Being on the reserve of officers, Willie did a short period of training with his regiment every year, and it so happened that he was actually with the regiment and under canvas in the month of September when the war broke out. Once again he experienced the same thrill of exultation that he had known just twenty-one years before when he was warned that he was to go with the next draft to France. He felt no older than he had done then, and on his knees he thanked heaven that his chance had not come too late. In the camp during those first days everything was in a state of feverish activity, for it was known that the regiment would be among the first to go.
Then came the shattering blow. One morning the Colonel sent for him. ‘I’ve bad news, I fear, for you, Willie, but it’s bad news for me, too. We’re both in the same boat, or rather we’re both out of it; neither of us is to go with the first contingent. Hamilton is taking the regiment abroad, and you and I have got to stay behind, look after what’s left of it, and train on the young officers.’
Willie’s mouth went dry, he was unable to speak, and for one terrible moment he feared he was going to cry.
‘Don’t take it too hard,’ the Colonel went on. ‘It’s worse for me than for you. In my case, if they don’t let me go now it’s a hundred to one they won’t let me go at all. It means I’m on the shelf, finished for life.’
Willie longed to say that the Colonel had fought in the last war, as the row of ribbons on his chest bore witness, that he was over fifty, a married man with children, and that he had much to console him for staying at home. He wanted to fall on his knees and beg to be allowed to go, but he knew that the decision did not rest with the Colonel, so that he could only stand there, still unable to speak.
‘Don’t take it too hard, Willie,’ the Colonel repeated, seeing that he was taking it very hard indeed. ‘I remember so well at the beginning of the last war, when some fool in high places had said, or was reported to have said, that it would all be over by Christmas, and lots of us were in despair because we thought we should never get out in time. But we all went in the long run, and it will be just the same again – heavy casualties in the first scrap, more officers wanted, none of the new boys ready to go. They’ll be grateful enough for the old ’uns then, and there won’t be too many of them. Meanwhile there will be plenty of work for us to do at home, and very important work too, and there’s a job or two I want you to get on with immediately.’
Willie was thankful that the Colonel then went on to explain to him a number of things that he wanted done which would necessitate a visit to the War Office and several days in London. He was, in fact, to act as second-in-command of the training unit that would remain behind. Although he found it difficult to follow all that the Colonel said, and was obliged to ask a number of questions, he was thankful to have these matters to discuss and not to be obliged to refer to the fearful blow which he had just received. If only he had been prepared for it, he felt that he could have borne it better. But in his crass stupidity, he told himself, it was the one thing that had never occurred to him. He knew perfectly well that when a regiment went abroad on active service some officers and men were left behind. But he had never thought that he would be among those officers. Some people, he told himself, were struck by lightning, some were eaten by sharks, some won the Calcutta sweepstake, but he had never believed that any of those fates would befall such an ordinary chap as him, Willie Maryington. And he would never have thought that he would be the officer who was left behind. The Colonel had talked about the first scrap, but that was just the scrap that he wanted to be in. He had said something about heavy casualties. Willie minded little how heavy they were if he was in it, but how could he bear to sit at home hoping that his brother officers would be killed, so that he could take their place?
No reference was made in the mess that evening to the regiment’s forthcoming departure, but Willie felt that it was generally known that he was not to go. Everybody was polite and kind to him as though he had just suffered some domestic tragedy, and, when he said that he was going to London next morning, nobody asked why.
When Willie went into his club on the following day he was surprised to find how many of the civilian members were already in uniform, and how many were expecting to go overseas almost immediately. At the time this made his position more painful, although subsequent experience taught him that these hopes of active service, if genuine, were too optimistic, and many of the most confident remained in uniform, and in the club, for the rest of the war.
He spent the greater part of the next day at the War Office, and was very far from having completed his mission at the end of it. The light was failing as he turned up Whitehall towards Trafalgar Square. He had almost bumped into a man who was walking rapidly in the opposite direction, when he saw that he was Horry, and they greeted one another.
‘You’re a bit off your beat here, Horry,’ he said. ‘Turn back with me and we’ll have a drink at the Carlton bar.’
‘I’m sorry, old chap,’ said Horry, ‘but I’m in a hurry. Walk along with me in my direction for a bit.’
Willie turned. As he did so he glanced curiously at Horry. There was something unusual in his appearance. Could he be sunburnt? No – he looked again, and then he saw what it was.
‘Horry,’ he said quietly, ‘have you been playing in a matinée?’
‘No, indeed. My show came off last week – and who ever heard of a matinée on a Friday?’
‘Then, by God, Horry, I don’t understand it,’ said Willie rather fiercely. ‘I thought perhaps you’d forgotten to take off your make-up. Are you aware, man, that your face is painted?’
He asked the question as though it were an accusation, and in order to add solemnity to it, he stopped, laid his hand on Horry’s arm and looked straight into his eyes.
Horry threw back his head with his old gay laugh. ‘Oh, my beloved Willie,’ he said. ‘Scotland Yard’s just round the corner. Would you care to run me in for accosting? Come on, you old silly. I’ve got no time to lose.’
‘But explain, for God’s sake explain,’ said Willie, as they walked on.
‘It’s very simple,’ said Horry. ‘I’m over forty, you know. I never thought I looked it, but it seems I do. They’ve turned me down at two of these damned recruiting places already, but there’s one down here near Westminster Bridge. They haven’t got the electricity working in it yet, but they keep it open till six, and by then the light’s pretty bad. The chaps will be tired, they don’t know me as you do, so they won’t suspect anything, and I believe with this make-up I’ll pull it off.’
