MUD AND KHAKI

MUD AND KHAKI

SKETCHES FROM FLANDERSAND FRANCE

BY

VERNON BARTLETT

SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, HAMILTON, KENT & CO. LTD. , 4 STATIONERS'HALL COURT : : LONDON, E. C. 

_Copyright__First published April 1917_

TO

R. V. K. C. 

AND MY OTHER FRIENDS

IN THE REGIMENT

APOLOGIA

There has been so much written about the trenches, there are so many warphotographs, so many cinema films, that one might well hesitate beforeeven mentioning the war--to try to write a book about it is, I fear, toincur the censure of the many who are tired of hearing about bombs andbullets, and who prefer to read of peace, and games, and flirtations. 

But, for that very reason, I venture to think that even so indifferent awar book as mine will not come entirely amiss. When the Lean Years areover, when the rifle becomes rusty, and the khaki is pushed away in someremote cupboard, there is great danger that the hardships of the men inthe trenches will too soon be forgotten. If, to a minute extent, anything in these pages should help to bring home to people what warreally is, and to remind them of their debt of gratitude, then theselittle sketches will have justified their existence. 

Besides, I am not entirely responsible for this little book. Not longago, I met a man--fit, single, and young--who began to grumble to me ofthe hardships of his "funkhole" in England, and, incidentally, tobelittle the hardships of the man at the front. After I had told himexactly what I thought of him, I was still so indignant that I came homeand began to write a book about the trenches. Hence _Mud and Khaki_. Tohim, then, the blame for this minor horror of war. I wash my hands ofit. 

And I try to push the blame off on to him, for I realise that I haveundertaken an impossible task--the most practised pen cannot convey areal notion of the life at the front, as the words to describe war donot exist. Even you who have lost your husbands and brothers, yourfathers and sons, can have but the vaguest impression of the cruel, thirsty claws that claimed them as victims. First must you see theshattered cottages of France and Belgium, the way in which the womenclung to their homes in burning Ypres, the long streams of refugeeswheeling their poor little _lares et penates_, their meagre treasures, on trucks and handcarts; first must you listen to the cheery joke thatthe Angel of Death finds on the lips of the soldier, to the songs thatencourage you in the dogged marches through the dark and the mud, to thetalk during the long nights when the men collect round the brazier fireand think of their wives and kiddies at home, of murky streets in theEast End, of quiet country inns where the farmers gather of an evening. 

No words, then, can give an exact picture of these things, but they mayhelp to give colour to your impressions. Heaven forbid that, by tellingthe horrors of war, the writers of books should make pessimists of thoseat home! Heaven forbid that they should belittle the dangers andhardships, and so take away some of the glory due to "Tommy" for all hehas suffered for the Motherland! There is a happy mean--the men at thefront have found it; they know that death is near, but they can stilllaugh and sing. 

In these sketches and stories I have tried, with but little success, tokeep that happy mean in view. If the pictures are very feeble in designwhen compared to the many other, and far better, works on the samesubject, remember, reader, that the intention is good, and accept thisapology for wasting your time. 

A few of these sketches and articles have already appeared elsewhere. Mybest thanks are due to the Editors of the _Daily Mail_ and the _DailyMirror_ for their kind permission to include several sketches whichappeared, in condensed forms, in their papers. I am also grateful to theEditor of Cassell's _Storyteller_ for his permission to reproduce "TheKnut, " which first saw print in that periodical. 

VERNON BARTLETT. 

CONTENTS

 PAGE APOLOGIA 11

 I. IN HOSPITAL 19

 II. A RECIPE FOR GENERALS 31

 III. MUD 37

 IV. THE SURPRISE ATTACK 43

 V. "PONGO" SIMPSON ON BOMBS 51

 VI. THE SCHOOLMASTER OF PONT SAVERNE 57

 VII. THE ODD JOBS 67

 VIII. THE "KNUT" 71

 IX. SHOPPING 79

 X. THE LIAR 87

 XI. THE CITY OF TRAGEDY 93

 XII. "PONGO" SIMPSON ON GRUMBLER 105

 XIII. THE CONVERT 110

 XIV. DAVID AND JONATHAN 114

 XV. THE RUM JAR 122

 XVI. THE TEA SHOP 128

 XVII. "HERE COMES THE GENERAL" 133

XVIII. THE RASCAL IN WAR 137

 XIX. "PONGO" SIMPSON ON OFFICERS 141

 XX. THE HAND OF SHADOW 146

 XXI. THE VETERAN 152

 XXII. THE SING-SONG 156

XXIII. THE "STRAFE" THAT FAILED 161

 XXIV. THE NIGHTLY ROUND 166

 XXV. JOHN WILLIAMS, TRAMP AND SOLDIER 171

 XXVI. THE CLEARING HOUSE 178

MUD AND KHAKI

I

IN HOSPITAL

Close behind the trenches on the Ypres salient stands part of "ChapelFarm"--the rest of it has long been trampled down into the mud by themany hundreds of men who have passed by there. Enough of the ruin stillstands for you to trace out the original plan of the place--a house andtwo barns running round three sides of the farmyard that is foetid andfoul and horrible. 

It is an uninviting spot, for, close by, are the remains of a dead cow, superficially buried long ago by some working party that was in a hurryto get home; but the farm is notable for the fact that passing round thenorth side of the building you are out of view, and safe, and thatpassing round the south side you can be seen by the enemy, and arecertain to be sniped. 

If you must be sniped, however, you might choose a worse place, for thebullets generally fly low there, and there is a cellar to which you canbe carried--a filthy spot, abounding in rats, and damp straw, andstained rags, for the place once acted as a dressing-station. But still, it is under cover, and intact, with six little steps leading up into thefarmyard. 

And one day, as I led a party of men down to the "dumping ground" tofetch ammunition, I was astonished to hear the familiar strains of"Gilbert the Filbert" coming from this desolate ruin. The singer had afine voice, and he gave forth his chant as happily as though he weresafe at home in England, with no cares or troubles in the world. With asergeant, I set out to explore; as our boots clattered on thecobble-stones of the farmyard, there was a noise in the cellar, a headpoked up in the entrance, and I was greeted with a cheery "Good morning, sir. "

We crawled down the steps into the hovel to learn the singer's story. Hewas a man from another regiment, who had come down from his supportdug-out to "nose around after a spud or two. " The German sniper had"bagged" him in the ankle and he had crawled into the cellar--still withhis sandbag of "spuds"--to wait until someone came by. "I 'adn't gotnothing to do but wait, " he concluded, "and if I'd got to wait, I mightjest as well play at bein' a bloomin' canary as 'owl like a kid what's'ad it put acrost 'im. "

We got a little water from the creaky old pump and took off his "firstfield dressing" that he had wound anyhow round his leg. To mysurprise--for he was so cheerful that I thought he had only a scratch--Ifound that his ankle was badly smashed, and that part of his boot andsock had been driven right into the wound. 

"Yes, it did 'urt a bit when I tried to walk, " he said, as I expressedsurprise. "That's jest the best part of it. I don't care if it 'urtslike 'ell, for it's sure to mean 'Blighty' and comfort for me. "

And that is just the spirit of the hospitals--the joy of comfort andrest overbalances the pain and the operation. To think that there arestill people who imagine that hospitals are of necessity sad anddepressing! Why, even the children's wards of the London Hospital arenot that, for, as you look down the rows of beds, you see surprise andhappiness on the poor little pinched faces--surprise that everything isclean and white, and that they are lying between proper sheets;happiness that they are treated kindly, and that there are no harshwords. As for a military hospital, while war lays waste the world, thereis no place where there is more peace and contentment. 

Hospital, for example, is the happiest place to spend Christmas. About aweek before the day there are mysterious whispers in the corners, andfurtive writing in a notebook, and the clinking of coppers. Then, nextday, a cart comes to the door and deposits a load of ivy and holly andmistletoe. The men have all subscribed to buy decorations for theirtemporary home, and they set about their work like children--for wherewill you find children who are younger than the "Tommies"? Even thewards where there are only "cot cases" are decorated, and the men lie inbed and watch the invaders from other wards who come in and smother theplace with evergreens. There is one ward where a man lies dying ofcancer--here, too, they come, making clumsy attempts to walk on tip-toe, and smiling encouragement as they hang the mistletoe from the electriclight over his bed. 

And at last the great day comes. There are presents for everyone, and abran pie from which, one by one, they extract mysterious parcels wrappedup in brown paper. And the joy as they undo them! There are table gamesand packets of tobacco, writing pads and boxes of cigarettes, cheapfountain pens which will nearly turn the Matron's hair grey, and bags ofchocolates. They collect in their wards and turn their presents over, their eyes damp with joy; they pack up their games or their chocolate tosend home to their wives who are spending Christmas in lonely cottagekitchens; they write letters to imaginary people just for the joy ofusing their writing blocks; they admire each others' treasures, and, sometimes, make exchanges, for the man who does not smoke has drawn apipe, and the man in the corner over there, who has lost both legs, hasdrawn a pair of felt slippers!

Before they know where they are, the lunch is ready, and, childrenagain, they eat far more than is good for them, until the nurses have toforbid them to have any more. "No, Jones, " they say, "you can't have athird helping of pudding; you're supposed to be on a milk diet. "

Oh, the happiness of it all! All day they sing and eat and talk, untilyou forget that there is war and misery in the world; when the eveningcomes they go, flushed and happy, back to their beds to dream that greatblack Germans are sitting on them, eating Christmas puddings by thedozen, and growing heavier with each one. 

But upstairs in the little ward the mother sits with her son, and shetries with all her force to keep back the tears. They have had the dooropen all day to hear the laughter and fun, and on the table by the bedlie his presents and the choicest fruit and sweets. Until quite late atnight she stays there, holding her son's hand, and telling ofChristmases when he was a little boy. Then, when she gets up to go, theman in bed turns his head towards the poor little pile of presents. "You'd better take those, mother, " he says. "They won't be much use tome. But it's the happiest Christmas I've ever had. " And all the poorwoman's courage leaves her, and she stoops forward under the mistletoeand kisses him, kisses him, with tears streaming down her face. 

 * * * * *

Most stirring of all are the clearing hospitals near the firing line. They are crowded, and all night long fresh wounded stumble in, the mudcaked on their uniforms, and their bandages soiled by dark stains. Inone corner a man groans unceasingly: "Oh, my head . .. God! Oh, my poorhead!" and you hear the mutterings and laughter of the delirious. 

But if the pain here is at its height, the relief is keenest. For monthsthey have lived in hell, these men, and now they have been brought outof it all. A man who has been rescued from suffocation in a coal minedoes not grumble if he has the toothache; a man who has come from thetrenches and death does not complain of the agony of his wound--hesmiles because he is in comfortable surroundings for once. 

Besides, there is a great feeling of expectation and hope, for there isto be a convoy in the morning and they are all to be sent down to thebase--all except the men who are too ill to be moved and the two men whohave died in the night, whose beds are shut off by red screens. The "cotcases" are lifted carefully on to stretchers, their belongings arepacked under their pillows, and they are carried down to the ambulances, while the walking cases wander about the wards, waiting for their turnto come. They look into their packs for the fiftieth time to make surethey have left nothing; they lean out of the windows to watch theambulance roll away to the station; they stop every orderly who comesalong to ask if they have not been forgotten, or if there will be roomfor them on the train; they make new acquaintances, or discover oldones. One man meets a long-lost friend with a huge white bandage roundhis neck. "Hullo, you poor devil, " he says, "how did you get it in theneck like that? was it a bullet or a bit of a shell?" The other swears, and confesses that he has not been hit at all, but is suffering fromboils. 

