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Secret Battle, The

<h2>X</h2> 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. <h3>II</h3> I did not enjoy that dinner. To begin with, I felt like a vulgar intruder on something that was almost sacred, and certainly very precious. For all the signs of the 'last evening' were there. The dishes we had were Harry's favourites, procured at I know what trouble and expense by Mrs. Harry; and she watched tremulously to see that he liked them. She had gone out and bought him a bottle of well-loved Moselle, for a special surprise, and some port; which was a huge extravagance. But that was nothing, if these things could only give a special something to this meal which would make him remember it; for the flowers he never saw, and the new dress went unnoticed for a long time. But I felt that it would all have gone much better, perhaps, if I had not been there, and I hoped she did not hate me. And Harry was not at his best. The question he asked me I had had no time to answer, and he had not answered it himself. Through most of that dinner, which by all the rules should have been, superficially at least, cheerful and careless, as if there were no such thing as separation ahead, Harry was thoughtful and preoccupied. And I knew that he was still arguing with himself, 'What shall I say to Mackenzie? Yes or No?'—wandering up and down among the old doubts and resolutions and fears.... Mrs. Harry saw this as well as I ... and, no doubt, she cursed me for being there because in my presence she could not ask him what worried him. But the Moselle began to do its work: Harry talked a little and noticed the new dress, and we all laughed a lot at the pudding, which came up in such a curious shape.... We were very glad to laugh at something. Then Mrs. Harry spoke of some people in the regiment of whom she had heard a good deal—George Dawson, and Egerton, and old Colonel Roberts. I knew that in a minute we should stumble into talking about the trenches or shells, or some such folly, and have Harry gloomy and brooding again. I could not stand that, and I did not think Mrs. Harry could, so I plunged recklessly into the smoother waters of life in France. I told them the old story about General Jackson and the billet-guard; and then we came on to the famous night at Forceville, and other historic battalion orgies—the dinner at Monchy Breton, when we put a row of candles on the floor of the tent for footlights, and George and a few subs made a perfect beauty chorus. Those are the things one likes to remember about active service, and I was very glad to remember them then. The special port came in and was a great success; Harry warmed up, and laughed over those old gaieties, and was in great form. At that moment I think his answer to Major Mackenzie would have been definitely 'No.' Mrs. Harry laughed very much too, and said she envied us the amusing times we had together 'out there.' 'You men have all the fun.' And that made me feel a heartless ass for having started on that topic. For I knew that when Harry was away there was little 'fun' for her; and whether he was lying on his stomach in a shell-hole, or singing songs in an estaminet, not thinking much of his wife, perhaps, except when they drank 'Sweethearts and Wives'—it was all one uniform, hideous wait for her. So I think it was hollow laughter for Mrs. P.... Moreover, though I did not know how much she knew about Harry's difficulties, the 'job' and so one, I felt sure that with the extraordinary instinct of a wife she scented something of the conflict that was going on; and she knew vaguely that this exaggerated laudation of the amenities of France meant somehow danger to her.... So that just as I was beginning to congratulate myself on the bucking up of Harry, I tardily perceived that between us we were wounding the wife. And I more than ever wished myself anywhere than sitting at that pretty table with the shaded lights. Well, we nearly finished the port—Harry still in excellent form—and went upstairs. Harry went off to look for smokes or something, and I knew at once that Mrs. Harry was going to ask me questions about him. You know how a woman stands in front of the fire, and looks down, and kind of paws the fender with one foot when she is going to say something confidential. Then she looks up suddenly, and you're done. Mrs. Harry did that, and I was done. At any other time I should have loved to talk to her about Harry, but that night I felt it was dangerous ground. 'How do you think Harry is looking?' she said. 'You probably know better than I do, nowadays.' I said I thought he seemed pretty fit, considering all things. 'Do you think he'll have to go out again?' she asked. 'I don't think he ought to—but they seem so short of men still. He's not really strong, you know.' So she knew nothing about the 'job'; and this put me in a hole. For if I told her about it, and he did not take it, but went out again, the knowledge would be a standing torture to her. On the other hand, I wanted him to take it, I thought he ought to—and if she knew about it she might be able to make him. Wives can do a great deal in that way. But that would be disloyal to Harry.... Well, I temporized with vague answers while I wrestled with this problem, and she told me more about Harry. 