_'Probably by now you will have seen or heard from young
Penrose. He was hit on the 16th, a nasty wound in the chest
from a splinter.... It was rather funny--not funny, but you
know what I mean--how he got it. I was there myself though I
didn't see it. I had been up to H.Q. to see about the rations,
and there were a lot of us, Johnson (he is now Adj. in your
place) and Fellowes, and so on, standing outside H.Q. (which is
on a hill--what you people call a forward slope, I believe),
and watching our guns bombarding the village. It was a
remarkable sight, etc. etc._ (a long digression).... _Then the
Boche started shelling our hill; he dropped them in pairs,
first of all at the other end of the hill, about 500 yards off,
and then nearer and nearer, about 20 yards at a time ... the
line they were on was pretty near to us, so we thought the
dug-out would be a good place to go to.... Penrose was just
starting to go back to his company when this began, and as we
went down somebody told him he'd better wait a bit. But he said
"No, he wanted to get back." I was the last down, and as I
disappeared (pretty hurriedly) I told him not to be a fool. But
all he said was, "This is nothing, old bird--you wait till you
live up here; I'm going on." The next thing we heard was the
hell of an explosion on top. We ran up afterwards, and there he
was, about thirty yards off.... The funny thing is that I
understood he rather had the wind-up just now, and was anything
but reckless ... in fact, some one said he had the Dug-out
Disease.... Otherwise, you'd have said he wanted to be killed.
I don't know why he wasn't, asking for it like that.... Well,
thank God I'm a Q.M., etc. etc.'_
I read it all very carefully, and wondered. '_You'd have said he wanted
to be killed._' I wondered about that very much.
And there was a postscript which interested me:
'_By the way, I hear Burnett's got the M.C.--for Salvage, I
believe!_'
X
I was six months in that hospital, and I did not see Harry for seven.
For I was at Blackpool, and he at Lady Radmore's in Kensington. His was
a quicker business than mine; and when I had finished with the hospitals
and the homes and came to London for a three weeks' laze, he was back at
the Depot. Then he got seven days' leave for some mysterious reason (I
think there was a draft leaving shortly, and everybody had some leave),
and I dined twice with him at home. They had a little house in Chelsea,
very tastefully furnished by Mrs. Penrose, whom I now saw for the first
time. But I saw more of her that evening than I did of Harry, who was
hopelessly entangled with two or three 'in-laws.' She was a dark, gentle
little person, with brown, and rather sorrowful, eyes. When I first saw
her I thought, 'She was never meant to be a soldier's wife,' but after
we had talked a little, I added, 'But she is a good one.' She was
clearly very much in love with Harry, and delighted to meet some one who
had been with him in France, and was fond of him--for, like all wives,
she soon discovered that. But all the time I felt that there were
questions she wanted to ask me, and could not. I will not pretend to
tell you how she was dressed, because I don't know; I seldom notice, and
then I never remember. But she appealed to me very much, and I made up
my mind to look after _her_ interests if I ever had the chance, if there
was ever a question between Harry and a single man. I had no chance of a
talk with Harry, and noticed only that he seemed pretty fit again but
sleepless-looking.
The second night I went there was the last night of Harry's leave. If I
had known that when I was asked I think I should not have gone; for
while it showed I was a privileged person, it is a painful privilege to
break in on the 'last evening' of husband and wife; I know those last
evenings. And though Harry was only going back to the Depot in the
morning, it was known there had been heavy losses in the regiment; there
was talk of a draft ... it might well be the last evening of all.
I got there early, at Harry's request, about half-past five, on a
miserable gusty evening in early November. Harry was sitting in a kind
of study, library, or den, writing; he looked less well, and very
sleepless about the eyes.
It was the anniversary of one of the great battles of the regiment; and
we talked a little of that day, as soldiers will, with a sort of gloomy
satisfaction. Then Harry said, slowly:
'I've been offered a job at the War Office--by Major
Mackenzie--Intelligence.'
'Oh,' I said, 'that's very good.' (But I was thinking more of Mrs. Harry
than Harry.)
Harry went on, as if he had not heard. 'I was writing to him when you
came in. And I don't know what to say.'
'Why not?'
'Well,' he said, '_you_ know as well as any one what sort of time I've
had, and how I've been treated--by Philpott and others. And I've had
about enough of it. I remember telling you once on the Peninsula that I
thought myself fairly brave when I first went out ... and, my God, so I
was compared with what I am now.... I suppose every one has his
breaking-point, and I've certainly had mine.... I simply feel I can't
face it again.'
'Very well,' I said, 'take the job and have done with it. You've done as
much as you can, and you can't do more. What's the trouble?'
But he went on, seemingly to convince himself rather than me. 'I've
never got over those awful working-parties in that ---- valley; I had two
or three 5-9's burst right on top of me, you know ... the Lord knows how
I escaped ... and now I simply dream of them. I dream of them every
night ... usually it's an enormous endless plain, full of shell-holes,
of course, and raining like hell, and I walk for miles (usually with
you) looking over my shoulder, waiting for the shells to come ... and
then I hear that savage kind of high-velocity shriek, and I run like
hell ... only I can't run, of course, that's the worst part ... and I
get into a ditch and lie there ... and then one comes that I know by the
sound is going to burst on top of me ... and I wake up simply sweating
with funk. I've never told anybody but you about this, not even Peggy,
but she says I wake her up sometimes, making an awful noise.'
