THE GREEN ROOM
§1
The story of our two-months' delay at Mudros is largely the story of
Monty's eccentricities. As for Doe and myself, we just watched with
growing pride our knees burning in the sun to a Maori brown. When we
bathed in the bay and saw that, while our bodies as a whole were a
pale English pink, our elbows, knees and necks, that were daily
exposed to the sun, were turning to this beautiful tint, we would
place our limbs side by side to see which of us achieved the greater
depth of colour. For this we drew our pay.
Jimmy Doon received early his orders to join his regiment on the
Peninsula. He left us, declaring that he only contemplated paying a
flying visit to the front, as the very sound of the guns convinced
him that he was a civilian at heart. He would be back soon, he said.
Monty appointed himself Chaplain to No. 16 Stationary Hospital, and
set to work. And during this period at Mudros he was just about as
regrettable and impossible in his behaviour as I have ever known
him. He procured a gramophone, and, touring the tents, in which the
sick men lay, would set the atrocious instrument playing, "Kitty,
Kitty, isn't it a pity in the city you work so hard?" The invalids
loved the jingling refrain, and added to the plagues of Mudros by
roaring its chorus. Then Monty would return in the worst of tempers
to our tent, and, putting the instrument roughly away, sit down and
look miserable. If Doe asked permission to feel his pulse or see his
tongue, he would shut him up with the words, "Oh, stuff!" But once
he laughed sarcastically and burst, with all the Monty enthusiasm
and emphasis, into a diatribe against Broad Churchmanship, the
ignorance of laymen, the timidity of the clergy, wishy-washy
sermons--in short, the criminal lack of dogmatic teaching. Not
seeing any connexion between dogmatic teaching and a gramophone, Doe
looked so amazed that Monty laughed, and grumbled:
"It's fine priestly work I'm doing for these lads, isn't it? Work
any hospital orderly could do. I ought to be hearing their
confessions, and saying Mass for them. Instead I play them 'Kitty,
Kitty, isn't it a pity--?' But they don't understand--they don't
understand."
"But, gracious heavens," said Doe, "you can't be always doing
priestly work. And we know to our sorrow that you do have sing-song
services sometimes. Why, last night you had at least a couple of
hundred bawling hymns at the tops of their voices, and making the
night hideous. Wasn't that priestly enough?"
"No," he snapped. "It was a service any layman or hot-gospeller
could hold. There they were--a mass of bonny lads, all calling
themselves 'C. of E.,' and none of them knowing anything about the
Mass or confession. Ah, they don't understand. It breaks my heart,
Rupert. All sons of the Church; and they don't know the lines of
their mother's face!"
"Well, why on earth," said Doe, impatiently, "do you run your
beastly gramophone and your rousing services, if they're not your
proper work?"
"Why, don't you see?" murmured Monty, turning away to watch the sun
setting behind a sweep of violet hills, "I _must_ pull my weight. I
can feel patriotic at times. And, if I can't be a priest to the big
majority, I can at least be their pal. That's how a padre's work
pans out: a priest to the tiny few, and a pal to the big majority. I
suppose it's something. Perhaps it's something."
§2
It was Monty who first called Mudros, "The Green Room." The name was
happily chosen, for here at Mudros the actors either prepared for
their entry on the Gallipoli stage, or returned for a breather, till
the call-boy should summon them again. In it, after the manner of
green rooms, we discussed how the show in the limelight was going.
We saw much that made us gossip.
We saw the huge black transports bear into Mudros Bay. Many were
ships that were the pride of this watery planet. Like a duchess
sailing into a ball-room came the _Mauretania_, making the mere
professional warships and the common merchantmen look very small
indeed. But even she, haughty lady, was put in the shade, when her
young but gargantuan sister, the _Aquitania_, floating leisurely
between the booms, claimed the attention of the harbour, and reduced
us all to a state of grovelling homage. And then the _Olympic_, not
to be outdone by these overrated Cunarders, would join the company
with her nose in the air.
They were packed with yellow-clad and helmeted soldiers, who were as
noisy about their entrance as the great ships were silent. Tommy,
coming into harbour at the end of a voyage, had a habit of
announcing his approach. So, when we on the land heard over the
water shouting, singing, genial oaths, "How-d'ye-do's," and
"What-ho's"; and such advices as "Cheerioh! The Cheshires are here!"
"We'll open them Narrows for you"; "Here we are, here we are, here
we are again," or the simple statement "We've coom!" we left our
tents, and just went into our field-glasses, as one goes into a
theatre.
The men in the transports were delayed a night in the harbour, and
on the following day disgorged into the floating omnibuses that
plied nightly to Suvla or Helles. These omnibuses were old Isle of
Man passenger steamers, jolly old tubs, doing their bit like papa
and uncle and grandad in the National Guard at home. Being due to
arrive with their crowds of fighting men at the Peninsula in the
darkness of midnight, they would get under way just before dusk.
They went out with the sun, travelling straight and slowly between
the hulls.
