Kipling's Choice (5 page)

 

Dearest Mummy and Daddo,

What terrible news about Oscar Hornung! The Essex Regiment has lost one of its best men in Ypres. And I have lost my best childhood friend. I can't get his voice out of my head. I can see him in Switzerland, on skis just as always, how we larked about like mad in the snow! I can't believe it. Another of the old brigade is gone. Perhaps he is just wounded or taken prisoner? Poor, dear Oscar.

As for me, everything is going well. The only thing that has taken a lot out of me is the endless waiting for the real thing. It will be a year next month that I stepped foot in here.

It's going less well for our First Battalion. The heavy losses at the front give me a torn feeling. So many friends will never be coming back. But at the same time that increases my chance for receiving marching orders to France.

Lieutenant Colonel Edmond (the Earl of Kerry), who has command of our battalion, assures me that he is satisfied with me and that August 17 is written in his appointment book. Then I'll be eighteen! Kerry (that's what the men call him) says that there will be
nothing more to hold me back. I'll let you know as quickly as possible if there's big news!

Big fat kisses (for you too, Elsie!),
John

P.S. Sorry, Daddo, I'm afraid that
Car-Uso
has had a little accident. Perhaps we'll have to scrap him. (It's rather serious. I'll explain later.)

P.S. 2 Before I had a chance to mail this letter I heard the shocking news about Julian and Bobby Grenfell. Our friends, Lord and Lady Desborough, are being sorely tried: two sons killed in six weeks' time. Now they just have Yvo. He wants to begin his training after Christmas, when he's seventeen. It's a meager comfort for Julian and his parents that he had family at his bedside in Boulogne when he died. (Kerry says that Monica, Julian's sister, is a nurse at afield hospital in Wimereux, near Boulogne.) This is probably not news to you. Kerry showed me Julian's poem, "Into Battle." It appeared next to his obituary in the
Times.
A posthumous rival for Daddo. (Why didn't anyone tell me about Bobby and Julian before now, anyway?)

***

Second Lieutenant John Kipling is known to be a very reasonable officer among the regular recruits. Of course he is also the son of a living legend, the wealthy writer whose stories and poems are taught in all schools. But John tries to forget his background when he's with the officers. They appreciate the modesty of their youngest colleague. In the officers' mess John is the cheerful, humorous lad with the tiny little glasses, a hard worker who is always ready if his lieutenant-colonel calls for a volunteer.

But outside the barracks John changes back into a rich kid, a posh boy, an expensive dandy. When he is out at night, either alone or with friends, and parks his Singer (which has been repaired) in front of an extravagant hotel or a swinging concert hall, he enjoys having the porters, bellboys, waiters, and butlers in livery, waiting on him before he even walks through the door. He spends more on tips than he earns as a lieutenant.

"I've gotten a bargain," he writes home. "For barely three pounds I've signed up for a temporary wartime membership to the Royal Automobile Club."

John doesn't say a word about the truly royal amounts he spends in the plush salons of his club.
That's my boy!
Rudyard thinks once again. Englishmen's clubs, and certainly those in London, provide an atmosphere that will turn his boy into a genuine English gentleman.
And an automobile club to boot!
cheers the car-crazy Rudyard to himself.

Father and son meet for the last time on August 11, 1915. John is spending the night at the Bath Club, Dover Street, London. Rudyard is spending the night there, too. In no time at all the private club fills with members who "by chance have to be in the area." Nobel Prize winner Rudyard Kipling is a star, and the members practically fight over the tables to get a glimpse of him. It is he, not John, who will be going to the front the next day.
The Daily Telegraph
has asked him to write a series of articles entitled "France at War." Since Rudyard couldn't have a military career himself, he is glad to be right there in the action to report on it. He believes that the war is a heroic fight against the barbarians, and that the noblest fate a young man could encounter would be to give his life for his country. He recalls the words of Horace, "
Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori,
How sweet and honorable it is to die for the fatherland." As long as it's not
your
son...

