A Legend of the Great War

Colin Ross crouched in his burrow, re-reading for the fiftieth time a note which he had found in a new case of Mills bombs:

Dear Soldier,

My name is Jenny, and I am nineteen, with blue eyes, brown hair and medium figure, and I live in Aldershot...

Ross came to a decision, took out a writing-pad and indelible pencil which looked suspiciously like army property, and began to write with a neatness and grammar which would have surprised many who knew him. The spelling is all his own:

Dear Jenny,

My name is Colin, and I am afraid you are out of luck this time, because I am fifty-nine and not dead yet, with grey hair, and you can see I am an honest man, and trusting you with a big secret, or I could tell you I am only forty-six, and it would be sort of half-true, since that's what battalion records say. For they don't allow men to serve at my age, which is a rotten shame, since I never was sick in my life, and I know the business.

I just wanted you to know that your letter did not reach anybody that would not appreciate it, or would appreciate it the wrong way, and to say DON'T GIVE UP, because many a young soldier could die happy if he knew somebody like you cared about him. You would not believe what fine young men we have here, far better than they were back home. That is why I am writing now, although I am old enough to be your grandfather, and considering some of the times I have had in Aldershot, that does not seem so impossible at all. Really your letter has given great pleasure to an old man that was getting just a wee bit too intolerant of the folk back home, and that never had any children of his own, not white ones anyway...

Ross finished his letter with some hints that he knew a boy who would make a most splendid man with the right kind of woman behind him. He stopped and read through it, just to make sure that everything was exactly right, and reflected that fifty-nine was still too young to understand women.

'Ach, she'll just have tae make allowances,' he grunted, and sealed the envelope. Later he slipped Jenny's note into Andrew's greatcoat pocket.

As the winter drew on, men began to be affected by something more disturbing than any physical ailment: the barely-acknowledged condition which had come to be known as shell-shock. Crushed by the agony and despair of trench war, men would withdraw further and further into themselves, until eventually an unseen curtain would come down. It was as though a man's soul left him, leaving him oblivious to all the evil of the world - perhaps forever, since of all the men whom Andrew saw taken down the line like that, he never met one again.

It seemed to affect the few originals of 1914 more than newer and more timorous soldiers, and more often stolid, apparently indomitable types than someone like Andrew. This seemed to support the opinion of many army doctors - the enlightened ones, who admitted that it existed at all - that it was a progressive physical deterioration of the nervous system, occasioned by the concussion of shellfire. As a result, though, army medical boards were usually hard on those who had given way under the fear of bullets, gas, infection, barbed wire or cold steel.

At the best it was a coma, a trance, in which a man seemed deaf and dumb, insensible to pain, staring into space with fixed, unfocussed eyes. Worse, the next man might be shaking like a victim of some tropical fever, so that his friends could not hold him still, and he had to be strapped to a stretcher. Or his body might be contorted in an air-clawing rigor by muscular spasms, like an epileptic or a man asphyxiating. Once Andrew saw a man clawing at his own face, with black-edged nails which had just been grovelling in a slime of mud and rotten flesh. Such extremes happened to only a few, of course, and Andrew was determined that he would not be one of them. A few soldiers, like Colin Ross, seemed able to carry on unaffected forever, and he hoped to be another. But of the few men left who had trained with him in Perth, scarcely any were quite as much to be relied upon as they once had been.

Once they spent a week in a rest-camp behind the line, a bleak place of Adrian huts which Andrew hated. One Sunday morning a hard frost had burst a carelessly-laid water-main at the Base Hospital, and a working-party of Black Watch was called in to dig out the rusted piping and clear up after the flood. It was cold, dirty, back-breaking work among the newly-thawed leaf-mould of the wood onto which the hospital backed, although kilted troops were not as badly off as they would have been in sodden trousers. When it was finished, a few of the men started a fire to brew up some tea. But Ross drew Andrew aside.

'Andrew, Billy Morrison's likely in that hospital. They'd never let us a' in, but maybe we'd make it if it wis just the twa o' us.'

Morrison was one of the trench foot cases, a Fife man who had enlisted with Andrew, in Perth Barracks on that same morning in August 1914.

'Is that allowed, do you think?'

'Laddie, how lang have ye been in the airmy? Whit they dinnae forbid is allowed, see? An' it cannae be forbidden unless ye ask. Come wi' me if ye want tae see a try-on.'

