Kipling's Choice Read online

  His promotion is not unusual. The officers at the front are put through the meat grinder so fast that they are constantly being replaced. One very quickly becomes an ancien in a fighting unit.

  "Congratulations, old chap!" a sweaty Rupert Grayson says and pats John on the back after the game. "That old battle-ax has laid down the law, I hear."

  "Oh, yes, Mister Grayson!"

  The other young officers burst out laughing.

  "A fine football match, Rupert," John continues, "but think about your fans, and shave your legs in the future!"

  "Hear, hear!" The gentlemen surrounding john shout their approval.

  A fight begins seconds later. As the two friends roll in the grass, the other officers gather round and cheer them on. As if by magic a swarm of soldiers, corporals, and sergeants flock to the scene.

  "Look out, Second Lieutenant Grayson," jokes Captain Alexander, who has pushed through the pack. Lieutenant Kipling is now your superior!"

  "I'll show him some stars, more than he can pin on his uniform," Grayson shouts.

  The duel turns into a true farce, a grotesque cockfight. John and Rupert put on a show, the audience quickly take sides, but in the end John is pinned on his back amid a cacophony of boos and cheers.

  "What will you do for me?" asks a sneering Grayson.

  "Fine, fine, you win!" John calls breathlessly. "I'll buy you a drink."

  Rupert Grayson looks doubtfully at the crowd as he holds down his friend. He knows that the young Kipling is rolling in money.

  "Is that enough, boys?"

  "No!" they shout in unison.

  "And also a drink for the men, a drink for everybody!" John says desperately.

  Rupert lets him go.

  Alex jumps into the circle and takes each fighter by the hand like an official referee. "And the winner is..." To the surprise of everyone, he raises John's arm up high.

  The soldiers laugh, they boo, they whistle and yell, they push and pull one other. New fights break out here and there, and caps and coats go flying into the air. The whole battalion is keyed up.

  "Our men really needed this," Alex says into John's ear. "They needed to let off some steam." He turns to Rupert and says, "Thanks, boys."

  During the past days all the soldiers and junior officers alike have been asking themselves just how far you can push military drilling. Conditions for the Brigade Field Days had to replicate actual life at the front in every respect. The men practiced their new fight techniques endlessly with and against other regiments, as though their very lives depended on it. They dug ditches and trenches, rolled out barbed wire, crawled through mud, lay in waiting for hours at a time, exposed to all the elements, sometimes in the pouring rain. The weather was unpredictable and always seemed to be against them. They were hustled out of bed for nightly reconnaissance patrols. They scraped together their last ounce of strength for hand-to-hand combat, carrying heavy packs and wearing gas masks as they did so. It never stopped. Their nerves were dangerously on edge. They staged mock attacks using real smoke shells. John's battalion even captured a real village for practice and interrogated French citizens, escorted prisoners, slaughtered pigs, and sought shelter for the night. They knew how critical their situation was, and fear was building up inside everyone. The moment of truth was approaching. The next day or the next week they would have the real enemy in view.

  "A bullet in the leg," Rupert proposed to John one evening. "That wouldn't be a problem."

  "Or in the arm." John thought that was reasonable, too. "Maybe a couple of fingers gone, although..." He noticed that Rupert unconsciously put his right hand under his left armpit.

  "Have you been worried about it lately, as well?" Rupert asked hesitantly. He could sense John's fright by his silence and by the expression in his eyes.

  Fear was taboo. This was the first time the two friends dared to talk about it.

  "I'm beginning to realize that I may never see England again," Rupert confessed.

  "The best-case scenario would be a gunshot wound, or a bit of gas," John said, thinking aloud.

  "Dear God, not in the belly," Rupert mumbled. "Or my face. I always think about that. Or a bayonet wound. Yikes!"

  "I don't want to be crippled. Be completely dependent on others. No, not that," said John with a sigh. "Or blind."

  "How about a bullet to the shoulder?"

  "That would be acceptable."

