The Quarrel

Ten days of constant bombardment stopped. The third battle of Ypres began.

Major John Higgins, Royal Marines, glanced around the dugout, labelled by the troops’ The Ritz’. The dull light from the solitary lamp did nothing to dispel the gloom as he faced his officers. He spoke precisely. “It’s time.”

With faces as dismal as the morning sky, the group walked out into the pouring rain.

The men waited in an unearthly silence. The deluge filled the trench, each drop increasing misery. John removed his pistol as the shrill of whistles signalled the advance. Bloody marvellous, he thought, every Hun for miles will know we’re coming. A similar scene unfolded in the miles of sodden trenches as officers led their men into no-man’s land. As a rolling wave, the infantry advanced into the storm.

A Marine Corporal standing next to him crossed himself, lips moving soundlessly. John grimaced, “Say one for me, but I doubt if God is listening. Another adjusted his bayonet with trembling hands.

With the aid of a mirror on a stick, John looked left and right. The following line was ready. Through the drifting smoke, he saw the wounded crawling in the mud, screaming, dying. Bewildered men stood and staggered until cut down by the next swathe of bullets.

The whistles blew again, and with a haughty, “Come on, chaps,” John led his men over the top.

***

Twenty miles east of the Devil’s Bowl in Sussex stands a Tudor farmhouse, John’s home. Mentally, he prepared himself for the hostile greeting. His father, a lifelong pacifist, hated him for being in the military. The autumn night closed in, and the distant storm clouds scudded across the sky.

Weary, he reached the lane leading to Tudor Farm, the familiar smell of wet earth and woodsmoke stirred something he couldn’t name. Home, yet not home.

Greg, John’s father, opened the door, saw him and went to close it.

John’s right foot prevented it from shutting. “Father, please. It’s time we settled our differences.”

Greg glared at his son. “I suppose you’d better come in, but you can’t stay.”

John followed his father into the large, comfortable lounge. The logs on fire crackled, throwing shadows across the beams. He noticed the old armchair where his mother used to sit, with a blanket still neatly folded over the back.

Greg kept his distance, standing by the Inglenook mantelpiece as though it were his support. His eyes flicked to John’s uniform, then away, as if the sight physically pained him.

With an almost imperceptible shrug, Greg asked, “Why are you here? May God have mercy on you.”

Angry, John said, “I know you don’t see it the way I do. Sometimes I think we talk a different language, but this is the war to end all wars.”

The farm dogs barked noisily and scratched at the kitchen door, sensing that John was there.

“And what’s the ribbon on your chest?” his father asked.

Thinking it the wiser option, John played his medal down. “It’s a Distinguished Service Order. They gave it to me as a reward for doing my duty.”

“What do you know about duty? Your duty is here, with me, on the farm.”

“You’ve no idea what it’s like. No army has ever served in such conditions, the freezing mud and relentless rain. We fight for peace, and I’m proud to be part of it.”

Thrown off guard, Greg said, “Your mother, God bless her, believed the same as I, and for the life of me, why you want to go and try and get yourself killed I’ll never know. I have friends in high places who could arrange your discharge. This farm needs a younger man. It needs you.”

John searched his father’s face for something, a glimmer of acceptance, anything.

“Are we winning this war?” his father asked.

John answered without hesitation. “Winning, no one’s going to win. The world will run out of soldiers before that happens.” He groped for words. “It’s not one or two. The casualties are horrendous. Men are butchered constantly, their final resting place a muddy field. It’s such a bloody waste. We fight and crawl towards the enemy, only to be beaten back as they do the same. No ground is gained, and good men on both sides die for what? Someone said it’ll be over by Christmas. They forgot to say which Christmas.”

“John, you can try and prove me wrong on every aspect of this war,” his voice faltered, “but I’ve always thought the men who love war were glory hunters. I’ve seen them marching off to fight. They are smiling, the crowds cheer, and they love it”

Maybe I’ve been wrong. From what you tell me, it’s good, brave men who give their lives, men like you. I can’t change what I believe, that would take more time than I have.” He shivered as the cold surrounded him. “I’m pleased you came. Keep in touch when you can. I’d like that.”

The downpour began with a flash of lightning and a crash of thunder. The lounge lights dimmed and went out.

“Damn this weather. Don’t move. I’ll find the candles.”

With a taper from the fire, he lit three candles and placed them around the room. As the last one nestled in its holder, there was a hammering on the door. Greg muttered under his breath and moved to open it. The rain lashed at the wearer of a post office uniform, his cape barely protecting him.

“Telegram, sir. You need to sign.”

Greg looked at the soaking-wet boy, then at the piece of paper. “You have the wrong address.”

“Sorry, guv, it says, Mister Higgins, Tudor Farm. This is the farm, and you’re Mr Higgins.”

Greg signed and watched the lad push his bike along the muddy track. He closed the door on the weather and turned. “John.”

The word hung in the air.

He stopped, and the flickering candles shone in a quiet, empty room. The chair where John had been sitting still rocked, as though he had just risen.