Willie and the War

by Owen Oliver

WILLIE & THE WAR

By OWEN OLIVER

TEA, Mother," Father said, and when I blinked at him, he tried to raise me on the pillow; but I snuggled down again in the bed.

"Don't" I muttered drowsily.

So he went and sat in the arm-chair, a fine, strong figure in striped pyjamas, and sipped at his cup and read the paper. I was falling off to sleep again with a comfortable feeling that he was there—I was always glad to find him in the morning—when he exclaimed suddenly——

"Mother," he cried, "war is declared!"

I sat up then, wide awake in a second; but he did not bring my tea, and I sulked at his neglect like a spoilt child. He had kept me absurdly young for five-and-forty. Presently I noticed that he was not reading, but staring at the same place in the newspaper. I crept out of bed and peeped over his shoulder at the staring headline—

THE CALL TO ENGLAND'S YOUNG MANHOOD.

I caught a few disjointed phrases of the article before my eyes blurred: Immediate necessity—large army—every young man between the ages of eighteen and thirty—join the Colours at once.

I knew then what Father was thinking bout. Our Willie was just twenty. He was all the child we had. I could hardly think of him as a man yet. It seemed such a little while since he trotted beside me, holding my hand; now he was as tall as his his father, though he would never be nearly so powerful. And they wanted him for a soldier.

It did not occur to me that he could hold back, and I had no idea of trying to hold him, until I had sat on the edge of the bed for several minutes watching my husband. John's hair looked very grey in the morning light, and the bald place was getting bigger and bigger. His shoulders stooped a little. It was from bending over his desk. They would have bent more, but I often slapped them and cried, "Stand up!" He said that I kept him young. He was young for his age, thanks to me—and to Willie. They were such pals, and did men's things together. If the boy went, John would drop the sports and exercise that kept him young, I feared; and what a man drops when he is nearly sixty he never picks up again. The boy should not go if I could stop him, I decided—if I could stop him, and make John think that I did it for the boy's own sake, or for mine. He would not allow it if he thought that he was the cause, even indirectly, of Willie evading the call. I must try to be tactful; and I was not accustomed to use tact with him, only to tell him everything and to be fond of him. Well, I must try tact now.

"I suppose," I said at last, "we shall have a bigger Army?"

Father turned at the sound of my voice, jumped up and brought my tea, put a fur mat for my feet, laid my dressing-gown over my shoulders, although it was quite a hot morning. I often see, from people's looks, that they think I let him wait on me too much; but he wouldn't believe that he was still a young man if he didn't wait on his lady. I took up my place in the battle of life when I married him—to fight time for John.

I kissed him "Good morning" while he was tying the sleeves of the gown round my neck.

"Silly old coddle!" I remonstrated. "It is as warm as toast. Will they raise a very big Army?"

"Gradually," he told me, "gradually. They won't want everybody at once, Mother—not quite at once."

He guessed, of course, that I was thinking of Willie, and wanted to prepare me gradually.

"They can't take everybody," I told him. "They must leave some at home to do the business of the country, mustn't they?"

"Yes," he agreed. "Yes. Of course, we older men must do what we can to set free those who are of fighting age. They will all be needed as time goes on, I am afraid."

"If they are suited for fighting," I said. "Some aren't, and some are wanted at home more than others. They should take boys from large families before they take only sons."

"Quite so," he said soothingly—I know when he is trying to soothe me, but he thinks I don't see through him—"quite so. That would be a natural distinction; but, of course, the circumstances are exceptional. Our Army is very small, and they need a great many. It isn't a question of taking, but of volunteering. If a young man feels the call—I expect they'll all catch the war fever——"

"You must not let Willie catch it," I interrupted—"not yet, I mean. There are many who ought to go before him. He isn't cut out for fighting, you know he isn't. He was always such a quiet, peaceful boy. He'll be far more use to his country working at home to support the Army. You must tell him so, if he speaks to you about it; and that he is mother's only son! He ought to consider that."

John drew a deep breath.

"Yes," he agreed slowly, "if his mother wishes him to. I know how you feel about it, dear, and certainly I should consider you."

"You always do," I assured him, "and I know you will. Even if you catch the war fever, you won't quite lose the wife fever, John."

