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  My companion evidently felt the same as me because with the returning sound of the engine he said, ‘That’s much better. We’ll be disembarking soon. Even if we have to detour through Calais it won’t be a long journey. Let’s stand out of the wind for a while. Where are you heading, if I might ask?’

  ‘I’m not able to say. I’m travelling under orders.’

  ‘Let me think. Are you a co-opted civvy?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’ve been authorized to describe myself as a tactical consultant.’

  ‘Splendid! That’s exactly what I am too. Our missions to France are apparently alike, although no doubt not in detail. We have to keep our traps shut. The greater good they call it. German spies everywhere. But I suppose there would be no harm in exchanging names.’

  ‘Well—’

  Now that I was up close to him and my eyes had adjusted to the night-time gloom I was able to make him out more clearly. He was shorter than me, stockily built, and whenever he spoke he bobbed around in an uncommon but attractive way. We were strangers making acquaintance in a tense situation, but I could detect he had a sense of fun, that he was not likely to take me or our situation all that seriously. Even though I took seriously the warnings about remaining tight-lipped, I could hardly imagine a more unlikely German spy.

  Part of my professional stage act includes a presentation of mind-reading, which has required me to develop a fine ear for the different accents of English. This chap was well spoken but somewhere in his vowels, his intonation, was a trace of London Cockney, modified by class awareness and the influence of college education. I imagined him living in a well-appointed London suburb or in a prosperous market town somewhere in the south-east of the country. An interesting social mixture. From such fragments of intuition, and in my case years of practice of studying the ways of strangers, we form our early impressions. At that moment, with the lights of the port at Le Havre rising towards us in the distance, I was cold, travel-weary and extremely hungry. It was the sort of physical condition in which I have often found my mental senses to be best attuned. I was eager for intelligent talk to while away the rest of the journey. I wished to like him because I wanted his company.

  After a moment’s reflection, following his suggestion that we introduce ourselves, I said, ‘I suppose you could call me Tom.’

  ‘Tom! I’m glad to meet you.’

  We shook hands again. ‘And you are?’ I said.

  ‘Let me see. You may if you wish call me . . . Bert.’

  Our handshake now was firmer than before, more open to friendship. Tom and Bert, Bert and Tom. Two middle-aged Englishmen on a boat heading to war.

  We remained standing together in that half-sheltered spot near the bow. About ten minutes later the ship navigated slowly between two huge walls to enter the harbour space. We barely spoke, each of us eager to see what we could of the place. The telegraph bells kept clanging and the engine changed note several times. Someone on the shore shouted up to the bridge and our ship let off a couple of siren blasts. Ropes were thrown and secured, the engine idled back and there was a series of mild, slow bumps as the hull settled against the wharf.

  We could also detect noises and movement coming from the decks below.

  ‘I must collect my luggage,’ Bert said in a moment. ‘I imagine there will be a fearful scrap to board the train. I assume you too are travelling on by train?’

  ‘I have a warrant to travel first class,’ I said.

  ‘As have I,’ said Bert. ‘I don’t suppose a first-class ticket will make much difference on a troop train, but it might entitle us to seats.’

  We made a quick and informal agreement to reunite, if we could, in the first-class carriage of whichever train we were told to board. Just in case we were not to meet again we said our farewells, wished each other a good journey, and then plunged down in search of our luggage, into the hot, odorous and still smoke-filled lower decks.

  2

  Some time later I was off the ship, had crossed the wide apron and after a certain amount of shoving and squeezing I was sitting on a train. I was beginning to lose track of the time – I felt as if I was enduring a night of never-ending delays, fatigue, noise, with my hands, face and feet freezing to death.

  It must have been coming up to midnight. I had been travelling, if that is the word to describe what I had been doing, since just after an early breakfast.

