Kipling's Choice Page 8

  Saturday, September 25, 1915, is a busy day. Muster is sounded at five o'clock in the morning. John Kipling and the Second Battalion Irish Guards leave their quarters in Linghem and join the rest of the brigade ten kilometers away, in Auchy-au-Bois.

  Field Marshal Douglas Haig is watching the smoke wafting from his cigarette at that same predawn moment. The wind is okay, or nearly, anyway. The commander of the First British Army Corps makes a bold decision, from the safety of his plush headquarters, far behind the firing line. For the first time he orders British soldiers to use the new weapon, poison gas. The command comes five months after the Germans launched their first gas attack north of Ypres, which took thousands of British, French, and Africans by complete surprise and caused them to die in a most gruesome manner. Field Marshal Haig hopes that his use of this suffocating gas will force a decisive breakthrough in northern France.

  Eighteen-year-old Lieutenant Kipling doesn't know this as he marches in the direction of Loos, between Arras and Ypres. The wind is unpredictable. The main consequence of Haig's decision is that the British will be sowing death and confusion among their own men. Adding to their failure is the fact that the Germans are far too well prepared for a gas attack and will shell many of the British gas cylinders. Furthermore, it will take hours before all those cylinders can be turned on, because someone brought along the wrong keys. It is a series of blunders of monumental proportions. But John doesn't know any of this. He dreams of heroism in the starring role of his life.

  At Loos nine hundred boys in the King's Own Scottish Borderers also dream of their part in that great adventure. Encouraged by the squealing of bagpipes, they set foot on the black plain at Loos on Saturday, as well. Doesn't Field Marshal Haig know that they don't stand a chance, for they won't find cover anywhere? Certainly he has heard about the German underground bunkers, hasn't he? Hasn't he examined the aerial reconnaissance photos, the maps with German trenches and barbed wire notated on them? The Scots are like walking targets as he sends them directly toward the safely hidden machine guns of the enemy. Two men of the nine hundred men will survive. For weeks the open field will be strewn with the bodies of the dead men, their kilts flapping in the wind. Corpses will be hanging all along the barbed wire, too. The Scots of the Black Watch won't fare much better: all their officers will be killed, and more than half their men. And to their horror, the next day the British officers will receive the same orders to attack from the superior army command. Of the ten thousand British troops at Loos, over eight thousand will perish, in less than four hours. And not a single German.

  But luckily John Kipling will never know any of this. On that rainy Saturday morning he proceeds with the Irish Guards from Auchy-au-Bois to Burbure. In spite of the overwhelming stress of the past days, John enjoys watching the endless rows of soldiers marching in their ranks behind and in front of him. What kind of enemy could ever take on these boys? "The biggest battle of all time." General Haking's words echo in his head. Great generals can see into the future, John muses. Perhaps a page of history will be written here. Julius Caesar must have felt like this, or Hannibal. John marches proudly next to his platoon. He gives a pat on the shoulder here, an encouraging word there. This is the real stuff. All his weariness has fallen away.

  The situation changes at about ten o'clock. The narrow cobblestone roads become clogged with the bustle of men, animals, and army cars. Hundreds of cavalry rush past John. Marching in orderly rows is all but impossible. There is practically no way to get through the villages. Startled horses slip on the wet pavés. John's platoon scatters. A young sergeant falls under his mount and breaks a leg. He lies groaning in the gutter while a group of men tries to catch the snorting mare.

  The chaos reaches its peak before noon. Military police must direct traffic at the intersections, with red flags and whistles. Whole companies are being turned away from their frontline destinations. Dark figures in grimy uniforms come hobbling in small groups from the side streets; they don't look like the fresh troops at all. They are returning from the trenches for a break. Usually they are relieved after four days and nights at the front line—if they are still alive. The boys seem as though they are from another world. They have a strange look in their eyes that they try to hide under the dripping-wet visors of their caps. The noise and chaos on the roads doesn't affect them. Where are their officers, John wonders. Don't they have an ounce of respect in the least? Neighing and shouting resounds on all sides. Carts rattle past. The clickety-clack of horseshoes on the paving stones is making the troops crazy. Teamsters curse and brush past the Irish Guards as they drive their skittish horses and stubborn mules toward the front. The route is dotted with manure, stinking garbage, soggy food remnants, and discarded gear. The Irish treat the advancing cavalry to the choicest curse words that their rich Celtic language has to offer.

