V

At the end of February I was wounded and went home. Without any conceit, without exaggerating our friendship, I may say that this was the final blow for Harry. I was the last of the Old Crowd; I was the one man who knew the truth of things as between him and Philpott.... And I went.

I was hit by a big shell at Whizz-Bang Corner, and Harry saw me on the stretcher as we came past D Company on the Bapaume Road. He walked with me as far as the cookers, and was full of concern for my wound, which was pretty painful just then. But he bucked me up and talked gaily of the good things I was going to. And he said nothing of himself. But when he left me there was a look about him—what is the word?—wistful—it is the only one, like a dog left behind.

While I was still in hospital I had two letters from the battalion. The first was from Harry, a long wail about Philpott and the dullness of everybody now that the Old Crowd were extinct, though he seemed to have made good friends of some of the dull ones. At the end of that endless winter, when it seemed as if the spring would never come, they had pulled out of the line and 'trekked' up north, so that there had been little fighting. They were now in shell-holes across the high ridge in front of Arras, preparing for an advance.

The other letter was from old Knight, the Quartermaster, dated two months after I left.

I will give you an extract:

'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.