Ross, who had a puzzling ability to avoid collecting dirt, got Garner remarkably clean, considering. They washed their boots in a stream, and went round to the front of the hospital. It was a big house with ivy-covered walls and French windows, the grounds filled with the usual accumulation of huts. At the gate Ross took out a brown envelope, to look like a message, and the sentry did not challenge them. But they were stopped by the R.A.M.C. porter in his booth just inside the front gate.

'Here, what's your business?'

'Visitin' a friend, corp'ral. Private Morrison, Black Watch, in wi' trench feet. That's okay, is it no'?'

'No, it bleedin' ain't. Sorry, but I can't let you in without a pass.'

'What, an' the colonel askin' for him? Saved the colonel's life, Billy Morrison did, up the Salient.'

'Look, I shouldn't.'

'Okay chum, we understand. We'll need tae get a chit frae the colonel, that's a', an' we'll maybe be sent up the line afore we can get back.'

'Oh well, I didn't see you, did I? Trench feet, that's outside the main building, second black hut on the left.'

'Billy Morrison never saved any colonel's life, neither Cameron's nor Boswell's, did he?' Andrew asked, as they made for the back door.

'No' exactly, but he'd have saved them if they'd needed it, an' whaur's the justice in punishin' a man for lack o' opportunity?'

They were stopped by a middle-aged woman in W.A.A.C. khaki, not the navy blue of the V.A.D. voluntary nurses. She wore badges of rank which looked odd on a woman, but she had a voice and a manner which impressed them more.

'Where do you think you're going?'

'Visitin', ma'am. We've a friend in here, and we're gaun' up the line the morn.'

'Oh? You've no permission to be here, and you know it. I'm thoroughly fed up with you soldiers trailing in here, looking for your friends. Look at yourselves, you're covered with germs, and this is a hospital.'

'Wi' respect, ma'am, there were nae germs in my young day.'

'Why, I can't understand a word you say! How did you get past Malone?'

'Ah weel, ma'am, I'm no' sayin' we slippit past deliberately. But yon wee window's no' very convenient for him.'

'He'll see you if you try it again, I guarantee that, or he'll wish he had. Now go away! Any man in his hospital is getting the best of treatment, and that's what matters. If I started letting people in whenever they chose, the place would be like a railway station tomorrow, and no more hygienic. You can see that, can't you?'

'Oh aye, ma'am, I know fine ye're only daein' your job. I'm sorry if we've troubled ye.'

'And I'm really sorry I can't help you, but the rules have to be the same for everyone. We can't make any exceptions.'

Once outside, Ross turned to Andrew.

'That's it, laddie, I'm afraid. Ye can keep on tryin' wi' some folk, but no' the likes o' her.'

'Well, you can't win all the time.'

'Look, at least I kept us oot o' trouble. I never mentioned the colonel again, did I? That's because she's the sort that checks up.'

'You said we were going up the line tomorrow. Suppose she checks up on that?'

'We could be. An' that's a military secret. They'd no' tell her, an' she'd no' like the refusal. The staff's no' keen on women, no' unless they're young typewritin' hussies, wi' hair-ribbons in the divisional colours, an' their skirts half-wey tae their knees.'

'She seemed quite kindly, in a way, at the last.'

'Ah, dealin' wi' women's as much a science as soldierin'. Remember, laddie, that politeness costs ye nae money. I wis polite, see, an' I sort o' hinted that I wis protectin' her gatekeeper, that she hadnae the time for a row wi'. Of course I wouldnae claim a lady, like her, would get seized wi' the womanly passions at a few words frae the likes o' me, no' since we gave up the red coats, especially. But they're creatures o' habit, so speak them fair, an' they'll no' mistake a man for cattle.'

As they headed for the gate, a van came in and drew up on the gravel in front of them.

'Hey Andrew, that's oor M.O.'

The Black Watch medical officer got out and saw them.

'Hello, what are you two doing here?'

'Tryin' tae see Billy Morrison, sir, but they'd no' let us in. Can ye help us?'

'H'm. I need one or two men to bring some things out to the van for me, and I suppose it might as well be you. Tried to get in, you say? You've not been caught in any kind of trickery, I suppose?'

'Sir, the very idea! We wouldnae – '

'Get caught. Yes, I know you, Ross. Follow me, then.'

