Kipling's Choice Page 2

  ***

  I lie on my back and feel nothing, hear nothing. There is, though, a big head dancing before my eyes. It has a cap on. Who is he? His face is black against the light gray sky. Have I fallen? His mouth won't be still. He is shouting at me and I feel like I'm watching a silent film. Why am I lying here?

  John takes a serious fall around Easter 1913, the year he turns sixteen. His parents have just returned from Cairo. His sister, Elsie, has been in Paris with Miss Ponton, the governess. Everyone is back at Bateman's now. The children are on holiday.

  "Isn't it fantastic?" Daddo says as he darts around the shiny motorcycle like a little boy. He taps his pipe against his heel and stuffs it in his jacket pocket.

  "A BSA 500 cc!" John can say no more.

  His father swings his leg stiffly over the cycle. Both he and John are true motor fanatics. John is just as crazy about that green Rolls-Royce, the car Daddo rides around in everywhere. They call it the Green Goblin. For minutes at a time they can be amused by the clickety-clack of the valves when the chauffeur opens the hood for a routine check. And Rudyard has already ordered a new model, a Duchess.

  John first takes his new motorcycle on a few turns right in front of the door, around Donkey Hill. But each day he ventures a bit farther. He wears a leather helmet with flaps and big goggles over his pince-nez. He roams across the border of Kent and East Sussex.

  "Good practice for a future soldier," thinks Rudyard, who regards every application of modern technology as a terrific boost for the mighty army of the British Empire.

  The first discreet complaints come in fairly quickly. When E. W. Hornung, Oscar's father, lets slip that John is scaring the living daylights out of quiet Burwash with his motorcycle and knocking over the startled villagers, Daddo chuckles, "That's my boy!" But he will have to speak to John about it.

  He is too late. He is summoned to the neighboring village of Sissinghurst. A farmer fished John out of a ditch, thinking the boy was dead, and carried him along on his horse cart. Bruises, numerous scratches, a mild concussion, according to the doctor. And a sleeve torn off his leather motor jacket. The BSA is stuck in a hawthorn hedge, the frame and wheels damaged beyond repair. The engine, still purring, is hanging in the fresh greenery of the bushes.

  "Reliable machines," exclaim John and Daddo, and they laugh about it afterward.

  "The engine is still running," John tries to mutter to the dark face above his head, but he only manages to blow red bubbles through his shattered nose. As he regains consciousness, the excruciating pain creeps into his shaken body, cruel as a knife under the fingernails. The man in the cap is startled by the scream that resounds from the quivering mouth of the little officer.

  John tries to concentrate on his glasses. With one hand he fitfully searches his breast pocket for the chain of the pince-nez, the silver nose clip. Daddo said ... He feels the shadowy silhouette above him take away his officers pistol, for that hangs on a string around his neck, too. Suddenly he hears a voice, snatches of sentences, and the rattling of gunfire.

  He knows that voice. It is his father's.

  "Of course, the optician didn't design those glasses for diving and swimming, but when you're at school I want you to wear them as much as possible. Put them on a chain or a string; in that way you'll surely spare me the cost of a few pairs."

  The pince-nez can't boost his school results. The motorbike, the ultimate bribe, can't help his performance either. By summer John even threatens to quit Wellington.

  His bloodied fingers feel the twisted frames. There is still a piece of glass in them.

  "It's not so bad if you break a pair." Daddo's voice sounds clear now. "Wear them as much as you can, boy!"

  "Yes, Daddo."

  "Read again! The second row from left; to right. What are the letters?"

  The man in the white coat and the pointer.... The eye test....

  "Let me go!" John wants to shout. But only meaningless gibberish comes from his crushed larynx.

  "Sorry, Mr. Kipling, but this won't suffice for the army."

  It is May 1913 and the upcoming exams at Wellington weigh like a block of concrete on John's shoulders.

  Daddo has had a squash court installed at Bateman's ("After all, officers play squash"), and he promises John a new motorcycle.

