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McNeile ("Sapper"). + </title> + <style type="text/css"> + +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; +} + +p { + margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; +} + +hr { + width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; +} + +table { + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; +} + +.pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ + /* visibility: hidden; */ + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: smaller; + text-align: right; +} /* page numbers */ + +.blockquot { + margin-left: 5%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + +.center {text-align: center;} + +.right {text-align: right;} + +.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + +/* Footnotes */ +.footnotes {border: dashed 1px;} + +.footnote {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-size: 0.9em;} + +.footnote .label {position: absolute; right: 84%; text-align: right;} + +.fnanchor { + vertical-align: super; + font-size: .8em; + text-decoration: + none; +} + +/* Poetry */ +.poem { + margin-left:10%; + margin-right:10%; + text-align: left; +} + +.tnote { + border: dashed 1px; + margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; + padding-bottom: .5em; padding-top: .5em; + padding-left: .5em; padding-right: .5em; +} + + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +Project Gutenberg's Men, Women and Guns, by H. C. (Herman Cyril) McNeile + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Men, Women and Guns + +Author: H. C. (Herman Cyril) McNeile + +Release Date: May 25, 2011 [EBook #36211] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MEN, WOMEN AND GUNS *** + + + + +Produced by Moti Ben-Ari and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was +produced from images generously made available by The +Internet Archive) + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<h1>MEN, WOMEN AND GUNS</h1> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_i" id="Page_i">[i]</a></span></p> +<h2>"SAPPER"</h2> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_ii" id="Page_ii">[ii]</a></span></p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_iii" id="Page_iii">[iii]</a></span></p> +<h1>MEN, WOMEN AND GUNS</h1> + +<h4>BY</h4> +<h2>"SAPPER"</h2> +<h4>AUTHOR OF "MICHAEL CASSIDY, SERGEANT"</h4> + +<div class="center"> +NEW YORK<br /> +GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY +</div> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<div class="center"> +<span class="smcap">Copyright, 1916, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_iv" id="Page_iv">[iv]</a></span><br /> +By George H. Doran Company</span><br /> +<br /> +PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA +</div> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_v" id="Page_v">[v]</a></span></p> +<div class="center"> +TO<br /> +MY WIFE<br /> +</div> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_vi" id="Page_vi">[vi]</a></span></p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_vii" id="Page_vii">[vii]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS"></a>CONTENTS</h2> + + +<div class="center"> +<table border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" summary=""> +<tr><td align="right"></td><td align="left"></td><td align="right">PAGE</td></tr> +<tr><td align="left" colspan="2"><span class="smcap">Prologue</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_xi">xi</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="center" colspan="3">PART ONE</td></tr> +<tr><td align="left" colspan="3">CHAPTER</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">I.</td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">The Motor-Gun</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_23">23</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">II.</td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Private Meyrick—Company Idiot</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_49">49</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">III.</td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Spud Trevor of the Red Hussars</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_77">77</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">IV.</td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">The Fatal Second</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_99">99</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">V.</td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Jim Brent's V.C.</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_121">121</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">VI.</td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Retribution</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_155">155</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">VII.</td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">The Death Grip</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_183">183</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">VIII.</td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">James Henry</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_211">211</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="center" colspan="3"> </td></tr> +<tr><td align="center" colspan="3">PART TWO</td></tr> +<tr><td align="center" colspan="3">THE LAND OF THE TOPSY TURVY</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">I.</td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">The Grey House</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_237">237</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">II.</td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">The Women and—the Men</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_243">243</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">III.</td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">The Woman and the Man</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_249">249</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">IV.</td><td align="left">"<span class="smcap">The Regiment</span>"</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_257">257</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">V.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_viii" id="Page_viii">[viii]</a></span></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">The Contrast</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_265">265</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">VI.</td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Black, White, and—Grey</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_271">271</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">VII.</td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Archie and Others</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_287">287</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">VIII.</td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">On the Staff</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_291">291</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">IX.</td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">No Answer</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_299">299</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">X.</td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">The Madness</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_305">305</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">XI.</td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">The Grey House Again</span></td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_311">311</a></td></tr> +</table> +</div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_ix" id="Page_ix">[ix]</a></span></p> +<h2>PROLOGUE</h2> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_x" id="Page_x">[x]</a></span></p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xi" id="Page_xi">[xi]</a></span></p> +<h2>PROLOGUE</h2> + +<p>Two days ago a dear old aunt of mine asked me +to describe to her what shrapnel was like.</p> + +<p>"What does it feel like to be shelled?" she demanded. +"Explain it to me."</p> + +<p>Under the influence of my deceased uncle's most +excellent port I did so. Soothed and in that expansive +frame of mind induced by the old and bold, I drew her +a picture—vivid, startling, wonderful. And when I +had finished, the dear old lady looked at me.</p> + +<p>"Dreadful!" she murmured. "Did I ever tell you +of the terrible experience I had on the front at Eastbourne, +when my bath-chair attendant became inebriated +and upset me?"</p> + +<p>Slowly and sorrowfully I finished the decanter—and +went to bed.</p> + +<p>But seriously, my masters, it is a hard thing that +my aunt asked of me. There are many things worse +than shelling—the tea-party you find in progress on +your arrival on leave; the utterances of war experts; +the non-arrival of the whisky from England. But all +of those can be imagined by people who have not suffered;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xii" id="Page_xii">[xii]</a></span> +they have a standard, a measure of comparison. +Shelling—no.</p> + +<p>The explosion of a howitzer shell near you is a definite, +actual fact—which is unlike any other fact in the +world, except the explosion of another howitzer shell +still nearer. Many have attempted to describe the noise +it makes as the most explainable part about it. And +then you're no wiser.</p> + +<p>Listen. Stand with me at the Menin Gate of Ypres +and listen. Through a cutting a train is roaring on +its way. Rapidly it rises in a great swelling crescendo +as it dashes into the open, and then its journey stops +on some giant battlement—stops in a peal of deafening +thunder just overhead. The shell has burst, and +the echoes in that town of death die slowly away—reverberating +like a sullen sea that lashes against a +rock-bound coast.</p> + +<p>And yet what does it convey to anyone who +patronises inebriated bath-chair men? ...</p> + +<p>Similarly—shrapnel! "The Germans were searching +the road with 'whizz-bangs.'" A common remark, +an ordinary utterance in a letter, taken by fond parents +as an unpleasing affair such as the cook giving notice.</p> + +<p>Come with me to a spot near Ypres; come, and we +will take our evening walk together.</p> + +<p>"They're a bit lively farther up the road, sir." The +corporal of military police stands gloomily at a cross-roads,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xiii" id="Page_xiii">[xiii]</a></span> +his back against a small wayside shrine. A +passing shell unroofed it many weeks ago; it stands +there surrounded by débris—the image of the Virgin, +chipped and broken. Just a little monument of desolation +in a ruined country, but pleasant to lean against +when it's between you and German guns.</p> + +<p>Let us go on, it's some way yet before we reach the +dug-out by the third dead horse. In front of us +stretches a long, straight road, flanked on each side by +poplars. In the middle there is pavé. At intervals, a +few small holes, where the stones have been shattered +and hurled away by a bursting shell and only the +muddy grit remains hollowed out to a depth of two +feet or so, half-full of water. At the bottom an empty +tin of bully, ammunition clips, numbers of biscuits—sodden +and muddy. Altogether a good obstacle to take +with the front wheel of a car at night.</p> + +<p>A little farther on, beside the road, in a ruined, desolate +cottage two men are resting for a while, smoking. +The dirt and mud of the trenches is thick on them, and +one of them is contemplatively scraping his boot with +his knife and fork. Otherwise, not a soul, not a living +soul in sight; though away to the left front, through +glasses, you can see two people, a man and a woman, +labouring in the fields. And the only point of interest +about them is that between you and them run the two +motionless, stagnant lines of men who for months have<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xiv" id="Page_xiv">[xiv]</a></span> +faced one another. Those two labourers are on the +other side of the German trenches.</p> + +<p>The setting sun is glinting on the little crumbling +village two or three hundred yards ahead, and as you +walk towards it in the still evening air your steps ring +loud on the pavé. On each side the flat, neglected fields +stretch away from the road; the drains beside it are +choked with weeds and refuse; and here and there one +of the gaunt trees, split in two half-way up by a shell, +has crashed into its neighbour or fallen to the ground. +A peaceful summer's evening which seems to give the +lie to our shrine-leaner. And yet, to one used to the +peace of England, it seems almost too quiet, almost +unnatural.</p> + +<p>Suddenly, out of the blue there comes a sharp, +whizzing noise, and almost before you've heard it there +is a crash, and from the village in front there rises a +cloud of dust. A shell has burst on impact on one +of the few remaining houses; some slates and tiles fall +into the road, and round the hole torn out of the sloping +roof there hangs a whitish-yellow cloud of smoke. +In quick succession come half a dozen more, some +bursting on the ruined cottages as they strike, some +bursting above them in the air. More clouds of dust +rise from the deserted street, small avalanches of débris +cascade into the road, and, above, three or four +thick white smoke-clouds drift slowly across the sky.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xv" id="Page_xv">[xv]</a></span></p> + +<p>This is the moment at which it is well—unless time +is urgent—to pause and reflect awhile. If you <i>must</i> +go on, a détour is strongly to be recommended. The +Germans are shelling the empty village just in front +with shrapnel, and who are you to interpose yourself +between him and his chosen target? But if in no particular +hurry, then it were wise to dally gracefully +against a tree, admiring the setting sun, until he desists; +when you may in safety resume your walk. +<i>But</i>—do not forget that he may not stick to the village, +and that whizz-bangs give no time. That is why I +specified a tree, and not the middle of the road. It's +nearer the ditch.</p> + +<p>Suddenly, without a second's warning, they shift +their target. Whizz-bang! Duck, you blighter! Into +the ditch. Quick! Move! Hang your bottle of white +wine! Get down! Cower! Emulate the mole! This +isn't the village in front now—he's shelling the road +you're standing on! There's one burst on impact in +the middle of the pavé forty yards in front of you, and +another in the air just over your head. And there are +more coming—don't make any mistake. That short, +sharp whizz every few seconds—the bang! bang! bang! +seems to be going on all around you. A thing hums +past up in the air, with a whistling noise, leaving a trail +of sparks behind it—one of the fuses. Later, the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xvi" id="Page_xvi">[xvi]</a></span> +curio-hunter may find it nestling by a turnip. He may +have it.</p> + +<p>With a vicious thud a jagged piece of shell buries +itself in the ground at your feet; and almost simultaneously +the bullets from a well-burst one cut through +the trees above you and ping against the road, thudding +into the earth around. No more impact ones—they've +got the range. Our pessimistic friend at the cross-roads +spoke the truth; they're quite lively. Everything +bursting beautifully above the road about forty feet +up. Bitter thought—if only the blighters knew that it +was empty save for your wretched and unworthy self +cowering in a ditch, with a bottle of white wine in your +pocket and your head down a rat-hole, surely they +wouldn't waste their ammunition so reprehensibly!</p> + +<p>Then, suddenly, they stop, and as the last white puff +of smoke drifts slowly away you cautiously lift your +head and peer towards the village. Have they finished? +Will it be safe to resume your interrupted +promenade in a dignified manner? Or will you give +them another minute or two? Almost have you decided +to do so when to your horror you perceive coming +towards you through the village itself two officers. +What a position to be discovered in! True, only the +very young or the mentally deficient scorn cover when +shelling is in progress. But of course, just at the +moment when you'd welcome a shell to account for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xvii" id="Page_xvii">[xvii]</a></span> +your propinquity with the rat-hole, the blighters have +stopped. No sound breaks the stillness, save the steps +ringing towards you—and it looks silly to be found +in a ditch for no apparent reason.</p> + +<p>Then, as suddenly as before comes salvation. Just +as with infinite stealth you endeavour to step out nonchalantly +from behind a tree, as if you were part of +the scenery—bang! crash! from in front. Cheer-oh! +the village again, the church this time. A shower of +bricks and mortar comes down like a landslip, and if +you are quick you may just see two black streaks go +to ground. From the vantage-point of your tree you +watch a salvo of shells explode in, on, or about the +temporary abode of those two officers. You realise +from what you know of the Hun that this salvo probably +concludes the evening hate; and the opportunity +is too good to miss. Edging rapidly along the road—keeping +close to the ditch—you approach the houses. +Your position, you feel, is now strategically sound, +with regard to the wretched pair cowering behind +rubble heaps. You even desire revenge for your mental +anguish when discovery in the rodent's lair seemed +certain. So light a cigarette—if you didn't drop them +all when you went to ground yourself; if you did—whistle +some snappy tune as you stride jauntily into +the village.</p> + +<p>Don't go too fast or you may miss them; but should<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xviii" id="Page_xviii">[xviii]</a></span> +you see a head peer from behind a kitchen-range express +no surprise. Just—"Toppin' evening, ain't it? +Getting furniture for the dug-out—what?" To linger +is bad form, but it is quite permissible to ask his companion—seated +in a torn-up drain—if the ratting is +good. Then pass on in a leisurely manner, <i>but</i>—when +you're round the corner, run like a hare. With these +cursed Germans, you never know.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Night—and a working-party stretching away over +a ploughed field are digging a communication trench. +The great green flares lob up half a mile away, a +watery moon shines on the bleak scene. Suddenly a +noise like the tired sigh of some great giant, a scorching +sheet of flame that leaps at you out of the darkness, +searing your very brain, so close does it seem; +the ping of death past your head; the clatter of shovel +and pick next you as a muttered curse proclaims a +man is hit; a voice from down the line: "Gawd! Old +Ginger's took it. 'Old up, mate. Say, blokes, Ginger's +done in!" Aye—it's worse at night.</p> + +<p>Shrapnel! Woolly, fleecy puffs of smoke floating +gently down wind, getting more and more attenuated, +gradually disappearing, while below each puff an oval +of ground has been plastered with bullets. And it's +when the ground inside the oval is full of men that +the damage is done.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xix" id="Page_xix">[xix]</a></span></p> + +<p>Not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xx" id="Page_xx">[xx]</a></span> you perhaps—but someone. Next time—maybe +you. +</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>And that, methinks, is an epitome of other things +besides shrapnel. It's <i>all</i> the war to the men who fight +and the women who wait.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[21]</a></span></p> +<h2>PART ONE</h2> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[22]</a></span></p> + + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[23]</a></span></p> +<h2>PART ONE</h2> + +<h2>CHAPTER I</h2> + +<h3>THE MOTOR-GUN</h3> + + +<p>Nothing in this war has so struck those who +have fought in it as its impersonal nature. +From the day the British Army moved north, and the +first battle of Ypres commenced—and with it trench +warfare as we know it now—it has been, save for a +few interludes, a contest between automatons, backed +by every known scientific device. Personal rancour +against the opposing automatons separated by twenty +or thirty yards of smelling mud—who stew in the +same discomfort as yourself—is apt to give way to +an acute animosity against life in general, and the +accursed fate in particular which so foolishly decided +your sex at birth. But, though rare, there have been +cases of isolated encounters, where men—with the +blood running hot in their veins—have got down to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[24]</a></span> +hand-grips, and grappling backwards and forwards in +some cellar or dugout, have fought to the death, man +to man, as of old. Such a case has recently come to +my knowledge, a case at once bizarre and unique: a +case where the much-exercised arm of coincidence +showed its muscles to a remarkable degree. Only quite +lately have I found out all the facts, and now at Dick +O'Rourke's special request I am putting them on paper. +True, they are intended to reach the eyes of +one particular person, but ... the personal column +in the <i>Times</i> interests others besides the lady in the +magenta skirt, who will eat a banana at 3.30 daily by +the Marble Arch!</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>And now, at the very outset of my labours, I find +myself—to my great alarm—committed to the placing +on paper of a love scene. O'Rourke insists upon it: +he says the whole thing will fall flat if I don't put it +in; he promises that he will supply the local colour. +In advance I apologise: my own love affairs are sufficiently +trying without endeavouring to describe his—and +with that, here goes.</p> + +<p>I will lift my curtain on the principals of this little +drama, and open the scene at Ciro's in London. On the +evening of April 21st, 1915, in the corner of that delectable +resort, farthest away from the coon band, sat +Dickie O'Rourke. That afternoon he had stepped<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[25]</a></span> +from the boat at Folkestone on seven days' leave, and +now in the boiled shirt of respectability he once again +smelled the smell of London.</p> + +<p>With him was a girl. I have never seen her, but +from his description I cannot think that I have lived +until this oversight is rectified. Moreover, my lady, +as this is written especially for your benefit, I hereby +warn you that I propose to remedy my omission as +soon as possible.</p> + +<p>And yet with a band that is second to none; with +food wonderful and divine; with the choicest fruit of +the grape, and—to top all—with the girl, Dickie did +not seem happy. As he says, it was not to be wondered +at. He had landed at Folkestone meaning to +propose; he had carried out his intention over the +fish—and after that the dinner had lost its savour. +She had refused him—definitely and finally; and Dick +found himself wishing for France again—France and +forgetfulness. Only he knew he'd never forget.</p> + +<p>"The dinner is to monsieur's taste?" The head-waiter +paused attentively by the table.</p> + +<p>"Very good," growled Dick, looking savagely at +an ice on his plate. "Oh, Moyra," he muttered, as +the man passed on, "it's meself is finished entoirely. +And I was feeling that happy on the boat; as I saw +the white cliffs coming nearer and nearer, I said to +meself, 'Dick, me boy, in just four hours you'll be<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[26]</a></span> +with the dearest, sweetest girl that God ever sent from +the heavens to brighten the lives of dull dogs like +yourself.'"</p> + +<p>"You're not dull, Dick. You're not to say those +things—you're a dear." The girl's eyes seemed a bit +misty as she bent over her plate.</p> + +<p>"And now!" He looked at her pleadingly. "'Tis +the light has gone out of my life. Ah! me dear, is +there no hope for Dickie O'Rourke? Me estate is +mostly bog, and the ould place has fallen down, saving +only the stable—but there's the breath of the seas +that comes over the heather in the morning, and there's +the violet of your dear eyes in the hills. It's not worrying +you that I'd be—but is there no hope at all, at +all?"</p> + +<p>The girl turned towards him, smiling a trifle sadly. +There was woman's pity in the lovely eyes: her lips +were trembling a little. "Dear old Dick," she whispered, +and her hand rested lightly on his for a moment. +"Dear old Dick, I'm sorry. If I'd only known +sooner——" She broke off abruptly and fell to gazing +at the floor.</p> + +<p>"Then there is someone else!" The man spoke almost +fiercely.</p> + +<p>Slowly she nodded her head, but she did not speak.</p> + +<p>"Who is it?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[27]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I don't know that you've got any right to ask me +that, Dick," she answered, a little proudly.</p> + +<p>"What's the talk of right between you and me? Do +you suppose I'll let any cursed social conventions stand +between me and the woman I love?" She could see +his hand trembling, though outwardly he seemed quite +calm. And then his voice dropped to a tender, pleading +note—and again the soft, rich brogue of the Irishman +crept in—that wonderful tone that brings with +it the music of the fairies from the hazy blue hills of +Connemara.</p> + +<p>"Acushla mine," he whispered, "would I be hurting +a hair of your swate head, or bringing a tear to them +violet pools ye calls your eyes? 'Tis meself that is +in the wrong entoirely—but, mavourneen, I just worship +you. And the thought of the other fellow is +driving me crazy. Will ye not be telling me his +name?"</p> + +<p>"Dick, I can't," she whispered, piteously. "You +wouldn't understand."</p> + +<p>"And why would I not understand?" he answered, +grimly. "Is it something shady he has done to +you?—for if it is, by the Holy Mother, I'll murder +him."</p> + +<p>"No, no, it's nothing shady. But I can't tell you, +Dick; and oh, Dick! I'm just wretched, and I don't +know what to do." The tears were very near.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[28]</a></span> +A whimsical look came into his face as he watched +her. "Moyra, me dear; 'tis about ten shillings apiece +we're paying for them ices; and if you splash them +with your darling tears, the chef will give notice and +that coon with the banjo will strike work."</p> + +<p>"You dear, Dick," she whispered, after a moment, +while a smile trembled round her mouth. "I nearly +made a fool of myself."</p> + +<p>"Divil a bit," he answered. "But let us be after discussing +them two fair things yonder while we gets on +with the ices. 'Tis the most suitable course for contemplating +the dears; and, anyway, we'll take no more +risks until we're through with them."</p> + +<p>And so with a smile on his lips and a jest on his +tongue did a gallant gentleman cover the ache in his +heart and the pain in his eyes, and felt more than rewarded +by the look of thanks he got. It was not for +him to ask for more than she would freely give; and +if there was another man—well, he was a lucky dog. +But if he'd played the fool—yes, by Heaven! if he'd +played the fool, that was a different pair of shoes altogether. +His forehead grew black at the thought, and +mechanically his fists clenched.</p> + +<p>"Dick, I'd like to tell you just how things are."</p> + +<p>He pulled himself together and looked at the girl.</p> + +<p>"It is meself that is at your service, my lady," he +answered, quietly.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[29]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I'm engaged. But it's a secret."</p> + +<p>His jaw dropped, "Engaged!" he faltered. "But—who +to? And why is it a secret?"</p> + +<p>"I can't tell you who to. I promised to keep it +secret; and then he suddenly went away and the war +broke out and I've never seen him since."</p> + +<p>"But you've heard from him?"</p> + +<p>She bit her lip and looked away. "Not a line," she +faltered.</p> + +<p>"But—I don't understand." His tone was infinitely +tender. "Why hasn't he written to you? Violet girl, +why would he not have written?"</p> + +<p>"You see, he's a——" She seemed to be nerving +herself to speak. "You see, he's a German!"</p> + +<p>It was out at last.</p> + +<p>"Mother of God!" Dick leaned back in his chair, +his eyes fixed on her, his cigarette unheeded, burning +the tablecloth. "Do you love him?"</p> + +<p>"Yes." The whispered answer was hardly audible. +"Oh, Dick, I wonder if you can understand. It all +came so suddenly, and then there was this war, and I +know it's awful to love a German, but I do, and I can't +tell anyone but you; they'd think it horrible of me. +Oh, Dick! tell me you understand."</p> + +<p>"I understand, little girl," he answered, very slowly. +"I understand."</p> + +<p>It was all very involved and infinitely pathetic. But,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[30]</a></span> +as I have said before, Dick O'Rourke was a gallant +gentleman.</p> + +<p>"It's not his fault he's a German," she went on after +a while. "He didn't start the war—and, you see, I +promised him."</p> + +<p>That was the rub—she'd promised him. Truly a +woman is a wonderful thing! Very gentle and patient +was O'Rourke with her that evening, and when at last +he turned into his club, he sat for a long while gazing +into the fire. Just once a muttered curse escaped his +lips.</p> + +<p>"Did you speak?" said the man in the next chair.</p> + +<p>"I did <i>not</i>," said O'Rourke, and getting up abruptly +he went to bed.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>At 3 p.m. on April 22nd Dick O'Rourke received a +wire. It was short and to the point. "Leave cancelled. +Return at once." He tore round to Victoria, +found he'd missed the boat-train, and went down to +Folkestone on chance. For the time Moyra was almost +forgotten. Officers are not recalled from short +leave without good and sufficient reason; and as yet +there was nothing in the evening papers that showed +any activity. At Folkestone he met other officers—also +recalled; and when the boat came in rumours began +to spread. The whole line had fallen back—the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[31]</a></span> +Germans were through and marching on Calais—a +ghastly defeat had been sustained.</p> + +<p>The morning papers were a little more reassuring; +and in them for the first time came the mention of the +word "gas." Everything was vague, but that something +had happened was obvious, and also that that +something was pretty serious.</p> + +<p>One p.m. on the 23rd found him at Boulogne, ramping +like a bull. An unemotional railway transport officer +told him that there was a very nice train starting at +midnight, but that the leave train was cancelled.</p> + +<p>"But, man!" howled O'Rourke, "I've been recalled. +'Tis urgent!" He brandished the wire in his face.</p> + +<p>The R.T.O. remained unmoved, and intimated that +he was busy, and that O'Rourke's private history left +him quite cold. Moreover, he thought it possible that +the British Army might survive without him for another +day.</p> + +<p>In the general confusion that ensued on his replying +that the said R.T.O. was no doubt a perfect devil as a +traveller for unshrinkable underclothes, but that his +knowledge of the British Army might be written on a +postage-stamp, O'Rourke escaped, and ensconcing himself +near the barrier, guarded by French sentries, at +the top of the hill leading to St. Omer, he waited for a +motor-car.</p> + +<p>Having stopped two generals and been consigned<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[32]</a></span> +elsewhere for his pains, he ultimately boarded a flying +corps lorry, and 4 p.m. found him at St. Omer. And +there—but we will whisper—was a relative—one of +the exalted ones of the earth, who possessed many +motor-cars, great and small.</p> + +<p>Dick chose the second Rolls-Royce, and having pursued +his unit to the farm where he'd left it two days +before, he chivied it round the country, and at length +traced it to Poperinghe.</p> + +<p>And there he found things moving. As yet no one +was quite sure what had happened; but he found a +solemn conclave of Army Service Corps officers attached +to his division, and from them he gathered +twenty or thirty of the conflicting rumours that were +flying round. One thing, anyway, was clear: the +Huns were not triumphantly marching on Calais—yet. +It was just as a charming old boy of over fifty, who +had perjured his soul over his age and had been out +since the beginning—a standing reproach to a large +percentage of the so-called youth of England—it was +just as he suggested a little dinner in that hospitable +town, prior to going up with the supply lorries, that +with a droning roar a twelve-inch shell came crashing +into the square....</p> + +<p>That night at 11 p.m. Dick stepped out of another +car into a ploughed field just behind the little village +of Woesten, and, having trodden on his major's face<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[33]</a></span> +and unearthed his servant, lay down by the dying fire +to get what sleep he could. Now and again a horse +whinnied near by; a bit rattled, a man cursed; for the +unit was ready to move at a moment's notice and the +horses were saddled up. The fire died out—from close +by a battery was firing, and the sky was dancing with +the flashes of bursting shells like summer lightning +flickering in the distance. And with his head on a +sharp stone and another in his back Dick O'Rourke fell +asleep and dreamed of—but dreams are silly things to +describe. It was just as he'd thrown the hors-d'œuvres +at the head-waiter of Ciro's, who had suddenly become +the hated German rival, and was wiping the potato +salad off Moyra's face, which it had hit by mistake, +with the table-cloth, that with a groan he turned +on his other side—only to exchange the stones for a +sardine tin and a broken pickle bottle. Which is really +no more foolish than the rest of life nowadays....</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>And now for a moment I must go back and, leaving +our hero, describe shortly the events that led up to the +sending of the wire that recalled him.</p> + +<p>Early in the morning of April 22nd the Germans +launched at that part of the French line which lay +in front of the little villages of Elverdinge and Brielen, +a yellowish-green cloud of gas, which rolled slowly +over the intervening ground between the trenches,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[34]</a></span> +carried on its way by a faint, steady breeze. I do +not intend to describe the first use of that infamous +invention—it has been done too often before. But, +for the proper understanding of what follows, it +is essential for me to go into a few details. Utterly +unprepared for what was to come, the French divisions +gazed for a short while spellbound at the strange +phenomenon they saw coming slowly towards them. +Like some liquid the heavy-coloured vapour poured +relentlessly into the trenches, filled them, and passed +on. For a few seconds nothing happened; the sweet-smelling +stuff merely tickled their nostrils; they failed +to realise the danger. Then, with inconceivable rapidity, +the gas worked, and blind panic spread. Hundreds, +after a dreadful fight for air, became unconscious +and died where they lay—a death of hideous +torture, with the frothing bubbles gurgling in their +throats and the foul liquid welling up in their lungs. +With blackened faces and twisted limbs one by one +they drowned—only that which drowned them came +from inside and not from out. Others, staggering, +falling, lurching on, and of their ignorance keeping +pace with the gas, went back. A hail of rifle-fire and +shrapnel mowed them down, and the line was broken. +There was nothing on the British left—their flank +was up in the air. The north-east corner of the +salient round Ypres had been pierced. From in front<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[35]</a></span> +of St. Julian, away up north towards Boesienge, there +was no one in front of the Germans.</p> + +<p>It is not my intention to do more than mention +the rushing up of the cavalry corps and the Indians +to fill the gap; the deathless story of the Canadians +who, surrounded and hemmed in, fought till they +died against overwhelming odds; the fate of the +Northumbrian division—fresh from home—who were +rushed up in support, and the field behind Fortuin +where they were caught by shrapnel, and what was +left. These things are outside the scope of my story. +Let us go back to the gap.</p> + +<p>Hard on the heels of the French came the Germans +advancing. For a mile or so they pushed on, and +why they stopped when they did is—as far as I am +concerned—one of life's little mysteries. Perhaps +the utter success of their gas surprised even them; +perhaps they anticipated some trap; perhaps the incredible +heroism of the Canadians in hanging up the +German left caused their centre to push on too far +and lose touch; perhaps—but, why speculate? I don't +know, though possibly those in High Places may. The +fact remains they did stop; their advantage was lost +and the situation was saved.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Such was the state of affairs when O'Rourke +opened his eyes on the morning of Saturday, April<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[36]</a></span> +24th. The horses were dimly visible through the +heavy mist, his blankets were wringing wet, and hazily +he wondered why he had ever been born. Then the +cook dropped the bacon in the fire, and he groaned +with anguish; visions of yesterday's grilled kidneys +and hot coffee rose before him and mocked. By six +o'clock he had fed, and sitting on an overturned biscuit-box +beside the road he watched three batteries +of French 75's pass by and disappear in the distance. +At intervals he longed to meet the man who invented +war. It must be remembered that, though I have +given the situation as it really was, for the better +understanding of the story, the facts at the time +were not known at all clearly. The fog of war still +wrapped in oblivion—as far as regimental officers +were concerned, at any rate—the events which were +taking place within a few miles of them.</p> + +<p>When, therefore, Dick O'Rourke perceived an unshaven +and unwashed warrior, garbed as a gunner +officer, coming down the road from Woesten, and, +moreover, recognised him as one of his own term at +the "Shop," known to his intimates as the Land Crab, +he hailed him with joy.</p> + +<p>"All hail, oh, crustacean!" he cried, as the other +came abreast of him. "Whither dost walk so +blithely?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[37]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Halloa, Dick!" The gunner paused. "You haven't +seen my major anywhere, have you?"</p> + +<p>"Not that I'm aware of, but as I don't know your +major from Adam, my evidence may not be reliable. +What news from the seat of war?"</p> + +<p>"None that I know of—except this cursed gun, +that is rapidly driving me to drink."</p> + +<p>"What cursed gun? I am fresh from Ciro's and +the haunts of love and ease. Expound to me your +enigma, my Land Crab."</p> + +<p>"Haven't you heard? When the Germans——"</p> + +<p>He stopped suddenly. "Listen!" Perfectly clear from +the woods to the north of them—the woods that lie +to the west of the Woesten-Oostvleteren road, for +those who may care for maps—there came the distinctive +boom! crack! of a smallish gun. Three more +shots, and then silence. The gunner turned to Dick.</p> + +<p>"There you are—that's the gun."</p> + +<p>"But how nice! Only, why curse it?"</p> + +<p>"Principally because it's German; and those four +shots that you have just heard have by this time burst +in Poperinghe."</p> + +<p>"What!" O'Rourke looked at him in amazement. +"Is it my leg you would be pulling?"</p> + +<p>"Certainly not. When the Germans came on in +the first blind rush after the French two small guns +on motor mountings got through behind our lines.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[38]</a></span> +One was completely wrecked with its detachment +The motor mounting of the other you can see lying +in a pond about a mile up the road. The gun is +there." He pointed to the wood.</p> + +<p>"And the next!" said O'Rourke. "D'you mean +to tell me that there is a German gun in that wood +firing at Poperinghe? Why, hang it, man! it's three +miles behind our lines."</p> + +<p>"Taking the direction those shells are coming from, +the distance from Poperinghe to that gun must be +more than ten miles—if the gun is behind the German +trenches. Your gunnery is pretty rotten, I know, but +if you know of any two-inch gun that shoots ten +miles, I'll be obliged if you'll give me some lessons." +The gunner lit a cigarette. "Man, we know it's not +one of ours, we know where they all are; we know it's +a Hun."</p> + +<p>"Then, what in the name of fortune are ye standing +here for talking like an ould woman with the +indigestion? Away with you, and lead us to him, +and don't go chivying after your bally major." Dick +shouted for his revolver. "If there's a gun in that +wood, bedad! we'll gun it."</p> + +<p>"My dear old flick," said the other, "don't get +excited. The woods have been searched with a line +of men—twice; and devil the sign of the gun. You +don't suppose they've got a concrete mounting and the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[39]</a></span> +Prussian flag flying on a pole, do you? The detachment +are probably dressed as Belgian peasants, and +the gun is dismounted and hidden when it's not firing."</p> + +<p>But O'Rourke would have none of it. "Get off +to your major, then, and have your mothers' meeting. +Then come back to me, and I'll give you the gun. +And borrow a penknife and cut your beard—you'll +be after frightening the natives."</p> + +<p>That evening a couple of shots rang out from the +same wood, two of the typical shots of a small gun. +And then there was silence. A group of men standing +by an estaminet on the road affirmed to having +heard three faint shots afterwards like the crack of +a sporting-gun or revolver; but in the general turmoil +of an evening hate which was going on at the +same time no one thought much about it. Half an +hour later Dick O'Rourke returned, and there was +a strange look in his eyes. His coat was torn, his +collar and shirt were ripped open, and his right eye +was gradually turning black. Of his doings he would +vouchsafe no word. Only, as we sat down round the +fire to dinner, the gunner subaltern of the morning +passed again up the road.</p> + +<p>"Got the gun yet, Dick?" he chaffed.</p> + +<p>"I have that," answered O'Rourke, "also the detachment."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[40]</a></span></p> + +<p>The Land Crab paused. "Where are they?"</p> + +<p>"The gun is in a pond where you won't find it, and +the detachment are dead—except one who escaped."</p> + +<p>"Yes, I don't think." The gunner laughed and +passed on.</p> + +<p>"You needn't," answered Dick, "but that gun will +never fire again."</p> + +<p>It never did. As I say, he would answer no +questions, and even amongst the few people who had +heard of the thing at all, it soon passed into the limbo +of forgotten things. Other and weightier matters +were afoot; the second battle of Ypres did not leave +much time for vague conjecture. And so when, a +few days ago, the question was once again recalled +to my mind by no less a person than O'Rourke himself, +I had to dig in the archives of memory for the +remembrance of an incident of which I had well-nigh +lost sight.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>"You remember that gun, Bill," he remarked, lying +back in the arm-chair of the farmhouse where we +were billeted, and sipping some hot rum—"that German +gun that got through in April and bombarded +Poperinghe? I want to talk to you about that gun." +He started filling his pipe.</p> + +<p>"'Tis the hardest proposition I've ever been up +against, and sure I don't know what to do at all."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[41]</a></span> +He was staring at the fire. "You remember the +Land Crab and how he told us the woods had been +searched? Well, it didn't take a superhuman brainstorm +to realise that if what he said was right and +the Huns were dressed as Belgian peasants, and the +gun was a little one, that a line of men going through +the woods had about as much chance of finding them +as a terrier has of catching a tadpole in the water. +I says to myself, 'Dick, my boy, this is an occasion +for stealth, for delicate work, for finesse.' So off I +went on my lonesome and hid in the wood. I argued +that they couldn't be keeping a permanent watch, +and that even if they'd seen me come in, they'd think +in time I had gone out again, when they noticed no +further sign of me. Also I guessed they didn't want +to stir up a hornet's nest about their ears by killing me—they +wanted no vulgar glare of publicity upon their +doings. So, as I say, I hid in a hole and waited. I +got bored stiff; though, when all was said and done, +it wasn't much worse than sitting in that blessed +ploughed field beside the road. About five o'clock +I started cursing myself for a fool in listening to the +story at all, it all seemed so ridiculous. Not a sound +in the woods, not a breath of wind in the trees. The +guns weren't firing, just for the time everything was +peaceful. I'd got a caterpillar down my neck, and +I was just coming back to get a drink and chuck it<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[42]</a></span> +up, when suddenly a Belgian labourer popped out +from behind a tree. There was nothing peculiar about +him, and if it hadn't been for the Land Crab's story +I'd never have given him a second thought. He was +just picking up sticks, but as I watched him I noticed +that every now and then he straightened himself up, +and seemed to peer around as if he was searching +the undergrowth. The next minute out came another, +and he started the stick-picking stunt too."</p> + +<p>Dick paused to relight his pipe, then he laughed. +"Of course, the humour of the situation couldn't help +striking me. Dick O'Rourke in a filthy hole, covered +with branches and bits of dirt, watching two mangy +old Belgians picking up wood. But, having stood it +the whole day, I made up my mind to wait, at any +rate, till night. If only I could catch the gun in action—even +if the odds were too great for me alone—I'd +be able to spot the hiding-place, and come back later +with a party and round them up.</p> + +<p>"Then suddenly the evening hate started—artillery +from all over the place—and with it the Belgian +labourers ceased from plucking sticks. Running down +a little path, so close to me that I could almost touch +him, came one of them. He stopped about ten yards +away where the dense undergrowth finished, and, +after looking cautiously round, waved his hand. The +other one nipped behind a tree and called out something<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[43]</a></span> +in a guttural tone of voice. And then, I give +you my word, out of the bowels of the earth there +popped up a little gun not twenty yards from where +I'd been lying the whole day. By this time, of course, +I was in the same sort of condition as a terrier is +when he's seen the cat he has set his heart on shin up +a tree, having missed her tail by half an inch.</p> + +<p>"They clapped her on a little mounting quick as +light, laid her, loaded, and, by the holy saints! under +my very nose, loosed off a present for Poperinghe. +The man on guard waved his hand again, and bedad! +away went another. The next instant he was back, +again an exclamation in German, and in about two +shakes the whole thing had disappeared, and there +were the two labourers picking sticks. I give you my +word it was like a clown popping up in a pantomime +through a trap-door; I had to pinch myself to make +certain I was awake.</p> + +<p>"The next instant into the clearing came two English +soldiers, the reason evidently of the sudden dismantling. +Had they been armed we'd have had at +them then and there; but, of course, so far behind the +trenches, they had no rifles. They just peered round, +saw the Belgians, and went off again. I heard their +steps dying away in the distance, and decided to wait +a bit longer. The two men seemed to be discussing +what to do, and ultimately moved behind the tree<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[44]</a></span> +again, where I could hear them talking. At last they +came to a decision, and picking up their bundles of +sticks came slowly down the path past me. They +were not going to fire again that evening."</p> + +<p>Dick smiled reminiscently. "Bill, pass the rum. +I'm thirsty."</p> + +<p>"What did you do, Dick?" I asked, eagerly.</p> + +<p>"What d'you think? I was out like a knife and +let drive with my hand-gun. I killed the first one +as dead as mutton, and missed the second, who shot +like a stag into the undergrowth. Gad! It was +great. I put two more where I thought he was, but +as I still heard him crashing on I must have missed +him. Then I nipped round the tree to find the gun. +The only thing there was a great hole full of leaves. +I ploughed across it, thinking it must be the other +side, when, without a word of warning, I fell through +the top—bang through the top, my boy, of the neatest +hiding-place you've ever thought of. The whole of +the centre of those leaves was a fake. There were +about two inches of them supported on light hurdle-work. +I was in the robber's cave with a vengeance."</p> + +<p>"Was the gun there?" I cried, excitedly.