You do not currently have permission to view the full text for this document. Please sign in to an account with an active subscription or contact support.
I wrote the report. Hauser read it. How could one spin it out enough to make it short? From that day to this I have had no other experience which was so utterly devoid of mystery yet totally incomprehensible. Troops can mutiny; these merely failed – to leave the trench. Staff can be hesitant; this divisional staff was adamant. Generals can be stupid; this one impressed my hidden reserves of intelligence. There were night attacks, dawn attacks, feint attacks; but not a 10.30 attack – surely not 10.30?
What happened after, I had no idea. If I had sat for an examination in which I was called upon to read the account and the complete the story I could not have done it.
Greene was dead; I did not like Greene. He was too ruthless, too pushing, out for himself too much and too often. Should I say this in my letter of condolence to his mother? “Fine officer … a great loss to all his comrades … his Colonel remarked to me the other day that he would go far …” So he would have, but someone had put a stop to all that.
Robertson? Such a nice fellow, quiet, modest, reserved …
Cook was back and drew me aside. “We found a bullet through his heart.” I stared at him; he looked serious. I nearly said “Liar!” – what I meant was “Don't be a melodramatic ass!” What I said was “Oh”. Then I burst into tears, wiped them off my face. “Sorry”, I said, “I'm tired.” Cook looked at me curiously. I hoped he wasn't going to suggest I had ‘shell-shock’.
“I'd better go and write to the relatives”, I said quickly and cleared off.
With some wads of paper, ammunition box for a table and petrol
can for a chair I started off at a great pace. “Always cheerful and a perpetual source of …” of what?
I suddenly remembered Sweeting. I had not written – of course I had not promised to. “Sir, you will write to my mother won't you?” I wiped the sweat off his brow with my sleeve. “Mother, Mother, Mother …” His mind was wandering, thank God.
And to whom am I supposed to be writing? Must be rather a nice woman, I thought