I smiled up at him, and he kissed me directly. If the Recording Angel would let me put an entry in John's account, I should write that, after twenty odd years, he still kisses his wife like a lover. Those who judge the records will know what that means to a woman. I should not say so much about our affection, only you cannot understand this story properly unless you understand how much he is to me.

"That is quite incurable, dear," he assured me. "Of course, Willie should consider you, and, if you think it necessary, I will remind him; but, if I were his age, I doubt if I should listen to anybody's advice."

"I don't doubt at all," I told him. "You wouldn't. You're a pig-headed, pugnacious man, aren't you? Dear, you're stronger stuff than Willie. He's half you. The rest is only his silly mother. Let them take the hard ones first—the boys like you were. If his proper time comes—oh, I know he must go then! But not yet, John. Tell him to wait. Now you must go and shave, or you'll be late."

I got out his razor and strop and almost pushed him to the door, but I didn't succeed in ending the discussion.

"I can't press him not to go," he warned me, "not even for you, Mother; but I won't press him to go. It is a matter which he ought to decide for himself. If he asks my advice, I'll tell him that he ought to weigh in everything, and especially his mother. He should, of course; but if I were a boy——"

"You couldn't be sillier if you were," I told him. "Leave Willie to me. I'll supply the sense of the family, as usual."

John had to laugh at that. I laughed, too, but when he had shut the door I cried.

I heard him go up to Willie's room to wake him as usual. The boy is a sleepy-head, like his mother. I crept to the door to listen to them, as I often did. They had such nice, full, kind voices, and so much alike. Father and son!

"Wake up, you lazy young rascal—it's eight o'clock!"

"All right, guv'nor."

"Sit up, then."

"Oh-h-h! Oh, shut up, guv'nor! What's the news?"

"War is declared!"

"What! Where's the paper?"

"Your mother has it."

"Look here, guv'nor, this isn't a dodge to wake me? Straight?"

"Straight, old chap. It's going to be a big war, and we've all got to put our backs into whatever our best way of helping is. That will want a lot of thinking out, and—I must go and get shaved."

A minute later Willie was banging at my door.

"Mother, can I come in?"

"Good gracious, son! Oh, all right!"

He rushed in, pecked at me with a kiss, and grabbed the paper from the arm-chair. He was settling there to read it, but I bustled him out of the room.

"I've got to dress, silly," I protested. "We must hurry nowadays. I shall send you and Father off by the early train. You business men have to earn the money to keep up the War. That's what you're for. I'm glad Father has his son to help him. He is growing to rely a deal on you. You see"—I put my arm round the boy—"it's a secret we must keep from him: Father isn't quite so young as he was. There will be a great strain in business now, and if he were all alone, I'm afraid he might find out the secret. He has worked so hard for us. Help him all you can, dear."

"Why," Willie said, "of course I shall. I do. I'll do a bit better, though. Thanks for the tip. Good old mum!"

He gave me a squeeze and ran off upstairs, and then I cried a little again. I had expected that I should have had hard work to persuade him not to enlist. I didn't want him to, but I wanted him to want to. John would have said that was just like me.

I went to meet him—John, I mean—that evening, and he spoke about Willie directly we were away from the crowd.

"I don't think you need worry about the boy enlisting," he said, looking straight in front of him. "He seems to have quite made up his mind that his place is in the business with me."

"That is what I think," I answered promptly. "Now, really, Father, if you let yourself look at it sensibly, don't you think so, too?"

"If I let myself look at it sensibly," Father owned, "I find it possible to think so, but it surprises me that he can look at it sensibly. Most lads don't weigh up the pros and cons at all. They just go and enlist. He seems rather a case of the old head on young shoulders."

"You are a case of the young head on old shoulders," I retorted; "a glaring case!"

"You've kept me young, dear. … Do you remember the days when we used to walk round here, and wonder if the world would ever come right for us? You've mended life for me, girl."

"Let me mend another piece, then. I understand what you are worrying about. Since Willie is old-headed enough to judge the question sensibly, he is doing right to do what he judges sensible. So you can't blame him. I am doing what I think right, O you can't blame me. Besides, you never do! You are not responsible for our sensibleness. So you can't blame yourself."

