MANICHAEAN
12-06-2010, 09:44 AM
PRIVILEGE.
The young Duke of Bedford, James P. Thornbush Grey had been the recipient of a comfortable life up to early manhood. Mind you, private tuition and attendance at the best public schools in England had reinforced his confidence in associating with such benefits. At twenty he went up to Balliol College and gained a double first in Politics, Philosophy & Economics, whilst managing to equate the scales of life’s rich tapestry by losing his virginity to a publicans red headed daughter behind the University Rowing Club one balmy evening in July. Upon his father’s death and being the eldest son, he subsequently attained the ancestral title, a rambling stately manor, frivolously referred to as “The Pile”, and inherited funds copious enough after death duties, to sustain his ever exuberant social life. He was, as befitted the terminology of those days regarded as “a swell.”
But that changed one morning at breakfast, when whilst glancing over the morning paper, he read the news of the definitive fall of France to the German military & the glossed over humiliation of the Dunkirk evacuation. He emptied his glass of champagne, laid his napkin upon the table, ordered his valet to pack his trunks, and two hours later took the express train to London. Arriving there, he hastened to the recruiting office and enlisted as a private in a regiment of the line.
Five years later on, he was to be found, some time before evening, high up in the Austrian Tyrol, half frozen and engaged with his regiment in clearing up remnants of the Third Reich dug in there. The location was a gloomy place, like most of Europe after years of warfare. The edge of the road on which he stood had once been planted with clusters of pines, and was now broken up into muddy ruts by the passage of tanks and heavy equipment. Nearby stood an abandoned tavern where the soldiers had established their post. They had been here a few days & units of the enemy were still active in the area. Earlier shelling had broken down some of the young trees, and all of them bore upon their bark the white scars of bullet hits. As for the tavern; its appearance made one shudder for the roof had been torn by stray bombardment, and the walls were besmirched with dirt. And over all this, a wretched winter sky, across which rolled heavy clouds, a sky, angry and hateful.
The young duke approached the door to the building and stood for a while outside, motionless, with his gun in his shoulder-belt, his helmet low over his eyes, his benumbed hands in the pockets of his battledress trousers. In the distance, up in the surrounding mountains, the occasional noise of gunfire and mortars. Suddenly he felt hungry.
Stooping, he drew from his knapsack, a piece of bread, and as he had lost his knife, he bit off a morsel and slowly ate it. But after a few mouthfuls, he had enough of it; the bread was hard and possessed a mouldy dry taste. No fresh would be given until the next morning's distribution.
“Damm” he thought, “This is a tougher and more miserable an existence than being a fag at Eaton!” The remembrance of former breakfasts came to him. “Was it not perverse’ he thought, “That there had been days back then, when after overindulging in a supper the night before, he would seat himself at the end of a huge dining table capable of seating up to twenty persons and would be served with a cutlet, or buttered eggs with asparagus tips, and the butler, knowing his tastes, would bring him a fine bottle of old French wine, lying in its basket, and which he would pour out with the greatest care. That was a good time, and he would never become accustomed to this life of wretchedness that war had laid upon him.”
And, in a moment of impatience, the duke threw the rest of his bread into the mud.
At the same moment a soldier came out from the tavern, stooped and picked up the bread, drew back a few steps, wiped it with his sleeve and began to devour it eagerly.
The Duke realized, with the delicacy of the values that he had attained in his formative years, that he was suddenly ashamed of his action, and now with a feeling of pity, watched the poor devil who had given such stark proof of man’s basic needs. He was a tall, young fellow, but badly made, with faded blond hair, feverish eyes, a hospital beard, and the oversized uniform that hung on him extenuated further the painful attributes of his thinness.
"You are very hungry?" he said, approaching the soldier.
"As you can see," replied the other with his mouth full.
"Excuse me then. For if I had known that you would like the bread, I would not have thrown it away." Grey had detected a foreign accent in the other and the English used was halting in delivery.
