SATURDAY NIGHT
Every picture wakened in the mind of the reader by the preceding
chapters should be bathed in the brightest of sunshine, under the bluest
of skies, and the horizons should quiver with the blue heat. From now
onwards he must imagine grey skies, often streaming rain, and always
muddy roads and sodden grass.
That day saw the inauguration of a new kind of misery for our troops.
Dust, heat and thirst, their previous tormentors, retired in favour of
mud, chill and an unappeasable hunger. Their overstrained nerves and
worn bodies rendered them very susceptible even to the first breath of
autumn.
The Subaltern had lost all his underwear except his shirt, and part of
his socks. His breeches were torn at the knee, and he felt the chill of
the wind very acutely. He could feel the damp mud through the flapping
toes of his boot.
Then it began to rain--no mere light summer shower, that cooled one's
face and clothes, and delightfully wet one's hands, but a real autumnal
downpour. Hastily he undid the straps which tied his Burberry, and
shuffled into it, as he marched along. It was caked with mud, and smelt
of the earth that he had so often grovelled in, but as he fastened the
hooks beneath his chin, he felt profoundly glad of it, elated that he
had something to keep off the chill and wet. He buttoned it down to his
knees and experienced the faint sensation of comfort that one feels when
drawing one's blinds to shut out a stormy night.
* * * * *
Then the guns began to rattle by; always an ominous sign, for it meant
that battle was imminent. It was a remarkable thing that neither
infantry nor artillery took much notice of each other as they met. The
guns and carriages would thunder and bump and clatter over the pavé, the
thickset horses straining at their harness, the drivers urging them on.
But the infantry would plod along just the same, regardless of the noise
and bustle. The men would not even raise their eyes from the boots of
the preceding four.
Very soon after the last gun-carriage had rattled past, sounds of a
bombardment would be heard--the bangs and whizz of shells. The Column
would probably be halted, while a reconnaissance was made to ascertain
in what force the enemy was holding his position. As a rule, deployments
were not necessary, for the artillery generally succeeded in dislodging
the enemy off their own bat. Such affairs as this happened no less than
three times before it was dark, and in each case the Germans had had to
leave their dead and wounded behind them.
One poor fellow lay with his head propped up against a heap of stones
by the wayside. His chin and mouth had been torn from his face, and the
ragged flesh hung in tatters, red and bleeding, as it had been torn.
Almost before their eyes the man was passing away. It was awful.
"Poor devil, all this 'ere wasn't 'is fault, yer know," a man muttered.
As far as the Subaltern could hear, no one answered him. Perhaps some of
them were wondering where that dying man's soul was going to. One was a
Christian, of course, but one wanted to know more. One wanted, very
badly, a little precise, definite knowledge of What Happens--after. At
that moment he hated _Hamlet_. Yet the words kept surging through his
brain: "To die ... to sleep ... in that sleep of death, what dreams may
come?... puzzles the will ... makes us rather bear the ills we have,
than fly to others that we know not of!"
Not that conscience had "made a coward" of him, nor of any other man or
boy he had ever seen, a great deal nearer to death and vital, elementary
things than Shakespeare had ever been. He felt a little foolish for it,
but all the same he was thrilled by a sensation of triumphant
superiority to the Bard of Avon.
All the time the rain was streaming down, and all the time their clothes
grew wetter and wetter. Just before dusk a halt was made by the
roadside, and at last the booming of the guns died down to a silence
that was only broken by the incessant patter of the rain upon the sodden
earth.
There was not much to eat, only biscuits, whose freshness and crispness
had been lost in moist pockets. Nobody was thirsty: there was too much
water externally!
It was quite dark when they moved on. Somehow the darkness used to come
to them as a tremendous relief, as an armistice. They felt, in a subtle
way, more at home in it, for it shut out from their eyes the strange
sights and horrors of a land quite foreign to them. After the wearing
day, it brought a freshness that was exhilarating, a refreshing coolness
to the cheeks and hands that was gratifying and soothing. In spite of
everything their spirits rose.
As they passed over a little railway station, innocent, as usual, of any
suspicion of a platform, with a box set up as waiting-room, one of the
men in the section of fours behind him stumbled heavily over the single
lines.
"Nah then, Bill, wotcher doing to New Street Station?" New Street
Station, with its smoke, and hurrying crowds, and shrieking steam to be
compared to this clean, open, deserted spot! The daring of such a
comparison was stupendous. It appealed instantly to the men's sense of
the ridiculous. They roared with laughter.
The rain fell with depressing regularity, the wind blew gustily, but the
ice had been broken, an example had been set, and they all vied with
each other in forgetting their troubles in laughter.
"Blessed if it ain't Saturday night!" said one. It was impossible to say
offhand what day it was, but after a slight argument they arrived at
the astounding discovery that it was indeed Saturday. The discovery was
astounding, because it was almost incredible to them that such misery
could happen on a Saturday night--_the_ night of the week--the night of
marketing, of toothsome dishes, of melodrama and music halls.
"If my missus could see me now," roared a Reservist, "wouldn't her
laff!" He was, perhaps, a great deal more amused than she would have
been, poor woman.
"I ain't agoing to Church to-morrer," said another, with assumed
languor. "I'll lay a'bed, an' smoke me baccy, an' read me Sunday papers"
(derisive groans).
"Me and Sam's goin' on 'Midnight Pass' ter-night, ain't we, Sam?"
inquired a young "timeserving" fellow. "Who's on at the Hipper-drome?"
"Oh! Mah-rie Lloyd."
"Get urt, you'm too young to see our Mah-rie." Roars of laughter, that
almost shut out the wind with their heartiness!
