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THE CAP

A STORY FROM THE GREAT WAR

It was at one of those weekend affairs at James’.  I suppose after the War we were all trying to settle, even to get back to those pre-1914 days –  old haunts, old chums – so when James sent round invitations for a house party there was invariably a good response.  Mind you, he always did these things well.  He had a big place just outside Esher, and could always be relied on to invite several delightful girls from his London set to share the drinks and laughter, and generally cheer us old codgers up.  There were never enough younger men, of course; pitifully few of us, really.  We who were left went with a peculiar mixture of guilt and elation; lucky to be alive, but at the same time conscious of those who would never join us again.  One’s hand went to the bottle with this train of thought; a fellow can think too much about all this, and end up in a very bleak place.  Better to thank your Gods, and give in to the distractions offered.  So all praise to James; I know that his get-togethers eased the way back for many of us.
       So there we were. By nine o’clock most of the guests had arrived, and the place was beginning to buzz.  As usual, they were a bit of a mixed bag.  A few of the older generation were in full fig, and there was a sprinkling of military uniforms, but there were many of us who wanted to leave all that behind; perhaps we had seen too much of it all.  James had laid on a running buffet down one side of the dining room, and when we had eaten our fill of the solids, we moved on to the liquids. Some with things to forget had got stuck in rather early; but we knew how things were with them, and there were no recriminations.  A few couples near the big gramophone had begun to dance; laughter competed with music and the clink of glasses; the atmosphere was definitely warming up.
       For my part, I had bumped into Parker and Kingsbury, whom I hadn’t seen since before the war.  The three of us gravitated towards James’ spacious kitchen, there to be met by Thornton and Cressley, whose exploits in the Royal Flying Corps we had all heard about.  I remember Alec Cressley at school, always the nonconformist.  I had wondered how he would fit in with service life, but I need not have bothered; I noticed that his Distinguished Flying Cross wasn’t adorning his rather battered old smoking jacket. We were all drinking and reminiscing, and making a pretty good effort to be jolly, when in walked Henderson.  Poor old Henders, always the butt of our jokes and hopeless at games; I suppose we were pretty rotten to him at school.  In he came, late and flustered looking, as ever he was.  The thing was though, with Henders, he somehow always managed to make things worse for himself – and he hadn’t changed.  Damn me if he hadn’t turned up in full military uniform, decked out as a captain no less, with Sam Browne belt and buckle polished.  We all knew that he had spent his war in some desk job to do with supplies; returned and re-issued clothing, or something of the sort.  Paper rank of course.  Those of us who saw service might have considered his get-up in rather bad taste, but that night at James’, merry as we were, we were ready to forgive.  He almost cut a convincing figure, but for the cap.  The idiot was wearing an officer’s cap that was about four sizes too big for him, and he hadn’t even had the good manners to take it off.  It rather spoilt the effect to say the least; in fact, there were audible sniggers.  Poor old Henders; he could never get anything quite right.  But we were in a forgiving mood, so we gave him a drink – in fact several drinks – and carried on.  By half past ten we had lost count of whose turn it was to collect the next round – in fact we were all a bit squiffy.  It was then that we noticed that Henders was looking a bit peaky (Alec’s choice of word, which caused great merriment).  We sat him down and administered more medicine, but he didn’t improve.  Said his cap felt tight, which caused great hilarity, firstly because of the size of the thing, and secondly, as someone pointed out, because it was him that was tight and not the cap.  We were still rolling around at this when James came in, large as life in his role as the bringer of jollity.  He was banging a tin tray, and announced that the girls were getting up a conga, and that we were all commanded to join the fun.  He spied Henders sitting moping on his chair.  “You too” he cried, and for good measure gave him a whack on the head with the tray.  Poor old Henders.  The effect was to jam his silly cap right down over his ears – you could just see a bit of his nose sticking out under the peak.  Poor chap, he went to lift it – but it was well and truly stuck.  He looked such a silly ass, I’m afraid we all roared.  Between gasps, we all looked – and then the laughter gradually died.  Henderson had become strangely quiet.  He sat motionless, as if transfixed; in fact, he had become deathly still.  Well, it was a rum thing, I can tell you; one moment he was a comical figure, and then suddenly he’d become – well, something very odd.  He’d dropped his hands, and was sitting bolt upright, deathly still ….. Then very slowly, he began to turn his blind head to the left, as if he were listening.  It was all very odd; the party was carrying on behind us, but in the kitchen you could have heard a pin drop.  Henders remained motionless for what seemed like a long second – and then things happened very quickly.  As if pulled by an unseen hand, he lurched off his chair and fell to the floor.  He seemed to be clutching his left knee as if in pain.  We couldn’t see his face, but he was making some odd sounds.  Still clutching his knee, he began groping out blindly with his other hand.  He hit on the door of a cupboard under the sink, and wrenched it open.  We were all so shocked, and what with the drink, we just stood there with our mouths open.  And then he started shouting.  Well, it wasn’t shouting, it was a voice which, oddly enough, we’d all used except Henderson – the voice to command men.  “Out, out,” he said – “All of you – get out now.” –  and he’s holding his knee with one hand and gesturing with the other, as if he’s pushing people into the cupboard.  Then “All out? Right, I’m coming out now.  Give us a hand, Taff, I’ve copped it in the leg.”  And he began struggling, and reaching into the cupboard.  Then he gave a short unearthly cry, almost like a bark, and slumped to the floor.  He’d passed out.  Suddenly we all came to our senses.  One or two of the women screamed, but someone had the sense to get Giles, who’s a medical man.  We got Henders up, got the cap off him, and got him round; even so, it was some time before he could stand properly.  Poor chap, he was as white as a sheet, trembling and looking as if he had never seen us before.  We got him into a quiet room and gave him a stiff brandy.  Even then, his hand shook so much that he spilled most of it.  Giles took charge, and got him away in a cab.  Rather killed the party of course, but I don’t mind admitting that we were all somewhat unnerved.  Looking back, it might seem odd that we all accepted it as genuine.  Nobody said, or even I’m sure thought, that there had been any trickery.  There was something about the whole episode that didn’t brook any doubt; it had touched too real a nerve.  I had gone back into the kitchen afterwards, and picked up the cap.  It was large, and rather second hand now I looked at it.  The badge was missing, but inside was the remnant of a frayed label with “IPC Richards G Batt…” The rest was missing.  As the party was breaking up, I took it with me.  I don’t know why, but somehow I didn’t want to leave it there.    
       Poor old Henders.  He may not exactly have been one’s type, but over breakfast the next morning, I felt that a visit would not go amiss.  Besides, I was curious, so after telephoning that afternoon, I went to see him in his rooms.  He was very quiet, apparently still shaken.  Bit of a stupid thing on my part, but I’d taken the cap back for him.  He started up at the sight of it.  He told me later what had seemed to happen.  James’ bang on the head had seemed like a deafening explosion to him – then it was dark, and he’d come to below decks in a big steel boat, lying alongside the engine.  Men were shouting, and there was an overpowering smell of petrol.  All he knew was that he had to get the crew out …. He’d tailed off here, shaking his head.  Blamed it on mixing his drinks of course, but I think we both knew there was more to it than that.  He was grateful to me for coming round, and seemed to have steadied up a bit by the time it came for me to leave.  I took the cap with me; the story wasn’t finished yet as far as I was concerned.
       My old section commander, Major McDonnell, had been transferred to records after the war.  I made it my business to look him up. He received me in an office somewhere below London’s pavements, where he seemed to be in charge of a private army of secretaries.  It was odd seeing him against this new background; probably it was equally strange for him to see me in Norfolk jacket and brogues.  We exchanged pleasantries and a few reminiscences, and then I showed him the cap and we got down to business.  I must say that he had the place organised, or perhaps it was just good luck, for within twenty minutes we had traced IPC Richards, traced his company, and traced the engagement.  Finally we tracked down an observer’s report.