</p> + +<p>"It was. Also the Hun. The gun of small variety; +the Hun of large—very large. I don't know which +of us was the more surprised—him or me; we just +stood gazing at one another.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[45]</a></span></p> + +<p>"'Halloa, Englishman,' he said; 'come to leave a +card?'</p> + +<p>"'Quite right, Boche,' I answered. 'A p.p.c. one.'</p> + +<p>"I was rather pleased with that touch at the time, +old son. I was just going to elaborate it, and point +out that he—as the dear departing—should really do +it, when he was at me.</p> + +<p>"Bill, my boy, you should have seen that fight. +Like a fool, I never saw his revolver lying on the +table, and I'd shoved my own back in my holster. +He got it in his right hand, and I got his right wrist +in my left. We'd each got the other by the throat, +and one of us was for the count. We each knew that. +At one time I thought he'd got me—we were crashing +backwards and forwards, and I caught my head +against a wooden pole which nearly stunned me. And, +mark you, all the time I was expecting his pal to come +back and inquire after his health. Then suddenly +I felt him weaken, and I squeezed his throat the harder. +It came quite quickly at the end. His pistol-hand collapsed, +and I suppose muscular contraction pulled the +trigger, for the bullet went through his head, though +I think he was dead already." Dick O'Rourke paused, +and looked thoughtfully into the fire.</p> + +<p>"But why in the name of Heaven," I cried, irritably, +"have you kept this dark all the while? Why didn't +you tell us at the time?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[46]</a></span></p> + +<p>For a while he did not answer, and then he produced +his pocket-book. From it he took a photograph, +which he handed to me.</p> + +<p>"Out of that German's pocket I took that photograph."</p> + +<p>"Well," I said, "what about it? A very pretty +girl for a German." Then I looked at it closely. +"Why, it was taken in England. Is it an English +girl?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," he answered, dryly, "it is. It's Moyra +Kavanagh, whom I proposed to forty-eight hours +previously at Ciro's. She refused me, and told me +then she was in love with a German. I celebrate the +news by coming over here and killing him, in an +individual fight where it was man to man."</p> + +<p>"But," I cried, "good heavens! man—it was you +or he."</p> + +<p>"I know that," he answered, wearily. "What then? +He evidently loved her; if not—why the photo. Look +at what's written on the back—'From Moyra—with +all my love.' All her love. Lord! it's a rum box up." +He sighed wearily and slowly replaced it in his case. +"So I buried him, and I chucked his gun in a pond, +and said nothing about it. If I had it would probably +have got into the papers or some such rot, and she'd +have wanted to know all about it. Think of it! +What the deuce would I have told her? To sympathise<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[47]</a></span> +and discuss her love affairs with her in London, +and then toddle over here and slaughter him. Dash +it, man, it's Gilbertian! And, mark you, nothing +would induce me to marry her—even if she'd have me—without +her knowing."</p> + +<p>"But—-" I began, and then fell silent. The more +I thought of it the less I liked it. Put it how you +like, for a girl to take as her husband a man who has +actually killed the man she loved and was engaged +to—German or no German—is a bit of a pill to swallow.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>After mature consideration we decided to present +the pill to her garbed in this form. On me—as a +scribbler of sorts—descended the onus of putting it +on paper. When I'd done it, and Dick had read it, +he said I was a fool, and wanted to tear it up. Which +is like a man....</p> + +<p>Look you, my lady, it was a fair fight—it was war—it +was an Englishman against a German; and the +best man won. And surely to Heaven you can't +blame poor old Dick? He didn't know; how could +he have known, how... but what's the use? If +your heart doesn't bring it right—neither my pen +nor my logic is likely to. Which is like a woman.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[48]</a></span> +</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[49]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER II</h2> + +<h3>PRIVATE MEYRICK—COMPANY IDIOT</h3> + + +<p>No one who has ever given the matter a moment's +thought would deny, I suppose, that a regiment +without discipline is like a ship without a rudder. True +as that fact has always been, it is doubly so now, +when men are exposed to mental and physical shocks +such as have never before been thought of.</p> + +<p>The condition of a man's brain after he has sat +in a trench and suffered an intensive bombardment +for two or three hours can only be described by one +word, and that is—numbed. The actual physical concussion, +apart altogether from the mental terror, +caused by the bursting of a succession of large shells +in a man's vicinity, temporarily robs him of the use +of his thinking faculties. He becomes half-stunned, +dazed; his limbs twitch convulsively and involuntarily; +he mutters foolishly—he becomes incoherent. Starting +with fright he passes through that stage, passes +beyond it into a condition bordering on coma; and +when a man is in that condition he is not responsible +for his actions. His brain has ceased to work....<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[50]</a></span></p> + +<p>Now it is, I believe, a principle of psychology that +the brain or mind of a man can be divided into two +parts—the objective and the subjective: the objective +being that part of his thought-box which is +actuated by outside influences, by his senses, by his +powers of deduction; the subjective being that part +which is not directly controllable by what he sees +and hears, the part which the religious might call +his soul, the Buddhist "the Spark of God," others +instinct. And this portion of a man's nature remains +acutely active, even while the other part has struck +work. In fact, the more numbed and comatose the +thinking brain, the more clearly and insistently does +subjective instinct hold sway over a man's body. +Which all goes to show that discipline, if it is to be +of any use to a man at such a time, must be a very different +type of thing to what the ordinary, uninitiated, +and so-called free civilian believes it to be. It must +be an ideal, a thing where the motive counts, almost +a religion. It must be an appeal to the soul of man, +not merely an order to his body. That the order to +his body, the self-control of his daily actions, the general +change in his mode of life will infallibly follow +on the heels of the appeal to his soul—if that appeal +be successful—is obvious. But the appeal must come +first: it must be the driving power; it must be the +cause and not the effect. Otherwise, when the brain<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[51]</a></span> +is gone—numbed by causes outside its control; when +the reasoning intellect of man is out of action—stunned +for the time; when only his soul remains to +pull the quivering, helpless body through,—then, unless +that soul has the ideal of discipline in it, it <i>will</i> +fail. And failure <i>may</i> mean death and disaster; it <i>will</i> +mean shame and disgrace, when sanity returns....</p> + +<p>To the man seated at his desk in the company +office these ideas were not new. He had been one of +the original Expeditionary Force; but a sniper had +sniped altogether too successfully out by Zillebecke in +the early stages of the first battle of Ypres, and when +that occurs a rest cure becomes necessary. At that +time he was the senior subaltern of one of the finest +regiments of "a contemptible little army"; now he +was a major commanding a company in the tenth +battalion of that same regiment. And in front of +him on the desk, a yellow form pinned to a white +slip of flimsy paper, announced that No. 8469, Private +Meyrick, J., was for office. The charge was "Late +falling in on the 8 a.m. parade," and the evidence +against him was being given by C.-S.-M. Hayton, also +an old soldier from that original battalion at Ypres. +It was Major Seymour himself who had seen the late +appearance of the above-mentioned Private Meyrick, +and who had ordered the yellow form to be prepared.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[52]</a></span> +And now with it in front of him, he stared musingly +at the office fire....</p> + +<p>There are a certain number of individuals who +from earliest infancy have been imbued with the idea +that the chief pastime of officers in the army, when +they are not making love to another man's wife, is +the preparation of harsh and tyrannical rules for the +express purpose of annoying their men, and the gloating +infliction of drastic punishment on those that break +them. The absurdity of this idea has nothing to do +with it, it being a well-known fact that the more +absurd an idea is, the more utterly fanatical do its +adherents become. To them the thought that a man +being late on parade should make him any the worse +fighter—especially as he had, in all probability, some +good and sufficient excuse—cannot be grasped. To +them the idea that men may not be a law unto themselves—though +possibly agreed to reluctantly in the +abstract—cannot possibly be assimilated in the concrete.</p> + +<p>"He has committed some trifling offence," they +say; "now you will give him some ridiculous punishment. +That is the curse of militarism—a chosen few +rule by Fear." And if you tell them that any attempt +to inculcate discipline by fear alone must of necessity +fail, and that far from that being the method in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[53]</a></span> +Army the reverse holds good, they will not believe you. +Yet—it is so....</p> + +<p>"Shall I bring in the prisoner, sir?" The Sergeant-Major +was standing by the door.</p> + +<p>"Yes, I'll see him now." The officer threw his cigarette +into the fire and put on his hat.</p> + +<p>"Take off your 'at. Come along there, my lad—move. +You'd go to sleep at your mother's funeral—you +would." Seymour smiled at the conversation +outside the door; he had soldiered many years with +that Sergeant-Major. "Now, step up briskly. Quick +march. 'Alt. Left turn." He closed the door and +ranged himself alongside the prisoner facing the table.</p> + +<p>"No. 8469, Private Meyrick—you are charged with +being late on the 8 a.m. parade this morning. Sergeant-Major, +what do you know about it?"</p> + +<p>"Sir, on the 8 a.m. parade this morning, Private +Meyrick came running on 'alf a minute after the +bugle sounded. 'Is puttees were not put on tidily. +I'd like to say, sir, that it's not the first time this +man has been late falling in. 'E seems to me to be +always a dreaming, somehow—not properly awake +like. I warned 'im for office."</p> + +<p>The officer's eyes rested on the hatless soldier facing +him. "Well, Meyrick," he said quietly, "what +have you got to say?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[54]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Nothing, sir. I'm sorry as 'ow I was late. I was +reading, and I never noticed the time."</p> + +<p>"What were you reading?" The question seemed +superfluous—almost foolish; but something in the eyes +of the man facing him, something in his short, stumpy, +uncouth figure interested him.</p> + +<p>"I was a'reading Kipling, sir." The Sergeant-Major +snorted as nearly as such an august disciplinarian +could snort in the presence of his officer.</p> + +<p>"'E ought, sir, to 'ave been 'elping the cook's mate—until +'e was due on parade."</p> + +<p>"Why do you read Kipling or anyone else when +you ought to be doing other things?" queried the officer. +His interest in the case surprised himself; the +excuse was futile, and two or three days to barracks +is an excellent corrective.</p> + +<p>"I dunno, sir. 'E sort of gets 'old of me, like. +Makes me want to do things—and then I can't. I've +always been slow and awkward like, and I gets a bit +flustered at times. But I do try 'ard." Again a +doubtful noise from the Sergeant-Major; to him trying +'ard and reading Kipling when you ought to be +swabbing up dishes were hardly compatible.</p> + +<p>For a moment or two the officer hesitated, while +the Sergeant-Major looked frankly puzzled. "What +the blazes 'as come over 'im," he was thinking; "surely +he ain't going to be guyed by that there wash. Why<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[55]</a></span> +don't 'e give 'im two days and be done with it—and +me with all them returns."</p> + +<p>"I'm going to talk to you, Meyrick." Major +Seymour's voice cut in on these reflections. For the +fraction of a moment "Two days C.B." had been on +the tip of his tongue, and then he'd changed his mind. +"I want to try and make you understand why you +were brought up to office to-day. In every community—in +every body of men—there must be a code +of rules which govern what they do. Unless those +rules are carried out by all those men, the whole system +falls to the ground. Supposing everyone came on +to parade half a minute late because they'd been +reading Kipling?"</p> + +<p>"I know, sir. I see as 'ow I was wrong. But—I +dreams sometimes as 'ow I'm like them he talks +about, when 'e says as 'ow they lifted 'em through +the charge as won the day. And then the dream's +over, and I know as 'ow I'm not."</p> + +<p>The Sergeant-Major's impatience was barely concealed; +those returns were oppressing him horribly.</p> + +<p>"You can get on with your work, Sergeant-Major. +I know you're busy." Seymour glanced at the N.C.O. +"I want to say a little more to Meyrick."</p> + +<p>The scandalised look on his face amused him; to +leave a prisoner alone with an officer—impossible, +unheard of.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[56]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I am in no hurry, sir, thank you."</p> + +<p>"All right then," Seymour spoke briefly. "Now, +Meyrick, I want you to realise that the principle at +the bottom of all discipline is the motive that makes +that discipline. I want you to realise that all these +rules are made for the good of the regiment, and +that in everything you do and say you have an effect +on the regiment. You count in the show, and I +count in it, and so does the Sergeant-Major. We're +all out for the same thing, my lad, and that is the +regiment. We do things not because we're afraid of +being punished if we don't, but because we know +that they are for the good of the regiment—the finest +regiment in the world. You've got to make good, +not because you'll be dropped on if you don't, but +because you'll pull the regiment down if you fail. +And because you count, you, personally, must not +be late on parade. It <i>does</i> matter what you do yourself. +I want you to realise that, and why. The rules +you are ordered to comply with are the best rules. +Sometimes we alter one—because we find a better; +but they're the best we can get, and before you can +find yourself in the position of the men you dream +about—the men who lift others, the men who lead +others—you've got to lift and lead yourself. Nothing +is too small to worry about, nothing too insignificant. +And because I think, that at the back of your head<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[57]</a></span> +somewhere you've got the right idea; because I +think it's natural to you to be a bit slow and awkward +and that your failure isn't due to laziness or slackness, +I'm not going to punish you this time for breaking +the rules. If you do it again, it will be a different +matter. There comes a time when one can't judge +motives; when one can only judge results. Case dismissed."</p> + +<p>Thoughtfully the officer lit a cigarette as the door +closed, and though for the present there was nothing +more for him to do in office, he lingered on, pursuing +his train of thoughts. Fully conscious of the aggrieved +wrath of his Sergeant-Major at having his +time wasted, a slight smile spread over his face. He +was not given to making perorations of this sort, +and now that it was over he wondered rather why +he'd done it. And then he recalled the look in the +private's eyes as he had spoken of his dreams.</p> + +<p>"He'll make good that man." Unconsciously he +spoke aloud. "He'll make good."</p> + +<p>The discipline of habit is what we soldiers had before +the war, and that takes time. Now it must be +the discipline of intelligence, of ideal. And for that +fear is the worst conceivable teacher. We have no +time to form habits now; the routine of the army is +of too short duration before the test comes. And the +test is too crushing....<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[58]</a></span></p> + +<p>The bed-rock now as then is the same, only the +methods of getting down to that bed-rock have to be +more hurried. Of old habitude and constant association +instilled a religion—the religion of obedience, +the religion of esprit de corps. But it took time. +Now we need the same religion, but we haven't the +same time.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>In the office next door the Sergeant-Major was +speaking soft words to the Pay Corporal.</p> + +<p>"Blimey, I dunno what's come over the bloke. You +know that there Meyrick..."</p> + +<p>"Who, the Slug?" interpolated the other.</p> + +<p>"Yes. Well 'e come shambling on to parade this +morning with 'is puttees flapping round his ankles—late +as usual; and 'e told me to run 'im up to +office." A thumb indicated the Major next door. +"When I gets 'im there, instead of giving 'im three +days C.B. and being done with it, 'e starts a lot of +jaw about motives and discipline. 'E hadn't got +no ruddy excuse; said 'e was a'reading Kipling, or +some such rot—when 'e ought to have been 'elping +the cook's mate."</p> + +<p>"What did he give him?" asked the Pay Corporal, +interested.</p> + +<p>"Nothing. His blessing and dismissed the case. +As if I had nothing better to do than listen to 'im<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[59]</a></span> +talking 'ot air to a perisher like that there Meyrick. +'Ere, pass over them musketry returns."</p> + +<p>Which conversation, had Seymour overheard it, +he would have understood and fully sympathised with. +For C.-S.-M. Hayton, though a prince of sergeant-majors, +was no student of physiology. To him a spade +was a spade only as long as it shovelled earth.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Now, before I go on to the day when the subject +of all this trouble and talk was called on to make +good, and how he did it, a few words on the man +himself might not be amiss. War, the great forcing +house of character, admits no lies. Sooner or later it +finds out a man, and he stands in the pitiless glare +of truth for what he is. And it is not by any means +the cheery hail-fellow-well-met type, or the thruster, +or the sportsman, who always pool the most votes +when the judging starts....</p> + +<p>John Meyrick, before he began to train for the +great adventure, had been something in a warehouse +down near Tilbury. And "something" is about the +best description of what he was that you could give. +Moreover there wasn't a dog's chance of his ever +being "anything." He used to help the young man—I +should say young gentleman—who checked weigh +bills at one of the dock entrances. More than that +I cannot say, and incidentally the subject is not of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[60]</a></span> +surpassing importance. His chief interests in life +were contemplating the young gentleman, listening +open-mouthed to his views on life, and, dreaming. +Especially the latter. Sometimes he would go after +the day's work, and, sitting down on a bollard, his +eyes would wander over the lines of some dirty tramp, +with her dark-skinned crew. Visions of wonderful +seas and tropic islands, of leafy palms with the blue-green +surf thundering in towards them, of coral reefs +and glorious-coloured flowers, would run riot in his +brain. Not that he particularly wanted to go and +see these figments of his imagination for himself; it +was enough for him to dream of them—to conjure +them up for a space in his mind by the help of an +actual concrete ship—and then to go back to his work +of assisting his loquacious companion. He did not +find the work uncongenial; he had no hankerings +after other modes of life—in fact the thought of any +change never even entered into his calculations. What +the future might hold he neither knew nor cared; the +expressions of his companion on the rottenness of life +in general and their firm in particular awoke no answering +chord in his breast He had enough to live +on in his little room at the top of a tenement house—he +had enough over for an occasional picture show—and +he had his dreams. He was content.</p> + +<p>Then came the war. For a long while it passed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[61]</a></span> +him by; it was no concern of his, and it didn't enter +his head that it was ever likely to be until one night, +as he was going in to see "Jumping Jess, or the +Champion Girl Cowpuncher" at the local movies, a +recruiting sergeant touched him on the arm.</p> + +<p>He was not a promising specimen for a would-be +soldier, but that recruiting sergeant was not new to +the game, and he'd seen worse.</p> + +<p>"Why aren't you in khaki, young fellow me lad?" +he remarked genially.</p> + +<p>The idea, as I say, was quite new to our friend. +Even though that very morning his colleague in the +weigh-bill pastime had chucked it and joined, even +though he'd heard a foreman discussing who they +were to put in his place as "that young Meyrick was +habsolutely 'opeless," it still hadn't dawned on him +that he might go too. But the recruiting sergeant +was a man of some knowledge; in his daily round he +encountered many and varied types. In two minutes +he had fired the boy's imagination with a glowing +and partially true description of the glories of war +and the army, and supplied him with another set of +dreams to fill his brain. Wasting no time, he struck +while the iron was hot, and in a few minutes John +Meyrick, sometime checker of weigh-bills, died, and +No. 8469, Private John Meyrick, came into being....</p> + +<p>But though you change a man's vocation with the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[62]</a></span> +stroke of a pen, you do not change his character. +A dreamer he was in the beginning, and a dreamer he +remained to the end. And dreaming, as I have already +pointed out, was not a thing which commended itself +to Company-Sergeant-Major Hayton, who in due +course became one of the chief arbiters of our friend's +destinies. True it was no longer coral islands—but +such details availed not with cook's mates and other +busy movers in the regimental hive. Where he'd got +them from, Heaven knows, those tattered volumes +of Kipling; but their matchless spirit had caught his +brain and fired his soul, with the result—well, the first +of them has been given.</p> + +<p>There were more results to follow. Not three days +after he was again upon the mat for the same offence, +only to say much the same as before.</p> + +<p>"I do try, sir—I do try; but some'ow——"</p> + +<p>And though in the bottom of his heart the officer +believed him, though in a very strange way he felt +interested in him, there are limits and there are rules. +There comes a time, as he had said, when one can't +judge by motives, when one can only judge by results.</p> + +<p>"You mustn't only try; you must succeed. Three +days to barracks."</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>That night in mess the officer sat next to the Colonel. +"It's the thrusters, the martinets, the men of action<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[63]</a></span> +who win the V.C.'s and D.C.M.'s, my dear fellow," +said his C.O., as he pushed along the wine. "But it's +the dreamers, the idealists who deserve them. They +suffer so much more."</p> + +<p>And as Major Seymour poured himself out a glass +of port, a face came into his mind—the face of a +stumpy, uncouth man with deep-set eyes. "I wonder," +he murmured—"I wonder."</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The opportunities for stirring deeds of heroism in +France do not occur with great frequency, whatever +outsiders may think to the contrary. For months on +end a battalion may live a life of peace and utter boredom, +getting a few casualties now and then, occasionally +bagging an unwary Hun, vegetating continuously +in the same unprepossessing hole in the +ground—saving only when they go to another, or +retire to a town somewhere in rear to have a bath. +And the battalion to which No. 8469, Private Meyrick, +belonged was no exception to the general rule.</p> + +<p>For five weeks they had lived untroubled by anything +except flies—all of them, that is, save various +N.C.O.'s in A company. To them flies were quite a +secondary consideration when compared to their other +worry. And that, it is perhaps superfluous to add, +was Private Meyrick himself.</p> + +<p>Every day the same scene would be enacted; every<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[64]</a></span> +day some sergeant or corporal would dance with rage +as he contemplated the Company Idiot—the title by +which he was now known to all and sundry.</p> + +<p>"Wake up! Wake up! Lumme, didn't I warn you—didn't +I warn yer 'arf an 'our ago over by that +there tree, when you was a-staring into the branches +looking for nuts or something—didn't I warn yer +that the company was parading at 10.15 for 'ot baths?"</p> + +<p>"I didn't 'ear you, Corporal—I didn't really."</p> + +<p>"Didn't 'ear me! Wot yer mean, didn't 'ear me? +My voice ain't like the twitter of a grass'opper, is it? +It's my belief you're balmy, my boy, B-A-R-M-Y. +Savez. Get a move on yer, for Gawd's sake! You +ought to 'ave a nurse. And when you gets to the +bath-'ouse, for 'Eaven's sake pull yerself together! +Don't forget to take off yer clothes before yer gets in; +and when they lets the water out, don't go stopping +in the bath because you forgot to get out. I wouldn't +like another regiment to see you lying about when +they come. They might say things."</p> + +<p>And so with slight variations the daily strafe went +on. Going up to the trenches it was always Meyrick +who got lost; Meyrick who fell into shell holes and +lost his rifle or the jam for his section; Meyrick who +forgot to lie down when a flare went up, but stood +vacantly gazing at it until partially stunned by his +next-door neighbour. Periodically messages would<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[65]</a></span> +come through from the next regiment asking if they'd +lost the regimental pet, and that he was being returned. +It was always Meyrick....</p> + +<p>"I can't do nothing with 'im, sir." It was the Company-Sergeant-Major +speaking to Seymour. "'E +seems soft like in the 'ead. Whenever 'e does do anything +and doesn't forget, 'e does it wrong. 'E's always +dreaming and 'alf balmy."</p> + +<p>"He's not a flier, I know, Sergeant-Major, but we've +got to put up with all sorts nowadays," returned the +officer diplomatically. "Send him to me, and let me +have a talk to him."</p> + +<p>"Very good, sir; but 'e'll let us down badly one of +these days."</p> + +<p>And so once again Meyrick stood in front of his +company officer, and was encouraged to speak of his +difficulties. To an amazing degree he had remembered +the discourse he had listened to many months previously; +to do something for the regiment was what +he desired more than anything—to do something big, +really big. He floundered and stopped; he could +find no words....</p> + +<p>"But don't you understand that it's just as important +to do the little things? If you can't do them, +you'll never do the big ones."</p> + +<p>"Yes, sir—I sees that; I do try, sir, and then I +gets thinking, and some'ow—oh! I dunno—but everything<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[66]</a></span> +goes out of my head like. I wants the regiment +to be proud of me—and then they calls me the Company +Idiot." There was something in the man's face +that touched Seymour.</p> + +<p>"But how can the regiment be proud of you, my +lad," he asked gently, "if you're always late on parade, +and forgetting to do what you're told? If I wasn't +certain in my own mind that it wasn't slackness and +disobedience on your part, I should ask the Colonel +to send you back to England as useless."</p> + +<p>An appealing look came into the man's eyes. "Oh! +don't do that, sir. I will try 'ard—straight I will."</p> + +<p>"Yes, but as I told you once before, there comes a +time when one must judge by results. Now, Meyrick, +you must understand this finally. Unless you do +improve, I shall do what I said. I shall tell the Colonel +that you're not fitted to be a soldier, and I shall get +him to send you away. I can't go on much longer; +you're more trouble than you're worth. We're going +up to the trenches again to-night, and I shall watch +you. That will do; you may go."</p> + +<p>And so it came about that the Company Idiot +entered on what was destined to prove the big scene +in his uneventful life under the eyes of a critical +audience. To the Sergeant-Major, who was a gross +materialist, failure was a foregone conclusion; to +the company officer, who went a little nearer to the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[67]</a></span> +heart of things, the issue was doubtful. Possibly +his threat would succeed; possibly he'd struck the +right note. And the peculiar thing is that both proved +right according to their own lights....</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>This particular visit to the trenches was destined +to be of a very different nature to former ones. On +previous occasions peace had reigned; nothing untoward +had occurred to mar the quiet restful existence +which trench life so often affords to its devotees. +But this time....</p> + +<p>It started about six o'clock in the morning on the +second day of their arrival—a really pleasant little intensive +bombardment. A succession of shells came +streaming in, shattering every yard of the front line +with tearing explosions. Then the Huns turned on +the gas and attacked behind it. A few reached the +trenches—the majority did not; and the ground outside +was covered with grey-green figures, some of +which were writhing and twitching and some of which +were still. The attack had failed....</p> + +<p>But that sort of thing leaves its mark on the +defenders, and this was their first baptism of real +fire. Seymour had passed rapidly down the trench +when he realised that for the moment it was over; +and though men's faces were covered with the hideous +gas masks, he saw by the twitching of their hands<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[68]</a></span> +and by the ugly high-pitched laughter he heard that +it would be well to get into touch with those behind. +Moreover, in every piece of trench there lay motionless +figures in khaki....</p> + +<p>It was as he entered his dugout that the bombardment +started again. Quickly he went to the telephone, +and started to get on to brigade headquarters. It took +him twenty seconds to realise that the line had been +cut, and then he cursed dreadfully. The roar of the +bursting shells was deafening; his cursing was inaudible; +but in a fit of almost childish rage—he kicked the +machine. Men's nerves are jangled at times....</p> + +<p>It was merely coincidence doubtless, but a motionless +figure in a gas helmet crouching outside the dugout +saw that kick, and slowly in his bemused brain +there started a train of thought. Why should his +company officer do such a thing; why should they all +be cowering in the trench waiting for death to come +to them; why...? For a space his brain refused +to act; then it started again.</p> + +<p>Why was that man lying full length at the bottom +of the trench, with the great hole torn out of his +back, and the red stream spreading slowly round him; +why didn't it stop instead of filling up the little holes +at the bottom of the trench and then overflowing into +the next one? He was the corporal who'd called him +balmy; but why should he be dead? He was dead—at<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[69]</a></span> +least the motionless watcher thought he must be. +He lay so still, and his body seemed twisted and unnatural. +But why should one of the regiment be dead; +it was all so unexpected, so sudden? And why did +his Major kick the telephone?...</p> + +<p>For a space he lay still, thinking; trying to figure +things out. He suddenly remembered tripping over +a wire coming up to the trench, and being cursed by +his sergeant for lurching against him. "You would," +he had been told—"you would. If it ain't a wire, +you'd fall over yer own perishing feet."</p> + +<p>"What's the wire for, sergint?" he had asked.</p> + +<p>"What d'you think, softie. Drying the washing +on? It's the telephone wire to Headquarters."</p> + +<p>It came all back to him, and it had been over by +the stunted pollard that he'd tripped up. Then he +looked back at the silent, motionless figure—the red +stream had almost reached him—and the Idea came. +It came suddenly—like a blow. The wire must be +broken, otherwise the officer wouldn't have kicked +the telephone; he'd have spoken through it.</p> + +<p>"I wants the regiment to be proud of me—and +then they calls me the Company Idiot." He couldn't +do the little things—he was always forgetting, +but...! What was that about "lifting 'em through +the charge that won the day"? There was no charge, +but there was the regiment. And the regiment was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[70]</a></span> +wanting him at last. Something wet touched his fingers, +and when he looked at them, they were red. +"B-A-R-M-Y. You ought to 'ave a nurse...."</p> + +<p>Then once again coherent thought failed him—utter +physical weakness gripped him—he lay comatose, +shuddering, and crying softly over he knew not +what. The sweat was pouring down his face from +the heat of the gas helmet, but still he held the valve +between his teeth, breathing in through the nose and +out through the mouth as he had been told. It was +automatic, involuntary; he couldn't think, he only +remembered certain things by instinct.</p> + +<p>Suddenly a high explosive shell burst near him—quite +close: and a mass of earth crashed down on his +legs and back, half burying him. He whimpered +feebly, and after a while dragged himself free. But +the action brought him close to that silent figure, with +the ripped up back....</p> + +<p>"You ought to 'ave a nurse..." Why? Gawd +above—why? Wasn't he as good a man as that there +dead corporal? Wasn't he one of the regiment too? +And now the Corporal couldn't do anything, but he—well, +he hadn't got no hole torn out of his back. It +wasn't his blood that lay stagnant, filling the little +holes at the bottom of the trench....</p> + +<p>Kipling came back to him—feebly, from another +world. The dreamer was dreaming once again.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[71]</a></span></p> + +<div class="poem"> +"If your officer's dead and the sergeants look white,<br /> +Remember it's ruin to run from a fight." +</div> + +<p>Run! Who was talking of running? He was going +to save the regiment—once he could think clearly +again. Everything was hazy just for the moment.</p> + +<div class="poem"> +"And wait for supports like a soldier." +</div> + +<p>But there weren't no supports, and the telephone wire +was broken—the wire he'd tripped over as he came up. +Until it was mended there wouldn't be any supports—until +it was mended—until——</p> + +<p>With a choking cry he lurched to his feet: and +staggering, running, falling down, the dreamer crossed +the open. A tearing pain through his left arm made +him gasp, but he got there—got there and collapsed. +He couldn't see very well, so he tore off his gas helmet, +and, peering round, at last saw the wire. And the wire +was indeed cut. Why the throbbing brain should +have imagined it would be cut <i>there</i>, I know not; +perhaps he associated it particularly with the pollard—and +after all he was the Company Idiot. But it was +cut there, I am glad to say; let us not begrudge him +his little triumph. He found one end, and some few +feet off he saw the other. With infinite difficulty he +dragged himself towards it. Why did he find it so<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[72]</a></span> +terribly hard to move? He couldn't see clearly; +everything somehow was getting hazy and red. The +roar of the shells seemed muffled strangely—far-away, +indistinct. He pulled at the wire, and it came towards +him; pulled again, and the two ends met. Then +he slipped back against the pollard, the two ends +grasped in his right hand....</p> + +<p>The regiment was safe at last. The officer would +not have to kick the telephone again. The Idiot had +made good. And into his heart there came a wonderful +peace.</p> + +<p>There was a roaring in his ears; lights danced before +his eyes; strange shapes moved in front of him. +Then, of a sudden, out of the gathering darkness a +great white light seared his senses, a deafening crash +overwhelmed him, a sharp stabbing blow struck his +head. The roaring ceased, and a limp figure slipped +down and lay still, with two ends of wire grasped +tight in his hand.</p> + +<p>"They are going to relieve us to-night, Sergeant-Major." +The two men with tired eyes faced one +another in the Major's dugout The bombardment +was over, and the dying rays of a blood-red sun +glinted through the door. "I think they took it well."</p> + +<p>"They did, sir—very well."</p> + +<p>"What are the casualties? Any idea?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[73]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Somewhere about seventy or eighty, sir—but I +don't know the exact numbers."</p> + +<p>"As soon as it's dark I'm going back to headquarters. +Captain Standish will take command."</p> + +<p>"That there Meyrick is reported missing, sir."</p> + +<p>"Missing! He'll turn up somewhere—if he hasn't +been hit."</p> + +<p>"Probably walked into the German trenches by mistake," +grunted the C.-S.-M. dispassionately, and retired. +Outside the dugout men had moved the corporal; +but the red pools still remained—stagnant at +the bottom of the trench....</p> + +<p>"Well, you're through all right now, Major," said +a voice in the doorway, and an officer with the white +and blue brassard of the signals came in and sat down. +"There are so many wires going back that have been +laid at odd times, that it's difficult to trace them in a +hurry." He gave a ring on the telephone, and in a +moment the thin, metallic voice of the man at the +other end broke the silence.</p> + +<p>"All right. Just wanted to make sure we were +through. Ring off."</p> + +<p>"I remember kicking that damn thing this morning +when I found we were cut off," remarked Seymour, +with a weary smile. "Funny how childish one is at +times."</p> + +<p>"Aye—but natural. This war's damnable." The<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[74]</a></span> +two men fell silent. "I'll have a bit of an easy here," +went on the signal officer after a while, "and then go +down with you."</p> + +<p>A few hours later the two men clambered out of the +back of the trench. "It's easier walking, and I know +every stick," remarked the Major. "Make for that +stunted pollard first."</p> + +<p>Dimly the tree stood outlined against the sky—a +conspicuous mark and signpost. It was the signal +officer who tripped over it first—that huddled quiet +body, and gave a quick ejaculation. "Somebody +caught it here, poor devil. Look out—duck."</p> + +<p>A flare shot up into the night, and by its light the +two motionless officers close to the pollard looked at +what they had found.</p> + +<p>"How the devil did he get here!" muttered Seymour. +"It's one of my men."</p> + +<p>"Was he anywhere near you when you kicked the +telephone?" asked the other, and his voice was a little +hoarse.</p> + +<p>"He may have been—I don't know. Why?"</p> + +<p>"Look at his right hand." From the tightly +clenched fingers two broken ends of wire stuck out.</p> + +<p>"Poor lad." The Major bit his lip. "Poor lad—I +wonder. They called him the Company Idiot. Do +you think...?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[75]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I think he came out to find the break in the wire," +said the other quietly. "And in doing so he found +the answer to the big riddle."</p> + +<p>"I knew he'd make good—I knew it all along. He +used to dream of big things—something big for the +regiment."</p> + +<p>"And he's done a big thing, by Jove," said the signal +officer gruffly, "for it's the motive that counts. And +he couldn't know that he'd got the wrong wire."</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>"When 'e doesn't forget, 'e does things wrong."</p> + +<p>As I said, both the Sergeant-Major and his officer +proved right according to their own lights.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[76]</a></span> +</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[77]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER III</h2> + +<h3>SPUD TREVOR OF THE RED HUSSARS</h3> + + +<p>It would be but a small exaggeration to say that in +every God-forsaken hole and corner of the world, +where soldiers lived and moved and had their being, +before Nemesis overtook Europe, the name of Spud +Trevor of the Red Hussars was known. From Simla +to Singapore, from Khartoum to the Curragh his +name was symbolical of all that a regimental officer +should be. Senior subalterns guiding the erring feet +of the young and frivolous from the tempting paths +of night clubs and fair ladies, to the infinitely better +ones of hunting and sport, were apt to quote him. +Adjutants had been known to hold him up as an +example to those of their flock who needed chastening +for any of the hundred and one things that +adjutants do not like—if they have their regiment +at heart. And he deserved it all.</p> + +<p>I, who knew him, as well perhaps as anyone; I, +who was privileged to call him friend, and yet in the +hour of his greatest need failed him; I, to whose lot +it has fallen to remove the slur from his name, state<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[78]</a></span> +this in no half-hearted way. He deserved it, and a +thousand times as much again. He was the type of +man beside whom the ordinary English gentleman—the +so-called white man—looked dirty-grey in comparison. +And yet there came a day when men who had +openly fawned on him left the room when he came +in, when whispers of an unsuspected yellow streak +in him began to circulate, when senior subalterns no +longer held him up as a model. Now he is dead: +and it has been left to me to vindicate him. Perchance +by so doing I may wipe out a little of the +stain of guilt that lies so heavy on my heart; perchance +I may atone, in some small degree, for my +doubts and suspicions; and, perchance too, the whitest +man that ever lived may of his understanding and +knowledge, perfected now in the Great Silence to +which he has gone, accept my tardy reparation, and +forgive. It is only yesterday that the document, which +explained everything, came into my hands. It was +sent to me sealed, and with it a short covering letter +from a firm of solicitors stating that their client was +dead—killed in France—and that according to his instructions +they were forwarding the enclosed, with the +request that I should make such use of it as I saw fit.</p> + +<p>To all those others, who, like myself, doubted, +I address these words. Many have gone under: to +them I venture to think everything is now clear. Maybe<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[79]</a></span> +they have already met Spud, in the great vast gulfs +where the mists of illusion are rolled away. For +those who still live, he has no abuse—that incomparable +sportsman and sahib; no recriminations for +us who ruined his life. He goes farther, and finds +excuses for us; God knows we need them. Here is +what he has written. The document is reproduced +exactly as I received it—saving only that I have altered +all names. The man, whom I have called Ginger +Bathurst, and everyone else concerned, will, I think, +recognise themselves. And, pour les autres—let them +guess.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>In two days, old friend, my battalion sails for +France; and, now with the intention full formed and +fixed in my mind, that I shall not return, I have determined +to put down on paper the true facts of what +happened three years ago: or rather, the true motives +that impelled me to do what I did. I put it that way, +because you already know the facts. You know that +I was accused of saving my life at the expense of a +woman's when the <i>Astoria</i> foundered in mid-Atlantic; +you know that I was accused of having thrust her +aside and taken her place in the boat. That accusation +is true. I did save my life at a woman's expense. But +the motives that impelled my action you do not know, +nor the identity of the woman concerned. I hope<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[80]</a></span> +and trust that when you have read what I shall write +you will exonerate me from the charge of a cowardice, +vile and abominable beyond words, and at the most +only find me guilty of a mistaken sense of duty. These +words will only reach you in the event of my death; +do with them what you will. I should like to think +that the old name was once again washed clean of the +dirty blot it has on it now; so do your best for me, +old pal, do your best.</p> + +<p>You remember Ginger Bathurst—of course you do. +Is he still a budding Staff Officer at the War Office, +I wonder, or is he over the water? I'm out of touch +with the fellows in these days—(<i>the pathos of it: +Spud out of touch, Spud of all men, whose soul was +in the Army</i>)—one doesn't live in the back of beyond +for three years and find Army lists and gazettes growing +on the trees. You remember also, I suppose, that +I was best man at his wedding when he married the +Comtesse de Grecin. I told you at the time that I +was not particularly enamoured of his choice, but it +was <i>his</i> funeral; and with the old boy asking me to +steer him through, I had no possible reason for refusing. +Not that I had anything against the woman: +she was charming, fascinating, and had a pretty useful +share of this world's boodle. Moreover, she seemed +extraordinarily in love with Ginger, and was just the +sort of woman to push an ambitious fellow like him<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[81]</a></span> +right up to the top of the tree. He, of course, was +simply idiotic: he was stark, raving mad about her; +vowed she was the most peerless woman that ever a +wretched being like himself had been privileged to +look at; loaded her with presents which he couldn't +afford, and generally took it a good deal worse than +usual. I think, in a way, it was the calm acceptance +of those presents that first prejudiced me against her. +Naturally I saw a lot of her before they were married, +being such a pal of Ginger's, and I did my best for +his sake to overcome my dislike. But he wasn't a +wealthy man—at the most he had about six hundred +a year private means—and the presents of jewellery +alone that he gave her must have made a pretty large +hole in his capital.</p> + +<p>However that is all by the way. They were married, +and shortly afterwards I took my leave big +game shooting and lost sight of them for a while. +When I came back Ginger was at the War Office, +and they were living in London. They had a delightful +little flat in Hans Crescent, and she was pushing +him as only a clever woman can push. Everybody +who could be of the slightest use to him sooner or +later got roped in to dinner and was duly fascinated.</p> + +<p>To an habitual onlooker like myself, the whole thing +was clear, and I must quite admit that much of my +first instinctive dislike—and dislike is really too strong<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[82]</a></span> +a word—evaporated. She went out of her way to +be charming to me, not that I could be of any use to +the old boy, but merely because I was his great friend; +and of course she knew that I realised—what he never +dreamed of—that she was paving the way to pull some +really big strings for him later.</p> + +<p>I remember saying good-bye to her one afternoon +after a luncheon, at which I had watched with great +interest the complete capitulation of two generals and +a well-known diplomatist.</p> + +<p>"You're a clever man, Mr. Spud," she murmured, +with that charming air of taking one into her confidence, +with which a woman of the world routs the +most confirmed misogynist. "If only Ginger——" +She broke off and sighed: just the suggestion of a +sigh; but sufficient to imply—lots.</p> + +<p>"My lady," I answered, "keep him fit; make him +take exercise: above all things don't let him get fat. +Even you would be powerless with a fat husband. +But provided you keep him thin, and never let him +decide anything for himself, he will live to be a lasting +monument and example of what a woman can do. +And warriors and statesmen shall bow down and +worship, what time they drink tea in your boudoir and +eat buns from your hand. Bismillah!"</p> + +<p>But time is short, and these details are trifling. +Only once again, old pal, I am living in the days<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[83]</a></span> +when I moved in the pleasant paths of life, and the +temptation to linger is strong. Bear with me a moment. +I am a sybarite for the moment in spirit: in +reality—God! how it hurts.