Kipling's Choice (9 page)

The old aristocrat takes his time, twirling the tip of his mustache with his thumb and middle finger. "I see. Rowing, eh, Lieutenant? Or sailing."

"Swimming, actually, sir," John says and waves his arms, pretending to do the breaststroke. An unnecessary gesture, absolutely ridiculous, he realizes.

"By the way, Kipling. Mister Grayson is your friend, I assume."

"Rupert Grayson is a very good friend indeed, Colonel."

"And the soldiers in our battalion, as well?"

"Indeed. Well, uh, of course not personally, sir." His glasses begin to slide off his sweaty nose. He pushes them back up. "They're not personal friends."

"I should certainly hope
not
, Kipling. If your father were to hear of it! Don't forget that they're Irish. And
you,
after all, are an Englishman."

"Well, sir, I didn't mean..."

Colonel Butler is not listening. John snaps to attention.

"We are officers, is that what you mean, Kipling? And
they
are our subordinates."

John stands somewhat ill at ease and looks at the improvised football field. The colonel is directly next to him, gazing out over the field while he talks. The referee sets the ball down in the middle and blows his whistle for the new kickoff.

"Of course, Colonel." John's easygoing manner has completely taken on the strict, submissive tone of the military.

"And your friend, Mister Grayson. Is he an officer, too?"

"Of course, sir. He is a second lieutenant, the same as I." What a question! John thinks. The colonel taps his wooden officer's stick against his riding boot.

"Precisely, Kipling," says the colonel. "Look here, good fellow, even though we're off duty, I would appreciate it if you would no longer address Grayson as 'Rupert' in the presence of subordinates."

John swallows hard. "Naturally, sir. It won't happen again." He pinches the side seam of his trouser leg.

Colonel Butler walks to the end of the football field, which is lined with the caps, shirts, and jackets of the players. John flashes a look of relief to his fellow officers. They can barely contain their snickering. The colonel then turns around unexpectedly.

"Oh yes, Kipling. You've just been promoted to two-star lieutenant, but of course we'll wait for the official announcement."

John stands ramrod straight. "Thank you, sir," is all he can manage to say.

His promotion is not unusual. The officers at the front are put through the meat grinder so fast that they are constantly being replaced. One very quickly becomes an
ancien
in a fighting unit.

"Congratulations, old chap!" a sweaty Rupert Grayson says and pats John on the back after the game. "That old battle-ax has laid down the law, I hear."

"Oh, yes,
Mister
Grayson!"

The other young officers burst out laughing.

"A fine football match, Rupert," John continues, "but think about your fans, and shave your legs in the future!"

"Hear, hear!" The gentlemen surrounding john shout their approval.

A fight begins seconds later. As the two friends roll in the grass, the other officers gather round and cheer them on. As if by magic a swarm of soldiers, corporals, and sergeants flock to the scene.

"Look out,
Second
Lieutenant Grayson," jokes Captain Alexander, who has pushed through the pack. Lieutenant Kipling is now your superior!"

"I'll show
him
some stars, more than he can pin on his uniform," Grayson shouts.

The duel turns into a true farce, a grotesque cockfight. John and Rupert put on a show, the audience quickly take sides, but in the end John is pinned on his back amid a cacophony of boos and cheers.

"What will you do for me?" asks a sneering Grayson.

"Fine, fine,
you
win!" John calls breathlessly. "I'll buy you a drink."

Rupert Grayson looks doubtfully at the crowd as he holds down his friend. He knows that the young Kipling is rolling in money.

"Is that enough, boys?"

"No!" they shout in unison.

"And also a drink for the men, a drink for everybody!" John says desperately.

Rupert lets him go.

Alex jumps into the circle and takes each fighter by the hand like an official referee. "And the winner is..." To the surprise of everyone, he raises John's arm up high.

The soldiers laugh, they boo, they whistle and yell, they push and pull one other. New fights break out here and there, and caps and coats go flying into the air. The whole battalion is keyed up.