For, going down to the base are wounded and sick of every sort--men whohave lost a limb, and men who have only the tiniest graze; men who aremad with pain, and men who are going down for a new set of false teeth;men with pneumonia, and men with scabies. It is only when the boatleaves for England that the cases can be sorted out. It is only thenthat there are signs of envy, and the men whose wounds are not badenough to take them back to "Blighty" curse because the bullet did notgo deeper, or the bit of shrapnel did not touch the bone. 

 * * * * *

It is a wonderful moment for the "Tommies" when they reach theirconvalescent hospital in England. Less than a week ago many of them werestamping up and down in a slushy trench wondering "why the 'ell there'sa bloomin' war on at all. " Less than a week ago many of them neverthought to see England again, and now they are being driven up to theold Elizabethan mansion that is to be their hospital. 

As the ambulance draws up outside the porch, the men can see, where thehostess used to welcome her guests of old, the matron waiting with themedical officer to welcome them in. One by one they are brought into theoak-panelled hall, and a nurse stoops over them to read their names, regiments, and complaints off the little labels that are fastened totheir tunic buttons. As they await their turns, they snuff the air andsigh happily, they talk, and wink, and smile at the great carvedceiling, and forget all they have gone through in the joy of thatsplendid moment. 

Away in one of the wards a gramophone is playing "Mother Machree, " andthe little nurse, who hums the tune to herself as she leans over eachman to see his label, sees a tear crawling through the grey stubble onone's cheek. He is old and Irish, and had not hoped to hear Irish tunesand to see fair women again. But he is ashamed of his emotion, and hetells a little lie. "Sure, an' it's rainin' outside, nurse, " he says. 

And the nurse, who knows the difference between a raindrop and atear--for was she not standing on the step five minutes ago, admiringthe stars and the moon?--knows her part well, and plays it. "I thought Iheard the rain dripping down on the porch just now, " she says, "I hopeyou poor men did not get wet, " and she goes on to her next patient. 

 * * * * *

How they love those days in hospital! How the great rough men love to betreated like babies, to be petted and scolded, ordered about andpraised! How grand it is to see the flowers, to feel one's strengthreturning, to go for drives and walks, to find a field that is notpitted by shell holes! And how cheerful they all are, these grown-upbabies!

The other day I opened the door of the hospital and discovered a"convoy" consisting of three legless and two armless men, trying to helpeach other up the six low steps, and shouting with laughter at theirefforts. And one of them saw the pity on my face, for he grinned. 

"Don't you worry about us, " he said. "I wouldn't care if I 'ad no armsnor eyes nor legs, so long as I was 'ome in Blighty again. Why"--and hisvoice dropped as he let me into the secret--"I've 'ad a li'l boy bornsince I went out to the front, an' I never even seed the li'l beggaryet. Gawd, we in 'orspital is the lucky ones, an' any bloke what ain'tkilled ought to be 'appy and bright like what we is. "

And it is the happiness of all these men that makes hospital a verybeautiful place, for nowhere can you find more courage and cheerfulnessthan among these fellows with their crutches and their bandages. 

There was only one man--Bill Stevens--who seemed despondent andmiserable, and we scarcely wondered--he was blind, and lay in bed dayafter day, with a bandage round his head, the only blind man in thehospital. He was silent and morbid, and would scarcely mutter a word ofthanks when some man came right across the ward on his crutches to dohim a trifling service, but he had begged to be allowed to stay in thebig ward until the time came for him to go off to a special hostel forthe men who have lost their sight. And the men who saw him groping abouthelplessly in broad daylight forgave him his surliness, and ceased towonder at his despondency. 

But even Bill Stevens was to change, for there came a day when hereceived a letter. 

"What's the postmark?" he demanded. 

"Oxford, " said the nurse. "Shall I read it to you?"

But Bill Stevens clutched his letter tight and shook his head, and itwas not until lunch-time that anything more was heard of it. Then hecalled the Sister to him, and she read the precious document almost ina whisper, so secret was it. Private Bill Stevens plucked nervously atthe bedclothes as the Sister recited the little love sentences:--How wasdear Bill? Why hadn't he told his Emily what was wrong with him? Thatshe, Emily, would come to see him at four o'clock that afternoon, andhow nice it would be. 

"Now you keep quiet and don't worry, " said the Sister, "or you'll be tooill to see her. Why, I declare that you're quite feverish. What have yougot to worry about?"

"You see, it's like this 'ere, " confided Bill Stevens. "I ain't dared totell 'er as 'ow I was blind, and it ain't fair to ask 'er to marry abloke what's 'elpless. She only thinks I've got it slightly, and shewon't care for me any more now. "

"You needn't be frightened, " said the Sister. "If she's worth anythingat all, she'll love you all the more now. " And she tucked him up andtold him to go to sleep. 

Then, when Emily arrived, the Sister met her, and broke the news. "Youlove him, don't you?" she asked, and Emily blushed, and smiled assentthrough her tears. 

"Then, " said the Sister, "do your best to cheer him up. Don't let himthink you're distressed at his blindness, " and she took the girl alongto the ward where Bill Stevens lay waiting, restless and feverish. 

"Bill darling, " said Emily. "It's me. How are you? Why have you gotthat bandage on?" But long before poor Bill could find words to breakthe news to her she stooped over him and whispered: "Bill dear, I couldalmost wish you were blind, so that you'd have to depend on me, like. Ifit wasn't for your own pain, I'd wish you was blind, I would really. "

For a long time Bill stuttered and fumbled for words, for his joy wastoo great. "I am blind, Em'ly, " he murmured at last. 

And the whole ward looked the other way as Emily kissed away his fears. As for Bill Stevens, he sang and laughed and talked so much that eveningthat the Matron had to come down to stop him. 

For, as my legless friend remarked, "We in 'orspital is the lucky ones, an' any bloke what ain't killed ought to be 'appy and bright like weis. "

II

A RECIPE FOR GENERALS

Everyone is always anxious to get on the right side of his General; Ihave chanced upon a recipe which I believe to be infallible for anyonewho wears spurs, and who can, somehow or other, get himself in thepresence of that venerated gentleman. 

I sat one day in a trench outside my dug-out, eating a stew made ofbully beef, ration biscuits, and foul water. Inside my dug-out, thesmell of buried men was not conducive to a good appetite; outside, somehorrible Hun was amusing himself by firing at the sandbag just above me, and sending showers of earth down my neck and into my food. It is anaggravating fact that the German always makes himself particularlyobjectionable about lunch-time, and that, whenever you go in the trench, his bullets seem to follow you--an unerring instinct brings them towardsfood. A larger piece of earth than usual in my stew routed the lastvestige of my good-humour. Prudence warning me of the futility oflosing my temper with a Hun seventy yards away, I called loudly for myservant. 

"Jones, " I said, when he came up, "take away this stuff. It's as bad asa gas attack. I'm fed up with it. I'm fed up with Maconochie, I'm fed upwith the so-called 'fresh' meat that sometimes makes its appearance. Tryto get hold of something new; give me a jugged hare, or a pheasant, orsomething of that kind. "

"Yessir, " said Jones, and he hurried off round the traverse to finish mystew himself. 

It never does to speak without first weighing one's words. This is anold maxim--I can remember something about it in one of my firstcopy-books; but, like most other maxims, it is never learnt in reallife. My thoughtless allusion to "jugged hare" set my servant's brainworking, for hares and rabbits have, before now, been caught behind thefiring line. The primary difficulty, that of getting to the countryhaunted by these animals, was easily solved, for, though an officerought not to allow a man to leave a trench without a very importantreason, the thought of new potatoes at a ruined farm some way back, orcherries in the orchard, generally seems a sufficiently important reasonto send one's servant back on an errand of pillage. Thus it was that, unknown to me, my servant spent part of the next three days big-gamehunting behind the firing line. 

My first intimation of trouble came to me the day after we had gone backto billets for a rest, when an orderly brought me a message from BrigadeHeadquarters. It ran as follows:--

 "Lieut. Newcombe is to report at Brigade Headquarters this afternoon at 2 p. M. To furnish facts with reference to his servant, No. 6789, Pte. Jones W. , who, on the 7th inst. , discharged a rifle behind the firing line, to the great personal danger of the Brigadier, Pte. Jones's Company being at the time in the trenches. 

 "(_Signed_) G. MACKINNON, "_Brigade Major_. "

"Jones, " I cried, "come and explain this to me, " and I read him theincriminating document. 

My servant's English always suffers when he is nervous. 

"Well, sir, " he began, "it 'appened like this 'ere. After what you saidthe other day abaht bully beef, I went orf ter try ter git a rebbit oran 'are. I seen sev'ral, sir, but I never 'it one nor wired one. Then, on Friday, jest as I was shootin' at an 'ole 'are what I see, up kime anorficer, one o' thim Staff gints. 'Who are you?' 'e asks. I told 'im asI was a servant, and was jest tryin' ter git an 'are fer mybloke--beggin' yer pardon, sir, I mean my orficer. Then, after a lotmore talk, 'e says, 'Do yer know that yer gone and nearly 'it theGen'ril?' That's all as I knows abaht it, sir. I never wanted ter 'it noGen'ril. "

"All this, and not even a rabbit!" I sighed. "It's a serious business, and you ought to have known better than to go letting off ammunitionbehind the firing line. However, I'll see what can be done, " and myservant went away, rather crestfallen, to drown his sorrows in a glassof very mild, very unpleasant Belgian beer. 

An hour or two later, I strolled across to a neighbouring billet to seea friend, and to tell him of my coming interview. 

"You'll get hell, " was his only comfort. Then, as an afterthought, hesaid, "You'd better wear my spurs; they'll help to impress him. A clinkof spurs will make even your salute seem smart. "

Thus it was that I, who am no horseman, rode over to BrigadeHeadquarters, a mile away, with my toes turned in, and a pair of brightand shining spurs turned away as far as possible from my horse's flanks. 

Unhappy and ill at ease, I was shown into the General's room. 

"Mr. Newcombe, " he began, after a preliminary glance at a paper in frontof him, "this is a very serious matter. It is a serious offence on thepart of Private Jones, who, I understand, is your servant. "

"Yes, sir. "

"It is also an example of gross carelessness on your part. "

"Yes, sir. "

"I was returning from the trenches on your right on Friday last, when abullet flew past my head, coming from the direction opposed to theGermans. I have a strong objection to being shot at by my own men, rightbehind the fire trenches, so I sent Captain Neville to find out who hadfired, and he found your servant. "

"Yes, sir. "

"Well, can you give any explanation of this extraordinary event?"

I explained to the best of my ability. 

"It is a very unusual case, " said the General, when I had finished. "Ido not wish to pursue the matter further, as you are obviously the realperson to blame. "

"Yes, sir. "

"I am very dissatisfied about it, and you must please see that betterdiscipline is kept. I do not like to proceed against officers under mycommand, so the matter drops here. You must reprimand your servant veryseverely, and, I repeat, I am very dissatisfied. You may go, Mr. "--hereanother glance at the paper before him--"Newcombe. Good afternoon. "

I brought my heels together for a very smart salute . .. And locked myspurs! For some seconds I stood swaying helplessly in front of him, thenI toppled forward, and, supporting myself with both hands upon histable, I at length managed to separate my feet. When I ventured to lookat him again to apologise, I saw that his frown had gone, and his mouthwas twitching in a strong inclination to laugh. 

"You are not, I take it, Mr. Newcombe, quite accustomed to wearingspurs?" he said presently. 

I blushed horribly, and, in my confusion, blurted out my reason forputting them on. This time he laughed unrestrainedly. "Well, you havecertainly impressed me with them. " Then, just as I was preparing to go, he said, "Will you have a glass of whisky, Newcombe, before you go?Neville, " he called to the Staff Captain in the next room, "you mightask Andrews to bring the whisky and some glasses. "

"Good afternoon, " said the General, very affably, when, after a carefulsalute, I finally took my leave. 