The Subaltern could tell very accurately how their thoughts were flying
homewards, and he could see the very same pictures in front of their
eyes, because he lived near to where most of them lived, and knew the
sights that most of them knew. Their homes on Saturday night! The warm
red tiles of their kitchen floors; the "scrap" mats (laboriously hand
sewn) in front of the bright fires in their "grates." The walls of
their "parlours," bedecked with gorgeous lithographs, calendars and
framed texts!
All the things they loved so much to do on Saturday nights. The humming
market street, entirely blocked with its double rows of booths. How
pleasant it must have seemed to them! At the top of the street the
church stared impassively into space; at the bottom, the trams clanged
and grinded as they rounded the corner and swung triumphantly into the
square. The stalls, brightly lit by flaring gas-jets, laden with meat,
fish, fruit, sweets, music, flowers, all that the Soul could long for
throughout a restful Sunday day. Their womenfolk, with their heads
covered in the ubiquitous shawl of many colours, buzzing busily from
booth to booth, with a purse clutched in one hand, and an open "string"
bag, filled with bulky newspaper-covered parcels, in the other. The men
looking on with hands in pockets, English-wise, indefinably
self-conscious in the face of the delicate business of shopping. Then
perhaps an hour or two's excitement in a shag-scented picture palace, or
a crowded music hall with some big star at the top of the bill, a small
one at the bottom, and the between turns lamentable. And, of course, a
visit to some busy "saloon bar" redolent of "beer and 'baccy." Then home
on the electric tram.
The thought of it all did not, as might be expected, make them sad. In
fact, the home memories seemed to warm their hearts, and the humour of
this "Saturday night," which might have left more delicately cultured
natures untouched, appealed to them irresistibly.
That night the Subaltern, too, had his dreams. They did not fly
homewards: he would have hated to have been surrounded and overwhelmed
by his family: he shrank at the thought of congratulations: he shuddered
at the idea of explanations. To-night he would have wished to be quite
alone. And in London!
First of all would come a hot bath at the hotel--a tremendous scrubbing,
and a "rub down," with a big towel--haircuttings, and shaving, and nail
cleanings! Then he would get into mufti. He chose, after a careful
review, a lounge suit of a grey-blue colour that had been fashionable
that summer. It was light, and he had always liked the feel of it on his
shoulders. He chose the shirt, collar and tie to go with it. He imagined
himself completely dressed, and he looked with pleasure down at the
straight creases in his trousers, at his neat patent leather boots with
their suède tops. It pleased him tremendously to imagine himself once
more properly "clothed and in his right mind."
The next thing would be a feed. He reminded himself of his hunger, and
argued that he did not want anything "fancy." He would go to a grill and
order just what he liked, and a lot of it. The "Trocerdilli" was just
the place. First of all would come a "short one"--not that he needed an
appetiser! He imagined himself seated at a table, the cloth startlingly
white, the cutlery and glasses reflecting a thousand points of light.
He could hear the band, above the whirr of conversation, playing
something he knew. He was glancing down the menu card, and the waiter
was at his side. A soup that was succulent, thick and hot--his mouth
watered! Whitebait, perhaps. He saw their round little eyes and stiff
tails as he squeezed his slice of lemon over them. He felt the
wafer-slice of brown bread and butter in his fingers. A whisky-and-soda,
and a double one at that, to drink--he was tired of these French wines.
_A steak_ "from the grill"--undoubtedly a steak--tender, juicy, red,
with "chipped" potatoes, lying in long gold-and-brown fingers around it.
His teeth clashed at the thought of it! What would he have "to follow"?
Something rich and cold! A _meringue glacée_ was not good enough for the
occasion. A cream _bombe glacée_, or, better still, a _Pêche Melba_. He
saw the red syrup stuff in the little glass plate that it would be
served on. And the peach--like the cheeks of a lovely child! At last, if
he could manage it--which he did not at the moment doubt--something in
the savoury omelette line. And to finish up with, the Egyptian should
bring him some coffee. He saw the Egyptian very clearly, with his little
red cap and his dusky cheeks. Then, last of all, the man with the cigars
and liqueurs wheeled his tray. A good cigar from the top tray, clipped
and lit by the man's lamp. Then to choose from the half score of bottles
on the lower tray. Chartreuse, Benedictine, better still, Grand
Marmier.
That really was all. Nothing to do now but lean back in his chair, and
between his sips gaze contentedly through his cigar smoke at the lights,
the mirrors, the palms, and whirring electric fans and the happy,
flushed diners, with that curious, strained, puzzled and amused look
that creeps into the backs of people's eyes at such times.
Then he pictured himself leaving the restaurant, climbing the stairs.
The glass door was thrown open for him to pass through, with a gesture
that was positively grandiloquent.
The cold air of the street was fanning his heated cheek. People were
sweeping by him as he walked down Coventry Street. Ships that passed in
the night! Passionate eyes stabbed him. Strange scents momentarily swept
over him....
There was a completeness of detail in all these pictures that wrung from
him a very grim smile. Would he remember the war as vividly as he then
remembered all that?
He saw himself pause in the gutter of Wardour Street while a taxi slid
by. He saw himself survive the lure of the Empire, saw himself deciding
not to cross the road, and go down to the Alhambra.
Eventually he reached a music hall. He was going in now. He was taking
his place that moment in the plush stall. On the stage a little pseudo
nigger was joking privately with the conductor. He laughed at one of the
jokes he remembered. Then a woman came on. She was tragic, stately. He
was thrilled by her slimness, her weirdness, her vitality. The whole
atmosphere of the theatre was electrified by her personality. She was
singing a song in a way that he had never heard before. He remembered it
still. It was a Tango song. "His Tango girl!" His thoughts flew off at a
tangent....