"Our men really needed this," Alex says into John's ear. "They needed to let off some steam." He turns to Rupert and says, "Thanks, boys."

During the past days all the soldiers and junior officers alike have been asking themselves just how far you can push military drilling. Conditions for the Brigade Field Days had to replicate actual life at the front in every respect. The men practiced their new fight techniques endlessly with and against other regiments, as though their very lives depended on it. They dug ditches and trenches, rolled out barbed wire, crawled through mud, lay in waiting for hours at a time, exposed to all the elements, sometimes in the pouring rain. The weather was unpredictable and always seemed to be against them. They were hustled out of bed for nightly reconnaissance patrols. They scraped together their last ounce of strength for hand-to-hand combat, carrying heavy packs and wearing gas masks as they did so. It never stopped. Their nerves were dangerously on edge. They staged mock attacks using real smoke shells. John's battalion even captured a real village for practice and interrogated French citizens, escorted prisoners, slaughtered pigs, and sought shelter for the night. They knew how critical their situation was, and fear was building up inside everyone. The moment of truth was approaching. The next day or the next week they would have the real enemy in view.

"A bullet in the leg," Rupert proposed to John one evening. "That wouldn't be a problem."

"Or in the arm." John thought that was reasonable, too. "Maybe a couple of fingers gone, although..." He noticed that Rupert unconsciously put his right hand under his left armpit.

"Have
you
been worried about it lately, as well?" Rupert asked hesitantly. He could sense John's fright by his silence and by the expression in his eyes.

Fear was taboo. This was the first time the two friends dared to talk about it.

"I'm beginning to realize that I may never see England again," Rupert confessed.

"The best-case scenario would be a gunshot wound, or a bit of gas," John said, thinking aloud.

"Dear God, not in the belly," Rupert mumbled. "Or my face. I always think about that. Or a bayonet wound. Yikes!"

"I don't want to be crippled. Be completely dependent on others. No, not that," said John with a sigh. "Or blind."

"How about a bullet to the shoulder?"

"That would be acceptable."

***

The football matches on that Sunday, September 12, 1915, were well-timed, a welcome change. The men desperately needed something to ease their stress. First the soldiers and corporals kicked the ball around together. Then came the long-awaited spectacle of the officers in their shorts. Those stiff English gentlemen could finally appear in a different role, and the Irish Guards would talk about it for a long time afterward.

The football games appeared to be just a warm-up. The staff officers had prepared well for this day off. The field kitchens stocked special provisions for the occasion, including meat, vegetables, and tinned fruit. There was a barrel of rum for each platoon, and the quartermasters distributed chewing and smoking tobacco. Here and there an accordion or Irish flute was hauled out. The vast field was teeming with exuberant boys. They laughed and shouted, drank and smoked. A concert in the open air began after nightfall. Enormous torches were set around the podium. The entertainers wore the same uniforms as the audience. They were professional musicians and actors who traveled across the entire front in Belgium and France, from one regiment to another. They knew exactly how to handle this rough crowd. Those who shouted the loudest were chosen to come up and dance, and their antics were such a farce that their comrades were soon rolling on the grass with laughter. But it was just as easy for the musicians to silence the men, and at the first notes of "Oh Danny Boy" the audience fell completely quiet. The song sent chills down each spine:

 

Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling
From glen to glen, and down the mountainside.
The summer's gone, and all the roses falling,
'Tis you, 'tis you must go, and I must bide.

If you come back and all the flowers are dying,
And if I am dead, as dead I may well be
You'll come and find the place where I am lying
And kneel and say an "Ave" therefor me.

 

With a lump in the throat the Irish boys sang the refrain in harmony Here and there a silent tear glistened in the flickering light. Those tears were quickly wiped away, for the next medley of songs made fun of the Germans. The excitement built, and the musicians gave it their all in the last encore.

