The Long Week-End 1897-1919 by Wilfred R. Bion

Author:Wilfred R. Bion
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Karnac Books

11

ON an exercise march a few days later we came under shell-fire. A lorry in front of us was picked up and thrown into the ditch; one man was killed, but the driver escaped. After the march was over I saw Harrison had been on the parade.

“How did he get on?” I asked Quainton.

“Oh he’s all right. When we were passing the lorry he shouted at the driver leaning against the upturned engine, ‘What’s up chum? Won’t it go?’ He’s back to his usual.”

“What was all that about his brother?”

“Well, apparently he thought he was a great hero and he got done in at Gheluvelt. He’s been sore about it ever since.”

Harrison came up just then, pink, bony-faced and upturned nose. He saluted me and said, “Sorry about all that fuss the other day sir. I was upset.”

“You upset us. Never mind—try upsetting the German army next time. Those were unarmed prisoners you know.”

He looked downcast and examined his boots. “All right—off you go—but don’t do it again.” The sound of my voice impressed and reassured me.

I felt no such assurance about that battle, but according to the press a few days later we had made big gains in guns and taken three thousand prisoners. Well, that was a comfort at least. Not so my discovery that, as I suspected, I was a coward and that there was no chance of running away—while observed. But what if there was no one to see? Then no one could say you were lying. Oh shut up! My conscience was dying, but like the Dead it would not lie down.

I did not realize that fear was an irrelevance; there is no question of being able to ‘run away’ in so far as such an expression is related to muscular activity. That there are other expressions of fear was brought home to me by one ludicrous and painful event.

Cohen, Quainton and I had had some talk of religion and prayer. Both of them were religious, even fervent as I had been until the powerful effect of school services and those conducted by our parson ate deep into my soul. But after our talk I decided to make a public affirmation of my faith. About half a dozen of us slept in one officers’ marquee. Cohen and Quainton used to kneel publicly with the support of Gatehouse our company commander who was huge, an ex-boxing champion of Sandhurst and used to bending his powerful frame in devotion. I was not so lucky and the ritual was something of a strain. Still, down I flopped. The absolute lack of comment or ribaldry left a gap which was immediately filled with an emotion which might have been solid. I found I had nothing whatever to say to My Saviour who, I felt, shared in the general stupefaction. There were some surprises to which even the Almighty should not be subject.

How to get up? Obviously I could not stay there on my knees all night. I could not pretend I had been doing up my boots because I had no boots on.

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