  "I can't take it anymore," John sobs. But the silhouette can't understand the words.

  ***

  The pain disappears. Not entirely. Oh yes, please let it stay like this! It's bad enough, but at least I can stand it. Have I been taken away? Why is it so quiet all of a sudden? The shooting has stopped. Voices are crying in the distance. Many wounded. Is there no one to take over the command? This can't be. Attack, boys!

  Two hands on my arm, and two more on my side. They pull and push me. I hear them count: "One, two, three! Lift!"

  And again: "One, two, three!"

  "No, Master John, like this. Look, first your left foot forward, then swing your right leg back."

  He tries slowly: one, two, three. A tango is very sexy when you try it in slow motion. He grasps Miss Malone firmly around her middle and furtively sniffs her delicate perfume when she leans against him. She leads him superbly: one, two, three...

  Ooow! Bastards! Why don't they just let me lie on my back?

  "One, two, three, and hup!"

  "Good, Master John." Miss Malone is the nicer of the two dance teachers. He loves her voice. Elsie practices with Miss Pratt. It is October 1913. The whole house is buzzing with the tangos played on his gramophone. John is barely sixteen. Innocent, his mother thinks. Otherwise she would certainly not have Miss Malone come to Bateman's. He enjoys the tango lessons.

  "Master John has a remarkable talent," his teacher says.

  But not for dancing, John thinks.

  The summer is spent doing math assignments, but eventually John is promoted to the next form at Wellington, by the skin of his teeth. They already know that Engelberg will be a math review as well as a ski holiday. Miss Ponton, the governess, must work on his math skills.

  George Cecil, son of Lord Edward Cecil, comes to visit. He is dressed in the full regalia of his uniform from Sandhurst, the legendary officers' school. Daddo questions him endlessly about his military training. Of course John doesn't leave George's side for a moment, and listens to every word. He has probably sped by the majestic Sandhurst on his motorcycle ten times by now. God, how he envies George. With his mousy little glasses and small stature, John feels even more insignificant when he stands next to him.

  "What a fine young man. He already looks like a real officer," Mummy muses a bit too emphatically.

  "Precisely. He's completely Lord Edward," Daddo agrees.

  John worries about his grades. Another year at Wellington. And then?

  Clammy hands on my hot forehead. Someone gently dabbing the sweat on my face. Mummy? No, it's all blood. The ground is hard and cold, the grass is rustling.

  Shells are whistling in the distance. A few seconds of silence.

  Waiting for the rumbling as they come down. Voices right by my ear now.

  "A bit of mint tea, boy."

  Mummy, what are you doing here at the front? Is Daddo coming, too?

  "Here, drink up."

  A man's voice. Daddo?

  "Better not, Sergeant. He won't make it. Besides, how would you put that bottle to his mouth? He has no mouth!"

  An Irish accent. One of my men? Who are you? God! That pain again! No!

  Restlessly the gravely wounded lieutenant shakes his bloodied head back and forth.

  "He wants to say something," says the soldier next to him. The soldier sighs.

  "How could he? God damn, what a mess," the sergeant curses.

  "He's delirious."

  "It won't be long now. We can't do anything for him."

  John lies in bed. Mummy is sitting next to him. She has brought him some mint tea. It is spring 1914. The magnolias are in full bloom, and the sunlight on the flowers in the garden colors the
walls of his room. It is already the third time this year that he has had to come home from school; he's been suffering from fever, nightmares, and just feeling sick. He wants to quit school. His grades are slipping again.

  Daddo comes to comfort him. "Sandhurst isn't really necessary, boy. We'll find something else. The King's Army has many doors."

  John can hear the disappointment in his father's voice.

  "Damned eyes." Daddo tries again. "It's not your fault, John."

  At the beginning of May they decide to send him to Bournemouth for a cram course in the hopes of preparing him for the entrance exam to Oxford. John graduates from the course and everyone is relieved, at least for the time being. But the world is holding its breath. War breaks out on August 4. "The Great War, the war to end all wars!" claim the European heads of state.