       31 July 1917.    Time: 11.10am.     Location: St. Julien, Ypres.

       Tank G52 under 2/Lt. Richards advancing St. Julien when hit by artillery.  Disabled and on fire.  Crew appeared to be making good their escape when direct hit by second shell.  Violent explosion.  Tank destroyed.  Fate of crew unknown. 

       (Later report)
       G52.  Following advance, seven crew bodies recovered along with some personal effects.  Commander Richards’ body not recovered.  Evidence suggests that he may have been in act of leaving tank when hit.  Commander Richards and all crew notified dead.

       So that was it.  I took the cap away with me out into London’s bright spring sunshine and walked to the car.  Once inside, I sat and for the first time had a good look at it.  One edge of the peak had very faint blistering as if from sudden heat, and there were several small but deep pock marks burnt into the crown.  I turned it over.  The owner’s label stared back at me, along with the faintest of dark brown stains.  I knew that colour, and even in the warmth of my car I couldn’t suppress a slight shudder.  But I had the feeling that it had told it’s story, and that now it was merely a thing of fabric and leather.  I laid it gently on the passenger seat and drove home.
       I shall make it my business to contact his widow.  I shall tell her of her husband’s last act of bravery, but shall I tell her the whole story?  I shall wait until I meet her to decide what to say.  And the cap?  Well, that evening I took it and buried it at the bottom of the garden, by Celia’s bluebells.  When I had finished I said a few words over it, as befits the memory of a brave man.      

                                                                 Copyright Pol Lingaard.   15/02/08