  On the way a courier delivers a telegram from Major General Cavan, who wishes them "God speed" and a "good journey." The nervous boys are now beginning to realize that the great battle has actually begun. What will it look like? The main road becomes even more obstructed by the onrushing vehicles. Ambulances honk as they thread their way through the disorganized crowd. The men are finally getting a taste of the war. The first shocking images pass by scarcely one meter away: farmers' carts stacked with corpses. Sometimes those carts are stalled in traffic. You can touch these bodies; they are real. And they are clad in British uniforms. Rain mixed with blood leaks out of the wagons and runs in red streams onto the cobblestones. The commotion dies down for a little while. Horribly mutilated boys ride in open wagons past the advancing troops, crying fearfully. The spectacle sends shivers down John's wet back. You can actually smell the front now.

  Quarter to two. Burbure is an ants' nest. The Irish want to pitch their wet tents in the unprepared village. The officers seek accommodations with the citizens, but army quarters are completely full. Everyone is dead tired. Reproaches fly through the air. The men are pushing and pulling and fighting among themselves. The company receives an order to continue to a couple of villages farther on.

  After marching feverishly for fifteen hours, the Second Battalion Irish Guards are absolutely soaked when they reach their temporary shelter. It is one o'clock in the morning. Tents, sheds, barns, huts, empty stalls—anything is good enough to house the more than one thousand soldiers, corporals, noncommissioned officers, the horses and mules, and almost thirty officers. The men bed down amid a great deal of moaning and groaning. John and Rupert then drag themselves to the officers' briefing.

  Colonel Butler is formal: when the news comes, everyone must be ready to proceed to the trenches within thirty minutes. The front is less than two hours away by foot. Each company must have two men posted to sound the alert. John finally heads to a farmer's barn and sinks down to the straw, exhausted. It is the middle of the night. He has a splitting headache. He wants to sleep, but he's much too tired.

  ***

  Sleep, headache. Yes, I want to sleep, nothing more...

  A lean young figure is lying in a ditch next to a woods by the village of Loos. It is Monday, September 27, 1915. The Bois Hugo is a sad, lonely place to die. His officers tunic is crumpled and covered with mud and lime. It looks like he has two different legs: there is a khaki-colored puttee on one calf and a gleaming red and brown one on the other. The blood-soaked cloth has become loosened, yet it binds the wounded flesh together. A round, dark bloodstain stands out against the sparse grass that surrounds his head. The ring is growing wider by the minute.

  Let me sleep and never wake up again, John Kipling prays silently. This awful pain is keeping me awake. Someone is driving one nail after another into my head. God, it's horrible. A wild dog doesn't deserve to die in the jungle like this, not even Tabaqui, the Jackal. I'm being skinned alive here. Mum! Mummy, how long do I have to keep this up? Mowgli can't stand it anymore, Daddo. Akela, Father, Wise Gray Wolf, take me to the Peace Rock so that I can throw myself into the Wainganga River...

  "T
wenty-five Fritzen!"

  John can picture the little stone building by the chalk pit during the first attack a few hours before.

  "Good work, Sergeant Cochrane!"

  "Dead Germans are good Germans, sir."

  "You're wounded, Cochrane."

  "That leg of yours looks worse than my shoulder, Lieutenant."

  "I've done well, haven't I, Daddo?"

  "Sorry, sir?"

  "Has that machine-gun nest been put out of action, Sergeant?"

  "It's been completely destroyed, sir."