To the lads, thus being drawn to the danger-zone, a send-off would
be given in salvos of cheers from the sides of the anchored vessels,
the bands of the Navy sometimes playing them out with the old airs
of England. And the lads themselves, enjoying their evanescent
triumph, and feeling like the applauded heroes on a carnival car,
would shout back a merry response, or pick up the chorus of the tune
rendered by the distant band.
Many a still evening Doe and I watched their departure, knowing
that soon we should go out of the port like that in the red of a
sunset. And Monty, hearing the cries of "Good Luck," "Love to Johnny
Turk," "Finish it off quickly," "Hi, put yer trust in Gawd, and keep
your 'ead down," and the faint strains of "Steady, boys, steady,
we'll fight and we'll conquer again and again," would bewail the
fact that he was too far off to cheer, and give vent to rising and
choking feelings. He wanted to pat these departing lads on the back.
For in the Green Room they had dressed for their parts, and were now
going through the door on their way to the stage.
§3
Were we really winning on the Peninsula or losing? August, in spite
of that black remark of the O.C. Rest Camp, decided that all was
well. The fresh arrivals on the troopships brought with them like a
breeze from the homeland that atmosphere of glowing optimism which
prevailed in England in the early August days. The same news came
from the opposite direction. For the streams of wounded, who in the
weeks following the Suvla invasion poured into our Mudros hospitals,
told us that the Turk was fairly on the run. "It can't last long,"
they said. "We've only to climb one of them two hills--either Sari
Bair on the Suvla front, or old Achi Baba at Helles--and the trick's
done. From the top of either of 'em we shall look down upon the
Narrows, and blow their forts to glory. Up'll go the Navy, and there
y'are!" It would be over by Christmas, they believed; for Christmas
was always the pivot of Tommy's time.
So spoke August, drinking deep from cups overflowing with
confidence. September detected a taste of doubt in the cheery
optimism of the Green Room, and like a loyal British September, spat
out the unpalatable mouthful. But the taste remained.
Nothing but stagnation seemed to be prevailing on the Peninsula. The
incessant roll of guns could no longer be heard at Mudros. The
old-time shifts of wounded ceased to pour into our hospitals. In
their stead came daily crowds of dysentery, jaundice and septic
cases. And these men told a different tale from the wounded, who, a
month before, had returned from the stage like actors aglow with
triumph. All reported "Nothing doing" on Gallipoli.
And the Big Rains were fast drawing due. The time was at hand when
the ravines and gorges that cracked and spliced the Mudros Hills
would roar to the torrents, and the hard, dust-strewn earth would
become acres of mud, from which our tent-pegs would be drawn like
pins out of butter. We remembered Elijah on Mount Carmel, and looked
at the sky for rain.
But we looked in alarm and not hope. For, if the Narrows were not
forced before the rains and sea-storms began, the campaign, we
understood, would be doomed to disaster. The rain would turn our
great Intermediate Base, Mudros, into a useless lagoon, and the
sea-storms would beat on the beaches of the Peninsula, smash the
frail jetties built at Suvla and Helles, and, by preventing the
landing of supplies, condemn the Suvla army and the Helles army to
annihilation or surrender.
"Surely, oh surely," said Monty, looking up one day at a cloudy sky,
"something largely conceived will be attempted before the rains work
havoc among the communications on land, and the storms slash at the
communications by sea. We _must_ be going to win."
"O Lord, yes," echoed I.
But September with its dry weather began to wane, the rains started
a plaguy pelting, and the winds commenced to excite the placid
Ægean, while we still awaited big movements and final things.
§4
Then the evil Peninsula sent straight to Monty's feet something that
seemed like a direct message of scornful warning to our little
_Rangoon_ group. It was such a message as defiant kings have sent to
banter those who contemplated an invasion of their realms. This is
how it came.
Day after day (you must know) in the early morning, the dead, sewn
up in their blankets, were landed from the ships that had picked
them up in a dying condition at Suvla and Helles. They were laid in
rows on the little landing-jetty, the "Egyptian Pier." After awhile
the men would put them by in a mortuary tent, where they rested till
the evening, when a G.S. waggon conveyed them to the cemetery.
Generally Monty, whose duty it was to bury them, would sit on the
driver's seat and ride to the cemetery, after persuading Doe and me
to ride with him.
On a certain September evening Monty glanced at the Camp
Commandant's "chit," and read it aloud to us: "'Seven bodies for
burial at 1700.' Are you coming?"
Doe turned towards me. "Coming, Rupert?"
"No. I'm too tired."
"Oh, rot, you scrimshanker. You've been hogging it all the
afternoon."
"Yes, come on," said Monty. "We'll drive on the waggon."
The G.S. waggon with its seven blanketed forms was outside waiting
for Monty. It was drawn by two teams of mules with mounted drivers.
The driver's seat was therefore vacant, and on to it Monty, Doe and
I climbed. The waggon started, as Monty whispered: "It's rather like
the Dead Cart in the days of the Great Plague, isn't it?" We never
spoke loud with that load behind us.
