A Man Could Stand Up— by Ford Madox Ford (books for 5 year olds to read themselves txt) 📕
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A Man Could Stand Up— opens on Armistice Day, with Valentine Wannop learning that her love, Christopher Tietjens, has returned to London from the front. As she prepares to meet him, the narrative suddenly shifts time and place to earlier in the year, with Tietjens commanding a group of soldiers in a trench somewhere in the war zone. Tietjens leads his company bravely as they shelter from the constant German strafes, before the narrative again jumps to conclude with an actual Armistice Day celebration.
In this simple narrative Ford creates dense, complex character studies of Valentine and Tietjens. Tietjens, often called “the last Tory” for his staunch and unwavering approach to honor, duty, and fidelity, has changed greatly from the man he was in the previous installments in the series. Ford explores the psychological horror that the Great War inflicted on its combatants through the lens of Valentine’s gentle curiosity about Tietjen’s time on the front: men returned from battle injured not just in body, but in soul, too. The constant, unrelenting shelling, the endless strafes, the clouds of poison gas, the instant death of friends and comrades for no reason at all, the muddy and grim entrenchments where men lived and died—all of these permanently changed soldiers in ways that previous wars didn’t. Now the “last Tory” wants nothing more than to retreat from society and live a quiet life with the woman he loves—who is not his wife.
As we follow Valentine and Tietjens through the last day of the war, we see how the Great War was not just the destruction of men, but of an entire era.
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- Author: Ford Madox Ford
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To that Tietjens had had to listen before. …
Max Redoubt. … It had come suddenly on to his tongue—just as, before, the name of Bemerton had come, belatedly. The name of the artillery observation post between Albert and Bécourt-Bécordel had been Max Redoubt! During the intolerable waitings of that half-forgotten July and August the name had been as familiar on his lips as … say, as Bemerton itself. … When I forget thee, oh, my Bemerton … or, oh, my Max Redoubt … may my right hand forget its cunning! … The unforgettables! … Yet he had forgotten them! …
If only for a time he had forgotten them. Then, his right hand might forget its cunning. If only for a time. … But even that might be disastrous: might come at a disastrous moment. … The Germans had suppressed themselves. Perhaps they had knocked down the laundry chimney. Or hit some G.S. wagons loaded with coal. … At any rate, that was not the usual morning strafe. That was to come. Sweet day so cool—began again.
Mckechnie hadn’t suppressed himself. He was going to get suppressed. He had just been declaring that Tietjens had not displayed any chivalry in not reporting the C.O. if he, Tietjens, considered him to be drunk—or even chronically alcoholic. No chivalry. …
This was like a nightmare! … No it wasn’t. It was like fever when things appear stiffly unreal. … And exaggeratedly real! Stereoscopic, you might say!
Mckechnie with an accent of sardonic hate begged to remind Tietjens that if he considered the C.O. to be a drunkard he ought to have him put under arrest. King’s Regs. exacted that. But Tietjens was too cunning. He meant to have that two-fifty quid. He might be a poor man and need it. Or a millionarie, and mean. They said that was how millionaries became millionaires: by snapping up trifles of money that, God knows, would be godsends to people like himself, Mckechnie.
It occurred to Tietjens that two hundred and fifty pounds after this was over, might be a godsend to himself in a manner of speaking. And then he thought:
“Why the devil shouldn’t I earn it?”
What was he going to do? After this was over.
And it was going over. Every minute the Germans were not advancing they were losing. Losing the power to advance. … Now, this minute! It was exciting.
“No!” Mckechnie said. “You’re too cunning. If you got poor Bill cashiered for drunkenness you’d have no chance of commanding. They’d put in another pukka colonel. As a stopgap, whilst Bill’s on sick leave, you’re pretty certain to get it. That’s why you’re doing the damnable thing you’re doing.”
Tietjens had a desire to go and wash himself. He felt physically dirty.
Yet what Mckechnie said was true enough! It was true! … The mechanical impulse to divest himself of money was so strong that he began to say:
“In that case …” He was going to finish: “I’ll get the damned fellow cashiered.” But he didn’t.
He was in a beastly hole. But decency demanded that he shouldn’t act in panic. He had a mechanical, normal panic that made him divest himself of money. Gentlemen don’t earn money. Gentlemen, as a matter of fact, don’t do anything. They exist. Perfuming the air like Madonna lilies. Money comes into them as air through petals and foliage. Thus the world is made better and brighter. And, of course, thus political life can be kept clean! … So you can’t make money.
But look here: This unit was the critical spot of the whole affair. The weak spots of Brigade, Division, Army, British Expeditionary Force, Allied Forces. … If the Hun went through there. … Fuit Ilium et magna gloria. … Not much glory!
He was bound to do his best for that unit. That poor b⸺y unit. And for the poor b⸺y knockabout comedians to whom he had lately promised tickets for Drury Lane at Christmas. … The poor devils had said they preferred the Shoreditch Empire or the old Balham. … That was typical of England. The Lane was the locus classicus of the race, but these ragtime … heroes, call them heroes!—preferred Shoreditch and Balham!
An immense sense of those grimy, shuffling, grouching, dirty-nosed pantomime-supers came over him and an intense desire to give them a bit of luck, and he said:
“Captain Mckechnie, you can fall out. And you will return to duty. Your own duty. In proper headdress.”
Mckechnie, who had been talking, stopped with his head on one side like a listening magpie. He said:
“What’s this? What’s this?” stupidly. Then he remarked:
“Oh, well, I suppose if you’re in command …”
Tietjens said:
“It’s usual to say ‘sir’ when addressing a senior officer on parade. Even if you don’t belong to his unit.”
Mckechnie said:
“Don’t belong! … I don’t. … To the poor b⸺y old pals! …”
Tietjens said:
“You’re attached to Division Headquarters, and you’ll get back to it. Now! At once! … And you won’t came back here. Not while I’m in command. … Fall out. …”
That was really a duty—a feudal duty!—performed for the sake of the ragtime fellows. They wanted to be rid—and at once!—of dipsomaniacs in command of that unit and having the disposal of their lives. … Well, the moment Meckechnie had uttered the words: “To the poor b⸺y old pals,” an illuminating flash had presented Tietjens with the conviction that, alone, the C.O. was too damn good an officer to appear a dipsomaniac, even if he were observably drunk quite often. But, seen together with this fellow Mckechnie, the two of them must present a formidable appearance of being alcoholic lunatics!
The rest of the poor b⸺y old pals didn’t really any more exist. They were a tradition—of ghosts! Four of them were dead: four in hospital: two awaiting court-martial for giving stumer cheques. The last of them, practically, if you excepted Mckechnie, was the collection of putrescence and rags at that moment hanging in the wire apron. … The
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