The Valley of Bones (5 page)

‘Does that sort of thing bring in
enough?’

‘Not much cash in it, of course. You’ll
never make a fortune that way, but I rub along all right with the few pennies I have
already. Helps not being married. I expect you’re married?’

‘I am, as a matter of fact.’

He made marriage sound as if it
required some excuse.

‘I thought you would be,’ he said. ‘As
I mentioned, I’m not. Never found the right girl somehow.’

Bithel looked infinitely uncomfortable
when he admitted that. There was a pause in our conversation. I could not think
of anything to suggest. Girls certainly did not appear much in his line, though
you never could tell. I asked how he came to be in the Territorial Army Reserve,
which seemed to require explanation.

‘Joined the Terriers years ago,’ he
said. ‘Seemed the thing to do. Never thought I’d wear uniform again when I gave
them up. Rather glad to get back now and have some regular money rolling in. I’ve
been out of a job, as a matter of fact, and what I’ve got doesn’t support me.
We draw Field Allowance here, so I heard last night. I expect you know that
already. Makes a nice addition to the pay. Funds were running rather low, to
tell the truth. Always such a lot to spend money on. Reading, for instance. I
expect you’re an omnivorous reader, if you’re a journalist. What digests do you
take?’

At first I thought he referred to some
sort of medical treatment, harking back to the conversation of the chaplains
the night before, then realized the question had something to do with reading.
I had to admit I did not take any digests. Bithel seemed disappointed at this
answer.

‘I don’t really buy a lot of digests
myself,’ he admitted. ‘Perhaps not as many as I should. They have interesting
articles in them sometimes. About sex, for instance. Sex psychology, I mean. Do
you know about that?’

‘I’ve heard of it.’

‘I don’t mean the cheap stuff just to
catch the eye, girls and legs, all that. There are abnormal sides you’d never
guess. It’s wiser to know about such things, don’t you think?’

‘Certainly.’

Bithel moved nearer as we walked,
lowering his voice again. There was a faint suggestion of scented soap at this
close, too close, range.

‘Did they say anything about me before
I arrived?’ he asked in a troubled tone.

‘Who?’

‘Anybody in the Battalion?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Any details about my family?’

‘Somebody said you were a brother of
the VC.’

‘They did?’

‘Yes.’

‘What did you say when they told you
that?’

‘I thought you must be too young to be
his brother – more likely his nephew.’

‘Quite right. I’m not Bithel VC’s
brother.’

‘You are his nephew?’

‘I never said so, did I? But don’t let’s
talk any more about that. There was something else I wanted to ask you. Did
they say anything about games?’

‘What sort of games?’

‘Did they say I played any special
game?’

‘There was some talk of your having
played rugger for Wales.’

Bithel groaned.

‘There was talk of that?’ he asked, as
if to make sure he had heard right.

‘Yes.’

‘I knew there’d been a misunderstanding,’
he said.

‘What about?’

‘Why, about my playing football – about
rugger. You know what it is when you’ve had a few drinks. Very easy to give a
wrong impression. I must have done that when I phoned that officer dealing with
TA Reservists. Talked too much about local matters, sport, other people of the
name of Bithel and so on.’

‘So the VC is no relation, and you
didn’t play rugger for Wales?’

‘I wouldn’t go so far as to say he was
no relation. Never know who you may be related to in this part of the world. He’s
not a brother or uncle anyway. I must have managed to mislead that fellow
completely if he got that idea into his head. He didn’t sound very bright on
the phone. I thought so at the time. One of these old dug-outs, I suppose.
Colonel Blimp type. But it isn’t Bithel VC who worries me so much. It’s this
rugger misunderstanding.’

‘How did it arise?’

‘God knows. Something misheard on the
phone too, I should think. I believe there was a merchant called Bithel in the
Welsh Fifteen one year. Perhaps there was a Bithel who played cricket for
Glamorgan and I’ve muddled it. One or the other, I’m sure. It was a few years
back anyway. I must have mentioned it for some reason.’

‘It doesn’t really matter, does it?’

‘It would if we had to play rugger.’

‘That isn’t very likely.’

‘The fact is I’ve never played rugger
in my life,’ said Bithel. ‘Never had the chance. Not particularly keen to
either. Do you think we shall have to play?’