'You know, he has the most terrible dreams ... wakes up screaming at night, and quite frightens me. And I don't think they ought to be allowed to go out again when they're like that.... I don't want him to go out again.... At least,' she added half-heartedly (as a kind of concession to convention), 'if it's his duty, of course....' Then, defiantly, 'No, I don't want him to go ... anyhow ... I think he's done his bit ... hasn't he, Mr. Benson?' 'He has, indeed,' I said, with sincerity at last. 'Well, you have some influence with him. Can't you——' But then Harry came in, and I had lost my chance. I have noticed that while on the stage, conversations which must necessarily be private are invariably concluded without interruption, in private life, and especially private houses, are always interrupted long before the end. Mrs. Harry went to the piano, and Harry and I sat down to smoke; and since it was the last night Harry was allowed to smoke his pipe. The way Mrs. Harry said that nearly made me weep. So I sat there and watched Harry, and his wife played and played—soft, melancholy, homesick things (Chopin, I think), that leagued with the wine and the warm fire and the deep chairs in an exquisite conspiracy of repose. She played for a long time, but I saw that she too was watching. And the fancy came to me that she was fighting for Harry, fighting, perhaps unconsciously, that vague danger she had seen at dinner, when it had beaten her ... fighting it with this music that made war seem so distant and home so lovable.... And soon I began to see that she was winning. For when she began playing Harry had sat down, a little restless again, and fidgeted, as if the music reminded him of good things too much ... and his eyes wandered round the room and took in all the familiar things, like a man saying good-bye—the old chair with the new chintz, and the yellow curtains, and the bookcase his father left him—and the little bookcase where his history books were (he looked a long time at them) ... and the firelight shining on the piano ... and his wife playing and playing.... And when he had looked at her, quickly, he sat up and poked the fire fiercely, and sat back, frowning. He was wondering again. This music was being too much for him. Then she stopped, and looked across at Harry—and smiled. When she played again it was, I think, a nocturne of Chopin's (God knows which—but it was very peaceful and homesick), and as I watched, I made sure that she had won. For there came over Harry a wonderful repose. He no longer frowned or fidgeted, or raised his eyebrows in the nervous way he had, but lay back in a kind of abandonment of content.... And I said to myself, 'He has decided—he will say "Yes" to Mackenzie.' Mrs. Harry, perhaps, also perceived it. For after a little she stopped and came over to us. And then I did a fateful thing. There was a copy of The Times lying by my chair, and because of the silence that was on us, I picked it up and looked aimlessly at it. The first thing I saw was the Casualty List, buried in small type among some vast advertisements of patent foods. I glanced down the list in that casual manner which came to us when we knew that all our best friends were already dead or disposed of. Then my eye caught the name of the regiment and the name of a man I knew. Captain Egerton, V.R. Killed. There was another near it, and another, and many more; the list was thick with them. And the other battalions in the Brigade had many names there—fellows one had relieved in the line, or seen in billets, or talked with in the Cocktail Caf� at N&oelig;ux-les-Mines. There must have been a massacre in the Brigade ... ten officers killed and ten wounded in our lot alone. I suppose I made that vague murmur of rage and regret which slips out of you when you read these things, for Harry looked up and asked, 'What's that?' I gave him the paper, and he too looked down that list.... Only two of those names were names of the Old Crowd, and many of them were the dull men; but we knew them very well for all that, and we knew they were good men ... Egerton, Gordon, young Matthews, Spenser, Smith, the bombing fellow, Tompkinson—all gone.... So we were silent for a long minute, remembering those men, and Mrs. Harry stared into the fire. I wondered what she was thinking of, and I was sorry for her. For when Harry got up there was a look about him which I had seen before, though not for many months—not since the first days on the Somme.... While I was groping after my coat in the hall, Harry came out of his den with a letter which he asked me to 'drop in the box.' I looked at it without shame; it was addressed to Major Mackenzie, D.S.O., etc. 'And what have you said?' I asked. 'No,' said Harry, with a kind of challenging look. 'Well, I think you're wrong——' I told him, though I knew then that I was too late. Mrs. Harry was beaten now, finally beaten, poor thing.... 'And what are you two talking about?' said Mrs. Harry. 'About a dinner, my dear.' I went out and posted that accursed letter, thanking God that I was not a wife. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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