Chapter 6
Verdun
London – February, 1916
Robert entered the restaurant, and noticing the incongruous opulence within, he was simply grateful to be out of the winter chill. Doffing his military coat, he approached the table and, smiling politely, he announced, “Hello, Margaret. Thanks for meeting me for lunch.”
Rising from her seat, Margaret responded, “Oh, hello, Robert. It’s nice to see you.” They shared a congenial embrace, subsequently taking their seats.
Surveying the plush accoutrements, he observed, “I say, what a fabulous restaurant. You’d think that there wasn’t a war on.”
“War makes for paradoxical profiteering, no?” Margaret rejoined, apparently not in the least bit surprised by their sumptuous surroundings.
“Just so, just so,” Robert replied and, once again reminding himself of her extraordinary powers of perception, he queried innocuously, “So, how is everything with you?”
“I suppose I’m fine,” she responded evasively, but then, apparently throwing caution to the wind, she added, “But to tell you the truth, I’m feeling at a loss, Robert.”
“A loss? What sort of loss?” he inquired vacuously.
“Tis this war. I’m sure I’m not telling you anything that you don’t already know, but one has dreams, you know. When one is young, such as we two were in Edinburgh, one has dreams,” and at this she paused and, as if seeking his complicity, she continued, “Well, in a nutshell – they’re all gone. I’ve lost my dreams, Robert. They’re all gone, every single one of them…all gone.”
Now even more lost, he asked, “Dreams? What sort of dreams?”
“Oh, the usual ones – happiness, love, marriage, family, wealth – the same things everyone dreams of. I’m sure I’m no different than anyone else in this war, but that is somehow of little comfort. The fact is, not only have my dreams disappeared, this damnable war has made it utterly impossible for one to so much as conjure up a single new one.”
Suddenly catching up with her train of thought, he replied, “Ah, yes, now I understand, Margaret.” Contemplating his own state of mind, he volunteered, “For my part, I’ve descended well beyond dreams. I can’t even remember the last time I cleaned my fingernails,” and so saying, he glanced at his own outstretched hand, “Seems there’s no point anymore. Perhaps even – no point to anything at all.”
She now took up again, suggesting, “Tis rather incomprehensible. The whole time we were in Gallipoli, I was irritated at the campaign, the stupidity of it all. I couldn’t wait to get away from there. I stayed exhausted for the entire time we were there.”
Pausing as if reliving some event, she subsequently suggested, “But now that we’ve been disbanded, I miss it - I actually miss the constant activity. At least it kept me busy - holding my innermost dreams, hopes, and ultimately - fears - at bay. And, perhaps more importantly - I at least felt useful. Now, I’ve been immobilized here in London, nothing to do, thousands of soldiers dying over there as we speak, and I’m sitting here having afternoon tea every day. What a strange war.”
Placing a hand over hers, he murmured, “I have much the same emotions, Margaret, but don’t get too upset about it. I’m certain you shan’t be at loose ends for too terribly long. In fact, I’m hearing that the ANZAC’s are about to be reformed. And surely the nurses’ corps will follow suit shortly thereafter.”
“Yes, I’ve heard rumors as well, but I thought that they were just that - rumors.”
“Perhaps they are,” he responded, “I suppose we shall know soon enough. In the meantime, concentrate on the simple things.”
“Simple things – what simple things?” she exclaimed in evident irritation.
“Oh, I’m sure I don’t know,” he responded with apparent embarrassment, “I think of some distant memory, something from a happier time.”
“Like what?” she sneered.
“Well, for me at least, something like Beltane.”
Suddenly eyeing him fiercely, she snapped, “What about Beltane, Robert?”
“It is a happy memory for me, that is all,” he responded evasively.
“Yes, for me as well,” she replied, but, under her withering stare, he could not bring himself to pursue it further.
Sensing this subject to be for some unknown reason entirely too dangerous, he changed to another tack, offering, “At any rate, you should have plenty to distract you all too soon, Margaret.”
“Why? Do you know something I don’t, Robert?”
“Let me just say that I have information that I cannot divulge.”
“My, that sounds covert. Are you now a spy?”
“No, not at all. I’ve just been involved in some of the planning operations since my return from Gallipoli. Apparently, Headquarters thinks I have something to offer, having already served in two combat theatres. Accordingly, I expect to be shipped out to the Western Front any time now.”
“Oh? Is that pure speculation, or do you have some inkling?”
“Again, I cannot divulge. Sorry.” Then, changing the subject yet again, he inquired, “Where’s Elizabeth?”
“She’s gone back to York. She thought to squeeze in a quick visit with her family but, seeing as how we have no assigned duties, her parents have prevailed upon her to remain in York for the time being.”
“Smart decision, but I should have enjoyed seeing her as well.”
“Yes, I would imagine so,” Margaret responded flatly, but then, suddenly changing her disposition, she interjected reproachfully, “So, is that the reason you invited me to lunch today?”
“What?” he responded defensively, “I say, what’s gotten into you, Margaret?”
“Oh, don’t be a sap, Robert. You asked me to lunch for the purpose of finding out how Elizabeth is fairing. Well, she’s doing quite well, except that she misses you. Is that what you wanted to hear from me?”