  ***

  The football matches on that Sunday, September 12, 1915, were well-timed, a welcome change. The men desperately needed something to ease their stress. First the soldiers and corporals kicked the ball around together. Then came the long-awaited spectacle of the officers in their shorts. Those stiff English gentlemen could finally appear in a different role, and the Irish Guards would talk about it for a long time afterward.

  The football games appeared to be just a warm-up. The staff officers had prepared well for this day off. The field kitchens stocked special provisions for the occasion, including meat, vegetables, and tinned fruit. There was a barrel of rum for each platoon, and the quartermasters distributed chewing and smoking tobacco. Here and there an accordion or Irish flute was hauled out. The vast field was teeming with exuberant boys. They laughed and shouted, drank and smoked. A concert in the open air began after nightfall. Enormous torches were set around the podium. The entertainers wore the same uniforms as the audience. They were professional musicians and actors who traveled across the entire front in Belgium and France, from one regiment to another. They knew exactly how to handle this rough crowd. Those who shouted the loudest were chosen to come up and dance, and their antics were such a farce that their comrades were soon rolling on the grass with laughter. But it was just as easy for the musicians to silence the men, and at the first notes of "Oh Danny Boy" the audience fell completely quiet. The song sent chills down each spine:

  Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling

  From glen to glen, and down the mountainside.

  The summer's gone, and all the roses falling,

  'Tis you, 'tis you must go, and I must bide.

  If you come back and all the flowers are dying,

  And if I am dead, as dead I may well be

  You'll come and find the place where I am lying

  And kneel and say an "Ave" therefor me.

  With a lump in the throat the Irish boys sang the refrain in harmony Here and there a silent tear glistened in the flickering light. Those tears were quickly wiped away, for the next medley of songs made fun of the Germans. The excitement built, and the musicians gave it their all in the last encore.

  The day concluded with a huge campfire. Once again the men sang from the very depths of their souls. They drank, too, for then they didn't have to talk. Or worry. No one said a word about what would be happening in the days to come, but everyone was thinking about it.

  The officers drank another round just before midnight. Finally they could talk freely among themselves.

  "That wrestling match this afternoon was splendid!" Alex said to John and Rupert. "Cheers, Kipling. To your health, for that matter!"

  "Will you let your family know about your promotion?" Rupert asked John.

  "It will have to appear in the London Gazette first," said the captain in a kindly voice. "You know that, don't you, boys?"

  "I'll wait," John declared. "I wonder when they'll find out for themselves."

  ***

  "We are on the eve of the biggest battle in the history of the world!" Lieutenant General Haking solemnly proclaims three days later. It is September 15, 1915. The commander of the Second Guard Brigade is never shy about speaking to his assembled officers in a self-important manner.

  "The time has come!" John mutters to Rupert excitedly. Feelings of relief and high expectations fill the general staff's big tent. Friends nod to one another.

  Most of the men have not yet been to the front. They are very proud indeed that a general is taking the trouble to speak to even the youngest officer
s of the whole brigade. John becomes quiet when the commander-in-chief hands out his specific commands.

  "Everyone will strictly adhere to my orders. Think about your training, follow the instructions. Trust your superiors. On Friday and Saturday we'll do one last test: field practice together with an artillery division and the military engineers. Tomorrow we'll march to Wisques. It's close by, to the south of Saint-Omer. Gentlemen, the hour of truth is near!"

  The general speaks in a melodramatic tone, but John is completely taken in. Is that so? he wonders.

  "Don't leave anything to chance," the general continues. "The enemy mustn't get a single break. Be especially careful with military documents at the front."

  John feels as though he is floating. He thinks about his sister and the carefree days when they rowed together on the narrow Dudwell River, which winds through their country estate. The water mill way in the back of the lush garden, the perfect hideout for boys like him. His motorcycle. His mother. And Daddo, of course. They would be so proud of him now!

  Lieutenant General Haking's nasal voice brings John back to reality. The commander-in-chief raises a glass with his most important staff officers and ends his speech in a stately manner. "Gentlemen, your country is counting on you. To victory!"

  The crowd applauds politely. Glasses clink together.

