The Penguin Book of the British Short Story Read online

  All love.

  S.S. Glory of Greece

  Sweet,

  This is Algiers not very eastern in fact full of frogs. So it is all off with Arthur I was right about him at the first but who I am engaged to is Robert which is much better for all concerned really particularly Arthur on account of what I said originally first impressions always right. Yes? No? Robert and I drove about all day in the Botanic gardens and Goodness he was Decent. Bertie got plastered and had a row with Mabel – Miss P. again – so thats all right too and Robert’s lousy girl spent all day on board with second officer. Mum bought shawl. Bill told Lady M. about his disillusionment and she told Robert who said yes we all know so Lady M. said it was very unreticent of Bill and she had very little respect for him and didnt blame his wife or the foreigner.

  Love.

  Post-card

  I forget what I said in my last letter but if I mentioned a lousy man called Robert you can take it as unsaid. This is still Algiers and Papa ate dubious oysters but is all right. Bertie went to a house full of tarts when he was plastered and is pretty unreticent about it as Lady M. would say.

  Post-card

  So now we are back and sang old lang syne is that how you spell it and I kissed Arthur but wont speak to Robert and he cried not Robert I mean Arthur so then Bertie apologized to most of the people hed insulted but Miss P. walked away pretending not to hear. Goodness what a bitch.

  JAMES HANLEY

  The German Prisoner

  Just as dusk was drawing in, the battalion pulled into Boves. It had marched thirty kilometres that day. The men were tired, black with sweat, and ravenous with hunger. They were shepherded into one of those huge French houses, which now seemed more stable than house, alas. After some confusion and delay they were served out with hot tea, stew of a kind, and bread. The food was attacked with a savagery almost unbelievable. The heavier parts of kit had been thrown off, men sprawled everywhere. They filled the rooms with their sweat; their almost pesty breath.

  ‘The Battalion will move off in three hours time,’ announced a sergeant, the volcanic tones of whose voice seemed to shake the house itself. He also made the following announcement.

  ‘Those who have not yet made out wills, had better see the orderly sergeant at once.’

  Then all became silent as before. In the darkest corner of one of the rooms on the ground floor, lay two men. They were facing each other, and even in this recumbent position their physical contrasts were striking. The taller and more hefty of the two, one Peter O’Garra, said:

  ‘I hope this “do” won’t be as big a balls-up as the last lot.’

  He spat upon the floor, following up the action by drawing the flat of his hand across his mouth.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said his companion, a man from Manchester, named Elston.

  ‘You never know,’ said O’Garra; ‘these funkin’ bastards at the back; you never know what game they’re up to.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ replied the Manchester man.

  Peter O’Garra was forty-four years of age. He came from Tara Street, known as the filthiest street in all Dublin. He had lodged there with a Mrs Doolan, an old hag who looked more like a monstrous spider than a woman. O’Garra was very well known in Tara Street. In those fifteen years he had been known as, ‘a strange man – a misanthrope – a Belfast Bastard (his birth-place) – a lousy bugger – a rake – a closet – a quiet fellow – a tub of guts – a pimp – a shit-house – a toad – a sucker – a blasted sod – a Holy Roller – a Tara lemon – a Judas – a jumped up liar – a book-worm – a traitor to Ireland – a pervert – an Irish jew – an Irish Christ – a clod.’

  It was rumoured that he had never worked, and had at one time been crossed in love. It was known that he used to stand beneath the clock in Middle Abbey Street, stalking the women, all of whom are supposed to have fled in terror. O’Garra could never understand this, until he discovered it was his ugly mouth that used to frighten the women. It was his most outstanding characteristic. It made him something more than a man. A threat. The children in Tara Street used to run after him, calling him, ‘Owld click’, because he made a peculiar clicking sound with his false teeth. But all Tara Street was surprised when he went for a soldier. Not only the men, women, and children, but even the houses and roofs and chimney pots, the very paving stones, joined in song. They became humanized. And the song they sang was that Peter O’Garra’s blood was heavy with surrender.