"I am responsible to this extent," he said slowly. "I mentioned that he was your only son, and that influenced him, of course. 1 didn't say much about weighing things up. The words seemed rather to stick in my throat. I might try again to-morrow, but——"

"For goodness' sake, don't!" I begged. "You'll spoil it all. I've made him see sense, and——"

"Oh," John said, "you've spoken to him, then?" I saw that he was relieved to think that I was the defaulter.

"Of course I have. It really is sense, if you'll only consider. They don't want men just to be shot, but men who can shoot the Germans. Willie's had no military training, and no taste that way. He never wanted to join the Cadet Corps at school, or the Terriers afterwards. He's no loss to the Army, and he's a great gain to us."

"Don't consider me," John cried directly.

"Well, he's a great gain to me, then. They are getting more recruits than they'll know what to do with. They don't want only sons yet."

"Harry Blenkinsop has joined," Father remarked, "and Fred Rayner has applied for a commission." They were only sons. "I was an only son, but if I were a lad—— If they'd take men of my age, I believe I'd go now! You can call me a fool."

"Fool!" I said promptly, but I squeezed his arm very hard. His manliness is what I adore in him—one of the things. "You are quite different from Willie, Jack boy. You are the strong, fighting sort. He isn't. You needn't try to deny it. He's big and healthy, and all that, but he isn't a great hefty bear like you. And he hasn't a fighting disposition, and you know it. If you love me a tiny bit, don't take Willie from me—not till there's real need. I won't hold him back then. Don't think less of the lad for loving his mother and listening to her. He wants to go, of course."

John took off his hat and wiped his forehead, as if he had come through a great anxiety.

"Thank God," he said, "for that! I was afraid that perhaps he didn't. … You understand. Mother? I don't want him to go as much as I want him to want to."

"Why," I cried, "so do I! So we are just alike."

John shook his head.

"I am afraid," he owned, "I want him to want so much that we couldn't stop him!"

Sometimes I thought that I wanted that, too. I meant to keep the boy home as long as I could, for the sake of his father; but I always knew that if he confided to me that he felt wretched about staying, or even if I saw that he felt so, I should run to John, and cling to him, and tell him why I had tried to keep his boy at home, and ask him to forgive me, and thank God that we had a man for our son.

Willie did not confide to me that he wanted to enlist, and I saw no sign that he did. He talked cheerfully of business and ordinary things, and scarcely ever spoke of the War. Twice I was with him when a batch of recruits trooped by. Most of them were not nearly so big and healthy as he was. I thought he must surely notice that, and say that he ought to go if they did; but the sight of them, which made me tingle all over and wave my handkerchief, did not seem to stir him. The first time he only remarked laughingly upon their motley of clothing, and the second time he only said: "They're getting plenty of them." It did not seem to shame him that all his young friends joined the Army. It shamed me. I never called upon friends who had sons, and I came to dread their mothers calling on me, or their sisters or their aunts. I don't suppose they meant to taunt me. They were just proud of their men, and wanted to talk about them, I expect. Anyhow, they never failed to come and tell me when their boys went into the Army. One by one all Willie's old schoolfellows did.

Teddie Armstrong, who used to be Willie's particular chum, went to the War Office and secured a commission the very first day. His mother told me without a blink in her eyes. "We all think he has done the right thing," she said. "I shall bring him in to see you directly he has got his uniform, I suppose Willie will be going, too? Mr. Armstrong has influence at the War Office. Perhaps he could get him in the same regiment."

George Bryant enlisted in the line the same day. They lived next door, and his eldest sister ran in with the news.

"It was so funny!" she cried excitedly. "We girls had made up our minds to tell him he'd got to, and he walked in with a khaki jacket on. But they call it a tunic, don't they? They hadn't the other things ready for him yet, but he'd done two hours' drill, and he's drilling Bessie and little Jack in the garden to fix it in his mind. When is Will going to enlist—or has he?"

Mrs. Mason rushed in the next afternoon without her hat, and she was always so prim!