Let anyone who will try this recipe for making friends with a General. Ido not venture to guarantee its infallibility, however, for that dependsentirely on the General himself, and, to such, rules and instruction donot apply. 

III

"MUD!"

Those at home in England, with their experience of war books andphotographs, of Zeppelin raids and crowded hospitals, are beginning toimagine they know all there is to know about war. The truth is that theystill have but little idea of the life in the trenches, and, as far asmud is concerned, they are delightfully ignorant. They do not know whatmud is. 

They have read of Napoleon's "Fourth Element, " they have listened tolong descriptions of mud in Flanders and France, they have raisedincredulous eyebrows at tales of men being drowned in the trenches, theyhave given a fleeting thought of pity for the soldiers "out there" asthey have slushed home through the streets on rainy nights; but theyhave never realised what mud means, for no photograph can tell its slimydepth, and even the pen of a Zola or a Victor Hugo could give noadequate idea of it. 

And so, till the end of the war, the old story will be continued--whilethe soldier flounders and staggers about in that awful, sucking swamp, the pessimist at home will lean back in his arm-chair and wonder, as hewatches the smoke from his cigar wind up towards the ceiling, why we donot advance at the rate of one mile an hour, why we are not in Berlin, and whether our army is any good at all. If such a man would know why weare not in German territory, let him walk, on a dark night, through thevillage duck-pond, and then sleep in his wet clothes in the middle ofthe farmyard. He would still be ignorant of mud and wet, but he wouldcease to wonder and grumble. 

It is the infantryman who suffers most, for he has to live, eat, sleep, and work in the mud. The plain of dragging slime that stretches fromSwitzerland to the sea is far worse to face than the fire of machineguns or the great black trench-mortar bombs that come twisting downthrough the air. It is more terrible than the frost and the rain--youcannot even stamp your feet to drive away the insidious chill that mudalways brings. Nothing can keep it from your hands and face and clothes;there is no taking off your boots to dry in the trenches--you must liedown just as you are, and often you are lucky if you have two emptysandbags under you to save you from the cold embrace of the swamp. 

But if the mud stretch is desolate by day, it is shocking by night. Imagine a battalion going up to the trenches to relieve anotherregiment. The rain comes beating pitilessly down on the long trail ofmen who stumble along in the blackness over the _pavé_. They are allwell loaded, for besides his pack, rifle, and equipment, each mancarries a pick or a bag of rations or a bundle of firewood. At everymoment comes down the line the cry to "keep to the right, " and the wholecolumn stumbles off the _pavé_ into the deep mud by the roadside toallow the passage of an ambulance or a transport waggon. There is nosmoking, for they are too close to the enemy, and there is the thoughtof six days and six nights of watchfulness and wetness in the trenches. 

Presently the winding line strikes off the road across the mud. This isnot mud such as we know it in England--it is incredibly slippery andimpossibly tenacious, and each dragging footstep calls for a tremendouseffort. The men straggle, or close up together so that they have hardlythe room to move; they slip, and knock into each other, and curse; theyare hindered by little ditches, and by telephone wires that run, now afew inches, now four or five feet from the ground. One man trips over anold haversack that is lying in his path--God alone knows how manyhaversacks and how many sets of equipment have been swallowed up by themud on the plain of Flanders, part of the equipment of the wounded thathas been thrown aside to lighten the burden--and when he scrambles tohis feet again he is a mass of mud, his rifle barrel is choked with it, it is in his hair, down his neck, everywhere. He staggers on, thankfulonly that he did not fall into a shell hole, when matters would havebeen much worse. 

Just when the men are waiting in the open for the leading platoon tofile down into the communication trench, a German star shell goes up, and a machine gun opens fire a little farther down the line. As theflare sinks down behind the British trench it lights up the white facesof the men, all crouching down in the swamp, while the bullets swish by, "like a lot of bloomin' swallers, " above their heads. 

And now comes the odd quarter of a mile of communication trench. It isvery narrow, for the enemy can enfilade it, and it is paved withbrushwood and broken bricks, and a little drain, that is meant to keepthe floor dry, runs along one side of it. In one place a man steps offthe brushwood into the drain, and he falls headlong. The others behindhave no time to stop themselves, and a grotesque pile of men heapsitself up in the narrow, black trench. One man laughing, the restswearing, they pick themselves up again, and tramp on to the firingline. 

Here the mud is even worse than on the plain they have crossed. All theengineers and all the trench pumps in the world will not keep a trenchdecently dry when it rains for nine hours in ten and when the trench isthe lowest bit of country for miles around. The men can do nothing but"carry on"--the parapet must be kept in repair whatever the weather; thesandbags must be filled however wet and sticky the earth. The mud maynearly drag a man's boot off at his every step--indeed, it often does;but the man must go on digging, shovelling, lining the trench with tins, logs, bricks, and planks in the hope that one day he may have put enoughflooring into the trench to reach solid ground beneath the mud. 

All this, of course, is only the infantryman's idea of things. From atactical point of view mud has a far greater importance--it is the mostrelentless enemy that an army can be called upon to face. Even withoutmud and without Germans it would be a very difficult task to feed andlook after a million men on the move; with these two discomfortsmovement becomes almost impossible. 

It is only after you have seen a battery of field artillery on the movein winter that you can realise at all the enormous importance of goodweather when an advance is to be made. You must watch the horseslabouring and plunging in mud that reaches nearly to their girths; youmust see the sweating, half-naked men striving, with outstanding veins, to force the wheels round; you must hear the sucking cry of the mudwhen it slackens its grip; and you must remember that this is only abattery of light guns that is being moved. 

It is mud, then, that is the great enemy. It is the mud, then, and notfaulty organisation or German prowess that you must blame if we do notadvance as fast as you would like. Even if we were not to advanceanother yard in another year, people in England should not bedisheartened. "Out there" we are facing one of the worst of foes. If wedo not advance, or if we advance too slowly, remember that it is mudthat is the cause--not the German guns. 

IV

THE SURPRISE ATTACK

"Do you really feel quite fit for active service again?" asked thePresident of the Medical Board. 

It was not without reason that Roger Dymond hesitated before he gave hisanswer, for nerves are difficult things to deal with. It is surprising, but it is true, that you never find a man who is afraid the first timehe goes under fire. There are thousands who are frightenedbeforehand--frightened that they will "funk it" when the time comes, butwhen they see men who have been out for months "ducking" as each shellpasses overhead they begin to think what brave fellows they are, andthey wonder what fear is. But after they have been in the trenches forweeks, when they realise what a shell can do, their nerve begins to go;they start when they hear a rifle fired, and they crouch down close tothe ground at the whistle of a passing shell. 

Thus had it been with Roger Dymond. At the beginning of the war he hadenjoyed himself--if anyone could enjoy that awful retreat and awfuladvance. He had been one of the first officers to receive the MilitaryCross, for brilliant work by the canal at Givenchy; he had laughed andjoked as he lay all day in the open and listened to the bullets thatwent "pht" against the few clods of earth he had erected with hisentrenching tool, and which went by the high-sounding name of "headcover. "

And then, one day a howitzer shell had landed in the dug-out where hewas lunching with his three particular friends. When the men of hiscompany cleared the sandbags away from him, he was a gibbering wreck, unwounded but paralysed, and splashed with the blood of three dead men. 

Now, after months of battle dreams and mad terror, of massage andelectrical treatment, he was faced with the question--"Do you feel quitefit for active service again?"

He was tired to death of staying at home with no apparent complaint, hewas sick of light duty with his reserve battalion, he wanted to be outat the front again with the men and officers he knew . .. And yet, supposing his nerve went again, supposing he lost his self-control. .. . 

Finally, however, he looked up. "Yes, sir, " he said, "I feel fit foranything now--quite fit. "

 * * * * *

Three months later the Medical Officer sat talking to the C. O. In theHeadquarter dug-out. 

"As for old Dymond, " he said, "he ought never to have been sent out hereagain. He's done his bit already, and they ought to have given him a'cushy' job at home, instead of one of those young staff blighters"--forthe M. O. Was no respecter of persons, and even a "brass hat" failed toawe him. 

"Can't you send him down the line?" said the C. O. "This is no place fora man with neurasthenia. God! did you see the way his hand shook when hewas in here just now?"

"And he's a total abstainer now, poor devil, " sighed the Doctor withpity, for he was, himself, fond of his drop of whisky. "I'll send himdown to the dressing station to-morrow with a note telling the R. A. M. C. People there that he wants a thorough change. "

"Good, " said the C. O. "I'm very sorry he's got to go, for he's a jollygood officer. However, it can't be helped. Have another drink, Doc. "

It is bad policy to refuse the offer of a senior officer, and the M. O. Was a man with a thirst, so he helped himself with liberality. Beforehe had raised the glass to his lips, the sudden roar of many burstingshells caused him to jump to his feet. "Hell!" he growled. "Anotherhate. More dirty work at the cross roads. " And he hurried off to thelittle dug-out that served him as a dressing station, his beloved drinkstanding untouched on the table. 

Meanwhile, Roger Dymond crouched up against the parapet, and listened tothe explosions all around him. "Oil cans" and "Minnewerfer" bombs camehurtling through the air, "Crumps" burst with great clouds of blacksmoke, bits of "Whizz-bangs" went buzzing past and buried themselvesdeep in the ground. Roger Dymond tried to light his cigarette, but hishand shook so that he could hardly hold the match, and he threw it awayin fear that the men would see how he trembled. 

Thousands of people have tried to describe the noise of a shell, but noman can know what it is like unless he can put himself into a trench tohear the original thing. There is the metallic roar of waves breakingjust before the rain, there is the whistle of wind through the trees, there is the rumble of a huge traction engine, and there is the sharpback-fire of a motor car. With each different sinister noise, RogerDymond felt his hold over himself gradually going . .. Going. .. . 

Next to him in the trench crouched Newman, a soldier who had been inhis platoon in the old days when they tramped, sweating and half-dead, along the broiling roads towards Paris. 

"They'm a blasted lot too free with their iron crosses and othersouvenirs, " growled that excellent fellow. "I'd rather be fighting them'and to 'and like we did in that there churchyard near Le Cateau, wouldn't you, sir?"

Dymond smiled sickly assent, and Newman, being an old soldier, knew whatwas the matter with his captain. He watched him as, bit by bit, hisnerve gave way, but he dared not suggest that Dymond should "go sick, "and he did the only thing that could be done under the circumstances--hetalked as he had never talked before. 

"Gawd!" he said after a long monologue that was meant to bringdistraction from the noise of the inferno. "I wish as 'ow we was a bitcloser to the devils so that they couldn't shell us. I'd like to get me'and round some blighter's ugly neck, too. "

A second later a trench-mortar bomb came hurtling down through the air, and fell on the parados near the two men. There was a pause, then anawful explosion, which hurled Dymond to the ground, and, as he fell, Newman's words seemed to run through his head: "I wish as 'ow we was abit closer to the devils so that they couldn't shell us. " He was awareof a moment's acute terror, then something in his brain seemed to snapand everything that followed was vague, for Captain Roger Dymond wentmad. 

He remembered clambering out of the trench to get so close to the Hunsthat they could not shell him; he remembered running--everybody running, his own men running with him, and the Germans running from him; he had avague recollection of making his way down a long bit of strange trench, brandishing an entrenching tool that he had picked up somewhere; thenthere was a great flash and an awful pain, and all was over--theshelling was over at last. 

 * * * * *

It was not until Roger Dymond was in hospital in London that he worriedabout things again. One evening, however, the Sister brought in a paper, and pointed out his own name in a list of nine others who had won theV. C. He read the little paragraph underneath in the deepestastonishment. 