  Perfectly timed, Rudyard Kipling thinks. This is John's chance.

  In two weeks I'll be seventeen, John Kipling thinks.

  ***

  "Down, down, Sergeant!" a voice calls in panic.

  Lieutenant Kipling is rudely awakened.

  A familiar voice. But whose? Jesus, I feel absolutely nothing, as if my whole body was sleeping. The light goes on and off.

  "We're getting the full load, Connelly. Down! Take cover!"

  Ffwee-ee-ee. The earth spatters open in all directions.

  God Almighty. Are the shells ours or the Germans'? How long have I been here? Here it comes, one is enough to bury me in one fell swoop or grind me up into a thousand pieces of meat.

  John Kipling is completely paralyzed and continually bleeding from his head. Fragments of the hellish offensive overwhelm him now and then. The noise of the battle goes on and off as if someone were playing with the volume knob. Each time he passes out he is blown awake by thunderous noise that is as loud as every storm of his entire life all rolled into one. There are voices of fellows who crawl right by him. "This is—ugh—our lieutenant, the young Kipling! Poor devil."

  How long ago is that now? Five minutes, five hours? Sometimes he is awakened by clumps of earth and lime which rain down on him.

  The pain has become much less. Perhaps I'll make it, he wagers.

  "See that? He's looking about," says an invisible voice.

  John feels empty. With difficulty he squints to see who is sitting next to him. Everything is black.

  "He's looking but he can't see anything," another voice answers.

  John wants to protest.

  "Left without glasses, with glasses." The voice is clear and emotionless.

  The war is six days old. John has voluntarily reported to the Ministry of War in London. He wants to serve in Lord Kitchener's new army. Not wanting to pass up such a chance, he is now standing in line for the eye exam.

  "Right without glasses, with." The verdict is given: "Unsatisfactory."

  John grits his teeth to keep from talking back to the man.

  "Perhaps you could report to a local recruiting office in your area," advises a friendly officer as John exits.

  Disillusioned, John returns to Brown's Hotel, the London residence of the Kipling family. Rudyard and Carrie Kipling are upset by their son's tone of voice when they get him on the telephone, and they rush to London in the Green Goblin. By the time they arrive, John has already left to see Colonel Feilden, a family friend, to lick his wounds.

  "Next week you'll be seventeen, John. Maybe they'll be more accommodating then," suggests Daddo the next day. "Do you know what? We'll try together."

  John lives on hope. On his birthday they ride in the Rolls to Hastings, then to Maidstone. When the recruiting sergeants and officers recognize Daddo, they bow like pocket knives and greet him with stiff salutes. But for the second time it's to no avail. Always those weak eyes...

  "Maybe they don't want me as an officer, but do you think they'll take me as an ordinary soldier?" John muses with a sigh.

  "Maybe, boy. Maybe."

  "Maybe, Daddo? Is that all you can say? Maybe?" John asks reproachfully.

  Rudyard Kipling feels wounded. After all, everyone wants to do his part in the war. Why should his only son be barred from serving king and country? How can they pass over the son of Rudyard Kipling, the most celebrated writer of his time, a Nobel Prize winner? They can't do that, can they?

  In the following weeks, the lines in front of the recruiting offices grow visibly. Every able-bodied man reports for duty, not only in England but in Wales, Scotland, Ireland, Canada, South Africa, India, Australia, and New Zealand. Young men are rising up to fight in every corner of King George's empire. Many of these boys are still in their teens. This is the chance of a lifetime! It is the Great Picnic, an opportunity to see another part of the world. Therefore it's best to sign up quickly, for it will all be over by Christmas. Everywhere you go you see the Secretary of War, Lord Kitchener, on posters with his finger pointing: "I want YOU! Be there! Join your country's army!"

  Daddo knows that his pen is a mighty weapon, and he knows that the most powerful people in the land know it, too. He believes that the world must be saved from "the Hun," the name that everyone calls Germany these days. The British world-empire can't just throw in the towel to the enemy!

