Children of No Man's Land

by G. B. Stern

But what rubbish! Richard! Why, he was only eighteen; younger than Grev—and Grev was certainly not yet a man, though he had fought.... Richard had not even fought—the colour stung her brown skin into red, as she recalled his contempt: “There are too many things you don’t even begin to understand, Molly——”

“I don’t care! I don’t care!” she raged in a whisper.

“I don’t care either,” came the answer in that cool man-voice, which reason could hardly yet accept as belonging to Richard; “but if I ever do care, Molly, then I’ll damned well marry you, and you’ll have a Hun for a husband whether you want it or not—so you’d better be more polite now....”

“I won’t—you shan’t—never—let me go, Richard!”

“Kiss me first, then. I like your kisses though I don’t like you.”

In a final twist for liberty, she slewed her head backwards ... and saw his eyes, sad light eyes narrowed under their bending ridges—something like a tumbler pigeon turned wildly over and over in her breast.... With a gasp, she offered him her childish fruit-stained lips ... and darted away between the orchard trees.

Richard pressed his two clenched fists against his forehead....

“What did I say to her?—looks as though I were going mad....” A portion of himself seemed to slide coldly away from the rest—and then be jerked again into its place ... it was a nasty sensation; and so was the shame with which he submitted to the fact that he had no control whatever over any juggling tricks his brain and body in goblin collaboration might choose to play him.

A conviction, for instance, that a number of people in assembly held a threat and a menace for him ... slow horror which the mind communicated to the flesh—he could not keep still between walls and floor and ceiling, with people crushing him round and stifling him, blocking his exit—with people’s voices droning like wasps ... the heavy persistent circling motion of wasps over food ... yes, he had to get away, if he was to breathe, if he was to live ... his head, his eyes, his ears and neck, his wrists and finger-tips and knees, each held their separate hammering pulse—how could he sit quietly in a chair, at a table, with all these fever-pulses dinning and throbbing in unequal measure, and that one great pulse in his left side swinging dominion over the others—he must get into the open, or die, there, before them all, before Greville’s bewilderment, and Frank’s loud disdain, and Molly crying, “Hun! Hun! Hun!” ... he preferred to die alone.

“I ought to go home——” but home was more meals in public, and Mr Gryce, and traffic, and pavements a-swirl with people. Only a few days more now—only to-morrow and the day after—only to-morrow—and horror itself would be there, in place of horror anticipated. How would it be when he needed to run—and ran up against barbed wire—and was turned back ... enclosed and ringed by barbed wire? Senseless barbed wire—had it been enemy fencing, you might cut it, break through and into enemy trench, bring a rifle smashing down on a fat pink head ... Prussian head ... pink head ... mud and filth and the swarm of lice, and oozy, sticky blood, and cold, wet cold.... This was France—war—his birthright—birthright of everybody growing from 1914 into manhood. Oh, damn ... that hot swollen feeling round his temples again—no, not inside—round the outside ... and why did they try so hard to hypnotize him into declaring aloud that he was a German? even Mrs Dunne, even Greville ... and Frank of course, with Molly now his partner and confederate. They were all jolly and serene and happy enough—couldn’t they leave him alone? They and the chintz sitting-room and that—that stranger dining with them this Sunday after church. Who was it? The local doctor? Dr Greyson? He had not brought his wife ... apologized, said she had a cold; Richard knew—he did not care to bring her into a house where a German was staying; she might have to shake hands with him, and she had vowed not to shake hands with a German again—so she had preferred to stay at home. The Dunnes had talked of asking a Mr Rhodes and his son and daughter—very decent people, Richard remembered them from last time ... and then the question of inviting them had suddenly been abandoned, with a great show of tact on Mrs Dunne’s part—“perhaps they would not care to come out so soon after poor Hal’s death”—but again Richard suspected the confidential after-discussion between Greville and his mother. “Better not, Mater, while Richard’s here; he’s going to-morrow. But they’re the sort who’d mind....”