 "For conspicuous gallantry, " it ran, "under very heavy shell fire on August 26th, 1916. Seeing that his men were becoming demoralised by the bombardment, Captain Dymond, on his own initiative, led a surprise attack against the enemy trenches. He found the Germans unprepared, and at the head of his men captured two lines of trenches along a front of two hundred and fifty yards. Captain Dymond lost both legs owing to shell fire, but his men were able to make good almost all their ground and to hold it against all counter-attacks. 

 "This officer was awarded the Military Cross earlier in the war for great bravery near La Bassée. "

He finished the amazing article, and wrote a letter, in a wavering handthat he could not recognise as his own, to the War Office to tell themof their mistake--that he was really running away from the enemy'sshells--and received a reply visit from a general. 

"My dear fellow, " he said, "the V. C. Is never awarded to a man who hasnot deserved it. The only pity is that so many fellows deserve it anddon't get it. You deserved it and got it. Stick to it, and thinkyourself damned lucky to be alive to wear it. There's nothing more to besaid. "

And this is the story of Captain Roger Dymond, V. C. , M. C. Of the few ofus who were there at the time, there is not one who would grudge him theright to put those most coveted letters of all after his name, for wewere all in the shelling ourselves, and we all saw him charge, andheard him shout and laugh as he made his way across to the enemy. TheV. C. , as the general said, is never given to a man who has not deservedit. 

V

"PONGO" SIMPSON ON BOMBS

"Pongo" Simpson was sitting before a brazier fire boiling some tea forhis captain, when the warning click sounded from the German trenches. Instinctively he clapped the cover on the canteen and dived for shelter, while the great, black trench-mortar bomb came twisting and turning downthrough the air. It fell to ground with a dull thud, there was asecond's silence, then an appalling explosion. The roof of the dug-outin which "Pongo" had found refuge sagged ominously, the supporting beamcracked, and the heavy layer of earth and bricks and branches subsidedon the crouching man. 

It took five minutes to dig him out, and he was near to suffocation whenthey dragged him into the trench. For a moment he looked wonderinglyabout him, and then a smile came to his face. "That's what I likes aboutthis 'ere life, there ain't no need to get bored. No need for pictchershows or pubs, there's amusements for you for nothing. " And as he got tohis feet, a scowl replaced the smile. "I bet I knows the blighter whatsent that there bomb, " he growled. "I guess it's old Fritz what used to'ang out in that old shop in Walworth Road--'im what I palmed off a bad'arf-crown on. 'E always said as 'ow 'e'd get 'is own back. "

Five minutes later he had exchanged the battered wreck of his canteenfor a new one belonging to Private Adams, who was asleep farther downthe trench, and had set to boiling a fresh lot of tea for his captain. 

"Darned funny things, bombs and things like that, " he began presently. "You can't trust them no'ow. Look at ole Sergeant Allen f'r example. 'Ewent 'ome on leave after a year out 'ere, and 'e took an ornary timefuse from a shell with 'im to put on 'is mantelpiece. And the very firstnight as 'e was 'ome, the blamed thing fell down when 'e wasn't lookin', and bit 'im in the leg, so that 'e 'ad to spend all 'is time in'orspital. They're always explodin' when they didn't ought to. Did Iever tell you about me brother Bert?"

A chorus in the negative from the other men who stood round the brazierencouraged him to continue. 

"Well, Bert was always a bit silly like, and I thought as 'ow 'e'd dosomethin' foolish when 'e got to the front. Sure 'nough, the very firstbloomin' night 'e went into a trench, 'e was filin' along it when 'eslipped and sat right on a box of bombs. It's gorspel what I'm tellin'you--nine of the blighters went off, and 'e wasn't killed. 'E's 'ome inEngland now in some 'orspital, and 'e's as fit as a lord. The only thingwrong about 'im now is that 'e's always the first bloke what stands andgives 'is place to a lady when a tram's full--still a bit painful like. "

Joe Bates expectorated with much precision and care over the parapet inthe direction of the Germans. "It ain't bombs wot I mind, " he said, "it's them there mines. When I first kime aht ter fight the 'Uns, I wasup at St. Eloi, an' they blew the 'ole lot of us up one night. Gawd, itain't like nothin' on earth, an' the worst of it was I'd jest 'ad a boxof fags sent out by some ole gal in 'Blighty, ' an' when I got back toearth agen there weren't a bloomin' fag to be found. If thet ain'tenough to mike a bloke swear, I dunno wot is. 'As any sport 'ere got afag to gi' me? I ain't 'ad a smoke fer two days, " he finished, "cept ali'l bit of a fag as the Keptin threw away. "

Private Parkes hesitated for a minute, and then, seeing Joe Bates's eyesfixed expectantly on him, he produced a broken "Woodbine" fromsomewhere inside his cap. 

"Yes, " resumed "Pongo, " while Joe Bates was lighting his cigarette, "this ain't what you'd call war. I wouldn't mind goin' for ole Fritzwith an 'ammer, but, what with 'owitzers and 'crumps, ' and 'BlackMarias, ' and 'pip-squeaks' and 'whizz-bangs, ' the infantry bloke ain'tgot a chanst. 'Ere 'ave I been in a bloomin' trench for six months, andwhat 'ave I used my bay'nit for? To chop wood, and to wake ole Sandywhen 'e snores. Down the line our blokes run over and give it to theAlleymans like 'ell, and up 'ere we sits jest like a lot of dolls whilethey send over those darned bombs. I'll give 'em what for. I'll put itacrost 'em. " And he disappeared round the traverse with the canteen oftea for his officer. 

Ten minutes later he turned up again with a jam tin bomb in his hand. "Ibet I can reach their bloomin' listening post with this, " he said, andhe deliberately lit a piece of paper at the brazier fire and put it tothe odd inch of fuse that protruded from the bomb. The average jam tinbomb is fused to burn for three or four seconds before it explodes, sothat, once the fuse is lit, you do not keep the bomb near you for long, but send it across with your best wishes to Fritz over the way. "Pongo"drew his arm back to throw his bomb, and had begun the forward swing, when his fingers seemed to slip, and the weapon dropped down into thetrench. 

There was a terrific rush, and everyone disappeared helter-skelter roundthe traverse. 

Just as Corporal Bateman rounded the corner into safety he glanced back, to see "Pongo" sprawling on his bomb in the most approved style, toprevent the bits from spreading. There was a long pause, during whichthe men crouched close to the parapet waiting, waiting . .. But nothinghappened. 

At length someone poked his head round the traverse--to discover "Pongo"sitting on the sandbag recently vacated by Corporal Bateman, trying tobalance the bomb on the point of a bayonet. 

"'Ullo!" said that individual. "I thought as 'ow you'd gone 'ome for theweek-end. 'E wouldn't 'urt me, not this little bloke, " and he fondledthe jam tin. 

"Well, " said Joe Bates when, one by one, the men had crept back to thefire, "if that ain't a bloomin' miracle! I ain't never seen nuffin' likeit. Ain't you 'arf 'ad an escape, Pongo?"

"Pongo" rose to his feet, and edged towards the traverse. "It ain't suchan escape as what you blokes think, because, you see, the bomb ain'tnothin' more nor an ornary jam tin with a bit of fuse what I stuck init. "

And he disappeared down the trench as rapidly as had his comrades a fewminutes before. 

VI

THE SCHOOLMASTER OF PONT SAVERNE

I

"So, you see, Schoolmaster, " said Oberleutnant von Scheldmann, "youFrench are a race of dogs. We are the real masters here, and, by Heaven, we have come to make you realise it. Your beloved defenders are runningfor their lives from the nation they ventured to defy a month ago. Theyare beaten, routed. What is it they say in your Latin books? 'VæVictis. ' Woe to the conquered!"

Gaston Baudel, schoolmaster in the little village of Pont Saverne, looked out of the window along the white road to Châlons-sur-Marne, fourmiles away. Between the poplar trees he could catch glimpses of it, andthe river wound by its side, a broad ribbon of polished silver. From theroad there rose, here and there, clouds of dust, telling of some batteryor column on the move. The square of the little village, where he hadlived for close on forty years, was crowded with German troops; theriver was dirtied by hundreds of Germans, washing off the dust andblood; the inns echoed to German laughter and German songs, and, even ashe looked, someone hurled a tray of glasses out of the window of theLion d'Or into the street. His blood boiled with hate of the invadinghosts that had so rudely aroused the sleepy, peaceful village, and hefelt his self-control slipping, slipping. .. . 

"Get me some food, " said the German suddenly. "We have hardly had onedecent meal since your dogs of soldiers began running. Bring food andwine at once, so that I may go on and help to wipe the French andBritish scum from off the earth. "

The insult was too much for Gaston Baudel. "May I be cursed, " heshouted, "if I lift hand or foot to feed you and your like. I hate youall, for did you not kill my own father, when your soldiers overranFrance forty-four years ago! Go and find food elsewhere. "

Von Scheldmann laughed to himself, amused at the Frenchman's rage. Heleant out of the window, and called to his servant and another man, whowere seated on the doorstep outside. 

"Tie this fighting cock up with something, " he ordered, "and go to seeif there is anyone else in the house. "

An unarmed schoolmaster is no even match for two armed and burlyGermans. Gaston Baudel kicked and struggled as he had never donebefore, but he was old and weak, his eyes were watery through muchreading, and his arm had none of the strength of youth left in it. In afew seconds he lay gasping on the floor, while a German, kneeling onhim, tied his hands behind his back with strips of his own bedsheets. 

"Now, you pig, " said von Scheldmann when the soldiers had gone off tosearch the house, "remember that you are the conquered dog of aconquered race, and that my sword thirsts for French blood, " and headded meaning to his words by drawing his weapon and pricking theschoolmaster's thin legs with it. "If I don't get food in a few minutes, I shall have to run this through your body. "

Gaston Baudel had heard too much of war to put any trust in what we call"civilisation, " which is, at best, merely a cloak that hides the savagebeneath. He knew that the command to kill and pillage was more thanenough to bring forth all the latent passions which man has tried toconceal since the days when he first clothed himself in skins; that itwas no idle threat on the part of the German officer. He lay, then, insilence, on the floor of his own schoolroom, until the two soldiersreturned, dragging between them the terrified Rosine, his oldhousekeeper. 

"Are you the schoolmaster's servant?" asked von Scheldmann, in French. 

Rosine nodded, for no words would come to her. 

"Well, bring me the best food and wine in the house at once, or yourmaster will suffer for it. "

Rosine glanced at Gaston Baudel, who nodded to her as well as hisposition would allow him to. With tears in her eyes, the old servanthurried off to her kitchen to prepare the meal. 

"Tie the schoolmaster down to that chair, " ordered the German officer, "and place him opposite me, so that he may see how much his guest enjoyshis lunch. "

Thus they sat, the host and the guest, face to face across the littledeal table near the window. The sun shone down on the clean cloth andthe blood-coloured wine, and on the schoolmaster's grey hair. In theshade cast by the apple tree outside, sat the German, now drinking, nowglancing mockingly at his unwilling host. The meal was interrupted by anorderly, who came in with a note. 

Von Scheldmann read it, and swore. "In five minutes we parade, " he said, "to follow on after your cowardly dogs of _poilus_. Here's a health tothe new rulers of France! Here's to the German Empire!" and he leantacross the table towards the schoolmaster. "Drink, you dog, " he said, "drink to my toast, " and he held his glass close to the other's lips. 

Gaston Baudel hesitated for a moment. Then he suddenly jerked his headforward, and, with his chin, knocked the glass out of the German's hand. As the wine splashed over the floor, von Scheldmann leaped to his feet. 