</p> + +<div class="poem"> +"Gentlemen rankers out on the spree,<br /> +Damned from here to eternity:<br /> +God have mercy on such as we.<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Bah! Yah! Bah!"</span> +</div> + +<p>I never thought I should live to prove Kipling's +lines. But that's what I am—a gentleman ranker; +going out to the war of wars—a private. I, and +that's the bitterest part of it, I, who had, as you +know full well, always, for years, lived for this war, +the war against those cursed Germans. I knew it +was coming—you'll bear me witness of that fact—and +the cruel irony of fate that has made that very +knowledge my downfall is not the lightest part of +the little bundle fate has thrown on my shoulders. +Yes, old man, we're getting near the motives now; +but all in good time. Let me lay it out dramatically; +don't rob me of my exit—I'm feeling a bit theatrical +this evening. It may interest you to know that I saw +Lady Delton to-day: she's a V.A.D., and did not recognise +me, thank Heaven!</p> + +<p>(<i>Need I say again that Delton is not the name he +wrote. Sufficient that she and Spud knew one another</i><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[84]</a></span> +<i>very well, in other days. But in some men it would +have emphasised the bitterness of spirit.</i>)</p> + +<p>Let's get on with it. A couple of years passed, +and the summer of 1912 found me in New York. I +was temporarily engaged on a special job which it is +unnecessary to specify. It was not a very important +one, but, as you know, a gift of tongues and a +liking for poking my nose into the affairs of nations +had enabled me to get a certain amount of more or +less diplomatic work. The job was over, and I was +merely marking time in New York waiting for the +<i>Astoria</i> to sail. Two days before she was due to +leave, and just as I was turning into the doors of my +hotel, I ran full tilt into von Basel—a very decent +fellow in the Prussian Guard—who was seconded and +doing military attaché work in America. I'd met him +off and on hunting in England—one of the few Germans +I know who really went well to hounds.</p> + +<p>"Hullo! Trevor," he said, as we met. "What are +you doing here?"</p> + +<p>"Marking time," I answered. "Waiting for my +boat."</p> + +<p>We strolled to the bar, and over a cocktail he +suggested that if I had nothing better to do I might +as well come to some official ball that was on that +evening. "I can get you a card," he remarked. "You<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[85]</a></span> +ought to come; your friend, Mrs. Bathurst—Comtesse +de Grecin that was—is going to be present."</p> + +<p>"I'd no idea she was this side of the water," I +said, surprised.</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes! Come over to see her people or something. +Well! will you come?"</p> + +<p>I agreed, having nothing else on, and as he left +the hotel, he laughed. "Funny the vagaries of fate. +I don't suppose I come into this hotel once in three +months. I only came down this evening to tell a man +not to come and call as arranged, as my kid has got +measles—and promptly ran into you."</p> + +<p>Truly the irony of circumstances! If one went +back far enough, one might find that the determining +factor of my disgrace was the quarrel of a nurse and +her lover which made her take the child another walk +than usual and pick up infection. Dash it all! you +might even find that it was a spot on her nose +that made her do so, as she didn't want to meet him +when not looking at her best! But that way madness +lies.</p> + +<p>Whatever the original cause—I went: and in due +course met the Comtesse. She gave me a couple of +dances, and I found that she, too, had booked her +passage on the <i>Astoria</i>. I met very few people I +knew, and having found it the usual boring stunt, I +decided to get a glass of champagne and a sandwich<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[86]</a></span> +and then retire to bed. I took them along to a small +alcove where I could smoke a cigarette in peace, and +sat down. It was as I sat down that I heard from +behind a curtain which completely screened me from +view, the words "English Army" spoken in German. +And the voice was the voice of the Comtesse.</p> + +<p>Nothing very strange in the words you say, seeing +that she spoke German, as well as several other languages, +fluently. Perhaps not—but you know what +my ideas used to be—how I was obsessed with the +spy theory: at any rate, I listened. I listened for +a quarter of an hour, and then I got my coat and +went home—went home to try and see a way through +just about the toughest proposition I'd ever been up +against. For the Comtesse—Ginger Bathurst's idolised +wife—was hand in glove with the German Secret +Service. She was a spy, not of the wireless installation +up the chimney type, not of the document-stealing +type, but of a very much more dangerous type +than either, the type it is almost impossible to incriminate.</p> + +<p>I can't remember the conversation I overheard +exactly, I cannot give it to you word for word, but +I will give you the substance of it. Her companion +was von Basel's chief—a typical Prussian officer of +the most overbearing description.</p> + +<p>"How goes it with you, Comtesse?" he asked her,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[87]</a></span> +and I heard the scrape of a match as he lit a cigarette.</p> + +<p>"Well, Baron, very well."</p> + +<p>"They do not suspect?"</p> + +<p>"Not an atom. The question has never been raised +even as to my national sympathies, except once, and +then the suggestion—not forced or emphasised in any +way—that, as the child of a family who had lost everything +in the '70 war, my sympathies were not hard to +discover, was quite sufficient. That was at the time +of the Agadir crisis."</p> + +<p>"And you do not desire revanche?"</p> + +<p>"My dear man, I desire money. My husband with +his pay and private income has hardly enough to dress +me on."</p> + +<p>"But, dear lady, why, if I may ask, did you marry +him? With so many others for her choice, surely the +Comtesse de Grecin could have commanded the +world?"</p> + +<p>"Charming as a phrase, but I assure you that the +idea of the world at one's feet is as extinct as the dodo. +No, Baron, you may take it from me he was the best +I could do. A rising junior soldier, employed on a +staff job at the War Office, <i>persona grata</i> with all the +people who really count in London by reason of his +family, and moreover infatuated with his charming +wife." Her companion gave a guttural chuckle; I +could feel him leering. "I give the best dinners in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[88]</a></span> +London; the majority of his senior officers think I +am on the verge of running away with them, and when +they become too obstreperous, I allow them to kiss +my—fingers.</p> + +<p>"Listen to me, Baron," she spoke rapidly, in a +low voice so that I could hardly catch what she said. +"I have already given information about some confidential +big howitzer trials which I saw; it was +largely on my reports that action was stopped at +Agadir; and there are many other things—things +intangible, in a certain sense—points of view, the state +of feeling in Ireland, the conditions of labour, which +I am able to hear the inner side of, in a way quite +impossible if I had not the entrée into that particular +class of English society which I now possess. Not +the so-called smart set, you understand; but the real +ruling set—the leading soldiers, the leading diplomats. +Of course they are discreet——"</p> + +<p>"But you are a woman and a peerless one, chère +Comtesse. I think we may leave that cursed country +in your hands with perfect safety. And, sooner perhaps +than even we realise, we may see der Tag."</p> + +<p>Such then was briefly the conversation I overheard. +As I said, it is not given word for word—but that is +immaterial. What was I to do? That was the point +which drummed through my head as I walked back +to my hotel; that was the point which was still drumming<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[89]</a></span> +through my head as the dawn came stealing in +through my window. Put yourself in my place, old +man; what would you have done?</p> + +<p>I, alone, of everyone who knew her in London, +had stumbled by accident on the truth. Bathurst +idolised her, and she exaggerated no whit when she +boasted that she had the entrée to the most exclusive +circle in England. I know; I was one of it myself. +And though one realises that it is only in plays and +novels that Cabinet Ministers wander about whispering +State secrets into the ears of beautiful adventuresses, +yet one also knows in real life how devilish +dangerous a really pretty and fascinating woman can +be—especially when she's bent on finding things out +and is clever enough to put two and two together.</p> + +<p>Take one thing alone, and it was an aspect of the +case that particularly struck me. Supposing diplomatic +relations became strained between us and Germany—and +I firmly believed, as you know, that sooner +or later they would; supposing mobilisation was +ordered—a secret one; suppose any of the hundred +and one things which would be bound to form a prelude +to a European war—and which at all costs must +be kept secret—had occurred; think of the incalculable +danger a clever woman in her position might +have been, however discreet her husband was. And, +my dear old boy, you know Ginger!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[90]</a></span></p> + +<p>Supposing the Expeditionary Force were on the +point of embarkation. A wife might guess their port +of departure and arrival by an artless question or +two as to where her husband on the Staff had motored +to that day. But why go on? You see what I mean. +Only to me, at that time—and now I might almost +say that I am glad events have justified me—it appealed +even more than it would have, say, to you. For +I was so convinced of the danger that threatened us.</p> + +<p>But what was I to do? It was only my word +against hers. Tell Ginger? The idea made even me +laugh. Tell the generals and the diplomatists? They +didn't want to kiss <i>my</i> hand. Tell some big bug in +the Secret Service? Yes—that anyway; but she was +such a devilish clever woman, that I had but little +faith in such a simple remedy, especially as most of +them patronised her dinners themselves.</p> + +<p>Still, that was the only thing to be done—that, and +to keep a look-out myself, for I was tolerably certain +she did not suspect me. Why should she?</p> + +<p>And so in due course I found myself sitting next +her at dinner as the <i>Astoria</i> started her journey across +the water.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>I am coming to the climax of the drama, old man; +I shall not bore you much longer. But before I actually +give you the details of what occurred on that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[91]</a></span> +ill-fated vessel's last trip, I want to make sure that +you realise the state of mind I was in, and the action +that I had decided on. Firstly, I was convinced that +my dinner partner—the wife of one of my best friends—was +an unscrupulous spy. That the evidence would +not have hung a fly in a court of law was not the +point; the evidence was my own hearing, which was +good enough for me.</p> + +<p>Secondly, I was convinced that she occupied a position +in society which rendered it easy for her to get +hold of the most invaluable information in the event +of a war between us and Germany.</p> + +<p>Thirdly, I was convinced that there would be a war +between us and Germany.</p> + +<p>So much for my state of mind; now, for my course +of action.</p> + +<p>I had decided to keep a watch on her, and, if I could +get hold of the slightest incriminating evidence, expose +her secretly, but mercilessly, to the Secret Service. If +I could not—and if I realised there was danger brewing—to +inform the Secret Service of what I had heard, +and, sacrificing Ginger's friendship if necessary, and +my own reputation for chivalry, swear away her honour, +or anything, provided only her capacity for obtaining +information temporarily ceased. Once that +was done, then face the music, and be accused, if needs +be, of false swearing, unrequited love, jealousy, what<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[92]</a></span> +you will. But to destroy her capacity for harm to +my country was my bounden duty, whatever the social +or personal results to me.</p> + +<p>And there was one other thing—and on this one thing +the whole course of the matter was destined to hang: <i>I +alone could do it, for I alone knew the truth.</i> Let that +sink in, old son; grasp it, realise it, and read my future +actions by the light of that one simple fact.</p> + +<p>I can see you sit back in your chair, and look into +the fire with the light of comprehension dawning in +your eyes; it does put the matter in a different complexion, +doesn't it, my friend? You begin to appreciate +the motives that impelled me to sacrifice a woman's +life; so far so good. You are even magnanimous: +what is one woman compared to the danger +of a nation?</p> + +<p>Dear old boy, I drink a silent toast to you. Have +you no suspicions? What if the woman I sacrificed +was the Comtesse herself? Does it surprise you; +wasn't it the God-sent solution to everything?</p> + +<p>Just as a freak of fate had acquainted me with her +secret; so did a freak of fate throw me in her path +at the end....</p> + +<p>We hit an iceberg, as you may remember, in the +middle of the night, and the ship foundered in under +twenty minutes.</p> + +<p>You can imagine the scene of chaos after we struck,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[93]</a></span> +or rather you can't. Men were running wildly about +shouting, women were screaming, and the roar of the +siren bellowing forth into the night drove people to a +perfect frenzy. Then all the lights went out, and +darkness settled down like a pall on the ship. I struggled +up on deck, which was already tilting up at a +perilous angle, and there—in the mass of scurrying +figures—I came face to face with the Comtesse. In +the panic of the moment I had forgotten all about her. +She was quite calm, and smiled at me, for of course +our relations were still as before.</p> + +<p>Suddenly there came the shout from close at hand, +"Room for one more only." What happened then, +happened in a couple of seconds; it will take me longer +to describe.</p> + +<p>There flashed into my mind what would occur if I +were drowned and the Comtesse was saved. There +would be no one to combat her activities in England; +she would have a free hand. My plans were null and +void if I died; I must get back to England—or England +would be in peril. I must pass on my information +to someone—for I alone knew.</p> + +<p>"Hurry up! one more." Another shout from near +by, and looking round I saw that we were alone. It +was she or I.</p> + +<p>She moved towards the boat, and as she did so I +saw the only possible solution—I saw what I then<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[94]</a></span> +thought to be my duty; what I still consider—and, God +knows, that scene is never long out of my mind—what +I still consider to have been my duty. I took her by +the arm and twisted her facing me.</p> + +<p>"As Ginger's wife, yes," I muttered; "as the cursed +spy I know you to be, no—a thousand times no."</p> + +<p>"My God!" she whispered. "My God!"</p> + +<p>Without further thought I pushed by her and +stepped into the boat, which was actually being lowered +into the water. Two minutes later the <i>Astoria</i> +sank, and she went down with her....</p> + +<p>That is what occurred that night in mid-Atlantic. I +make no excuses, I offer no palliation; I merely state +facts.</p> + +<p>Only had I not heard what I did hear in that alcove +she would have been just—Ginger's wife. Would the +Expeditionary Force have crossed so successfully, I +wonder?</p> + +<p>As I say, I did what I still consider to have been my +duty. If both could have been saved, well and good; +but if it was only one, it <i>had</i> to be me, or neither. +That's the rub; should it have been neither?</p> + +<p>Many times since then, old friend, has the white +twitching face of that woman haunted me in my +dreams and in my waking hours. Many times since +then have I thought that—spy or no spy—I had no +right to save my life at her expense; I should have<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[95]</a></span> +gone down with her. Quixotical, perhaps, seeing she +was what she was; but she was a woman. One thing +and one thing only I can say. When you read these +lines, I shall be dead; they will come to you as a voice +from the dead. And, as a man who faces his Maker, +I tell you, with a calm certainty that I am not deceiving +myself, that that night there was no trace of cowardice +in my mind. It was not a desire to save my +own life that actuated me; it was the fear of danger +to England. An error of judgment possibly; an act +of cowardice—no. That much I state, and that much +I demand that you believe.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>And now we come to the last chapter—the chapter +that you know. I'd been back about two months when +I first realised that there were stories going round +about me. There were whispers in the club; men +avoided me; women cut me. Then came the dreadful +night when a man—half drunk—in the club accused +me of cowardice point-blank, and sneeringly contrasted +my previous reputation with my conduct on the +<i>Astoria</i>. And I realised that someone must have seen. +I knocked that swine in the club down; but the whispers +grew. I knew it. Someone had seen, and it would +be sheer hypocrisy on my part to pretend that such +a thing didn't matter. It mattered everything: it ended +me. The world—our world—judges deeds, not motives;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[96]</a></span> +and even had I published at the time this document +I am sending to you, our world would have found +me guilty. They would have said what you would +have said had you spoken the thoughts I saw in your +eyes that night I came to you. They would have said +that a sudden wave of cowardice had overwhelmed me, +and that brought face to face with death I had saved +my own life at the expense of a woman's. Many would +have gone still further, and said that my black cowardice +was rendered blacker still by my hypocrisy in +inventing such a story; that first to kill the woman, +and then to blacken her reputation as an excuse, +showed me as a thing unfit to live. I know the world.</p> + +<p>Moreover, as far as I knew then—I am sure of it +now—whoever it was who saw my action, did not +see who the woman was, and therefore the publication +of this document at that time would have involved +Ginger, for it would have been futile to publish it without +names. Feeling as I did that perhaps I should +have sunk with her; feeling as I did that, for good +or evil, I had blasted Ginger's life, I simply couldn't +do it. You didn't believe in me, old chap; at the bottom +of their hearts all my old pals thought I'd shown +the yellow streak; and I couldn't stick it. So I went +to the Colonel, and told him I was handing in my +papers. He was in his quarters, I remember, and +started filling his pipe as I was speaking.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[97]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Why, Spud?" he asked, when I told him my intention.</p> + +<p>And then I told him something of what I have written +to you. I said it to him in confidence, and when +I'd finished he sat very silent.</p> + +<p>"Good God!" he muttered at length. "Ginger's +wife!"</p> + +<p>"You believe me, Colonel?" I asked.</p> + +<p>"Spud," he said, putting his hands on my shoulders, +"that's a damn rotten thing to ask me—after fifteen +years. But it's the regiment." And he fell to staring +at the fire.</p> + +<p>Aye, that was it. It was the regiment that mattered. +For better or for worse I had done what I had done, +and it was my show. The Red Hussars must not be +made to suffer; and their reputation would have suffered +through me. Otherwise I'd have faced it out. +As it was, I had to go; I knew it. I'd come to the +same decision myself.</p> + +<p>Only now, sitting here in camp with the setting sun +glinting through the windows of the hut, just a Canadian +private under an assumed name, things are a +little different. The regiment is safe; I must think +now of the old name. The Colonel was killed at +Cambrai; therefore you alone will be in possession of +the facts. Ginger, if he reads these words, will perhaps +forgive me for the pain I have inflicted on him.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[98]</a></span> +Let him remember that though I did a dreadful thing +to him, a thing which up to now he has been ignorant +of, yet I suffered much for his sake after. During my +life it was one thing; when I am dead his claims must +give way to a greater one—my name.</p> + +<p>Wherefore I, Patrick Courtenay Trevor, having the +unalterable intention of meeting my Maker during the +present war, and therefore feeling in a measure that I +am, even as I write, standing at the threshold of His +Presence, do swear before Almighty God that what I +have written is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing +but the truth. So help me, God.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The fall-in is going, old man. Good-bye.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[99]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER IV</h2> + +<h3>THE FATAL SECOND</h3> + + +<p>It was in July of 1914—on the Saturday of Henley +Week. People who were there may remember +that, for once in a way, our fickle climate was pleased +to smile upon us.</p> + +<p>Underneath the wall of Phyllis Court a punt was +tied up. The prizes had been given away, and the +tightly packed boats surged slowly up and down the +river, freed at last from the extreme boredom of +watching crews they did not know falling exhausted +out of their boats. In the punt of which I speak were +three men and a girl. One of the men was myself, who +have no part in this episode, save the humble one of +narrator. The other three were the principals; I would +have you make their acquaintance. I would hurriedly +say that it is not the old, old story of a woman and +two men, for one of the men was her brother.</p> + +<p>To begin with—the girl. Pat Delawnay—she was +always called Pat, as she didn't look like a Patricia—was +her name, and she was—well, here I give in. I +don't know the colour of her eyes, nor can I say with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[100]</a></span> +any certainty the colour of her hair; all I know is that +she looked as if the sun had come from heaven and +kissed her, and had then gone back again satisfied with +his work. She was a girl whom to know was to love—the +dearest, most understanding soul in God's whole +earth. I'd loved her myself since I was out of petticoats.</p> + +<p>Then there was Jack Delawnay, her brother. Two +years younger he was, and between the two of them +there was an affection and love which is frequently +conspicuous by its absence between brother and sister. +He was a cheery youngster, a good-looking boy, and +fellows in the regiment liked him. He rode straight, +and he had the money to keep good cattle. In addition, +the men loved him, and that means a lot when +you size up an officer.</p> + +<p>And then there was the other. Older by ten years +than the boy—the same age as myself—Jerry Dixon +was my greatest friend. We had fought together +at school, played the ass together at Sandhurst, and +entered the regiment on the same day. He had "A" +company and I had "C," and the boy was one of his +subalterns. Perhaps I am biassed, but to me Jerry +Dixon had one of the finest characters I have ever +seen in any man. He was no Galahad, no prig; he +was just a man, a white man. He had that cheerily +ugly face which is one of the greatest gifts a man<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[101]</a></span> +can have, and he also had Pat as his fiancée, which was +another.</p> + +<p>My name is immaterial, but everyone calls me +Winkle, owing to—— Well, some day I may tell you.</p> + +<p>The regiment, our regiment, was the, let us call it +the Downshires.</p> + +<p>We had come over from Aldershot and were week-ending +at the Delawnays' place—they always took +one on the river for Henley. At the moment Jerry +was holding forth, quite unmoved by exhortations to +"Get out and get under" bawled in his ears by blackened +gentlemen of doubtful voice and undoubted +inebriation.</p> + +<p>As I write, the peculiar—the almost sinister—nature +of his conversation, in the light of future events, +seems nothing short of diabolical. And yet at the +time we were just three white-flannelled men and a +girl with a great floppy hat lazing over tea in a punt. +How the gods must have laughed!</p> + +<p>"My dear old Winkle"—he was lighting a cigarette +as he spoke—"you don't realise the deeper side +of soldiering at all. The subtle nuances (French, Pat, +in case my accent is faulty) are completely lost upon +you."</p> + +<p>I remember smiling to myself as I heard Jerry +getting warmed up to his subject, and then my attention +wandered, and I dozed off. I had heard it all<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[102]</a></span> +before so often from the dear old boy. We always +used to chaff him about it in the mess. I can see +him now, after dinner, standing with his back to the +ante-room fire, a whisky-and-soda in his hand and a +dirty old pipe between his teeth.</p> + +<p>"It's all very well for you fellows to laugh," he +would say, "but I'm right for all that. It is absolutely +essential to think out beforehand what one +would do in certain exceptional eventualities, so that +when that eventuality does arise you won't waste any +time, but will automatically do the right thing."</p> + +<p>And then the adjutant recalled in a still small voice +how he first realised the orderly-room sergeant's baby +was going to be sick in his arms at the regiment's +Christmas-tree festivities, and, instead of throwing it +on the floor, he had clung to it for that fatal second +of indecision. As he admitted, it was certainly not +one of the things he had thought out beforehand.</p> + +<p>He's gone, too, has old Bellairs the adjutant. I +wonder how many fellows I'll know when I get back +to them next week? But I'm wandering.</p> + +<p>"Winkle, wake up!" It was Pat speaking. "Jerry +is being horribly serious, and I'm not at all certain +it will be safe to marry him; he'll be experimenting +on me."</p> + +<p>"What's he been saying?" I murmured sleepily.</p> + +<p>"He's been thinking what he'd do," laughed Jack,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[103]</a></span> +"if the stout female personage in yonder small canoe +overbalanced and fell in. There'll be no fatal second +then, Jerry, my boy. It'll be a minute even if I have +to hold you. You'd never be able to look your friends +in the face again if you didn't let her drown."</p> + +<p>"Ass!" grunted Jerry. "No, Winkle, I was just +thinking, amongst other things, of what might very +easily happen to any of us three here, and what did +happen to old Grantley in South Africa." Grantley +was one of our majors. "He told me all about it one +day in one of his expansive moods. It was during a +bit of a scrap just before Paardeburg, and he had some +crowd of irregular Johnnies. He was told off to take +a position, and apparently it was a fairly warm proposition. +However, it was perfectly feasible if only the +men stuck it. Well, they didn't, but they would have +except for his momentary indecision. He told me +that there came a moment in the advance when one +man wavered. He knew it and felt it all through +him. He saw the man—he almost saw the deadly contagion +spreading from that one man to the others—and +he hesitated and was lost. When he sprang forward +and tried to hold 'em, he failed. The fear was +on them, and they broke. He told me he regarded +himself as every bit as much to blame as the man who +first gave out."</p> + +<p>"But what could he have done, Jerry?" asked Pat.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[104]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Shot him, dear—shot him on the spot without a +second's thought—killed the origin of the fear before +it had time to spread. I venture to say that there +are not many fellows in the Service who would do it—without +thinking: and you can't think—you dare +not, even if there was time. It goes against the grain, +especially if you know the man well, and it's only by +continually rehearsing the scene in your mind that +you'd be able to do it."</p> + +<p>We were all listening to him now, for this was a +new development I'd never heard before.</p> + +<p>"Just imagine the far-reaching results one coward—no, +not coward, possibly—but one man who has +reached the breaking-point, may have. Think of it, +Winkle. A long line stretched out, attacking. One +man in the centre wavers, stops. Spreading outwards, +the thing rushes like lightning, because, after +all, fear is only an emotion, like joy and sorrow, and +one knows how quickly they will communicate themselves +to other people. Also, in such a moment as +an attack, men are particularly susceptible to emotions. +All that is primitive is uppermost, and their +reasoning powers are more or less in abeyance."</p> + +<p>"But the awful thing, Jerry," said Pat quietly, "is +that you would never know whether it had been necessary +or not. It might not have spread; he might have<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[105]</a></span> +answered to your voice—oh! a thousand things might +have happened."</p> + +<p>"It's not worth the risk, dear. One man's life is +not worth the risk. It's a risk you just dare not take. +It may mean everything—it may mean failure—it may +mean disgrace." He paused and looked steadily across +the shifting scene of gaiety and colour, while a long +bamboo pole with a little bag on the end, wielded by +some passing vocalist, was thrust towards him unheeded. +Then with a short laugh he pulled himself +together, and lit a cigarette. "But enough of dull care. +Let us away, and gaze upon beautiful women and brave +men. What's that little tune they're playing?"</p> + +<p>"That's that waltz—what the deuce is the name, +Pat?" asked Jack, untying the punt.</p> + +<p>"'Destiny,'" answered Pat briefly, and we passed +out into the stream.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>A month afterwards we three were again at Henley, +not in flannels in a punt on the river, but in khaki, +with a motor waiting at the door of the Delawnays' +house to take us back to Aldershot. I do not propose +to dwell over the scene, but in the setting down +of the story it cannot be left out. Europe was at +war; the long-expected by those scoffed-at alarmists +had actually come. England and Germany were at +each other's throats.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[106]</a></span></p> + +<p>Inside the house Jack was with his mother. Personally, +I was standing in the garden with the grey-haired +father; and Jerry was—well, where else could +he have been?</p> + +<p>As is the way with men, we discussed the roses, +and the rascality of the Germans, and everything +except what was in our hearts. And in one of the +pauses in our spasmodic conversation we heard her +voice, just over the hedge:</p> + +<p>"God guard and keep you, my man, and bring you +back to me safe!" And the voice was steady, though +one could feel those dear eyes dim with tears.</p> + +<p>And then Jerry's, dear old Jerry's voice—a little +bit gruff it was, and a little bit shaky: "My love! +My darling!"</p> + +<p>But the old man was going towards the house, blowing +his nose; and I—don't hold with love and that sort +of thing at all. True, I blundered into a flower-bed, +which I didn't see clearly, as I went towards the car, +for there are things which one may not hear and +remain unmoved. Perhaps, if things had been different, +and Jerry—dear old Jerry—hadn't—— But +there, I'm wandering again.</p> + +<p>At last we were in the car and ready to start.</p> + +<p>"Take care of him, Jerry; he and Pat are all we've +got." It was Mrs. Delawnay speaking, standing there<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[107]</a></span> +with the setting sun on her sweet face and her husband's +arm about her.</p> + +<p>"I'll be all right, mater," answered Jack gruffly. +"Buck up! Back for Christmas!"</p> + +<p>"I'll look after him, Mrs. Delawnay," answered +Jerry, but his eyes were fixed on Pat, and for him the +world held only her.</p> + +<p>As the car swung out of the gate, we looked back +the last time and saluted, and it was only I who saw +through a break in the hedge two women locked in +each other's arms, while a grey-haired gentleman sat +very still on a garden-seat, with his eyes fixed on the +river rolling smoothly by.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>It was on the Aisne I took it. Through that ghastly +fourteen days we had slogged dully south away from +Mons, ever getting nearer Paris. Through the choking +dust, with the men staggering as they walked—some +asleep, some babbling, some cursing—but always +marching, marching, marching; digging at night, only +to leave the trenches in two hours and march on again; +with ever and anon a battery of horse tearing past at a +gallop, with the drivers lolling drunkenly in their saddles, +and the guns jolting and swaying behind the +straining, sweating horses, to come into action on some +ridge still further south, and try to check von Kluck's +hordes, if only for a little space. Every bridge in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[108]</a></span> +hands of anxious-faced sapper officers, prepared for +demolition one and all, but not to be blown up till all +our troops were across. Ticklish work, for should +there be a fault, there is not much time to repair it.</p> + +<p>But at last it was over, and we turned North. A +few days later, in the afternoon, my company crossed +a pontoon bridge on the Aisne, and two hours afterwards +we dug ourselves in a mile and a half beyond +it. The next morning, as I was sitting in one of the +trenches, there was a sudden, blinding roar—and +oblivion.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>I will pass rapidly over the next six weeks—over +my journey from the clearing hospital to the base at +Havre, of my voyage back to England in a hospital +ship, and my ultimate arrival at Drayton Hall, the +Delawnays' place in Somerset, where I had gone to +convalesce.</p> + +<p>During the time various fragments of iron were +being picked from me and the first shock of the concussion +was wearing off, we had handed over our +trenches on the Aisne to the French, and moved north +to Flanders.</p> + +<p>Occasional scrawls came through from Jack and +Jerry, but the people in England who had any knowledge +at all of the fighting and of what was going on, +grew to dread with an awful dread the sight of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[109]</a></span> +telegraph-boy, and it required an effort of will to +look at those prosaic casualty lists in the morning +papers.</p> + +<p>Then suddenly without warning, as such news +always does, it came. The War Office, in the shape +of a whistling telegraph-boy, regretted to inform Mr. +Delawnay that his son, Lieutenant Jack Delawnay of +the Royal Downshire Regiment, had been killed in +action.</p> + +<p>Had it been possible during the terrible days after +the news came, I would have gone away, but I was +still too weak to move; and I like to think that, perhaps, +my presence there was some comfort to them, +as a sort of connection through the regiment with +their dead boy. After the first numbing shock, the old +man bore it grandly.</p> + +<p>"He was all I had," he said to me one day as I +lay in bed, "but I give him gladly for his country's +sake." He stood looking at the broad fields. "All +his," he muttered; "all would have been the dear lad's—and +now six inches of soil and a wooden cross, perhaps +not that."</p> + +<p>And Pat, poor little Pat, used to come up every day +and sit with me, sometimes in silence, with her great +eyes fixed on the fire, sometimes reading the paper, +because my eyes weren't quite right yet.</p> + +<p>For about a fortnight after the news we did not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[110]</a></span> +think it strange; but then, as day by day went by, +the same fear formulated in both our minds. I would +have died sooner than whisper it; but one afternoon +I found her eyes fixed on mine. We had been silent +for some time, and suddenly in the firelight I saw +the awful fear in her mind as clearly as if she had +spoken it.</p> + +<p>"You're thinking it too, Winkle," she whispered, +leaning forward. "Why hasn't he written? Why +hasn't Jerry written one line? Oh, my God! don't +say that <i>he</i> has been——"</p> + +<p>"Hush, dear!" I said quietly. "His people would +have let you know if they had had a wire."</p> + +<p>"But, Winkle, the Colonel has written that Jack +died while gallantly leading a counter attack to recover +lost trenches. Surely, Jerry would have found time +for a line, unless something had happened to him; +Jack was actually in his company."</p> + +<p>All of which I knew, but could not answer.</p> + +<p>"Besides," she went on after a moment, "you know +how dad is longing for details. He wants to know +everything about Jack, and so do we all. But oh, +Winkle! I want to know if my man is all right. +Brother and lover—not both, oh, God—not both!" +The choking little sobs wrung my heart.</p> + +<p>The next day we got a wire from him. He was +wounded slightly in the arm, and was at home. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[111]</a></span> +was coming to us. Just that—no more. But, oh! +the difference to the girl. Everything explained, everything +clear, and the next day Jerry would be with her. +Only as I lay awake that night thinking, and the events +of the last three weeks passed through my mind, the +same thought returned with maddening persistency. +Slightly wounded in the arm, evidently recently as +there was no mention in the casualty list, and for three +weeks no line, no word. And then I cursed myself as +an ass and a querulous invalid.</p> + +<p>At three o'clock he arrived, and they all came up +to my room. The first thing that struck me like a +blow was that it was his left arm which was hit—and +the next was his face. Whether Pat had noticed +that his writing arm was unhurt, I know not; but +she had seen the look in his eyes, and was afraid.</p> + +<p>Then he told the story, and his voice was as the +voice of the dead. Told the anxious, eager father +and mother the story of their boy's heroism. How, +having lost some trenches, the regiment made a +counter attack to regain them. How first of them +all was Jack, the men following him, as they always +did, until a shot took him clean through the heart, +and he dropped, leaving the regiment to surge over +him for the last forty yards, and carry out gloriously +what they had been going to do.</p> + +<p>And then the old man, pulling out the letter from<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[112]</a></span> +the Colonel, and trying to read it through his blinding +tears: "He did well, my boy," he whispered, "he +did well, and died well. But, Jerry, the Colonel says +in his letter," and he wiped his eyes and tried to read, +"he says in his letter that Jack must have been right +into their trenches almost, as he was killed at point-blank +range with a revolver. One of those swine of +German officers, I suppose." He shook his fist in the +air. "Still he was but doing his duty. I must not +complain. But you say he was forty yards away?"</p> + +<p>"It's difficult to say, sir, in the dark," answered +Jerry, still in the voice of an automatic machine. "It +may have been less than forty."</p> + +<p>And then he told them all over again; and while +they, the two old dears, whispered and cried together, +never noticing anything amiss, being only concerned +with the telling, and caring no whit for the method +thereof, Pat sat silently in the window, gazing at +him with tearless eyes, with the wonder and amazement +of her soul writ clear on her face for all to see. +And I—I lay motionless in bed, and there was something +I could not understand, for he would not look +at me, nor yet at her, but kept his eyes fixed on +the fire, while he talked like a child repeating a +lesson.</p> + +<p>At last it was over; their last questions were asked, +and slowly, arm-in-arm, they left the room, to dwell<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[113]</a></span> +alone upon the story of their idolised boy. And in the +room the silence was only broken by the crackling of +the logs.</p> + +<p>How long we sat there I know not, with the firelight +flickering on the stern set face of the man in the +chair. He seemed unconscious of our existence, and +we two dared not speak to him, we who loved him +best, for there was something we could not understand. +Suddenly he got up, and held out his arms +to Pat. And when she crept into them, he kissed her, +straining her close, as if he could never stop. Then, +without a word, he led her to the door, and, putting +her gently through, shut it behind her. Still without +a word he came back to the chair, and turned it so +that the firelight no longer played on his face. And +then he spoke.</p> + +<p>"I have a story to tell you, Winkle, which I venture +to think will entertain you for a time." His voice was +the most terrible thing I have ever listened to.... +"Nearly four weeks ago the battalion was in the +trenches a bit south of Ypres. It was bad in the retreat, +as you know; it was bad on the Aisne; but they +were neither of them in the same county as the doing +we had up north. One night—they'd shelled us off +and on for three days and three nights—we were +driven out of our trenches. The regiment on our right +gave, and we had to go too. The next morning we<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[114]</a></span> +were ordered to counter attack, and get back the +ground we had lost. It was the attack in which we +lost so heavily."</p> + +<p>He stopped speaking for a while, and I did not +interrupt.</p> + +<p>"When I got that order overnight Jack was with +me, in a hole that passed as a dugout. At the moment +everything was quiet; the Germans were patching up +their new position; only a maxim spluttered away a bit +to one flank. To add to the general desolation a steady +downpour of rain drenched us, into which, without +cessation the German flares went shooting up. I think +they were expecting a counter attack at once...."</p> + +<p>Again he paused, and I waited.</p> + +<p>"You know the condition one gets into sometimes +when one is heavy for sleep. We had it during the +retreat if you remember—a sort of coma, the outcome +of utter bodily exhaustion. One used to go on walking, +and all the while one was asleep—or practically +so. Sounds came to us dimly as from a great distance; +they made no impression on us—they were just +a jumbled phantasmagoria of outside matters, which +failed to reach one's brain, except as a dim dream. I +was in that condition on the night I am speaking of; I +was utterly cooked—beat to the world; I was finished +for the time. I've told you this, because I want you +to understand the physical condition I was in."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[115]</a></span></p> + +<p>He leaned forward and stared at the fire, resting +his head on his hands.</p> + +<p>"How long I'd dozed heavily in that wet-sodden +hole I don't know, but after a while above the +crackle of the maxim, separate and distinct from the +soft splash of the rain, and the hiss of the flares, and +the hundred and one other noises that came dimly +to me out of the night, I heard Jack's voice—at least I +think it was Jack's voice."</p> + +<p>Of a sudden he sat up in the chair, and rising quickly +he came and leant over the foot of the bed.</p> + +<p>"Devil take it," he cried bitterly, "I know it was +Jack's voice—<i>now</i>. I knew it the next day when it +was too late. What he said exactly I shall never know—at +the time it made no impression on me; but at this +moment, almost like a spirit voice in my brain, I can +hear him. I can hear him asking me to watch him. I +can hear him pleading—I can hear his dreadful fear of +being found afraid. As a whisper from a great distance +I can hear one short sentence—'Jerry, my God, +Jerry—I'm frightened!'</p> + +<p>"Winkle, he turned to me in his weakness—that +boy who had never failed before, that boy who had +reached the breaking-point—and I heeded him not. +I was too dead beat; my brain couldn't grasp it."</p> + +<p>"But, Jerry," I cried, "it turned out all right the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[116]</a></span> +next day; he..." The words died away on my lips +as I met the look in his eyes.</p> + +<p>"You'd better let me finish," he interrupted wearily. +"Let me get the whole hideous tragedy off my mind +for the first and the last time. Early next morning +we attacked. In the dim dirty light of dawn I saw +the boy's face as he moved off to his platoon; and even +then I didn't remember those halting sentences that +had come to me out of the night. So instead of ordering +him to the rear on some pretext or other as I should +have done, I let him go to his platoon.</p> + +<p>"As we went across the ground that morning +through a fire like nothing I had ever imagined, a man +wavered in front of me. I felt it clean through me. +I knew fear had come. I shouted and cheered—but the +wavering was spreading; I knew that too. So I shot +him through the heart from behind at point-blank +range as I had trained myself to do—in that eternity +ago—before the war. The counter attack was successful."</p> + +<p>"Great Heavens, Jerry!" I muttered, "who did you +shoot?" though I knew the answer already.</p> + +<p>"The man I shot was Jack Delawnay. Whether +at the time I was actively conscious of it, I cannot +say. Certainly my training enabled me to act before +any glimmering of the aftermath came into my mind. +<i>This</i> is the aftermath."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[117]</a></span></p> + +<p>I shuddered at the utter hopelessness of his tone, +though the full result of his action had not dawned on +me yet; my mind was dazed.</p> + +<p>"But surely Jack was no coward," I said at length.</p> + +<p>"He was not; but on that particular morning he +gave out. He had reached the limit of his endurance."</p> + +<p>"The Colonel's letter," I reminded him; "it praised +the lad."</p> + +<p>"Lies," he answered wearily, "all lies, engineered +by me. Not because I am ashamed of what I did, +but for the lad's sake, and hers, and the old people. +I loved the boy, as you know, but he failed, and <i>there +was no other way</i>. And where the fiend himself is +gloating over it is that he knows it was the only time +Jack did fail. If only I hadn't been so beat the night +before; if only his words had reached my brain before +it was too late. If only ... I think," he added, after +a pause, "I think I shall go mad. Sometimes I wish +I could."</p> + +<p>"And what of Pat?" I asked, at length breaking the +silence.</p> + +<p>The hands grasping the bed tightened, and grew +white.</p> + +<p>"I said 'Good-bye' to her before your eyes, ten +minutes ago. I shall never see her again."</p> + +<p>"But, Great Heavens, Jerry!" I cried, "you can't +give her up like that. She idolises the ground you<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[118]</a></span> +walk on, she worships you, and she need never know. +You were only doing your duty after all."</p> + +<p>"Stop!" he cried, and his voice was a command. +"As you love me, old friend, don't tempt me. For +three weeks those arguments have been flooding everything +else from my mind. Do you remember at Henley, +when she said, 'He might have answered to your +voice?' Winkle, it's true, Jack might have. And I +killed him. Just think if I married her, and she did +find out. Her brother's murderer—in her eyes. The +man who has wrecked her home, and broken her father +and mother. It's inconceivable, it's hideous. Ah! +don't you see how utterly final it all is? She may have +been right; and if she was, then I, who loved her better +than the world, have murdered her brother, and broken +the old people's hearts for the sake of a theory. The +fact that my theory has been put into practice, at the +expense of everything I have to live for, is full of +humour, isn't it?" And his laugh was wild.</p> + +<p>"Steady, Jerry," I said sternly. "What do you mean +to do?"</p> + +<p>"You'll see, old man, in time," he answered. "First +and foremost, get back to the regiment, arm or no +arm. I would not have come home, but I had to see +her once more."</p> + +<p>"You talk as if it was the end." I looked at him +squarely.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[119]</a></span></p> + +<p>"It is," he answered. "It's easy out there."</p> + +<p>"Your mind is made up?"</p> + +<p>"Absolutely." He gave a short laugh. "Good-bye, +old friend. Ease it to her as well as you can. +Say I'm unstrung by the trenches, anything you like; +but don't let her guess the truth."</p> + +<p>For a long minute he held my hand. Then he turned +away. He walked to the mantelpiece, and there was a +photograph of her there. For a long time he looked +at it, and it seemed to me he whispered something. A +sudden dimness blinded my eyes, and when I looked +again he had gone—through the window into the +night.