"No harm done," replied the soldier, "I am not fussy."
"No matter," persisted the Duke, "It was wrong to do so, and I reproach myself. But I do not wish you to perhaps have a bad opinion of me, and as I have some cognac in my can, let us share a drop together."
The man had finished eating. The duke and he drank a mouthful of brandy; the acquaintance was made.
"What is your name?" asked the soldier.
"James Grey," replied the duke, omitting his title. "And yours?"
"John Poms, I have just entered this company. I am a liberated Austrian acting in an army liaison capacity as I grew up around here. I just got out of the ambulance as I was wounded earlier at St Baoh. In the field clinic they gave me stew. But as I had only a minor wound, the orderly there signed my dismissal. So much the worse for me! Now I am going to commence to be devoured by hunger again for, I have been hungry all my life."
The words were startling; especially to a Sybarite who had just been reminiscing regards his dinner table back home and the Duke of Bedford looked at his companion in amazement for the emotions that now stirred within him.
The soldier smiled sadly, showing his hungry, wolf-like teeth, as white as his sickly face, and, as if understanding that the other expected something further in the way of explanation or confidence said;
"Come, let us walk along the road to warm our feet, and I will tell you things, which probably you have never heard of. I am called John Poms but was once nick named “Blondie” for a head of hair more abundant than what I have now. I was an orphan here in the mountains where I was born and my only happy remembrance is of my earliest childhood, at the institution. We played in a garden under large trees, and a kind Sister took care of us. She died afterwards of lung trouble. I was her favorite, and would rather walk by her than play with the other children, because she used to draw me to her side and lay her warm thin hand on my forehead. But when I was twelve years old, after my first communion, there was nothing but poverty. The manager of the orphanage put me as an apprentice in a lowly trade. It was impossible for anyone to earn one's living at, and it was there I remember that I began to suffer with hunger. The employers, a married couple, were terrible misers, and the bread, cut in tiny pieces for each meal, was kept under lock and key. You should have seen the mistress at supper time serving the soup, sighing at each ladleful she dished out. The other apprentices, two blind boys, were less unhappy; they were not given more than I, but they could not see the reproachful look the woman used to give me as she handed me my plate. I served there for three years, in a continual state of hunger. But the manager of the orphanage could not know everything, and had no suspicion that the children were abused. Ah! you were astonished just now when you saw me take the bread out of the mud? I am used to that, for I have picked up crusts from the dust before, and when they were too hard and dry, I would soak them all night in my basin. I had windfalls sometimes, such as pieces of bread nibbled at the ends, which the children would take out of their lunch boxes and throw on the sidewalks as they came from school. Well, later I did many other things, for I was willing enough to work. I carried mortar for the masons, I have been a shop-boy, security guard, hotel porter I don't know what! But, then when the Anschluss came I was picked up and placed in one of Hitler’s camps. I thought I knew what hunger was before I went in, but I knew nothing. Then it was liberated by the British & being a native of these parts with sufficient English that I learnt in hotel work, I was recruited into the British Army. You see, I did not lie, when I told you, just now that I have always, always, been hungry!"
The duke was profoundly moved by this story, told him by a man like himself, up on this God forsaken piece of earth, by a soldier whose uniform made him his equal. It was even more fortunate that the night wind dried the tears which dimmed his eyes.
"John" said he, “If we survive this bloody war, we will meet again, and I hope that I may be able to help you in life. But, in the meantime, and as my ration of bread is twice too large for my delicate appetite, it is understood, is it not, we will share it like good comrades?"
The hand-clasp which followed was strong and sincere and as night fell, they returned to the tavern, where twelve soldiers were already sleeping on the concrete floor. Side by side, they were soon also to be found sleeping soundly.
Toward midnight John awoke, being hungry probably. The wind had scattered the clouds, and a ray of moonlight made its way into the room through a hole in the roof, lighting up the back of the head of the young duke, who was deep asleep.
