The Passing Bells (63 page)

“It was bound to happen sooner or later.”

“One of the writers betrayed us.” He ran his hands through his hair and smiled bitterly. “God almighty, never get mixed up with strident anti-war types. Not one damn thing you do pleases even one-quarter of them. My particular Judas was an elderly anarchist who was furious with me for not devoting the first issue to a primer on how to assassinate politicians and generals. Not that I'm particularly against that sort of thing, you understand, but I thought it a bit thick for the first issue. Anyway, cutting a long story short, I'm on the run from a charge of sedition, and this seemed the best place to hide.”

“Stay as long as you like.”

“I'll borrow some cash from you and try to get into Spain . . . or even go back to Blighty. At least they don't shoot you there for having a difference of opinion.”

Jacob moped around the house for two days, debating with himself whether to go to Madrid and put out another paper, which might be smuggled into France, or return to England and take his chances as a conscientious objector. His depression was palpable, like a dark cloud following him from room to room. It was on the morning of the third day that Danny, the copy boy and general errand runner, arrived from Paris on his battered motorcycle. Along with a few letters and some articles for proofing, he carried a bulky package in his canvas knapsack.

“A limey officer dropped this off at the office, Mr. Rilke. Said he was doing a favor for a Colonel Wood-Lacy and that it was to be given to you personal.”

“Thanks, Danny. Anything new on the wires?”

“U-boats sank another American ship. . . . Congress looks ripe for voting for war in a few weeks . . . and McGraw predicts the Giants will take the pennant this year.”

“Good for McGraw. At least there's some sanity left in the world.”

There was a letter attached to the brown paper parcel.

Dear Martin:

Enclosed is a copy of the transcript, which I managed to get hold of. After reading it, I think you will understand why I sent it to you. Charles's agonized reflections on the war deserve something more meaningful than a filing cabinet in Whitehall. Just what you can do with it in light of the times I do not know, but I want you to have the ms. nonetheless.

The proceedings went just the way I said they would go. Charles spoke for two hours or more in front of three impassive men from the Judge Advocate's office. Their findings were foregone—no court-martial justified and Charles to remain at the hospital until the doctors see fit to discharge him. I have sent this across with a friend so as to avoid censors or other curious types pawing over the contents.

Best,
Fenton

“
What is it?” Jacob asked, glancing over Martin's shoulder as he sat reading the typed document. “Copy of a lawsuit?”

“More of an indictment, Jacob. But of course, you wouldn't have heard about it. Charles Greville shot his brother in the leg in January while home on leave.”

“Good God! Why?”

Martin touched the loose pages he had already read. “You can discover that reason for yourself.”

Jacob drew a chair up to Martin's desk. He barely glanced at the first two pages, merely noticing the stilted language of the panel judge explaining the purpose of the hearing, but the first paragraph of Charles's statement held his attention as nothing had ever done before:

“I entered this war with the highest of ideals and the firmest of faith in the rightness and justness of my patriotism . . .”

They read through the document several times, Martin lying on the sofa, Jacob slowly pacing the room.

“It took guts for old Fenton to get this hearing for Charles,” Jacob said. “I can see why the War Office was content to just let things lie. A pretty damning statement.”

“Only if people read it,” Martin said quietly.

“I gather that's what Fenton would like to see happen.”

“I couldn't get this published, you know that. It's too critical of the high command's handling of the Somme attacks—too outraged at the battle being turned into nothing more than bloody attrition, huge losses being justified because the Germans were suffering on the same scale. A British Verdun. The censors would turn it down flat. And even if I took it back to the States in my pocket, I doubt if I could find a paper that would touch it. They've got war fever over there now. No editor wants to print a cold shower.”

Jacob began to stalk the room in agitation, puffing on a cigarette and letting the ashes scatter across the rug.