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>I did not see Pat until I left Drayton Hall after +that ghastly night, save only once or twice with her +mother in the room.</p> + +<p>But an hour before I left she came to me, and her +face was that of a woman who has passed through the +fires.</p> + +<p>"Tell me, Winkle, shall I ever see him again? You +know what I mean."</p> + +<p>"You will never see him again, Pat," and the look +in her eyes made me choke.</p> + +<p>"Will you tell me what it was he told you before +he went through the window? You see, I was in the +hall waiting for him," and she smiled wearily.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[120]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I can't, Pat dear; I promised him," I muttered. +"But it was nothing disgraceful."</p> + +<p>"Disgraceful!" she cried proudly. "Jerry, and anything +disgraceful. Oh, my God! Winkle dear," and +she broke down utterly, "do you remember the waltz +they were playing that day—'Destiny'?"</p> + +<p>And then I went. Whether that wonderful woman's +intuition has told her something of what happened, +I know not. But yesterday morning I got a letter +from the Colonel saying that Jerry had chucked his +life away, saving a wounded man. And this morning +she will have seen it in the papers.</p> + +<p>God help you, Pat, my dear.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[121]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER V</h2> + +<h3>JIM BRENT'S V.C.</h3> + + +<p>If you pass through the Menin-Gate at Ypres, and +walk up the slight rise that lies on the other side of +the moat, you will come to the parting of the ways. +You will at the same time come to a spot of unprepossessing +aspect, whose chief claim to notoriety lies +in its shell-holes and broken-down houses. If you +keep straight on you will in time come to the little +village of Potige; if you turn to the right you will +eventually arrive at Hooge. In either case you will +wish you hadn't.</p> + +<p>Before the war these two roads—which join about +two hundred yards east of the rampart walls of Ypres—were +adorned with a fair number of houses. They +were of that stucco type which one frequently sees +in England spreading out along the roads that lead +to a largish town. Generally there is one of unusually +revolting aspect that stands proudly by itself a hundred +yards or so from the common herd and enclosed +in a stuccoesque wall. And there my knowledge of +the type in England ends.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[122]</a></span></p> + +<p>In Belgium, however, my acquaintance with this +sort of abode is extensive. In taking over a house +in Flanders that stands unpleasantly near the Hun, +the advertisement that there are three sitting, two +bed, h. and c. laid on, with excellent onion patch, near +railway and good golf-links, leaves one cold. The +end-all and be-all of a house is its cellar. The more +gloomy, and dark, and generally horrible the cellar, +the higher that house ranks socially, and the more +likely are you to find in it a general consuming his last +hamper from Fortnum & Mason by the light of a +tallow dip. And this applies more especially to the +Hooge road.</p> + +<p>Arrived at the fork, let us turn right-handed and +proceed along the deserted road. A motor-car is not +to be advised, as at this stage of the promenade one +is in full sight of the German trenches. For about +two or three hundred yards no houses screen you, and +then comes a row of the stucco residences I have mentioned. +Also at this point the road bends to the left. +Here, out of sight, occasional men sun themselves in +the heavily-scented air, what time they exchange a +little playful badinage in a way common to Thomas +Atkins. At least, that is what happened some time +ago; now, of course, things may have changed in the +garden city.</p> + +<p>And at this point really our journey is ended,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[123]</a></span> +though for interest we might continue for another +quarter of a mile. The row of houses stops abruptly, +and away in front stretches a long straight road. A +few detached mansions of sorts, in their own grounds, +flank it on each side. At length they cease, and in +front lies the open country. The poplar-lined road +disappears out of sight a mile ahead, where it tops a +gentle slope. And half on this side of the rise, and +half on the other, there are the remnants of the tit-bit +of the whole bloody charnel-house of the Ypres salient—the +remnants of the village of Hooge. A closer examination +is not to be recommended. The place where +you stand is known in the vernacular as Hell Fire +Corner, and the Hun—who knows the range of that +corner to the fraction of an inch—will quite possibly +resent your presence even there. And shrapnel gives +a nasty wound.</p> + +<p>Let us return and seek safety in a cellar. It is not +what one would call a good-looking cellar; no priceless +prints adorn the walls, no Turkey carpet receives your +jaded feet. In one corner a portable gramophone with +several records much the worse for wear reposes on an +upturned biscuit-box, and lying on the floor, with due +regard to space economy, are three or four of those +excellent box-mattresses which form the all-in-all of +the average small Belgian house. On top of them are +laid some valises and blankets, and from the one in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[124]</a></span> +the corner the sweet music of the sleeper strikes softly +on the ear. It is the senior subaltern, who has been +rambling all the preceding night in Sanctuary Wood—the +proud authors of our nomenclature in Flanders +quite rightly possess the humour necessary for the +production of official communiqués.</p> + +<p>In two chairs, smoking, are a couple of officers. +One is a major of the Royal Engineers, and another, +also a sapper, belongs to the gilded staff. The cellar +is the temporary headquarters of a field company—office, +mess, and bedroom rolled into one.</p> + +<p>"I'm devilish short-handed for the moment, Bill." +The Major thoughtfully filled his pipe. "That last +boy I got a week ago—a nice boy he was, too—was +killed in Zouave Wood the day before yesterday, poor +devil. Seymour was wounded three days ago, and +there's only Brent, Johnson, and him"—he indicated +the sleeper. "Johnson is useless, and Brent——" He +paused, and looked full at the Staff-captain. "Do you +know Brent well, by any chance?"</p> + +<p>"I should jolly well think I did. Jim Brent is one of +my greatest pals, Major."</p> + +<p>"Then perhaps you can tell me something I very +much want to know. I have knocked about the place +for a good many years, and I have rubbed shoulders, +officially and unofficially, with more men than I care +to remember. As a result, I think I may claim a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[125]</a></span> +fair knowledge of my fellow-beings. And Brent—well, +he rather beats me."</p> + +<p>He paused as if at a loss for words, and looked in +the direction of the sleeping subaltern. Reassured by +the alarming noise proceeding from the corner, he +seemed to make up his mind.</p> + +<p>"Has Brent had some very nasty knock lately—money, +or a woman, or something?"</p> + +<p>The Staff-captain took his pipe from his mouth, +and for some seconds stared at the floor. Then he +asked quietly, "Why? What are you getting at?"</p> + +<p>"This is why, Bill. Brent is one of the most capable +officers I have ever had. He's a man whose judgment, +tact, and driving power are perfectly invaluable +in a show of this sort—so invaluable, in fact"—he +looked straight at his listener—"that his death would +be a very real loss to the corps and the Service. He's +one of those we can't replace, and—he's going all out +to make us have to."</p> + +<p>"What do you mean?" The question expressed +no surprise; the speaker seemed merely to be demanding +confirmation of what he already knew.</p> + +<p>"Brent is deliberately trying to get killed. There +is not a shadow of doubt about it in my mind. Do +you know why?"</p> + +<p>The Staff-officer got up and strolled to a table on +which were lying some illustrated weekly papers.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[126]</a></span> +"Have you last week's <i>Tatler</i>?" He turned over the +leaves. "Yes—here it is." He handed the newspaper +to the Major. "That is why."</p> + +<p>"<i>A charming portrait of Lady Kathleen Goring; +who was last week married to that well-known sportsman +and soldier Sir Richard Goring. She was, it will +be remembered, very popular in London society as the +beautiful Miss Kathleen Tubbs—the daughter of Mr. +and Mrs. Silas P. Tubbs, of Pittsburg, Pa.</i>"</p> + +<p>The Major put down the paper and looked at the +Staff-captain; then suddenly he rose and hurled it into +the corner. "Oh, damn these women," he exploded.</p> + +<p>"Amen," murmured the other, as, with a loud snort, +the sleeper awoke.</p> + +<p>"Is anything th' matter?" he murmured, drowsily, +only to relapse at once into unconsciousness.</p> + +<p>"Jim was practically engaged to her; and then, +three months ago, without a word of explanation, +she gave him the order of the boot, and got engaged +to Goring." The Staff-captain spoke savagely. "A +damn rotten woman, Major, and Jim's well out of it, +if he only knew. Goring's a baronet, which is, of +course, the reason why this excrescence of the house +of Tubbs chucked Jim. As a matter of fact, Dick +Goring's not a bad fellow—he deserves a better fate. +But it fairly broke Jim up. He's not the sort of +fellow who falls in love easily; this was his one and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[127]</a></span> +only real affair, and he took it bad. He told me at the +time that he never intended to come back alive."</p> + +<p>"Damn it all!" The Major's voice was irritable. +"Why, his knowledge of the lingo alone makes him +invaluable."</p> + +<p>"Frankly, I've been expecting to hear of his death +every day. He's not the type that says a thing of +that sort without meaning it."</p> + +<p>A step sounded on the floor above. "Look out, here +he is. You'll stop and have a bit of lunch, Bill?"</p> + +<p>As he spoke the light in the doorway was blocked +out, and a man came uncertainly down the stairs.</p> + +<p>"Confound these cellars. One can't see a thing, +coming in out of the daylight. Who's that? Halloa, +Bill, old cock, 'ow's yourself?"</p> + +<p>"Just tottering, Jim. Where've you been?"</p> + +<p>"Wandered down to Vlamertinghe this morning +early to see about some sandbags, and while I was +there I met that flying wallah Petersen in the R.N.A.S. +Do you remember him, Major? He was up here with +an armoured car in May. He told me rather an interesting +thing."</p> + +<p>"What's that, Jim?" The Major was attacking a +brawn with gusto. "Sit down, Bill. Whisky and +Perrier in that box over there."</p> + +<p>"He tells me the Huns have got six guns whose size +he puts at about 9-inch; guns, mark you, not howitzers—mounted<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[128]</a></span> +on railway trucks at Tournai. From +there they can be rushed by either branch of the line—the +junction is just west—to wherever they are required."</p> + +<p>"My dear old boy," laughed Bill, as he sat down. +"I don't know your friend Petersen, and I have not +the slightest hesitation in saying that he is in all probability +quite right. But the information seems to be +about as much use as the fact that it is cold in Labrador."</p> + +<p>"I wonder," answered Brent, thoughtfully—"I +wonder." He was rummaging through a pile of papers +in the stationery box.</p> + +<p>The other two men looked at one another significantly. +"What hare-brained scheme have you got in +your mind now, Brent?" asked the Major.</p> + +<p>Brent came slowly across the cellar and sat down +with a sheet of paper spread out on his knee. For +a while he examined it in silence, comparing it with +an ordnance map, and then he spoke. "It's brick, +and the drop is sixty feet, according to this—with the +depth of the water fifteen."</p> + +<p>"And the answer is a lemon. What on earth are +you talking about, Jim?"</p> + +<p>"The railway bridge over the river before the line +forks."</p> + +<p>"Good Lord! My good fellow," cried the Major,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[129]</a></span> +irritably, "don't be absurd. Are you proposing to +blow it up?" His tone was ponderously sarcastic.</p> + +<p>"Not exactly," answered the unperturbed Brent, +"but something of the sort—if I can get permission."</p> + +<p>The two men laid down their knives and stared at +him solemnly.</p> + +<p>"You are, I believe, a sapper officer," commenced +the Major. "May I ask first how much gun-cotton +you think will be necessary to blow up a railway bridge +which gives a sixty-foot drop into water; second, how +you propose to get it there; third, how you propose +to get yourself there; and fourth, why do you talk +such rot?"</p> + +<p>Jim Brent laughed and helped himself to whisky. +"The answer to the first question is unknown at present, +but inquiries of my secretary will be welcomed—probably +about a thousand pounds. The answer to the +second question is that I don't. The answer to the +third is—somehow; and for the fourth question I must +ask for notice."</p> + +<p>"What the devil are you driving at, Jim?" said the +Staff-captain, puzzled. "If you don't get the stuff +there, how the deuce are you going to blow up the +bridge?"</p> + +<p>"You may take it from me, Bill, that I may be mad, +but I never anticipated marching through German<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[130]</a></span> +Belgium with a party of sappers and a G.S. wagon full +of gun-cotton. Oh, no—it's a one-man show."</p> + +<p>"But," ejaculated the Major, "how the——"</p> + +<p>"Have you ever thought, sir," interrupted Brent, +"what would be the result if, as a heavy train was passing +over a bridge, you cut one rail just in front of the +engine?"</p> + +<p>"But——" the Major again started to speak, and +was again cut short.</p> + +<p>"The outside rail," continued Brent, "so that the +tendency would be for the engine to go towards the +parapet wall. And no iron girder to hold it up—merely +a little brick wall"—he again referred to the +paper on his knee—"three feet high and three bricks +thick. No nasty parties of men carrying slabs of gun-cotton; +just yourself—with one slab of gun-cotton in +your pocket and one primer and one detonator—that +and the psychological moment. Luck, of course, but +when we dispense with the working party we lift it +from the utterly impossible into the realm of the remotely +possible. The odds are against success, I know; +but——" He shrugged his shoulders.</p> + +<p>"But how do you propose to get there, my dear +chap?" asked the Major, peevishly. "The Germans +have a rooted objection to English officers walking +about behind their lines."</p> + +<p>"Yes, but they don't mind a Belgian peasant, do<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[131]</a></span> +they? Dash it, they've played the game on us scores +of times, Major—not perhaps the bridge idea, but +espionage by men disguised behind our lines. I only +propose doing the same, and perhaps going one +better."</p> + +<p>"You haven't one chance in a hundred of getting +through alive." The Major viciously stabbed a +tongue.</p> + +<p>"That is—er—beside the point," answered Brent, +shortly.</p> + +<p>"But how could you get through their lines to start +with?" queried Bill.</p> + +<p>"There are ways, dearie, there are ways. Petersen +is a man of much resource."</p> + +<p>"Of course, the whole idea is absolutely ridiculous." +The Major snorted. "Once and for all, Brent, I won't +hear of it. We're far too short of fellows as it is."</p> + +<p>And for a space the subject languished, though +there was a look on Jim Brent's face which showed it +was only for a space.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Now when a man of the type of Brent takes it badly +over a woman, there is a strong probability of very +considerable trouble at any time. When, in addition +to that, it occurs in the middle of the bloodiest war of +history, the probability becomes a certainty. That he +should quite fail to see just what manner of woman<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[132]</a></span> +the present Lady Goring was, was merely in the nature +of the animal. He was—as far as women were concerned—of +the genus fool. To him "the rag, and the +bone, and the hank of hair" could never be anything +but perfect. It is as well that there are men like that.</p> + +<p>All of which his major—who was a man of no little +understanding—knew quite well. And the knowledge +increased his irritation, for he realised the futility of +trying to adjust things. That adjusting business is +ticklish work even between two close pals; but when +the would-be adjuster is very little more than a mere +acquaintance, the chances of success might be put in a +small-sized pill-box. To feel morally certain that your +best officer is trying his hardest to get himself killed, +and to be unable to prevent it, is an annoying state +of affairs. Small wonder, then, that at intervals +throughout the days that followed did the Major +reiterate with solemnity and emphasis his remark to +the Staff-captain anent women. It eased his feelings, +if it did nothing else.</p> + +<p>The wild scheme Brent had half suggested did not +trouble him greatly. He regarded it merely as a temporary +aberration of the brain. In the South African +war small parties of mounted sappers and cavalry had +undoubtedly ridden far into hostile country, and, getting +behind the enemy, had blown up bridges, and +generally damaged their lines of communication. But<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[133]</a></span> +in the South African war a line of trenches did not +stretch from sea to sea.</p> + +<p>And so, seated one evening at the door of his commodious +residence talking things over with his colonel, +he did not lay any great stress on the bridge idea. +Brent had not referred to it again; and in the cold light +of reason it seemed too foolish to mention.</p> + +<p>"Of course," remarked the C.R.E., "he's bound to +take it soon. No man can go on running the fool risks +you say he does without stopping one. It's a pity; +but, if he won't see by himself that he's a fool, I don't +see what we can do to make it clear. If only that confounded +girl—" He grunted and got up to go. +"Halloa! What the devil is this fellow doing?"</p> + +<p>Shambling down the road towards them was a particularly +decrepit and filthy specimen of the Belgian +labourer. In normal circumstances, and in any other +place, his appearance would have called for no especial +comment; the brand is not a rare one. But for many +months the salient of Ypres had been cleared of its +civilian population; and this sudden appearance was +not likely to pass unnoticed.</p> + +<p>"Venez, ici, monsieur, tout de suite." At the Major's +words the old man stopped, and paused in hesitation; +then he shuffled towards the two men.</p> + +<p>"Will you talk to him, Colonel?" The Major +glanced at his senior officer.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[134]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Er—I think not; my—er—French, don't you know—er—not +what it was." The worthy officer retired in +good order, only to be overwhelmed by a perfect deluge +of words from the Belgian.</p> + +<p>"What's he say?" he queried, peevishly. "That +damn Flemish sounds like a dog fight."</p> + +<p>"Parlez-vous Français, monsieur?" The Major attempted +to stem the tide of the old man's verbosity, +but he evidently had a grievance, and a Belgian with a +grievance is not a thing to be regarded with a light +heart.</p> + +<p>"Thank heavens, here's the interpreter!" The +Colonel heaved a sigh of relief. "Ask this man what +he's doing here, please."</p> + +<p>For a space the distant rattle of a machine-gun was +drowned, and then the interpreter turned to the +officers.</p> + +<p>"'E say, sare, that 'e has ten thousand franc behind +the German line, buried in a 'ole, and 'e wants to +know vat 'e shall do."</p> + +<p>"Do," laughed the Major. "What does he imagine +he's likely to do? Go and dig it up? Tell him that +he's got no business here at all."</p> + +<p>Again the interpreter spoke.</p> + +<p>"Shall I take 'im to Yper and 'and 'im to the gendarmes, +sare?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[135]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Not a bad idea," said the Colonel, "and have +him——"</p> + +<p>What further order he was going to give is immaterial, +for at that moment he looked at the Belgian, +and from that villainous old ruffian he received the +most obvious and unmistakable wink.</p> + +<p>"Er—thank you, interpreter; I will send him later +under a guard."</p> + +<p>The interpreter saluted and retired, the Major looked +surprised, the Colonel regarded the Belgian with an +amazed frown. Then suddenly the old villain spoke.</p> + +<p>"Thank you, Colonel. Those Ypres gendarmes +would have been a nuisance."</p> + +<p>"Great Scot!" gasped the Major. "What the——"</p> + +<p>"What the devil is the meaning of this masquerade, +sir?" The Colonel was distinctly angry.</p> + +<p>"I wanted to see if I'd pass muster as a Belgian, +sir. The interpreter was an invaluable proof."</p> + +<p>"You run a deuced good chance of being shot, +Brent, in that rig. Anyway, I wish for an explanation +as to why you're walking about in that get-up. +Haven't you enough work to do?"</p> + +<p>"Shall we go inside, sir? I've got a favour to ask +you."</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>We are not very much concerned with the conversation +that took place downstairs in that same cellar,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[136]</a></span> +when two senior officers of the corps of Royal Engineers +listened for nearly an hour to an apparently +disreputable old farmer. It might have been interesting +to note how the sceptical grunts of those two +officers gradually gave place to silence, and at length +to a profound, breathless interest, as they pored over +maps and plans. And the maps were all of that +country which lies behind the German trenches.</p> + +<p>But at the end the old farmer straightened himself +smartly.</p> + +<p>"That is the rough outline of my plan, sir. I think +I can claim that I have reduced the risk of not getting +to my objective to a minimum. When I get there +I am sure that my knowledge of the patois renders +the chance of detection small. As for the actual demolition +itself, an enormous amount will depend on +luck; but I can afford to wait. I shall have to be +guided by local conditions. And so I ask you to let +me go. It's a long odds chance, but if it comes off it's +worth it."</p> + +<p>"And if it does, what then? What about you?" +The Colonel's eyes and Jim Brent's met.</p> + +<p>"I shall have paid for my keep, Colonel, at any +rate."</p> + +<p>Everything was very silent in the cellar; outside on +the road a man was singing.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[137]</a></span></p> + +<p>"In other words, Jim, you're asking me to allow you +to commit suicide."</p> + +<p>He cleared his throat; his voice seemed a little +husky.</p> + +<p>"Good Lord! sir—it's not as bad as that. Call it a +forlorn hope, if you like, but ..." The eyes of the +two men met, and Brent fell silent.</p> + +<p>"Gad, my lad, you're a fool, but you're a brave fool! +For Heaven's sake, give me a drink."</p> + +<p>"I may go, Colonel?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, you may go—as far, that is, as I am concerned. +There is the General Staff to get round first."</p> + +<p>But though the Colonel's voice was gruff, he seemed +to have some difficulty in finding his glass.</p> + +<p>As far as is possible in human nature, Jim Brent, +at the period when he gained his V.C. in a manner +which made him the hero of the hour—one might almost +say of the war—was, I believe, without fear. +The blow he had received at the hands of the girl +who meant all the world to him had rendered him utterly +callous of his life. And it was no transitory +feeling: the mood of an hour or a week. It was +deeper than the ordinary misery of a man who has +taken the knock from a woman, deeper and much less +ostentatious. He seemed to view life with a contemptuous +toleration that in any other man would have +been the merest affectation. But it was not evinced<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[138]</a></span> +by his words; it was shown, as his Major had said, +by his deeds—deeds that could not be called bravado +because he never advertised them. He was simply +gambling with death, with a cool hand and a steady +eye, and sublimely indifferent to whether he won or +lost. Up to the time when he played his last great +game he had borne a charmed life. According to +the book of the words, he should have been killed a +score of times, and he told me himself only last week +that he went into this final gamble with a taunt on +his lips and contempt in his heart. Knowing him as +I do, I believe it. I can almost hear him saying to his +grim opponent, "Dash it all! I've won every time; +for Heaven's sake do something to justify your reputation."</p> + +<p>But—he didn't; Jim won again. And when he +landed in England from a Dutch tramp, having carried +out the maddest and most hazardous exploit of +the war unscathed, he slipped up on a piece of orange-peel +and broke his right leg in two places, which made +him laugh so immoderately when the contrast struck +him that it cured him—not his leg, but his mind. However, +all in due course.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The first part of the story I heard from Petersen, +of the Naval Air Service. I ran into him by accident<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[139]</a></span> +in a grocer's shop in Hazebrouck—buying stuff for +the mess.</p> + +<p>"What news of Jim?" he cried, the instant he saw +me.</p> + +<p>"Very sketchy," I answered. "He's the worst letter-writer +in the world. You know he trod on a bit +of orange-peel and broke his leg when he got back to +England."</p> + +<p>"He would." Petersen smiled. "That's just the +sort of thing Jim would do. Men like him usually die +of mumps, or the effects of a bad oyster."</p> + +<p>"Quite so," I murmured, catching him gently by +the arm. "And now come to the pub over the way +and tell me all about it. The beer there is of a less +vile brand than usual."</p> + +<p>"But I can't tell you anything, my dear chap, that +you don't know already!" he expostulated. "I am +quite prepared to gargle with you, but——"</p> + +<p>"Deux bières, ma'm'selle, s'il vous plaît." I piloted +Petersen firmly to a little table. "Tell me all, my son!" +I cried. "For the purposes of this meeting I know +nix, and you as part hero in the affair have got to get +it off your chest."</p> + +<p>He laughed, and lit a cigarette. "Not much of the +heroic in my part of the stunt, I assure you. As you +know, the show started from Dunkirk, where in due +course Jim arrived, armed with credentials extracted<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[140]</a></span> +only after great persuasion from sceptical officers of +high rank. How he ever got there at all has always +been a wonder to me: his Colonel was the least of his +difficulties in that line. But Jim takes a bit of stopping.</p> + +<p>"My part of the show was to transport that scatter-brained +idiot over the trenches and drop him behind +the German lines. His idea was novel, I must +admit, though at the time I thought he was mad, and +for that matter I still think he's mad. Only a madman +could have thought of it, only Jim Brent could +have done it and not been killed.</p> + +<p>"From a height of three thousand feet, in the middle +of the night, he proposed to bid me and the plane a +tender farewell and descend to terra firma by means +of a parachute."</p> + +<p>"Great Scot," I murmured. "Some idea."</p> + +<p>"As you say—some idea. The thing was to choose +a suitable night. As Jim said, 'the slow descent of +a disreputable Belgian peasant like an angel out of +the skies will cause a flutter of excitement in the tender +heart of the Hun if it is perceived. Therefore, it +must be a dark and overcast night.'</p> + +<p>"At last, after a week, we got an ideal one. Jim +arrayed himself in his togs, took his basket on his arm—you +know he'd hidden the gun-cotton in a cheese—and +we went round to the machine. By Jove! that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[141]</a></span> +chap's a marvel. Think of it, man." Petersen's face +was full of enthusiastic admiration. "He'd never even +been up in an aeroplane before, and yet the first time +he does, it is with the full intention of trusting himself +to an infernal parachute, a thing the thought of +which gives me cold feet; moreover, of doing it in +the dark from a height of three thousand odd feet +behind the German lines with his pockets full of detonators +and other abominations, and his cheese full +of gun-cotton. Lord! he's a marvel. And I give you +my word that of the two of us—though I've flown for +over two years—I was the shaky one. He was absolutely +cool; not the coolness of a man who is keeping +himself under control, but just the normal coolness +of a man who is doing his everyday job."</p> + +<p>Petersen finished his beer at a gulp, and we encored +the dose.</p> + +<p>"Well, we got off about two. We were not aiming +at any specific spot, but I was going to go due east for +three-quarters of an hour, which I estimated should +bring us somewhere over Courtrai. Then he was going +to drop off, and I was coming back. The time was +chosen so that I should be able to land again at Dunkirk +about dawn.</p> + +<p>"I can't tell you much more. We escaped detection +going over the lines, and about ten minutes to three, at +a height of three thousand five hundred, old Jim tapped<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[142]</a></span> +me on the shoulder. He understood exactly what to +do—as far as we could tell him: for the parachute is +still almost in its infancy.</p> + +<p>"As he had remarked to our wing commander before +we started: 'A most valuable experiment, sir; I +will report on how it works in due course.'</p> + +<p>"We shook hands. I could see him smiling through +the darkness; and then, with his basket under his arm, +that filthy old Belgian farmer launched himself into +space.</p> + +<p>"I saw him for a second falling like a stone, and +then the parachute seemed to open out all right. But +of course I couldn't tell in the dark; and just afterwards +I struck an air-pocket, and had a bit of trouble +with the bus. After that I turned round and went +home again. I'm looking forward to seeing the old +boy and hearing what occurred."</p> + +<p>And that is the unvarnished account of the first part +of Jim's last game with fate. Incidentally, it's the +sort of thing that hardly requires any varnishing.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The rest of the yarn I heard later from Brent himself, +when I went round to see him in hospital, while +I was back on leave.</p> + +<p>"For Heaven's sake, lady, dear," he said to the sister +as I arrived, "don't let anyone else in. Say I've +had a relapse and am biting the bed-clothes. This unpleasant-looking<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[143]</a></span> +man is a great pal of mine, and I +would commune with him awhile."</p> + +<p>"It's appalling, old boy," he said to me as she went +out of the room, "how they cluster. Men of dreadful +visage; women who gave me my first bath; unprincipled +journalists—all of them come and talk hot air +until I get rid of them by swooning. My young sister +brought thirty-four school friends round last Tuesday! +Of course, my swoon is entirely artificial; but the sister +is an understanding soul, and shoos them away." He +lit a cigarette.</p> + +<p>"I saw Petersen the other day in Hazebrouck," I +told him as I sat down by the bed. "He wants to +come round and see you as soon as he can get home."</p> + +<p>"Good old Petersen. I'd never have brought it off +without him."</p> + +<p>"What happened, Jim?" I asked. "I've got up to +the moment when you left his bus, with your old parachute, +and disappeared into space. And of course +I've seen the official announcement of the guns being +seen in the river, as reported by that R.F.C. man. But +there is a gap of about three weeks; and I notice you +have not been over-communicative to the half-penny +press."</p> + +<p>"My dear old man," he answered, seriously, "there +was nothing to be communicative about. Thinking it +over now, I am astounded how simple the whole thing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[144]</a></span> +was. It was as easy as falling off a log. I fell like +a stone for two or three seconds, because the blessed +umbrella wouldn't open. Then I slowed up and floated +gently downwards. It was a most fascinating sensation. +I heard old Petersen crashing about just above +me; and in the distance a search-light was moving +backwards and forwards across the sky, evidently looking +for him. I should say it took me about five minutes +to come down; and of course all the way down +I was wondering where the devil I was going to land. +The country below me was black as pitch: not a light +to be seen—not a camp-fire—nothing. As the two +things I wanted most to avoid were church steeples +and the temporary abode of any large number of Huns, +everything looked very favourable. To be suspended +by one's trousers from a weathercock in the cold, grey +light of dawn seemed a sorry ending to the show; and +to land from the skies on a general's stomach requires +explanation."</p> + +<p>He smiled reminiscently. "I'm not likely to forget +that descent, Petersen's engine getting fainter and +fainter in the distance, the first pale streaks of light +beginning to show in the east, and away on a road +to the south the headlamps of a car moving swiftly +along. Then the humour of the show struck me. Me, +in my most picturesque disguise, odoriferous as a family +of ferrets in my borrowed garments, descending<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[145]</a></span> +gently on to the Hun like the fairy god-mother in a +pantomime. So I laughed, and—wished I hadn't. My +knees hit my jaw with a crack, and I very nearly bit +my tongue in two. Cheeses all over the place, and +there I was enveloped in the folds of the collapsing +parachute. Funny, but for a moment I couldn't think +what had happened. I suppose I was a bit dizzy from +the shock, and it never occurred to me that I'd reached +the ground, which, not being able to see in the dark, I +hadn't known was so close. Otherwise I could have +landed much lighter. Yes, it's a great machine that +parachute." He paused to reach for his pipe.</p> + +<p>"Where did you land?" I asked.</p> + +<p>"In the middle of a ploughed field. Couldn't have +been a better place if I'd chosen it. A wood or a river +would have been deuced awkward. Yes, there's no +doubt about it, old man, my luck was in from the very +start. I removed myself from the folds, picked up +my cheeses, found a convenient ditch alongside to hide +the umbrella in, and then sat tight waiting for dawn.</p> + +<p>"I happen to know that part of Belgium pretty well, +and when it got light I took my bearings. Petersen +had borne a little south of what we intended, which +was all to the good—it gave me less walking; but it +was just as well I found a sign-post almost at once, +as I had no map, of course—far too dangerous; and +I wasn't very clear on names of villages, though I'd<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[146]</a></span> +memorized the map before leaving. I found I had +landed somewhere south of Courtrai, and was about +twelve kilometres due north of Tournai.</p> + +<p>"And it was just as I'd decided that little fact that +I met a horrible Hun, a large and forbidding-looking +man. Now, the one thing on which I'd been chancing +my arm was the freedom allowed to the Belgians behind +the German lines, and luck again stepped in.</p> + +<p>"Beyond grunting 'Guten Morgen' he betrayed no +interest in me whatever. It was the same all along. I +shambled past Uhlans, and officers and generals in +motor-cars—Huns of all breeds and all varieties, and +no one even noticed me. And after all, why on earth +should they?</p> + +<p>"About midday I came to Tournai; and here again +I was trusting to luck. I'd stopped there three years +ago at a small estaminet near the station kept by the +widow Demassiet. Now this old lady was, I knew, +thoroughly French in sympathies; and I hoped that, +in case of necessity, she would pass me off as her +brother from Ghent, who was staying with her for a +while. Some retreat of this sort was, of course, essential. +A homeless vagabond would be bound to excite +suspicion.</p> + +<p>"Dear old woman—she was splendid. After the +war I shall search her out, and present her with an +annuity, or a belle vache, or something dear to the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[147]</a></span> +Belgian heart. She never even hesitated. From that +night I was her brother, though she knew it meant +her death as well as mine if I was discovered.</p> + +<p>"'Ah, monsieur,' she said, when I pointed this out +to her, 'it is in the hands of le bon Dieu. At the most +I have another five years, and these Allemands—pah!' +She spat with great accuracy.</p> + +<p>"She was good, was the old veuve Demassiet."</p> + +<p>Jim puffed steadily at his pipe in silence for a few +moments.</p> + +<p>"I soon found out that the Germans frequented the +estaminet; and, what was more to the point—luck +again, mark you—that the gunners who ran the battery +I was out after almost lived there. When the battery +was at Tournai they had mighty little to do, and +they did it, with some skill, round the beer in her big +room.</p> + +<p>"I suppose you know what my plan was. The next +time that battery left Tournai I proposed to cut one of +the metals on the bridge over the River Scheldt, just +in front of the engine, so close that the driver couldn't +stop, and so derail the locomotive. I calculated that if +I cut the outside rail—the one nearest the parapet wall—the +flange on the inner wheel would prevent the engine +turning inwards. That would merely cause delay, +but very possibly no more. I hoped, on the contrary, +to turn it outwards towards the wall, through<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[148]</a></span> +which it would crash, dragging after it with any luck +the whole train of guns.</p> + +<p>"That being the general idea, so to speak, I wandered +off one day to see the bridge. As I expected, it +was guarded, but by somewhat indifferent-looking +Huns—evidently only lines of communication troops. +For all that, I hadn't an idea how I was going to do it. +Still, luck, always luck; the more you buffet her the +better she treats you.</p> + +<p>"One week after I got there I heard the battery was +going out: and they were going out that night. As a +matter of fact, that hadn't occurred to me before—the +fact of them moving by night, but it suited me down +to the ground. It appeared they were timed to leave +at midnight, which meant they'd cross the bridge about +a quarter or half past. And so at nine that evening +I pushed gently off and wandered bridgewards.</p> + +<p>"Then the fun began. I was challenged, and, having +answered thickly, I pretended to be drunk. The +sentry, poor devil, wasn't a bad fellow, and I had some +cold sausage and beer. And very soon a gurgling noise +pronounced the fact that he found my beer good.</p> + +<p>"It was then I hit him on the base of his skull with +a bit of gas-pipe. That sentry will never drink beer +again." Brent frowned. "A nasty blow, a dirty blow, +but a necessary blow." He shrugged his shoulders +and then went on.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[149]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I took off his top-coat and put it on. I put on his +hat and took his rifle and rolled him down the embankment +into a bush. Then I resumed his beat. Discipline +was a bit lax on that bridge, I'm glad to say; +unless you pulled your relief out of bed no one else +was likely to do it for you. As you may guess, I did +not do much pulling.</p> + +<p>"I was using two slabs of gun-cotton to make sure—firing +them electrically. I had two dry-cells and two +coils of fine wire for the leads. The cells would fire +a No. 13 Detonator through thirty yards of those leads—and +that thirty yards just enabled me to stand clear +of the bridge. It took me twenty minutes to fix it up, +and then I had to wait.</p> + +<p>"By gad, old boy, you've called me a cool bird; you +should have seen me during that wait. I was trembling +like a child with excitement: everything had gone +so marvellously. And for the first time in the whole +show it dawned on me that not only was there a chance +of getting away afterwards, but that I actually wanted +to. Before that moment I'd assumed on the certainty +of being killed."</p> + +<p>For a moment he looked curiously in front of him, +and a slight smile lurked round the corners of his +mouth. Then suddenly, and apropos of nothing, he +remarked, "Kathleen Goring tea'd with me yesterday.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[150]</a></span> +Of course, it was largely due to that damned orange-skin, +but I—er—did not pass a sleepless night."</p> + +<p>Which I took to be indicative of a state of mind induced +by the rind of that nutritious fruit, rather than +any reference to his broken leg. For when a man has +passed unscathed through parachute descents and little +things like that, only to lose badly on points to a piece +of peel, his sense of humour gets a jog in a crucial +place. And a sense of humour is fatal to the hopeless, +undying passion. It is almost as fatal, in fact, as a +hiccough at the wrong moment.</p> + +<p>"It was just about half-past twelve that the train +came along. I was standing by the end of the bridge, +with my overcoat and rifle showing in the faint light +of the moon. The engine-driver waved his arm and +shouted something in greeting and I waved back. Then +I took the one free lead and waited until the engine +was past me. I could see the first of the guns, just +coming abreast, and at that moment I connected up +with the battery in my pocket. Two slabs of gun-cotton +make a noise, as you know, and just as the +engine reached the charge, a sheet of flame seemed to +leap from underneath the front wheels. The driver +hadn't time to do a thing—the engine had left the +rails before he knew what had happened. And then +things moved. In my wildest moments I had never +expected such a success. The engine crashed through<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[151]</a></span> +the parapet wall and hung for a moment in space. +Then it fell downward into the water, and by the +mercy of Allah the couplings held. The first two guns +followed it, through the gap it had made, and then +the others overturned with the pull before they got +there, smashing down the wall the whole way along. +Every single gun went wallop into the Scheldt—to +say nothing of two passenger carriages containing the +gunners and their officers. The whole thing was over +in five seconds; and you can put your shirt on it that +before the last gun hit the water yours truly had cast +away his regalia of office and was legging it like a +two-year-old back to the veuve Demassiet and Tournai. +It struck me that bridge might shortly become an unhealthy +spot."</p> + +<p>Jim Brent laughed. "It did. I had to stop on with +the old lady for two or three days in case she might +be suspected owing to my sudden departure—and +things hummed. They shot the feldwebel in charge +of the guard; they shot every sentry; they shot everybody +they could think of; but—they never even suspected +me. I went out and had a look next day, the +day I think that R.F.C. man spotted and reported the +damage. Two of the guns were only fit for turning +into hairpins, and the other four looked very like the +morning after.</p> + +<p>"Then, after I'd waited a couple of days, I said<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[152]</a></span> +good-bye to the old dear and trekked off towards the +Dutch frontier, gaining immense popularity, old son, +by describing the accident to all the soldiers I met.</p> + +<p>"That's all, I think. I had words with a sentry at +the frontier, but I put it across him with his own +bundook. Then I wandered to our Ambassador, and +sailed for England in due course. And—er—that's +that."</p> + +<p>Such is the tale of Jim Brent's V.C. There only +remains for me to give the wording of his official report +on the matter.</p> + +<p>"I have the honour to report," it ran, "that at midnight +on the 25th ult., I successfully derailed the train +conveying six guns of calibre estimated at about +9-inch, each mounted on a railway truck. The engine, +followed by the guns, departed from sight in about +five seconds, and fell through a drop of some sixty +feet into the River Scheldt from the bridge just west +of Tournai. The gunners and officers—who were in +two coaches in rear—were also killed. Only one +seemed aware that there was danger, and he, owing to +his bulk, was unable to get out of the door of his carriage. +He was, I think, in command. I investigated +the damage next day when the military authorities +were a little calmer, and beg to state that I do not +consider the guns have been improved by their immersion. +One, at least, has disappeared in the mud. A<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[153]</a></span> +large number of Germans who had no connection with +this affair have, I am glad to report, since been shot +for it.</p> + +<p>"I regret that I am unable to report in person, but +I am at present in hospital with a broken leg, sustained +by my inadvertently stepping on a piece of orange-peel, +which escaped my notice owing to its remarkable similarity +to the surrounding terrain. This similarity was +doubtless due to the dirt on the orange-peel."</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Which, I may say, should not be taken as a model for +official reports by the uninitiated.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[154]</a></span> +</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[155]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER VI</h2> + +<h3>RETRIBUTION</h3> + + +<p>On the Promenade facing the Casino at Monte +Carlo two men were seated smoking. The Riviera +season was at its height, and passing to and fro +in front of them were the usual crowd of well-dressed +idlers, who make up the society of that delectable, if +expensive, resort. Now and again a casual acquaintance +would saunter by, to be greeted with a smile from +one, and a curt nod from the other, who, with his eyes +fixed on the steps in front of him, seemed oblivious of +all else.</p> + +<p>"Cheer up, Jerry; she won't be long. Give the poor +girl time to digest her luncheon." The cheerful one +of the twain lit a cigarette; and in the process received +the glad eye from a passing siren of striking aspect. +"Great Cæsar, old son!" he continued, when she was +swallowed up in the crowd, "you're losing the chance +of a lifetime. Here, gathered together to bid us welcome, +are countless beautiful women and brave men. +We are for the moment the star turn of the show—the +brave British sailors whom the ladies delight to honour.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[156]</a></span> +Never let it be said, old dear, that you failed +them in this their hour of need."</p> + +<p>"Confound it, Ginger, I know all about that!" The +other man sighed and, coming suddenly out of his +brown study, he too leant forward and fumbled for +his cigarette-case. "But it's no go, old man. I'm getting +a deuced sight too old and ugly nowadays to chop +and change about. There comes a time of life when +if a man wants to kiss one particular woman, he might +as well kiss his boot for all the pleasure fooling around +with another will give him."</p> + +<p>Ginger Lawson looked at him critically. "My lad, +I fear me that Nemesis has at length descended on you. +No longer do the ortolans and caviare of unregenerate +bachelorhood tempt you; rather do you yearn for +ground rice and stewed prunes in the third floor back. +These symptoms——"</p> + +<p>"Ginger," interrupted the other, "dry up. You're +a dear, good soul, but when you try to be funny, I +realise the type of man who writes mottoes for crackers." +He started up eagerly, only to sit down again +disappointed.</p> + +<p>"Not she, not she, my love," continued the other +imperturbably. "And, in the meanwhile, doesn't it +strike you that you are committing a bad tactical error +in sitting here, with a face like a man that's eaten a +bad oyster, on the very seat where she's bound to see<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[157]</a></span> +you when she does finish her luncheon and come +down?"</p> + +<p>"I suppose that means you want me to cocktail with +you?"</p> + +<p>"More impossible ideas have fructified," agreed Ginger, +rising.</p> + +<p>"No, I'm blowed if——!"</p> + +<p>"Come on, old son." Lawson dragged him reluctantly +to his feet. "All the world loves a lover, +including the loved one herself; but you look like a +deaf-mute at a funeral, who's swallowed his fee. Come +and have a cocktail at Ciro's, and then, merry and +bright and caracoling like a young lark, return and +snatch her from under the nose of the accursed Teuton."</p> + +<p>"Do you think she's going to accept him, Ginger?" +he muttered anxiously, as they sauntered through the +drifting crowd.