  ‘His blood is heavy with surrender,’ they sang.

  As soon as the blood is heavy with surrender Act. O’Garra had acted. And Tara Street saw him no more. Perhaps what it had already seen of him was enough. Already there were a number of lines upon his forehead; the years had traced their journey-work through his hair; his eyes resembled the dried up beds of African lakes. But it was his mouth above all that one noticed. If one wished to know O’Garra, one looked at his mouth. Once Elston had asked him what he thought of the war. He had said:

  ‘Well it’s just a degree of blood bitterness, and bitter blood is good blood. Personally, it is a change for me from the rather drab life of Tara Street, with its lousiness, its smells, its human animals herded together, its stinkin’ mattresses.’

  Elston had yawned and remarked:

  ‘My views are different. There is nothing I long for so much as to get back to the smoke and fog and grease of Manchester. I like the filth and rotteness because it is warm. Yes, I long to get back to my little corner, my little world.’

  In Dublin, a fellow like Elston, a kind of human rat, would get short shrift. To O’Garra he was ‘the Hungry Englishman’ par excellence. And he had little time for Englishmen, especially the suck-holing type. Still he remembered that he was his bed-mate, his one companion in this huge mass of desperate life. When first he had set eyes on Elston, he had despised him, there was something in this man entirely repugnant to him. He had once written on a piece of paper, the following lines:

  There’s an Englishman named Elston

  By the living Christ I swear

  Necessity has never hewn

  One like him anywhere.

  ‘Have you any idea at all?’ asked O’Garra – ‘as to where we’re goin’?’

  The Manchester man smiled. His small ferrity eyes seemed to blink.

  ‘Gorman thinks we’re marchin’ up to the jumpin’-off point, to-night. I suppose they’ll want us to take back all the bloody ground the fifth lost, last year. God blast them.’

  ‘Division you mean?’ queried O’Garra.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Elston.

  ‘I suppose we’ll be met by a guide. Time they were movin’ anyhow. See the time,’ and he showed Elston his watch. ‘Remember the last time, don’t you? Confusion, delay, roads blocked up. Guide drunk and lost himself. Result. Caught in single file at daylight. One of his uckin’ observation balloons at work. Next thing a salvo of five-nines and seven men lost.’

  ‘Hope it won’t be like that this time,’ said Elston in a quiet voice.

  A voice bawled out – FALL IN. And the men filed down the stairs and into the yard. O’Garra and Elston filed out too, and took their places in line with the others. Darkness, gloom, and silence. This darkness was so intense that one could almost feel it. It is just that kind of darkness which falls with the most dramatic suddenness. The men could barely see one another. By feeling with their hands they became aware that they were in line. All was in order. Gorman came out, though he was not discernible. But one recognised the voice. Names were called and answered LEFT TURN. QUICK MARCH.

  The files moved. In that blackness they resembled the rather dim outlines of huge snakes, as they turned out of the yard and on to the white road. In the road they halted once more. Nobody spoke. The officers came up. Another order, and the men began to nose their way towards the line. One could not say they walked erect, but just that they nosed their way forward. In five minutes order had given way to confusion. This was inevitable. Roads were blocked. All space around seemed
to be festered, suffocated by this physical material; by guns, limbers, ambulances, mules, horses, more guns, more wagons and limbers. And men. Suddenly O’Garra slipped into a hole.

  ‘Jesus Christ! Already,’ growled Elston.

  He dragged O’Garra out, following up the action by falling in himself. One saw nothing. Nothing. There was something infinite about the action of feeling. One was just conscious that the night was deluged by phantom-like movements. That was all. Far ahead the sky was lighted up by a series of periodic flashes. Then a vast concourse of sound, then silence. The roads were impassable. The men were separated, relying on an occasional whisper, an occasional feel of a hand or bayonet, to establish contact with one another. Crawling beneath wagons and guns, now held up by mud. A traffic block.