“Christ, it isn't propaganda . . . it isn't even that critical of the war. It just damns the conduct of it, the senselessness of pushing men against machine guns and barbed wire over and over again. The whole thing is one long cry of despair for men caught in a trap. Every Tommy knows what the Somme was like, but the civilians turn a deaf ear to their stories. Hell, they just like to read the papers and see ‘Great Gains' printed on the banner, and study the war maps—the enlarged portions that make every advance look impressive unless you realize the scale is in yards, not miles.”

“That's all well and good, Jacob, but the hard fact remains—”

“That the wire services or the newspapers wouldn't touch it? Fine. Sod the bastards! Let's print it ourselves—a thousand copies or more, well printed and bound. . . . Send copies to every member of Parliament . . . every churchman . . . every intelligent human being we can think of.”

“Have you been at the brandy?”

“No. I'm drunk with purpose all of a sudden. I feel like flashing a bright light into dark corners. I'd like to see some MP with guts stand up in the House with this statement in his hand and cry out, ‘What in the name of God is going on over there? Let's find some generals who aren't dead from the neck up!” He slumped into a chair, a smoldering cigarette butt pasted to his lower lip. “All right. I'm sober now. That was just Jacob Golden being carried away by his own rhetoric, as usual. You're quite right, Martin. No one wants to read something that might make them question their faith in the war leaders or the holy purity of their cause. To die in battle is such a noble death, isn't it? The wisest thing you can do with Charles Greville's cry to the heavens is put it neatly away in a drawer.”

Martin chewed an unlit cigar and stared at the ceiling.

“
Could
we print it?”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

Jacob leaned forward and flipped his cigarette butt into the fireplace.

“Not here, unless you care to see the inside of a French prison. Could be done in Switzerland, but getting copies over the border would be very difficult. The French are horribly suspicious of printed matter. Could be done easily enough in London, of course.”

“Why ‘of course'?”

“My mother's brother, my Uncle Ben, prints foreign books. . . . Russian, Ukranian, Yiddish. Has a fine letterpress in Whitechapel. Used to work there sometimes as a kid before I got hauled away to prep school and Eton. I can still smell the ink he used.”

Martin scowled at his cigar and bit off the tip. “Wouldn't be much point in printing this in Ukrainian.”

“Ben? He has fonts of half the world's languages . . . even English. The man collects typefaces the way some men collect old wines. Type and socialism, Ben's twin passions.”

“You'd be running a risk going back to England, wouldn't you, Jacob?”

“Well, I'm running a risk staying here, aren't I? All that can happen to me in England is that they give me a choice—go back into the army or get tucked away in a CO camp and spend the rest of the war tilling the soil. Not the worst fate I can think of. It's a risk I'm willing to run. You face a bigger one, Martin. This transcript is definitely critical of the war and would be an embarrassment to the War Office and the General Staff. They could label you an unfriendly journalist and take away your press passes. The French war ministry works hand in glove with ours, so you might just be twice damned. I can't see how much use you'd be to the Associated Press if you weren't allowed within a hundred miles of the war zone.”

“I wouldn't be the first AP correspondent ever kicked out of a war zone because he rubbed brass the wrong way.”

“And then there's Fenton. Wonder how much will come down on his head? If he hadn't pushed for a hearing . . .”

Martin swung his legs off the sofa with a groan and then bent toward the table, where the transcript lay scattered. He sorted the pages together with firm purpose.

“He never would have sent this to me if he were afraid of repercussions. This was his cast of the die. Come on, Jacob, if we hurry we can catch the night train to Le Havre.”