</p> + +<p>"My dear boy, ask me another. But she's coming +to the ball dance on board to-night, and if the delicate +pink illumination of your special kala jugger, shining +softly on your virile face, and toning down the somewhat +vivid colour scheme of your sunburned nose, +doesn't melt her heart, I don't know what will——"</p> + +<p>Which all requires a little explanation. Before the +war broke out it was the custom each year for that +portion of the British Fleet stationed in the Mediterranean,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[158]</a></span> +and whose headquarters were at Malta, to +make a cruise lasting three weeks or a month to some +friendly sea-coast, where the ports were good and the +inhabitants merry. Trieste, perhaps, and up the Adriatic; +Alexandria and the countries to the East; or, +best of all, the Riviera. And at the time when my +story opens the officers of the British Mediterranean +Fleet, which had come to rest in the wonderful natural +anchorage of Villefranche, were doing their best +to live up to the reputation which the British naval +officer enjoys the world over. Everywhere within +motor distance of their vessels they were greeted with +joy and acclamation; there were dances and dinners, +women and wine—and what more for a space can any +hard-worked sailor-man desire? During their brief +intervals of leisure they slept and recuperated on board, +only to dash off again with unabated zeal to pastures +new, or renewed, as the case might be.</p> + +<p>Foremost amongst the revellers on this, as on other +occasions, was Jerry Travers, torpedo-lieutenant on +the flagship. Endowed by Nature with an infinite capacity +for consuming cocktails, and with a disposition +which not even the catering of the Maltese mess man +could embitter, his sudden fall from grace was all the +more noticeable. From being a tireless leader of revels, +he became a mooner in secret places, a melancholy +sigher in the wardroom. Which fact did not escape<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[159]</a></span> +the eyes of the flagship wardroom officers. And Lawson, +the navigating lieutenant, had deputed himself as +clerk of the course.</p> + +<p>Staying at the Hôtel de Paris was an American, who +was afflicted with the dreadful name of Honks; with +him were his wife and his daughter Maisie. Maisie +Honks has not a prepossessing sound; but she was +the girl who was responsible for Jerry Travers's downfall. +He had met her at a ball in Nice just after the +Fleet arrived, and, from that moment he had become +a trifle deranged. Brother officers entering his cabin +unawares found him gazing into the infinite with a +slight squint. His Marine servant spread the rumour +on the lower deck that "'e'd taken to poetry, and 'orrible +noises in his sleep." Like a goodly number of men +who have walked merrily through life, sipping at many +flowers, but leaving each with added zest for the next, +when he took it he took it hard. And Maisie had just +about reduced him to idiocy. I am no describer of +girls, but I was privileged to know and revere the lady +from afar, and I can truthfully state that I have rarely, +if ever, seen a more absolute dear. She wasn't fluffy, +and she wasn't statuesque; she did not have violet eyes +which one may liken to mountain pools, or hair of that +colour described as spun-gold. She was just—Maisie, +one of the most adorable girls that ever happened. +And Jerry, as I say, had taken it very badly.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[160]</a></span></p> + +<p>Unfortunately, there was a fly in the ointment—almost +of bluebottle size—in the shape of another occupant +of the Hôtel de Paris, who had also taken it +very badly, and at a much earlier date. The Baron +von Dressler—an officer in the German Navy, and a +member of one of the oldest Prussian families—had +been staying at Monte Carlo for nearly a month, on +sick leave after a severe dose of fever. And he, likewise, +worshipped with ardour and zeal at the Honks +shrine. Moreover, being apparently a very decent fellow, +and living as he did in the same hotel, he had, +as Jerry miserably reflected, a bit of a preponderance +in artillery, especially as he had opened fire more than +a fortnight before the British Navy had appeared on +the scene. This, then, was the general situation; and +the particular feature of the moment, which caused +an outlook on life even more gloomy than usual in +the heart of the torpedo-lieutenant, was that the Baron +von Dressler had been invited to lunch with his adored +one, while he had not.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>"Something potent, Fritz." Lawson piloted him +firmly to the bar and addressed the presiding being +respectfully. "Something potent and heady which +will make this officer's sad heart bubble once again +with the joie de vivre. He has been crossed in love."</p> + +<p>"Don't be an ass, Ginger," said the other peevishly.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[161]</a></span></p> + +<p>"My dear fellow, the credit of the Navy is at stake. +Admitted that you've had a bad start in the Honks +stakes, nevertheless—you never know—our Teuton +may take a bad fall. And, incidentally, there they +both are, to say nothing of Honks père et mère." He +was peering through the window. "No, you don't, +my boy!" as the other made a dash for the door. "The +day is yet young. Lap it up; repeat the dose; and then +in the nonchalant style for which our name is famous +we will sally forth and have at them."</p> + +<p>"Confound it, Ginger! they seem to be on devilish +good terms. Look at the blighter, bending towards +her as if he owned her." Travers stood in the window +rubbing his hands with his handkerchief nervously.</p> + +<p>"What d'you expect him to do? Look the other +way?" The navigating officer snorted. "You make +me tired, Torps. Come along if you're ready; and try +and look jaunty and debonair."</p> + +<p>"Heavens! old boy; I'm as nervous as an ugly girl +at her first party." They were passing into the street. +"My hands are clammy and my boots are bursting +with feet."</p> + +<p>"I don't mind about your boots; but for goodness' +sake dry your hands. No self-respecting woman +would look at a man with perspiring palms."</p> + +<p>Ten minutes later three pairs of people might have<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[162]</a></span> +been seen strolling up and down the Promenade. And +as the arrangement of those pairs was entirely due +to the navigating lieutenant, their composition is perhaps +worthy of a paragraph. At one end, as was very +right and proper, Jerry and Miss Honks discussed men +and matters—at least, I assume so—with a zest that +seemed to show his nervousness was only transient. +In the middle the stage-manager and Mrs. Honks discussed +Society, with a capital "S"—a subject of which +the worthy woman knew nothing and talked a lot. At +the other end Mr. Honks poured into the unresponsive +ear of an infuriated Prussian nobleman his new scheme +for cornering sausages. Which shows what a naval +officer can do when he gets down to it.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Now, it is certainly not my intention to recount in +detail the course of Jerry Travers's love affair during +his stay on the Riviera. Sufficient to say, it did not +run smoothly. But there are one or two things which +I must relate—things which concern our three principals. +They cover the first round in the contest—the +round which the German won on points. And though +they have no actual bearing on the strange happenings +which brought about the second and last round, in +circumstances nothing short of miraculous at a future +date, yet for the proper understanding of the retribution<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[163]</a></span> +that came upon the Hun at the finish it is well +that they should be told.</p> + +<p>They occurred that same evening, at the ball given +by the British Navy on the flagship. Few sights, I +venture to think, are more imposing, and to a certain +extent more incongruous, than a battleship in gala +mood. For days beforehand, men skilled in electricity +erect with painstaking care a veritable fairyland of +coloured lights, which shine softly on the deck cleared +for dancing, and discreet kala juggers prepared with +equal care by officers skilled in love. Everywhere +there is peace and luxury; the music of the band steals +across the silent water; the engine of death is at rest. +Almost can one imagine the mighty turbines, the great +guns, the whole infernal paraphernalia of destruction, +laughing grimly at their master's amusements—those +masters whose brains forged them and riveted them +and gave them birth; who with the pressure of a finger +can launch five tons of death at a speck ten miles +away; whose lightest caprice they are bound to obey—and +yet who now cover them with flimsy silks and fairy +lights, while they dance and make love to laughing, +soft-eyed girls. And perhaps there was some such idea +in the gunnery-lieutenant's mind as he leant against the +breech of a twelve-inch gun, waiting for his particular +guest. "Not yet, old man," he muttered thoughtfully<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[164]</a></span>—"not +yet. To-night we play; to-morrow—who +knows?"</p> + +<p>Above, the lights shone out unshaded, silhouetting +the battle-cruiser with lines of fire against the vault +of heaven, sprinkled with the golden dust of a +myriad stars; while ceaselessly across the violet water +steam-pinnaces dashed backwards and forwards, carrying +boatloads of guests from the landing-stage, and +then going back for more. At the top of the gangway +the admiral, immaculate in blue and gold, welcomed +them as they arrived; the flag-lieutenant, with +the weight of much responsibility on his shoulders, +having just completed a last lightning tour of the ship, +only to discover a scarcity of hairpins in the ladies' +cloak-room, stood behind him. And in the wardroom +the engineer-commander—a Scotsman of pessimistic +outlook—reviled with impartiality all ball dances, +adding a special clause for the one now commencing. +But then, off duty, he had no soul above bridge.</p> + +<p>In this setting, then, appeared the starters for the +Honks stakes on the night in question, only, for the +time being, the positions were reversed. Now the +Baron was the stranger in a strange land; Jerry was +at home—one of the hosts. Moreover, as has already +been discreetly hinted, there was a certain and very +particular kala jugger. And into this very particular<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[165]</a></span> +kala jugger Jerry, in due course, piloted his adored +one.</p> + +<p>I am now coming to the region of imagination. I +was not in that dim-lit nook with them, and therefore +I am not in a position to state with any accuracy what +occurred. But—and here I must be discreet—there +was a midshipman, making up in cheek and inquisitiveness +what he lacked in years and stature. Also, as +I have said, the Honks stakes were not a private matter—far +from it. The prestige of the British Navy +was at stake, and betting ran high in the gunroom, or +abode of "snotties." Where this young imp of mischief +hid, I know not; he swore himself that his overhearing +was purely accidental, and endeavoured to excuse +his lamentable conduct by saying that he learned +a lot!</p> + +<p>His account of the engagement was breezy and +nautical; and as there is, so far as I know, no other +description of the operations extant, I give it for what +it is worth.</p> + +<p>Jerry, he told me in the Union Club, Valetta, at a +later date, opened the action with some tentative shots +from his lighter armament. For ten minutes odd he +alternately Honked and Maisied, till, as my ribald informant +put it, the deck rang with noises reminiscent +of a jibbing motor-car. She countered ably with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[166]</a></span> +rhapsodies over the ship, the band, and life in general, +utterly refusing to be drawn into personalities.</p> + +<p>Then, it appeared, Jerry's self-control completely +deserted him, and with a hoarse and throaty noise he +opened fire with the full force of his starboard broadside; +he rammed down the loud pedal and let drive.</p> + +<p>He assured her that she was the only woman he +could ever love; he seized her ungloved hand and fervently +kissed it; in short, he offered her his hand and +heart in the most approved style, the while protesting +his absolute unworthiness to aspire to such an honour +as her acceptance of the same.</p> + +<p>"Net result, old dear," murmured my graceless informant, +pressing the bell for another cocktail, "nix—a +frost absolute, a frost complete."</p> + +<p>"She thought he and the whole ship were bully, and +wasn't that little boy who'd brought them out in the +launch the cutest ever, but she reckoned sailors cut +no ice with poppa. She was just too sorry for words +it had ever occurred, but there it was, and there was +nothing more to be said."</p> + +<p>For the truth of these statements I will not vouch. +I do know that on the night in question Jerry was refused +by the only woman he'd ever really cared about, +because he told me so, and the method of it is of little +account. And if there be any who may think I have +dealt with this tragedy in an unfeeling way, I must<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[167]</a></span> +plead in excuse that I have but quoted my informant, +and he was one of those in the gunroom who had lost +money on the event.</p> + +<p>Anyway, let me, as a sop to the serious-minded, pass +on to the other little event which I must chronicle before +I come to my finale. In this world the serious +and the gay, the tears and the laughter, come to us +out of the great scroll of fate in strange, jumbled succession. +The lucky dip at a bazaar holds no more +variegated procession of surprises than the mix up +we call life brings to each and all. And so, though +my tone in describing Jerry's proposal has perhaps +been wantonly flippant, and though the next incident +may seem to some to savour of melodrama—yet, is it +not life, my masters, is it not life?</p> + +<p>I was in the wardroom when it occurred. Jerry, +standing by the fireplace, was smoking a cigarette, and +looking like the proverbial gentleman who has lost a +sovereign and found sixpence. There were several +officers in there at the time, and—the Baron von Dressler. +And the Prussian had been drinking.</p> + +<p>Not that he was by any means drunk, but he was +in that condition when some men become merry, some +confidential, some—what shall I say?—not exactly +pugnacious, but on the way to it. He belonged to the +latter class. All the worst traits of the Prussian officer, +the domineering, sneering, aggressive mannerisms<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[168]</a></span>—which, +to do him justice, in normal circumstances +he successfully concealed, at any rate, when mixing +with other nationalities—were showing clearly in his +face. He was once again the arrogant, intolerant autocrat—truly, +<i>in vino veritas</i>. Moreover, his eyes were +wandering with increasing frequency to Jerry, who, +so far, seemed unconscious of the scrutiny.</p> + +<p>After a while I caught Ginger Lawson's eye and he +shrugged his shoulders slightly. He told me afterwards +that he had been fearing a flare-up for some +minutes, but had hoped it would pass over. However, +he strolled over to Jerry and started talking.</p> + +<p>"Mop that up, Jerry," he said, "and come along and +do your duty. Baron, you don't seem to be dancing +much to-night. Can't I find you a partner?"</p> + +<p>"Thank you, but I probably know more people here +than you do." The tone even more than the words +was a studied insult. "Lieutenant Travers's duty +seems to have been unpleasant up to date, which perhaps +accounts for his reluctance to resume it. Are +you—er—lucky at cards?" This time the sneer was +too obvious to be disregarded.</p> + +<p>Jerry looked up, and the eyes of the two men met. +"It is possible, Baron von Dressier," he remarked +icily, "that in your navy remarks of that type are regarded +as witty. Would it be asking you too much<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[169]</a></span> +to request that you refrain from using them in a ship +where they are merely considered vulgar?"</p> + +<p>By this time a dead silence had settled on the wardroom, +one of those awkward silences which any scene +of this sort produces on those who are in the unfortunate +position of onlookers.</p> + +<p>Von Dressler was white with passion. "You forget +yourself, lieutenant. I would have you to know that +my uncle is a prince of the blood royal."</p> + +<p>"That apparently does not prevent his nephew from +failing to remember the customs that hold amongst +gentlemen."</p> + +<p>"Gentlemen!" The Prussian looked round the +circle of silent officers with a scornful laugh; the fumes +of the spirits he had drunk were mounting to his +head with his excitement. "You mean—shopkeepers."</p> + +<p>With a muttered curse several officers started forward; +no ball is a teetotal affair, I suppose, and scenes +of this sort are dangerous at any time. Travers held +up his hand, sharply, incisively.</p> + +<p>"Gentlemen, remember this—er—Prussian officer +and gentleman is our guest. That being the case, sir"—he +turned to the German—"you are quite safe in +insulting us as much as you like."</p> + +<p>"The question of safety would doubtless prove irresistible +to an Englishman." The face of the German +was distorted with rage, he seemed to be searching in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[170]</a></span> +his mind for insults; then suddenly he tried a new +line.</p> + +<p>"Bah! I am not a guttersnipe to bandy words with +you. You will not have long to wait, you English, and +then—when the day does come, my friends; when, +at last, we come face to face, then, by God! then——"</p> + +<p>"Well, what then, Baron von Dressler?" A stern +voice cut like a whiplash across the wardroom; standing +in the door was the admiral himself, who had entered +unperceived.</p> + +<p>For a moment the coarse, furious face of the Prussian +paled a little; then with a supreme effort of arrogance +he pulled himself together. "Then, sir, we shall +see—the world will see—whether you or we will be +the victor. The old and effete versus the new and efficient. +Der Tag." He lifted his hand and let it drop; +in the silence one could have heard a pin drop.</p> + +<p>"The problem you raise is of interest," answered +the admiral, in the same icy tone. "In the meanwhile +any discussion is unprofitable; and in the surroundings +in which you find yourself at present it is more than +unprofitable—it is a gross breach of all good form and +service etiquette. As our guest we were pleased to +see you; you will pardon my saying that now I can no +longer regard you as a guest. Will you kindly give +orders, Lieutenant Travers, for a steam-pinnace? +Baron von Dressler will go ashore."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[171]</a></span></p> + +<p>Such was the other matter that concerned my principals, +and which, of necessity, I have had to record. +Such an incident is probably almost unique; but when +there's a girl at the bottom of things and wine at the +top, something is likely to happen. The most unfortunate +thing about it all, as far as Jerry was concerned, +was an untimely indisposition on the part of +Honks mère. As a coincidence nothing could have +been more disastrous.</p> + +<p>The pinnace was at the foot of the gangway, and +the Baron—his eyes savage—was just preparing to +take an elaborate and sarcastic farewell of the silent +torpedo-lieutenant, who was regarding him with an +air of cold contempt, when Mr. Honks appeared on +the scene.</p> + +<p>"Say, Baron, are you going away?"</p> + +<p>"I am, Mr. Honks. My presence seems distasteful +to the officers."</p> + +<p>The American seemed hardly to hear the last part +of the remark. "I guess we'll quit too. My wife's +been taken bad. Can we come in your boat, Baron?"</p> + +<p>"I shall be more than delighted." His eyes came +round with ill-concealed triumph to Travers's impassive +face as the American bustled away. "I venture +to think that the Honks stakes are still open."</p> + +<p>"By Heaven! You blackguard!" muttered Jerry, +his passion overcoming him for a moment. "I believe<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[172]</a></span> +I'd give my commission to smash your damned +face in with a marline-spike and chuck you into the +sea."</p> + +<p>"I won't forget what you say," answered the German +vindictively, "One day I'll make you eat those +words; and then when I've sunk your rat-eaten ship, +it will be me that uses the marline-spike—you swine."</p> + +<p>It was as well for Jerry, and for the Baron too, that +at this psychological moment the Honks ménage arrived, +otherwise that German would probably have +gone into the sea.</p> + +<p>"Good night, lady," murmured Jerry, when he had +solicitously inquired after her mother's health. "Is +there no hope?" He was desperately anxious to seize +the second or two left; he knew she would not hear +the true account of what had happened from the +Baron.</p> + +<p>"I guess not," she answered softly. "But come and +call." With a smile she was gone, and from the boat +there came the Baron's voice mocking through the still +air, "Good night, Lieutenant Travers. Thank you so +much."</p> + +<p>And, drowned by the band that started at that moment, +the wonderful and fearful curse that left the +torpedo-lieutenant's lips drifted into the night unheard.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[173]</a></span></p><hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Let us go on a couple of years. The moment +thought of by the gunnery-lieutenant, the day acclaimed +by the Prussian officer had come. England +was at war. Der Tag was a reality. No longer did +silks and shaded lights form part of the equipment of +the Navy, but grim and sombre, ruthlessly stripped +of everything not absolutely necessary, the great grey +monsters watched tirelessly through the flying scud +of the North Sea for "the fleet that stayed at home." +Only their submarines were out, and these, day by +day, diminished in numbers, until the men who sent +them out looked at one another fearfully—so many +went out, so few came back.</p> + +<p>Tearing through the water one day, away a bit to +the south-west of Bantry Bay, with the haze of Ireland +lying like a smudge on the horizon, was a lean, +villainous-looking torpedo-boat-destroyer. She was +plunging her nose into the slight swell, now and again +drenching the oilskinned figure standing motionless on +the bridge. Behind her a great cloud of black smoke +drifted across the grey water, and the whole vessel +was quivering with the force of her engines. She was +doing her maximum and a bit more, but still the steady, +watchful eyes of the officer on the bridge seemed impatient, +and every now and again he cursed softly and +with wonderful fluency under his breath.</p> + +<p>It was our friend Jerry, who at the end of his time<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[174]</a></span> +on the flagship had been given one of the newest +T.B.D.'s, and now with every ounce he could get out +of her he was racing towards the spot from which had +come the last S.O.S. message, nearly an hour ago. +There was something grimly foreboding about those +agonised calls sent out to the world for perhaps twenty +minutes, and then—silence, nothing more. German +submarines, he reflected, as for the tenth time he peered +at his wrist-watch, German submarines engaged once +again in the only form of war they could compete in +or dared undertake. And not for the first time his +thoughts went back to the vainglorious boastings of +his friend the Baron.</p> + +<p>"Damn him," he muttered. "I haven't forgotten the +sweep."</p> + +<p>There were many things he hadn't forgotten; how, +when he'd gone to call on the lady as requested, she +had been "out," and it was that sort of "out" that +means "in." How a letter had been answered courteously +but distinctly coldly, and, impotent with rage, +he had been forced to the conclusion that she was offended +with him. And with the Prussian able to say +what he liked, it was not difficult to find the reason.</p> + +<p>Then the Fleet left, and Jerry resigned himself to +the inevitable, a proceeding which was not made easier +by the many rumours he heard to the effect that the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[175]</a></span> +Baron himself had done the trick. Distinctly he +wanted once again to meet that gentleman.</p> + +<p>"We ought to see her, if she hasn't sunk, sir, by +now." The sub-lieutenant on the bridge spoke in his +ear.</p> + +<p>Travers nodded and shrugged his shoulders. He +had realised that fact for some minutes.</p> + +<p>"Something on the starboard bow." The voice of +the look-out man came to his ears.</p> + +<p>"It's a boat, an open boat," cried the sub., after a +careful inspection, "and it's pretty full, by Jove!"</p> + +<p>A curt order, and the T.B.D. swung round and tore +down on the little speck bobbing in the water. And +they were still a few hundred yards away when a look +of dawning horror strangely mixed with joy spread +over Jerry's face. His glass was fixed on the boat, +and who in God's name was the woman—impossible, +of course—but surely.... If it wasn't her it was +her twin sister; his hand holding the glass trembled +with eagerness, and then at last he knew. The woman +standing up in the stern of the boat <i>was</i> Maisie, and as +he got nearer he saw there was a look on her face +which made him catch his breath sharply.</p> + +<p>"Great God!" The sub's voice roused him. "What +have they been doing?" No need to ask whom he +meant by "they." "The boat is a shambles."</p> + +<p>The destroyer slowed down, and from the crew who<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[176]</a></span> +looked into that little open boat came dreadful curses. +It ran with blood; and at the bottom women and children +moaned feebly, while an elderly man contorted +with pain in the stern, writhed and sobbed in agony. +And over this black scene the eyes of the man and +the woman met.</p> + +<p>"Carefully, carefully, lads," Travers sang out. This +was no time for questions, only the poor torn fragments +counted. Afterwards, perhaps. Very tenderly +the sailors lifted out the bodies, and one of them—a +little girl in his arms, with a dreadful wound in her +head—jabbered like a maniac with the fury of his +rage. And so after many days they again came face +to face.</p> + +<p>"Are you wounded?" he whispered.</p> + +<p>"No." Her voice was hard and strained; she was +near the breaking point. "They sunk us without warning—the +<i>Lucania</i>—and then shelled us in the open +boats."</p> + +<p>"Dear heavens!" Jerry's voice was shaking. "Ah! +but you're not hurt, my lady; they didn't hit you?"</p> + +<p>"My mother was drowned, and my father too." +She was swaying a little. "It was the U 99."</p> + +<p>"Ah!" The man's voice was almost a sigh.</p> + +<p>"Submarine on the port bow, sir." A howl came +from the look-out, followed by the sharp, detonating +reports of the destroyer's quick-firers. And then a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[177]</a></span> +roaring cheer. Like lightning Jerry was upon the +bridge, and even he could scarcely contain himself. +There, lying helpless in the water, with a huge hole +in her conning tower, wallowed the U 99. Two direct +hits from the destroyer's guns in a vital spot, and the +submarine was a submarine no longer. Just one of +those strokes of poetic justice which happen so rarely +in war.</p> + +<p>Like rats from a sinking ship the Germans were +pouring up and diving into the water, and with +snarling faces the Englishmen waited for them, waited +for them with the dying proofs of their vileness still +lying on the deck as one by one they came on board. +Suddenly with a sucking noise the submarine foundered, +and over the seething, troubled waters where she +had been a sheet of blackish oil slowly spread.</p> + +<p>But Jerry spared no glance for the sinking boat—he +did not so much as look at the German sailors huddled +fearfully together. With hard, merciless eyes he +faced the submarine commander. For the first time +in his life he saw red: for the first time in his life +there was murder in his soul, and the heavy belaying-pin +in his hand seemed to goad him on. "Suppose the +positions had been reversed," mocked a voice in his +brain. "Would he have hesitated?" The night two +years ago surged back to his mind; the plaintive crying +of the dying child struck on his ears. He stepped a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[178]</a></span> +pace forward with a snarl—his grip tightened on the +bar—when suddenly the man who had carried up the +little girl gave a hoarse cry, and with all his force +smote the nearest German in the mouth. The German +fell like a stone.</p> + +<p>"Stand fast." Jerry's voice dominated the scene. +The old traditions had come back: the old wonderful +discipline. The iron pin dropped with a clang on the +deck. "It is not their fault, they were only obeying +his orders." And once again his eyes rested on their +officer.</p> + +<p>"So we meet again, Baron von Dressler," he remarked, +"and the rat-eaten ship is not sunk. Is this +your work?" He pointed to the mangled bodies.</p> + +<p>"It is not," muttered the Prussian.</p> + +<p>"You lie, you swine, you lie! Unfortunately for +you you didn't quite carry out your infamous butchery +completely enough. There is one person on board who +knows the U 99 sank the <i>Lucania</i> without warning and +was in the boat you shelled."</p> + +<p>"I don't believe you, I——"</p> + +<p>"Then perhaps you'll believe her. I rather think +you know her—very well." As he spoke he was looking +behind the Prussian, to where Maisie—roused +from her semi-stupor by the Baron's voice—had got +up, and with her hand to her heart was swaying backwards +and forwards. "Look behind you, you cur."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[179]</a></span></p> + +<p>The Prussian turned, and then with a cry staggered +back, white to the lips. "You, great heavens, you—Maisie——"</p> + +<p>And so once again the three principals of my little +drama were face to face: only the setting had changed. +No longer sensuous music and the warm, violet waters +of the Riviera for a background; this time the moaning +of dying men and children was the ghastly orchestra, +and, with the grey scud of the Atlantic flying past +them, the Englishman and the German faced one another, +while the American girl stood by. And watching +them were the muttering sailors.</p> + +<p>At last she spoke. "This ring, I believe, is yours." +She took a magnificent half-hoop of diamonds from +her engagement finger and flung it into the sea. Then +she moved towards him.</p> + +<p>"You drowned my mother, and for that I strike +you once." She hit him in the face with an iron-shod +pin. "You drowned my father, and for that I strike +you again." Once again she struck him in the face. +"I will leave a fighting man and a gentleman to deal +with you for those poor mites." With a choking sob +she turned away, and once again sank down on the +coil of rope.</p> + +<p>The Prussian, sobbing with pain and rage, with the +blood streaming from his face, was not a pretty sight; +but in Travers's face there was no mercy.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[180]</a></span></p> + +<p>"'The old and effete versus the new and efficient!' +I seem to recall those words from our last meeting. +May I congratulate you on your efficiency? Bah! you +swine"—his face flamed with sudden passion—"if you +aren't skulking in Kiel, you're butchering women. By +heavens! I can conceive of nothing more utterly perfect +than flogging you to death."</p> + +<p>The Prussian shrank back, his face livid with fear.</p> + +<p>"They were my orders," he muttered. "For God's +sake——"</p> + +<p>"Oh, don't be frightened, Baron von Dressler." The +Englishman's voice was once again under control. +"The old and effete don't do that. You were safe as +our guest two years ago; you are safe as our prisoner +now. Your precious carcass will be returned safe and +sound to your Royal uncle at the end of the war, and +my only hope is that your face will still bear those +honourable scars. Moreover, if what you say is true, +if the orders of your Government include shelling an +open boat crammed with defenceless women and children—and +neutrals at that—I can only say that their +infamy is so incredible as to force one to the conclusion +that they are not responsible for their actions. +But—make no mistake—they will get their retribution."</p> + +<p>For a moment he fell silent, looking at the cowering,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[181]</a></span> +blood-stained face opposite him, and then a pitiful +wail behind him made him turn round.</p> + +<p>"Mummie, I'se hurted." On her knees beside the +little girl was Maisie, soothing her as best she could, +easing the throbbing head, whispering that mummie +couldn't come for a while. "I'se hurted, mummie—I'se +hurted."</p> + +<p>Travers turned back again, and the eyes of the two +men met.</p> + +<p>"My God! Is it possible that a sailor could do such +a thing?"</p> + +<p>His voice was barely above a whisper, yet the Prussian +heard and winced. In the depths of even the +foulest bully there is generally some little redeeming +spark.</p> + +<p>"I'se hurted; I want my mummie."</p> + +<p>The Prussian's lips moved, but no sound came, while +in his eyes was the look of a man haunted. Travers +watched him silently; and at length he spoke again.</p> + +<p>"As I said, your rulers will get their deserts in time, +but I think, Baron von Dressler, your Nemesis has +come on you already. That little poor kid is asking +you for her mother. Don't forget it in the years to +come, Baron. No, I don't think you <i>will</i> forget it."</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>My story is finished. Later on, when some of the +dreadful nightmare through which she had passed had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[182]</a></span> +been effaced from her mind, Maisie and the man who +had come to her out of the grey waters discussed many +things. And the story which the Prussian had told +her after the dance on the flagship was finally discredited.</p> + +<p>Can anyone recommend me a good cheap book on +"Things a Best Man Should Know"?</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[183]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER VII</h2> + +<h3>THE DEATH GRIP</h3> + + +<p>Two reasons have impelled me to tell the story +of Hugh Latimer, and both I think are good +and sufficient. First I was his best friend, and second +I know more about the tragedy than anyone else—even +including his wife. I saw the beginning and the end; +she—poor broken-hearted girl—saw only the end.</p> + +<p>There have been many tragedies since this war +started; there will be many more before Finis is written—and +each, I suppose, to its own particular sufferers +seems the worst. But, somehow, to my mind +Hugh's case is without parallel, unique—the devil's +arch of cruelty. I will give you the story—and you +shall judge for yourself.</p> + +<p>Let us lift the curtain and present a dug-out in a support +trench somewhere near Givenchy. A candle gutters +in a bottle, the grease running down like a miniature +stalactite congeals on an upturned packing-case. +On another packing-case the remnants of a tongue, +some sardines, and a goodly array of bottles with some +tin mugs and plates completes the furniture—or almost.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[184]</a></span> +I must not omit the handsome coloured pictures—three +in all—of ladies of great beauty and charm, clad +in—well, clad in something at any rate. The occupants +of this palatial abode were Hugh Latimer and +myself; at the rise of the curtain both lying in corners, +on piles of straw.</p> + +<p>Outside, a musician was coaxing noises from a +mouth-organ; occasional snatches of song came +through the open entrance, intermingled with bursts +of laughter. One man, I remember, was telling an +interminable story which seemed to be the history of +a gentleman called Nobby Clark, who had dallied +awhile with a lady in an estaminet at Bethune, and had +ultimately received a knock-out blow with a frying-pan +over the right eye, for being too rapid in his attentions. +Just the usual dull, strange, haunting trench +life—which varies not from day's end to day's end.</p> + +<p>At intervals a battery of our own let drive, the blast +of the explosion catching one through the open door; +at intervals a big German shell moaned its way +through the air overhead—an express bound for somewhere. +Had you looked out to the front, you would +have seen the bright green flares lobbing monotonously +up into the night, all along the line. War—modern +war; boring, incredible when viewed in cold +blood....</p> + +<p>"Hullo, Hugh." A voice at the door roused us both<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[185]</a></span> +from our doze, and the Adjutant came in. "Will you +put your watches right by mine? We are making a +small local attack to-morrow morning, and the battalion +is to leave the trenches at 6.35 exactly."</p> + +<p>"Rather sudden, isn't it?" queried Hugh, setting his +watch.</p> + +<p>"Just come through from Brigade Headquarters. +Bombs are being brought up to H.15. Further orders +sent round later. Bye-bye."</p> + +<p>He was gone, and once more we sat thinking to the +same old accompaniment of trench noises; but in rather +a different frame of mind. To-morrow morning at +6.35 peace would cease; we should be out and running +over the top of the ground; we should be...</p> + +<p>"Will they use gas, I wonder?" Hugh broke the +silence.</p> + +<p>"Wind too fitful," I answered; "and I suppose it's +only a small show."</p> + +<p>"I wonder what it's for. I wish one knew more +about these affairs; I suppose one can't, but it would +make it more interesting."</p> + +<p>The mouth-organ stopped; there were vigorous demands +for an encore.</p> + +<p>"Poor devils," he went on after a moment. "I wonder +how many?—I wonder how many?"</p> + +<p>"A new development for you, Hugh." I grinned<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[186]</a></span> +at him. "Merry and bright, old son—your usual +motto, isn't it?"</p> + +<p>He laughed. "Dash it, Ginger—you can't always +be merry and bright. I don't know why—perhaps it's +second sight—but I feel a sort of presentiment of impending +disaster to-night. I had the feeling before +Clements came in."</p> + +<p>"Rot, old man," I answered cheerfully. "You'll +probably win a V.C., and the greatest event of the +war will be when it is presented to your cheeild."</p> + +<p>Which prophecy was destined to prove the cruellest +mixture of truth and fiction the mind of man could +well conceive....</p> + +<p>"Good Lord!" he said irritably, taking me seriously +for a moment; "we're a bit too old soldiers to be guyed +by palaver about V.C.'s." Then he recovered his good +temper. "No, Ginger, old thing, there's big things +happening to-morrow. Hugh Latimer's life is going +into the melting-pot. I'm as certain of it as—as that +I'm going to have a whisky and soda." He laughed, +and delved into a packing-case for the seltzogene.</p> + +<p>"How's the son and heir?? I asked after a while.</p> + +<p>"Going strong," he answered. "Going strong, the +little devil."</p> + +<p>And then we fell silent, as men will at such a time. +The trench outside was quiet; the musician, having +obliged with his encore, no longer rendered the night<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[187]</a></span> +hideous—even the guns were still. What would it be +to-morrow night? Should I still be...? I shook +myself and started to scribble a letter; I was getting +afraid of inactivity—afraid of my thoughts.</p> + +<p>"I'm going along the trenches," said Hugh suddenly, +breaking the long silence. "I want to see the +Sergeant-Major and give some orders."</p> + +<p>He was gone, and I was alone. In spite of myself +my thoughts would drift back to what he had been +saying, and from there to his wife and the son and +heir. My mind, overwrought, seemed crowded with +pictures: they jumbled through my brains like a film +on a cinematograph.</p> + +<p>I saw his marriage, the bridal arch of officers' +swords, the sweet-faced, radiant girl. And then his +house came on to the screen—the house where I had +spent many a pleasant week-end while we trained and +sweated to learn the job in England. He was a man +of some wealth was Hugh Latimer, and his house +showed it; showed moreover his perfect, unerring +taste. Bits of stuff, curios, knick-knacks from all over +the world met one in odd corners; prints, books, all +of the very best, seemed to fit into the scheme as if +they'd grown there. Never did a single thing seem +to whisper as you passed, "I'm really very rare and +beautiful, but I've been dragged into the wrong place, +and now I know I'm merely vulgar."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[188]</a></span> +There are houses I wot of where those clamorous +whispers drown the nightingales. But if you can pass +through rooms full of bric-à-brac—silent bric-à-brac: +bric-à-brac conscious of its rectitude and needing no +self apology, you may be certain that the owner will +not give you port that is improved by a cigarette.</p> + +<p>Then came the son, and Hugh's joy was complete. +A bit of a dreamer, a bit of a poet, a bit of a philosopher, +but with a virility all his own; a big man—a man +in a thousand, a man I was proud to call Friend. And +he—at the dictates of "Kultur"—was to-morrow at +6.35 going to expose himself to the risk of death, in +order to wrest from the Hun a small portion of unprepossessing +ground. Truly, humour is not dead in the +world!...</p> + +<p>A step outside broke the reel of pictures, and the +Sapper Officer looked in. "I hear a whisper of activity +in the dark and stilly morn," he remarked brightly. +"Won't it be nice?"</p> + +<p>"Very," I said sarcastically. "Are you coming?"</p> + +<p>"No, dear one. That's why I thought it would be +so nice. My opposite number and tireless companion +and helper to-morrow morning will prance over the +greensward with you, leading his merry crowd of +minions, bristling with bowie knives, sandbags, and +other impedimenta."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[189]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Oh! go to Hell," I said crossly. "I want to write +a letter."</p> + +<p>"Cheer up, Ginger." He dropped his bantering tone. +"I'll be up to drink a glass of wine with you to-morrow +night in the new trench. Tell Latimer that the +wire is all right—it's been thinned out and won't stop +him, and that there are ladders for getting out of the +trench on each traverse."</p> + +<p>"Have you been working?" I asked.</p> + +<p>"Four hours, and got caught by shrapnel in the middle. +Night-night, and good luck, old man."</p> + +<p>He was gone; and when he had, I wished him back +again. For the game wasn't new to him—he'd done it +before; and I hadn't. It tends to give one confidence....</p> + +<p>It was about four I woke up. For a few blissful +moments I lay forgetful; then I turned and saw Hugh. +There was a new candle in the bottle, and by its flicker +I saw the glint in his sombre eyes, the clear-cut line +of his profile. And I remembered....</p> + +<p>I felt as if something had caught me by the stomach—inside: +a sinking feeling, a feeling of nausea: and +for a while I lay still. Outside in the darkness the men +were rousing themselves; now and again a curse was +muttered as someone tripped over a leg he didn't see; +and once the Sergeant-Major's voice rang out—"'Ere, +strike a light with them breakfasts."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[190]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Awake, Ginger?" Hugh prodded me with his foot. +"You'd better get something inside you, and then we'll +go round and see that everything is O.K."</p> + +<p>"Have you had any sleep, Hugh?"</p> + +<p>"No. I've been reading." He put Maeterlinck's +"Blue Bird" on the table. With his finger on the title +he looked at me musingly, "Shall we find it to-day, I +wonder?"</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>I have lingered perhaps a little long on what is after +all only the introduction to my story. But it is mainly +for the sake of Hugh's wife that I have written it at +all; to show her how he passed the last few hours +before—the change came. Of what happened just +after 6.35 on that morning I cannot profess to have +any very clear idea. We went over the parapet I remember, +and forward at the double. For half an hour +beforehand a rain of our shells had plastered the German +trenches in front of us, and during those eternal +thirty minutes we waited tense. Hugh Latimer alone +of all the men I saw seemed absolutely unconscious of +anything unusual. Some of the men were singing below +their breath, and one I remember sucked his teeth +with maddening persistency. And one and all watched +me curiously, speculatively—or so it seemed to me. +Then we were off, and of crossing No-Man's-Land +I have no recollection. I remember a man beside me<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[191]</a></span> +falling with a crash and nearly tripping me up—and +then, at last, the Huns. I let drive with my revolver +from the range of a few inches into the fat, bloated +face of a frightened-looking man in dirty grey, and +as he crashed down I remember shouting, "There's +the Blue Bird for you, old dear." Little things like +that do stick. But everything else is just a blurred +phantasmagoria in my mind. And after a while it +was over. The trench was full of still grey figures, +with here and there a khaki one beside them. A sapper +officer forced his way through shouting for a +working-party. We were the flanking company, and +vital work had to be done and quick. Barricades +rigged up, communication trenches which now ran +to our Front blocked up, the trench made to fire the +other way. For we knew there would be a counter-attack, +and if you fail to consolidate what you've won +you won't keep it long. It was while I slaved and +sweated with the men shifting sandbags—turning the +parados, or back of the trench into the new parapet, +or front—that I got word that Hugh was dead. I +hadn't seen him since the morning, and the rumour +passed along from man to man.</p> + +<p>"The Captain's took it. Copped it in the head. +Bomb took him in the napper."</p> + +<p>But there was no time to stop and enquire, and with +my heart sick within me I worked on. One thing at<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[192]</a></span> +any rate; it had only been a little show, but it had been +successful—the dear chap hadn't lost his life in a failure. +Then I saw the doctor for a moment.</p> + +<p>"No, he's not dead," he said, "but—he's mighty +near it. You know he practically ran the show single-handed +on the left flank."</p> + +<p>"What did he do?" I cried.</p> + +<p>"Do? Why he kept a Hun bombing-party who were +working up the trench at bay for half an hour by himself, +which completely saved the situation, and then +went out into the open, when he was relieved, and +pulled in seven men who'd been caught by a machine-gun. +It was while he was getting the last one that a +bomb exploded almost on his head. Why he wasn't +killed on the spot, I simply can't conceive." And the +doctor was gone.</p> + +<p>But strange things happen, and the hand of Death +is ever capricious. Was it not only the other day that +we exploded a mine, and sailing through the air there +came a Hun—a whole complete Hun. Stunned and +winded he fell on the parapet of our trench, and having +been pulled in and revived, at last sat up. "Goot," +he murmured; "I hof long vanted to surrender...."</p> + +<p>Hugh Latimer was not dead—that was the great +outstanding fact; though had I known the writing in +the roll of Fate, I would have wished a thousand times<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[193]</a></span> +that the miracle had not happened. There are worse +things than death....</p> + +<p>And now I bring the first part of my tragedy to a +halt; the beginning as I called it—that part which +Hugh's wife did not know. She, with all the world, +saw the announcement in the paper, the announcement—bald +and official of the deed for which he won his +V.C. It was much as the doctor described it to me. +She, with all the world, saw his name in the Casualty +List as wounded; and on receipt of a telegram from +the War Office, she crossed to France in fear and +trembling—for the wire did not mince words; his condition +was very critical. He did not know her—he was +quite unconscious, and had been so for days. That +night they were trephining, and there was just a +hope....</p> + +<p>The next morning Hugh knew his wife.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>For the next three months I did not see him. The +battalion was still up, and I got no chance of going +down to Boulogne. He didn't stay there long, but, following +the ordinary routine of the R.A.M.C., went +back to England in a hospital ship, and into a home in +London. Sir William Cremer, the eminent brain specialist, +who had operated on him, and been particularly +interested in his case, kept him under his eye for a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[194]</a></span> +couple of months, and then he went to his own home +to recuperate.</p> + +<p>All this and a lot more besides I got in letters from +his wife. The King himself had graciously come +round and presented him with the cross—and she was +simply brimming over with happiness, dear soul. He +was ever so much better, and very cheerful; and Sir +William was a perfect dear; and he'd actually taken +out six ounces of brain during the operation, and +wasn't it wonderful. Also the son and heir grew more +perfect every day. Which news, needless to say, +cheered me immensely.