The Dust That Falls From Dreams Read online

  On the 12th and 13th Rosie got up and dressed, but stayed in the spare room, reading Coleridge and Keats. She felt considerably better, but still exceedingly weak and low in spirits. Mrs McCosh came up and offered to read to her but she declined, as she preferred to read to herself, and was not in the mood for any more Mrs Hemans.

  On the 14th Rosie felt particularly desolate because it was St Valentine’s Day.

  On the 15th of February, the news came about Ashbridge Pendennis.

  20

  The Red Sweet Wine of Youth (2)

  3rd of Feb. Beautiful day. Nothing doing. Slept in church where lice caught. Daniel flew over, upside down at fifty feet. Wondrous.

  Find can now buy huge meals of custard from what used to be post office. Made in big fish mould, so call it ‘Kemmel Fish’. More people selling coffee. Impressive how adversity turns out entrepreneurs. Will always be someone clever enough. World proliferates with little Hamilton McCoshes.

  Not supposed to be in village at all, so technique is invent reason to go to quartermaster’s store/think up complaint that has to be dealt with by MO. Got put off when Boche started shelling village again. Killed nine men, but eventually Kemmelfishitis returns, and off we go.

  4th. Awoke in church to find men kneeling all around me – weird. An old lady nodded to me, but after returning nod found was nodding and bowing to a saint. Slept well. Dreamed of Baltimore again.

  Fond memories of worst trench. Had to get there in dark, and the ground frozen solid except covering of slime. Turnips poking out of soil so slipped and stumbled every step. Fell over French corpse, fell in ditch. Got snagged by brambles and thorns, panic because got left behind whilst trying to detach. Man in front whispers what’s just happened so doesn’t happen to one behind. Some ditches single plank across, always slippery with mud. Laden down like mules with equipment and provisions.

  New trench an old one. Was German then French, shallow slimy one. Fritz hands and feet sticking out of parapet. Cuts in hands festering because nowhere to wash. Nearly vomited from stench. Hutch did. No sleep because of smell, so set about improving trench instead.

  Realised couldn’t deepen it. Ground too hard, so went behind lines at night, retrieved bricks from broken-down cottage. Bricks not best protection (shatter), but did raise/improve parapet. Sun came out morning, melted ground. Back in putrid stuff again.

  Beautiful day, and was peaceful. I love to watch the aeroplanes. Daniel Pitt stunts almost every day on way back from patrol. Came in very low today, practically head height, bombed us with rotten apples. Completely mad, must have been fired at by every Boche machine gun within a mile. Those who stunt at low altitude don’t last long, they say. Has painted ‘Long Live the Pals’ under bottom ailerons in bright red. Makes me want to cry. Good old Daniel.

  21

  Rosie’s Poem, 6 February 1915, First Draft

  Outside the winter wind is moaning,

  Death is knocking at the gate,

  The house, my heart, the world is groaning,

  Cracked by tempest, war, and fate.

  The bombs descend, the houses burn,

  Death’s thirst for blood we cannot slake.

  I wring my hands, and, helpless, yearn

  For one I beg Him not to take.

  My Love’s dwelling place is mud,

  And rain and fire and sharded sleet,

  And sudden hurt and bright dark blood,

  Where Hell and Earth conspire to meet.

  Now Christ protect him, bring him light

  ’Til all the enemy depart,

  And Christ protect him through this night

  Whose fearful tears,

  Whose bitter fears

  Tear and grapple at my heart.

  22

  The Sweet Red Wine of Youth (3)

  5th of Feb. Moved at night Lindenhowe where slept in barn near German lines. On guard and really splendid to see trees silhouetted against sky by German star shells. Last night a tenor in German lines sang Brahms’s Lullaby just as sun went down. So beautiful almost wept. Not a dry eye in trench. How sleep the dead.

