Kipling's Choice (2 page)

"Your eyes, boy, how can I explain it?" Rudyard says and sucks on his mustache. They are sitting on the cedar bench next to the rectangular pond that lies behind Bateman's, their country house. The lichen-covered stone trim forms a perfect border around the water. The splashing of the classic Greek fountain in the middle of the pond makes the silence bearable.

"There are still possibilities in the army," says Daddo despondently. He moves a little closer to John. "I know what you're feeling, boy. I have the same eyes, you know. I had the same dreams of the navy."

John feels worse for his father than for himself. He pushes his silver-rimmed spectacles farther up his nose, shrugs his shoulders, and gently takes his father by the arm. "So, I am really a bit like you, Daddo," he says with a sigh.

The great writer, never at a loss for words, can only swallow and stare at the white water lilies. Father and son sit quietly for a while. Then they look at each other; the one pair of spectacles reflects the other. Hand in hand they walk under the pergola to the pasture behind the variegated brick wall. They follow the Dudwell River to a remote corner by the old water mill. It is at this favorite hideout that the father tells his son stories about his own childhood days in India, stories that he simply cannot put down on paper.

John's eyes occasion regular visits to the best specialists in Switzerland. These trips also serve as fantastic holidays every winter. The Kiplings regularly go to the ski resort at Engelberg, where young John has great fun with Oscar Hornung. The novelist E.W Hornung does not live too far from Burwash and the Hornungs also travel to Switzerland each year for winter sports. John and Oscar become best friends. Oscar is overwhelmed the first time he meets the great Kipling; he has such admiration for his hero, this writer of
The Jungle Book
and all those other fantastic stories, that he can hardly move. And John will never forget the time he visited Oscar's uncle, Arthur Conan Doyle, the creator of Sherlock Holmes.

Switzerland is always fun for John because Rudyard is so different from his usual self: he is not the stiff papa with the somber look and the black silk bowler hat, but a playful friend. When the weather is bad he makes up all kinds of silly games. The hotel in Engelberg is usually packed with celebrities from high society, strange creatures who provide an endless source of amusement for Oscar and John.

***

He can clearly hear himself scream; an icy, drawn-out cry, like a pig bleeding on the butchering block. He can also hear a sound like that of steam engines pounding in the bowels of a ship. Is the noise due to the searing pain? Or is it from the roaring of the artillery flying above the chalk pit?

***

"Turn that noise off! John, for the love of God, stop that record!"

Christmas 1911 is a glorious time. For days Bateman's has been buzzing with music.

"Oh, Daddo! A gramophone!"

Feelings are best kept to oneself, especially among men, yet it is clear to see that Daddo enjoys John's irrepressible hugs. John turned fourteen in the summer, and Wellington's military discipline has made him quieter. During these couple of weeks he nestles down in the warm cocoon of Bateman's with Mummy, Daddo, and Elsie.

Daddo cranks the machine and sets the needle on the record. John can easily hear the crackling amid the tense silence that precedes the first song, in perfect harmony with the crackling in the fireplace. Elsie puts her hands over her ears. Mummy, dubious, shrugs her shoulders. And with eyebrows dancing, Daddo sucks his pipe and winks mischievously at John, the apple of his eye.

Twenty-four fragile Bakelite phonograph records: songs by Harry Lauder, whom John and Daddo went to see recently at a London music hall; then the fairy-like Marie Lloyd (John clipped a rather revealing picture of her from a magazine and slipped it into his world atlas); the inevitable Caruso, singing the best of Verdi; and naturally a couple of recordings of military marches. John can't get enough of it. By the time he goes back to Wellington after the New Year, he has already gone through half a box of gramophone needles.

***

I lie on my back and feel nothing, hear nothing. There is, though, a big head dancing before my eyes. It has a cap on. Who is he? His face is black against the light gray sky. Have I fallen? His mouth won't be still. He is shouting at me and I feel like I'm watching a silent film. Why am I lying here?

 

John takes a serious fall around Easter 1913, the year he turns sixteen. His parents have just returned from Cairo. His sister, Elsie, has been in Paris with Miss Ponton, the governess. Everyone is back at Bateman's now. The children are on holiday.