</p> + +<p>Then came the first premonition of something +wrong. For a fortnight I'd not heard from her, and +then I got a letter which wasn't quite so cheerful.</p> + +<p>"... Hugh doesn't seem able to sleep." So ran +part of it. "He is terribly restless, and at times dreadfully +irritable. He doesn't seem to have any pain in +his head, which is a comfort. But I'm not quite easy +about him, Ginger. The other evening I was sitting +opposite to him in the study, and suddenly something +compelled me to look at him. I have never seen anything +like the look in his eyes. He was staring at the +fire, and his right hand was opening and shutting like +a bird's talon. I was terrified for a moment, and then +I forced myself to speak calmly.</p> + +<p>"'Why this ferocious expression, old boy,' I said,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[195]</a></span> +with a laugh. For a moment he did not answer, but +his eyes left the fire, and travelled slowly round till +they met mine. I never knew what that phrase meant +till then; it always struck me as a sort of author's +license. But that evening I felt them coming, and I +could have screamed. He gazed at me in silence and +then at last he spoke.</p> + +<p>"'Have you ever heard of the Death Grip? Some +day I'll tell you about it.' Then he looked away, and +I made an excuse to go out of the room, for I was +shaking with fright. It was so utterly unlike Hugh +to make a silly remark like that. When I came back +later, he was perfectly calm and his own self again. +Moreover, he seemed to have completely forgotten the +incident, because he apologised for having been asleep.</p> + +<p>"I wanted Sir William to come down and see him; +or else for us to go up to town, as I expect Sir William +is far too busy. But Hugh wouldn't hear of it, +and got quite angry—so I didn't press the matter. +But I'm worried, Ginger...."</p> + +<p>I read this part of the letter to our doctor. We were +having an omelette of huit-œufs, and une bouteille de +vin rouge in a little estaminet way back, I remember; +and I asked him what he thought.</p> + +<p>"My dear fellow," he said, "frankly it's impossible +to say. You know what women are; and that letter +may give quite a false impression of what really took<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[196]</a></span> +place. You see what I mean: in her anxiety she may +have exaggerated some jocular remark. She's had +a very wearing time, and her own nerves are probably +a bit on edge. But——" he paused and leaned +back. "Encore du vin, s'il vous plaît, mam'selle. But, +Ginger, it's no good pretending, there may be a very +much more sinister meaning behind it all. The brain +is a most complex organisation, and even such men +as Cremer are only standing on the threshold of +knowledge with regard to it. They know a lot—but +how much more there is to learn! Latimer, as you +know, owes his life practically to a miracle. Not once +in a thousand times would a man escape instant death +under such circumstances. A great deal of brain matter +was exposed, and subsequently removed at Boulogne +by Sir William, when he trephined. And it is +possible that some radical alteration has taken place +in Hugh Latimer's character, soul—whatever you +choose to call that part of a man which controls his +life—as a result of the operation. If what Mrs. +Latimer says is the truth—and when I say that I mean +if what she says is to be relied on as a cold, bald statement +of what happened—then I am bound to say that +I think the matter is very serious indeed."</p> + +<p>"God Almighty!" I cried, "do you mean to say that +you think there is a chance of Hugh going mad?"</p> + +<p>"To be perfectly frank, I do; always granted that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[197]</a></span> +that letter is reliable. I consider it vital that whether +he wishes to or whether he doesn't, Sir William +Cremer should be consulted. And—<i>at once</i>." The +doctor emphasised his words with his fist on the table.</p> + +<p>"Great Scott! Doc," I muttered. "Do you really +think there is danger?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know enough of the case to say that. But +I do know something about the brain, enough to say +that there might be not only danger, but hideous danger, +to everyone in the house." He was silent for a +bit and then rapped out. "Does Mrs. Latimer share +the same room as her husband?"</p> + +<p>"I really don't know," I answered. "I imagine so."</p> + +<p>"Well, I don't know how well you know her; but +until Sir William gives a definite opinion, if I knew her +well enough, I would strongly advise her to sleep in +another room—<i>and lock the door</i>."</p> + +<p>"Good God! you think ..."</p> + +<p>"Look here, Ginger, what's the good of beating +about the bush. It is possible—I won't say probable—that +Hugh Latimer is on the road to becoming a homicidal +maniac. And if, by any chance, that assumption +is correct, the most hideous tragedy might happen +at any moment. Mam'selle, l'addition s'il vous plaît. +You're going on leave shortly, aren't you?"</p> + +<p>"In two days," I answered.</p> + +<p>"Well, go down and see for yourself; it won't require<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[198]</a></span> +a doctor to notice the symptoms. And if what +I fear is correct, track out Cremer in his lair—find +him somehow and find him quickly."</p> + +<p>We walked up the road together, and my glance fell +on the plot of ground on the right, covered so thickly +with little wooden crosses. As I looked away the doctor's +eyes and mine met. And there was the same +thought in both our minds.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Three days later I was in Hugh's house. His wife +met me at the station, and before we got into the car +my heart sank. I knew something was wrong.</p> + +<p>"How is he?" I asked, as we swung out of the gates.</p> + +<p>"Oh! Ginger," she said. "I'm frightened—frightened +to death."</p> + +<p>"What is it, lady," I cried. "Has he been looking +at you like that again, the way you described in the +letter?"</p> + +<p>"Yes—it's getting more frequent. And at nights—oh! +my God! it's awful. Poor old Hugh."</p> + +<p>She broke down at that, while I noticed that her +hands were all trembling, and that dark shadows were +round her eyes.</p> + +<p>"Tell me about it," I said, "for we must do something."</p> + +<p>She pulled herself together, and called through the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[199]</a></span> +speaking-tube to the chauffeur. "Go a little way round, +Jervis. I don't want to get in till tea-time."</p> + +<p>Then she turned to me. "Since his operation I've +been using another room." The doctor's words +flashed into my mind. "Sir William thought it essential +that he should have really long undisturbed nights, +and I'm such a light sleeper. For a few weeks everything +panned out splendidly. He seemed to get better +and stronger, and he was just the same dear old +Hugh he's always been. Then gradually the restlessness +started; he couldn't sleep, he became irritable,—and +the one thing which made him most irritable of +all was any suggestion that he wasn't going on all +right; or any hint even that he should see a doctor. +Then came the incident I wrote to you about. Since +that evening I've often caught the same look in his +eye." She shuddered, and again I noticed the quiver +in her hands, but she quickly controlled herself. "Last +night, I woke up suddenly. It must have been about +three, for it was pitch dark, and I think I'd been asleep +some hours. I don't know what woke me; but in an +instant I knew there was someone in the room. I lay +trembling with fright, and suddenly out of the darkness +came a hideous chuckle. It was the most awful, +diabolical noise I've ever heard. Then I heard his +voice.</p> + +<p>"He was muttering, and all I could catch were the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[200]</a></span> +words 'Death-Grip.' I nearly fainted with terror, +but forced myself to keep consciousness. How long +he stood there I don't know, but after an eternity it +seemed, I heard the door open and shut. I heard +him cross the passage, and go into his own room. +Then there was silence. I forced myself to move; I +switched on the light, and locked the door. And +when dawn came in through the windows, I was still +sitting in a chair sobbing, shaking like a terrified child.</p> + +<p>"This morning he was perfectly normal, and just +as cheerful and loving as he'd ever been. Oh! Ginger, +what am I to do?" She broke down and cried helplessly.</p> + +<p>"You poor kid," I said; "what an awful experience! +You must lock your door to-night, and to-morrow, +with or without Hugh's knowledge, I shall go +up to see Cremer."</p> + +<p>"You don't think; oh! it couldn't be true that Hugh, +my Hugh, is going——" She wouldn't say the word, +but just gazed at me fearfully through her tears.</p> + +<p>"Hush, my lady," I said quietly. "The brain is +a funny thing; perhaps there is some pressure somewhere +which Sir William will be able to remove."</p> + +<p>"Why, of course that's it. I'm tired, stupid—it's +made me exaggerate things. It will mean another +operation, that's all. Wasn't it splendid about his +getting the V.C.; and the King, so gracious, so<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[201]</a></span> +kind...." She talked bravely on, and I tried to +help her.</p> + +<p>But suppose there wasn't any pressure; suppose +there was nothing to remove; suppose.... And in +my mind I saw the plot with the little wooden crosses; +in my mind I heard the express for somewhere booming +sullenly overhead. And I wondered ... shuddered.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Hugh met us at the door; dear old Hugh, looking +as well as he ever did.</p> + +<p>"Splendid, Ginger, old man! So glad you managed +the leave all right."</p> + +<p>"Not a hitch, Hugh. You're looking very fit."</p> + +<p>"I am. Fit as a flea. You ask Elsie what she +thinks."</p> + +<p>His wife smiled. "You're just wonderful, old boy, +except for your sleeplessness at night. I want him +to see Sir William Cremer, Ginger, but he doesn't +think it worth while."</p> + +<p>"I don't," said Hugh shortly. "Damn that old +sawbones."</p> + +<p>In another man the remark would have passed unnoticed; +but the chauffeur was there, and a maid, +and his wife—and the expression was quite foreign to +Hugh.</p> + +<p>But I am bound to say that except for that one<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[202]</a></span> +trifling thing I noticed absolutely nothing peculiar +about him all the evening. At dinner he was perfectly +normal; quite charming—his own brilliant self. +When he was in the mood, I have seldom heard his +equal as a conversationalist, and that night he was +at the top of his form. I almost managed to persuade +myself that my fears were groundless....</p> + +<p>"I want to have a buck with Ginger, dear," he +said to his wife after dinner was over. "A talk over +the smells and joys of Flanders."</p> + +<p>"But I should like to hear," she answered. "It's +so hard to get you men to talk."</p> + +<p>"I don't think you would like to hear, my dear." +His tone was quite normal, but there was a strange +note of insistence in it. "It's shop, and will bore you +dreadfully." He still stood by the door waiting for +her to pass through. After a moment's hesitation she +went, and Hugh closed the door after her. What suggested +the analogy to my mind I cannot say, but the +way in which he performed the simple act of closing +the door seemed to be the opening rite of some ceremony. +Thus could I picture a morphomaniac shutting +himself in from prying gaze, before abandoning +himself to his vice; the drunkard, at last alone, returning +gloatingly to his bottle. Perhaps my perceptions +were quickened, but it seemed to me that Hugh +came back to me as if I were his colleague in some<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[203]</a></span> +guilty secret—as if his wife were alien to his thoughts, +and now that she was gone, we could talk.... His +first words proved I was right.</p> + +<p>"Now we can talk, Ginger," he remarked. "These +women don't understand." He pushed the port +towards me.</p> + +<p>"Understand what?" I was watching him closely.</p> + +<p>"Life, my boy, <i>the</i> life. The life of an eye for an +eye and a tooth for a tooth. Gad! it was a great +day that, Ginger." His eyes were fixed on me, and +for the first time I noticed the red in them, and a +peculiar twitch in the lids.</p> + +<p>"Did you find the Blue Bird?" I asked quietly.</p> + +<p>"Find it?" He laughed—and it was not a pleasant +laugh. "I used to think it lay in books, in art, in +music." Again he gave way to a fit of devilish mirth. +"What damned fools we are, old man, what damned +fools. But you mustn't tell her." He leaned over +the table and spoke confidentially. "She'd never understand; +that's why I got rid of her." He lifted his +glass to the light, looking at it as a connoisseur looks +at a rare vintage, while all the time a strange smile—a +cruel smile—hovered round his lips. "Music—art," +his voice was full of scorn. "Only we know better. +Did I ever tell you about that grip I learned in Sumatra—the +Death Grip?"</p> + +<p>He suddenly fired the question at me, and for a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[204]</a></span> +moment I did not answer. All my fears were rushing +back into my mind with renewed strength; it was not +so much the question as the tone—and the eyes of the +speaker.</p> + +<p>"No, never." I lit a cigarette with elaborate care.</p> + +<p>"Ah! Someday I must show you. You take a +man's throat in your right hand, and you put your +left behind his neck—like that." His hands were +curved in front of him—curved as if a man's throat +was in them. "Then you press and press with the +two thumbs—like that; with the right thumb on a +certain muscle in the neck, and the left on an artery +under the ear; and you go on pressing, until—until +there's no need to press any longer. It's wonderful." +I can't hope to give any idea of the dreadful gloating +tone in his voice.</p> + +<p>"I got a Prussian officer like that, that day," he +went on after a moment. "I saw his dirty grey face +close to mine, and I got my hands on his throat. I'd +forgotten the exact position for the grip, and then +suddenly I remembered it. I squeezed and squeezed—and, +Ginger, the grip was right. I squeezed his life +out in ten seconds." His voice rose to a shout.</p> + +<p>"Steady, Hugh," I cried. "You'll be frightening +Elsie."</p> + +<p>"Quite right," he answered; "that would never +do. I haven't told her that little incident—she<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[205]</a></span> +wouldn't understand. But I'm going to show her the +grip one of these days. As a soldier's wife, I think +it's a thing she ought to know."</p> + +<p>He relapsed into silence, apparently quite calm, +though his eyelids still twitched, while I watched him +covertly from time to time. In my mind now there +was no shadow of doubt that the doctor's fears were +justified; I knew that Hugh Latimer was insane. That +his loss of mental balance was periodical and not permanent +was not the point; layman though I was, I +could realise the danger to everyone in the house. At +the moment the tragedy of the case hardly struck me; +I could only think of the look on his face, the gloating, +watching look—and Elsie and the boy....</p> + +<p>At half-past nine he went to bed, and I had a few +words with his wife.</p> + +<p>"Lock your door to-night," I said insistently, "as +you value everything, lock your door. I am going to +see Cremer to-morrow."</p> + +<p>"What's he been saying?" she asked, and her lips +were white. "I heard him shouting once."</p> + +<p>"Enough to make me tell you to lock your door," +I said as lightly as I could. "Elsie, you've got to be +brave; something has gone wrong with poor old Hugh +for the time, and until he's put right again, there are +moments when he's not responsible for his actions. +Don't be uneasy; I shall be on hand to-night."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[206]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I shan't be uneasy" she answered, and then she +turned away, and I saw her shoulders shaking. "My +Hugh—my poor old man." I caught the whispered +words, and she was gone.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>I suppose it was about two that I woke with a start. +I had meant to keep awake the whole night, and with +that idea I had not undressed, but, sitting in a chair +before the fire, had tried to keep myself awake with +a book. But the journey from France had made me +sleepy, and the book had slipped to the floor, as has +been known to happen before. The light was still +on, though the fire had burned low; and I was +cramped and stiff. For a moment I sat listening intently—every +faculty awake; and then I heard a door +gently close, and a step in the passage. I switched +off the light and listened.</p> + +<p>Instinctively, I knew the crisis had come, and with +the need for action I became perfectly cool. Soft +footsteps, like a man walking in his socks, came distinctly +through the door which I had left ajar—once +a board creaked. And after that sharp ominous crack +there was silence for a space; the nocturnal walker +was cautious, cautious with the devilish cunning of +the madman.</p> + +<p>It seemed to me an eternity as I listened—straining +to hear in the silent house—then once again there<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[207]</a></span> +came the soft pad-pad of stockinged feet; nearer and +nearer till they halted outside my door. I could hear +the heavy breathing of someone outside, and then +stealthily my door was pushed open. In the dim light +which filtered in from the passage Hugh's figure was +framed in the doorway. With many pauses and very +cautious steps he moved to the bed, while I pressed +against the wall watching him.</p> + +<p>His hands wandered over the pillows, and then he +muttered to himself. "Old Ginger—I suppose he +hasn't come to bed yet. And I wanted to show him +that little grip—that little death-grip." He chuckled +horribly. "Never mind—Elsie, dear little Elsie; I +will show her first. Though she won't understand +so well—only Ginger would really understand."</p> + +<p>He moved to the door, and once again the slow padding +of his feet sounded in the passage; while he still +muttered, though I could not hear what he said. Then +he came to his wife's door and cautiously turned the +handle....</p> + +<p>What happened then happened quickly. He realised +quickly that it was locked, and this seemed to infuriate +him. He gave an inarticulate shout, and rattled the +door violently; then he drew back to the other side of +the passage and prepared to charge it. And at that +moment we closed.</p> + +<p>I had followed him out of my room, and, knowing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[208]</a></span> +myself to be far stronger than him, I threw myself +on him without a thought I hadn't reckoned on the +strength of a madman, and for two minutes he threw +me about as if I were a child. We struggled and +fought, while frightened maids wrung their hands—and +a white-faced woman watched with tearless eyes. +And at last I won; when his temporary strength gave +out, he was as weak as a child. Poor old Hugh! +Poor old chap!...</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Sir William Cremer came down the next day, and +to him I told everything. He made all the necessary +wretched arrangements, and the dear fellow was taken +away—seemingly quite sane—and telling Elsie he'd be +back soon.</p> + +<p>"They say I need a change, old dear, and this old +tyrant says I've been restless at night." He had his +hand on Sir William's shoulder as he spoke, while the +car was waiting at the door.</p> + +<p>"Jove! little girl—you do look a bit washed out +Have I been worrying you?"</p> + +<p>"Of course not, old man." Her voice was perfectly +steady.</p> + +<p>"There you are, Sir William." He turned triumphantly +to the doctor. "Still perhaps you're right. +Where's the young rascal? Give me a kiss, you scamp—and +look after your mother while I'm away. I'll<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[209]</a></span> +be back soon." He went down the steps and into the +car.</p> + +<p>"And very likely he will, Mrs. Latimer. Keep your +spirits up and never despair." Sir William patted her +shoulder paternally, but over her bent head I saw his +eyes.</p> + +<p>"God knows," he said reverently to me as he followed +Hugh. "The brain is such a wonderful thing; +just a tiny speck and a genius becomes a madman. +God knows."</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Later on I too went away, carrying in my mind the +picture of a girl—she was no more—holding a little +bronze cross in front of a laughing baby—the cross +on which is written, "For Valour." And once again +my mind went back to that little plot in Flanders +covered with wooden crosses.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[210]</a></span></p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[211]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER VIII</h2> + +<h3>JAMES HENRY</h3> + + +<p>James Henry was the sole remaining son of his +mother, and she was a widow. His father, some +twelve months previously, had inadvertently encountered +a motor-car travelling at great speed, and had +forthwith been laid to rest. His sisters—whom James +Henry affected to despise—had long since left the +parental roof and gone to seek their Fortunes in the +great world; while his brothers had in all cases died +violent deaths, following in the steps of their lamented +father. In fact, as I said, James Henry was alone +in the world saving only for his mother: and as she'd +married again since his father's death he felt that his +responsibility so far as she was concerned was at an +end. In fact, he frequently cut her when he met her +about the house.</p> + +<p>Relations had become particularly strained after +this second matrimonial venture. An aristocrat of the +most unbending description himself, he had been away +during the period of her courtship—otherwise, no +doubt, he would have protected his father's stainless<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[212]</a></span> +escutcheon. As it was, he never quite recovered from +the shock.</p> + +<p>It was at breakfast one morning that he heard the +news. Lady Monica told him as she handed him his +tea. "James Henry," she remarked reproachfully, +"your mother is a naughty woman." True to his +aristocratic principle of stoical calm he continued to +consume his morning beverage. There were times +when the mention of his mother bored him to extinction. +"A very naughty woman," she continued. +"Dad"—she addressed a man who had just come into +the room—"it's occurred."</p> + +<p>"What—have they come?"</p> + +<p>"Yes—last night. Five."</p> + +<p>"Are they good ones?"</p> + +<p>Lady Alice laughed. "I was just telling James +Henry what I thought of his Family when you came +in. I'm afraid Harriet Emily is incorrigible."</p> + +<p>"Look at James!" exclaimed the Earl—"he's spilled +his tea all over the carpet." He was inspecting the +dishes on the sideboard as he spoke.</p> + +<p>"He always does. His whiskers dribble. Jervis +tells me that he thinks Harriet Emily must have—er—flirted +with a most undesirable acquaintance."</p> + +<p>"Oh! has she?" Her father opened the morning +paper and started to enjoy his breakfast. "We must +drown 'em, my dear, drown—— Hullo! the Russians<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[213]</a></span> +have crossed the——" It sounded like an explosion +in a soda-water factory, and James Henry protested.</p> + +<p>"Quite right, Henry. He oughtn't to do it at breakfast. +It doesn't really make any one any happier. +Did <i>you</i> know about your mother? Now don't gobble +your food." Lady Monica held up an admonishing +finger. "Four of your brothers and sisters are more +or less respectable, James, but there's <i>one</i>—there's +one that is distinctly reminiscent of a dachshund. Oh! +'Arriet, 'Arriet—I'm ashamed of you."</p> + +<p>James Henry sneezed heavily and got down from +the table. Always a perfect gentleman, he picked up +the crumbs round his chair, and even went so far as to +salvage a large piece of sausage skin which had slipped +on to the floor. Then, full of rectitude and outwardly +unconcerned, he retired to a corner behind a cupboard +and earnestly contemplated a little hole in the floor.</p> + +<p>Outwardly calm—yes: that at least was due to the +memory of his blue-blooded father. But inwardly, +he seethed. With his head on one side he alternately +sniffed and blew as he had done regularly every morning +for the past two months. His father's wife the +mother of a sausage-dog! Incredible! It must have +been that miserable fat beast who lived at the Pig and +Whistle. The insolence—the inconceivable impertinence +of such an unsightly, corpulent traducer daring +to ally himself with One of the Fox Terriers. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[214]</a></span> +growled slightly in his disgust, and three mice inside +the wall laughed gently. But—still, the girls are ever +frail. He blushed slightly at some recollection, and +realised that he must make allowances. But a sausage +dog! Great Heavens!</p> + +<p>"James—avançons, mon brave." Lady Monica was +standing in the window. "We will hie us to the +village. Dad, don't forget that our branch of the Federated +Association of Women War Workers are drilling +here this afternoon."</p> + +<p>"Good Heavens! my dear girl—is it?" Her father +gazed at her in alarm. "I think—er—I think I shall +have to—er—run up to Town—er—this afternoon."</p> + +<p>"I thought you'd have to, old dear. In fact, I've +ordered the car for you. Come along, Henry—we +must go and get a boy scout to be bandaged."</p> + +<p>James Henry gave one last violently facial contortion +at the entrance of the mouse's lair, and rose +majestically to his feet. If she wanted to go out, he +fully realised that he must go with her: Emily would +have to wait. He would go round later and see his +poor misguided mother and reason with her; but just +at present the girl was his principal duty. She generally +asked his advice on various things when they +went for a walk, and the least he could do was to +pretend to be interested at any rate.</p> + +<p>Apparently this morning she was in need of much<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[215]</a></span> +counsel and help. Having arrived at a clearing in +the wood, on the way to the village, she sat down on +the fallen trunk of a tree, and addressed him.</p> + +<p>"James—what am I to do? Derek is coming this +afternoon before he goes back to France. What shall +I tell him, Henry—what <i>shall</i> I tell him? Because +I know he'll ask me again. Thank you, old man, but +you're not very helpful, and I'd much sooner you kept +it yourself."</p> + +<p>Disgustedly James Henry removed the carcase of +a field mouse he had just procured, and resigned himself +to the inevitable.</p> + +<p>"I'm fond of him; I like him—in fact at times +more than like him. But is it the <i>real</i> thing? Now +what do you think, James Henry?—tell me all that +is in your mind. Ought I——"</p> + +<p>It was then that he gave his celebrated rendering +of a young typhoon, owing to the presence of a foreign +substance—to wit, a fly—in a ticklish spot on his nose.</p> + +<p>"You think that, do you? Well, perhaps you're +right. Come on, my lad, we must obtain the victim +for this afternoon. I wonder if those little boys like +it? To do some good and kindly action each day—that's +their motto, James. And as one person to another +you must admit that to be revived from drowning, +resuscitated from fainting, brought to from an +epileptic fit, and have two knees, an ankle, and a collarbone<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[216]</a></span> +set at the same time is some good action even +for a boy scout."</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>It was not until after lunch that James Henry paid +his promised call on his mother. Maturer considerations +had but strengthened his resolve to make allowances. +After all, these things do happen in the best +families. He was, indeed, prepared to be magnanimous +and forgive; he was even prepared to be interested; +the only thing he wasn't prepared for was the +nasty bite he got on his ear. That settled it. It was +then that he finally washed his hands of his undutiful +parent. As he told her, he felt more sorrow than +anger; he should have realised that anyone who could +have dealings with a sausage-hound must be dead to +all sense of decency—and that the only thing he asked +was that in the future she would conceal the fact that +they were related.</p> + +<p>Then he left her—and trotting round to the front +of the house, found great activity in progress on the +lawn.</p> + +<p>"Good Heavens! James Henry, do they often do +this?" With a shout of joy he recognised the speaker. +And having told him about Harriet, and blown heavily +at a passing spider and then trodden on it, he sat +down beside the soldier on the steps. The game on +the lawn at first sight looked dull; and he only favoured<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[217]</a></span> +it with a perfunctory glance. In fact, what +on earth there was in it to make the soldier beside him +shake and shake while the tears periodically rolled +down his face was quite beyond Henry.</p> + +<p>The principal player seemed to be a large man—also +in khaki—with a loud voice. Up to date he had +said nothing but "Now then, ladies," at intervals, and +in a rising crescendo. Then it all became complicated.</p> + +<p>"Now then, ladies, when I says Number—you numbers +from Right to Left in an heven tone of voice. +The third lady from the left 'as no lady behind 'er—seeing +as we're a hodd number. She forms the blank +file. Yes, you, mum—you, I means."</p> + +<p>"What are you pointing at me for, my good man?" +The Vicar's wife suddenly realised she was being +spoken to. "Am I doing anything wrong?"</p> + +<p>"No, mum, no. Not this time. I was only saying +as you 'ave no one behind you."</p> + +<p>"Oh! I'll go there at once—I'm so sorry." She +retired to the rear rank. "Dear Mrs. Goodenough, +<i>did</i> I tread upon your foot?—so clumsy of me! Oh, +what is that man saying now? But you've just told +me to come here. You did nothing of the sort? How +rude!"</p> + +<p>But as I said, the game did not interest James +Henry, so he wandered away and played in some +bushes. There were distinct traces of a recently moving<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[218]</a></span> +mole which was far more to the point. Then +having found—after a diligent search and much delight +in pungent odours—that the mole was a has-been, +our Henry disappeared for a space. And far be +it from me to disclose where he went: his intentions +were always strictly honourable.</p> + +<p>When he appeared again the Earl had just returned +from London, and was talking to the tall soldier-man. +The Women War Workers had departed, and, as +James Henry approached, his mistress came out and +joined the two men.</p> + +<p>"Have those dreadful women gone, my dear?" +asked the Earl as he saw her.</p> + +<p>"You're very rude, Dad. The Federated Association +of the W.W.W. is a very fine body of patriotic +women. What did you think of our drill, Derek?"</p> + +<p>"Wonderful, Monica. Quite the most wonderful +thing I've ever seen." The soldier solemnly offered +her a cigarette.</p> + +<p>"You men are all jealous. We're coming out to +France as V.A.D.'s soon."</p> + +<p>"Good Lord, Derek—you ought to have seen their +first drill. In one corner of the lawn that poor devil +of a sergeant with his face a shiny purple alternately +sobbed and bellowed like a bull—while twenty-seven +W.W.W.'s tied themselves into a knot like a Rugby +football scrum, and told one another how they'd done<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[219]</a></span> +it. It was the most heart-rending sight I've ever seen."</p> + +<p>"Dear old Dad!" The girl blew a cloud of smoke. +"You told it better last time."</p> + +<p>"Don't interrupt, Monica. The final tableau——"</p> + +<p>"Which one are you going to tell him, dear? The +one where James Henry bit the Vicar's wife in the +leg, or the one where the sergeant with a choking cry +of 'Double, damn you!' fell fainting into the rhododendron +bush?"</p> + +<p>"I think the second is the better," remarked the +soldier pensively. "Dogs always bite the Vicar's +wife's leg. Not a hobby I should personally take up, +but——"</p> + +<p>They all laughed. "Now run indoors, old 'un, and +tell John to get you a mixed Vermouth—I want to +talk to Derek." The girl gently pushed her father +towards the open window.</p> + +<p>It was at that particular moment in James Henry's +career that, having snapped at a wasp and partially +killed it, he inadvertently sat on the carcase by mistake. +As he explained to Harriet Emily afterwards, +it wasn't so much the discomfort of the proceeding +which annoyed him, as the unfeeling laughter of the +spectators. And it was only when she'd bitten him +in the other ear that he remembered he had disowned +her that very afternoon.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[220]</a></span></p><hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>But elsewhere, though he was quite unaware of the +fact, momentous decisions as to his future were being +taken. The Earl had gone in to get his mixed Vermouth, +and outside his daughter and the soldier-man +sat and talked. It was fragmentary, disjointed—the +talk of old friends with much in common. Only in +the man's voice there was that suppressed note which +indicates things more than any mere words. Monica +heard it and sighed—she'd heard it so often before +in his voice. James Henry had heard it too during a +previous talk—one which he had graced with his presence—and +had gone to the extent of discussing it with +a friend. On this occasion he had been gently dozing +on the man's knee, when suddenly he had been rudely +awakened. In his dreams he had heard her say, +"Dear old Derek—I'm afraid it's No. You see, I'm +not sure;" which didn't seem much to make a disturbance +about.</p> + +<p>"Would you believe it," he remarked later, "but as +she spoke the soldier-man's grip tightened on my neck +till I was almost choked."</p> + +<p>"What did you do?" asked his Friend, a disreputable +"long-dog." "Did you bite him?"</p> + +<p>"I did not." James Henry sniffed. "It was not +a biting moment. Tact was required. I just gave a +little cough, and instantly he took his hand away. +'Old man,' he whispered to me—she'd left us—'I'm<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[221]</a></span> +sorry. I didn't mean to—I wasn't thinking.' So I +licked his hand to show him I understood."</p> + +<p>"I know what you mean. I'm generally there when +my bloke comes out of prison, and he always kicks me. +But it's meant kindly."</p> + +<p>"As a matter of fact that is not what I mean—though +I daresay your experiences on such matters +are profound." James was becoming blue-blooded. +"The person who owns you, and who is in the habit +of going to—er—prison, no doubt shows his affection +for you in that way. And very suitable too. But +the affair to which I alluded is quite different. The +soldier-man is almost as much in my care as the girl. +And so I know his feelings. At the time, he was +suffering though why I don't understand; and therefore +it was up to me to suffer with him. It helped +him."</p> + +<p>"H'm," the lurcher grunted. "Daresay you're +right. What about a trip to the gorse? I haven't +seen a rabbit for some time."</p> + +<p>And if Henry had not sat on the wasp, his neck +might again have been squeezed that evening. As it +was, the danger period was over by the time he reappeared +and jumped into the girl's lap. Not only +had the sixth proposal been gently turned down—but +James's plans for the near future had been settled for +him in a most arbitrary manner.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[222]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Well, old man, how's the tail?" laughed the soldier. +James Henry yawned—the subject seemed a trifle +personal even amongst old friends. "Have you heard +you're coming with me to France?"</p> + +<p>"And you must bring him to me as soon as I get +over," cried the girl.</p> + +<p>"At once, dear lady. I'll ask for special leave, +and if necessary an armistice."</p> + +<p>"Won't you bark at the Huns, my cherub?" She +laughed and got up. "Go to your uncle—I'm going +to dress."</p> + +<p>What happened then was almost more than even +the most long-suffering terrier could stand. He was +unceremoniously bundled into his uncle's arms by his +mistress, and at the same moment she bent down. A +strange noise was heard such as he had frequently +noted, coming from the top of his own head, when +his mistress was in an affectionate mood—a peculiar +form of exercise he deduced, which apparently amused +some people. But the effect on the soldier was electrical. +He sprang out of his chair with a shout—"Monica—you +little devil—come back," and James +Henry fell winded to the floor. But a flutter of white +disappearing indoors was the only answer....</p> + +<p>"She's not sure, James, my son—she's not sure." +The man pulled out his cigarette case and contemplated +him thoughtfully. "And how the deuce are<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[223]</a></span> +we to make her sure? I want it, and her father wants +it, and so does she if she only knew it. They're the +devil, James Henry—they're the devil."</p> + +<p>But his hearer did not want philosophy; he wanted +his tummy rubbed. He lay with one eye closed, his +four paws turned up limply towards the sky, and +sighed gently. Never before had the suggestion +failed; enthusiastic admirers had always taken the +hint gladly, and he had graciously allowed them the +pleasure. But this time—horror upon horror—not +only was there no result, but in a dreamy, contemplative +manner the soldier actually deposited his used +and still warm match carefully on the spot where +James Henry's wind had been. Naturally there was +only one possible course open to him. He rose quietly, +and left. It was only when he was thinking the matter +over later that it struck him that his exit would have +been more dignified if he hadn't sat down halfway +across the lawn to scratch his right ear. It was more +than likely that a completely false construction would +be put on that simple action by anyone who didn't +know he'd had words with Harriet Emily.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Thus James Henry—gentleman, at his country seat +in England. I have gone out of my way to describe +what may be taken as an average day in his life, in +order to show him as he was before he went to France<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[224]</a></span> +to be banished from the country—cashiered in disgrace +a few weeks after his arrival. Which only goes +to prove the change that war causes in even the most +polished and courtly.</p> + +<p>I am told that the alteration for the worse started +shortly after his arrival at the front. What did it +I don't know—but he lost one whisker and a portion +of an ear, thus giving him a somewhat lopsided appearance; +though rakish withal. It may have been a +detonator which went off as he ate it—it may have +been foolish curiosity over a maxim—it may even +have been due to the fact that he found a motor-bicycle +standing still, what time it made strange provocative +noises, and failed to notice that the back wheel was +off the ground and rotating at a great pace.</p> + +<p>Whatever it was it altered James Henry. Not that +it soured his temper—not at all; but it made him more +reckless, less careful of appearances. He forgot the +repose that stamps the caste of Vere de Vere, and a +series of incidents occurred which tended to strain +relations all round.</p> + +<p>There was the question of the three dead chickens, +for instance. Had they disappeared decently and in +order much might have been thought but nothing +would have been known. But when they were deposited +on their owner's doorstep, with James Henry +mounting guard over the corpses himself, it was a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[225]</a></span> +little difficult to explain the matter away. That was +the trouble—his sense of humour seemed to have +become distorted.</p> + +<p>The pastime of hunting for rats in the sewers of +Ypres cannot be too highly commended; but having +got thoroughly wet in the process, James Henry's +practice of depositing the rat and himself on the +Adjutant's bed was open to grave criticism.</p> + +<p>But enough: these two instances were, I am sorry +to state, but types of countless other regrettable episodes +which caused the popularity of James Henry to +wane.</p> + +<p>The final decree of death or banishment came when +James had been in the country some seven weeks.</p> + +<p>On the day in question a dreadful shout was heard, +followed by a flood of language which I will refrain +from committing to print. And then the Colonel +appeared in the door of his dug-out.</p> + +<p>"Where is that accursed idiot, Murgatroyd? Pass +the word along for the damn fool."</p> + +<p>"'Urry up, Conky. The ole man's a-twittering for +you." Murgatroyd emerged from a recess.</p> + +<p>"What's 'e want?"</p> + +<p>"I'd go and find out, cully. I think 'e's going to +mention you in 'is will." At that moment a fresh outburst +floated through the stillness.</p> + +<p>"Great 'Eavens!" Murgatroyd reluctantly rose to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[226]</a></span> +his feet. "So long, boys. Tell me mother she was +in me thoughts up to the end." He paused outside +the dug-out and then went manfully in. "You wanted +me, sir."</p> + +<p>"Look at this, you blithering ass, look at this." +The Colonel was searching through his Fortnum and +Mason packing-case on the floor. "Great Heavens! +and the caviar too—imbedded in the butter. Five +defunct rodents in the brawn"—he threw each in turn +at his servant, who dodged round the dug-out like a +pea in a drum—"the marmalade and the pâté de fois +gras inseparably mixed together, and the whole covered +with a thick layer of disintegrating cigar."</p> + +<p>"It wasn't me, sir," Murgatroyd spoke in an aggrieved +tone.</p> + +<p>"I didn't suppose it was, you fool." The Colonel +straightened himself and glared at his hapless minion. +"Great Heavens! there's another rat on my hairbrush."</p> + +<p>"One of the same five, sir. It ricocheted off my +face." With a magnificent nonchalance his servant +threw it out of the door. "I think, sir, it must be +James 'Enry."</p> + +<p>"Who the devil is James Henry?"</p> + +<p>"Sir Derek Temple's little dawg, sir."</p> + +<p>"Indeed." The Colonel's tone was ominous. "Go<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[227]</a></span> +round and ask Sir Derek Temple to be good enough +to come and see me at once."</p> + +<p>What happened exactly at that interview I cannot +say; although I understand that James Henry considered +an absurd fuss had been made about a trifle. +In fact he found it so difficult to lie down with any +comfort that night that he missed much of his master's +conversation with him.</p> + +<p>"You've topped it, James, you've put the brass hat +on. The old man threatens to turn out a firing party +if he ever sees you again."</p> + +<p>James feigned sleep: this continual harping on what +was over and done with he considered the very worst +of form. Even if he had put the caviar in the butter +and his foot in the marmalade—well, hang it all—what +then? He'd presented the old buster with five +dead rats, which was more than he'd do for a lot of +people.</p> + +<p>"In fact, James, you are not popular, my boy—and +I shudder to think what Monica will do with you +when she gets you. She's come over, you may be +pleased to hear, Henry. She is V.A.D.-ing at a charming +hospital that overlooks the sea. James, why can't +I go sick—and live for a space at that charming hospital +that overlooks the sea? Think of it: here am I, +panting to have my face washed by her, panting——"</p> + +<p>For a moment he rhapsodised in silence. "Breakfast<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[228]</a></span> +in bed, poached egg in the bed: oh! James, my boy, +and she probably never even thinks of me."</p> + +<p>He took a letter out of his pocket and held it under +the light of the candle. "'Not much to do at present, +but delightful weather. The hospital is nearly empty, +though there's one perfect dear who is almost fit—a +Major in some Highland regiment.'</p> + +<p>"Listen to that, James. Some great raw-boned, +red-kneed Scotchman, and she calls him a perfect +dear!" His listener blew resignedly and again composed +himself to slumber.</p> + +<p>"'How is James behaving? I'd love to see the +sweet pet again.' Sweet pet: yes—my boy—you look +it. 'Do you remember how annoyed he was when I +put him in your arms that afternoon at home?' Do +you hear that, James?—do I remember? Monica, +you adorable soul...." He relapsed into moody +thought.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>At what moment during that restless night the idea +actually came I know not. Possibly a diabolical chuckle +on the part of James Henry, who was hunting in his +dreams, goaded him to desperation. But it is an undoubted +fact that when Sir Derek Temple rose the +next morning he had definitely determined to embark +on the adventure which culminated in the tragedy of +the cat, the General, and James. The latter is reputed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[229]</a></span> +to regard the affair as quite trifling and unworthy of +the fierce glare of publicity that beat upon it. The +cat, has, or rather had, different views.</p> + +<p>Now, be it known to those who live in England +that it is one thing to say in an airy manner, as Derek +had said to Lady Monica, that he would come and see +her when she landed in France; it is another to do it. +But to a determined and unprincipled man nothing +is impossible; and though it would be the height of +indiscretion for me to hint even at the methods he +used to attain his ends, it is a certain fact that in the +afternoon of the second day following the episode of +the five rodents he found himself at a certain seaport +town with James Henry as the other member of the +party. And having had his hair cut, and extricated +his companion from a street brawl, he hired a motor +and drove into the country.</p> + +<p>Now, Derek Temple's knowledge of hospitals and +their ways was not profound. He had a hazy idea +that on arriving at the portals he would send in his +name, and that in due course he could consume a +tête-à-tête tea with Monica in her private boudoir. He +rehearsed the scene in his mind: the quiet, cutting reference +to Highlanders who failed to understand the +official position of nurses—the certainty that this particular +one was a scoundrel: the fact that, on receiving +her letter, he had at once rushed off to protect her.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[230]</a></span></p> + +<p>And as he got to this point the car turned into the +gates of a palatial hotel and stopped by the door. +James Henry jumped through the open window, and +his master followed him up the steps.</p> + +<p>"Is Lady Monica Travers at home; I mean—er—is +she in the hospital?" He addressed an R.A.M.C. +sergeant in the entrance.</p> + +<p>"No dawgs allowed in the 'ospital, sir." The scandalised +N.C.O. glared at James Henry, who was furiously +growling at a hot-air grating in the floor. "You +must get 'im out at once, sir: we're being inspected +to-day."</p> + +<p>"Heel, James, heel. He'll be quite all right, Sergeant. +Just find out, will you, about Lady Monica +Travers?"</p> + +<p>"Beg pardon, sir, but are you a patient?"</p> + +<p>"Patient—of course I'm not a patient. Do I look +like a patient?"</p> + +<p>"Well, sir, there ain't no visiting allowed when the +sisters is on duty."</p> + +<p>"What? But it's preposterous. Do you mean to +say I can't see her unless I'm a patient? Why, man, +I've got to go back in an hour."</p> + +<p>"Very sorry, sir—but no visiting allowed. Very +strict 'ere, and as I says we're full of brass 'ats +to-day."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[231]</a></span></p> + +<p>For a moment Derek was nonplussed; this was a +complication on which he had not reckoned.</p> + +<p>"But look here, Sergeant, you know..." and even +as he spoke he looked upstairs and beheld Lady +Monica. Unfortunately she had not seen him, and +the situation was desperate. Forcing James Henry +into the arms of the outraged N.C.O., he rushed up +the stairs and followed her.</p> + +<p>"Derek!" The girl stopped in amazement. "What +in the world are you doing here?"</p> + +<p>"Monica, my dear, I've come to see you. Tell me +that you don't really love that damn Scotchman."</p> + +<p>An adorable smile spread over her face. "You +idiot! I don't love anyone. My work fills my life."</p> + +<p>"Rot! You said in your letter you had nothing +to do at present. Monica, take me somewhere where +I can make love to you."</p> + +<p>"I shall do nothing of the sort. In the first place +you aren't allowed here at all; and in the second I +don't want to be made love to."</p> + +<p>"And in the third," said Derek grimly, as the sound +of a procession advancing down a corridor came from +round the corner, "you're being inspected to-day, and +that—if I mistake not—is the great pan-jan-drum +himself."