  Had breakfast at brazier. Tinned salmon, biscuits, jam, big pot of tea. Young lad from Croydon, been cooper’s apprentice, name Harold Rumthorpe. Can’t say we were particular friends. War throws all kinds together, makes you comrades, not necessarily friends. HR was nineteen, six years younger than me, and I’m in shipping and he was tradesman. Don’t know how he got in the HAC, wasn’t exactly ‘gentleman ranker’. Probably came out with his ‘gentleman’, like Hutch. Liked him, though never really had conversation. Just cursed/slogged along together.

  HR spotted captive balloon. Were trying to work out if one of ours/theirs. He stood up to get proper look. Moment of inadvertence, no chance to get to him quickly enough. Next second, brazier kicked over and was spattered, glistening speckles red and white, and Harold fell in Hutch’s arms. Hutch leaning back against parapet, repeating, ‘Oh God, oh God.’

  Took 45 mins to die. Pitiful noises enough to break heart. Bullet took off back of head, nowhere to lay him down in comfort. Orderly crawled over from next trench, but couldn’t do anything, and couldn’t get Harold out in plain view of enemy. Laid him on parados, and that night carried him back to ruined cottage and buried him in garden. Already five graves there, soldiers planted like vegetables, against the day of harvest. Plenty bullets whizzing. Several times had to wait for clouds to roll back across moon, and throw ourselves flat every star shell. Private who’d been ordained, recited burial service from memory, very loud and clear, so Huns would hear us. Boche tenor with beautiful voice responded, sang Brahms’s Lullaby again. Had to cry. Hutch made cross of sticks.

  Stark scene, strangest and most powerful ever experienced in my life. Will haunt me/make me think thoughts almost too large. Harold Rumthorpe, apprentice cooper of Croydon, farewell, laid to rest by his brothers, sung to rest by a Hun.

  Will always hear those words of the committal ringing out into the night:

  ‘Man that is born of woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down, like a flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay…’

  That night went back to Kemmel, everyone wondering silently who would be next. Hutch said, ‘Don’t you wish you’d stayed at home?’ Said, ‘No,’ and H said, ‘Me neither.’

  6th. After restful day returned to trenches. Lost 5/- at Crown and Anchor. Hutch lost 4/6d. Never again. Hutch now my trench-foot pal. I rub his feet in whale oil, he rubs mine. Have high hopes of success in avoiding it. Heard theory that all this rain caused by shells making water condense as fly through the air. Would have thought that friction would heat air up, not the reverse. So am not convinced, but Hutch believes it.

  7th. Am writing about 9.45 a.m. Man yelling from shell hole. Sounds quite mad. Expect to be shelled. Last night brother Albert said he got excellent photos of star shells. Don’t know how he knows, because when will he develop the film? After a sniper now, soon shall have a shot myself.

  11.30. Poor Lampard just been shot through head as was observing rifle grenade fall. Died at about 1700 hours. Will leave big gap in our section – brother behaved wonderfully. Soldier in shell hole stuck fast by mud, finally stopped yelling, so suppose must have gone west. Once in, you can’t get them out, not under fire. Suction incredible. Not even permitted to try.

  Huns have our section covered by machine gun. V. dangerous to look over. Was glad to get back to town, slept like a boy. Our relief four hours late, mental strain on all of us awful. Brother Sidney in hospital with flu. Best out of all this. Humour running out. Fartillery hit by shrapnel, had to shoot him. Good friend and lots of fun during brief time we had him.

  Spend much time making ruined houses into billets. Such a relief to stand upright/move like a man again. Most tiring thing about trenches is constant creeping, always bent double. Utterly wears you out. Then get sent on fatigues at night, carrying heavy objects thr. ditches and hedges, s
hell craters full of filth, hurry past snipers’ alleys though can’t see a thing. Always bogged down, falling, hands raw and split. Mine swollen so much can’t put in pockets any more. Thank God for gumboots, otherwise God knows what would feet be. All look like vagrants/ruffians, rags in place of uniform, gaunt/hollow faces/stubble that grows for weeks before get hot water. But so goddarned beautiful, wash/shave faces and heads, drink hot sweet tea, put on new clothes, sleep! Never feel more contented.

