‘I should think Coulter knows what he’s about,’ he said, ‘doesn’t he? He keeps his ear to the ground, he always seems to know what’s going on, long before we do.’
‘Yes.’
‘I should think he’s worth taking notice of.’
‘There’s nothing we can do.’
‘We can listen to him.’
‘We haven’t heard anything.’
‘But it is too quiet.’
‘Yes. I feel jittery myself, now and then.’
Barton looked concerned.
‘No, it’s all right. And this does happen, you know, and it can go on for weeks and months. Especially if they’re concentrating on another bit of the line We could perfectly well have a whole spell like this, mending the trenches, mending the wire, messing about with report forms and rifle inspection and nothing else at all.’
‘And you think we will?’
‘How should I know?’
Barton looked at him carefully. In the end, Hilliard moved quickly towards the table, the pile of letters waiting for censoring. ‘No,’ he said, ‘on the whole I agree with Coulter.’
Barton got up and went out and he looked cheerful then, looked almost relieved. John Hilliard realized that he knew so little about him, there were so many thoughts and feelings he could not share, reactions he was unable to predict. Was Barton tired of this suspended existence? Just as the men had become irritable and restless in the camp at Percelle. Did he want ‘excitement’ as he had teased Hilliard earlier, want something, anything, to happen? And if so, why? For he had no feelings about the justness of this war, no anger against the enemy, no desire to fight and kill for the sport of it and no reason for personal vengeance, unless you could count the death of Private Harris.
Hilliard did not know. But this was superficial, nevertheless, for the ease they felt in one another’s company was so great now. Hilliard had never shared so much of himself before, never been so simply content. There were times when he caught Barton’s glance, or walked behind him down the trench, when they sat in their dugout in the evening, reading or doing paperwork, listening to the gramophone, when Barton laughed suddenly, teasing him – at those times, he felt a welling up of pride and pleasure and love. Then, he wanted to say something, though he never did.
The letters from Barton’s family included him always and automatically now, there were long paragraphs from these people he knew and yet had never seen, addressed entirely to him, and he read and re-read them and could not believe that he had been so easily accepted, was part of that charmed circle, of Barton’s life and family, of his past and present. It was as though he had been standing in a dark street looking into a lighted room and been invited in. He had ceased to feel any alarm at the arrival of the letters, with their messages and questions for him, he ceased to want to draw back from their intimacy. So that, when he received a letter all of his own from Barton’s mother and then, almost immediately afterwards, from one of the married sisters, he had flushed with amazement and pleasure, had brought out the sheets of thin white paper again and again, to read when Barton was not there, unable to believe in them, unable to take in the fact that he meant something to them, that they had written to him. He stared at his own name on the envelopes.
My dear John.
Dear John Hilliard.
They had begun so. And at the end of Barton’s own letters, the messages.
Love to your friend, John.
Remember us all to John H.
We do hope you are both of you well and in good spirits.
Do let us know if John gets any leave, and he can come and see us, even if he is not with you.
Thank John for his messages.
You are to share the things in the parcel with John, of course.
He said again and again, ‘They don’t know me. They don’t know me,’ holding the envelopes, looking at the writing upon them, feeling the smoothness of the letter paper between his fingers.
As always, Barton laughed, ‘Of course they do!’
‘They haven’t seen me, we have never met.’
‘Oh, that’s practically superfluous by now.’
‘They…’
‘What?’
But he could not say. He only lay awake, and heard Barton turning over in his bunk and listened to his breathing, and thought about these people, thought, let it go on, let it go on. He did not mind Barton’s teasing now, had even come to want it, did not mind anything he said or did. It was enough that he was here with him. In the night he woke and heard the guns and his heart thudded, he sat up and said aloud, ‘Jesus God, don’t let him be killed, don’t let him be killed.’ And did not even mind, at that moment, that Barton might have woken and heard him. ‘Don’t let him be killed.’
Barton had not woken.
12 October 1916.
I don’t know quite when I’ll get the time to write again. We are said to be moving up to the front line within the next day or so, though we have no official news. Things are apparently rather bad up there but so far we have had very little direct shelling in these trenches and only two casualties. I think we shall be spending most of our time on fatigue parties, and especially at night, as there is a terrific lot to be done. John says all this is bound to mean Business, but we can’t say more than that – and in any case, know nothing for sure. But they have been in battle over to the east of us. I should think it must soon be our turn.
You ask me if the memory of things I have seen stays with me and if I am continually upset. Yes, I suppose so – that is the answer. Yes. There are two things which I shall not be able to forget, I think. One, the death of Harris. But the other may seem to you more trivial. As we were coming up here from the town in which we spent that awful night, the men were in quite a cheerful mood, in spite of what had happened, I suppose because they had had some sleep and the sun was shining. They were singing and marching rather gaily and in place of Harris’s harmonica someone had got a pipe – we were like soldiers in those poems about the Jacobites! The road was very busy and we passed a good many men coming from the front. But once, just as our song was particularly rousing, we came face to face with a Regiment who had come from some of the worst fighting since July. They were obviously a very depleted lot: their uniforms looked as if they had been on their backs for a year, they were dirty and exhausted, marching raggedly and in total silence. When they saw and heard our men, going so cheerfully up the road, their faces were shocked and grey and they stared at us – Oh, it was like meeting ghosts, their looks were so knowing and so accusing, they were so old and worn and sad. And as they were so silent so our men, too, faltered and the song died away and we went on very soberly. The grins and laughter in our Battalion turned sour, I looked at one or two of my own platoon and saw that they were remembering – it was like being caught roistering at a funeral. We were ashamed of ourselves. And I know I shall not forget that – those men, the expressions on their faces, everything about that moment. At the next halt our men were very quiet, smoking and lying about on the edges of the grass, suddenly face to face with it all again.
And yet – why shouldn’t they sing while they can? One asks oneself that too.
What else is there to tell you? It is still good weather, we are still sick of the food, but your parcels keep us going, and John gets some quite amazing things in his expensive Fortnum’s hampers. We had jars of preserved ginger and figs and chocolate liqueurs and goodness knows what else. It’s rather sad that his family can spend so much money on parcels and so little time in writing to him – and such short letters. It’s easy enough to order a hamper for someone else to pack up and despatch. But it has nothing to do with me, and who am I to talk, since I so much enjoy what comes in the hampers! He likes to hear from you, though, I do know that, so perhaps if you can find the time you could go on writing to him occasionally? He doesn’t say much about it, but I know him well enough to be able to tell from the slightest sign whether he is pleased or depressed or whatever. We are really quite happy here, it has been the greatest good luck, our meeting and coming together. It has meant my missing all of you has not been quite so bad – I do, of course, terribly, but somehow, having John about has taken the edge off it. I am sure you will all be glad of that, too. And I think I may have been good for him. He is a different person, even in so short a time – more relaxed, if nothing else. He doesn’t seem to be so afraid of himself. Perhaps that sounds strange?