The waggon jolted along the straight white road to the cemetery,
which was a little dusty acre on a plain between the hills. We
halted at the gate, and Monty, getting down from his seat, robed by
the front wheels. And, when the seven bodies had been removed in
their stretchers from the waggon and laid in a line upon the road,
the corporal of the Burial Party saluted Monty, and said:
"One's an officer, sir. Will you take him first?"
"I'll go in front," answered Monty. "Then the seven bodies, one
after another, the officer's body leading. Feet first, of course."
"Very good, sir." The corporal, seeing that the bearers stood ready
at the head and foot of each stretcher, said quietly:
"Bearers, raise!"
All the bearers bent in simultaneous motion, and lifted the
stretchers from the road.
"Slow--march!"
The procession moved off, Monty in front picking his way between the
graves towards those open to receive the day's dead. The Greek
grave-diggers rested on their spades, and bared their heads. Some
stray French soldiers sprang to attention, and saluted. A few
curious British and a tall brown Sikh copied the Frenchmen,
remaining at the salute till the procession had passed. And, when
the open graves were reached, all these stragglers gathered round to
form a little company of mourners.
Having seen the bodies laid by the graves, the corporal bent over
the form of the dead officer, and removed from his breast that small
piece of paper, which was always pinned to the blanket to state the
man's identity: in this case it happened to be a government
envelope, marked "On His Majesty's Service." The corporal handed it
to Monty.
I recall the moment of his action as the last quiet moment before an
unexpected shock. I seem to remember that it was a very graceful
body, long and shapely, that lay there, outlined beneath the
tightly-wrapped blanket. It looked like an embalmed Egyptian.
Monty read the envelope, and frowned. He read it again, crumpled it
up, and looked down at the long, slender form of the dead officer.
Then, glancing round for Doe and me, and catching our eyes, as we
watched him in curiosity, he handed the envelope to us. We smoothed
out its crumpled folds, and read: "On His Majesty's Service. Lieut.
James Doon."
This was the message that the Peninsula had contemptuously tossed to
us.
Monty began the service, but I scarcely heard him. I was staring at
the blanketed form, and thinking of Jimmy as he had been: Jimmy with
all his bitter jests about death; Jimmy grumbling on the _Rangoon_
because he would have to stay at Mudros "till the end of the world";
Jimmy leaving for the Peninsula with the words that he would be back
soon. I thought how strange it was that we should have been sitting
on that G.S. waggon, without knowing that we were taking a last ride
with Jimmy Doon. I pictured again Jimmy being borne into the
cemetery, feet first, at the head of his six dead men.
"Man that is born of a woman--" Monty was saying, and, as the words
fell, the bearers raised with ropes the corpse from off its
stretcher, and began to lower it into the grave.
"Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust--" At this point the
kindly French and British onlookers and the tall brown Sikh picked
up their handfuls of earth, and threw them upon the body as their
compliment to the dead.
The sight of Jimmy going down into his grave on the lengthening
ropes started in me a real grief, and, when the strangers paid their
simple respect to the unknown dead, I felt momentarily stricken, and
shivered with pride that I had known him whom they thus honoured.
But all this passed away, and left a dull indifference. The war was
fast teaching me its petrifying lesson--to be incapable of horror. I
tried to recover my sorrow, thinking that I ought to do so, but I
could feel no emotion at all. "This sort of thing," ran my thoughts,
"seems to be the order of the day for the generation in which we
were born. It's all very fine, or all very unfair. I don't know. The
old Colonel and Monty said it was very glorious, so no doubt it must
be. But, whatever it is, we're all in it. Poor old Jimmy."
So I fell into a mood that was partly the resignation of perplexity,
partly a sulkiness with fate. With the same blunted mind, perceiving
no pain, I watched the Greek diggers, at the end of the service, as
they began to shovel the earth on to my friend's body. First they
tossed it so that it fell in a little pile on his breast; then they
threw it, dust and clods, over his feet, till at last only the head,
hooded in its blanket, was uncovered. They turned their attention to
that, and the earth fell heavily on Jimmy Doon's face. I turned
unfeelingly away.
Poor Jimmy, a mere super in the Gallipoli drama, had played his
trifling part on the stage, and was now sleeping in the Green Room.
Was it all very fine, or all very unfair? In my tent that evening I
worried the problem out. At first it seemed only sordid that James
Doon should have his gracious body returned by that foul Peninsula,
like some empty crate for which it had no further use, to be buried
without firing party, drums or bugles. But every now and then I
caught a glimpse of my mistake. I was thinking in terms of matter
instead of in terms of spiritual realities. I must try to get the
poetic gift of the old Colonel and Monty, whose thoughts did not
prison themselves in flesh but travelled easily in the upper air of
abstract ideals like glory and beauty and truth. But it was
difficult. Only in my exalted moments could I breathe in that high
air.
And I could not climb to-night. Perhaps if they had but sounded the
"Last Post" at Jimmy's burial, I should have lost sight of its
grossness and caught the vision of its glory. I was wondering if
this would have unveiled the hidden beauty, when, very strangely,
the bugles in all the camps rang out with the great call. It was
dark, and they were sounding the "Last Post" over the close of the
day's work. But for those who preferred to think so, it was blown
over the day's dead.