</p> + +<p>"Oh! good Heavens. Derek, I'd forgotten. Do +go, for goodness' sake. Run—I shall be sacked."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[232]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I shall not go. As the great man himself rounds +that corner I shall kiss you with a loud trumpeting +noise.'</p> + +<p>"You brute! Oh! what shall I do?—there they +are. Come in here." She grabbed him by the wrist +and dragged him into a small deserted sitting-room +close by.</p> + +<p>"You darling," he remarked and promptly kissed +her. "Monica, dear, you must listen——"</p> + +<p>"Sit down, you idiot. I'm sure they saw me. You +must pretend you're a patient just come in. I know +I shall be sacked. The General is dreadfully particular. +Put this thermometer in your mouth. Quick, +give me your hand—I must take your pulse."</p> + +<p>"I think," said a voice outside the door, "that I +saw—er—a patient being brought into one of these +rooms."</p> + +<p>"Surely not, sir. These rooms are all empty." The +door opened and the cavalcade paused. "Er—Lady +Monica... really."</p> + +<p>"A new patient, Colonel," she remarked. "I am +just taking his temperature." Derek, his eyes partially +closed, lay back in a chair, occasionally uttering +a slight groan.</p> + +<p>"The case looks most interesting." The General +came and stood beside him. "Most interesting. Have<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[233]</a></span> +you—er—diagnosed the symptoms, sister?" His lips +were twitching suspiciously.</p> + +<p>"Not yet, General. The pulse is normal—and the +temperature"—she looked at the thermometer—"is—good +gracious me! have you kept it properly under +your tongue?" She turned to Derek, who nodded +feebly. "The temperature is only 93." She looked at +the group in an awestruck manner.</p> + +<p>"Most remarkable," murmured the General. "One +feels compelled to wonder what it would have been +if he'd had the right end in his mouth." Derek +emitted a hollow groan. "And where do you feel it +worst, my dear boy?" continued the great man, gazing +at him through his eyeglass.</p> + +<p>"Dyspepsia, sir," he whispered feebly. "Dreadful +dyspepsia. I can't sleep, I—er—Good Lord!" His +eyes opened, his voice rose, and with a fixed stare of +horror he gazed at the door. Through it with due +solemnity came James Henry holding in his mouth a +furless and very dead cat. He advanced to the centre +of the group—laid it at the General's feet—and having +sneezed twice sat down and contemplated his handiwork: +his tail thumping the floor feverishly in anticipation +of well-merited applause.</p> + +<p>It was possibly foolish, but, as Derek explained +afterwards to Monica, the situation had passed beyond +him. He arose and confronted the General, who was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[234]</a></span> +surveying the scene coldly, and with a courtly exclamation +of "Your cat, I believe, sir," he passed from +the room.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>The conclusion of this dreadful drama may be given +in three short sentences.</p> + +<p>The first was spoken by the General. "Let it be +buried." And it was so.</p> + +<p>The second was whispered by Lady Monica—later. +"Darling, I had to <i>say</i> we were engaged: it looked so +peculiar." And it was even more so.</p> + +<p>The third was snorted by James Henry. "First +I'm beaten and then I'm kissed. Damn all cats!"</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[235]</a></span></p> +<h2>PART TWO</h2> + +<h3>THE LAND OF TOPSY TURVY</h3> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[236]</a></span></p> + + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[237]</a></span></p> +<h2>PART TWO</h2> + +<h3>THE LAND OF TOPSY TURVY</h3> + +<h2>CHAPTER I</h2> + +<h3>THE GREY HOUSE</h3> + + +<p>You come on it unexpectedly, round a little spur +in the side of the valley, which screens it from +view. It stands below you as you first see it, not a +big house, not a little one, but just comfortable. It +seems in keeping with the gardens, the tennis courts, +the orchards which lie around it in a hap-hazard sort +of manner, as if they had just grown there years and +years ago and had been too lazy to move ever since. +Peace is the keynote of the whole picture—the peace +and contentment of sleepy unwoken England.</p> + +<p>Down in the valley below, the river, brown and +swollen, carries on its bosom the flotsam and jetsam +of its pilgrimage through the country. Now and then +a great branch goes bobbing by, only to come to grief +in the shallows round the corner—the shallows where +the noise of the water on the rounded stones lulls one<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[238]</a></span> +to sleep at night, and sounds a ceaseless reveille each +morning. On the other side of the water the woods +stretch down close to the bank, though the upper slopes +of the hills are bare, and bathed in the golden light of +the dying winter sun. Slowly the dark shadow line +creeps up—creeps up to meet the shepherd coming +home with his flock. Faint, but crisp, the barks of his +dog, prancing excitedly round him, strike on one's +ears, and then of a sudden—silence. They have entered +the purple country; they have left the golden +land, and the dog trots soberly at his master's heels. +One last peak alone remains, dipped in flaming yellow, +and then that too is touched by the finger of oncoming +night. For a few moments it survives, a flicker of fire +on its rugged tip, and then—the end; like a grim black +sentinel it stands gloomy and sinister against the +evening sky.</p> + +<p>The shepherd is out of sight amongst the trees; +the purple is changing to grey, the grey to black; +there is no movement saving only the tireless swish +of the river....</p> + +<p>To the man leaning over the gate the scene was +familiar—but familiarity had not robbed it of its +charm. Involuntarily his mind went back to the +days before the Madness came—to the days when +others had stood beside him watching those same darkening +hills, with the smoke of their pipes curling gently<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[239]</a></span> +away in the still air. Back from a day's shooting, +back from an afternoon on the river, and a rest at the +top of the hill before going in to tea in the house below. +So had he stood countless times in the past—with +those others....</p> + +<p>The Rabbit, with a gun under his arm, and his +stubby briar glowing red in the paling light. The +Rabbit, with his old shooting-coat, with the yarn of +the one woodcock he nearly got, with his cheery laugh. +But they never found anything of him—an eight-inch +shell is at any rate merciful.</p> + +<p>Torps—the naval candidate: one of the worst and +most gallant riders that ever threw a leg across a +horse. Somewhere in the depths of the Pacific, with +the great heaving combers as his grave, he lies peacefully; +and as for a little while he had gasped and +struggled while hundreds of others gasped and struggled +near him—perhaps he, too, had seen the hills +opposite once again even as the Last Fence loomed in +front and the whispered Kismet came from his lips....</p> + +<p>Hugh—the son of the house close by. Twice +wounded, and now out again in Mesopotamia. Did +the sound of the water come to him as the sun dropped, +slow and pitiless, into the west? The same parching, +crawling days following one another in deadly monotony: +the same....<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[240]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Dreaming, Jim?" A woman's voice behind him +broke on the man's thoughts.</p> + +<p>"Yes, lady," he answered soberly. "Dreaming. +Some of the ghosts we knew have been coming to me +out of the blue grey mists." He fell into step beside +her, and they moved towards the house.</p> + +<p>"Ah! don't," she whispered—"don't! Oh! it's +wicked, this war; cruel, damnable." She stopped and +faced him, her breast rising and falling quickly. "And +we can't follow you, Jim—we women. You go into +the unknown."</p> + +<p>"Yes—yours is the harder part. You can only +wait and wonder."</p> + +<p>"Wait and wonder!" She laughed bitterly. "Hope +and pray—while God sleeps."</p> + +<p>"Hush, lady!" he answered quietly; "for that way +there lies no peace. Is Sybil indoors?"</p> + +<p>"Yes—she's expecting you. Thank goodness you're +not going out yet awhile, Jim; the child is fretting +herself sick over her brother as it is—and when you +go...."</p> + +<p>"Yes—when I go, what then?" he asked quietly. +"Because I'm very nearly fit again, Lady Alice. My +arm is nearly all right."</p> + +<p>"Do you want to go back, Jim?" Her quiet eyes +searched his face. "Look at that."</p> + +<p>They had rounded a corner, and in front of them<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[241]</a></span> +a man was leaning against a wall talking to the cook. +They were in the stage known as walking-out—or is +it keeping company? The point is immaterial and +uninteresting. But the man, fit and strong, was in a +starred trade. He was a forester—or had been since +the first rumour of compulsion had startled his poor +tremulous spirit. A very fine, but not unique example +of the genuine shirker....</p> + +<p>"What has he to do with us?" said Jim bitterly. +"That thing takes his stand along with the criminals, +and the mental degenerates. He's worse than a conscientious +objector. And we've got no choice. He +reaps the benefits for which he refuses to fight. I don't +want to go back to France particularly; every feeling +I've got revolts at the idea just at present. I want +to be with Sybil, as you know; I want to—oh! God +knows! I was mad over the water—it bit into me; +I was caught by the fever. It's an amazing thing how +it gets hold of one. All the dirt and discomfort, and +the boredom and the fright—one would have +thought...." He laughed. "I suppose it's the madness +in the air. But I'm sane now."</p> + +<p>"Are you? I wonder for how long. Let's go in +and have some tea." The woman led the way indoors; +there was silence again save only for the sound of the +river.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[242]</a></span> +</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[243]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER II</h2> + +<h3>THE WOMEN AND—THE MEN</h3> + + +<p>When Jim Denver told Lady Alice Conway that +he was sane again, he spoke no more than the +truth. A few weeks in France, and then a shattered +arm had brought him back to England with more +understanding than he had ever possessed before. He +had gone out the ordinary Englishman—casual, sporting, +easy going, somewhat apathetic; he had come +back a thinker as well, at times almost a dreamer. It +affects different men in different ways—but none escape. +And that is what those others cannot understand—those +others who have not been across. +Even the man who comes back on short leave hardly +grasps how the thing has changed him: hardly realises +that the madness is still in his soul. He has not time; +his leave is just an interlude. He is back again in +France almost before he realises he has left it. In +mind he has never left it.</p> + +<p>There is humour there in plenty—farce even; boredom, +excitement, passion, hatred. Every human emotion +runs its full gamut in the Land of Topsy Turvy;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[244]</a></span> +in the place where the life of a man is no longer +three-score years and ten, but just so long as the Great +Reaper may decide and no more. And you are caught +in the whirl—you are tossed here and there by a life +of artificiality, a life not of one's own seeking, but a +life which, having once caught you, you are loath to +let go.</p> + +<p>Which is a hard saying, and one impossible of comprehension +to those who wait behind—to the wives, +to the mothers, to the women. To them the leave-train +pulling slowly out of Victoria Station, with their +man waving a last adieu from the carriage window, +means the ringing down of the curtain once again. +The unknown has swallowed him up—the unknown +into which they cannot follow him. Be he in a Staff +office at the base or with his battalion in the trenches, +he has gone where the woman to whom he counts as +all the world cannot even picture him in her mind. To +her Flanders is Flanders and war is war—and there +are casualty lists. What matter that his battalion is +resting; what matter that he is going through a course +somewhere at the back of beyond? He has gone into +the Unknown; the whistle of the train steaming +slowly out is the voice of the call-boy at the drop curtain. +And now the train has passed out of sight—or +is it only that her eyes are dim with the tears she kept +back while he was with her?<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[245]</a></span></p> + +<p>At last she turns and goes blindly back to the room +where they had breakfast; she sees once more the +chair he used, the crumpled morning paper, the discarded +cigarette. And there let us leave her with +tear-stained face and a pathetic little sodden handkerchief +clutched in one hand. "O God! dear God! send +him back to me." Our women do not show us this +side very much when we are on leave; perhaps it is as +well, for the ground on which we stand is holy....</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>And what of the man? The train is grinding +through Herne Hill when he puts down his <i>Times</i> and +catches sight of another man in his brigade also returning +from leave.</p> + +<p>"Hullo, old man! What sort of a time have you +had?"</p> + +<p>"Top-hole. How's yourself? Was that your memsahib +at the station?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. Dislike women at these partings as a general +rule—but she's wonderful."</p> + +<p>"They're pulling the brigade out to rest, I hear."</p> + +<p>"So I believe. Anyway, I hope they've buried that +dead Hun just in front of us. He was getting beyond +a joke...."</p> + +<p>He is back in the life over the water again; there +is nothing incongruous to him in his sequence of remarks; +the time of his leave has been too short for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[246]</a></span> +the contrast to strike him. In fact, the whirl of gaiety +in which he has passed his seven days seems more +unreal than his other life—than the dead German. +And it is only when a man is wounded and comes +home to get fit, when he idles away the day in the +home of his fathers, with a rod or a gun to help him +back to convalescence, when the soothing balm of +utter peace and contentment creeps slowly through +his veins, that he looks back on the past few months +as a runner on a race just over. He has given of his +best; he is ready to give of his best again; but at +the moment he is exhausted; panting, but at rest +For the time the madness has left him; he is sane. +But it is only for the time....</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>He is able to think coherently; he is able to look +on things in their proper perspective. He knows. +The bits in the kaleidoscope begin to group coherently, +to take definite form, and he views the picture from +the standpoint of a rational man. To him the leave-train +contains no illusions; the territory is not unknown. +No longer does a dead Hun dwarf his horizon +to the exclusion of all else. He has looked on the +thing from close quarters; he has been mad with passion +and shaking with fright; he has been cold and +wet, he has been hot and thirsty. Like a blaze of +tropical vegetation from which individual colours refuse<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[247]</a></span> +to be separated, so does the jumble of his life in +Flanders strike him as he looks back on it. Isolated +occurrences seem unreal, hard to identify. The little +things which then meant so much now seem so paltry; +the things he hardly noticed now loom big. Above +all, the grim absurdity of the whole thing strikes him; +civilisation has at last been defined....</p> + +<p>He marvels that men can be such wonderful, such +super-human fools; his philosophy changes. He recalls +grimly the particular night on which he crept +over a dirty ploughed field and scrambled into a shell-hole +as he saw the thin green streak of a German +flare like a bar of light against the blackness; then +the burst—the ghostly light flooding the desolate landscape—the +crack of a solitary rifle away to his left. +And as the flare came slowly hissing down, a ball of +fire, he saw the other occupant of his hiding-place—a +man's leg, just that, nothing more. And he laughs; +the thing is too absurd.</p> + +<p>It is; it is absurd; it is monstrous, farcical. The +realisation has come to him; he is sane—for a time.</p> + +<p>Sane: but for how long? It varies with the type. +There are some who love the game—who love it for +itself alone. They sit on the steps of the War Office, +and drive their C.O.'s mad: they pull strings both +male and female, until the powers that be rise in their +wrath, and consign them to perdition and—France.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[248]</a></span></p> + +<p>There are others who do not take it quite like that. +They do not <i>want</i> to go back particularly—and if they +were given an important job in England, a job for +which they had special aptitude, in which they knew +they were invaluable, they would take it without regret. +But though they may not seek earnestly for France—neither +do they seek for home. Their wants do not +matter; their private interests do not count: it is only +England to-day....</p> + +<p>And lastly there is a third class, the class to whom +that accursed catch-phrase, "Doing his bit," means +everything. There are some who consider they have +done their bit—that they need do no more. They +draw comparisons and become self-righteous. "Behold +I am not as other men are," they murmur complacently; +"have not I kept the home fires burning, +and amassed money making munitions?" "I am doing +my bit." "I have been out; I have been hit—and +<i>he</i> has not. Why should I go again? I have done +my bit." Well, friend, it may be as you say. But +methinks there is only one question worth putting +and answering to-day. Don't bother about having +done your bit. Are you doing your <i>all</i>? Let us leave +it at that.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[249]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER III</h2> + +<h3>THE WOMAN AND THE MAN</h3> + + +<p>"When's your board, Jim?" The flickering +light of the fire lit up the old oak hall, playing +on the face of the girl buried in an easy chair. Tea +was over, and they were alone.</p> + +<p>"On Tuesday, dear," he answered gravely.</p> + +<p>"But you aren't fit, old man; you don't think you're +fit yet, do you?" There was a note of anxiety in her +voice.</p> + +<p>"I'm perfectly fit, Sybil," he said quietly—"perfectly +fit, my dear."</p> + +<p>"Then you'll go back soon?" She looked at him +with frightened eyes.</p> + +<p>"Just as soon as they'll send me. I am going to +ask the Board to pass me fit 'for General Service.'"</p> + +<p>"Oh, Jim!"—he hardly caught the whisper. "Oh, +Jim! my man."</p> + +<p>"Well——" he came over and knelt in front of her.</p> + +<p>"It makes me sick," she cried fiercely, "to think +of you and Hugh and men like you—and then to +think of all these other cowardly beasts. My dear, +my dear—do you <i>want</i> to go back?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[250]</a></span></p> + +<p>"At present, I don't. I'm utterly happy here with +you, and the old peaceful country life. I'm afraid, +Syb—I'm afraid of going on with it I'm afraid of +its sapping my vitality—I'm afraid of never wanting +to go back." His voice died away, and then suddenly +he leant forward and kissed her on the mouth.</p> + +<p>"Come over here a moment," he stood up and drew +her to him. "Come over here." With his arm round +her shoulders he led her over to a great portrait in +oils that hung against the wall, the portrait of a stern-faced +soldier in the uniform of a forgotten century. +To the girl the picture of her great-grandfather was +not a thing of surpassing interest—she had seen it too +often before. But she was a girl of understanding, +and she realised that the soul of the man beside her +was in the melting-pot; and, moreover, that she might +make or mar the mould into which it must run. So in +her wisdom she said nothing, and waited.</p> + +<p>"I want you to listen to me for a bit, Syb," he began +after a while. "I'm not much of a fist at talking—especially +on things I feel very deeply about. I can't +track my people back like you can. The corresponding +generation in my family to that old buster was a junior +inkslinger in a small counting-house up North. And +that junior inkslinger made good: you know what I'm +worth to-day if the governor died."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[251]</a></span></p> + +<p>He started to pace restlessly up and down the hall, +while the girl watched him quietly.</p> + +<p>"Then came this war and I went into it—not for +any highfalutin motives, not because I longed to +avenge Belgium—but simply because my pals were +all soldiers or sailors, and it never occurred to me +not to. In fact at first I was rather pleased with +myself—I treated it as a joke more or less. The +governor was inordinately proud of me; the mater +had about twelve dozen photographs of me in uniform +sent round the country to various bored and unwilling +recipients; and lots of people combined to +tell me what a damn fine fellow I was. Do you think +he'd have thought so?" He stopped underneath the +portrait and for a while gazed at the painted face with +a smile.</p> + +<p>"That old blackguard up there—who lived every +moment of his life—do you think he would have accounted +that to me for credit? What would <i>he</i> say +if he knew that in a crisis like this there are men +who cloak perfect sight behind blue glasses; that there +are men who have joined home defence units though +they are perfectly fit to fight anywhere? And what +would he say, Sybil, if he knew that a man, even +though he'd done something, was now resting on his +oars—content?"</p> + +<p>"Go on, dear!" The girl's eyes were shining now.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[252]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I'm coming to the point This morning the old +dad started on the line of various fellows he knew +whose sons hadn't been out yet; and he didn't see +why I should go a second time—before they went. +The business instinct to a certain extent, I suppose—the +point of view of a business man. But would <i>he</i> +understand that?" Again he nodded to the picture.</p> + +<p>"I think——" She began to speak, and then fell +silent.</p> + +<p>"Ah! but would he, my dear? What of Hugh, +of the Rabbit, of Torps? With them it was bred in +the bone—with me it was not. For years I and mine +have despised the soldier and the sailor: for years you +and yours have despised the counting-house. And all +that is changing. Over there the tinkers, the tailors, +the merchants, are standing together with the old breed +of soldier—the two lots are beginning to understand +one another—to respect one another. You're learning +from us, and we're learning from you, though <i>he</i> +would never have believed that possible."</p> + +<p>Jim was standing very close to the girl, and his voice +was low.</p> + +<p>"It's because I'm not very sure of one of the lessons +I've learnt: it's because at times I do think it hard +that others should not take their fair share that I must +get back to that show quick—damn quick.</p> + +<p>"I want to be worthy of that old ancestor of yours<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[253]</a></span>—now +that I'm going to marry one of his family. I +know we're all mad—I know the world's mad; but, +Syb, dear, you wouldn't have me sane, would you; +not for ever? And I shall be if I stay here any +longer...."</p> + +<p>"I understand, Jim," she answered, after a while. +"I understand exactly. And I wouldn't have you +sane, except just now for a little while. Because it's +a glorious madness, and"—she put both her arms +round his neck and kissed him passionately—"and I +love you."</p> + +<p>Which was quite illogical and inconsequent—but +there you are. What is not illogical and inconsequent +nowadays?</p> + +<p>From which it will be seen that Jim Denver was +not of the first of the three types which I have mentioned. +He did not love the game for itself alone; +my masters, there are not many who do. But there +was no job in England in which he would prove invaluable: +though there were many which with a little +care he might have adorned beautifully.</p> + +<p>And just because there <i>is</i> blood in the counting-house, +which only requires to be brought out to show +itself, he knew that he must go back—he knew that +it was his job.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>That wild enthusiasm which he had shared with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[254]</a></span> +other subalterns in his battalion before they had been +over the first time was lacking now; he was calmer—more +evenly balanced. He had attained the courage +of knowledge instead of the courage of ignorance.</p> + +<p>No longer did the men who waited to be fetched +excuse him—even though he had "done his bit." No +longer was it possible to shelter behind another man's +failure, and plead for so-called equality of sacrifice. +To him had come the meaning of tradition—that +strange, nameless something which has kept regiments +in a position, battered with shells, stunned with shock, +gassed, brain reeling, mind gone, with nothing to hold +them except that nameless something which says to +them, "Hold on!" While other regiments, composed +of men as brave, have not held. To him had come +that quality which has sent men laughing and talking +without a quaver to their death; that quality which +causes men—eaten with fever, lonely, weary to death, +thinking themselves forsaken even of God—to carry +on the Empire's work in the uttermost corners of the +globe, simply because it is their job.</p> + +<p>He had assimilated to a certain extent the ideas +of that stern, dead soldier; he had visualised them; +he had realised that the destinies of a country are not +entrusted to all her children. Many are not worthy +to handle them, which makes the glory for the few all +the greater....<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[255]</a></span></p> + +<div class="poem"> +Winds of the world, give answer! They are whimpering<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">to and fro—</span><br /> +And what should they know of England, who only<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">England know?</span><br /> +The poor little street-bred people that vapour and fume<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">and brag,</span><br /> +They are lifting their heads in the stillness to yelp at<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">the English Flag.</span> +</div> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<div class="poem"> +Never the lotos closes, never the wild-fowl wake,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But a soul goes out on the East wind that died for</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">England's sake—</span><br /> +Man or woman or suckling, mother or bride or maid—<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Because on the bones of the English the English flag is</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">stayed.</span> +</div> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[256]</a></span></p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[257]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER IV</h2> + +<h3>"THE REGIMENT"</h3> + + +<p>On the Tuesday a board of doctors passed Jim +Denver fit for General Service, having first +given him the option of a month's home service if he +liked. Two days after he turned up at the depôt of his +regiment, where he found men in various stages of +convalescence—light duty, ordinary duty at home, +and fit to go out like himself. One or two he knew, +and most of them he didn't. There were a few old +regular officers and a large number of very new ones—who +were being led in the way they should go.</p> + +<p>But there is little to tell of the time he spent waiting +to go out. This is not a diary of his life—not even +an account of it; it is merely an attempt to portray +a state of mind—an outlook on life engendered by +war, in a man whom war had caused to think for the +first time.</p> + +<p>And so the only incidents which I propose to give +of his time at the depôt is a short account of a smoking +concert he attended and a conversation he had +the following day with one Vane, a stockbroker. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[258]</a></span> +two things taken individually meant but little: taken +together—well, the humour was the humour of the +Land of Topsy Turvy. A delicate humour, not to be +appreciated by all: with subtle shades and delicate +strands and bloody brutality woven together....</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>A sudden silence settled on the gymnasium; the +man at the piano turned round so as to hear better; +the soldiers sitting astride the horse ceased laughing +and playing the fool.</p> + +<p>At a table at the end of the big room, seen dimly +through the smoke-clouded atmosphere, sat a group +of officers, while the regimental sergeant-major, supported +by other great ones of the non-commissioned +rank near by, presided over the proceedings.</p> + +<p>Occasionally a soldier-waiter passed behind the +officers' chairs, armed with a business-like bottle and +a box of dangerous-looking cigars; and unless he was +watched carefully he was apt to replenish the liquid +refreshment in a manner which suggested that he +regarded soda as harmful in the extreme to the human +system. Had he not received his instructions from +that great man the regimental himself?</p> + +<p>For an hour and a half the smoking concert had +been in progress; the Brothers Bimbo, those masterly +knock-about comedians, had given their performance +amid rapturous applause. In life the famous pair were<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[259]</a></span> +a machine-gun sergeant and a cook's mate; but on +such gala occasions they became the buffoons of the +regiment. They were the star comics: a position of +great responsibility and not to be lightly thought of. +An officer had given a couple of rag-time efforts; the +melancholy corporal in C Company had obliged with +a maundering tune of revolting sentimentality, and +one of A Company scouts had given a so-called comic +which caused the padre to keep his eyes fixed firmly +on the floor, though at times his mouth twitched suspiciously, +and made the colonel exclaim to his second +in command in tones of heartfelt relief: "Thank +Heavens, my wife couldn't come!" Knowing his +commanding officer's wife the second in command +agreed in no less heartfelt voice.</p> + +<p>But now a silence had settled on the great room: +and all eyes were turned on the regimental sergeant-major, +who was standing up behind the table on which +the programme lay, and behind which he had risen +every time a new performer had appeared during the +evening, in order to introduce him to the assembly. +There are many little rites and ceremonies in smoking +concerts....</p> + +<p>This time, however, he did not inform the audience +that Private MacPherson would now oblige—that is +the mystic formula. He stood there, waiting for +silence.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[260]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Non-commissioned officers and men"—his voice +carried to every corner of the building—"I think +you will all agree with me that we are very pleased +to see Colonel Johnson and all our officers here with +us to-night. It is our farewell concert in England: +in a few days we shall all be going—somewhere; and +it gives us all great pleasure to welcome the officers +who are going to lead us when we get to that somewhere. +Therefore I ask you all to fill up your glasses +and drink to the health of Colonel Johnson and all our +officers."</p> + +<p>A shuffling of feet; an abortive attempt on the part +of the pianist to strike up "For he's a jolly good +fellow" before his cue, an attempt which died horribly +in its infancy under the baleful eye of the sergeant-major; +a general creaking and grunting and +then—muttered, shouted, whispered from a thousand +throats—"Our Officers." The pianist started—right +this time—and in a second the room was ringing with +the well-known words. Cheers, thunderous cheers +succeeded it, and through it all the officers sat silent +and quiet. Most were new to the game; to them it was +just an interesting evening; a few were old at it; a +few, like Jim, had been across, and it was they who +had a slight lump in their throats. It brought back +memories—memories of other men, memories of similar +scenes....<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[261]</a></span></p> + +<p>At last the cheering died away, only to burst out +again with renewed vigour. The colonel was standing +up, a slight smile playing round his lips, the glint of +many things in his quiet grey eyes. To the second +in command, a sterling soldier but one of little imagination, +there came for the first time in his life the +meaning of the phrase, "the windows of the soul." +For in the eyes of the man who stood beside him he +saw those things of which no man speaks; the things +which words may kill.</p> + +<p>He saw understanding, affection, humour, pain; he +saw the pride of possession struggling with the sorrow +of future loss; he saw the desire to test his creation +struggling with the fear that a first test always brings; +he saw visions of glorious possibilities, and for a +fleeting instant he saw the dreadful abyss of a hideous +failure. Aye, for a few moments the second in command +looked not through a glass darkly, but saw into +the unplumbed depths of a man who had been weighed +in the balance and not found wanting; a man who had +faced responsibility and would face it again; a man +of honour, a man of humour, a man who knew.</p> + +<p>"My lads," he began—and the quiet, well-modulated +voice reached every man in the room just as clearly +as the harsher voice of the previous speaker—"as the +sergeant-major has just said, in a few days we shall +be sailing for—somewhere. The bustle and fulness<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[262]</a></span> +of your training life will be over; you will be confronted +with the real thing. And though I do not +want to mar the pleasure of this evening in any way +or to introduce a serious tone to the proceedings, I +do want to say just one or two things which may stick +in your minds and, perhaps, on some occasion may +help you. This war is not a joke; it is one of the +most hideous and ghastly tragedies that have ever been +foisted on the world; I have been there and I know. +You are going to be called on to stand all sorts of +discomfort and all sorts of boredom; there will be +times when you'd give everything you possess to know +that there was a picture-palace round the corner. You +may not think so now, but remember my words when +the time comes—remember, and stick it.</p> + +<p>"There will be times when there's a sinking in your +stomach and a singing in your head; when men beside +you are staring upwards with the stare that does not +see; when the sergeant has taken it through the forehead +and the nearest officer is choking up his life in +the corner of the traverse. But—there's still your +rifle; perhaps there's a machine-gun standing idle; anyway, +remember my words then, and stick it.</p> + +<p>"Stick it, my lads, as those others have done before +you. Stick it, for the credit of the regiment, for the +glory of our name. Remember always that that glory<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[263]</a></span> +lies in your hands, each one of you individually. And +just as it is in the power of each one of you to tarnish +it irreparably, so is it in the power of each one of you +to keep it going undimmed. Each one of us counts, +men"—his voice sank a little—"each one of us has +to play the game. Not because we're afraid of being +punished if we're found out, but because it <i>is</i> the +game."</p> + +<p>He looked round the room slowly, almost searchingly, +while the arc light spluttered and then burnt up +again with a hiss.</p> + +<p>"The Regiment, my lads—the Regiment." His +voice was tense with feeling. "It is only the Regiment +that counts."</p> + +<p>He raised his glass, and the men stood up:</p> + +<p>"The Regiment."</p> + +<p>A woman sobbed somewhere in the body of the +gym., and for a moment, so it seemed to Denver, the +wings of Death flapped softly against the windows. +For a moment only—and then:</p> + +<p>"Private Mulvaney will now oblige."</p> + +<p>Jim walked slowly home. He remembered just such +another evening before his own battalion went out. +Would those words of the Colonel have their effect: +would some white-faced man stick it the better for the +remembrance of that moment: would some machine-gun<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[264]</a></span> +fired with trembling dying hands take its toll? +Perhaps—who knows? The ideal of the soldier is +there—the ideal towards which the New Armies are +led. Thus the first incident....</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[265]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER V</h2> + +<h3>THE CONTRAST</h3> + + +<p>The following afternoon Denver, strolling back +from the town, was hailed by a man in khaki, +standing in the door of his house. He knew the man +well, Vane, by name—had dined with him often in +the days when he was in training himself. A quiet +man, with a pleasant wife and two children. Vane +was a stockbroker by trade: and just before Jim went +out he had enlisted.</p> + +<p>"Come in and have a gargle. I've just got back on +short leave." Vane came to the gate.</p> + +<p>"Good," Jim answered. "Mrs. Vane must be +pleased." They strolled up the drive and in through +the door. "You're looking very fit, old man. Flanders +seems to suit you."</p> + +<p>"My dear fellow, it does. It's the goods. I never +knew what living was before. The thought of that +cursed office makes me tired—and once"—he shrugged +his shoulders—"it filled my life. Say when."</p> + +<p>"Cheer oh!" They clinked glasses. "I thought +you were taking a commission."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[266]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I am—very shortly. The colonel has recommended +me for one, and I gather the powers that be +approve. But in a way I'm sorry, you know. I've +got a great pal in my section—who kept a whelk stall +down in Whitechapel."</p> + +<p>"They're the sort," laughed Jim. "The Cockney +takes some beating."</p> + +<p>"This bird's a flier. We had quite a cheery little +show the other night, just him and me. About a week +ago we were up in the trenches—bored stiff, and yet +happy in a way, you know, when Master Boche started +to register.<a name="FNanchor_1_1" id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> I suppose it was a new battery or something, +but they were using crumps, not shrapnel. They +weren't very big, but they were very close—and they +got closer. You know that nasty droning noise, then +the hell of an explosion—that great column of blackish +yellow smoke, and the bits pinging through the air +overhead."</p> + +<p>"I do," remarked Jim tersely.</p> + +<p>Vane laughed.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[267]</a></span> "Well, he got a bracket; the first one +was fifty yards short of the trench, and the second +was a hundred yards over. Then he started to come +back—always in the same line; and the line passed +straight through our bit of the trench.</p> + +<p>"''Ere, wot yer doing, you perishers? Sargint, go +and stop 'em. Tell 'em I've been appointed purveyor +of winkles to the Royal 'Ouse of the 'Un Emperor.' +Our friend of the whelk stall was surveying the scene +with intense disfavour. A great mass of smoke belched +up from the ground twenty yards away, and he ducked +instinctively. Then we waited—fifteen seconds about +was the interval between shots. The men were a bit +white about the gills—and, well the feeling in the pit +of my tummy was what is known as wobbly. You +know that feeling too?"</p> + +<p>"I do," remarked Jim even more tersely.</p> + +<p>Vane finished his drink. "Then it came, and we +cowered. There was a roar like nothing on earth—the +back of the trench collapsed, and the whole lot +of us were buried. If the shell had been five yards +short, it would have burst in the trench, and my whelk +friend would have whelked no more."</p> + +<p>Vane laughed. "We emerged, plucking mud from +our mouths, and cursed. The Hun apparently was +satisfied and stopped. The only person who wasn't +satisfied was the purveyor of winkles to the Royal<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[268]</a></span> +'Ouse. He brooded through the day, but towards +the evening he became more cheerful.</p> + +<p>"'Look 'ere,' he said to me, ''ave you ever killed +a 'Un?'</p> + +<p>"'I think I did once,' I said. 'A fat man with a +nasty face.'</p> + +<p>"'Oh! you 'ave, 'ave you? Well, wot abaht killing +one to-night. If they thinks I'm going to stand that +sort of thing, they're —— —— wrong.' The language +was the language of Whitechapel, but the sentiments +were the sentiments of even the most rabid +purist of speech.</p> + +<p>"To cut a long story short, we went. And we were +very lucky."</p> + +<p>"You bumped your face into 'em, did you?" asked +Jim, interested.</p> + +<p>"We did. Man, it was a grand little scrap while it +lasted, and it was the first one I'd had. It won't be +the last."</p> + +<p>"Did you kill your men?"</p> + +<p>"Did we not? Welks brained his with the butt of +his gun; and I did the trick with a bayonet." Vane +became a little apologetic. "You know it was only my +first, and I can't get it out of my mind." Then his +eyes shone again. "To feel that steel go in—Good +God! man—it was IT: it was...."</p> + +<p>Then came the interruption. "Dear," said a voice<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[269]</a></span> +at the door, "the children are in bed; will you go up +and say good night."... Thus the second incident....</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>As I said, taken separately the two incidents mean +but little: taken together—there is humour: the whole +humour of war.</p> + +<p>An itinerant fishmonger and a worthy stockbroker +are inculcated with wonderful ideals in order to fit +them for sallying forth at night and killing complete +strangers. And they revel in it....</p> + +<p>The highest form of emotionalism on one hand: a +hole in the ground full of bluebottles and smells on +the other....</p> + +<p>War ... war in the twentieth century.</p> + +<p>But there is nothing incompatible in it: it is only +strange when analysed in cold blood. And Jim Denver, +as I have said, was sane again: while Vane, the +stockbroker, was still mad.</p> + +<p>In fact, it is quite possible that the peculiar significance +of the interruption in his story never struck him: +that he never noticed the Contrast.</p> + +<p>And what is going to be the result of it all on the +Vanes of England? "Once the office filled my life." +No man can go to the land of Topsy Turvy and come +back the same—for good or ill it will change him. +Though the madness leave him and sanity return, it<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[270]</a></span> +will not be the same sanity. Will he ever be content +to settle down again after—the lawyer, the stockbroker, +the small clerk? Back to the old dull routine, +the same old train in the morning, the same deadly +office, the same old home each evening. It hardly applies +to the Jim Denvers—the men of money: but what +of the others?</p> + +<p>Will the scales have dropped from the eyes of the +men who have really been through it? Shall we ever +get back to the same old way? Heaven knows—but +let us hope not. Anyway, it is all mere idle conjecture—and +a digression to boot.</p> + +<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTE:</h3> + +<div class="footnote"> +<a name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> +<p>For the benefit of the uninitiated, let me explain that +the process of registering consists of finding the exact +range to a certain object from a particular gun or battery. +To find this range it is necessary to obtain what is known +as a bracket: <i>i.e.</i> one burst beyond the object, and one +burst short. The range is then known to lie between +these two: and by a little adjustment the exact distance +can be found.</p> +</div> +</div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[271]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER VI</h2> + +<h3>BLACK, WHITE, AND—GREY</h3> + + +<p>Four weeks after his board Jim Denver once +again found himself in France.</p> + +<p>Having reported his arrival, he sat down to await +orders. Boulogne is not a wildly exhilarating place; +though there is always the hotel where one may consume +cocktails and potato chips, and hear strange +truths about the war from people of great knowledge +and understanding.</p> + +<p>Moreover—though this is by the way—in Boulogne +you get the first sniff of that atmosphere which England +lacks; that subtle, indefinable something which +war <i>in</i> a country produces in the spirit of its people....</p> + +<p>Gone is the stout lady of doubtful charm engaged in +mastering the fox-trot, what time a band wails dismally +in an alcove; gone is the wild-eyed flapper who +bumps madly up and down the roads on the carrier +of a motor-cycle. It has an atmosphere of its own this +fair land of France to-day. It is laughing through its +tears, and the laughter has an ugly sound—for the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[272]</a></span> +Huns. They will hear that laughter soon, and the +sound will give them to think fearfully.</p> + +<p>But at the moment when Jim landed it was all very +boring. The R.T.O. at Boulogne was bored; the +A.S.C. officers at railhead were bored; the quartermaster +guarding the regimental penates in a field west +of Ypres was bored.</p> + +<p>"Cheer up, old son," Jim remarked, slapping the +last-named worthy heavily on the back. "You look +peevish."</p> + +<p>"Confound you," he gasped, when he'd recovered +from choking. "This is my last bottle of whisky."</p> + +<p>"Where's the battalion?" laughed Denver.</p> + +<p>"Where d'you think? In a Turkish bath surrounded +by beauteous houris?" the quartermaster snorted. +"Still in the same damn mud-hole near Hooge."</p> + +<p>"Good! I'll trot along up shortly. You know, I'm +beginning to be glad I came back. I didn't want to +particularly, at first: I was enjoying myself at home—but +I felt I ought to, and now—'pon my soul—— How +are you, Jones?"</p> + +<p>A passing sergeant stopped and saluted. "Grand, +sir. How's yourself? The boys will be glad you've +come back."</p> + +<p>Denver stood chatting with him for a few moments +and then rejoined the pessimistic quartermaster.</p> + +<p>"Don't rhapsodise," begged that worthy—"don't<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[273]</a></span> +rhapsodise; eat your lunch. If you tell me it will be +good to see your men again, I shall assault you with +the remnants of the tinned lobster. I know it will be +good—no less than fifteen officers have told me so in +the last six weeks. But I don't care—it leaves me +quite, quite cold. If you're in France, you pine for +England; when you're in England, you pine for +France; and I sit in this damn field and get giddy."</p> + +<p>Which might be described as to-day's great thought.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Thus did Jim Denver come back to his regiment. +Once again the life of the moles claimed him—the life +of the underworld: that strange existence of which so +much has been written, and so little has been really +grasped by those who have not been there. A life of +incredible dreariness—yet possessing a certain "grip" +of its own. A life of peculiar contrasts—where the +suddenness—the abruptness of things strikes a man +forcibly: the extraordinary contrasts of black and +white. Sometimes they stand out stark and menacing, +gleaming and brilliant; more often do they merge into +grey. But always are they there....</p> + +<p>As I said before, my object is not to give a diary of +my hero's life. I am not concerned with his daily +vegetation in his particular hole, with Hooge on his +right front and a battered farm close to. Sleep, eat, +read, look through a periscope and then repeat the performance.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[274]</a></span> +Occasionally an aerial torpedo, frequently +bombs, at all times pessimistic sappers desiring working +parties. But it was very much the "grey" of trench +life during the three days that Jim sat in the front line +by the wood that is called "Railway."</p> + +<p>One episode is perhaps worthy of note. It was just +one of those harmless little jests which give one an +appetite for a hunk of bully washed down by a glass +of tepid whisky and water. Now be it known to +those who do not dabble in explosives, there are in +the army two types of fuze which are used for firing +charges. Each type is flexible, and about the thickness +of a stout and well-nourished worm. Each, moreover, +consists of an inner core which burns, protected +by an outer covering—the idea being that on lighting +one end a flame should pass along the burning inner +core and explode in due course whatever is at the +other end. There, however, their similarity ends; and +their difference becomes so marked that the kindly +powers that be have taken great precautions against +the two being confused.