"Isn't it fantastic?" Daddo says as he darts around the shiny motorcycle like a little boy. He taps his pipe against his heel and stuffs it in his jacket pocket.

"A BSA 500 cc!" John can say no more.

His father swings his leg stiffly over the cycle. Both he and John are true motor fanatics. John is just as crazy about that green Rolls-Royce, the car Daddo rides around in everywhere. They call it the
Green Goblin.
For minutes at a time they can be amused by the
clickety-clack
of the valves when the chauffeur opens the hood for a routine check. And Rudyard has already ordered a new model, a Duchess.

John first takes his new motorcycle on a few turns right in front of the door, around Donkey Hill. But each day he ventures a bit farther. He wears a leather helmet with flaps and big goggles over his pince-nez. He roams across the border of Kent and East Sussex.

"Good practice for a future soldier," thinks Rudyard, who regards every application of modern technology as a terrific boost for the mighty army of the British Empire.

The first discreet complaints come in fairly quickly. When E. W. Hornung, Oscar's father, lets slip that John is scaring the living daylights out of quiet Burwash with his motorcycle and knocking over the startled villagers, Daddo chuckles, "That's my boy!" But he will have to speak to John about it.

He is too late. He is summoned to the neighboring village of Sissinghurst. A farmer fished John out of a ditch, thinking the boy was dead, and carried him along on his horse cart. Bruises, numerous scratches, a mild concussion, according to the doctor. And a sleeve torn off his leather motor jacket. The BSA is stuck in a hawthorn hedge, the frame and wheels damaged beyond repair. The engine, still purring, is hanging in the fresh greenery of the bushes.

"Reliable machines," exclaim John and Daddo, and they laugh about it afterward.

 

"The engine is still running," John tries to mutter to the dark face above his head, but he only manages to blow red bubbles through his shattered nose. As he regains consciousness, the excruciating pain creeps into his shaken body, cruel as a knife under the fingernails. The man in the cap is startled by the scream that resounds from the quivering mouth of the little officer.

John tries to concentrate on his glasses. With one hand he fitfully searches his breast pocket for the chain of the pince-nez, the silver nose clip.
Daddo said
... He feels the shadowy silhouette above him take away his officers pistol, for that hangs on a string around his neck, too. Suddenly he hears a voice, snatches of sentences, and the rattling of gunfire.

 

He knows that voice. It is his father's.

"Of course, the optician didn't design those glasses for diving and swimming, but when you're at school I want you to wear them as much as possible. Put them on a chain or a string; in that way you'll surely spare me the cost of a few pairs."

The pince-nez can't boost his school results. The motorbike, the ultimate bribe, can't help his performance either. By summer John even threatens to quit Wellington.

 

His bloodied fingers feel the twisted frames. There is still a piece of glass in them.

 

"It's not so bad if you break a pair." Daddo's voice sounds clear now. "Wear them as much as you can, boy!"

"Yes, Daddo."

"Read again! The second row from left; to right. What are the letters?"

The man in the white coat and the pointer.... The eye test....

 

"Let me go!" John wants to shout. But only meaningless gibberish comes from his crushed larynx.

 

"Sorry, Mr. Kipling, but this won't suffice for the army."

It is May 1913 and the upcoming exams at Wellington weigh like a block of concrete on John's shoulders.

Daddo has had a squash court installed at Bateman's ("After all, officers play squash"), and he promises John a new motorcycle.

 

"I can't take it anymore," John sobs. But the silhouette can't understand the words.

***

The pain disappears. Not entirely. Oh yes, please let it stay like this! It's bad enough, but at least I can stand it.
Have I been taken away? Why is it so quiet all of a sudden? The shooting has stopped. Voices are crying in the distance. Many wounded. Is there no one to take over the command? This can't be. Attack, boys!

Two hands on my arm, and two more on my side. They pull and push me. I hear them count: "One, two, three! Lift!
"

 

And again: "One, two, three!"

"No, Master John, like this. Look, first your left foot forward, then swing your right leg back."