  The easiest part by far had been getting from my home in Bayswater to Charing Cross Station, as I had called a cab which carried me and my luggage speedily and in some comfort. Thereafter everything degenerated and the rest of the day had been a particular kind of hell. My first-class warrant duly allowed me into the first-class carriage, but it was a mere technicality. I shared my compartment with what felt like two dozen ridiculously young soldiers, pink of face and shiny of expression, most of them with deep regional accents, all buckled up in khaki and webbing, weighed down with huge packs and strapped-on equipment. They were in good spirits, though, invariably addressed me as Sir, and all in all were a good crowd to be with. We were nonetheless crammed uncomfortably together.

  Our slow journey to the port at Folkestone was torture: the train rarely travelled above walking speed and stopped, or so it seemed, at every signal between London and the Kent coast. When we finally reached the harbour station there was a mad scramble first to find a toilet, then to get in line for a mug of tea and some bread and butter. We embarked on the ship, but far from taking a relieved step into comparative comfort I discovered the ship was already crowded with soldiery who had arrived before us. Our own arrival vastly increased the confusion. I stuck it for a long time, knowing that these young men needed to be fed and watered as much as I did, and to stay in the ruck was probably my only chance of finding something to eat.

  Once the ship was under way, instead of sailing across towards Boulogne it headed for the more distant Le Havre. It was when the choppy waves brought on the many cases of mal de mer and I escaped to the open boat deck that I encountered my new friend Bert.

  I could not find Bert when I joined the train at Le Havre – perhaps I was too eager to gain myself a seat. However, I did manage to save a place beside me in case he should come along. The carriage filled up quickly, so I could not keep the seat next to me indefinitely. Soon a young private from the Lancashire Fusiliers thrust his weight down beside me. He offered me a cigarette and a swig from his bottle. His name was Frank Butler, he was nineteen years old and he was from Rochdale. It was his first time away from home. He talked enthusiastically about walking in the Pennine Hills, calling me Sir three times in every sentence. I started to doze in spite of Pvt. Butler’s constant chatter. Time began to pass more easefully than before.

  Then my arm was shaken.

  ‘Lieutenant-Commander Trent, sir?’

  I opened my eyes and saw a tall army lance-corporal standing over me, leaning down at an angle through the crush of bodies.

  ‘Are you Commander Trent, sir? The scientist?’

  ‘I’m Mr Trent, that’s right. But—’

  ‘I’ve been hunting all along the train for you, sir. I’m ordered to look after you as my responsibility, and you’re in the wrong seat, sir, if I may say so. If I don’t get you where you ought to be I’m in big trouble and no mistake.’

  His manner was respectful and his tone was polite. I did not want to get him into trouble, so with a great deal of difficulty and the cheerful help of some of the soldiers I removed my two large cases from the overhead rack. The train still had not moved from the harbour station. The lance-corporal and I forced the compartment door open and we half jumped, half fell to the platform.

  ‘They was holding the train up until I found you, sir,’ he shouted back over his shoulder at me.

  He took the larger of my two cases and we walked quickly along the side of the train. The troops appeared to have filled every carriage to the point of bursting open the doors and windows.

  ‘Just along here, sir. Much more comf
ortable than what you was putting up with back there. And the other gentleman’s already waiting for you.’

  We came to the carriage at the back of the train, a box car with only two or three small windows. The lance-corporal led me up some narrow wooden steps, urging me to hurry. I was still trying to push my case up in front of me when I felt the train lurch and we began moving.

  The carriage was the guard’s van: a large space with a caged storage area, and a multitude of flags and lanterns for use by le chef de train. It was warm in there, lit by lanterns. Sitting alone on a wooden chair inside the caged area was my friend Bert. He was upright but relaxed. He had folded both his hands over a walking cane and his chin was resting on those. A second chair had been placed next to his.