“I say…” he blurted out yet a second time, “What has gotten into you, Margaret?” Her silent glare catching him off guard, he mumbled to no one in particular, “I just wanted to have a quiet lunch with a dear friend. That’s all.”
“Oh, good grief!” she exclaimed impatiently, “I have no time for this, Robert. In case you haven’t noticed, there’s a war on, and tis killing the flower of Britain’s youth. Under the circumstances, I would suggest that haste is the prudent path.”
“What? What on earth are you talking about, Margaret?”
“I’m simply suggesting - if you want Elizabeth, get on a train and go up there and get her, you daft prig!”
“But why?”
“It doesn’t require a genius to tell that she is head over heels in love with you. Just go up there and see her. I can assure you, she’s waiting for you to do just that.”
“Alright, I’ll think about it, Margaret. Thanks for the advice, but to tell the truth - I may not have the chance. I expect to be shipping out very soon,” he responded, desperately hoping for some more empathetic response from her.
Refusing to be swayed by his evasiveness, she responded bluntly, “All the more reason to avoid further delay.”
Abruptly changing the subject, he inquired despondently, “I was wondering…”
“What!” she squawked in obvious exasperation.
Shaken by her unforeseen change of attitude, he nonetheless pressed ahead, inquiring self-consciously, “Just a small detail. Do you remember that night, on Arthur’s Seat? When we played that game?”
“Of course. You promised not to mention it, remember?” she shot back at him accusingly.
“Right. I’m not speaking of the game itself, Margaret. So if you please, humor me a moment.”
“Alright then, go ahead, mate.”
“As I recall, I loaned you my sporran. Remember?”
“Yeees,” she replied, drawing out the single word, as if she had been anticipating this very question.
“Well, I’ve not seen it sinc
e. I’ve been wondering for nigh onto two years now what happened to that sporran. Do you have any idea where it might be?”
“No, none whatsoever,” she responded bluntly.
He peered at her inquisitively, hoping against hope that she might shed some sort of further light on the subject. Sensing none, he determined it propitious to drop the subject, murmuring, “Alright, then, perhaps Elizabeth has it.”
At this point, the pair having exhausted this rather contentious line of discussion, they turned to lighter fare, thereby saving what had degenerated into an otherwise gloomy occasion. By the time lunch was over, they had recovered their mutual good humor, both promising to get together again when time permitted.
Once outside, she offered tersely, “Goodbye, Robert.”
“Farewell, dear Margaret,” he responded. He then watched her as she turned to leave. He stood motionless, following her with his eyes, hoping that she would turn one last time, flash a smile and a wave, but his hopes were dashed. The last he saw of her, she turned a corner briskly and disappeared from view. Immediately thereafter, a deep sense of gloom swept over him, an emotion that somehow transcended even his darkest hours in the trenches.
A week later, Robert was ordered back to the Western Front.
Verdun – Early May, 1916
Robert felt the chill right through to his bones. He had been sent to the Somme in February to help prepare for the spring Allied offensive. However, the surprise offensive by the Germans at Verdun had forced his transfer there in late February. Officers of the line having become increasingly scarce as the war dragged on, he had been placed in command of a company between Douamont and Vaux.
He felt fortunate to have a hut of sorts for his command post. It was propped against the trench wall just at a corner within the vast labyrinth, thereby providing two natural supporting walls. These had been supplemented with two short spans of mud bricks of sorts, thereby providing a small enclosure perhaps ten feet on a side. It had a deeply cut sod roof that was supported by rough-hewn tree trunks, and there was a small cast iron stove within. Robert had no earthly idea where it had come from, but he had no intention of inquiring, for fear that it would be subsequently requisitioned by some higher ranking officer. Thus equipped, he was able to keep a bit of the cold out, but the stove insisted on smoking up the interior, so that he had in due course developed a nagging cough from smoke inhalation. Still, anything was preferable to the cold and wet outside.
Because he felt no small sense of guilt over his comparatively plush circumstances, he rotated five troops per day to his direct supervision, allowing each to spend twenty-four hours within his hut. He would have liked to allow even more troops to join him, but the space simply could not accommodate more humanity within. He had dubbed this concept ‘battlefield rest, relaxation and recovery’, or BRRR for short. The soldiers seemed to appreciate his gesture, not to mention the humor implied by the appropriated term, the tiniest of conveniences having become important ways of maintaining what little morale remained within the infinitely monotonous lives of his troops.
The battle was now into its third month, the German offensive having stalled completely. Unfortunately, the casualties had by now begun to rival those sustained at the beginning of the war nearly two years earlier. To make matters worse, the use of widespread artillery shelling had destroyed the entire forest in the vast hills above the town of Verdun. As a result, the battlefield had taken on the appearance of an off-planet landscape for miles in every direction. Indeed, even firewood for his stove had become a luxury of late. Nothing he had ever seen in his entire life compared. Verdun was for him the lowest point of the entire war.
He was dragged from his reflection when a soldier entered his hut and promptly announced, “Sir, you’re wanted at the division command post.”
Thanking the soldier, Robert donned his helmet for the short trek to headquarters. Once there, he discovered that he had been transferred yet again, this time back to London.