"Swine!" he shouted. "It is lucky for you that your wine was good andhas left me in a kind mood, otherwise you would certainly die for thatinsult. As it is, you shall but lose your ears, and I shall benefit theworld by cutting them off. If you move an inch I shall have to run mysword through your heart. "

He lifted his sword, and brought it down twice. Then he called to hisservant and hastened out into the sunlit street, leaving Gaston Baudeltied to his chair, with the warm blood running down each side of hisface. 

II

Six days later, shortly before the middle of September, an unwontednoise in the street brought the old schoolmaster from his breakfast. Hewalked down the little flagged path of the garden to the gate, andlooked up and down the road. By the green, in the square, a group ofvillagers were talking and gesticulating, and from the direction ofEcury came the deep rumble of traffic and the sound of heavy firing. 

The schoolmaster called to one of the peasants. "Hé, Jeanne, " he cried. "What is the news?"

"The Boches are coming back, M. Baudel, " said Jeanne Legrand. "They arefleeing from our troops, and will be passing through here, many of them. Pray God they may be in too much of a hurry to stop!" And her face grewanxious and frightened. 

Old Gaston Baudel stepped out of his garden, and joined the group in thesquare. "Courage, mes amies, " he said. "Even if they do stay awhile, even if our homes are shelled, what does it matter? France is winning, and driving the Germans back. That at any rate, is good news. "

"All the same, " said fat Madame Roland, landlady of the Lion d'Or, "ifthey break any more of my glasses, I shall want to break my last bottleof wine over their dirty heads. " And she went off to hide what remainedof her liqueurs and champagne under the sacking in the cellar. 

"Let us all go back to our homes, " counselled Gaston Baudel, "to hideanything of value. Even I, with this bandage round my head, can hear howswiftly they are retiring. There will, alas! be no school to-day. Mayour brave soldiers drive the devils from off our fair land of France. "

Even as he spoke, the first transport waggons came tearing down theroad, and swung northward over the river. Away in the morning haze, theinfantry could be seen--dark masses stumbling along the whiteroad--till a convoy of motor lorries hid them from view. 

Gaston Baudel sat down in his stone-paved schoolroom to await thepassing of the Germans, and to correct the tasks of his little pupils. He had given them a _devoir de style_ to write on the glory of France, and, as he read the childish, ill-spelt prophecies of his country'sgreatness, he laughed, for the Germans were in retreat, the worst of theanxiety was over, and Paris was saved. And, hour by hour, he listened tothe rumble of cannon, the rattle of transport waggons and ambulances, and the heavy tramp of tired-out soldiers on the dusty road. 

Suddenly he heard the clank of boots coming up his little garden path, and a large figure loomed in the doorway. A German officer, covered withdirt, entered the room, and threw himself down in a chair. 

"You still here, earless dog?" he said, and the schoolmaster recognisedhis tormentor of a week ago. "Give me something to take with me, and atonce. I have no time to stop, but I shall certainly kill you this timeif you don't bring me food, and more of that red wine. "

Gaston Baudel glanced towards the drawer where he kept hisrevolver--though he would have never used it against any number ofburglars--but a sudden idea came to him, and he checked his movement. With a few muttered words, he hastened off to the kitchen to get foodfor the German. 

"Rosine, " he said, "cut a sandwich for that German dog, and then runinto my room and fetch the black sealing wax from my desk. "

When she had gone off to obey him, Gaston Baudel opened a bottle of redwine and poured a little away. Then, fetching a small glass-stopperedbottle from his room, he emptied the contents--pure morphia--into thewine and recorked the bottle. 

"So much, " he said to himself, "for the doctor and his drugs. He mayhave told me how much to dilute it to deaden the pain of my ears, but hegave me no instructions about dosing Germans. They have strong stomachs;let them have strong drink. "

But as he sealed the cork and mouth of the bottle, to allay anysuspicions the German might have, a thought came to him. Was he notcommitting murder? Was he not taking away God's gift of life from afellow creature? Unconsciously he touched the bandage that covered hismutilated ears. Surely, though, it could not be wrong to kill one ofthese hated oppressors? Should not an enemy of France be destroyed atany cost?

As he hesitated, the impatient voice of von Scheldmann sounded from theschoolroom. "You swine!" he shouted, "are you bringing me food, or mustI come and fetch it?"

The schoolmaster seized a scrap of paper, and scribbled a few words onit. Then, slipping it between the cheese and bread of the sandwich, hemade a little packet of the food, and hastened from the room. God, orFate, must decide. 

He handed the food and wine to the German, and watched him as he trampeddown the garden path, to join in the unending stream of grey-coatedsoldiers who straggled towards the north. 

III

Oberleutnant von Scheldmann sat on a bank by the roadside, to lunch inhaste. Behind him, parallel to him, in front of him, went the Germanarmy; and the thunder of the guns, down by the Marne, told of therearguard fight. As they tramped past, the soldiers gazed enviously atthe bread and cheese and wine, for the country was clear of food, and, even had it not been, the rapid advance and rapid retreat left butlittle time for plundering. 

Von Scheldmann knocked the top off the wine bottle with a blow from astone, and, with care to avoid the sharp edges of the glass, he dranklong and deep. As he bit greedily into the sandwich, his teeth met onsomething thin and tenuous, and he pulled the two bits of bread apart. Inside was a scrap of paper. With a curse, he was about to throw thepaper away, when some pencilled words caught his eye. 

"I leave it to God, " he read, "to decide whether you live or die. If youhave not drunk any wine, do not, for it is poisoned. If you have, youare lost, and nothing can save you. The victorious French will find yourcorpse, and will rejoice. Væ victis! Woe to the conquered!"

And even as he read the hurriedly written words, von Scheldmann felt thefirst awful sense of numbness that presaged the end. 

VII

THE ODD JOBS

We sat in a railway carriage and told each other, as civilians love todo, what was the quickest way to end the war. "You ought to be able tohold nearly 400 yards of trench with a company, " my friend was saying. "You see, a company nowadays gives you 250 fighting men to man thetrenches. "

And then the muddy figure in the corner, the only other occupant of thecarriage, woke up. "You don't know what you're talking about, " hesnorted as he tossed his cap up on to the rack, and put his feet on theopposite seat. 

"You don't know what you're talking about, " he repeated. "You're luckyif your company can produce more than 150 men to man the trenches; youforget altogether about the odd jobs. Take the company I'm in at thefront, for instance. Do you imagine we've got 250 men to man thetrenches? First of all there are always men being hit and going sick, ormen who are sent off to guard lines of communication, and their placesaren't filled up by fresh drafts for weeks. As for the odd jobs, there'sno end to them. My own particular pal is a telephone orderly--he sitsall day in a dug-out and wakes up at stated hours to telephone 'Nochange in the situation' to battalion headquarters. It's true that hedoes jolly good work when the Huns 'strafe' his wire and he has to goout and mend it, but he doesn't go forward in an attack; he sits in hisdug-out and telephones like blazes for reinforcements while the Germanspepper his roof for him with 'whizz-bangs. '

"Then there's old Joe White, the man like a walrus, who left us monthsago to go and guard divisional headquarters; there are five officers'servants who are far too busy to man a trench; there is a post corporal, who goes down to meet the transport every night to fetch the company'sletters, and who generally brings up a sack of bread by mistake or dropsthe parcels into shell holes that are full of water; there's a black, greasy fellow who calls himself a cook, and who looks after a big 'tank'called a 'cooker, ' from which he extracts oily tea, and meat coveredwith tea-leaves. Besides all these fellows there are sixteen sanitarymen who wander about with tins of chloride of lime and keep the trenchclean--they don't man the trenches; then there are three battalionorderlies, who run about with messages from headquarters and who wakethe captain up, as soon as he gets to sleep, to ask him to state inwriting how much cheese was issued to his men yesterday or why Private Xhas not had his hair cut. 

"Do you imagine this finishes the list? Not a bit of it. There are halfa dozen machine gunners who have nothing to do with company work; half adozen men and a quartermaster-sergeant attached to the transport to lookafter the horses and to flirt with girls in farms; two mess waiterswhose job it is to feed the officers; and there are four men who havethe rottenest time of anyone--they're the miners who burrow and dig, digand burrow day and night towards the German lines; poor half-nakedfellows who wheel little trucks of earth to the pit shaft or who lie ontheir stomachs working away with picks. And it's always an awful race tosee if they'll blow up the Germans, or if it will be the other wayabout. 

"There are still more odd jobs, and new ones turn up every day. Mindyou, I'm not grumbling, for many of these fellows work harder than wedo, and we must have someone to feed us and to keep the place clean. Butthe difficulty is nowadays to find a man who's got time to stand in thetrench and wait for the Hun to attack, and that's what you people don'tseem to realise. "

"And what do you do?" asked my friend as the other stopped to yawn. 

"What do I do? What do you think I've been talking for all this time?"said the man in khaki. "I'm the fellow who stands in the trench andwaits for the Hun to attack. That's a jolly long job, and I've got somesleep owing to me for it, too. "

Whereupon he stretched himself out on the seat, pillowed his head on hispack, and proceeded to extract noisy payment of his debt. 

"That rather complicates matters, doesn't it?" said my friend, when themuddy figure had safely reached the land of dreams. "If you've only got150 fighting men in a company, your division has a strength of . .. " andhe proceeded to count away on his fingers as hard as he could. Presentlyhe gave it up in despair, and a brilliant idea seemed to strike him. 

"Those generals and staff fellows, " he said, "must have a lot of brainsafter all. " And we have come to the conclusion that we will notcriticise them any more, for they must know as well as we do, if notstill better, how to win the war. 

VIII

THE "KNUT"

We were sitting round the fire in the club, discussing that individualcolloquially known as the "knut. "

"The 'knut, '" said Green, "is now virtually extinct, he is killed bywar. As soon as he gets anywhere near a trench, he drops his cloak ofaffectation, and becomes a reasonable human being--always excepting, ofcourse, certain young subalterns on the staff. "

Rawlinson leant forward in his chair. "I'm not sure, " he said, "that Iagree with you. It all depends upon how you define a 'knut. '"

"A 'knut' is a fellow with a drawl and an eyeglass, " said someone. 

"That just fits my man. I know of an exception to your rule. I know of a'knut' who did not disappear at the front. "

"Tell us about him, " suggested Jepson. 

Rawlinson hesitated, and glanced round at each of us in turn. "It's notmuch of a story, " he said at length, "but it stirred me up a bit at thetime--I don't mind telling it you if you think it sufficientlyinteresting. "

We filled up our glasses, and lay back in our chairs to listen to thefollowing tale:

 * * * * *

"When I was at Trinity I kept rooms just above a fellow called JimmyWynter. He wasn't a pal of mine at all, as he had far too much money tochuck about--one of these rich young wastrels, he was. He could dropmore than my annual allowance on one horse, and not seem to notice it atall. In the end he got sent down for some rotten affair, and I wasrather glad to see the last of him, as the row from his rooms wasappalling. He always had an eyeglass and wonderfully cut clothes, andhis hair was brushed back till it was as shiny as a billiard ball. I puthim down, as did everyone else, as an out-and-out rotter, and held himup as an example of our decadent aristocracy. 

"When I went out to the front, our Regular battalion was full up, and Iwas sent to a Welsh regiment instead. The first man I met there was noneother than this fellow Wynter, still with his eyeglass and his drawl. Intime, one got quite accustomed to him, and he was always fairlyamusing--which, of course, is a great thing out there--so that in theend I began to like him in a sort of way. 

"All this seems rot, but it helps to give you an idea of my man, and itall leads up to my story, such as it is. 

"We came in for that Loos show last year. After months and months ofstagnation in the trenches, we were suddenly called to Headquarters andtold that we were to make an attack in about two hours' time. 