He tries slowly: one, two, three. A tango is very sexy when you try it in slow motion. He grasps Miss Malone firmly around her middle and furtively sniffs her delicate perfume when she leans against him. She leads him superbly: one, two, three...

 

Ooow! Bastards! Why don't they just let me lie on my back?

"One, two, three, and hup!"

 

"Good, Master John." Miss Malone is the nicer of the two dance teachers. He loves her voice. Elsie practices with Miss Pratt. It is October 1913. The whole house is buzzing with the tangos played on his gramophone. John is barely sixteen. Innocent, his mother thinks. Otherwise she would certainly not have Miss Malone come to Bateman's. He enjoys the tango lessons.

"Master John has a remarkable talent," his teacher says.

But not for dancing,
John thinks.

 

The summer is spent doing math assignments, but eventually John is promoted to the next form at Wellington, by the skin of his teeth. They already know that Engelberg will be a math review as well as a ski holiday. Miss Ponton, the governess, must work on his math skills.

 

George Cecil, son of Lord Edward Cecil, comes to visit. He is dressed in the full regalia of his uniform from Sandhurst, the legendary officers' school. Daddo questions him endlessly about his military training. Of course John doesn't leave George's side for a moment, and listens to every word. He has probably sped by the majestic Sandhurst on his motorcycle ten times by now. God, how he envies George. With his mousy little glasses and small stature, John feels even more insignificant when he stands next to him.

"What a fine young man. He already looks like a real officer," Mummy muses a bit too emphatically.

"Precisely. He's completely Lord Edward," Daddo agrees.

John worries about his grades. Another year at Wellington. And then?

 

Clammy hands on my hot forehead. Someone gently dabbing the sweat on my face. Mummy? No, it's all blood. The ground is hard and cold, the grass is rustling.

Shells are whistling in the distance. A few seconds of silence.

Waiting for the rumbling as they come down. Voices right by my ear now.

 

"A bit of mint tea, boy."

 

Mummy, what are you doing here at the front? Is Daddo coming, too?

"Here, drink up."

A man's voice. Daddo?

"Better not, Sergeant. He won't make it. Besides, how would you put that bottle to his mouth? He has no mouth!"

An Irish accent. One of my men? Who are you? God! That pain again! No!

Restlessly the gravely wounded lieutenant shakes his bloodied head back and forth.

"He wants to say something," says the soldier next to him. The soldier sighs.

"How could he? God damn, what a mess," the sergeant curses.

"He's delirious."

"It won't be long now. We can't do anything for him."

 

John lies in bed. Mummy is sitting next to him. She has brought him some mint tea. It is spring 1914. The magnolias are in full bloom, and the sunlight on the flowers in the garden colors the walls of his room. It is already the third time this year that he has had to come home from school; he's been suffering from fever, nightmares, and just feeling sick. He wants to quit school. His grades are slipping again.

Daddo comes to comfort him. "Sandhurst isn't really necessary, boy. We'll find something else. The King's Army has many doors."

John can hear the disappointment in his father's voice.

"Damned eyes." Daddo tries again. "It's not
your
fault, John."

At the beginning of May they decide to send him to Bournemouth for a cram course in the hopes of preparing him for the entrance exam to Oxford. John graduates from the course and everyone is relieved, at least for the time being. But the world is holding its breath. War breaks out on August 4. "The Great War, the war to end all wars!" claim the European heads of state.

Perfectly timed,
Rudyard Kipling thinks.
This is John's chance.

In two weeks I'll be seventeen,
John Kipling thinks.

***

"Down, down, Sergeant!" a voice calls in panic.

Lieutenant Kipling is rudely awakened.

A familiar voice. But whose? Jesus, I feel absolutely nothing, as if my whole body was sleeping. The light goes on and off.

"We're getting the full load, Connelly. Down! Take cover!"

Ffwee-ee-ee.
The earth spatters open in all directions.

God Almighty. Are the shells ours or the Germans'? How long have I been here? Here it comes, one is enough to bury me in one fell swoop or grind me up into a thousand pieces of meat.