  "To the king!" Solemnly, the general sips his champagne.

  "To the king!" the men call out in unison.

  When the speech is over, the junior officers of the First Battalion are hardly impressed by the general's words. Quite the contrary.

  "The general is a real strategist," says someone scornfully. "Unbelievable, isn't it, so much experience."

  "Yes, with little tin soldiers," answers another. "His house is full of them."

  "The general just wants to see his name in the newspapers."

  "In the want ads," a third officer jeers. "Brains wanted. Apply to the Second Guard Brigade!"

  They chuckle and smirk, but on each face is a bitter smile. John can't understand why these sarcastic remarks are being made behind the general's back by officers in the First Battalion, of all people! They have had experience at the firing line, haven't they? And it's precisely those men who seem to have no interest whatsoever in Haking's words!

  "Captain Alexander, you were wounded at Ypres," John says, completely confused. "How can they make fun of..." He can scarcely find words to express his indignation.

  "They've described the general exactly," Alex replies, trying to quiet him. "Look, whoever returns from hell only half shot to smithereens considers himself lucky"

  "Hasn't the lieutenant general served at the front line himself?" Rupert asks.

  John looks wordlessly from the one to the other.

  Alex shrugs his shoulders and sighs. "If you survive a battle, the first thing you do is count your fingers and toes. If they're still there. Then you count your comrades on those fingers. After each attack. And each time you'll have more fingers left than friends."

  "And in the long run only your fingers remain," a voice calls out bitterly.

  The three turn around in surprise. They see a young captain from the First Guards, a tall, round-shouldered fellow.

  "And all your comrades—gone in a flash. Gone forever." His dull, black-rimmed eyes look right through John. He taps his cap in salute, a small, emotionless gesture. Then he disappears among the other officers.

  "Poor Davis," Alex whispers. "He's lost two brothers. One was just a couple of meters from me. Shrapnel was flying all around. The splintered tree stumps were full of that glowing metal. Davis's youngest brother was bent over, seeking cover. It happened quick as lightning. One moment he was watching me, waiting for a sign to go over the top. I can still see his friendly, confident gaze. A boy who was burning with energy. A second later there he was, blown to pieces. Not a pretty sight."

  ***

  The map is jerked from above John's face. There is a flash of light. The German soldiers look up in alarm. The smashing blow from the mortar shell comes quickly, taking them by surprise. Unable to run for cover, the three are blown away. Although John lies protected in a ditch, for a moment he can feel himself being lifted up in the air. The explosion sucks all the oxygen from his lungs in one fell swoop. He lands hard on his side, unconscious.

  Minutes later his eyelashes begin to flutter. From the corner of his eye, John looks in a daze through the blades of grass. He sees a gray cap with gilded piping a couple of steps away. Thinking is painful. The German officer, yes, now he remembers. A contorted body lies a few meters beyond, smashed against a tree. Between the cap and the corpse are the blood-spattered remains of his map. John is suddenly aware of a total silence; he has been completely deafened by the explosion. The pain begins to pound in his brain like a battering ram. Once again blood oozes from his open skull onto the remains of his neck.

  Jesus, no! John screams without a mouth, without a voice. Oh God! Let me go! His body twists and shakes. For many minutes.

  My head is about to explode. How can I fight off the pain? Swallow, gasp for air, clench a fist. Help me! Isn't there anyone coming this way? Then let me drift away, please! Or die, perhaps?

  The pale evening sun reflects off the chalky-white wall of the limestone quarry. The mysterious glow that it casts over Pit 14 is in sharp contrast to the darkening surroundings. The eerily calm trees of the Bois Hugo and Chalk Pit Wood are veiled in the twilight. Silence rules; the void is complete.

  John Kipling is quiet now. He draws on the last reserves of his strength. He has never felt so lonely, not even in the dreary dormitory of Saint Aubyns Prep School. He realizes that no one can see him. All hope is lost. As he lies near the pit, he thinks about Celle once again.

  "Ne pleures pas, don't cry, ma petite," John whispers. He has had only two minutes to give Celle the bad news, for her mother is coming around the corner. He wants so very much to comfort the girl.