"I don't know if any of you fellows came in for a bayonet charge whenyou were out at the Front. Frankly, I felt in a hell of a funk, for it'snot the same thing to leave your trench and charge as it is to rush anenemy after you've been lying in an open field for an hour or two. Thefirst hour and a half went all right, what with fusing bombs, arrangingsignals, and all that sort of thing, but the last half-hour was the verydevil. 

"Most of us felt a bit jumpy, and the double rum ration went in twoshakes. We knew that we shouldn't worry when the whistles went for thecharge, but the waiting was rather trying. Personally I drank more neatbrandy than I have ever done before or since, and then sat down andtried to write one or two letters. But it wasn't a brilliant success, and I soon left my dug-out and strolled along to C Company. 

"The idea was for A and C Companies to attack first, followed by B andD companies. A battalion of the Westshires was in support to us. 

"C Company Officer's dug-out was not a mental haven of rest. With oneexception, everyone was a bit nervy, everyone was trying not to show it, and everyone was failing dismally. The exception was Jimmy Wynter. Hewas sitting on a pile of sandbags in the corner, his eyeglass in hiseye, looking at an old copy of _La Vie Parisienne_, with evident relish. His hand was as steady as a rock, and he hadn't had a drop of rum orbrandy to give him Dutch courage. While everyone else was fighting withexcitement, Jimmy Wynter was sitting there, studying the jokes of hispaper, as calmly as though he were sitting here in this old club. It wasonly then that it occurred to me that there was something in the fellowafter all. 

"At last the time drew near for our push, and we waited, crouching underthe parapet, listening to our artillery plunking away like blazes. Atlast the whistles blew, a lot of fellows cheered, yelled all sorts ofidiotic things, and A and C Companies were over the parapet on the wayto the Huns. 

"I am no hand at a description of a charge, but it really was wonderfulto watch those fellows; the sight of them sent every vestige of funkfrom me, and the men could hardly wait for their turn to come. Justbefore we went, I had one clear vision of Jimmy Wynter. He was wellahead of his platoon, for he was over six foot and long-legged at that. I could see his eyeglass swinging on the end of its black cord, and inhis hand he carried a pickaxe. Such ordinary weapons as revolvers, rifles, and bayonets had no apparent attraction for him. 

"What happened next I had no time to see, for our turn came to hop overthe parapet, and there wasn't much time to think of other people. Allan, his servant, told me later all that occurred, for he was next to Jimmyall the time. They got to the Hun trenches and lost a lot of men on thewire. Away to the left the enemy had concealed a crowd of machine gunsin one of the slag heaps, and they played awful havoc among our chaps. According to Allan, Jimmy chose a place where the wire had almost allgone, took a huge leap over the few remaining strands, and was the firstof C Company to get into the trench. 

"Somehow he didn't get touched--I'll bet Allan had something to do withthat; for he loved his master. With his pick he cracked the skull of thefirst Boche who showed signs of fight, and, losing his hold of hisweapon, he seized the man's rifle as he fell. No wonder the poorblighters fled, for Jimmy Wynter must have looked like Beelzebub as hecharged down on them. His hat had gone, and his hair stuck out from hishead like some modern Struwwelpeter. With the rifle swinging above hishead, he did as much to clear the trench as did the rest of the platoonall put together. 

"When we arrived on the scene the few who remained of A and C Companieswere well on their way to the second line of trenches. Here again JimmyWynter behaved like a demon with his rifle and bayonet, and in fiveminutes' time we were in complete possession of two lines of trenchesalong a front of two hundred yards. I do not even mention the number ofGermans that Allan swore his master had disposed of, but the name ofWynter will long be a by-word in the regiment. The funny part of it isthat, up to that time, he hadn't had a single scratch. However, Fate mayoverlook a man for a short time, but he is generally remembered in theend. So it was with poor old Jimmy. 

"He was leading a party down a communicating trench, bombing the Hunsback yard by yard, when a hand grenade landed almost at his feet. Hejumped forward, in the hope that he would have time to throw it awaybefore it went off, but it was fused too well. Just as he picked it up, the damned thing exploded, and Jimmy Wynter crumpled up like a piece ofpaper. 

"I was coming along the trench a few minutes later, seeing that ourposition was being made as secure as possible before the counter-attackcame, when I found him. He was lying in one of the few dug-outs that hadnot been hit, and Allan and another man were doing what they could forhim. 

"You could see he was very nearly done for, but, after a few seconds, heopened his eyes and recognised me. 

"'Hullo, Rawlinson, ' he whispered; 'some damned fool has hit me. Hurtslike the very devil. '

"I muttered some banal words of comfort, and continued to tie himup--though God knows it was a pretty hopeless task. I hadn't even anymorphia I could give him to make things better. 

"Suddenly he raised his arm and fumbled about in search of something. 

"'What do you want?' I asked. 

"'Where the deuce is my eyeglass?' And the drawl seemed to catchhorribly in his throat. 

"I put the rim of the eyeglass into his hand; the glass itself had gone. 

"'Must wear the damned thing, ' he murmured, and he tried to raise it tohis face--but his hand suddenly stopped half-way and fell, and he died. "

 * * * * *

There was silence in the club room for a minute or so, and the tickingof the clock was oppressively loud. Then Jepson raised his glass. 

"Gentlemen, " he said. "Here's to the 'Knut, '" and gravely we drank tothe toast. 

IX

SHOPPING

As the Captain sat down to breakfast, he turned to speak to me: "Ipropose . .. " he began, but Lawson interrupted him. "Oh, John dear, " hesaid, "this is so sudden. "

The Captain took no notice of the interruption. ". .. That you and I goshopping this afternoon. "

"Jane, " I called to an imaginary maid, "please tell Parkes to bring thecar round at eleven o'clock; we are going shopping in Bond Street, andlunching at the Ritz. "

"You all seem to think you're deucedly funny this morning, " growled theCaptain as he pushed aside a piece of cold bacon with the end of hisknife. "The pure air of the billets seems to have gone to your heads sothat I think a parade would suit you this afternoon. "

We sobered down at the threat. "No, seriously, " I said, "I'd love to goif I can get anything to ride. "

"You can have the Company's pack horse. I'll order both beasts for twoo'clock. "

Now the Captain's horse stands far more hands than any reallyrespectable horse should, and the Captain is well over six feet in hissocks; I, on the other hand, am nearer five feet than six, and the packpony is none too big for me. Again, the Captain is thin and I am fat, sothat even the sentry could scarcely repress his smile as we set forth onour quest--a modern Don Quixote, and a Sancho Panza with a hole in theback of his tunic. 

But we had little time to think of our personal appearances, for our waylay over the Mont Noir, and there are few places from which you can geta more wonderful view, for you can follow the firing line right awaytowards the sea, and your field glasses will show you the smoke risingfrom the steamers off Dunkirk. We paused a moment, and gazed over thelevel miles where Poperinghe and Dixmude and the distant Furnes laysleepy and peaceful, but, even as we looked, a "heavy" burst in Ypres, and a long column of smoke rose languidly from the centre of the town. 

"We shan't do much more shopping in that old spot, " said the Captain ashe turned his horse off the road, and set forth across country toBailleul. 

The Captain has hunted with nearly every pack of hounds in England, while I have hunted with none, so that I was hot and thirsty anduncommonly sore when we clattered into the town. Leaving the Captain tosee the horses stabled at the Hôtel du Faucon, I slipped off to get adrink. 

"Here, " said the Captain when he tracked me down, "don't try that gameon again or you'll have to take the early parade to-morrow. Besides, you're supposed to be Company Interpreter, and you've no right to leaveme to the mercy of two savage grooms like that. I advise you to takecare, young man. "

My qualifications for the post of Company Interpreter lie in the factthat I once, in company of various other youths of my age, spent afortnight in and around the Casino at Trouville. Peters of our companyknows a long list of nouns taking "x" instead of "s" in the plural, butmy knowledge is considered more practical--more French. 

And now comes a confession. To retain a reputation requires a lot ofcare, and to keep my position as Company Interpreter and outdo my rivalPeters I always carried about with me a small pocket dictionary--ifanyone ever noticed it, he probably mistook it for a Service Bible--inwhich I searched for words when occasion offered. I had carefullycommitted to memory the French equivalents for all the articles on ourshopping list--a pot of honey, a bottle of Benedictine, a pair ofunmentionable garments for Lawson, and a toothbrush--so that I walkedacross the main square with a proud mien and an easy conscience. 

Pride, they tell us, comes before a fall. We had successfully fought ourway through the crowds of officers and mess waiters who swarm inBailleul, we had completed our purchases, we were refreshing ourselvesin a diminutive tea shop, when the Captain suddenly slapped his thigh. 

"By Jove, " he said, "I promised to buy a new saucepan for the Companycook. Good job I remembered. "

What on earth was the French for a saucepan? I had no opportunity oflooking in my dictionary, for it would look too suspicious if I were toconsult my Service Bible during tea. 

"I don't think we shall have time to look for an ironmonger's, " I said. 

"You blithering ass, " said the Captain, "there's one just across theroad. Besides, we don't have dinner before eight as a rule. "

The fates were working against me. I made one more effort to save myreputation. "We should look so funny, sir, riding through Bailleul witha great saucepan. We might send the Company cook to buy one to-morrow. "

I remained in suspense for a few moments as the Captain chose anothercake. He looked up suddenly. "We'll get it home all right, " he said, "but I believe the fact of the matter is that you don't know what to askfor. "

"We'll go and get the beastly thing directly after tea, " I said stiffly, for it is always offensive to have doubts cast on one's capabilities, the more so when those doubts are founded on fact. Besides, I knew theCaptain would love to see me at a loss, as French has been his touchypoint ever since the day when, having a sore throat, he set out to buy acure for it himself. The chemist, mistaking his French and his gestures, had politely led him to the door and pointed out a clothier's across theway, expressing his regret the while that chemists in France do not sellcollars. 

When we entered the ironmonger's shop I could see nothing in the shapeof a saucepan that I could point out to the man, so I made a shot in thedark. "Je désire, " I said, "une soucoupe. "

"Parfaitement, m'sieu, " said the shopman, and he produced a host ofsaucers of every description--saucers in tin, saucers in china, saucersbig and little. 

"What in the name of all that's wonderful are you getting those thingsfor?" asked the Captain irritably. "We want a saucepan. "

I feigned surprise at my carelessness and turned to the shopman again. "Non, je désire quelque chose pour bouillir les oeufs. "

The poor man scratched his head for a minute, then an idea suddenlystruck him. "Ah, une casserole?" he questioned. 

I nodded encouragingly, and, to my intense relief, he produced a hugesaucepan from under the counter, so that we trotted out of Bailleul withour saddle bags full, and the saucepan dangling from a piece of stringround the Captain's neck. 

Misfortunes never come singly. We were not more than a hundred yardsfrom the town when the Captain handed the saucepan to me. "You mighttake it, " he said, "while I shorten my stirrups. "

The pack horse becomes accustomed to an enormous variety of loads, butapparently the saucepan was something in the shape of a disagreeablenovelty to him. He began to trot, and that utensil rattled noisilyagainst the bottle of liqueur protruding from my saddle bag. The morethe saucepan rattled the faster went the horse, and the more precariousbecame my seat. In a few seconds I was going across country at a furiousgallop. 

If I let go my hold of the saucepan it rattled violently, and spurredthe pack horse on to even greater pace; if I held on to the saucepan Icould not pull up my horse and I stood but little chance of remainingon its back at all, for I am a horseman of but very little skill. 

Suddenly I saw a gate barring my way ahead. I let go the saucepan andsomething cracked in my saddle bag. I seized the reins and dragged atthe horse's mouth. Then, just as I was wondering how one stuck on ahorse's back when it tried to jump, someone rode up from the other sideand opened the gate. 

