The Somme (17 page)

Towards the end of the third week the Sister told me that ‘an inquiry' had been made about me, and for the moment I thought that the murder was out – that the message came from the battalion. ‘What's the matter with you, chum? You're as white as a sheet,' said somebody; and I muttered some story of a headache and smoked cigarettes furiously. But a guilty conscience had betrayed me for nothing. A telegram had come from home, and my fears of a court-martial were groundless.

This indeed was the ebb-tide of my courage, and gradually, as the days passed without catastrophe, I recovered my confidence and attained almost to cheerfulness. Books were my salvation and helped me to forget. The memory of the crime grew blurred with distance, and time dulled its shame.

For nearly three months I remained at Trouville, in different wards and under different forms of treatment. At first I watched carefully the faces of nurses and doctors for the first hint of suspicion; but the slow cleaning of my scorched hand washed away the blackest evidence, and at last I told myself that I had definitely won the game. But it was still necessary to walk carefully. As soon as the wound had healed I volunteered for light duty with the Hospital Police, and so contrived to waste three weeks without massage. By this means I might evade a complete recovery, and with normal luck make a bid for a medical board, a low category, and a job at the Base.

But my good fortune went further, and at an hour's notice I was warned for an English convoy. In mid-June I left France for good, and in due time the Army. Behold me now with a War Gratuity and a Pension, Gold Stripes and Service Chevrons, the reputation of a man who has done his bit, and the unconsciously ironical gratitude of strangers!

And was it, after all, worth while to barter self-respect for safety? Often I wish I had risked everything and taken my chance with the others. Often I tell myself that it was on the knees of the Gods whether in that event I should have emerged at all from the struggle; that death on a battlefield is merely the crowning absurdity to a life of folly; that self-preservation is no crime. Perhaps it is the knowledge of the thousands who evaded so successfully the horrors of the War – profited by them rather – that reconciles me most of all to my own weakness. There is a grim humour in the voluble explanations of those who somehow failed to bear the burden.

But though I protest until my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth, the coward is a coward still, and nothing can exonerate him. I hoped only to give you some notion of what war may mean to a weakling. At least I have hidden nothing. What you think of me I shall never know.

For the train had reached Exeter, and my companion vanished so abruptly that I had not even time to wish him farewell. I have never seen him since, and indeed I feel sure that it was only to a stranger that he could have made confession. To all of us in its season there comes the desire to tear aside the veils of reticence: it so happened that the time and the occasion were favourable to me. The unknown's conduct I dare not judge. His story must speak for itself.

 

Arthur Donald “A. D.” Gristwood was born in 1893. He enlisted in the British Army in 1915, joining the 5th London Regiment. He was later discharged due to injuries. After the war, Gristwood struck up a friendship with H. G. Wells, who was impressed by his writing and encouraged him. Through Wells' influence,
The Somme
was published by Jonathan Cape in 1927. Gristwood committed suicide in 1933.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Originally published in 1927

A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library

978-1-5040-4028-0

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