Still touched by the kindness of his comrade, John Poms was gazing at him with admiration, when the sergeant of the platoon opened the door and called the five men who were to relieve the sentries of the out-posts. The duke was of the number, but he did not waken when his name was called.
"Grey, stand up!" repeated the sergeant.
"Sergeant," said John rising, "I will take his duty, he is sleeping so soundly and he is my comrade."
"As you please."
The five men left, and the snoring recommenced.
But half an hour later the noise of near and rapid firing burst upon the night. In an instant every man was on his feet, and each with his hand on the chamber of his gun, stepped cautiously out, looking earnestly along the road, lying white in the moonlight.
"What time is it?" asked the duke. "I was to go on duty to-night."
"That Austrian liaison guy went in your place."
At that moment a soldier was seen running towards them along the road.
"What is it?" they cried as he stopped, out of breath.
"The Germans have attacked us. Fall back."
"And the others?"
"They are coming, but Poms caught a round in the chest."
"Where is he?" asked the duke.
"Dead and gone, poor bastard" was the reply.
* * * * *
Long after the war had ended, the Duke of Bedford left his club in the Mall about two o’clock one morning in the company of a contemporary, the Duke of Argyle. The brandy and cigars of the evening’s events had given him a thick head.
“Do you mind Percy,” said Grey “if we cut through Green Park. I would be obliged to breathe in some fresh air.”
Turning up the collars of their Burberry’s, they set off through the park, deserted except for some vagrants huddled up like misformed sacks on the benches. Suddenly James Grey struck the tip of his brogue shoe on an object; it was a large piece of bread spattered with mud.
Then to his amazement, the Duke of Argyle saw the Duke of Bedford pick up the piece of bread, wipe it carefully with his silk handkerchief and place it on a bench next to a huddled form. He drew from his wallet a twenty pond note & slipped it gently under the bread.
"What did you do that for?" asked Percy laughing, "Are you crazy?"
"It is in memory of a poor fellow who died for me," replied the duke in a voice which cracked slightly with emotion suffused with an element of anger.
“Do not laugh, my friend, it offends me."
The young Duke of Bedford, James P. Thornbush Grey had been the recipient of a comfortable life up to early manhood. Mind you, private tuition and attendance at the best public schools in England had reinforced his confidence in associating with such benefits. At twenty he went up to Balliol College and gained a double first in Politics, Philosophy & Economics, whilst managing to equate the scales of life’s rich tapestry by losing his virginity to a publicans red headed daughter behind the University Rowing Club one balmy evening in July. Upon his father’s death and being the eldest son, he subsequently attained the ancestral title, a rambling stately manor, frivolously referred to as “The Pile”, and inherited funds copious enough after death duties, to sustain his ever exuberant social life. He was, as befitted the terminology of those days regarded as “a swell.”
But that changed one morning at breakfast, when whilst glancing over the morning paper, he read the news of the definitive fall of France to the German military & the glossed over humiliation of the Dunkirk evacuation. He emptied his glass of champagne, laid his napkin upon the table, ordered his valet to pack his trunks, and two hours later took the express train to London. Arriving there, he hastened to the recruiting office and enlisted as a private in a regiment of the line.
Five years later on, he was to be found, some time before evening, high up in the Austrian Tyrol, half frozen and engaged with his regiment in clearing up remnants of the Third Reich dug in there. The location was a gloomy place, like most of Europe after years of warfare. The edge of the road on which he stood had once been planted with clusters of pines, and was now broken up into muddy ruts by the passage of tanks and heavy equipment. Nearby stood an abandoned tavern where the soldiers had established their post. They had been here a few days & units of the enemy were still active in the area. Earlier shelling had broken down some of the young trees, and all of them bore upon their bark the white scars of bullet hits. As for the tavern; its appearance made one shudder for the roof had been torn by stray bombardment, and the walls were besmirched with dirt. And over all this, a wretched winter sky, across which rolled heavy clouds, a sky, angry and hateful.