</p> + +<p>The first of these fuzes is called Safety—and the +outer covering is black. In this type the inner core +burns quite slowly at the rate of two or three feet to +the minute. This is the fuze which is used in the +preparation of the jam-tin bomb: an instrument of +destruction which has caused much amusement to the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[275]</a></span> +frivolous. A jam tin is taken and is filled with gun +cotton, nails, and scraps of iron. Into the gun cotton +is inserted a detonator; and into the detonator is +inserted two inches of safety-fuze. The end of the +safety-fuze is then lit, and the jam tin is presented +to the Hun. It will readily be seen by those who are +profound mathematicians, that if three feet of safety-fuze +burn in a minute, two inches will burn in about +three seconds—and three seconds is just long enough +for the presentation ceremony. This in fact is the +principal of all bombs both great and small.</p> + +<p>The second of these fuzes is called Instantaneous—and +the outer covering is orange. In this type the +inner core burns quite quickly, at the rate of some +thirty yards to the second, or eighteen hundred times +as fast as the first. Should, therefore, an unwary person +place two inches of this second fuze in his jam tin +by mistake, and light it, it will take exactly one-600th +of a second before he gets to the motto. Which is +"movement with a meaning quite its own."</p> + +<p>To Jim then came an idea. Why not with care and +great cunning remove from the inner core of Instantaneous +fuze its vulgar orange covering, and substitute +instead a garb of sober black—and thus disguised +present several bombs of great potency <i>unlighted</i> +to the Hun.</p> + +<p>The afternoon before they left for the reserve<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[276]</a></span> +trenches he staged his comedy in one act and an epilogue. +A shower of bombs was propelled in the direction +of the opposing cave-dwellers to the accompaniment +of loud cries, cat calls, and other strange noises. +The true artist never exaggerates, and quite half the +bombs had genuine safety-fuze in them and were lit +before being thrown. The remainder were not lit, it +is perhaps superfluous to add.</p> + +<p>The lazy peace of the afternoon was rudely shattered +for the Huns. Quite a number of genuine bombs +had exploded dangerously near their trench—while +some had even taken effect in the trench. Then they +perceived several unlit ones lying about—evidently propelled +by nervous men who had got rid of them before +lighting them properly. And there was much +laughter in that German trench as they decided to give +the epilogue by lighting them and throwing them back. +Shortly after a series of explosions, followed by howls +and groans, announced the carrying out of that decision. +And once again the Hymn of Hate came +faintly through the drowsy stillness....</p> + +<p>Those are the little things which occasionally paint +the grey with a dab of white; the prowls at night—the +joys of the sniper who has just bagged a winner +and won the bag of nuts—all help to keep the spirits +up when the pattern of earth in your particular hole +causes a rush of blood to the head.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[277]</a></span></p> + +<p>Incidentally this little comedy was destined to be +Jim Denver's last experience of the Hun at close quarters +for many weeks to come. The grey settled down +like a pall, to lift in the fulness of time, to <i>the</i> black +and white day of his life. But for the present—peace. +And yet only peace as far as he was concerned personally. +That very night, close to him so that he saw +it all, some other battalions had a chequered hour or +so—which is all in the luck of the game. To-day it's +the man over the road—to-morrow it's you....</p> + +<p>They occurred about 2 a.m.—the worries of the men +over the road. Denver had moved to his other hole, +courteously known as the reserve trenches, and there +seated in his dug-out he discussed prospects generally +with the Major. There were rumours that the division +was moving from Ypres, and not returning +there—a thought which would kindle hope in the most +pessimistic.</p> + +<p>"Don't you believe it," answered the Major gloomily. +"Those rumours are an absolute frost."</p> + +<p>"Cheer up! cully, we'll soon be dead." Denver +laughed. "Have some rum."</p> + +<p>He poured some out into a mug and passed the +water. "Quiet to-night—isn't it? I was reading to-day +that the Italians——"</p> + +<p>"You aren't going to quote any war expert at me, +are you?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[278]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Well—er—I was: why not?"</p> + +<p>"Because I have a blood-feud with war experts. I +loathe and detest the breed. Before I came out here +their reiterated statement made monthly that we should +be on the Rhine by Tuesday fortnight was a real comfort. +We always got to Tuesday fortnight—but we've +never actually paddled in the bally river."</p> + +<p>"To err is human; to get paid for it is divine," murmured +Jim.</p> + +<p>"Bah!" the Major filled his pipe aggressively. +"What about the steam-roller, what about the Germans +being reduced to incurable epileptics in the third +line trenches—what about that drivelling ass who said +the possession of heavy guns was a disadvantage to +an army owing to their immobility?"</p> + +<p>"Have some more rum, sir?" remarked Jim soothingly.</p> + +<p>"But I could have stood all that—they were trifles." +The Major was getting warmed up to it. "This is +what finished me." He pulled a piece of paper out of +his pocket. "Read that, my boy—read that and ponder."</p> + +<p>Jim took the paper and glanced at it.</p> + +<p>"I carry that as my talisman. In the event of my +death I've given orders for it to be sent to the author."</p> + +<p>"But what's it all about?" asked Denver.</p> + +<p>"'At the risk of repeating myself, I wish again to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[279]</a></span> +asseverate what I drew especial attention to last week, +and the week before, and the one before that; as a +firm grasp of this essential fact is imperative to an undistorted +view of the situation. Whatever minor facts +may now or again crop up in this titanic conflict, we +must not shut our eyes to the rules of war. They are +unchangeable, immutable; the rules of Cæsar were the +rules of Napoleon, and are in fact the rules that I +myself have consistently laid down in these columns. +They cannot change: this war will be decided by them +as surely as night follows day; and those ignorant persons +who are permitted to express their opinions elsewhere +would do well to remember that simple fact.'"</p> + +<p>"What the devil is this essential fact?"</p> + +<p>"Would you like to know? I got to it after two +columns like that."</p> + +<p>"What was it?" laughed Jim.</p> + +<p>"'An obstacle in an army's path is that which obstructs +the path of the army in question.'"</p> + +<p>"After that—more rum." Jim solemnly decanted +the liquid. "You deserve it. You...."</p> + +<p>"Stand to." A shout from the trench outside—repeated +all along until it died away in the distance. The +Major gulped his rum and dived for the door—while +Jim groped for his cap. Suddenly out of the still +night there came a burst of firing, sudden and furious. +The firing was taken up all along the line, and then<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[280]</a></span> +the guns started and a rain of shrapnel came down behind +the British lines.</p> + +<p>Away—a bit in front on the other side of the road +to Jim's trench there were woods—woods of unenviable +reputation. Hence the name of "Sanctuary." +In the middle of them, on the road, lay the ruined +château and village of Hooge—also of unenviable +reputation.</p> + +<p>And towards these woods the eyes of all were +turned.</p> + +<p>"What the devil is it?" shouted the man beside Jim. +"Look at them lights in the trees."</p> + +<p>The devil it was. Dancing through the darkness of +the trees were flames and flickering lights, like will-o'-the-wisps +playing over an Irish bog. And men, +looking at one another, muttered sullenly. They remembered +the gas; what new devilry was this?</p> + +<p>Up in the woods things were moving. Hardly had +the relieving regiments taken over their trenches, when +from the ground in front there seemed to leap a wall +of flame. It rushed towards them and, falling into the +trenches and on to the men's clothes, burnt furiously +like brandy round a plum pudding. The woods were +full of hurrying figures dashing blindly about, cursing +and raving. For a space pandemonium reigned. The +Germans came on, and it looked as if there might be +trouble. The regiments who had just been relieved<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[281]</a></span> +came back, and after a while things straightened out +a little. But our front trenches in those woods, when +morning broke, were not where they had been the +previous night....</p> + +<p>Liquid fire—yet one more invention of "Kultur"; +gas; the moat at Ypres poisoned with arsenic; crucifixion; +burning death squirted from the black night—suddenly, +without warning: truly a great array of Kultured +triumphs.... And with it all—failure. To +fight as a sportsman fights and lose has many compensations; +to fight as the German fights and lose must +be to taste of the dregs of hell.</p> + +<p>But that is how they <i>do</i> fight, whatever interesting +surmises one may make of their motives and feelings. +And that is how it goes on over the water—the funny +mixture of the commonplace of everyday with the +great crude, cruel realities of life and death.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>But as I said, for the next few weeks the grey screen +cloaked those crude realities as far as Jim was concerned. +Rumour for once had proved true; the division +was pulled out, and his battalion found itself +near Poperinghe.</p> + +<p>"Months of boredom punctuated by moments of intense +fright" is a definition of war which undoubtedly +Noah would have regarded as a chestnut. And I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">[282]</a></span> +should think it doubtful if there has ever been a war +in which this definition was more correct.</p> + +<p>Jim route marched: he trained bombers: he dined +in Poperinghe and went to the Follies. Also, he allowed +other men to talk to him of their plans for leave: +than which no more beautiful form of unselfishness is +laid down anywhere in the Law or the Prophets.</p> + +<p>On the whole the time did not drag. There is much +of interest for those who have eyes to see in that country +which fringes the Cock Pit of Europe. Hacking +round quietly most afternoons on a horse borrowed +from someone, the spirit of the land got into him, that +blood-soaked, quiet, uncomplaining country, whose +soul rises unconquerable from the battered ruins.</p> + +<p>Horses exercising, lorries crashing and lurching over +the pavé roads. G.S. wagons at the walk, staff motors—all +the necessary wherewithal to preserve the safety +of the mud holes up in front—came and went in a +ceaseless procession; while every now and then a local +cart with mattresses and bedsteads, tables and crockery, +tied on perilously with bits of string, would come +creaking past—going into the unknown, leaving the +home of years.</p> + +<p>Ypres, that tragic charnel house, with the great +jagged holes torn out of the pavé; with the few remaining +walls of the Cathedral and Cloth Hall cracked +and leaning outwards; with the strange symbolical<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">[283]</a></span> +touch of the black hearse which stood untouched in +one of the arches. Rats everywhere, in the sewers and +broken walls; in the crumbling belfry above birds, +cawing discordantly. The statue of the old gentleman +which used to stand serene and calm amidst the wreckage, +now lay broken on its face. But the stench was +gone—the dreadful stench of death which had clothed +it during the second battle; it was just a dead town—dead +and decently buried in great heaps of broken +brick....</p> + +<p>Vlamertinghe, with the little plot of wooden crosses +by the cross roads; Elverdinghe, where the gas first +came, and the organ pipes lay twisted in the wreckage +of the unroofed church; where the long row of French +graves rest against the château wall, graves covered +with long grass—each with an empty bottle upside +down at their head.</p> + +<div class="poem"> +And when Thyself with shining Foot shall pass<br /> +Among the Guests star-scatter'd on the Grass,<br /> +... turn down an empty Glass.<br /> +</div> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>And in the family archives are some excellent reproductions—not +photographs of course, for the penalty +for carrying a camera is death at dawn—of ruined +churches and shell-battered châteaux. Perhaps the +most interesting one, at any rate the most human, is a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">[284]</a></span> +"reproduction" of a group of cavalry men. They had +been digging in a little village a mile behind the firing-line—a +village battered and dead from which the inhabitants +had long since fled. Working in the garden +of the local doctor, they were digging a trench which +ran back to the cellar of the house, when on the scene +of operations had suddenly appeared the doctor himself. +By signs he possessed himself of a shovel, and, +pacing five steps from the kitchen door and three from +the tomato frame, he too started to dig.</p> + +<p>"His wife's portrait, probably," confided the cavalry +officer to Jim, as they watched the proceeding. "Or +possibly an urn with her ashes."</p> + +<p>It was a sergeant who first gave a choking cry and +fainted; he was nearest the hole.</p> + +<p>"Yes," remarked Jim, "he's found the urn."</p> + +<p>With frozen stares they watched the last of twelve +dozen of light beer go into the doctor's cart. With +pallid lips the officer saw three dozen of good champagne +snatched from under his nose.</p> + +<p>"Heavens! man," he croaked, "it was <i>dry</i> too. If +our trench had been a yard that way...." He leant +heavily on his stick, and groaned.</p> + +<p>The moment was undoubtedly pregnant with emotion.</p> + +<p>"'E'ad a nasty face, that man—a nasty face. Oh, +'orrible."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">[285]</a></span></p> + +<p>Hushed voices came from the group of leaners. The +"reproduction" depicts the psychological moment when +the doctor with a joyous wave of the hand wished them +"<i>Bonjour, messieurs,</i>" and drove off.</p> + +<p>"Not one—not one ruddy bottle—not the smell of a +perishing cork. Stung!"</p> + +<p>But Jim had left.</p> + +<p>Which very silly and frivolous story is topsy-turvy +land up to date, or at any rate typical of a large bit +of it.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">[286]</a></span> +</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">[287]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER VII</h2> + +<h3>ARCHIE AND OTHERS</h3> + + +<p>However, to be serious. It was as he came +away from this scene of alarm and despondency +that Jim met an old pal who boasted the gunner badge, +and whom conversation revealed as the proud owner +of an Archie, or anti-aircraft gun. And as the salient +is perhaps more fruitful in aeroplanes than any other +part of the line, and the time approached five o'clock +(which is generally the hour of their afternoon activity), +Jim went to see the fun.</p> + +<p>In front, an observing biplane buzzed slowly to and +fro, watching the effect of a mother<a name="FNanchor_1_2" id="FNanchor_1_2"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_2" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> shooting at some +mark behind the German lines. With the gun concealed +in the trees, a gunner subaltern altered his range +and direction as each curt wireless message flashed +from the 'plane. "Lengthen 200—half a degree left." +And so on till they got it. Occasionally, with a vicious +crack, a German anti-aircraft shell would explode in +the air above in a futile endeavour to reach the observer, +and a great mass of acrid yellow or black fumes +would disperse slowly. Various machines, each intent +on its own job, rushed to and fro, and in the distance, +like a speck in the sky,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288">[288]</a></span> a German monoplane was +travelling rapidly back over its own lines, having finished +its reconnaissance.</p> + +<p>Behind it, like the wake of a steamer, little dabs of +white plastered the blue sky. English shrapnel bursting +from other anti-aircraft guns. Jim's gunner friend +seemed to know most of them by name, as old pals +whom he had watched for many a week on the same +errand; and from him Jim gathered that the moment +approached for the appearance of Panting Lizzie. Lizzie, +apparently, was a fast armoured German biplane +which came over his gun every fine evening about the +same hour. For days and weeks had he fired at it, +so far without any success, but he still had hopes. The +gun was ready, cocked wickedly upon its motor mounting, +covered with branches and daubed with strange +blotches of paint to make it less conspicuous. Round +the motor itself the detachment consumed tea, a terrier +sat up and begged, a goat of fearsome aspect +looked pensive. In front, in a chair, his eye glued to +a telescope on a tripod, sat the look-out man.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>It was just as Jim and his pal were getting down +to a whisky and soda that Lizzie hove in sight. The +terrier ceased to beg, the goat departed hurriedly, the +officer spoke rapidly in a language incomprehensible +to Jim, and the fun began. There are few things so<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">[289]</a></span> +trying to listen to as an Archie, owing to the rapidity +with which it fires; the gun pumps up and down with +a series of sharp cracks, every two or three shots being +followed by more incomprehensible language from +the officer. Adjustment after each shot is impossible +owing to the fact that three or four shells have left +the gun and are on their way before the first one explodes. +It was while Jim, with his fingers in his ears, +was watching the shells bursting round the aeroplane +and marvelling that nothing seemed to happen, that +he suddenly realised that the gun had stopped firing. +Looking at the detachment, he saw them all gazing +upwards. From high up, sounding strangely faint in +the air, came the zipping of a Maxim.</p> + +<p>"By Gad!" muttered the gunner officer; "this is going +to be some fight."</p> + +<p>Bearing down on Panting Lizzie came a British armoured +'plane, and from it the Maxim was spitting. +And now there started a very pretty air duel. I am no +airman, to tell of spirals, and glides, and the multifarious +twistings and turnings. At times the German's +Maxim got going as well; at times both were +silent, manœuvring for position. The Archies were +not firing—the machines were too close together. Once +the German seemed to drop like a stone for a thousand +feet or so. "Got him!" shouted Jim—but the gunner +shook his head.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290">[290]</a></span></p> + +<p>"A common trick," he answered. "He found it getting +a bit warm, and that upsets one's range. You'll +find he'll be off now."</p> + +<p>Sure enough he was—with his nose for home he +turned tail and fled. The gunner shouted an order, +and they opened fire again, while the British 'plane +pursued, its Maxim going continuously. Generally +honour is satisfied without the shedding of blood; each, +having consistently missed the other and resisted the +temptations of flying low over his opponents' guns, +returns home to dinner. But in this case—well, +whether it was Archie or whether it was the Maxim +is really immaterial. Suddenly a great sheet of flame +seemed to leap from the German machine and a puff +of black smoke: it staggered like a shot bird and then, +without warning, it fell—a streak of light, like some +giant shooting star rushing to the earth. The Maxim +stopped firing, and after circling round a couple of +times the British machine buzzed contentedly back to +bed. And in a field—somewhere behind our lines—there +lay for many a day, deep embedded in a hole in +the ground, the battered remnants of Panting Lizzie, +with its great black cross stuck out of the earth for +all to see. Somewhere in the débris, crushed and mangled +beyond recognition, could have been found the +remnants of two German airmen. Which might be +called the black and white of the overworld.</p> + +<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTE:</h3> +<div class="footnote"> +<a name="Footnote_1_2" id="Footnote_1_2"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_2"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> +<p>9·2" Howitzer.</p> +</div> +</div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">[291]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER VIII</h2> + +<h3>ON THE STAFF</h3> + + +<p>But now rumour was getting busy in earnest—things +were in the air. There were talks of a +great offensive—and although there be rumour in England, +though bucolic stationmasters have brushed the +snow from the steppes of Russia out of railway carriages, +I have no hesitation in saying that for quality +and quantity the rumours that float round the army in +France have de Rougemont beat to a frazzle. In this +case expectations were fulfilled, and two or three days +after the decease of Panting Lizzie, Jim and his battalion +shook the dust of the Ypres district from their +feet and moved away south.</p> + +<p>It was then that our hero raised his third star. +Shades of Wellington! A captain in a year. But I +make no comment. A sense of humour, invaluable at +all times, is indispensable in this war, if one wishes to +preserve an unimpaired digestion.</p> + +<p>But another thing happened to him, too, about this +time, for, owing to the sudden sickness of a member +of his General's Staff, he found himself attached temporarily<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292">[292]</a></span> +for duty. No longer did he flat foot it, but +in a large and commodious motor-car he viewed life +from a different standpoint. And, solely owing to +this temporary appointment, he was able to see the +launching of the attack near Loos at the end of September. +He saw the wall of gas and smoke roll slowly +forward towards the German trenches over the wide +space that separated the trenches in that part of the +line. Great belching explosions seemed to shatter the +vapour periodically, as German shells exploded in it, +causing it to rise in swirling eddies, as from some +monstrous cauldron, only to sink sullenly back and roll +on. And behind it came the assaulting battalions, lines +of black pigmies charging forward.</p> + +<p>And later he heard of the Scotsmen who chased the +flying Huns like terriers after rats, grunting, cursing, +swearing, down the gentle slope past Loos and up the +other side; on to Hill 70, where they swayed backwards +and forwards over the top, while some with the +lust of killing on them fought their way into the town +beyond—and did not return. He heard of the battery +that blazed over open sights at the Germans during +the morning, till, running out of ammunition, the guns +ceased fire, a mark to every German rifle. The battery +remained there during the day, for there was not cover +for a terrier, let alone a team of horses, and between +the guns were many strange tableaux as Death claimed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">[293]</a></span> +his toll. They got them away that night, but not before +the gunners had taken back the breech-blocks—in +case; for it was touch and go.</p> + +<p>But this attack has already been described too often, +and so I will say no more. I would rather write of +those things which happened to Jim Denver himself, +before he left the Land of Topsy Turvy for the second +time. Only I venture to think that when the full +story comes to be written—if ever—of that last week +in September, or the surging forward past Loos and +the Lone Tree to Hulluch and the top of 70, of the +cavalry who waited for the chance that never came, +and the German machine-guns hidden in the slag-heaps, +the reading will be interesting. What happened +would fill a book; what might have happened—a library.</p> + +<p>It was a couple of days afterwards that he saw his +first big batch of German prisoners. Five or six miles +behind the firing-line in a great grass field, fenced in on +all sides by barbed wire, was a batch of some seven +hundred—almost all of them Prussians and Jägers. +Munching food contentedly, they sat in rows on the +ground; their dirty grey uniforms coated with dust and +mud—unwashed, unshaven, and—well, if you are contemplating +German prisoners, get "up wind." All +around the field Tommies stood and gazed, now and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_294" id="Page_294">[294]</a></span> +again offering them cigarettes. A few prisoners who +could speak English got up and talked.</p> + +<p>It struck Jim Denver then that he viewed these men +with no antipathy; he merely gazed at them curiously +as one gazes at animals in a "Zoo." And as we English +are ever prone to such views, and as the Hymn +of Hate and like effusions are regarded, and rightly +so, as occasions for mirth, it was perhaps as well for +Jim to realise the other point of view. There are two +sides to every question, and the Germans believe in +their hate just as we believe in our laughter. But +when it is over, it will be unfortunate if we forget the +hate too quickly.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>"What a nation we are!" said a voice beside Jim. +He turned round and found a doctor watching the +scene with a peculiar look in his eyes. "Suppose it +had been the other way round! Suppose those were +our men while the Germans were the captors! Do you +think the scene would be like this?" His face twisted +into a bitter smile. "There would have been armed +soldiers walking up and down the ranks, kicking men +in the stomach, hitting them on the head with rifle +butts, tearing bandages off wounds—just for the fun +of the thing. Sharing food!"—he laughed contemptuously—"why, +they'd have been starving. Giving 'em<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295">[295]</a></span> +cigarettes!—why, they'd have taken away what they +had already."</p> + +<p>He turned and looked up the road. Walking down +it were thirty or so German officers. From the button +in the centre of their jackets hung in nearly every case +the ribbon of the Iron Cross. Laughing, talking—one +or two sneering—they came along and halted by the +gate into the field. They had been questioned, and +were waiting to be marched off with the men. A hundred +yards or so away the cavalry escort was forming +up.</p> + +<p>"Man," cried the doctor, suddenly gripping Jim's +arm in a vice, "it's wicked!" In his eyes there was +an ugly look. "Look at those swine—all toddling off +to Donington Hall—happy as you like. And think of +the other side of the picture. Stuck with bayonets, hit, +brutally treated, half-starved, thrown into cattle trucks. +Good Heaven! it's horrible."</p> + +<p>"We're not the sort to go in for retribution," said +Jim, after a moment. "After all—oh! I don't know—but +it's not quite cricket, is it? Just because they're +swine...?"</p> + +<p>"Cricket!" the other snorted. "You make me tired. +I tell you I'm sick to death of our kid-glove methods. +No retribution! I suppose if a buck nigger hit your pal +over the head with a club you'd give him a tract on +charity and meekness. What would our ranting pedagogues<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_296" id="Page_296">[296]</a></span> +say if their own sons had been crucified by the +Germans as some of our wounded have been? You +think I'm bitter?" He looked at Jim. "I am. You +see, I was a prisoner myself until a few weeks ago." +He turned and strolled away down the road....</p> + +<p>And now the escort was ready. An order shouted +in the field, and the men got up, falling in in some +semblance of fours. Slowly they filed through the +gate and, with their own officers in front, the cortège +started. Led by an English cavalry subaltern, with +troopers at four or five horses' lengths alongside—some +with swords drawn, the others with rifles—the +procession moved sullenly off. A throng of English +soldiers gazed curiously at them as they passed by; +small urchins ran in impudently making faces at them. +And in the doors of the houses dark-haired, grim-faced +women watched them pass with lowering brows....</p> + +<p>A mixture, those prisoners—a strange mixture. +Some with the faces of educated men, some with the +faces of beasts; some men in the prime of life, some +mere boys; slouching, squelching through the mud with +the vacant eyes that the Prussian military system seems +to give to its soldiers. The look of a man who has no +vestige of imagination or initiative; the look of a +stoical automaton; callous, boorish, sottish as befits +a man who willingly or unwillingly has sold himself +body and soul to a system.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_297" id="Page_297">[297]</a></span></p> + +<p>And as they wind through the mining villages on +their way to a railhead, these same grim-faced French +women watch them as they go by. They do not see +the offspring of a system; they only see a group of +beast-men—the men whose brothers have killed their +husbands. After all, has not Madame got in her house +a refugee—her cousin—whose screams even now ring +out at night...?</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>For a few days more Jim stayed on with the general. +Their feeding-place was a little café on the main +road to Lens. There each morning might our hero +have been found, in a filthy little back room, drinking +coffee out of a thick mug, with an omelette cooked to +perfection on his plate. Never was there such dirt +in any room; never a household so prolific of children. +Every window was smashed; the back garden one +huge shell hole; but, absolutely unperturbed by such +trifles, that stout, good-hearted Frenchwoman pursued +her sturdy way. She had had the Boches there—"mais +oui"—but what matter? They did not stay +long. "Une omelette, monsieur; du café? Certainement, +monsieur. Toute de suite."</p> + +<p>It might have been in a different world from Ypres +and Poperinghe—instead of only twenty miles to the +south. Gone were the flat, cultivated fields; great slag-heaps +and smoking chimneys were everywhere. And<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_298" id="Page_298">[298]</a></span> +in spite of the fact that active operations were in +progress, there seemed to be no more gunning than +the normal daily contribution at Lizerne, Boesinge, and +Jim's old friend and first love, Hooge. Aeroplanes, +too, seemed scarcer. True, one morning, standing in +the road outside the café, he saw for the first time a +fleet of 'planes starting out on a raid. Now one and +then another would disappear behind a fleecy white +cloud, only to reappear a few moments later glinting +in the rays of the morning sun, until at length the +whole fleet, in dressing and order like a flight of geese, +their wings tipped with fire, moved over the blue vault +of heaven. The drone of their engines came faintly +from a great height, until, as if at some spoken word +from the leader, the whole swung half-right and vanished +into a bank of clouds.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_299" id="Page_299">[299]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER IX</h2> + +<h3>NO ANSWER</h3> + + +<p>But the grey period for Jim was drawing to a +close. To-day it's the man over the road that +tops the bill; to-morrow it's you, as I said before: and +a change of caste was imminent in our friend's performance. +One does not seek these things—they occur; +and then they're over, and one waits for the next. +There is no programme laid down, no book of the +words printed. Things just happen—sometimes they +lead to a near acquaintance with iodine, and a kind +woman in a grey dress who takes your temperature +and washes your face; and at others to a dinner with +much good wine where the laughter is merry and the +revelry great. Of course there are many other alternatives: +you may never reach the hospital—you may +never get the dinner; you may get a cold in the nose, +and go to the Riviera—or you may get a bad corn and +get blood-poisoning from using a rusty jack knife to +operate. The caprice of the spirit of Topsy Turvy is +quite wonderful.</p> + +<p>For instance, on the very morning that the Staff +Officer came back to his job, and Jim returned to his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_300" id="Page_300">[300]</a></span> +battalion, his company commander asked him to go +to a general bomb store in a house just up the road, +and see that the men who were working there were +getting on all right. The regiment was for the support +trenches that night, and preparing bombs was the +order of the day.</p> + +<p>Just as he started to go, a message arrived that the +C.O. wished to see him. So the company commander +went instead; and entered the building just as a German +shell came in by another door. By all known laws +a man going over Niagara in an open tub would not +willingly have changed places with him; an 8-inch shell +exploding in the same room with you is apt to be a +decisive moment in your career.</p> + +<p>But long after the noise and the building had subsided, +and from high up in the air had come a fusillade +of small explosions and little puffs of smoke, where +the bombs hurled up from the cellar went off in turn—Jim +perceived his captain coming down the road. He +had been hurled through the wall as it came down, +across the road, and had landed intact on a manure +heap. And it was only when he hit the colonel a stunning +blow over the head with a French loaf at lunch +time that they found out he was temporarily as mad as +a hatter. So they got him away in an ambulance and +Jim took over the company. As I say—things just +happen.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_301" id="Page_301">[301]</a></span></p> + +<p>That night they moved up into support trenches—up +that dirty, muddy road with the cryptic notices posted +at various places: "Do not loiter here," "This cross-road +is dangerous," "Shelled frequently," etc. And at +length they came to the rise which overlooks Loos and +found they were to live in the original German front +line—now our support trench. They were for the +front line in the near future—but at present their job +was work on this support trench and clearing up the +battlefield near them.</p> + +<p>Now this war is an impersonal sort of thing taking +it all the way round. Those who stand in front +trenches and blaze away at advancing Huns are not, I +think, actuated by personal fury against the men they +kill. You may pick out a fat one perhaps with a red +beard and feel a little satisfaction when you kill him +because his face offends you, but you don't really feel +any individual animosity towards him. One gets so +used to death on a large scale that it almost ceases to +affect one. An isolated man lying dead and twisted +by the road, where one doesn't expect to find him, +moves one infinitely more than a wholesale slaughter. +The thing is too vast, too overpowering for a man's +brain to realise.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>But of all the things which one may be called on to +do, the clearing of a battlefield after an advance brings<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_302" id="Page_302">[302]</a></span> +home most poignantly the tragedy of war. You see +the individual then, not the mass. Every silent figure +lying sprawled in fantastic attitude, every huddled +group, every distorted face tells a story.</p> + +<p>Here is an R.A.M.C. orderly crouching over a man +lying on a stretcher. The man had been wounded—a +splint is on his leg, while the dressing is still in the +orderly's hand. Then just as the orderly was at work, +the end came for both in a shrapnel shell, and the +tableau remains, horribly, terribly like a tableau at +some amateur theatricals.</p> + +<p>Here are a group of men caught by the fire of the +machine-gun in the corner, to which even now a dead +Hun is chained—riddled, unrecognisable.</p> + +<p>Here is an officer lying on his back, his knees doubled +up, a revolver gripped in one hand, a weighted stick in +the other. His face is black, so death was instantaneous. +Out of the officer's pocket a letter protrudes—a +letter to his wife. Perhaps he anticipated death +before he started, for it was written the night before +the advance—who knows?</p> + +<p>And it is when, in the soft half-light of the moon, +one walks among these silent remnants, and no sound +breaks the stillness save the noise of the shovels where +men are digging their graves; when the guns are silent +and only an occasional burst of rifle fire comes from +away in front, where the great green flares go silently<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_303" id="Page_303">[303]</a></span> +up into the night, that for a moment the human side +comes home to one. One realises that though monster +guns and minenwerfer and strange scientific devices be +the paper money of this war, now as ever the standard +coinage—the bed-rock gold of barter—is still man's +life. The guns count much—but the man counts more.</p> + +<p>Take out his letter carefully—it will be posted later. +Scratch him a grave, there's work to be done—much +work, so hurry. His name has been sent in to headquarters—there's +no time to waste. Easy, lads, easy—that's +right—cover him up. A party of you over +there and get on with that horse—<i>there's no time to +waste</i>....</p> + +<p>But somewhere in England a telegraph boy comes +whistling up the drive, and the woman catches her +breath. With fingers that tremble she takes the buff +envelope—with fearful eyes she opens the flimsy paper. +Superbly she draws herself up—"There is no answer...."</p> + +<p>Lady, you are right. There is no answer, no answer +this side of the Great Divide. Just now—with your +aching eyes fixed on <i>his</i> chair you face your God, and +ask Why? He knows, dear woman, He knows, and +in time it will all be clear—the why and the wherefore. +Surely it must be so.</p> + +<p>But just now it's Hell, isn't it? You know so little: +you couldn't help him at the end; he had to go into<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_304" id="Page_304">[304]</a></span> +the Deep Waters alone. With the shrapnel screaming +overhead he lies at peace, while above him it still goes +on—the work of life and death: the work that brooks +no delay. He is part of the Price....</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_305" id="Page_305">[305]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER X</h2> + +<h3>THE MADNESS</h3> + + +<p>All the next day the battalion worked on the +trenches. To men used to the water and slush +of Ypres they came as a revelation—the trenches and +dug-outs in the chalk district. Great caves had been +hollowed out of the ground under the barbed wire in +front, with two narrow shafts sloping steeply down +from the trench to each, so small and narrow that you +must crawl on hands and knees to get in or out. And +up these shafts they hauled and pushed the dead Germans. +Caught like rats, they had been gassed and +bombed before they could get out, though some few +had managed to crawl up after the assaulting battalions +had passed over and to open fire on the supporting +ones as they came up. Jim and his men threw +them out to be buried at night, and they confined their +attention during the day to building up the trenches +and shifting the parapet round. German sandbags +look like an assortment out of a cheap village draper's—pink +and black and every kind of colour, but they +hold earth, which is the main point. So with due care<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_306" id="Page_306">[306]</a></span> +the battalion patted them into shape again and then +took a little sleep.</p> + +<p>That night they moved on again. Now the first +trench which they had occupied had been behind Loos, +and there our new line was a mile away to their front +on the side of a hill. The place they were now bound +for was nothing like so peaceful. It was that part of +the original German front where their old line marked +the limit of our advance. We had not pushed on beyond +it, and the fighting was continuous and bloody.</p> + +<p>Now without going into details, perhaps a few +words of explanation might not be amiss. To many +who may read them, they will seem as extracts from +the "Child's Guide to Knowledge," or reminiscent of +those great truths one learned at one's nurse's knee. +But to some, who know nothing about it, they may +be of use.</p> + +<p>When one occupies the German front line and the +Hun has been driven into his second, the communication +trenches which ran between are still there. The +trenches which used to run to their rear now run to +your front and are a link between you and the enemy. +And as somewhat naturally their knowledge of the +position is accurate and yours is sketchy, the situation +is not all it might be. Moreover, as no communication +trenches exist between the two old front lines—over +what was No-man's-land—any reserves must come<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_307" id="Page_307">[307]</a></span> +across the open, and should it be necessary to retire, +a contingency which must always be faced, the retreat +must be across the open as well.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>But when you're in a German redoubt, where the +trenches would have put a maze to shame, the work of +consolidating the position is urgent and difficult. Communication +trenches to your front have to be reconnoitred +and partially filled in; wire put up; Maxims +arranged to shoot down straight lengths of trench; new +trenches dug to the rear. Which is all right if the +enemy is half a mile away, but when the distance is +twenty yards, when without cessation he bombs you +from unexpected quarters, your temper gets frayed.</p> + +<p>This type of fighting ceases to be impersonal. No +longer do you throw bombs mechanically from one +trench to another. No longer do you have no actual +animosity against the men over the way. You understand +the feelings of the guard when their German +prisoners laughed on seeing men gassed—earlier in +the war. And you realise that when a man's blood is +up, you might just as well preach on the wickedness +of retribution as request a man-eating tiger to postpone +his dinner. The joy of killing a man you hate is +wonderful; the unfortunate thing is that in these days, +when far from leading to the hangman, it frequently<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_308" id="Page_308">[308]</a></span> +leads to much kudos and a medal, so few of us have +ever really had the opportunity....</p> + +<p>In the place where Jim found himself it was at such +close quarters that bombs were the only possible +weapon. For two days and two nights it went on. +Little parties of Germans surged up unexpected openings, +sometimes establishing themselves, sometimes +fighting hand-to-hand in wet, sticky chalk. Then, unless +they were driven out—bombers to the fore again: +a series of sharp explosions, a dash round a traverse, +a grunting, snarling set-to in the dark, and all would +be over one way or the other.</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Then one morning Jim's company got driven out +of a forward piece of the trench they were holding. +Worn out and tired, their faces grey with exhaustion, +their clothes grey with chalk, heavy-eyed, unshaven, +driven out by sheer weight of numbers and bombs, +they fell back—those that remained—down a communication +trench. But they were different men from +the men who went into the place three days before; +the primitive passions of man were rampant—they +asked no mercy, they gave none. Back, after a short +breather, they went, and when they won through by +sheer bloody fighting, they found a thing which sent +them tearing mad with rage. The wounded they had +left behind had been bombed to death. The junior<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_309" id="Page_309">[309]</a></span> +subaltern was pulled out of a corner by a traverse—mangled +horribly—and he told Jim.</p> + +<p>"They packed us in here and between the next two +or three traverses and lobbed bombs over," he whispered. +And Jim swore horribly. "They're coming +back," muttered the dying boy. "Listen."</p> + +<p>The next instant the Germans were at it again, and +the fighting became like the fighting of wild beasts. +Men stabbed and hacked and cursed; rifle butts +cracked down on heads; triggers were pulled with the +muzzle an inch from a man's face. And because the +German face to face is no match for the English or +French, in a short time there was peace, while men, +panting like exhausted runners, bound up one another's +scratches, and passed back the serious cases to the +rear. They knew it was only a temporary respite, and +while Jim eased the dying boy, they stacked bombs in +heaps where they could get at them quickly. It was +then that the German officer crawled out. Down some +hole or other in a bomb recess he had hidden during +the fight—and then, thinking his position dangerous, +decided for peaceful capture. It was unfortunate for +him the junior subaltern was still alive—but only Jim +heard the whisper:</p> + +<p>"That's the man who told them to bomb us."</p> + +<p>"That's interesting," said Jim, and his face was +white, while his eyes were red.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_310" id="Page_310">[310]</a></span></p> + +<p>Quietly he picked up a pick, and moved towards the +German officer. Through the Huns who had come +back again, fighting, stabbing, picking his way, Jim +Denver moved relentlessly. And at last he reached +him—reached him and laughed gently. The German +sprang at him and Jim struck him with his fist; the +German screamed for help, but there was none to help; +every man was fighting grimly for his own life. Then +still without a word he drove the pick.... Once again +he laughed gently, and turned his mind to other things.</p> + +<p>For hours they hung on, bombing, shooting, at a +yard's range, and in the forefront, cheering them, holding +them, doing the work of ten, was Jim. His revolver +ammunition was exhausted, his loaded stick was +broken; his eyes had a look of madness: temporarily +he was mad—mad with the lust of killing. It was +almost the last bomb the Germans threw that took +him, and that took him properly. But the remnant of +his company who carried him back, when relief came +up from the battalion, contained no one more cheery +than him. As a fight they'll never have a better; and +it's better to take it when the fighting is bloody, and +it's man to man, than to stop a shrapnel at the estaminet +two miles down the road. That isn't even +grey—it's mottled; especially if the red wine is just +coming....</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_311" id="Page_311">[311]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER XI</h2> + +<h3>THE GREY HOUSE AGAIN</h3> + + +<p>So they carried him home for the second time—back +to the Land of Sanity: to the place where the +noise of the water sounded ceaselessly over the rounded +stones. And resting one afternoon on a sofa in the +drawing-room Jim dozed.</p> + +<p>The door burst open, and Sybil came in. "Boy, do +you see, they've given you a D.S.O. 'For conspicuous +gallantry in holding up an almost isolated position for +several hours against vastly superior numbers of the +enemy. He was badly wounded just before relief +came.'"</p> + +<p>Her eyes were shining. "Oh! my dear—I'm so +proud of you! Do you remember saying it was a +glorious madness?"</p> + +<p>Into his mind there flashed the picture of a German +officer's face—distorted with terror—cringing: just as +a pick came down....</p> + +<p>"Yes, girl, I remember," he answered softly. "I +remember. But, thank God! I'm sane again now."</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_312" id="Page_312">[312]</a></span></p><hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>And now I will ring down the curtain. For Jim +Denver the black and white have gone; even the grey +of the Land of Topsy Turvy is hazy and indistinct. +The guns are silent: the men and the women are—sane.</p> + +<p>The shepherd is out of sight amongst the trees; the +purple is changing to grey, the grey to black; there is +no sound saving only the tireless murmur of the +river....</p> + +<div class="center"><br /><br />THE END</div> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<div class='tnote'><h3>Transcriber's Notes:</h3> + +<p>Herman Cyril McNeile was an officer in the Royal Engineers who +published under the pseudonym "Sapper".</p> + +<p>Obvious punctuation errors repaired.</p> + +<p>Hyphen added: "bed[-]rock" (p. 303).</p> + +<p>Hyphen removed: "ward[-]room" (p. 167), "sand[-]bags" (p. 188), +"stock[-]broker" (p. 265).</p> + +<p>The following words are inconsistently hyphenated but +have not been changed: "dug[-]out", "half[-]way", +"sand[-]bags", "sign[-]post", "super[-]human", +"table[-]cloth".</p> + +<p>Page 291: "Panting Lizze" changed to "Panting Lizzie".</p> +</div> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Men, Women and Guns, by +H. 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