  "Have you read this, John? Fantastic!" Oscar Hornung says as he flies into Bateman's and takes his brooding friend into the garden.

  "What is it?" asks John as he listlessly takes Oscar's newspaper clipping and unfolds it. It is from the Times. It is dated September 2, 1914.

  "A poem by your pa! And what a poem, John!" Oscar grabs the piece of paper and begins to read with gusto:

  There is but one task for all,

  One life for each to give.

  What stands if freedom fall?

  Who dies if England live?

  The poem, "For All We Have and Are," strikes a chord throughout England. Daddo expresses exactly what the population is feeling. His verses pour oil on the fire and, quick as lightning, they take on a life of their own. The people quickly learn to recite the poem by heart.

  A few days later, the great Kipling totally commits himself to the fight. Even though he hates public appearances in which he is the center of attention, it is now or never, he thinks. He rattles off that poem twice in a fiery speech in the southern seaside resort city of Brighton, where he addresses an enthusiastic crowd of young people and urges them to report for duty.

  ***

  "Roberts! Here, look, one of the Irish Guards."

  John awakens suddenly with a cry of pain, which sounds more like a hearty burp to the soldier next to him. He is lying on his side, with his torn neck to the sun. His shattered face is glued to a dark-red, sticky pulp on the ground, a mixture of blood, vomit, lime, and clay.

  "Please finish me off," John murmurs, but the soldier doesn't understand a word.

  The splinters of John's lower jaw pierce his palate and throat. He wants to fight off the pain but he can't. He feels as if his head were being crushed in a vise.

  Ma! Mummy ... Can't anyone help me? Why not? Why me? Oh, God, he complains to himself in disbelief. He slips in and out of consciousness; the battle noises keep waking him.

  "Hey, Roberts! Here, I say!" the voice calls impatiently.

  Roberts? Which Roberts? Is that old Bobs here? Wait. Someone is sitting on my shoulders. Now there are two people here.

  "Irish Guards. A second lieutenant."

  "That's what I said, Roberts."

  Oh no, bunglers, amateurs! Just let me lie on my side. Why aren't they helping me?

  "Good Lord, Roberts! Look at his face! What a mess."

  Lord Roberts? Good old Bobs? Irish Guards, of course. Is it you?

  John loses consciousness again.

  "Fantastic news, old boy!"

  John sees that his father is walking toward him at a pace that is brisker than usual.

  "This is for you, Lieu-ten-ant Kipling. Congratulations!" Cheerfully, Daddo waves the letter that his old friend Lord Roberts has just given him in London.

  John snatches the
paper from his father's hand. "The Irish Guards? Has that good Bobs fixed it up for me?"

  Colonel Roberts is an aged veteran who earned his stripes during the Boer War in South Africa. Too old now to be at the army top, Bobs nevertheless has always had his own regiment, and he doesn't want to miss this war.

  Daddo isn't totally satisfied. In the newspaper not too long ago he vented his wrath against the Irish, who want to free themselves from English rule. That his son must now be thrown together with those Irish! But Bobs is prepared to take John on as an officer, to return a favor; years before, the colonel had asked Rudyard to write for a new army paper, and Rudyard had obliged.

  "If you don't think this regiment is suitable for John, I can certainly have him put on a list for a different one," Bobs assures him. But, of course, Rudyard can't dismiss the colonel's gesture. Besides, the list of candidates who are waiting impatiently for their commissions is getting longer by the day. And with John's eyes...

  The official letter comes two days later, on September 13, 1914. John is appointed second lieutenant, backdated to August 16. Right away he receives four weeks of service time as a gift. The governess and the other servants hurriedly pack Master Kipling's luggage. The next day the whole family travels to London to visit the barber and John's tailor, who works a full hour taking measurements for his uniform. Everyone thinks it's exciting that John's life has been turned upside down in just one day. The Kiplings lunch together in the city and wave goodbye to John at the Warley Barracks, the dilapidated soldiers' quarters in Brentwood, where his regiment has been crammed while training for the fight.