  Kept nerve, but beginning to give in to exhaustion. Would be content to be shot through head just to be relieved of it. Sometimes just slump down with all my kit on, soaking wet/trembling, so fast asleep might as well be dead. Only jerk awake when someone prods/says, ‘Come on, Yank, fatigues to do! What bliss!’

  Don’t mind being called ‘Yank’. Everyone suitable nickname. Anyone Scottish Jock, anyone Welsh Taffy, anyone Irish Paddy/Spud. Anyone bald Curly, and fellow with tight black curls Bogbrush, and fellow amazingly thin Wobbles. Charlie White called Chalky, Albert Black Snowy, Robert Quick Sluggish. Millers always called Dusty. Shortarses called Lofty.

  After fitting out billet, found had to go back to same trench. Lampard’s death smartened our ideas up, started filling sandbags by moonlight. Everything more intense at night. Perfectly beautiful. When wind shifts and reek of rotting meat vanishes few blessed minutes, can smell soft damp scent of countryside. Magnesium shells cast light so intense can see every detail that’s out of shadow, nothing at all of what’s in it. Whizz and buzz spent bullets, soft thump as they hit sandbags, sometimes zing of ricochet. Completely flattened bullet struck my webbing, have it in my pocket.

  Sound of firing broke out to the north, started rolling down the line towards us, so manned the parapet/waited for order to fire. But no attack to repel. Another shitfight.

  Dig and dig. Only way to get rid of water is dig ever deeper. Now got sumps every few yards, covered with doors fr. ruined houses, but never enough sumps to soak up rain, never enough sunshine to dry out ground. Winter bodies take longer to rot. No flies to lay eggs to make maggots. Bodies swell up with water. Stink in spite of cold. Only frost stops stink. Collect all corpses poss, but sometimes imposs. because too risky. Not long ago billeted in a barn, but perfume too retchingly bad. Turned out was full of dead Frenchies been there for months, just covered with straw.

  Don’t know if water or corpses, but all got diarrhoea at once, now resting behind lines. Turned nice respite into nightmare, have to scramble over each other in dark try to get to latrines, out in field down road. Fortunately been snowing, so enough light to see by. No fun falling into latrines. If not get there in time, scrub self off with snow. Been taking any number No. 9 pills, but not helping much. Put on show for Brigadier, very good one. Several unscheduled intervals as some made a dash for it. Even interval when Brigadier had to make dash. He is good old boy just as darned tough as we are. When turns up at trench borrows Hutch’s rifle and pops up for snapshot. Hands it back, says, ‘Thank you, private. An old dog’s got to keep his hand in somehow.’ Know for certain he got two Huns, because lieutenant saw it through periscope. Brigadier saw the South African war, oak leaves on his ribbons.

  Got rum issued, keeps us going. Lifesaver, even settles stomachs a little. Oh, that lovely hot feeling spreads fire in insides and resets clockwork in skull.

  Still not recovered and been sent back to Kemmel in pelting rain, carrying spades/rations/wire/trench stores. Man in front got bullet clean through knee, went down as if poleaxed. Wonder what chances being hit like that, randomly pitch darkness. Envious of stretcher-bearers, get chance to go back. We say that the bullet that gets you has your number on it, going to get you regardless. No point ducking, because might duck straight into path of bullet. Corporal nearly drowned in shell hole, but managed to pull him out after dumped his load. Worked by light of star shells. Fell into hollow then into ditch, both planks across it broken. Soaking wet, gumboots filled with water, will not get dry again for days. Hutch says, ‘It’s all right kicking sandbags to get the blood flowing again, but you can do yourself some damage without realising. It’s better to kick thin air.’ He’s right. Effective as swinging arms in circle to get blood back into hands. Indescribable cold, extreme ache deep in bones. If any sunlight, even just moment, you look up at little gap in clouds/smile with pleasure, little glimpse Paradise. If don’t get warm, start to feel lice, start wriggling/St Vitus’s Dance. Written to Mother, asked her to send me Harrison’s Pomade, but not arrived.

  Think might have to stop writing diary. Palled on me/hands shake too much to write/read back what written. Nerves and cold put together, and pencil can write sodden paper not invented yet. Will try for while yet.