But it was only when I was right in the gateway that I saw what layahead. Just before me was a major at the head of a squadron of cavalry. The next second I was amongst them. 

A fleeting glimpse of the Major's horse pawing the air with itsforelegs, a scattering of a hundred and fifty men before me, and I hadpassed them all and was galloping up the steep slope of the hill. 

When at last the Captain came up with me, I was standing at the top ofthe Mont Noir, wiping Benedictine from my breeches and puttees. I madean attempt at jocularity. "I shall have to speak to Parkes about thisengine, " I said. "The controls don't work properly, and she acceleratesmuch too quickly. "

But the Captain saw the ruin of the liqueur bottle lying by theroadside, and was not in the mood for amusement. So we rode in silencedown the hill, while the flames of Ypres gleamed and flickered in thedistance. 

Of a sudden, however, the Captain burst into a roar of laughter. 

"It was worth it, " he panted as he rolled in his saddle, "to see thepoor blighters scatter. Lord! but it was lovely to hear that Majorcurse. "

X

THE LIAR

For an hour and a half we had been crumped and whizz-banged andtrench-mortared as never before, but it was not until the shellingslackened that one could really see the damage done. The suddenexplosions of whizz-bangs, the increasing whine and fearful bursts ofcrumps, and, worst of all, the black trench-mortar bombs that camehurtling and twisting down from the skies, kept the nerves at a pitchwhich allowed of no clear vision of the smashed trench and the woundedmen. 

However, as the intervals between the explosions grew longer and longerthe men gradually pulled themselves together and began to look round. The havoc was appalling. Where the telephone dug-out had been was now ahuge hole--a mortar bomb had landed there, and had blown the telephoneorderly almost on to the German wire, fifty yards away; great gaps, onwhich the German machine guns played at intervals, were made all alongour parapet; the casualties were being sorted out as well aspossible--the dead to be carried into an old support trench, and thereto await burial, the wounded to be hurried down to the overcrowdeddressing station as quickly as the bearers could get the stretchersaway; the unhurt--scarcely half the company--were, for the most part, still gazing up into the sky in the expectation of that twisting, alltoo familiar, black bomb that has such a terrific devastating power. Gradually quiet came again, and the men set about their interruptedbusiness--their sleep to be snatched, their work to be finished beforethe long night with its monotonous watching and digging began. 

With the Sergeant-major I went down the trench to discuss repairs, formuch must be done as soon as night fell. Then, leaving him to make out acomplete list of the casualties, I returned to my dug-out to share therations of rum with Bennett, the only subaltern who remained in thecompany. 

"Where's the rum?" I asked. "Being shelled makes one thirsty. "

He handed me a cup, at the bottom of which a very little rum was to beseen. "I divided it as well as I could, " he said rather apologetically. 

"If you were thinking of yourself at the time, you certainly did, " Ianswered as I prepared myself for battle, for nothing sets your nervesright again as quickly as a "scrap. "

We were interrupted, however, in the preliminaries by theSergeant-major, who brought with him a handful of letters and pay books, the effects of the poor fellows who were now lying under waterproofsheets in the support trench. 

"Total killed forty-one, sir, and I'm afraid Sergeant Wall didn't getdown to the dressing station in time. It's a bad day for us to-day. Oh, and by the way, sir, that fellow Spiller has just been found dead at theend of the communicating trench. "

"Which end, Sergeant-major?" I asked. 

"The further end, sir. He left the trench without leave. He told Jones, who was next to him, that he was not going to have any more damnedshelling, and he appears to have made off immediately after. "

Bennett whistled. "Is that the blighter whom poor old Hayes had tothreaten with his revolver the day before we were gassed?"

The Sergeant-major nodded. 

"It's just the sort of thing he would do, " said Bennett, whose hand wasstill unsteady from the strain of an hour ago, "to bunk when BrotherBoche is giving us a little crumping to keep us amused. "

I turned to the Sergeant-major. "Let me have these fellows' effects, " Isaid. "As to Spiller, I don't expect he could have really been bunking. At all events, let the other fellows think I sent him to Headquartersand he got hit on the way. I expect he was going down with a stretcherparty. " But, in my heart, I knew better. I knew Spiller for a coward. 

It is not for me to judge such a man. God knows it is no man's fault ifhe is made so that his nerves may fail him at a critical moment. Besides, many a man who is capable of heroism that would win him theVictoria Cross fails when called upon to stand more than a few weeks oftrench warfare, for a few minutes of heroism are very different tomonths of unrelieved strain. However, Spiller and his like let aregiment down, and one is bound to despise them for that. 

Thoughts of our "scrap" had entirely left us, for Bennett and I hadbefore us one of the most uncongenial tasks that an officer can have. The news has to be broken by someone when a wife is suddenly made awidow, and the task is generally taken on by the dead man's platooncommander, who sends back home his letters and papers. There were manymen who had died that afternoon, and letters of condolence and bad newsare always difficult to write, so that there was silence in our dug-outfor the next two hours. 

The last pay book I examined had belonged to Private E. Spiller. Hisother belongings were scanty--a few coppers, a much-chewed pencil, andtwo letters. I looked at the latter for a clue as to whom I ought towrite; one was in his own handwriting and unfinished, the other was froma girl with whom he had been "walking out, " apparently his only friendin the world, as she alone was mentioned in the little will written atthe end of his pay book. But her love was enough. Her letter wasill-spelt and badly written, but it expressed more love than is given tomost men. 

"Take care of yourself, Erny dear, for my sake, " she wrote. "I am soproud of you doing so well in them horrid trenches. .. . Dear Erny, youcan't have no idear how pleased I am that you are so brave, but be quickand come back to me what loves you so. .. . "

So brave! I tried to laugh at the unconscious irony of it all, but mylaugh would not come, for something in my throat held it back--perhaps Iwas a little overwrought by the recent shelling. 

I turned to the other letter, which I have thought fit to transcribe infull:

 "DEAREST LIZ, "I hope this finds you as it leaves me at present in the pink. Dear Liz, i am doing very well and i will tell you a secret--i am going to be rekermended for the V. C. Becos i done so well in the trenches. I don't feel a bit fritened wich is nice, and, dear Liz, i hope to be made Lance Corpril soon as my officer is so . .. "

 * * * * *

And here it ended, this letter from a liar. I balanced it on my knee andwondered what to do with it. Should I tear it up and write to the girlto tell her the truth--that her lover was a liar and a coward? Should Itear his letter up and just announce his death? For some minutes Ihesitated, and then I put his half-finished letter in an envelope andadded a note to tell her. 

"He died like a soldier, " I finished. "His letter will tell you betterthan any words of mine how utterly without fear he was. "

And I wish no other lie were heavier on my conscience than is the lie Itold to her. 

XI

THE CITY OF TRAGEDY

What does it matter that the Cloth Hall and the Cathedral are in ruins, that the homes and churches are but rubble in the streets? What do wecare if great shells have torn gaping holes in the Grande Place, and ifthe station is a battered wreck where the rails are bent and twisted asbits of wire? We do not mourn for Ypres, for it is a thousand timesgrander in its downfall than it was ever in the days of its splendour. 

In the town, the houses are but piles of stone, the streets are butpitted stretches of desolation, the whole place is one huge monument tothe memory of those who have suffered, simply and grandly, for a greatcause. Round the town run the green ramparts where, a few years ago, thetownspeople would stroll of an evening, where the blonde Flemish girlswould glance shyly and covertly at the menfolk. The ramparts now aretorn, the poplars are broken, the moat is foul and sullied, and facingout over the wide plain are rows of little crosses that mark theresting-places of the dead. 

For herein lies thy glory, Ypres. To capture thee there have fallenthousands of the German invaders; in thy defence there have diedBelgians and French and English, Canadians and Indians and Algerians. Three miles away, on Hill 60, are the bodies of hundreds of men who havefought for thee--the Cockney buried close to the Scotchman, the Prussianlying within a yard of the Prussian who fell there a year before, andalong the Cutting are French bayonets and rifles, and an occasionalunfinished letter from some long-dead _poilu_ to his lover in the sunnyplains of the Midi or the orchards of Normandy. 

And all these men have died to save thee, Ypres. Why, then, should wemourn for thee in thy ruin? Even thy great sister, Verdun, cannot boastso proud a record as thine. 

But the awful tragedy of it all! That the famous old town, quietlyasleep in its plain, should be shattered and ruined; that so many hopesand ambitions can be blasted in so few hours; that young bodies can becrushed, in a fraction of a second, to masses of lifeless, bleedingpulp! The glorious tragedy of Ypres will never be written, for so manywho could have spoken are dead, and so many who live will neverspeak--you can but guess their stories from the dull pain in theireyes, and from the lips that they close tightly to stop the sobs. 

God, how they have suffered, these Belgians! Day after day for over ayear the inhabitants of Ypres lived in the hell of war; day after daythey crouched in their cellars and wondered if it would be their littlehome that would be ruined by the next shell. How many lived for monthsin poky little basements, or crowded together in the one room that wasleft of their home--anything, even death, rather than leave the placewhere they were born and where they had passed all their quiet, happyyears. 

I knew one woman who lived with her little daughter near the Porte deMenin, and one day, when the next cottage to hers had been blown tobits, I tried to persuade her to leave. For a long time she shook herhead, and then she took me to show me her bedroom--such a poor littlebedroom, with a crucifix hanging over the bed and a dingy rosebushgrowing up outside the window. "It was here that my husband died, fiveyears ago, " she said. "He would not like me to go away and leave thehouse to strangers. "

"But think of the little one, " I pleaded. "She is only a girl of five, and you cannot endanger her life like this. "

For a long time she was silent, and a tear crept down her cheek as shetried to decide. "I will go, monsieur, " she said at last, "for the sakeof the little one. "

And that night she set off into the unknown, fearful to look back at herlittle home lest her courage should desert her. She was dressed in herbest clothes--for why leave anything of value for the Germans, shouldthey ever come?--and she wheeled her few household treasures before herin the perambulator, while her little daughter ran beside her. 

But next morning I saw her again coming back up the street to hercottage. This time she was alone, and she still trundled theperambulator in front of her. 

I went out, and knocked at her door. "So you have come back, " I said. "And where have you left the little one?"

She gazed at me dully for a minute, and a great fear gripped me, for Isaw that her best clothes were torn and dust stained. 

"It was near the big hospital on the Poperinghe road, " she said in ahorribly even voice. "The little one had lingered behind to pick up somebits of coloured glass on the roadside when the shell came. It was a bigshell . .. And I could find nothing but this, " and she held up part of alittle torn dress, bloody and terrible. 

I tried to utter a few words of comfort, but my horror was too great. 

"It is the will of God, " she said, as she began to unpack the treasuresin the perambulator, but, as I closed the door, I heard her burst intothe most awful fit of weeping I have ever known. 

 * * * * *

And, day by day as the war goes on, the tragedy of Ypres grows greater. Each shell wrecks a little more of what was once a home, each crash andfalling of bricks brings a little more pain to a breaking heart. Theruins of Ypres are glorious and noble, and we are proud to defend them, but the quiet, simple people of Ypres cannot even find one brick onanother of their homes. 

Somewhere in England, they tell me, is a little old lady who was once agreat figure in Brussels society. She is nearly eighty now, and alone, but she clings on tenaciously to life till the day shall come when shecan go back to her Château at Ypres, where she has lived for fortyyears. One can picture her--feeble, wizened, and small, her eyes brightwith the determination to live until she has seen her home again. 

I, who have seen her Château, pray that death may come to close thosebright eyes, so that they may never look upon the destruction of herhome, for it is a desolate sight, even though the sky was blue and theleaves glistened in the sun on the morning when, two years ago, Itramped up the winding drive. 