  ‘Elston man,’ said O’Garra; ‘how in hell are they goin’ to get all this lot up before day-light. Its impossible. They’ll never clear the road.’

  ‘Think of yourself,’ replied Elston. ‘We have to go a mile and a half yet. And let’s hope the guide is there. You know its not the trenches I hate. No. Its this damned business of getting into them, and out of them again too. Every time I think of those sons of bitches at the base, I get mad.’

  There was no reply to this remark. The men wormed their way ahead. In that terrible moment when all reason seemed to have surrendered to chaos, men became as it were, welded together. Occasionally one saw a humped back, the outline of a profile, the shadow of legs. A huge eyeless monster that forged its way ahead towards some inevitable destiny. Nothing more. At last the road seemed a little easier. Elston spoke.

  ‘I was over this same ground, last July. I believe we turn here. The trench-system proper commences somewhere about here. To the right I think. Funny though. I once saw an aerial photograph of these same trenches. Took it off a Jerry who crashed. Looked like a huge crucifix in shape.’

  ‘You mean a cross,’ said O’Garra.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘H’m’. Cross. The bloody country is littered with them. I once saw one of those crosses, with the figure of Jesus plastered in shite. Down on the Montauban road.’

  ‘Had somebody deliberately plastered it?’ asked Elston.

  ‘No. A five-nine landed behind it, and the figure pitched into one of those latrines,’ replied O’Garra.

  ‘Did you ever make a point of studying the different features of these figures?’ asked Elston.

  ‘Saw half-a-dozen. Didn’t bother after that. Reminded me of the Irish Christ. All blood and tears.’

  Again silence. Suddenly a voice whispered – PULL UP.

  The order was passed down the line. PULL UP.

  More confusion, babble of voices, whisperings, curses, threats.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Lost the way.’

  O’Garra shivered. Pulled out his watch and noted the time. He said to the man from Manchester:

  ‘Won’t be long before its light. Must have been over four hours pawing about these blasted roads.’

  Elston gave a kind of growl. O’Garra growled too. One had to do something. After all it was better than standing still, helpless. He, O’Garra, once said that the war had quickened his critical spirit:

  ‘After all, the end of man is rather ignominious. No. I don’t blame even the simplest of men for endeavouring to go down to the grave in a blaze of glory.’

  Again an order. In almost a whisper.

  ‘Get contact and move on.’

  Once more the men moved along in single file. The road seemed clearer here, and the officer knew that but a thousand yards ahead a guide would be waiting to take them up to the old trenches of ‘16’.

  That officer, whose name was ‘Snow-Ball’, was at present worrying over his men. He must certainly get them under cover before it got light. It might be too late in half-an-hour or so, and then progress was so slow. There were, of course, two reasons for this state of mind. Firstly, he might lose a few men; secondly, it might disclose (more important still), the movements of troops, going up for what, to the Germans, would be an attack on the grand scale. Far back, at the very tail end of this file of men, the Irishman was explaining to his English friend that:

  ‘It looked as though the guide had failed to turn up, after all. I had a curious feeling something would happen,’ he muttered.

  ‘Cheer up,’ said Elston.

  ‘Its turned half-past-six, you fool. Cheer up. That bugger in front wants to cheer up. Doesn’t know what to do, I’ll bet. Same old thing every time. Flummuxed. I think they get a bug on the brain sometimes.’

  ‘Yes. It’s getting light now alright,’ remarked Elston, and there was a frightfulness about the tone in which he uttered these words.

  ‘We can’t arse about here much longer. Wonder those fellows up in front don’t have something to say to him.’

  Down the line came an order. FILE MOVE ON.

  The men moved on. And now, what had merely been a germ, became a disease, an epidemic. The torment was no longer private, but general. To all these men it became apparent that something had happened. When something went wrong the more sensitive spirits became agitated. One saw it in their eyes. Like a man conscious of Death, who begins to sense the earthiness of the grave about him. Elston remarked that it was about time they reached the trench.