The young duke approached the door to the building and stood for a while outside, motionless, with his gun in his shoulder-belt, his helmet low over his eyes, his benumbed hands in the pockets of his battledress trousers. In the distance, up in the surrounding mountains, the occasional noise of gunfire and mortars. Suddenly he felt hungry.
Stooping, he drew from his knapsack, a piece of bread, and as he had lost his knife, he bit off a morsel and slowly ate it. But after a few mouthfuls, he had enough of it; the bread was hard and possessed a mouldy dry taste. No fresh would be given until the next morning's distribution.
“Damm” he thought, “This is a tougher and more miserable an existence than being a fag at Eaton!” The remembrance of former breakfasts came to him. “Was it not perverse’ he thought, “That there had been days back then, when after overindulging in a supper the night before, he would seat himself at the end of a huge dining table capable of seating up to twenty persons and would be served with a cutlet, or buttered eggs with asparagus tips, and the butler, knowing his tastes, would bring him a fine bottle of old French wine, lying in its basket, and which he would pour out with the greatest care. That was a good time, and he would never become accustomed to this life of wretchedness that war had laid upon him.”
And, in a moment of impatience, the duke threw the rest of his bread into the mud.
At the same moment a soldier came out from the tavern, stooped and picked up the bread, drew back a few steps, wiped it with his sleeve and began to devour it eagerly.
The Duke realized, with the delicacy of the values that he had attained in his formative years, that he was suddenly ashamed of his action, and now with a feeling of pity, watched the poor devil who had given such stark proof of man’s basic needs. He was a tall, young fellow, but badly made, with faded blond hair, feverish eyes, a hospital beard, and the oversized uniform that hung on him extenuated further the painful attributes of his thinness.
"You are very hungry?" he said, approaching the soldier.
"As you can see," replied the other with his mouth full.
"Excuse me then. For if I had known that you would like the bread, I would not have thrown it away." Grey had detected a foreign accent in the other and the English used was halting in delivery.
"No harm done," replied the soldier, "I am not fussy."
"No matter," persisted the Duke, "It was wrong to do so, and I reproach myself. But I do not wish you to perhaps have a bad opinion of me, and as I have some cognac in my can, let us share a drop together."
The man had finished eating. The duke and he drank a mouthful of brandy; the acquaintance was made.
"What is your name?" asked the soldier.
"James Grey," replied the duke, omitting his title. "And yours?"
"John Poms, I have just entered this company. I am a liberated Austrian acting in an army liaison capacity as I grew up around here. I just got out of the ambulance as I was wounded earlier at St Baoh. In the field clinic they gave me stew. But as I had only a minor wound, the orderly there signed my dismissal. So much the worse for me! Now I am going to commence to be devoured by hunger again for, I have been hungry all my life."
The words were startling; especially to a Sybarite who had just been reminiscing regards his dinner table back home and the Duke of Bedford looked at his companion in amazement for the emotions that now stirred within him.
The soldier smiled sadly, showing his hungry, wolf-like teeth, as white as his sickly face, and, as if understanding that the other expected something further in the way of explanation or confidence said;
"Come, let us walk along the road to warm our feet, and I will tell you things, which probably you have never heard of. I am called John Poms but was once nick named “Blondie” for a head of hair more abundant than what I have now. I was an orphan here in the mountains where I was born and my only happy remembrance is of my earliest childhood, at the institution. We played in a garden under large trees, and a kind Sister took care of us. She died afterwards of lung trouble. I was her favorite, and would rather walk by her than play with the other children, because she used to draw me to her side and lay her warm thin hand on my forehead. But when I was twelve years old, after my first communion, there was nothing but poverty. The manager of the orphanage put me as an apprentice in a lowly trade. It was impossible for anyone to earn one's living at, and it was there I remember that I began to suffer with hunger. The employers, a married couple, were terrible misers, and the bread, cut in tiny pieces for each meal, was kept under lock and key. You should have seen the mistress at supper time serving the soup, sighing at each ladleful she dished out. The other apprentices, two blind boys, were less unhappy; they were not given more than I, but they could not see the reproachful look the woman used to give me as she handed me my plate. I served there for three years, in a continual state of hunger. But the manager of the orphanage could not know everything, and had no suspicion that the children were abused. Ah! you were astonished just now when you saw me take the bread out of the mud? I am used to that, for I have picked up crusts from the dust before, and when they were too hard and dry, I would soak them all night in my basin. I had windfalls sometimes, such as pieces of bread nibbled at the ends, which the children would take out of their lunch boxes and throw on the sidewalks as they came from school. Well, later I did many other things, for I was willing enough to work. I carried mortar for the masons, I have been a shop-boy, security guard, hotel porter I don't know what! But, then when the Anschluss came I was picked up and placed in one of Hitler’s camps. I thought I knew what hunger was before I went in, but I knew nothing. Then it was liberated by the British & being a native of these parts with sufficient English that I learnt in hotel work, I was recruited into the British Army. You see, I did not lie, when I told you, just now that I have always, always, been hungry!"