  It is Monday, September 20, 1915. John is spending the whole evening in the company of his host, the mayor of Acquin, and his wife and daughter. His marching orders came this afternoon. Tomorrow they must move up toward the front. Their destination is Linghem, twenty miles to the southeast. Their quarters in the cozy little French village must be evacuated in a hurry. The battalion spent the entire day breaking up camp, packing, and loading up the horse carts.

  A carton full of tinned goods has been set on the kitchen table. It is a gift for Celle's family: fish, meat, and fruit, all overstocks that the battalion doesn't want to drag any farther.

  Celle's father, an admirer of Rudyard Kipling, is surprised at the sudden departure of the troops. He wants to ask for a favor, and quickly. On the table next to the tins is a pile of Kipling's books in French translation.

  "Mon papa Mister Kipling is coming to France at the end of the week to report for the newspaper," John says. "To Rheims."

  "Une petite chance perhaps that he'll corne visit Acquin?" asks the mayor, beaming.

  "Ah non, désolé, monsieur. He knows that I'm moving. But I'm not allowed to tell Daddo where I'm going."

  "Daddo?"

  "Son Père, Papa. " Celle jumps in to help.

  "Ah, bon, " says the mayor.

  During this whole time the girl has been staring at John with a dreamy look in her eyes. The young man can barely keep his mind on the conversation; the mayor must explain everything two or three times.

  "Ah, mon anglais," says the good man, who hardly knows the difference between "yes" and "no." "My English is not that great, excusez-moi, mon lieutenant."

  "I often think about my pauvre maman, now that the big day is approaching," John lies.

  "Naturellement. I wish that your papa, monsieur Rudyard, was here, lieutenant. Hélas! But would you be so good as to write something in my books? Un souvenir. "

  John can forget about having a little time alone with Celle. The mayor tells him his thoughts about each and every book, droning on and on while John inscribes them. It is growing late.
Celle's mother stands up.

  "The men are sure to have a lot to discuss," she says. "Come, Marcelle."

  There is an awkward silence as John and Celle part with a respectable, but very prolonged, handshake. They can barely get the words "au revoir" across their lips.

  John spends the entire night on the guest bed, staring at the shadows that are dancing in the lantern light. He waits for Celle, but the steps never creak.

  ***

  The march to the southeast to Linghem via Estrée-Blanche is spread out over two days, much to everyone's relief. Yet the company commander has little compassion for his foot soldiers and devises some drills to compensate for the possible time loss. The men have no idea what the front will be like, and they are worried about the events to come. Will I survive the baptism by fire? Will I be wounded? Where? I must be strong. But still, will it be a bullet, or a piece of shrapnel, or chlorine gas? Not a bayonet, please!

  In the meantime the senior officers are driving their Irish Guards to the ends of their patience. The young lieutenants are overwhelmed with orders which they must unwillingly impose on their men.

  "Horrible, isn't it?" John exclaims, when the exhausted boys are obliged to perform their shooting maneuvers while wearing a suffocating gas mask.

  "I'm not going to contradict you," Rupert says grimly. Twice each soldier must creep and crawl around wearing that heavy canvas cap while shooting off a full load of cartridges.

  "They won't be in any condition for the real fight later," John says to his friend. He sighs.

  "Don't show your displeasure. It's bad for your authority."

  "You should talk, Rupert!"

  On the way to the front the troops are provided with more equipment, munitions, and reserve weapons. The junior officers must throw out half their personal belongings, for the horse carts are overloaded.

  "Dear old F—," John writes to his family on Thursday, September 23.

  It made my heart bleed to leave a lot of my splendid kit by the wayside. My finest shirts and underclothes, all my books and magazines, my luxurious toilet kit and my supply of Colgate and shaving powder. Even my Orilux lamp. We are quickly approaching the front line now and will soon be engaged in our first battle. In the meantime send me a really good pair of bedroom slippers (with strong soles). And a toothbrush. I'll let you know what else I need later on.