The M.O. led them inside, Ross exchanging a wink with Corporal Malone. The trench feet ward was the first place he went, and he showed them to the bedside of Private Morrison. There was a screen around the foot of the bed, with an extra piece of cloth tacked in place, so that the patient's feet were hidden. They exchanged a few conventional words with him, Andrew hardly knowing what to say. When the M.O. and an orderly went to the door to talk, Morrison leant forward and whispered to them.

'Hey, lads, can ye' no look an' tell me whit my feet are like? They'll tell ye nothin' here.'

Andrew was nearest, so he edged up to the screen and peered through a crack. Morrison's feet were uncovered, and it was all Andrew could do to stop himself from drawing back in horror. They were blackened and swollen to such a degree that the toes appeared to have started from their sockets, and protruded at odd angles from a fungoid, glistening growth like something on the underside of a log. Most of the nails were missing, leaving raw scars like eye-sockets. It seemed so inconceivable that those objects could ever again be feet, so monstrous that a man should survive the Taupière for this, that Andrew's head swam with horror. But he maintained perfect composure, for after all, what was one more horror, these days?

'What d'ye make o' it?' Morrison asked, almost pleading.

'Oh, terrible to look at, but that's the usual thing, don't you know? You'll just be miserable if you let it worry you.'

'It's hard no' tae worry, but.'

'You're a good sight better off here than in the line, that's for sure.'

'Wish I could be sure o' that.'

They followed the M.O. from ward to ward, while he exchanged a few words with every casualty from their battalion who was able to talk. It was a deeply depressing tour, most of the cases being the result of foul conditions, infection and disease. For in the trenches, wounds usually took the form of head injuries, fatal or worse than fatal, and it was not surprising that many men longed for an attack, which increased the chances of escaping lightly with a Blighty wound.

Even advances in treatment could have their grim side. The doctors, with their vast experience of emergency surgery, were now keeping life, or a kind of life, in men who would have been despaired of in 1914. Looking at those helpless wrecks of men, many of whom would never be anything else, he could not quite bring himself to think that they would be better off dead. He himself would have clung to life on any terms whatever. But the sight left in him a dread which he found hard to define. It was only partly outrage, at what had been done to people like Private Morrison, for it was fused with the revulsion which healthy young men often feel towards the sick or the abnormal. So he left the hospital ashamed of himself, another torment added to those among which he lived.

But that was the beginning of a kind of friendship between Andrew and the M.O., when the latter discovered that the boy knew something of what the senior major termed 'the Viennese loony-doctors'. But that became a little strained when the M.O., who had contacts, obtained an American intelligence test, one of the first, and Andrew's scores were invariably off the upper end of the scale. The M.O. would never be convinced that Andrew had not obtained a copy somewhere, and practiced them. That was the sort of suspicion which association with Colin Campbell Ross let you in for.

For all the acuteness of Andrew's memory, the few who hear of that French town can never extract from him its name. It was probably not as far south as Amiens, or as far from the front as St. Omer. Some say Hazebrouk, but it was probably bigger, and there are good reasons why it would have been in France, rather than Belgium.

The night of the working party at the hospital, some of the men were worn out or suffering badly from the cold. So Colonel Cameron announced that they were free until ten the following morning. He had motor transport for those who needed it, but the others were free to make their own way back to the camp, mostly via the estaminets of the town. Andrew, though, chose not to join them. He parted company with Ross at the beginning of an area of quiet residential streets, which would take him along the little stream that ran through the town. He needed to arrive back at the camp before the others, and light the coal fire to heat the old wash-room copper for a hot bath. But that left him with some time he badly needed, to be alone with his thoughts, and to savour the luxury of walking at his own pace, without rifle or pack.

As he rounded the corner which led to the riverside walk, he saw a succession of little public gardens between the red-brick houses which backed on the riverbank. These were planted with trees and shrubs, so that he could see very little of the river from the street. He walked into the first of these, and leant for a while on the cast-iron railing, looking down into the black water and weedbeds of the shallow stream. There was scarcely any lighting in the street across the river, but a bright three-quarters moon. The sky had cleared and the stars were out, and Andrew realised that he was very cold.

As he stepped back onto the street, Andrew saw something which he was not, he realised, meant to see. About fifty yards along the street, a well-dressed French lady was walking briskly towards him. He looked in the other direction for a moment, turned back, and she was gone.