The day concluded with a huge campfire. Once again the men sang from the very depths of their souls. They drank, too, for then they didn't have to talk. Or worry. No one said a word about what would be happening in the days to come, but everyone was thinking about it.

The officers drank another round just before midnight. Finally they could talk freely among themselves.

"That wrestling match this afternoon was splendid!" Alex said to John and Rupert. "Cheers, Kipling. To your health, for that matter!"

"Will you let your family know about your promotion?" Rupert asked John.

"It will have to appear in the
London Gazette
first," said the captain in a kindly voice. "You know that, don't you, boys?"

"I'll wait," John declared. "I wonder when they'll find out for themselves."

***

"We are on the eve of the biggest battle in the history of the world!" Lieutenant General Haking solemnly proclaims three days later. It is September 15, 1915. The commander of the Second Guard Brigade is never shy about speaking to his assembled officers in a self-important manner.

"The time has come!" John mutters to Rupert excitedly. Feelings of relief and high expectations fill the general staff's big tent. Friends nod to one another.

Most of the men have not yet been to the front. They are very proud indeed that a general is taking the trouble to speak to even the youngest officers of the whole brigade. John becomes quiet when the commander-in-chief hands out his specific commands.

"Everyone will strictly adhere to my orders. Think about your training, follow the instructions. Trust your superiors. On Friday and Saturday we'll do one last test: field practice together with an artillery division and the military engineers. Tomorrow we'll march to Wisques. It's close by, to the south of Saint-Omer. Gentlemen, the hour of truth is near!"

The general speaks in a melodramatic tone, but John is completely taken in.
Is that so?
he wonders.

"Don't leave anything to chance," the general continues. "The enemy mustn't get a single break. Be especially careful with military documents at the front."

John feels as though he is floating. He thinks about his sister and the carefree days when they rowed together on the narrow Dudwell River, which winds through their country estate. The water mill way in the back of the lush garden, the perfect hideout for boys like him. His motorcycle. His mother. And Daddo, of course. They would be so proud of him now!

Lieutenant General Haking's nasal voice brings John back to reality. The commander-in-chief raises a glass with his most important staff officers and ends his speech in a stately manner. "Gentlemen, your country is counting on you. To victory!"

The crowd applauds politely. Glasses clink together.

"To the king!" Solemnly, the general sips his champagne.

"To the king!" the men call out in unison.

When the speech is over, the junior officers of the First Battalion are hardly impressed by the general's words. Quite the contrary.

"The general is a real strategist," says someone scornfully. "Unbelievable, isn't it, so much experience."

"Yes, with little tin soldiers," answers another. "His house is full of them."

"The general just wants to see his name in the newspapers."

"In the want ads," a third officer jeers. "Brains wanted. Apply to the Second Guard Brigade!"

They chuckle and smirk, but on each face is a bitter smile. John can't understand why these sarcastic remarks are being made behind the general's back by officers in the First Battalion, of all people!
They
have had experience at the firing line, haven't they? And it's precisely
those
men who seem to have no interest whatsoever in Haking's words!

"Captain Alexander, you were wounded at Ypres," John says, completely confused. "How can
they
make fun of..." He can scarcely find words to express his indignation.

"They've described the general exactly," Alex replies, trying to quiet him. "Look, whoever returns from hell only
half
shot to smithereens considers himself lucky"

"Hasn't the lieutenant general served at the front line himself?" Rupert asks.

John looks wordlessly from the one to the other.

Alex shrugs his shoulders and sighs. "If you survive a battle, the first thing you do is count your fingers and toes.
If
they're still there. Then you count your comrades on those fingers. After each attack. And each time you'll have more fingers left than friends."

"And in the long run only your fingers remain," a voice calls out bitterly.

The three turn around in surprise. They see a young captain from the First Guards, a tall, round-shouldered fellow.

"And all your comrades—gone in a flash. Gone forever." His dull, black-rimmed eyes look right through John. He taps his cap in salute, a small, emotionless gesture. Then he disappears among the other officers.