London, March 25, 1917

Observations and Reflections. There is a great sense of satisfaction in setting type. For me, it is a return to print shop—10 point Baskerville, cranking out the Lincoln High School yearbook on the platen press. A copy of the slim paperbound book that we have worked so hard on lies before me. Far better printed than the old Lincoln High thing, although the method of producing it was essentially the same. Jacob's Uncle Ben designed it, chose the typeface, helped Jacob and me compose the type, and picked out the paper. A master printer's job. Title page reads:

AFTER THE SOMME

An inquiry into the advisability of

court-martial of Major The Rt. Hon. Charles

Greville, 2nd Royal Windsor Fusiliers,

conducted at Llandinam War Hospital

WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY

Martin Rilke, Associated Press

God willing, I will have grandchildren one day, and they will wish to know why the old man stuck his neck out a country mile and put his name on the document. The fact is, I had not thought of doing it, but Uncle Ben, who looks more like one of the prophets than anyone's uncle, argued that the book needed a touch of authenticating, England being the land of the literary hoax and Charles Greville himself not being available for interview. And so I sat in a corner of Uncle Ben's shop and wrote an introduction, explaining who I was and what I had seen of this war to date and who Major Greville was to me. My cousin's story, I said, and perhaps your son's story, or your brother's or father's story. “Be cool but passionate,” Uncle Ben advised. Uncle Ben is a man who speaks in contradictions. Above his desk there are two framed, signed photographs. One is of the anarchist Kropotkin, the other of King Edward VII. The two men appear to be winking at each other and smiling down on Uncle Ben at the same time. “Confusion is not always disorder,” Uncle Ben murmurs from time to time. “A poor tool will often blame the workman.”

March 28. Hyde Park.

Managed to spend one night with Ivy, Jacob discreetly leaving the flat to us and taking a hotel room. She has been curious about my stay in London and I told her the truth. She read the little book, sitting up in bed with my robe around her shoulders, not saying anything until she had turned the final page. It is nothing new to her—the self-inflicted wounds, the intense gratitude that once-strong men feel when they are carried out of the line with a crushed leg or a shattered hand or arm. Blightly wound. “Better to be a cripple than a corpse, mate.” She knows I may get into trouble when this thing is sent around. May even lose my English visa and my French
permis de séjour.
Everyone very touchy at the moment. British battle casualties well over the seven-hundred-thousand mark, the French a great deal more, a major battle about to begin as Nivelle completes his final plans for ending the war before summer. Rumors everywhere among the press corps in London that Nivelle is in for a terrible surprise if he tries to take the chemin des Dames by frontal assault. America trembling on the brink of jumping into this war with both feet and closed eyes. Lousy timing for an indictment of Western Front generalship and the callousness of slaughter. But my Ivy does not try to dissuade me. She is blunt about it. “I have my job and you have yours. Do what you feel is right.” Solid Norfolk speech. She may go back to the hospital trains soon—Calais to Poperinghe—so I give her the key to Rilke Manor just in case AP ships me to Timbuktu until the dust, if any, settles. She can use the house when she gets short leaves, give it the woman's touch. Go over the finances with her like an old married couple working out the budget. She is stunned by the balance in the Banque de Rothmann. “You should put it to work for you, Martin.” Sounds just like Uncle Paul.

“Hope I'm not breaking your chain of thought.”

Martin closed his notebook as Jacob sat down with a weary grunt on the bench beside him.

“No, I was just bringing things up to date.”

“Must read that voluminous journal of yours one day, Martin. Give me something to do in my old age.”

“All sent out?”

“Well, enough to start things going. Frightening the number of copies Ben ran off. He got quite carried away.”

They sat in silence and watched ducks glide across the ruffled waters of the Serpentine. Anti-aircraft guns and searchlights could be seen near the Dell, the slender cannon tubes pointed at the sky, waiting for clear nights and the Gothas or Zeps. There were more guns across the park near the statue of Peter Pan. Guns all across Europe, from Hyde Park to the Swiss border—a thick dark blanket of guns and wire and men.

“It's a very
small
book, isn't it, Jacob?” Martin said softly.

The Honorable Arthur Felchurch, MP, member from Twickenhurst, began the book at breakfast and finished it at the Commons before debate began on the railroad expansion bill. He found it quite curious.

“Odd,” he remarked to a fellow Conservative, “this fellow appears to feel quite justified in shooting his own brother in the kneecap.”

“What on earth did he do that for, Arthur?”