  ‘I know the ground well, at least I should think I ought to. To the direct North of this trench-network, you’ll find a trench once begun but left unfinished. We used it for shelter on one occasion during heavy shelling. We were changing positions one night. It’s not much in an emergency, but better than nothing. Only about three foot deep. No covey holes either. Jerry has it spotted too.’

  Suddenly there was a low whine. Someone ahead shouted LOOK-OUT, and the line was thrown into confusion once more. The shell exploded about twenty yards ahead of Elston and O’Garra. There was a scream.

  ‘Christ!’ exclaimed Elston. ‘He’s feelin’. Now we’re for it.’

  ‘I should think so,’ growled O’Garra. ‘Its gettin’ light already. When is that bastard in front goin’ to do something?’

  ‘He can’t do anything if the guide is lost, or failed to turn up.’

  Already it was light. The men now began to murmur threats against the officer in front. Far ahead somebody had espied a balloon. Somebody shouted from the middle of the file:

  ‘Has that soft runt gone mad? He’ll get one bloody quick himself. I suppose he’ll ask us to form fours and march in ceremonial style.’

  It was quite light now. One could see the wilderness all around. Here and there a gnarled tree-stump. Far back one visioned the packed roads and became fearful of consequences. O’Garra thumped Elston.

  ‘Let’s go to him. The fool’s crazy. Stark staring mad.’

  ‘LOOK-OUT.’

  There came another shell, exploding right in their midst so it seemed. Out of the smoke and stench there came sounds of moaning.

  ‘That’s only the beginning,’ said Elston. ‘Someone caught it alright.’

  It got seven men. An order was passed down from one to the other.

  RUN FOR IT.

  Both Elston and O’Garra made for a rise in the ground. Elston said:

  ‘In here. Quick.’

  Both men sprawled into this unfinished trench.

  ‘This way, fellows,’ shouted Elston.

  Soon the remaining men had skeltered across the broken ground, and had jumped into the trench.

  ‘We’re here for the bloody day,’ remarked a lance-corporal.

  Elston and O’Garra agreed.

  The Irishman still saw in his mind’s eye, the mangled body of Gorman. Elston had helped him get the papers from his pocket. He had vomited too, for Gorman’s brains were splattered on his forehead.

  ‘Think I’ll go to kip for a while,’ said O’Garra. Elston agreed too. The other men were endeavouring to make themselves comfortable, when the sergeant, named Grundy, said he was going to post certain men. On hearing this, all and
sundry broke into loud cursings and obscene oaths.

  ‘If that son of a bitch – well by Christ – I – I—’

  ‘I feel rotten tired,’ sighed Elston.

  As soon as darkness set in they were going to move out again, and continue their march until they reached the jumping-off point. An officer was expected up before they moved out. But Grundy knew that no officer would arrive. He was quite prepared to take the responsibility of getting the men up to the jumping-off point mapped out for them.

  Finally Grundy had men posted every four hours until night-fall. He knew how lucky they had been to escape so lightly. And what a blasted rotten trench they were in. No protection from flying craft. Exposed to everything.

  ‘If that officer gets here safely,’ thought the Sergeant, ‘it’ll be a miracle.’

  At ten fifteen the men broke cover, and continued on in single file across the broken ground, pitted here and there by yawning shell-holes filled with stagnant and stinking water. A voice was heard then.

  ‘TAPE LINE HERE.’

  And each man felt that at last he was near his final destination. O’Garra himself had espied this tape-line, well concealed in the grass. Only the bundles of twigs indicated to the men that that long line of white tape was their infallible guide.

  ‘We follow this I suppose until told to pull up.’

  ‘Correct,’ said the Manchester man. ‘It won’t be long now.’

  They gripped each other’s hand and continued in this fashion until they heard the order to halt. No. They wouldn’t be long now.