"Mrs. Deedes!" she gasped. "Mrs. Deedes! They have taken Frank in the Army Service Corps! He locked himself in his room nearly all day yesterday, because they wouldn't have him for the line, on account of his being a little short-sighted; but they've taken him for the mechanical transport, because he understands engines, and he's going to France almost at once. What is Willie in?"

They all ended like that, and there were so many of them. I wondered if men talked about their soldier sons to John. He never said anything about it, but he used to keep looking from me to Willie and back. His dear face reminded me of a dumb creature that wanted to ask for something.

I tried hard to brighten him. I had always been able to before, when we had troubles. But I knew that he only pretended to be brightened. One afternoon I was walking home from the station with him again—I went to meet him every day now—and we passed Mr. and Mrs. Barker with their four sons. All the boys were in khaki—one on each side of their father and mother—and the old people seemed so proud. John turned round to look after them, and I heard him sigh. It was almost a groan.

I gripped his arm tightly, and made up my mind to tell him everything.

"John!" I said. "Dear man!"

He gripped my arm tightly, too, but he didn't say anything for a long time. Neither did I. When I spoke, I scarcely knew my voice.

"I made a mistake," I said. "I ought to have known that I couldn't save you from being hurt, only comfort you. I did not want to keep Willie home for my sake—not even for his own. It was for you. You see, I thought he kept you young, and that, when he went, you would feel that—that time had passed—while we were happy together. You are young for your age, darling—very young, and you will always be young to me—oh, very young!"

"Don't cry!" he begged. "Don't cry! If I have grown old—I never feel old with you—I have seen the goodness of life—in you! God bless you, my dear pal! And now you understand that I would rather grow old than keep him from his duty, and so you will let him go?"

"Come in the summer-house," I begged. "I want to be alone with you. Let me hold your hands." I leaned forward and looked in his eyes. "John, I will let him go, if he wants to."

John just looked at me for a second, then he put his arms round me and held me close for a long while.

"The hurt isn't quite unexpected," he told me presently. "I have guessed for a long time that it was not you who held back, but the boy himself." He stroked my hair. "I understand you pretty well. I didn't believe you would try to keep him for your own sake, as you told me. It didn't occur to me that you could think it would be for my happiness that my son should—should not——" He seemed to choke.

"He thinks they don't want every young man yet," I pleaded.

"No," John agreed; "but every young man ought to want to go. I suspected that he did not, and that you were trying to screen him, and trying to screen me from the pain of knowing."

"And now," I sobbed, "you know. I did try to keep him at first. I told him that his first duty was to stay and help you in the business. Perhaps that influenced him. He is a queer, thoughtful boy. When he was quite a little fellow, and wanted——"

"Mother," John interrupted, "have you seen any reason to suppose that he wishes to volunteer?"

I tried to think of some reason, but he put his hand under my chin and made me look at him, and I answered "No."

"Neither," he said, in a cold, stern voice, "have I. If I had, I should have told you. Well, we can only leave him alone. The time has not come when we can say to him: 'It is your bounden duty to join the firing-line.' If that time comes, I shall not hesitate to say so; but one can't ask a man to go beyond his absolute duty, only wish him to—if he is your son. I would rather see my son go and be killed than——"

"Hush!" I begged. "Hush! He is our son! Perhaps we have brought him up too soft. He is half me, and——"

"No man," Father said, "is that—or a quarter!"

I suppose you will think he said that to flatter me, but he didn't. He believes it. He is clever about everything else, but he is foolish about me. He always was.

"Ah," I said, "not to you! … Perhaps it is only that he doesn't think. We will talk about the War before him, and about his schoolfellows who have joined, and perhaps it will occur to him that he ought to, and—— Oh, John, it seems so awful to encourage your boy to go, and perhaps be—— Oh, John!"

"I don't think the encouragement will have so much effect," Father said. His face was rather white and very grave. "He prefers to hide behind a desk!"

I thought that, too. For when I tried to start the campaign of suggestion, by speaking to Willie about his schoolfellows who were going to the Front, he walked out of the room.

This happened the evening after my talk with Father; and he told me, when we went to bed, that he had tried to introduce the subject, but Willie had evaded it.

"I shall not try again," he said. "They want the brave lads, not the——"

"Hush!" I begged. "Hush, John! He is our son!"