Two days later the Irish Guards Regiment in Warley Barracks receives an important visitor: Lord Kitchener, the Secretary of War. He has come to inspect John's battalion and solemnly inaugurate it. It is now no longer a reserve unit.

John goes home for the last time that evening, on August 13. He brings along his friend, Rupert Grayson, who stays just an hour at Bateman's. The heartfelt farewells to Mummy, Elsie, and the trusty household staff are postponed until the middle of the night. Rudyard is in France. "Send my love to Daddo." Those are John's parting words as he stands at the top of the stairs and wishes his mother a goodnight. His unit leaves the barracks in Brentwood on August 15. The next day he makes the trip across the English Channel between Southampton and Le Havre. John finally lands in France on August 17. It is his eighteenth birthday.

***

John often sailed into the harbor at Le Havre on his way to Switzerland. He now feels the same marvelous thrill as he did when he was ten, at the side of either his governess, Miss Ponton, or his father. With his nose reaching just above the railing, he would be full of anticipation as he watched the gulls, the approaching coast, the ocean liners with their smoking funnels, and the bustle during docking time. This is his first birthday without his family. Eighteen! He doesn't miss them, however, for his men are standing right behind him. They are waiting just as impatiently as he for the Great Picnic.

"It's going to be fun, Rupert," John whispers to his friend, who has come up on deck for a while. "Finally
la douce France!
"

"Wine and women, eh, John?"

"Ah,
oui, mon cher, du vin rouge!
" John answers in impeccable French. He sighs.

Rupert tries to speak French, too, but his tongue is tied up in knots: "
Ah! Lay de-mwa-zelles wro-man-ti-ques!
Girls, eh, old chap!"

The boys are relieved that they have made it to France in time; after all, everything will be over soon. They are sure of it.

It takes an eternity before their ship, the SS
Viper,
docks. Hundreds of fresh troops, grouped in dozens of platoons, stand on deck and watch the cables grind against the steel mooring posts. While waiting for one of the heavily laden platoons to move, Lieutenant John Kipling, apparently relaxed, follows the tense actions of the sailors on board and the dockworkers on shore. Short, sharp whistles send mysterious commands to the navy personnel. Three gangplanks are set down. John is sitting with his men on the quay ten minutes later. They laugh, they smoke, but mainly they wait. John exchanges a few words with the sergeants, then gathers together with the other officers.

There is an extra-wide gangplank mounted on the SS
Viper's
bottom deck. A small tractor uses it to pull dozens of fully loaded horse carts from the stern onto the wharf. The horses, with hoods over their heads, come separately. Led by their attendants, they clatter down the iron plank one by one. Stubborn or nervous animals are led back to the nose of the ship, where a crane is lifting the loose cargo out of the hold. Carts are being transported, too, and they swing on long hooks as they are moved over the railing to the quay. The horses come next, and what follows is a spectacle that the amused people down below have never seen before. The officers and their men watch as the helpless, bawling animals, suspended on long straps under their bellies, hover over the water before they are plumped down on the dock. The teamsters curse to each other and plead with the panic-stricken beasts to help make this unusual task manageable. A fiery, dark-brown racehorse lands too hard on the concrete and falls to its knees. Hundreds of "Ooohs!" from the shocked spectators reverberate over the wharf, as well as hundreds of boos directed at the crane operator. A shot rings out five minutes later. The animal has been put down. The men are quiet for a moment. The carcass is dragged away by one of the work horses.

"Lieutenant Kipling?"

"Yes?" John says and looks around, surprised. A corporal from the military police salutes and hands him a letter.

"For you, sir."

It is a telegram from Daddo, wishing John luck on his eighteenth birthday:

 

AM IN VERDUN ON ASSIGNMENT—STOP—WAS HOPING TO MEET YOU ON THE BIG DAY—STOP—CAN ONLY SEE YOU IN LE HAVRE AS I PASS THROUGH—STOP—SPENDING THE NIGHT ISN'T ALLOWED—STOP—MAYBE JUST AS WELL ON YOUR BIG DAY—STOP—PERHAPS WE'LL MEET LATER AT THE FRONT—STOP—LOVE DADDO—STOP—

 

John answers him the next day. He sends the letter home because Daddo has no other permanent address.

