‘It seems very straightforward,’ Barton had said, coming back. ‘Is it likely to go off to that eminently reasonable plan of his?’
‘No.’
‘Are we likely to find the time schedule followed down to the last five seconds in that way?’
‘No.’
‘No. I thought not.’
‘But to be fair, it isn’t his plan, it’s come from the Division and they’re always like that; they’re based on early cavalry manoeuvres which often did work as intended. Trench warfare is an entirely different thing, every battle since Neuve Chapelle has been some kind of mess but it will take some years until they learn about it, you see. By the next war, the message will have got through.’
‘There will never be another war.’
‘There will always be wars.’
‘Men couldn’t be so stupid, John! After all this? Isn’t the only real purpose of our being here to teach them that lesson – how bloody useless and pointless the whole thing is?’
‘Men are naturally stupid and they do not learn from experience.’
‘You haven’t much faith in humanity.’
‘Collectively, no.’
‘Individually?’
‘Oh, yes. You’ve only to look around you here.’
‘But you depress me.’
‘I’m sorry. I haven’t your naturally buoyant outlook upon the whole of life. That’s why I need you around.’
‘Me and Sir Thomas Browne!’
‘That’s right.’
‘But perhaps tomorrow won’t be so bad. Perhaps we really are in a stronger position than when you were here last summer. Perhaps it’ll work.’
Hilliard had not replied.
Now, he said, ‘If you are going out, don’t be long. You really need the rest.’
‘I know.’
Barton stepped out of the dugout and looked up. For the first time in weeks the sky was clear and glittering with the points of stars, a full moon shone above the ridge. The frost was thin and here and there it caught in the pale light on the barbed wire, tin canisters, helmets, and gleamed. The night cold had taken the edge off the smell of decay and the air was sharp and metallic in Barton’s nostrils. He moved quietly along the trench. In the next dugout, twenty or so men slept under greatcoats, a jumble of arms and feet. It was very still, no gunfire, no flares.
‘Sir?’
‘Hello, Parkin. All right?’
‘All quiet, sir, yes. Funny that.’
‘Hm.’ Barton leaned against the side of the trench.
‘You haven’t been in a big show yet, have you, sir?’
‘No. Have you?’
‘No.’
Parkin was a year younger than himself, one of the eleven children of a cobbler – which fact occasioned three or four jokes a day about his living in a shoe. He took it with good humour, as though he were still among boys at school, entirely used to the amusement it afforded them. Jokes among the company had become either simple or obscene and childish, as the life became more exhausting and tedious.
Barton said, ‘So we feel the same about tomorrow, then.’
‘Do we, sir? How’s that?’
‘A bit queasy.’
Parkin looked relieved, nodded. ‘I was thinking before you came along, sir – it’s all right here at the moment. Quiet. A bit chilly but I can cope with that. There’s a touch of something in the air – I don’t know, maybe it’s just that the bloody rain’s stopped. But it’s been reminding me of making bonfires and getting ready for Christmas, you know? I was feeling quite happy, just watching out and thinking. Then I got that feeling – like when you wake up and you know something a bit unpleasant’s due to happen and for the time being you’ve forgotten what. I thought – what’s up? Then I remembered.’
‘I know.’
‘Still – we’re ready, aren’t we? We’ve got the lot up here and we know what we’ve got to do. It’s just a question of getting on and doing it. Maybe we’ll be over there tomorrow night, they’ll have run for it and we’ll be kipping in Jerry’s feather beds. They have everything in those trenches of theirs you know, sir – so they say, anyway. All home comforts. They dug themselves in good and proper.’
Barton watched the man’s face as he talked so quickly, talked himself into some sort of reassurance, he saw the twitching at the corner of his eye, the way his mouth moved. He thought that he ought to say something to him, provide the expected words of comfort and support. He could say nothing. He knew. Parkin knew.
‘The left flank go off first don’t they, sir? Then it’s us. So we’ll get the best view of the first round.’
‘That’s right.’
The Rifle Brigade were to take the first wave, then their own Regiment, with Highlanders in support. The C.O. had drawn the plan on a blackboard in coloured chalks, had pointed white arrows to show the direction of the artillery barrage and blue arrows to show the movement of the lines of infantry. The targets, Barmelle Wood and Queronne, were in bright green. He was a clear map maker, the pattern of it all was engraved in Barton’s memory. He saw himself as a blue arrow.
‘Oughtn’t you to get some sleep, sir?’
Barton shifted. He was more reluctant to go in than ever, wide awake and afraid. He moved forward and looked cautiously over the parapet. No Man’s Land lay, still and moonlit and beautiful.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I just needed a breath of air. Goodnight, Parkin.’
‘Do you want to turn the lamp on?’ Hilliard said.
‘I thought you were asleep.’
‘No, I was waiting for you. If you want to read…’
‘No.’
Barton lay down, still in his greatcoat. ‘You’re right. “Not a mouse stirring”.’
‘It often happens like this, it’s uncanny. I remember it in July.’
‘But they must know we’re up to something.’
‘Oh yes. Though that fact is never obvious to High Command, whose faith in the Element of Surprise in attack is really very touching. And quite unshakeable.’
‘John, shall I stop feeling so bloody afraid?’
‘Things will get so busy you’ll have no time for it, that’s all I can promise you. But this is the worst bit, this building up of tension.’
‘Like the dentist.’
‘Rather a pale analogy – but yes.’
‘Shall we be due for leave afterwards, do you suppose?’
‘Surely. We might even get home for Christmas.’
‘Both of us?’
‘Anything is possible. Don’t bank on it though.’
‘I’d like you to come to us for Christmas but your family would object, I imagine.’
‘I could come for part of the time. But really we had better not start building castles in Spain.’
‘John, I want you to come and see it all.’
‘Yes.’
‘I want to take you everywhere, show you everything – oh, it doesn’t matter if it doesn’t come off for Christmas, we’ll do it sometime. There’s so much… I want it all to look right and be right – I want you to like them all.’
‘Will they like me is much more to the point.’
‘Oh, of course they will.’
‘Of course?’
‘Yes, because they couldn’t help it and because you’re my friend – and because really, they like nearly everyone.’
‘So do you, don’t you?’
‘More or less, I suppose.’
‘Has it always been like that? Has it always been so easy for you to love people? To get on with them, to bring them out, say the right things at the right time? Have you always made friends as you’ve done out here?’