The next morning I was upstairs after Father and Willie had gone to their train, and the housemaid came to say that Miss Baker particularly wanted to see me. I went down to her. She was a fragile, china-doll little creature about eighteen, very shy and sweet, and a very great favourite of mine.

She looked like a child who has been naughty sitting in my drawing-room, and fidgeted and talked foolishly, till I laughed at her.

"You funny baby!" I cried. "Tell me what you've really come about. You aren't afraid of me, are you? You never were."

"I never was," she owned, "but now I am." She looked at the carpet, and then suddenly at me. Her face was pink. "It's about Willie," she said desperately, and then her face went pale.

I dare say I paled, too. I thought she had joined a crusade to get lads to enlist, and I did not wish to discuss Willie with her.

"I do not regard young ladies as suitable recruiting-sergeants," I said sharply, "if that is what you mean. I don't think we will discuss the matter, Annie."

She sat very still for some time, but she did not offer to go.

"I had thought out what I was going to say," she told me at last, "but I knew I should forget it if you were angry, though—I wrote some of it down!"

"Out of a newspaper?" I suggested scornfully.

She held out her arms to me piteously.

"Out of my heart!" she cried. "Oh, out of my heart! … Dear, let me tell you. For his sake! I must tell you!"

She flung herself at my knees and held to them.

"I met him last night," she said rapidly, "and I cut him because he hadn't enlisted! I cut him! … I couldn't bear the look on his face, and I went back. He didn't see me till I touched his arm. I said: 'Bill, tell a pal! Tell me, Bill! … If you funk going, you aren't half so frightened as I should be about you. You wouldn't mind half so much. Bill! Only I'd have to let you go.' I cried then, and he took me by the arm and pulled me into the park and into the shrubbery. He comforted me as if he'd wronged me instead of my being a beast to him. He said—I can't remember properly, but—— Mrs. Deedes—dear Mrs. Deedes, you want him to stay for his father's sake, and his father wants him to stay for yours, and he thinks he ought to study you both, and so he pretends he doesn't mind, but—did you think people like you and Mr. Deedes could have a coward for a son? He is breaking his heart over it! He says that every time he sees a soldier he feels as if he wishes he was dead … I expect you think I don't love him because I want him to go, but I do … Don't you think, if you love anyone very much, you want him to be his own true self even if—— Oh, I should die, if he did! We always liked each other, and we were going to tell people when he was twenty-one. Perhaps he never will be if he goes, but you must let him go. It's his right as a man … Now I suppose you will always dislike me, and tell Willie not to love me!"

I hugged the child to me, cried over her, and kissed her.

"I will tell Willie," I said, "that he is going to give Mother what she has always missed—a little daughter of her very own; and she and Mother will comfort each other until he comes back from the War. Annie, we have done our boy a great wrong, and nearly broken our hearts. We thought he didn't want to go!"

The girl laughed on my shoulder.

"It seems so absurd to think that!" she declared. "But I suppose—you understand Mr. Deedes, because—Willie and I want to be pals like you two are—and so—I expect that is why I understand my—your son! And you will let him go?"

"You shall hear," I told her. "Come with me to the telephone."

I took her up to John's study and 'phoned to him.

"Is that you, old man? Ask Willie to tell you frankly the exact reasons why he has not joined. Then bring him to the telephone. Wait a moment. You are to speak before he does. Yes, I mean it, John. I think we have misjudged our boy."

Annie and I stood by the receiver for five minutes, with our arms round each other. We both jumped violently at a ring. I answered.

"My dear," Father said—I could hear how excited he was—"my dear! He thought it was his duty to us to stay. I've told him he was a young ass. God bless him! He'll speak to you. You can give him a kiss over the wire."

"I shan't be the one to answer," I called, "but he'll get the kiss, all the same! Give him Mother's blessing, and—I know you can't come home, but I must be with you, I'm coming up to the office. Tell Will to speak now."

I handed the receiver to Annie.

"God bless you both, my darling!" I said, and left her alone in the room.

When she came out, I had my hat and jacket on; and I took her up to town to the two best and bravest men in the world—my husband and my son.