‘Oh, Horry, how splendid! I thought that you’d be the last person to do a thing like this.’
‘I know.’ Horry looked almost ashamed of himself. ‘I’m not so keen on King and Country and all that stuff, but when I think about those blasted Nazis I just feel that I can’t walk on to the stage and make an ass of myself as long as one of the bastards is left alive.’
Willie was deeply moved, but all he could mutter was ‘Damned good show,’ and as they had reached the end of Whitehall he turned, rather abruptly, towards Storey’s Gate and began walking back to his club across the park. His mind was full of admiration for Horry and of pity for himself. Here was a man two years older than he was, who, since leaving school, had never done a day’s military training, and who might now be going to the war, while he, whose whole life had been devoted to the Army, who had made every possible effort to render himself an efficient officer, was forced to stay at home. The injustice of it rankled deeply.
He had broken off his conversation with Horry so suddenly that he had forgotten to ask him to telephone the result of his visit to the recruiting station. When he reached his club, therefore, he rang up and heard the jubilant-voice of Horry at the other end of the line. All had gone well. The only doubt in the minds of the officials, so he assured Willie, was whether he was old enough to join the Army. He was to report on the following day.
Willie suggested that they should dine together, but Horry, after a moment’s hesitation, feared it was impossible. Willie concluded that he was having a farewell dinner with Miriam, and keenly envied him. He asked for news of Felicity. He had tried to find her by telephone without success. Horry gave him a number. When he succeeded in getting it, after some difficulty, and asked for Miss Osborne, he was informed in a harsh female voice that ‘Osborne would be coming on duty at 10 p.m.’ He enquired who it was that he had the honour of speaking to, and learnt that it was the Superintendent of the Chelsea Branch of the Auxiliary Fire Service. He asked that Osborne might be requested to ring up his number when she arrived, and a grudging assent was given.
He was in the middle of a rubber of bridge after dinner when the call came through. Felicity’s voice sounded tired on the telephone and not very friendly. After the usual greetings she said:
‘I hope you’re enjoying the war that you’ve been looking forward to for so long.’
‘Oh no, Felicity,’ he answered. ‘I am not enjoying it at all.’
Her voice changed at once, and the warmth he loved so much came back into it.
‘My poor Willie. I hate you to be unhappy. We’ll lunch together tomorrow, and you shall tell me all about it.’
She gave him the name of a restaurant in Chelsea, and told him the hour at which she would be there, warning him that her time was limited and that he must be punctual.
On the following day he waited for her at the restaurant for half an hour. Thinking there had been a mistake, he was about to leave, for it was not a restaurant which tempted him to have luncheon alone, and he was standing at the entrance, when she came running down the street. Breathlessly she explained that she had been unable to get away earlier, that her hours of duty were always being changed, that she would never have forgiven him if he hadn’t waited, but that now all was well, as she was free for the afternoon.
He thought that she had never looked so lovely. The uniform – dark blue tunic and trousers and a small blue hat that could not contain her thick curling hair – became her admirably. She carried her gas mask slung over her shoulder and somehow conveyed a curious impression of efficiency. He was delighted with her.
‘Tell me quickly,’ he said, ‘all about this Army you have joined, what your duties are and how you like it.’
‘It seemed,’ she said, ‘the best thing to do. One can’t get into the Wrens, the Ats all hate it, and I can’t bear the uniform of the Waafs, so here I am. I’ve got some friends in the same show. We can’t have much to do until the bombing starts, then we shall have to go round putting out the fires and carting away the corpses. I’m only a driver. The one thing I can do is to drive a car, but I’ve only just learnt to clean one. Look!’ She held out to him her beautiful hands, already dirtied and roughened by labour.
He took one of them in his, pointed to the scratches on it, saying, ‘Honourable scars, honourable scars,’ then turned it over tenderly and kissed the palm.
‘Even you,’ he murmured, ‘wounded already!’ He asked her whether she had heard about Horry. She had heard nothing, and when he told her she was not surprised.
‘I thought he’d do something like that,’ she said, ‘but I wish he could have had a commission. He loves his comforts, and he has been used to them for so long.’
‘Perhaps he’ll get one,’ said Willie. ‘Serve him right if he does, for then they won’t let him go near the fighting.’
He poured forth all his own unhappiness, and Felicity listened with large-eyed sympathy. She offered him such consolation as she could, but found little to say that he had not said to himself already. There was, of course, the very likely possibility of heavy casualties, against which Willie argued that young officers were being rapidly trained to fill the gaps.
Felicity maintained, rather feebly, the view that this war was not going to be like the last. Not only was there just as much important work to be done at home, but the people who stayed at home would be in as great danger as those at the front.
‘Not the soldiers,’ said Willie bitterly. ‘You ought to see our air-raid shelters; we’ve been digging them all the summer, although the C.O. didn’t believe in war. They’re the best in the country and, what’s more, it’s an order to go down into them at the first alert. It’s an offence to risk the life of one of His Majesty’s valuable soldiers, even those who are too old to go out and fight for him. And what do you suppose we’re spending our time doing now?’ he added. ‘Camouflaging our barracks!’
‘Well, you won’t be safe when you come to London, anyhow, and I hope you’ll come often because I see that I’m going to be terribly bored.’
‘I’ll come as often as I can; you can count on that. But if you think that a bomb falling on my head in a London street is going to make up to me for not fighting with the regiment in France, you’re wrong.’
‘My poor Willie,’ said Felicity sadly. ‘It seems to me that wars don’t make people happy – not even the people who wanted them’ – and she stretched her hand the table and held his for a minute.