved to frame a trembling whisper. “We've kept—you—Ypres.” Was it after all just that? Was Ypres to Freddy Mann, who had known for three years Ypres and Ypres alone, a sacred thing to be defended? Were the torn streets, towers and ramparts hallowed? He'd guarded Ypres, and the shattered spine was the price he had to pay. Was that, after all, the secret of the madness, that to him at least there had been a glory in the guardianship? Men had died, here and in olden times, for lesser things. Perhaps, after all, while still a schoolboy he had understood.

Hear, now, Freddy Mann, for the Voices are speaking clearly: lie still upon your stretcher, for you cannot move, and answer as they speak.

“You have returned: has all been taken from you?”

“All.”

“Comrades?”

“Yes, comrades.”

“And strength?”

“Strength also.”

“And the hopes that once burned brightly?”

“They are dead.”

“What have you left to dwell with you?”

“But memories.”

“And to speak with?”

“Ghosts.”

The Voices are louder. They are very clear.

“What do you seek now?”

“Rest.”

“You did not know that this would be the end, the day you took the Road?”

“How could I know?”

“You had much to give. Were you ready to give it?”

“Yes, ready.”

“And now that you have given all, and for you the fight is ended?”

“I am tired.”

“Is pain yet with you?”

“I am past pain. I am tired.”

“Is there anything you seek for?”

“Nothing, nothing. I am very tired.”

“New life?”

“Not now.”

“Or hope, or warmth, or friendship?”

“No, not now.”

The Voices are louder: they are clearer yet. It is the Cathedral now that speaks, and the Church of St. Martin, the crucifix of St. Jacques, the Square, the Cloth Hall, the Menin Gate. And, as they speak, their Voices swell suddenly
to a mighty flood of sound that fills the midnight, so that at last of their mingling is born the Voice of Ypres.

“Mine are high lessons, soldier: have you learned?”

“What lessons should a soldier learn?”

“Courage.”

“I have learned much of Courage.”

“Faith?”

“Yes, Faith—but I had forgotten.”

“Friendship, too, so great that before it death is a little thing?”

“I have known such friendship: Robbie——”

“Sacrifice, also: have you learned to give?”

“I have given all.”

“And Pain: is Pain your master?”

“No.”

“Or utter Weariness?”

“I have fought Weariness and overcome.”

“Death, then. Is death yet fearful?”

“I am prepared to die.”

“These are high lessons: have you learned them all?”

“A little: I have tried——”

O mighty Voice of Ypres triumphant, speak!

“PASS ON, THRICE TRIED, TO
BE FOR EVER OF THE
BROTHERHOOD!”