  The lance-corporal politely saw me into the cage, put down my bags and made sure I would be comfortable. The train was already gathering a little speed, and knowing that there was no corridor I was growing worried for the able young man. Unconcerned, he showed me a cabinet where there was a flagon of fresh water and some glasses, two long loaves of French bread wrapped in white tissue paper, some cheese and a bottle of red wine. ‘I think the bread might be a little dry now, sir, but probably tasty enough.’ Indeed, it all looked extremely appetizing.

  Not a moment too soon the lance-corporal bade me goodnight, and said he would look out for me and the captain when the train reached Béthune. As he began to clamber down the steps I could see the platform moving by. Then, as if his departure were a signal, the train stopped suddenly with a great squealing of brakes.

  While this was going on Bert had roused. He was sitting fully upright, regarding me with his eyes blinking. We greeted each other.

  ‘So pleased you made it here,’ Bert said. ‘I was beginning to think you had gone on another train.’

  I told him what had happened, then, because my stomach was rumbling, I said, ‘Would you care for some bread and water?’

  ‘Since we have been put inside a cage, it’s an appropriate choice of food.’ He crinkled his blue eyes in an amused way and we both went across to the cabinet. ‘But perhaps instead of water, a little wine?’

  ‘Yes indeed!’

  We broke the bread, took a chunk of cheese each and filled two glasses from the wine bottle. We resumed our seats.

  ‘Did I hear the lance-corporal say you are a captain?’

  ‘Most certainly. I wouldn’t abandon my home and family, and suffer a French train, for anything less. You too? I see you are a Navy man.’

  He was glancing at my uniform.

  ‘Not a captain. A lieutenant-commander.’

  ‘Aren’t you going a rather long way inland to join your ship?’

  ‘It’s a land-based installation, I believe.’ Again I felt the weight of necessary silence on me, so I prevaricated. ‘It was all a little unclear. You are in the army, I see?’

  ‘That’s right.’ He crunched on the bread, spilling large brown flakes of the crust on the carriage floor. ‘I insisted on being a general, thinking I could be negotiated down to colonel, but they would not go above captain. It’s more than a little ridiculous, in my view, but then the whole blessed war is ridiculous. I tried to tell them that two years ago, when it all got going.’

  ‘I don’t suppose the young men we’re travelling with think it’s ridiculous.’

  ‘That’s right. They’re just boys – the eternal tragedy of war and those who become its warriors. I’ve two boys of my own. Thankfully, they’re still at school, so with any luck they’ll be spared the appalling mess in France and Belgium. Have you any idea what the young men on this train are going to have to go through? Or how many of them will not be going home again?’

  ‘It’s going to get worse.’

  ‘I agree. Things are warming up in worrying ways, but I think this is where you and I come into the picture. They want ideas, fresh ideas.’

  He said nothing more to enlarge on that. For a while we sat silently together, enjoying the delicious cheese and sipping the wine. Fatigue was rising in me, though. I looked around the compartment but there was nothing that might be used as a mattress or a bunk. Just our two wooden chairs, side by side.

  Bert had obviously cottoned on to what I was thinking.

  ‘Seems to me,’ he said, ‘that this train isn’t likely to move off for a while.’ The train still had not departed. ‘I was starting to think, just before you arrived, that I might open up my luggage, see if I can find some clothes I could spread out on the floor, up against the wall over there. I’m feeling wiped out. Need to put my head down.’

  ‘Have you travelled far today?’

  ‘Only from Essex. Not a bad trip until the train to Folkestone. How about you?’

  ‘Near the centre of London,’ I said. ‘Bayswater Road. Towards Notting Hill.’

  ‘I know the area a little. I lived for a while not far away. In Mornington Place, near Camden Town.’

  ‘Ah yes.’

  ‘I still have a small flat in London, but I spend most of my time out in the country.’

  Bert’s suggestion of trying to bed down was a good one, so we drained our glasses, recorked the bottle and then began searching through our luggage. I was already thinking of my cloak, which was in the case with the other apparatus. It was just about the last thing I had packed: however hard I tried I could not think of a single practical use for it where I was going, but it was so much a part of my normal work that it seemed inconceivable to leave it at home. As chance would have it, it now became ideal for my immediate needs.

