Read Online Kipling's Choice by Geert Spillebeen - Free Book Online
Authors: Geert Spillebeen
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briskly. "Yes! Sir!" he replies, satisfied. At least
he
doesn't have to put on that suffocating cap anymore.
The officers have a pleasant time together that evening. John demonstrates his drill technique on his lieutenant colonels. He bites and barks out orders to them, for that is what they want him to do. But they laugh and drink together, as well.
"Gas, gasss," cries someone who comes bursting into the room. "Help! Smoke!" Thick clouds of smoke pour out from under his cap.
Quickly they remove the mask to reveal Captain Alexander, armed with a fat cigar.
"They call these things
smoke helmets,
don't they?" he says, and he roars with laughter. "That smoke is worse than I thought!"
The Irish Guards have difficult days ahead. The officers are more aware of this than ever. The daily marches now run about twenty miles, and there are military maneuvers on the program, too. It's tough luck, for the heavy rains continue. But above all, a command to march directly to the front could come any day.
One night, John and Rupert are a bit tipsy as they walk back to their billeting quarters.
"You have nice lodgings, don't you?" Rupert teases.
"They're all right," says John.
"
Et les femmes, mon cher?
Celle is her name, isn't it?"
"Who says?"
"The walls have ears, Kipling!"
Actually Rupert has no idea about Celle's aggressive moves. But John can't resist telling him about his adventure in the cow stall. Rupert is green with jealousy.
"Hey, man, let's trade places. It's dark, at any rate, and she won't even notice."
"Not for love or money!"
They chase each other down the street like two schoolboys.
"See you tomorrow!" Rupert calls, when John closes the garden gate behind him. "And give her mother my regards!"
John chuckles and walks past the dimly lit kitchen window. In the darkness he can't see a thing. By groping he finds the stepladder to the attic above the little barn.
Five minutes later he opens his ink pot and begins to scratch his pen across the paper.
***
Â
Second Lieutenant J. Kipling
Mr. and Mrs. R. Kipling, Bateman's, Burwash
(Sussex)
2 September 1915, France
Dearest Mummy and Daddo,
We are still in the same village, far enough from the front, therefore safe. Not allowed to give names. Understandable. The people I've been staying with have been very kind to me.
Tomorrow we're moving to X for the Brigade Field Days. Long marches, actual war drills, fighting techniques, making trenches, evacuations. We'll be sleeping there. This is real. I'm looking forward to it. However, it's raining just as hard and long as it does at home. English weather.
That leather jacket is as heavy as lead, completely soaked. On the field I'll have to use those clumsy army canvases. For that matter, the mud is also a problem during the street marches. Wait until we're lying in our trench.
Will you send me the following items right away: a genuine navy oilskin, pipe cleaners, a tin box of matches, and some dry underwear.
Â
The oil lamp on John's table begins to flicker all of a sudden. A draft comes through the floorboards. He lays down his pen. The rustle of trees rises up the stairwell. Has the door blown open?
"Is anyone there?"
No answer. The rustling stops. He hears only the water dripping off his raincoat onto the wooden floor. He holds his breath for a few seconds. There is silence.
John picks up his pen again and tries to read the page, but a tread creaks on the steps. And another...
***
Two brown eyes stare at John, motionless. They look right through him. He lies bleeding in a ditch. This is his very first field battle. He is slipping in and out of consciousness. And he is waiting, helpless.
John glides forward on a cottony little cloud through a milk-white haze and lands soundlessly in the grassy ditch. Slowly he awakens once again. A shadowy form is beginning to appear above his face. Everything he looks at is barely visible without his glasses. His myopic gaze zooms in on two glassy eyes that are wide
he
doesn't have to put on that suffocating cap anymore.
The officers have a pleasant time together that evening. John demonstrates his drill technique on his lieutenant colonels. He bites and barks out orders to them, for that is what they want him to do. But they laugh and drink together, as well.
"Gas, gasss," cries someone who comes bursting into the room. "Help! Smoke!" Thick clouds of smoke pour out from under his cap.
Quickly they remove the mask to reveal Captain Alexander, armed with a fat cigar.
"They call these things
smoke helmets,
don't they?" he says, and he roars with laughter. "That smoke is worse than I thought!"
The Irish Guards have difficult days ahead. The officers are more aware of this than ever. The daily marches now run about twenty miles, and there are military maneuvers on the program, too. It's tough luck, for the heavy rains continue. But above all, a command to march directly to the front could come any day.
One night, John and Rupert are a bit tipsy as they walk back to their billeting quarters.
"You have nice lodgings, don't you?" Rupert teases.
"They're all right," says John.
"
Et les femmes, mon cher?
Celle is her name, isn't it?"
"Who says?"
"The walls have ears, Kipling!"
Actually Rupert has no idea about Celle's aggressive moves. But John can't resist telling him about his adventure in the cow stall. Rupert is green with jealousy.
"Hey, man, let's trade places. It's dark, at any rate, and she won't even notice."
"Not for love or money!"
They chase each other down the street like two schoolboys.
"See you tomorrow!" Rupert calls, when John closes the garden gate behind him. "And give her mother my regards!"
John chuckles and walks past the dimly lit kitchen window. In the darkness he can't see a thing. By groping he finds the stepladder to the attic above the little barn.
Five minutes later he opens his ink pot and begins to scratch his pen across the paper.
***
Â
Second Lieutenant J. Kipling
Mr. and Mrs. R. Kipling, Bateman's, Burwash
(Sussex)
2 September 1915, France
Dearest Mummy and Daddo,
We are still in the same village, far enough from the front, therefore safe. Not allowed to give names. Understandable. The people I've been staying with have been very kind to me.
Tomorrow we're moving to X for the Brigade Field Days. Long marches, actual war drills, fighting techniques, making trenches, evacuations. We'll be sleeping there. This is real. I'm looking forward to it. However, it's raining just as hard and long as it does at home. English weather.
That leather jacket is as heavy as lead, completely soaked. On the field I'll have to use those clumsy army canvases. For that matter, the mud is also a problem during the street marches. Wait until we're lying in our trench.
Will you send me the following items right away: a genuine navy oilskin, pipe cleaners, a tin box of matches, and some dry underwear.
Â
The oil lamp on John's table begins to flicker all of a sudden. A draft comes through the floorboards. He lays down his pen. The rustle of trees rises up the stairwell. Has the door blown open?
"Is anyone there?"
No answer. The rustling stops. He hears only the water dripping off his raincoat onto the wooden floor. He holds his breath for a few seconds. There is silence.
John picks up his pen again and tries to read the page, but a tread creaks on the steps. And another...
***
Two brown eyes stare at John, motionless. They look right through him. He lies bleeding in a ditch. This is his very first field battle. He is slipping in and out of consciousness. And he is waiting, helpless.
John glides forward on a cottony little cloud through a milk-white haze and lands soundlessly in the grassy ditch. Slowly he awakens once again. A shadowy form is beginning to appear above his face. Everything he looks at is barely visible without his glasses. His myopic gaze zooms in on two glassy eyes that are wide
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