  "Do you know my father, Sergeant? This is the great Rudyard Kipling!"

  "Hello, Sergeant. How do you do?"

  "Excuse me, sir. What do you mean, Lieutenant?"

  "I'm going to die, Daddo. Hold my hand tight. Are we going to scout out this building together? Daddo, I'm going to die."

  "Come, come, my boy. Who dies if England live?"

  "Tell me anyway, Daddo. Tell me I've done well!"

  "Of course, boy."

  "Daddo, I'm getting my second star soon."

  "Aha, that's more like you, John. That's my boy!"

  "And that's all there is to my whole life, Daddo? That's it?"

  "Yes, boy. Giving your life means you'll live in eternity."

  "Just one time in combat? No more than that?"

  "Pro patria, pro rege. For king and country."

  "One battle? For that you've groomed me and molded me since childhood, Daddo?"

  "The king will be satisfied, John. God save the king!"

  "Is this really all, Daddo?"

  Suddenly two arms reach up from a ditch at the edge of a woods called the Bois Hugo. The thin hands grasp at the air. The arms stiffen now, then fold quietly and come to rest on the little officer's chest and he lies on his back like a fallen saint, with the palms together and fingers and thumbs pointing toward the sky. He is not breathing. His body is seized with a powerful spasm. His arms reach out one last time; it is the image of a diver getting ready for the plunge. John Kipling tumbles into space and disappears into the water of the Wainganga in a slow, graceful curve. A red ring is left behind on the Peace Rock, like a halo.

  ***

  A long, chilling scream pierces the heavy silence behind the dark doors and thick walls of Bateman's. A jolt is passing through the Kiplings' centuries-old house in Burwash. Three separate doors open as the kitchen maid, gardener, and butler come bursting into the parlor with puzzled looks on their faces. Rudyard Kipling is slumped in an easy chair, grasping the armrests and weeping hysterically. He rants and raves like a man fighting with death. His glasses are on the floor. A telegram is crumpled up next to him. The servants stand there, bewildered. What are they to do? They shouldn't be witnessing this, certainly not in the presence of Bonar Law, the leader of the Conservative Party. After the king and the prime minister, Law is the most powerful man in England. Kipling roars and rages like a wounded tiger. His friend Bonar Law stands before him with his head bowed. The distraught maid puts her hands over her ears and runs out of the room.

  A fourth door flies open. Carrie Kipling storms in.

  "Darling!" she calls, looking around anxiously. Her husband becomes quiet all of a sudden. "It's John, isn't it? News about John?"

  "Carrie, I am very sorry," Mr. Law mutters.

  "Is he...?" She already knows the terrible answer; it is clear by the anguished look on her face.

  "Missing. Not quite a week ago," the politician says with a sigh. "Last Monday, September 27, in a battle at Loos."

  Rudyard Kipling is silent as he stares blankly at the ceiling. Carrie snatches the telegram from his chair.

  "'Missing in action,'" she reads. "My God!" She maintains her composure. "Is there a chance, do you think that he...?"

  Mr. Law shakes his head carefully. "We must hope and pray," he whispers hoarsely.

  "John, my boy!" Rudyard's voice is as dry as parchment.

  "Naturally the War Office informed us immediately," says Mr. Law in a soft, smooth voice, but the rigid, formal undertone of the statesman rings through. "I didn't want the postman to bring you—"

  "Of course. Thank you. We appreciate your concern, Mr. Law."

  Bateman's is quieter than usual. The Kiplings cling to a single word: "missing." They know all about the scenario with the dreaded telegram, however. Many of their acquaintances have received such messages during the past months. The entire home front lives in fear. Any unexpected knock on the door makes the blood run cold. Every British doorbell is a death knell. Each courier could be the bearer of bad news. Is he bringing word about your husband, your son, a brother, cousin, or friend? Families await the mail in terror.