He was silent for a little, and I had nothing to say.
'And then it's all so different now, so damnably ... dull.... I wouldn't
mind if we could all go out together again ... just the Old Crowd ... so
that we could have good evenings, and not care what happened. But now
there's nobody left (I don't expect they'll let _you_ go out again),
only poor old Egerton--he's back again ... and I can't stand all those
boot-faced N.C.O. officers and people like Philpott, and all the Old
Duds.... You can't get away from it--the boot-faces _aren't_ officers,
and nothing will make them so ... even the men can't stand them. And
they get on my nerves....
'It all gets on my nerves, the mud, and the cold, and the futile
Brigadiers, and all the damned eyewash we have nowadays ... never having
a decent wash, and being cramped up in a dug-out the size of a
chest-of-drawers with four boot-faces ... where you can't move without
upsetting the candle and the food, or banging your head ... and getting
lousy. And all those endless ridiculous details you have to look after
day after day ... working-parties ... haversack rations ... has every
man got his box-respirator?... why haven't you cleaned your rifle?...
as if I cared a damn!... No, I won't say that ... but there you are, you
see, it's on my nerves.... But sometimes' (and though I sympathized I
was glad there was a 'but') 'when I think of some of the bogus people
who've been out, perhaps once, and come home after three months with a
nice blighty in the shoulder, and got a job, and stayed in it ever
since ... I feel I can't do that either, and run the risk of being taken
for one of them....'
'I don't think there's any danger of that,' I remarked.
'I don't know--one "officeer" is the same as another to most people....
And then, you know, although you hate it, it does get hold of you
somehow--out there ... and after a bit, when you've got used to being at
home you get restless.... I know I did last time, and sometimes I do
now.... I don't say I hunger for the battle, I never want to be in a
"stunt" again ... but you feel kind of "out of it" when you read the
papers, or meet somebody on leave ... you think of the amusing evenings
we used to have.... And I rather enjoyed "trekking" about in the back
areas ... especially when I had a horse ... wandering along on a good
frosty day, and never sure what village you were going to sleep in ...
marching through Doullens with the band ... estaminets, and talking
French, and all the rest of it....
'And then I think of a 5-9--and I know I'm done for.... I've got too
much imagination, that's the trouble (I hope you're not fed up with all
this, but I want your advice).... It's funny, one never used to think
about getting killed, even in the war ... it seemed impossible somehow
that _you yourself_ could be killed (did you ever have that
feeling?) ... though one was ready enough in those days ... but now--even
in the train the other day, going down to Bristol by the express, I found
I was imagining what would happen if there was a smash ... things one
reads of, you know ... carriages catching fire, and so on ... just
"wind-up." And the question is--is it any _good_ going out, if you've got
into that state?... And if one says "No," is one just making it an
excuse?... It's no good telling a military doctor all this ... they'd
just say, "Haw, skrim-shanker! what you want is some fresh air and
exercise, my son!..." And for all I know they may be right.... As a
matter of fact, I don't think I'm physically fit, really ... my own
doctor says not ... but you're never examined properly before you go out,
as you know.... You all troop in by the dozen at the last moment ... and
the fellow says, "Feeling quite fit?..." And if you've just had a good
breakfast and feel buckish, you say, "Yes, thank you," and there you
are.... Unless you _ask_ them to examine you you might have galloping
consumption for all they know, and I'm damned if I'd ask them.... After
all, I suppose the system's right.... If a man can stick it for a month
or two in the line, he's worth sending there if he's an officer ... and
it doesn't matter to the country if he dies of consumption afterwards....
But my trouble is--_can_ I stick it for a month or two ... or shall I
go and do some awful thing, and let a lot of fellows down?... Putting
aside my own inclinations, which are probably pretty selfish, what is it
my duty to do?... After friend Philpott I don't know that I'm so keen on
duty as I was ... but I do want to stick this ---- war out on the right
line, if I can.... What do _you_ think?'
'Before I answer that,' I said, 'there's one consideration you seem to
have overlooked--and that is Mrs. Penrose.... After all, you're a
married man, and that makes a difference, doesn't it?'
'Well, does it? I don't really see why it _should_ make any difference
about going out, or not going out ... otherwise every shirker could run
off and marry a wife, and live happily ever after.... But it certainly
makes it a damned sight harder to decide ... and it makes the hell of a
difference when you're out there.... You can make up your mind not to
think of it when you're at home ... like this ... but out there, when
you're cold and fed up, and just starting up the line with a
working-party ... you can't help thinking of it, and it makes things
about ten times more difficult ... and as you know, it's jolly hard not
to let it make a difference to what you do.... But, damn it, why did you
remind me of that? I didn't want to think about it.'
And then Mrs. Penrose came in, and we went down to dinner.