new faces, and a letter: We are well. Ships are going out of Clyde yet. You have a new sister. Your Mother is well.
He folded the letter and put it away. “A see mony new faces in thae battalion,” he said to the corporal. “We ha a new sair-rgeant-major too, A doot not?”
“Naw,” the corporal said. “‘Tis the same one.” He was looking at Gray, his gaze intent, speculative; his face cleared.
“Ye ha shaved thae mor-rn,” he said.
“Ay,” Gray said. “Am auld enough tae shave noo.”
That was the night on which the battalion was to go up to Arras. It was to move at midnight, so he answered the letter at once: I am well. Love to Grandadder and Jessie and Matthew and John Wesley and the baby.
“Morning! Morning!” The General, lap-robed and hooded, leans from his motor and waves his gloved hand and shouts cheerily to them as they slog past the car on the Bapaume road, taking the ditch to pass.
“A’s a cheery auld card,” a voice says.
“Awfficers,” a second drawls; he falls to cursing as he slips in the greaselike mud, trying to cling to the crest of the knee-deep ditch.
“Aweel,” a third says, “thae awfficers wud gang tae thae war-r too, A doot not.”
“Why dinna they gang then?” a fourth says. “Thae war-r is no back that way.”
Platoon by platoon they slip and plunge into the ditch and drag their heavy feet out of the clinging mud and pass the halted car and crawl terrifically onto the crown of the road again: “A says tae me, a says: ‘Fritz has a new gun that will carry to Par-ris,’ a says, and A says tae him: ‘Tis nawthin: a has one that will hit our Cor-rps Headquar-rters.’”
“Morning! Morning!” The General continues to wave his glove and shout cheerily as the battalion detours into the ditch and heaves itself back onto the road again.
They are in the trench. Until the first rifle explodes in their faces, not a shot has been fired. Gray is the third man. During all the while that they crept between flares from shellhole to shellhole, he has been working himself nearer to the sergeant-major and the Officer; in the glare of that first rifle he can see the gap in the wire toward which the Officer was leading them, the moiled rigid glints of the wire where bullets have nicked the mud and rust from it, and against the glare the tall, leaping shape of the sergeant-major. Then Gray, too, springs bayonet first into the trench full of grunting shouts and thudding blows.
Flares go up by dozens now, in the corpse glare Gray sees the sergeant-major methodically tossing grenades into the next traverse. He runs toward him, passing the Officer leaning, bent double, against the fire step. The sergeant-major has vanished beyond the traverse. Gray follows and comes upon the sergeant-major. Holding the burlap curtain aside with one hand, the sergeant-major is in the act of tossing a grenade into a dugout as if he might be tossing an orange hull into a cellar.
The sergeant-major turns in the rocket glare. “‘Tis you, Gray,” he says. The earth-muffled bomb thuds; the sergeant-major is in the act of catching another bomb from the sack about his neck as Gray’s bayonet goes into his throat. The sergeant-major is a big man. He falls backward, holding the rifle barrel with both hands against his throat, his teeth glaring, pulling Gray with him. Gray clings to the rifle. He tries to shake the speared body on the bayonet as he would shake a rat on an umbrella rib.
He frees the bayonet. The sergeant-major falls. Gray reverses the rifle and hammers its butt into the sergeant-major’s face, but the trench floor is too soft to supply any resistance. He glares about. His gaze falls upon a duckboard upended in the mud. He drags it free and slips it beneath the sergeant-major’s head and hammers the face with his riflebutt. Behind him in the first traverse the Officer is shouting: ‘Blow your whistle, Sergeant- major!”
IV
IN THE CITATION it told how Private Gray, on a night raid, one of four survivors, following the disablement of the Officer and the death of all the N. C. O.’s, took command of the situation and (the purpose of the expedition was a quick raid for prisoners); held a foothold in the enemy’s front line until a supporting attack arrived and consolidated the position. The Officer told how he ordered the men back out, ordering them to leave him and save themselves, and how Gray appeared with a German machine gun from somewhere and, while his three companions built a barricade, overcame the Officer and took from him his Very pistol and fired the colored signal which called for the attack; all so quickly that support arrived before the enemy could counterattack or put down a barrage.
It is doubtful if his people ever saw the citation at all. Anyway, the letters which he received from them during his sojourn in hospital, the tenor of them, were unchanged: “We are well. Ships are still going out.”
His next letter home was once more months late. He wrote it when he was sitting up again, in London: I have been sick but I am better now. I have a ribbon like in the box but not all red. The Queen was there. Love to Grandadder and Jessie and Matthew and John Wesley and the baby.
The reply was written on Friday: Your mother is glad that you are better. Your grandfather is dead. The baby’s name is Elizabeth. We are well. Your mother sends her love.
His next letter was three months later, in winter again: My hurt is well. I am going to a school for officers. Love to Jessie and Matthew and John Wesley and Elizabeth.
Matthew Gray pondered over this letter for a long while; so long that the reply was a week late, written on the second Monday instead of the first. He wrote it carefully, waiting until his family was in bed. It was such a long letter, or he had been at it so long, that after a time his wife came into the room in her nightdress.
“Go back to bed,” he told her. “I’ll be coming soon. ’Tis something to be said to the lad.”
When at last he laid the pen down and sat back to reread the letter, it was a long one, written out slowly and deliberately and without retraction or blot: … your bit ribbon… for that way lies vainglory and pride.
The pride and vainglory of going for an officer. Never miscall your birth, Alec. You are not a gentleman. You are a Scottish shipwright. If your grandfather were here he would not be last to tell you so… We are glad your hurt is well.
Your mother sends her love.
He sent home the medal, and his photograph in the new tunic with the pips and ribbon and the barred cuffs. But he did not go home himself. He returned to Flanders in the spring, with poppies blowing in the churned beet- and cabbage-fields. When his leaves came, he spent them in London, in the haunts of officers, not telling his people that he had any leave.
He still had the Book. Occasionally he came upon it among his effects and opened it at the jagged page where his life had changed:… and a voice said, Peter, raise thyself; kill. Often his batman would watch him as, unawares and oblivious, he turned the Book and mused upon the jagged page the ranker, the gaunt, lonely man with a face that belied his years or lack of them: a sobriety, a profound and mature calm, a grave and deliberate conviction of expression and gesture ('like a mout be Haig hissel,” the batman said) watching him at his clean table, writing steadily and slowly, his tongue in his cheek as a child writes: I am well. It has not rained in a fortnight. Love to Jessie and Matthew and John Wesley and Elizabeth.
Four days ago the battalion came down from the lines. It has lost its major and two captains and most of the subalterns, so that now the remaining captain is major, and two subalterns and a sergeant have the companies. Meanwhile, replacements have come up, the ranks are filled, and the battalion is going in again tomorrow. So today K Company stands with ranks open for inspection while the subaltern-captain (his name is Gray) moves slowly along each platoon front.
He passes from man to man, slowly, thoroughly, the sergeant behind him. He stops.
“Where is your trenching tool?” he says.
“Blawn…” the soldier begins. Then he ceases, staring rigidly before him.
“Blawn out of your pack, eh?” the captain finishes for him. “Since when? What battles have ye taken par-rt in since four days?”
The soldier stares rigidly across the drowsy street. The captain moves on. “Take his name,