  The cloak had been made to exacting specifications and at the time had cost me a great deal of money. It is made of purple satin on the outside, warm black corduroy on the inside, and because of the number of hidden layers and pockets stitched into it there is a thick lining.

  I tugged it out of the case, spread it out and folded it in four, making a long makeshift mattress several layers deep. Bert watched with interest but said nothing. He spread a couple of coats and some woollen pullovers on the floor for himself. I was dizzy with fatigue. The air was warm in the carriage and the distant sound of the troops in the next car was almost soothing. I crawled on to my satin robe, tugged my greatcoat across me and was asleep within a few seconds.

  3

  The train was moving when I awoke, but it must have been travelling slowly because there was hardly any noise from the wheels and the only rocking motion was gentle. Sunlight poured in from a small window in the opposite wall. My companion Bert had moved his chair across to it and was staring out.

  A railway official had joined us – le chef de train. He wore a dark jacket and cap and was sitting on a stool in a corner at the back of the compartment. He took no notice of either of us and was also staring out of the train through a small window beside him. I was impressed by his full but drooping moustache. As he noticed me rousing he acknowledged me with a raised hand.

  ‘Bonjour!’ I said.

  ‘Bonjour, monsieur!’

  That exchange more or less exhausted my knowledge of the French language so without wishing to seem unfriendly I nodded to him in a companionable way, stood up, straightened my clothes and went across to where Bert was sitting. He greeted me with his customary informal friendliness, told me the lance-corporal had been in earlier and that there was a promise of food to come. He also pointed out a cubicle in the corner of the van where, he said, the usual offices would be found.

  The physical relief that immediately followed was only marginally spoiled by the primitive arrangements: for a toilet there was a circular hole in the floor above the track sleepers, which I could see moving slowly beneath the train, the low morning sunlight angling across them. There was however a cold-water tap over a crude basin, so I was glad to wash my face and hands, even without a towel.

  As I returned to our cage, shaking the drops from my hands, the lance-corporal appeared at a narrow door that connected with the next carriage, presumably across the open couplings.

  ‘Morning, sirs!’
he said politely. ‘Captain Wells, Lieutenant Trent, sir!’ He saluted. ‘I thought you’d like some good old British bully to help you through the day. No expense spared by His Majesty.’ He was carrying a couple of opened cans of the beef, wrapped in a cloth, and laid them out for us. ‘We’ll be making a halt later, to give the lads a break. So there will be a mug of tea for you with everyone, and some hot food. A tot of rum too, no doubt, seeing as you’re a naval gentleman, sir.’

  I was glad to be offered something other than bread, but we ate the rest of that too, Bert and I, sitting side by side in our cage.

  Afterwards, wiping his mouth, Bert said to me, ‘Lieutenant-Commander Trent, is it?’ I confirmed that. ‘Tom Trent? Thomas Trent? Sounds familiar. Should I know that name?’

  ‘You might,’ I said, still feeling the need to be guarded. ‘I’m best known as Tommy Trent.’

  ‘It rings a bell,’ he said.

  ‘Look, I don’t think we should speak too freely—’

  ‘You’re worried about our friend over there.’ Bert turned around and acknowledged le chef with a quick wave of the hand. ‘I tried to have a chat with him before you woke up. I found he speaks no more English than you speak French. Somewhat less, I suspect.’

  ‘Hardly possible,’ I said.

  ‘I doubt it. Now then, Lieutenant-Commander Tommy Trent, I’m not the sort of chap who likes being secretive. Nor inquisitive for that matter. If I’ve got the measure of you right you feel much the same. But I think we have a bit of finding out to do about each other.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘All right, indeed. Let me start by asking you something. Have you visited the British lines before? Out at the front line, I mean, which is where I assume we are both headed?’