The duke was profoundly moved by this story, told him by a man like himself, up on this God forsaken piece of earth, by a soldier whose uniform made him his equal. It was even more fortunate that the night wind dried the tears which dimmed his eyes.
"John" said he, “If we survive this bloody war, we will meet again, and I hope that I may be able to help you in life. But, in the meantime, and as my ration of bread is twice too large for my delicate appetite, it is understood, is it not, we will share it like good comrades?"
The hand-clasp which followed was strong and sincere and as night fell, they returned to the tavern, where twelve soldiers were already sleeping on the concrete floor. Side by side, they were soon also to be found sleeping soundly.
Toward midnight John awoke, being hungry probably. The wind had scattered the clouds, and a ray of moonlight made its way into the room through a hole in the roof, lighting up the back of the head of the young duke, who was deep asleep.
Still touched by the kindness of his comrade, John Poms was gazing at him with admiration, when the sergeant of the platoon opened the door and called the five men who were to relieve the sentries of the out-posts. The duke was of the number, but he did not waken when his name was called.
"Grey, stand up!" repeated the sergeant.
"Sergeant," said John rising, "I will take his duty, he is sleeping so soundly and he is my comrade."
"As you please."
The five men left, and the snoring recommenced.
But half an hour later the noise of near and rapid firing burst upon the night. In an instant every man was on his feet, and each with his hand on the chamber of his gun, stepped cautiously out, looking earnestly along the road, lying white in the moonlight.
"What time is it?" asked the duke. "I was to go on duty to-night."
"That Austrian liaison guy went in your place."
At that moment a soldier was seen running towards them along the road.
"What is it?" they cried as he stopped, out of breath.
"The Germans have attacked us. Fall back."
"And the others?"
"They are coming, but Poms caught a round in the chest."
"Where is he?" asked the duke.
"Dead and gone, poor bastard" was the reply.
* * * * *
Long after the war had ended, the Duke of Bedford left his club in the Mall about two o’clock one morning in the company of a contemporary, the Duke of Argyle. The brandy and cigars of the evening’s events had given him a thick head.
“Do you mind Percy,” said Grey “if we cut through Green Park. I would be obliged to breathe in some fresh air.”
Turning up the collars of their Burberry’s, they set off through the park, deserted except for some vagrants huddled up like misformed sacks on the benches. Suddenly James Grey struck the tip of his brogue shoe on an object; it was a large piece of bread spattered with mud.
Then to his amazement, the Duke of Argyle saw the Duke of Bedford pick up the piece of bread, wipe it carefully with his silk handkerchief and place it on a bench next to a huddled form. He drew from his wallet a twenty pond note & slipped it gently under the bread.
"What did you do that for?" asked Percy laughing, "Are you crazy?"
"It is in memory of a poor fellow who died for me," replied the duke in a voice which cracked slightly with emotion suffused with an element of anger.
“Do not laugh, my friend, it offends me."