Louis de Bernières - The Dust That Falls From Dreams

On the 11th it turned out that Rosie’s lassitude and reaction to Lysol had really been the German measles, and it was perfectly horrible. She hoped fervently that one couldn’t get it twice, which is what people always used to say. Mrs McCosh moved her into the spare room because it was further from the rest of the bedrooms than hers was. The rash subsided very quickly, and Rosie’s mother devoted the morning to reading her the poems of Mrs Hemans. In the afternoon Rosie got up, had a bath and dressed, but did not go downstairs. Rosie decided that she did not like Mrs Hemans very much, and, if you were going to read women poets, you would get a lot more out of Christina Rossetti and Elizabeth Barrett Browning, of both of whom Mrs McCosh disapproved. Rosie enjoyed Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s experiments, and was slightly ashamed of not enjoying Robert Browning at all. She wrote to the Poetry Bookshop to complain that their 1911–12 anthology of contemporary Georgians did not contain one woman poet, saying that ‘This cannot be because there are none of the requisite high standard; it must be because you have failed to take note of who they are, or have not troubled yourselves to find out.’

On the 12th and 13th Rosie got up and dressed, but stayed in the spare room, reading Coleridge and Keats. She felt considerably better, but still exceedingly weak and low in spirits. Mrs McCosh came up and offered to read to her but she declined, as she preferred to read to herself, and was not in the mood for any more Mrs Hemans.

On the 14th Rosie felt particularly desolate because it was St Valentine’s Day.

On the 15th of February, the news came about Ashbridge Pendennis.

3RD OF FEB. Beautiful day. Nothing doing. Slept in church where lice caught. Daniel flew over, upside down at fifty feet. Wondrous.

Find can now buy huge meals of custard from what used to be post office. Made in big fish mould, so call it ‘Kemmel Fish’. More people selling coffee. Impressive how adversity turns out entrepreneurs. Will always be someone clever enough. World proliferates with little Hamilton McCoshes.

Not supposed to be in village at all, so technique is invent reason to go to quartermaster’s store/think up complaint that has to be dealt with by MO. Got put off when Boche started shelling village again. Killed nine men, but eventually Kemmelfishitis returns, and off we go.

4th. Awoke in church to find men kneeling all around me — weird. An old lady nodded to me, but after returning nod found was nodding and bowing to a saint. Slept well. Dreamed of Baltimore again.

Fond memories of worst trench. Had to get there in dark, and the ground frozen solid except covering of slime. Turnips poking out of soil so slipped and stumbled every step. Fell over French corpse, fell in ditch. Got snagged by brambles and thorns, panic because got left behind whilst trying to detach. Man in front whispers what’s just happened so doesn’t happen to one behind. Some ditches single plank across, always slippery with mud. Laden down like mules with equipment and provisions.

New trench an old one. Was German then French, shallow slimy one. Fritz hands and feet sticking out of parapet. Cuts in hands festering because nowhere to wash. Nearly vomited from stench. Hutch did. No sleep because of smell, so set about improving trench instead.

Realised couldn’t deepen it. Ground too hard, so went behind lines at night, retrieved bricks from broken-down cottage. Bricks not best protection (shatter), but did raise/improve parapet. Sun came out morning, melted ground. Back in putrid stuff again.

Beautiful day, and was peaceful. I love to watch the aeroplanes. Daniel Pitt stunts almost every day on way back from patrol. Came in very low today, practically head height, bombed us with rotten apples. Completely mad, must have been fired at by every Boche machine gun within a mile. Those who stunt at low altitude don’t last long, they say. Has painted ‘Long Live the Pals’ under bottom ailerons in bright red. Makes me want to cry. Good old Daniel.

Outside the winter wind is moaning,

Death is knocking at the gate,

The house, my heart, the world is groaning,

Cracked by tempest, war, and fate.

The bombs descend, the houses burn,

Death’s thirst for blood we cannot slake.

I wring my hands, and, helpless, yearn

For one I beg Him not to take.

My Love’s dwelling place is mud,

And rain and fire and sharded sleet,

And sudden hurt and bright dark blood,

Where Hell and Earth conspire to meet.

Now Christ protect him, bring him light

’Til all the enemy depart,

And Christ protect him through this night

Whose fearful tears,

Whose bitter fears

Tear and grapple at my heart.

5TH OF FEB. Moved at night Lindenhowe where slept in barn near German lines. On guard and really splendid to see trees silhouetted against sky by German star shells. Last night a tenor in German lines sang Brahms’s Lullaby just as sun went down. So beautiful almost wept. Not a dry eye in trench. How sleep the dead.

Had breakfast at brazier. Tinned salmon, biscuits, jam, big pot of tea. Young lad from Croydon, been cooper’s apprentice, name Harold Rumthorpe. Can’t say we were particular friends. War throws all kinds together, makes you comrades, not necessarily friends. HR was nineteen, six years younger than me, and I’m in shipping and he was tradesman. Don’t know how he got in the HAC, wasn’t exactly ‘gentleman ranker’. Probably came out with his ‘gentleman’, like Hutch. Liked him, though never really had conversation. Just cursed/slogged along together.

HR spotted captive balloon. Were trying to work out if one of ours/theirs. He stood up to get proper look. Moment of inadvertence, no chance to get to him quickly enough. Next second, brazier kicked over and was spattered, glistening speckles red and white, and Harold fell in Hutch’s arms. Hutch leaning back against parapet, repeating, ‘Oh God, oh God.’

Took 45 mins to die. Pitiful noises enough to break heart. Bullet took off back of head, nowhere to lay him down in comfort. Orderly crawled over from next trench, but couldn’t do anything, and couldn’t get Harold out in plain view of enemy. Laid him on parados, and that night carried him back to ruined cottage and buried him in garden. Already five graves there, soldiers planted like vegetables, against the day of harvest. Plenty bullets whizzing. Several times had to wait for clouds to roll back across moon, and throw ourselves flat every star shell. Private who’d been ordained, recited burial service from memory, very loud and clear, so Huns would hear us. Boche tenor with beautiful voice responded, sang Brahms’s Lullaby again. Had to cry. Hutch made cross of sticks.

Stark scene, strangest and most powerful ever experienced in my life. Will haunt me/make me think thoughts almost too large. Harold Rumthorpe, apprentice cooper of Croydon, farewell, laid to rest by his brothers, sung to rest by a Hun.

Will always hear those words of the committal ringing out into the night:

‘Man that is born of woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down, like a flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay …’

That night went back to Kemmel, everyone wondering silently who would be next. Hutch said, ‘Don’t you wish you’d stayed at home?’ Said, ‘No,’ and H said, ‘Me neither.’

6th. After restful day returned to trenches. Lost 5/- at Crown and Anchor. Hutch lost 4/6d. Never again. Hutch now my trench-foot pal. I rub his feet in whale oil, he rubs mine. Have high hopes of success in avoiding it. Heard theory that all this rain caused by shells making water condense as fly through the air. Would have thought that friction would heat air up, not the reverse. So am not convinced, but Hutch believes it.