‘Not much time with all the training,
I should imagine.’

‘I hope not,’ he said, rather
desperately. ‘There’s a rumour we’re going to move almost at once in any case.’

‘Any idea where?’

‘People seem to think Northern
Ireland. I say, this parade ground is a long way off, isn’t it. Hope we shan’t
be inspected too closely, I’m not all that well shaved. I cut myself this
morning. Hand shaky, for some reason’

‘That dance was a splendid affair.’

‘What dance?’

‘The dance you did round the dummy in
your bed last night.’

‘Ah,’ said Bithel laughing, ‘I’ve
heard that one before – having somebody on by pretending he made a fool of
himself the night before. I know when I’m having my leg pulled. As a matter of
fact I was rather relieved when everyone went off quietly to bed last night. I
thought there might be some ragging, and I was feeling tired after the journey.
They used to rag a lot when I was in Territorial camp years ago. I never liked
it. Not cut out for that sort of thing. But to get back to razors – what
shaving soap do you use? I’m trying a new kind. Saw it advertized in
Health
and Strength.
Thought I’d experiment. I like a change of soaps
from time to time. It freshens you up.’

By that time we had reached the parade
ground. Kedward was already there. He took me off to the platoon I was to command. Bithel
disappeared in another direction. Kedward explained certain matters, then we
marched up and down side by side until officers were ordered to fall in. The
service was held in one of the parish churches of the town. Later, from the
pulpit, Popkiss, transformed now from the pale, embarrassed cleric of the
saloon bar, orated with the ease and energy shared by officers and men
throughout the Battalion. His text was from Ezekiel. Popkiss read the passage
at length:

‘The hand of the Lord was upon me, and
carried me out in the spirit of the Lord, and set me down in the midst of the
valley which was full of bones, and caused me to pass them round about: and,
behold, there were very many in the open valley: and, lo, they were very dry.
And he said unto me, Son of man, can these bones live? And I answered, O Lord
God thou knowest. Again he said unto me, Prophesy upon these bones, and say
unto them, O ye dry bones, hear the word of the Lord. Thus saith the Lord God
unto these bones; Behold, I will cause breath to enter into you, and ye shall
live. And I will lay sinews upon you, and cover you with skin, and put breath
into you, and ye shall live; and ye shall know that I am the Lord. So I
prophesied as I was commanded; and as I prophesied there was a noise, and
behold a shaking, and the bones came together, bone to bone. And when I beheld,
lo, the sinews and the flesh came upon them, and the skin covered them above;
and there was no breath in them. Then he said unto me, Prophesy unto the wind,
prophesy, son of man, and say to the wind, Thus saith the Lord God; Come from
the four winds, O breath, and breathe upon these slain that they may live. So I
prophesied as he commanded me, and the breath came unto them and they lived,
and stood up upon their feet, an exceeding great army …’

Popkiss paused, looked up from his
Testament, stretched out his arms on either side. The men were very silent in
the pitch-pine pews.

‘… Oh, my brethren, think on that open
valley, think on it with me … a valley, do I picture it, by the shaft of a
shut-down mine, where, under the dark mountain side, the slag heaps lift their
heads to the sky, a valley such as those valleys in which you yourselves abide …
Journey with me, my brethren, into that open valley, journey with me … Know you
not those same dry bones? … You know them well … Bones without flesh and sinew,
bones without skin or breath … They are our bones, my brethren, the bones of
you and of me, bones that await the noise and the mighty shaking, the gift of
the four winds of which the prophet of old did tell … Must we not come together,
my brethren, everyone of us, as did the bones of that ancient valley, quickened
with breath, bone to bone, sinew to sinew, skin to skin … Unless I speak
falsely, an exceeding great army …’

THE MOVEMENT ORDER came not
much more
than a week afterwards, before I had properly awakened from the dream through
the perspectives of which I ranged, London as remote from me as from Kedward,
Isobel’s letters the only residuum of a world occupied by other matters than
platoon training or turning out the guard. As if by the intoxication of a drug,
or compulsive hypnotic influences on the will, another world had been entered
by artificial means, through which one travelled irresistibly, ominously, like
Dr Trelawney and his fellow magicians, borne by their spells out on to the
Astral Plane. Now, at last, I was geared to the machine of war, no longer an
extraneous organism existing separately in increasingly alien conditions. For
the moment, routine duties scarcely allowed thought. There was a day
frantically occupied with packing. Then the whole Battalion was on parade.
Orders were shouted. We moved off in column of route, leaving behind us Sardis,
one of the Seven Churches of Asia, where the garments were white of those few
who remained undefiled. The men, although departing from their own
neighbourhoods and country, were in a fairly buoyant mood. Something was
beginning at last. They sang softly:

‘Guide me, O thou great Jehovah,
Pilgrim through this barren land:
I am weak, but thou art mighty,
Hold me with thy powerful hand,
Bread of heaven,
Bread of heaven
Feed me till I want no more …’

This singing on the march, whatever
form it took, always affirmed the vicissitudes of life, the changes, so often
for the worse, that beset human existence, especially in the army, especially
in time of war. After a while they abandoned the hymn, though not those
accustomed themes of uncertainty, hardship, weariness, despondency, vain
effort, contemplation of which gives such support to the soldier:

‘We had ter join,
We had ter join,
We had ter join Belisha’s army:

Ten bob a week,
Bugger all to eat,
Great big boots and blisters on yer feet.

We had ter join,
We had ter join,
We had ter join Belisha’s army:

Sitting on the grass,
Polishing up the brass,
Great black spiders running up yer – back.

We had ter join – we had ter join—
We had ter join – we had ter join …’

Gwatkin was in a state of unconcealed
excitement. He bawled out his commands, loud as if through a megaphone,
perpetually checking Kedward, Breeze and myself about minor matters. I could
just see Bithel plodding along with his platoon at the rear of the company
immediately ahead of us. He had turned up on parade carrying a small green
leather dressing-case, much battered, which he grasped while he marched.

‘Didn’t like to trust it with the
heavy baggage,’ he said, adjusting the worn waterproof cover, while we stood
easy at the railway station. ‘The only piece of my mother’s luggage I have
left. She’s gone to a Better Place now, you know.’

The train set out towards the north. This
was the beginning of a long journey to an unknown destination. Night fell.
Hours later, we detrained in stygian darkness. Here was a port. Black craft
floated on a pitchy, infernal lake. Beyond the mouth of the harbour, the wash
of waves echoed. The boat on which the Battalion embarked was scarcely large
enough to accommodate our strength. The men were fitted in at last, sitting or
lying like the cargo of a slave ship. The old steamer chugged away from the
jetty, and into open sea. Wind was up. We heaved about in choppy waters. There
was not going to be much sleep for anyone that night. After much scurrying
about on the part of officers and NCOs, Sergeant Pendry reported at last that
all was correct. He was accompanied by Corporal Gwylt, one of the Company’s
several wits, tiny, almost a dwarf, with a huge head of black curly hair; no
doubt a member of that primitive race of which the tall, fair Celt had become
overlord. Not always to be relied upon to carry out purely military duties to
perfection, Gwylt was acceptable as an NCO because he
never stopped talking and singing, so that his personality, though obtrusive,
helped the Platoon through some of the tedium inseparable from army life.

‘Has everyone had their cocoa issue,
Sergeant Pendry?’

‘That they have, sir, very good it
was.’

‘Some of the boys was too sick to
drink their cocoa, sir,’ said Corporal Gwylt, who felt his comment always
required.

‘Are a lot of the Platoon sea-sick?’

‘I told them to lie still and it would
pass,’ said Sergeant Pendry. ‘They do make a lot of fuss, some of them.’

‘Oh, bloody sick, some of them,’ said
Corporal Gwylt, like a Greek chorus. ‘That fair boy, Jones, D., bloody sick he
has been.’

The boat ploughed through wind and
wave. Was this the night journey on the sea of a thousand dreams loaded with
hidden meaning? Certainly our crossing was no less mysterious than those
nocturnal voyages of sleep. Towards morning I retired below to shave, feeling
revived when I returned to deck. The sky was getting lighter and land was in
sight. An easterly breeze was blowing when we went ashore, which sprayed about
a gentle drizzle. Beyond the harbour stretched a small town, grey houses,
factory chimneys. In the distance, mountains were obscured by cloud. Everything
looked mean and down-at-heel. There was nothing to make one glad to have
arrived in this country.