  23

  One Morning

  One morning there was a nice view of a wrecked chateau and a dead German who was swollen up like an observation balloon, but we were only there until evening. Then two of us got hit on the way back at night, because of more random shots that weren’t even aimed at anyone. Neither dead, thank God. Blighty wounds only.

  Back at the breastworks on St Valentine’s Day, when I was thinking of Rosie, the Senior Officer ordered five rounds of rapid fire at dawn. He just wanted to annoy the Huns, because that was his humour. There were no targets to shoot at.

  In response the Huns began a barrage of high explosive and shrapnel, and we realised with dread in our hearts that our jovial little piece of mischief was going to have consequences a thousand times out of proportion. We watched the first shells land fifty yards away, and then begin to creep closer. They must have had a first-class observer. At last a shrapnel shell burst right over us, and for a second or two I was aware only of the overpowering ringing inside my head. My first thought was that I was going to be deaf. Hutch got a ball through his water bottle, and he was holding it up for me to see, when I noticed that I had got one through the stomach, and fell backwards, clutching myself, into a pool of filthy water. I remember thinking, ‘I hope it’s a ball and not a piece of shell case,’ and then I passed out.

  24

  Naught Broken Save this Body (1)

  1

  Dearest Mother and Father,

  I’ve got a Blighty wound! I shall be with you in about two weeks’ time. Don’t worry as I shall be quite well by then. Please tell dear Rosie that I shall write to her soon, when I am a little stronger.

  Your own loving and devoted son,

  Ashbridge

  Passed by no. 1900 censor

  2

  No. 8 Clearing Hospital

  British Expeditionary Force

  France

  15 February 1915

  Dear Miss McCosh,

  Your fiancé (Private Pendennis of the HAC) thought you would like to know that he was brought to this hospital today wounded. There is, we believe, no need to worry – the doctor is allowing him to be quiet and restful for a few days, and then we hope he will be able to go to the base, and thence to you! Since beginning this note, I have seen the MO again, and he repeats what he told me earlier in the evening, and so you must not worry about him too much. From time to time I will send you a line telling you of his progress, as long as he is here. You will, I know, do your part as well as you possibly can. Keep up with the faithful earnest prayer and the cheerful letters. That is all you can do. Let us keep him in God’s hands. Be quite sure that everything the staff and I can do for him we shall do. I have told his mother that we are all near neighbours – my family live at Sidcup. Do not worry – there is no need, and I will tell you exactly how he goes on day to day. He sends all that you would have him send to you. He is constantly thinking of you. Write at once, and above all, pray. I shall see him two or three times a day.

  Yours sincerely,

  H. V. Fairhead (Captain), Chaplain to the Forces

  Passed by no. 1670 censor

  3

  No. 8 Clearing Hospital

  British Expeditionery Forces

  France

  18 February 1915

  Dear M
iss McCosh,

  This is just a note to say that your fiancé is ‘going strong’, and the doctor reports well of him. Of course he is sure to have a few bad days, but he is very bright and patient. He is going to write you a line – we are trying to forbid him to write too much – and so you will see for yourself that he is by no means helpless. Keep him in God’s hands, as we do here. I will send you a line tomorrow.

  H. V. Fairhead, CF

  Passed by no. 1670 censor

  4

  21 February 1915

  My darling Rosie and dearest Pal,

  Well, old thing, it looks as though I have bought a blue ticket home, having been here for just a couple of months!

  I expect you have heard already about me getting wounded, but I thought I should write to you as soon as I possibly could to tell you that I am doing well, and I was waiting to come home for a spell. I don’t know if they will let me go back to the front or not (I suppose it depends upon how well I recover) but it looks as though I might soon be back in good old Eltham, at least pro tem. Won’t that be swell? Perhaps I’ll go into the fire brigade after all! I am disappointed that my time out here has been cut short, and that I have been here only in the most terrible weather, when it wasn’t really possible to do a good job. I was looking forward to spring, so that the Boche and I could have a good old go at each other, unimpeded by continuous rain. It galls me that I might have been put out of action without even having taken part in a proper attack.