A Man Could Stand Up—, Ford Madox Ford [ebook reader macos .txt] 📗

Tietjens was not calm: he was too much bothered by Valentine Wannop and by the thought that, if the strafe was on, he ought to be seeing about his battalion. And of course by the bombardment. But the Colonel said, when Tietjens with the aid of signs again made proposals to take a look around:

“No. Stop where you are. This isn’t the strafe. There is not going to be a strafe. This is only a little extra Morning Hate. You can tell by the noise. That’s only four point twos. There’s nothing really heavy. The really heavies don’t come so fast. They’ll be turning on to the Worcesters now and only giving us one every half minute.⁠ ⁠… That’s their game. If you don’t know that, what are you doing here?” He added! “You hear?” pointing his forefinger to the roof. The noise shifted. It went away to the right as a slow coal-wagon might. He went on:

“This is your place. Not doing things up above. They’ll come and tell you if they want things. And you’ve got a first-rate Adjutant in Notting and Dunne’s a good man.⁠ ⁠… The men are all under cover: that’s an advantage in having your strength down to three hundred. There’s dugouts for all and to spare.⁠ ⁠… All the same, this is no place for you. Nor for me. This is a young man’s war. We’re old uns. Three and a half years of it have done for me. Three and a half months will do for you.”

He looked gloomily at his reflection in the mirror that stood before him.

“You’re a gone coon!” he said to it. Then he took it and, holding it for a moment poised at the end of a bare white arm, flung it violently at the rough stones of the wall behind Tietjens. The fragments tinkled to the ground.

“There’s seven years’ bad luck,” he said. “God take ’em, if they can give me seven years worse than this last I’d find it instructive!”

He looked at Tietjens with infuriated eyes.

“Look here you!” he said, “You’re an educated man⁠ ⁠… What’s the worst thing about this war? What’s the worst thing? Tell me that!” His chest began to heave. “It’s that they won’t let us alone. Never! Not one of us! If they’d let us alone we could fight. But never.⁠ ⁠… No one! It’s not only the beastly papers of the battalion, though I’m no good with papers. Never was and never shall be.⁠ ⁠… But it’s the people at home. One’s own people. God help us, you’d think that when a poor devil was in the trenches they’d let him alone.⁠ ⁠… Damn it: I’ve had solicitors’ letters about family quarrels when I was in hospital. Imagine that!⁠ ⁠… Imagine it! I don’t mean tradesmen’s dunnings. But one’s own people. I haven’t even got a bad wife as Mckechnie has and they say you have. My wife’s a bit extravagant and the children are expensive. That’s worry enough.⁠ ⁠… But my father died eighteen months ago. He was in partnership with my uncle. A builder. And they tried to do his estate out of his share of the business and leave my old mother with nothing. And my brother and sister threw the estate into Chancery in order to get back the little bit my father spent on my wife and children. My wife and children lived with my father whilst I was in India.⁠ ⁠… And out here.⁠ ⁠… My solicitor says they can get it out of my share: the cost of their keep. He calls it the doctrine of ademption.⁠ ⁠… Ademption⁠ ⁠… Doctrine of⁠ ⁠… I was better off as a Sergeant,” he added gloomily. “But Sergeants don’t get let alone. They’ve always got women after them. Or their wives take up with Belgians and they get written to about it. Sergeant Cutts of D Company gets an anonymous letter every week about his wife. How’s he to do his duty! But he does. So have I till now.⁠ ⁠…” He added with renewed violence:

“Look here. You’re an educated man, aren’t you? The sort of man that could write a book. You write a book about that. You write to the papers about it. You’d be more use to the Army doing that than being here. I daresay you’re a good enough officer. Old Campion is too keen a commander to stick a rotten officer into this job, godson or no godson.⁠ ⁠… Besides, I don’t believe the whole story about you. If a General wanted to give a soft godson’s job to a fellow, it would be a soft job and a fat one. He wouldn’t send him here. So take the battalion with my blessing. You won’t worry over it more than I have: the poor bloody Glamorgan’s.”

So he had his battalion! He drew an immense breath. The bumps began to come back along the line. He figured those shells as being like sparrow-hawks beating along a hedge. They were probably pretty accurate. The Germans were pretty accurate. The trenches were probably being knocked about a good deal, the pretty, pinkish gravel falling about in heaps as it would lie in a park, ready to be spread on paths. He remembered how he had been up on the Montagne Noire, still, thank God, behind where they were now. Why did he thank God? Did he really care where the Army was. Probably! But enough to say “thank God” about? Probably too.⁠ ⁠… But as long as they kept on at the job did anything matter? Anything else? It was keeping on that mattered. From the Montagne Noir he had seen our shells bursting on a thinnish line in the distance, in shining weather. Each shell existing in a white puff, beautifully. Forward and backward along the line.⁠ ⁠… Under Messines village. He had felt exhilaration to think that our gunners were making such good practice. Now some Hun on a hill was feeling exhilaration over puffs of smoke in our line!⁠ ⁠… But he, Tietjens was⁠ ⁠… Damn