  The Kiplings know all these stories. Most of them end badly, too: Oscar Hornung, the Grenfell brothers, George Cecil and his friend, John Manners. The list is getting longer all the time, just like the daily list of the dead in the newspapers that everyone sifts through. But John? No, their boy doesn't belong in that group. It's impossible. Not yet.

  Rudyard Kipling is like a beaten dog. He sits silently upstairs in his writing room, unable to concentrate on anything. He has just returned from France and is suffering from a bad cold. If only he had received this shattering news during his visit to the front! Perhaps he could have organized something. Now he locks himself away, talks to no one, and waits patiently. And he knows that Carrie is feeling the same way downstairs. And John's poor sister, Elsie, too. They are sick with doubt and grief.

  Why doesn't Rudyard get his powerful friends involved? Can't he start searching for his son himself? No one would deny him a travel pass if he wanted to return to France right away. But no, not now. Is he afraid that more news about John is forthcoming?

  His thick, bristly mustache hides clenched teeth. His left hand unconsciously rubs his aching stomach—a new tic. The lively, steel-blue eyes are now dull and sunken behind the ever-present glasses. The writer sits at his cluttered table. It is from this spot that he has treated the world to breathtaking adventures. Now he peers wearily through his thick lenses and stares out the window and across the quiet little street. Donkey Hill is an empty pasture. The animals are in the stable. The crown on the large oak tree is turning brown. The clock strikes the time in the hall.

  Once again Rudyard Kipling lets his gaze fall on the sheet of paper under his fingers. It's the last letter from his son, which came the day before the fatal telegram. He has read John's words backwards and forwards, probably ten or twenty times.

  We are very wet and tired. Finally we're lying in the straw. I can't sleep with this pounding headache. Too tired, I think. This is another very hurried line as we start off tonight. Everyone knows the order: he ready to move at 30 minutes' notice. The frontline trenches are nine miles off from here so it won't be a very long march.

  Rudyard Kipling tries to picture his only son: exhausted, wet, anxious about the trial by fire. What was going through his boys mind the night before he disappeared?

  This is THE great effort to break through and end the war. We have to push through at all costs. We'll be in the trenches and therefore will have little time for writing. Funny to think one will be in the thick of it tomorrow. This is a fantastic adventure! But what a responsibility, too. They are staking a tremendous lot on this great advancing movement as if it succeeds the war won't go on for long. You have no idea what enormous issues depend on the next few days.

  Rudyard analyzes the sheet of paper, word by word; it is as though he wants to hear a voice, feel a breath.

  This will be my last letter most likely for some time as we won't get any time for writing this next week.

  Well, so long old dears.

  Dear love,

  John

  ***

  Three days pass without further news. It is October 5, 1915, and the helpless feeling from just waiting around is becoming unbearable. Rudyard and Carrie set out in their Rolls-Royce for the Irish Guards' headquarters in London. There they meet with Viscount de Vesci, a senior officer. In spite
of his excellent connections, the viscount knows even less about John's disappearance than the Kiplings do. Rudyard and Carrie are disillusioned, but the wheels have been set in motion; instead of waiting around like frightened rabbits, they will undertake the investigation themselves. And those who have important friends—as the Kiplings do—can open doors.

  On this same day they visit Max Aitken in Leatherhead, where they spent Christmas night with John. Sir Max is just back from France and was informed that the young Kipling had been wounded and left behind in or near a little building that was surrounded by Germans a few minutes later. There are no further details. John's commander, Colonel Butler, added that Lieutenant Kipling was wounded on an open field where he lay with his men. Only nine of them returned.

  The next day all the papers report the news. Anything about Kipling is news.

  Mr. John Kipling was the hoy for whom his famous father wrote the Just So Stories, the child for whom Puck told so many immortal stories from the beloved land.

  Rudyard and Carrie don't mention it, but they also read the words "Missing, believed killed." At least the telegram left a glimmer of hope with "Missing in action." Their hearts bleed as they read the article by the journalist Gwynne, Rudyard's good friend: