Susan Hill - Strange Meeting

The men simply thought I’d gone off my head, though perhaps they also wondered if I wanted a way of Putting An End To It All! I felt ashamed of myself. And I have been thinking ever since that I felt incensed and hurt on its behalf and yet I had not thought of going out again and trying to bring back Coulter, after we’d left him in No Man’s Land that night. I have been haunted in my sleep and in my waking by the sound of his voice crying out, I have not been and shall never be convinced that we could not have done something for him, brought him back or at least stayed and comforted him in some way while he was dying. Did he die? Perhaps he wasn’t so badly hurt as John thought. (He won’t tell me exactly what he saw.) Perhaps Coulter started to crawl after us but we had gone and he couldn’t get any further. He might have died of exposure or neglected wounds or simply of despair that he’d been left behind. Anything. I cannot, cannot forget it.

There have been stories of men who have been lying out wounded and crying in pain and have stuffed their fists or the sleeves of their tunics in their mouths to stop themselves, knowing that they would only bring out rescue parties who would be risking their lives, for hopeless cases. The more I hear from John and the others, the more amazed I am by the astonishing bravery of many men and by their tolerance of pain and terrible conditions, and by the part that chance, accident and coincidence play in this war. But I wish that Coulter had died rushing towards the enemy line through a hail of fire with fixed bayonet – he was a strange, gentle man really, and yet he did have this passionate belief in the rightness of our cause and the essential evil of the whole German nation. A man after the hearts of all generals, politicians and recruiting officers. But worth the whole lot of them. He’d seen a lot of slaughter and though I abhorred all of his ideas and thought him entirely wrong-headed, yet I admired him, he was so cheerful and determined and amusing. I have written a sort of obituary, haven’t I? And yet I cannot get it into my head that he is almost certainly dead. I do not feel it. I wish I’d seen him, no matter what state he was in. John has not mentioned him for days now but I know he feels his loss greatly and though he had no real alternative but to leave him (Oh, I do know that really, I trust John’s military as well as his human judgement) yet I know he is also anxious and perhaps feels guilty, too.

There is little more to tell you for the moment. Life here changes so much and yet essentially changes very little – the daily routine is the same, the food is the same, the weather is the same, we live without a sense of time – or rather with a sense of being in army-time, which bears little relation to the time you live in. Preparations are going ahead for a manoeuvre about which I cannot tell you, we are almost off our heads with exhaustion and driven mad with orders sent along every five minutes, and with conferences every day and heaven knows what else. We are grateful for the tiny improvements in our physical conditions – life cannot have been worse than it was during those two weeks further north, we were in as bad a state as men can be. If only the rain would stop, if only I could remember what it feels like to be clean and dry.

I got your parcel, for which many thanks. I have had little time yet for appreciating the books you chose so carefully. But I have been able to retreat into otherworlds once or twice – reading the Forster novel, which is so elegant and intelligent and urbane. I shall leave the rest of him up till things are a bit quieter, I like it so much. The Japanese anthology, of which I manage a paragraph every night before my eyes close (which they do too easily), is beautiful – that world seems even farther off, full of cherry blossom and reeds and still water, snow and wise thoughts. I find I can read absolutely anything (or could, if time permitted) and soak it up and it only refreshes me, whereas music has become almost impossible. We have use of the gramophone for three days out of seven now, because we have to share it with some of A Company. But of all the records you have sent, there is only the ‘Winterreise’ which I can bear at any time – and anything of Mozart. John is the same. Don’t ask me why. I hope all the rest will not be spoilt for leave, or peace-time. Meanwhile, we know the Schubert songs by heart and each of us can always tell when the other is around by snatches of whistling.

You asked if I was very afraid of the thought of a full battle. Difficult to answer because you see I have no real idea of what it will be like apart from tales I have heard and from the academic, tactical lectures. But I have seen enough injury and terrible death and destruction here to have no illusions about it certainly. I shall know how afraid I am when the time comes – some men say they feel only elation, others keep silent, which means they know real terror. But it is these long weeks of trench life, with the constant possibility of accident, which erodes one’s courage worst of all. We have had a pep talk from the Brigadier, and last week, a pep letter came round to all officers and N.C.O.s – entirely unmoving. Yet when we were given our first marching orders at home at the end of our time in the training camp I felt (and we all did) a great rush of blood and glory, a singing in the ears and an eagerness to do or die. It lasted half an hour or half a day, according to how good your memory was for florid sentences!

The food here has got steadily worse and scarcer too. No idea why. God knows what they make the jam of – tree roots I think, and the stuff in the stews is obscene. We get by with the help of John’s parcels, though I must say I wish that they would send less delicacies and frills and some more plain and substantial things too. Last week we had marrons glacés and crystallized pineapple.

John has just come in to say we are to go and see the C.O. yet again. Another trek and it’s raining torrents, which means we shall crowd into the dugout H.Q. and sweat and steam and smell. And it won’t be anything more than boring orders, more work, work, work.

‘Gentlemen, I am here to tell you that we have been ordered to make a further series of reconnaissance raids up to the enemy line as far as the edge of their trenches near Barmelle Wood.’

The C.O. was looking straight ahead of him, his eyes on the patch of air, avoiding any individual face. His hands, which usually fidgeted with papers or cigar tin, were folded in front of him. He looked relaxed and curiously happy, his face was without any of its recent strain and even the skin seemed to have become smoother and taken on a more healthy look.

‘There have been, as you know, five raids from B and C companies in the past week. The information obtained from these has been negligible, through no fault of those concerned. In the course of these raids, the Battalion has lost six officers and thirteen men killed, and two officers and eleven men have been seriously wounded. In addition, B Company lost three men when in a similar raid at Leuillet a fortnight ago.’

He was silent for a moment. Barton and Hilliard sitting side by side and opposite to him in the cramped dugout, each felt the stillness of the other. Something was different, they had come for a routine briefing but the atmosphere was full of foreboding, they heard this news of the planned raids and expected that something more was to follow, the date and details of the expected offensive on Barmelle Wood.

Instead, Garrett said. ‘I have made a decision and it is my duty to tell you all of the nature of that decision. I have said that in my opinion such reconnaissance raids are pointless in terms of strategy and a criminal waste of men. I have categorically refused, therefore, to pass on the orders for further raids of this sort. I will no longer accept responsibility for the fruitless loss of life which they entail. Not unexpectedly, my objections have been overruled. Not unexpectedly, I have been ordered to relinquish my command of this Battalion and to return to England. I expect to leave within the next two or three days. If I am wrong, I am sorry. I would ask each of you to feel entirely free to place upon record your dissent from my opinion on this matter if you wish to do so. But I cannot continue against the dictates of my conscience and my common sense, and I am entirely content that the action I am taking is the correct one.’