He wondered, for a moment, if she had entered one of the houses. But he would have heard the door, and he did not think she had been close to one at the time. She must surely have been adjacent to the next riverside garden, but there had been something more purposeful in her stride, than in that of a person who would stop there on a winter's evening. For a few minutes he conjectured, though he considered it none of his business. What could Sherlock Holmes have made of the incident?

Then he thought of suicide, though he realised that it would be difficult for anyone to do, in a river that could hardly be more than a foot and a half deep. Should he investigate? If the woman just wanted to be alone, as he had done, or was meeting a lover, she would surely resent his intrusion. But she could be caught in the freezing weeds and mud, to endure a far worse death than she could have planned for. Andrew walked slowly to the entrance of the next garden.

He stopped for a moment at the gate. The place was divided into shrubberies and arbours which would have given a pleasant shade and privacy on a sunny day. But now it was like a place of darkened caves, where he could make out very little. He could hear noises which puzzled him, but did not come from the water. There was a low thumping noise, and a muffled gasping, which struck him as for all the world like an asthmatic kitten trying to mew. He heard men's voices muttering in French – with an ugly tone to them, as it might have been in an illicit card game where the play was suspect, but it still caused him some relief. That surely meant he did not have to get involved, so he started walking again.

Then there came a tearing of fabric, a curse and a female scream, which ended in an instant. Andrew turned on his heel and entered the garden. For a moment he heard nothing, but then a scuffling in one of the arbours caught his attention. Three men in French army uniform were holding a struggling woman on the ground, and one of them was twisting a piece of cloth which covered her face. Her blouse and camisole were torn open and her skirt raised around her waist, to reveal her pale breasts and threshing legs. She got a foot free and lashed out blindly, catching one of the men on the cheek. But his comrade struck her hard across her hooded face, and her motion stopped for a moment. Andrew unbuttoned his tunic where he would reach for his pistol, and stepped forward.

'Messieurs…' he stammered.

One of the men growled something quite unintelligible in French, and Andrew, strengthened by the knowledge that the Luger must come as a shock, remained impassive. One man's organ stood taller and glistened more darkly than Andrew could have imagined, but it sagged as they saw his resolve.

'Faisez comme vous devez,' he said evenly. 'Et moi aussi.'

He told himself that such an incident, among the millions of uniformed men in France, was hardly to be wondered at. Was it surprising that the horrors he knew should bring worn-down conscripts to an act like this, when punishment was unlikely to be worse than sending them up the line?

The soldiers spread out to left and right, and Andrew knew that if he let them surround him, no weapon ever made could save him. He might be overwhelmed by survivors if they panicked, even as it was, and with horrid imagination he imagined himself being found in the river the next day. But one of the men drew a fine-bladed little trench-knife, and that was Andrew's cue to present the Luger at the man's midriff, held close in by his body, with his left hand poised to impede any attempt to grab it or strike it away. He put off the safety with a sharp click, although he could have done it as silently as the grave, had he chosen.

The men grinned sheepishly, and tried to move away. One tried to pick up a greatcoat which lay on the ground, but Andrew motioned him away. The lady's dark coat was nowhere to be seen, in the river perhaps, and he could not turn his back to search the shadows.

'Madame en a besoin,' he said, indicating the near-naked woman who lay on the ground glaring in fury at the men, her sobbing ceased. The owner of the coat swore softly, but moved away with the others. Andrew listened carefully to make sure their footsteps and curses died away in the proper way, then averted his eyes and offered the woman the coat.

'Oh mon dieu, quel emmerdeur!' she exclaimed. 'Vous êtes anglais?'

'What, in these clothes? Not English, ma'am. I'm from Scotland'

'Oh, pardonnez-moi, monsieur. Are they gone, you think?' She spoke English confidently, with a strong but delightful accent, and it struck Andrew that she was a stronger person than he had expected. She reminded him of nothing so much as the first picture of Trilby in the Du Maurier novel, which he had always liked, although the coat wasbleu horizon, rather than the darker blue which men turned up while digging, sometimes. Her hair was blonde and curly, forming a halo-like mass, and he supposed that was what women did with curling tongs. It came to Andrew that the late thirties, as he supposed, were not really old, and that he was very dirty.