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Authors: Louisa Young
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advancement.’
‘The regiment requires your obedience, Purefoy. The regiment is promoting you, the financial circumstances allow. You have no choice.’
Was it bribery? He didn’t think Locke was lying about the coincidence.
‘Is that an order, sir?’
‘It can be. I’d rather it didn’t have to be. Listen – perhaps your benefactor thought you wouldn’t accept if he offered to support you directly. But the idea of this promotion came from the regiment, as it should, and it impugns the regiment’s honour to suggest otherwise. Do you want to impugn the regiment’s honour, Purefoy?’
Purefoy did not want to impugn the regiment’s honour.
‘No, I didn’t think so. So stop making me do a moral dance for you, Purefoy. Accept your good fortune, and don’t be so surprised,’ said Locke. ‘Seems to me the men like someone leading them who has an idea what they’ve been through. If the top brass have finally noticed that, then good.’
‘Isn’t that a bit, ah, Communist, sir?’ asked Purefoy, and Locke said, ‘Watch it. You’re still a private for now.’
‘I just don’t see why me, sir,’ said Purefoy.
‘Don’t be disingenuous, Purefoy,’ said Locke, and Purefoy raised an eyebrow. ‘Exactly. How many of the men know what disingenuous means? The army needs your type.’
I’ve heard of Chopin, I’ve got a vocabulary, therefore I’m fit to lead , he thought. Oh, God, you want me to lead them.
Locke drummed his long fingers on the tea chest and gave Purefoy a frank look. ‘Purefoy, old man,’ he said, ‘I would much rather have you than a nineteen-year-old direct from the school OTC.’
And Purefoy thought, Well, you’ll have to promote me now – you can’t say incendiary things like that to a man in the ranks.
*
‘Where you off to, then?’ said Burgess, darning his socks on a tree stump, not looking up, as Purefoy rattled past with his kitbag.
‘I’m going to Amiens,’ said Purefoy. ‘To be trained in natural superiority and talking posh. And not taking care of my own kit, eating well and sending other men to their deaths. Do you want to come?’
Burgess looked up then. ‘Oh, are you,’ he said. ‘Are you. Well, good luck, Private Purefoy. Don’t forget us. We won’t forget you.’
‘It’s all the same when a shell lands on you,’ said Purefoy.
‘Ah, but a shell doesn’t land you, does it?’ said Burgess. ‘Because you’re in a nice little dugout, listening to opera. Aren’t you?’
Purefoy paused a moment. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘You’re right. No officer has ever been killed in this or any other war.’ Captain Harper’s shining body flew again across his mind.
Burgess waggled his fingers. ‘Bye-bye!’ he said, in a singsong voice.
‘Piss off, Johnno,’ said Purefoy, as he shouldered his bag, and went.
*
As the train taking him away clanked and shuddered into movement, Purefoy felt a sharp stomach-tug of a harsh and guilty joy. Clanking and shuddering away from death, away from corpses, away from damp, away from mud, away from groans, away from rats, away from the miasma of pure and constant fear . . . For several weeks he would not have to kill anyone, and no one would try to kill him. Thank you, Sir Alfred, thank you thank you thank you thank you.
He prayed that officer training would teach him to hate the Hun individually. He had been having trouble maintaining the idea that the boys the other side of no man’s land were in themselves any different from the boys over this side, and the faces of the old knife-grinder and the anarchist popped up in his mind with disconcerting regularity. The gas wasn’t their choice. Kaiser Bill was Queen Victoria’s grandson. Franz Dahrendorf! That was his name. The anarchist.
The land now outside the window was green. Oh, God, it does all still exist. Sheep. Leaves.
You will, at some stage, if you live, have to go back, Purefoy, where there are sheep and leaves and Sunday lunches. You will have to go back
‘The regiment requires your obedience, Purefoy. The regiment is promoting you, the financial circumstances allow. You have no choice.’
Was it bribery? He didn’t think Locke was lying about the coincidence.
‘Is that an order, sir?’
‘It can be. I’d rather it didn’t have to be. Listen – perhaps your benefactor thought you wouldn’t accept if he offered to support you directly. But the idea of this promotion came from the regiment, as it should, and it impugns the regiment’s honour to suggest otherwise. Do you want to impugn the regiment’s honour, Purefoy?’
Purefoy did not want to impugn the regiment’s honour.
‘No, I didn’t think so. So stop making me do a moral dance for you, Purefoy. Accept your good fortune, and don’t be so surprised,’ said Locke. ‘Seems to me the men like someone leading them who has an idea what they’ve been through. If the top brass have finally noticed that, then good.’
‘Isn’t that a bit, ah, Communist, sir?’ asked Purefoy, and Locke said, ‘Watch it. You’re still a private for now.’
‘I just don’t see why me, sir,’ said Purefoy.
‘Don’t be disingenuous, Purefoy,’ said Locke, and Purefoy raised an eyebrow. ‘Exactly. How many of the men know what disingenuous means? The army needs your type.’
I’ve heard of Chopin, I’ve got a vocabulary, therefore I’m fit to lead , he thought. Oh, God, you want me to lead them.
Locke drummed his long fingers on the tea chest and gave Purefoy a frank look. ‘Purefoy, old man,’ he said, ‘I would much rather have you than a nineteen-year-old direct from the school OTC.’
And Purefoy thought, Well, you’ll have to promote me now – you can’t say incendiary things like that to a man in the ranks.
*
‘Where you off to, then?’ said Burgess, darning his socks on a tree stump, not looking up, as Purefoy rattled past with his kitbag.
‘I’m going to Amiens,’ said Purefoy. ‘To be trained in natural superiority and talking posh. And not taking care of my own kit, eating well and sending other men to their deaths. Do you want to come?’
Burgess looked up then. ‘Oh, are you,’ he said. ‘Are you. Well, good luck, Private Purefoy. Don’t forget us. We won’t forget you.’
‘It’s all the same when a shell lands on you,’ said Purefoy.
‘Ah, but a shell doesn’t land you, does it?’ said Burgess. ‘Because you’re in a nice little dugout, listening to opera. Aren’t you?’
Purefoy paused a moment. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘You’re right. No officer has ever been killed in this or any other war.’ Captain Harper’s shining body flew again across his mind.
Burgess waggled his fingers. ‘Bye-bye!’ he said, in a singsong voice.
‘Piss off, Johnno,’ said Purefoy, as he shouldered his bag, and went.
*
As the train taking him away clanked and shuddered into movement, Purefoy felt a sharp stomach-tug of a harsh and guilty joy. Clanking and shuddering away from death, away from corpses, away from damp, away from mud, away from groans, away from rats, away from the miasma of pure and constant fear . . . For several weeks he would not have to kill anyone, and no one would try to kill him. Thank you, Sir Alfred, thank you thank you thank you thank you.
He prayed that officer training would teach him to hate the Hun individually. He had been having trouble maintaining the idea that the boys the other side of no man’s land were in themselves any different from the boys over this side, and the faces of the old knife-grinder and the anarchist popped up in his mind with disconcerting regularity. The gas wasn’t their choice. Kaiser Bill was Queen Victoria’s grandson. Franz Dahrendorf! That was his name. The anarchist.
The land now outside the window was green. Oh, God, it does all still exist. Sheep. Leaves.
You will, at some stage, if you live, have to go back, Purefoy, where there are sheep and leaves and Sunday lunches. You will have to go back
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