 

I am writing this in a train proceeding to the firing line at 15 miles per hour. We are due at our destination at 11 a.m. tomorrow. I am quite concerned about my men, for they are all sitting on top of each other: the whole battalion of 1,100 men are jammed together in one train, along with 73 horses and 50 wagons.

Three friendly (and pretty!) English ladies pampered us with coffee and tea and large slabs of bread and butter during one of the countless stops. They run a stall just like the ones you frequently see in the French stations.

The adrenaline is visibly rushing through the veins of the subalterns. They can feel the danger approaching. For the time being they have great fun polishing off bread, sardines, and jam, and washing it all down with whiskey and water. They stick their bare feet out the window and sing and shout and smoke like Turks while waving to the startled passersby. It's quite all right here! This is A-1!

Would you be so good as to send me an Orilux service lamp for officers? Don't forget the refills. I'm enclosing a newspaper clipping; the French press keeps a close watch on Daddo.

 

The Second Battalion of the Irish Guards disembark at Lumbres. From there the troops march for days over the endless
pavés,
the brick roads, toward the front. Field officers proceed on horseback. Young officers such as John Kipling and Rupert Grayson walk next to or in front of their platoons. "On our God-given two legs!" Rupert says with a laugh.

At night they fall exhausted onto their straw mattresses.

"I'll strangle that miserable shoemaker for ramming these nail heads into my soles," John complains.

It remains hot and dry. The steel-blue sky shimmers and the severity of each day's march is measured by the merciless pull of their shoulder straps. After half a day, a rucksack weighing thirty kilos will feel as though it weighs a hundred. At least John and Rupert don't have to lug their leaden packs and heavy rifles, for the officers' baggage is transported by horses and mules, together with the munitions and tents.

For the time being, the endless
pavés
are their greatest enemy, certainly for the ordinary infantryman and the petty officer. Each extra mile is measured off with uncertainty. John can't let on to the fact that he, too, is taking his bearings through the clouds of dust that follow the regiment over the landscape, and that he is unsure of the landmarks on his map.

"Acquin," he said to his platoon. "That's the destination."

"All right," Sergeant Cochrane conceded, after he was shown how the route had been mapped out on paper. That boosted the men's spirits.

John wasn't really surprised when Cochrane walked up to him hours later.

"With permission, sir," the sergeant said hesitantly. He did not look happy.

"Sergeant?"

"Of course I don't want to question the decision of an officer, sir, but are you certain that—is this the correct way?"

"Happy that you mentioned it, Cochrane."

"The boys, sir. Uh, not ours. Well, I mean the men in the platoon behind us. They say that we've taken a wrong turn."

John takes his map and pretends to study it. "Then is this the road to Lauwerdal, and not Acquin? Or no—"

"Le Poovre," the sergeant says, correcting him. He looks straight ahead. "It was marked on a washed-out little arrow sign on a wall, they say."

"Just now?"

"An hour ago, sir."

The difference in rank between officer and sergeant is great, not to mention the difference between officer and ordinary infantryman. The stiff etiquette of the English army makes that gap unbridgeable. But the young Kipling, with his brand-new gold star, must gather all his tact and courage to inform the regiment commander of the mistake. The long procession is stopped. Picnic, they call it. Scouts on horseback head out immediately. A rocket shoots into the sky half an hour later. The Irish Guards continue on in the same direction for two miles, then take a right turn off the cobbled road. Making their way on bone-dry church paths and farmers' roads, they curve back around toward Acquin. This way it seems no one has erred and no one suffers loss of face, certainly not the officer who plotted out the route. It is even amusing as they goose-step between the grain and flax fields. The boys are able to try out their French in a field where women and men are binding the harvested flax into endless rows of knee-high sheaves to dry. The farm girls don't understand a word of the soldiers' exuberant French, but that doesn't matter; a smile is enough to drive the boys crazy.