The lodge was nothing more than a tumbled pile of broken bricks, but, bysome odd chance, the Château itself had never suffered a direct hit. Infront of the big white house there had once been an asphalt tenniscourt--there was now a plain pitted at every few yards by huge shellholes. The summer-house at the edge of the wood--once the scene ofdelightful little flirtations in between the games of tennis--was now aweird wreck, consisting of three tottering walls and a broken seat. Oddest of all, there lay near the white marble steps an old, tyreless DeDion motor-car. 

I have often wondered what the history of that battered thing could be. One can almost see the owner packing herself in it with her mostprecious belongings, to flee from the oncoming Germans. The enginerefuses to start, there is no time for repairs, there is the hurriedflight on foot, and the car is left to the mercy of the invading troops. Perhaps, again, it belonged to the staff of some army, and was left atthe Château when it had run its last possible mile. At all events, thereit stood, half-way between Ypres and the Germans, with everything of anypossible value stripped off it as thoroughly as though it had been leftto the white ants. 

By the side of the tennis court, where had once been flower beds, therewas now a row of little, rough wooden crosses, and here and there thenarcissi and daffodils had sprung up. What a strange little cemetery!Here a khaki cap and a bunch of dead flowers, there a cross erected to"An unknown British hero, found near Verbrandenmolen and buried here onMarch 3rd, 1915, " there an empty shell case balanced at a comical angleon a grave, and everywhere between the mounds waved the flowers in thefresh breeze of the morning, while away in the distance loomed the towerof the Cloth Hall of Ypres, like a gigantic arm pointing one finger upto heaven. 

The Château itself, I have said, had never had a direct hit; but do youthink the hand of war had passed it by, and that the little old ladywould find in it something of home?

Every window on the ground floor had been choked by sandbags, and noglass remained in those upstairs. In a room that had once been a kitchenand was now labelled in chalk "Officers' Mess" were an old bedstead, twomattresses, a wooden table, and three rickety chairs; but for these, anda piano in the dining-room upstairs, the house was absolutely devoid offurniture. Even the piano, which must have twanged out the tunes of atleast three nations since the war began, had sacrificed its cover forfirewood. 

Rooms where once ladies had powdered and perfumed themselves to attractthe fickle male were now bare and empty, and pungent with the smell ofchloride of lime. In the dining-hall, where fine old wines hadcirculated, were a hundred weary, dirty men. In the kitchen, where thefat _cuisinière_ had prepared her dinners, were now a dozen officers, some sprawling asleep on the floor, some squatting round the tableplaying "vingt-et-un. "

For this is war. 

 * * * * *

There is one more memory of Ypres--a very different one--that comes backto me. It is the recollection of our regimental dinner. 

The first thing that I heard of it came from Lytton's servant. 

"Please, sir, " he said one morning, "Mr. Lytton sends his compliments, and can you tell 'im where the Hôtel Delepiroyle is?"

"The Hôtel de what?"

"The Hôtel Delepiroyle, sir. That's what 'e said. "

"Ask Mr. Lytton to write it down--no, wait a minute. Tell him I'm comingover to see him about it. " So I strolled across to the other side of theinfantry barracks to find him. 

"What, haven't you heard about it?" asked Lytton. "The new C. O. , MajorEadie, is giving a dinner to-night to all the officers of the regimentas a farewell to Major Barton before he goes off to take command of hisnew crowd. It's at the Hôtel de l'Epée Royale, wherever that may be. Let's go and track it down. "

So we wandered down the Rue de Lille, as yet relatively free from theravages of war, for the shops were open and the inhabitants stoodtalking and gossiping at the doors of their houses. Here and thererubble lay across the pavement, and what had once been a home was now anamorphous pile of bricks and beams. Just by the church was a ruinedrestaurant, and a host of little children played hide and seek behindthe remnants of its walls. 

On our way down the street we came across Reynolds, who had only joinedthe regiment the night before, while we, who had been nearly three weeksat the front, felt ourselves war-beaten veterans compared to him. He wasstanding on the pavement, gazing excitedly up at an aeroplane, aroundwhich were bursting little white puffs of smoke. 

"Come along with us, " said Lytton. "You'll get sick to death of seeingaeroplanes shelled when you've been out here as long as we have. Comeand discover the scene of to-night's orgy. "

In the Grande Place, at the side of the Cloth Hall, we discovered theHôtel de l'Epée Royale. A "Jack Johnson" had made an enormous hole inthe pavement just in front of it, and a large corner of the building hadgone. 

"By Jove, " said Reynolds in an awed voice. "What a hole! It must havetaken some shell to do that. "

Lytton smiled patronisingly. "My dear fellow, " he said, "that's nothingat all. It's hardly any bigger than the hole that a spent bullet makes. Let's go inside and get some lunch to see what sort of a place it is. "

But Reynolds and I were firm. "Rot!" we said. "Let's go home and fast. Otherwise we shall be no good for this evening; we've got our duty to doto the dinner. "

So we went back to the Company Mess in the infantry barracks, past ahouse that had been destroyed that morning. Hunting in and out of theruins were a man and a woman, and another woman, very old, with eyesswollen by weeping, sat on what was left of the wall of her house, abroken photograph frame in her hands. 

There are many fellows who have laid down their lives since that littledinner in the Hôtel de l'Epée Royale; he who gave it died of wounds sixweeks later, as gallant a commanding officer as one could wish to have. If the dinner were to take place again, there would be many gaps roundthe table, and even the building must long since have been pounded todust. 

If this should meet the eyes of any of you that were there, let yourminds run back for a moment, and smile at your recollections. Do youremember how we dosed Wilson's glass so that he left us before thesweets were on the table? Do you remember how we found him later sittingon the stairs, poor fellow, clasping his head in a vain effort to stopthe world from whirling round? Do you remember the toasts that we drank, and the plans we made for that dim period, "after the war"? I confessthat I have completely forgotten everything that we ate--beyond thewhisky, I forget even what we drank; but I know that the daintiestlittle dinner in London could not have pleased us nearly so much. Andthen, when it was all over and we broke up to go home to bed, do youremember how young Carter stood in the middle of the Grande Place andmade rhapsodies to the moon--though, to the rest of us, it seemed muchlike any other moon--until we took him up and carried him home by force?

It does you good to look back sometimes. You may find it sad because somany are gone that were our companions then. But this is the way of war;they must die sooner or later, and they could not have chosen bettergraves. If one must die, why not die fighting for England and Ypres?

 * * * * *

There is one street in Ypres that I knew in peace time. It wound in andout between the stiff, white houses, and the little Flemish childrenwould make it echo to their shouts and laughter, until you couldscarcely hear the rumble and the rattle of the carts on the cobbles ofthe main street, near by. And I passed along the same winding way duringthe second battle of Ypres. The shattered houses stretched jagged edgesof brickwork towards the sky, the road was torn up, and the pavingstones were piled up grotesquely against each other. Outside theconvent, where I seemed to catch the dim echo of children's laughter, lay a smashed limber--the horse was on its back, with its legs stuck upstiffly; and, just touching the broken stone cross that had fallen fromabove the convent door, lay the figure of the dead driver. 

And, of all that I remember of Ypres, it is of this that I think mostoften, for it is a symbol of the place itself--the dead man lying by thecross, sign of suffering that leads to another life. The agony of Ypreswill render it immortal; for if ever a town deserved immortality, it issurely this old, ruined city on the plains of Flanders. 

XII

"PONGO" SIMPSON ON GRUMBLERS

I was in my dug-out, trying to write a letter by the intermittent lightof a candle which was extinguished from time to time by the rain dropsthat came through the roof, when I suddenly heard the squelching of mud, the sound of slipping, and an appalling splash. Someone had fallen intothe shell hole just outside. 

I waited a moment, and I heard the well-known voice of "Pongo" Simpson. "Strike me pink!" he spluttered, as he scrambled up the steep bank outof the water. "An' I gone an' forgot me soap. The first bath as I've 'adfor six weeks, too. " And he blundered into my dug-out, a terrible objectcovered in slimy mud from head to foot, and when he breathed littleshowers of mud flew off his moustache. 

"Hullo, " I said, "you seem to be wet. "

"Sorry, sir, " said "Pongo, " "I thought as 'ow this was my dug-out. Wet, sir? Gawd! Yes, I should think I was wet, " and he doubled up to showme, while a thin stream of muddy water trickled from his hair on to myletter. "'Owever, it ain't no good to grumble, an' it's better to fallin a shell hole than to 'ave a shell fall on me. I've got some 'ot teain me own dug-out, too. "

When he had gone, I crumpled up my muddy letter, and I confess that Ipurposely listened to his conversation, for his dug-out was onlyseparated from mine by a few horizontal logs piled up on each other. 

"Well, you see, it ain't no good to grouse, " he was saying to someone. "I've got mud up me nose an' in me eyes, and all down me neck, but itwon't go away 'owever much I grumbles. Now, there's some blokes asgrouses all the time--'ere, Bert, you might 'and over your knife amoment to scrape the mud off me face, it all cracks, like, when Italk--if they've got a Maconochie ration they wants bully beef, an' ifthey've got bully beef they carn't abear nothink but Maconochie. If youtold 'em as 'ow the war was goin' to end to-morrow they'd either callyou a bloomin' liar, or grouse like 'ell becos they 'adn't 'ad the timeto win the V. C. 

"There was young Alf Cobb. 'E wasn't arf a grouser, an' 'e 'ad good luckall the bloomin' time. When 'e came to the front they put 'im along o'the transport becos 'e'd been a jockey before the war, an' 'e grousedall the time that 'e didn't 'ave none of the fun of the fightin'. Fun ofthe fightin', indeed, when 'e'd got that little gal what we used tocall Gertie less than ten minutes from the stables! She was a nicelittle bit of stuff, was Gertie, an', if only she'd spoke Englishinstead of this bloomin' lingo what sounds like swearin' . .. " and here"Pongo" wandered off into a series of reminiscences of Gertie that havelittle to do with war and nothing to do with grumbling. 

"'Owever, as I was sayin', " he continued at last, "that there Alf Cobbused to fair aggryvate me with 'is grousin'. When 'e got sent up for aspell in the trenches, and 'ad all 'the fun of the fightin', ' 'e grousedbecause 'e couldn't go off to some ole estaminet an' order 'is glass o'bitters like a dook. 'E groused becos 'e 'adn't got a feather bed, 'egroused becos 'e 'ad to cook 'is own food, an' 'e groused becos 'edidn't like the 'Uns. An' then when a whizz-bang landed on the parapetan' gave 'im a nice Blighty one in the arm, 'e groused becos 'e wasafraid the sea'd be rough when 'e crossed over, an' 'e groused becos 'ecouldn't light 'is own pipe. 'E's the sort of bloke what I don't like. 

"What I like is a bloke like ole Lewis, who was always chirpy. 'E 'adthe rheumatics something fearful, but 'e never grumbled. Then 'e'd jestgone an' got spliced afore the war, an' 'is missis got 'im into debt an'then ran off with a fellow what works in the munitions. 'No goodgrousin', ' says ole Joe Lewis, an' 'e still stayed cheerful, an' thenight 'e 'eard as 'ow 'is young woman 'ad gone off 'e played away on 'isole mouth-organ as 'appily as a fellow what's on 'is way to the GreenDragon with five bob in 'is pocket. The other blokes what knew about itthought as 'ow Joe didn't care at all, but I was 'is mate an' I knew as'ow it 'urt a lot. When 'e got knocked over in that attack down LeeBassey way, I jest stopped by 'im for a minute. 'Don't you worry aboutme, Pongo, ' says 'e, 'I couldn't stand 'ome without 'er'--meanin' 'ismissis, you see--'an' I'd rather 'op it like this. If I 'ad me olemouth-organ 'ere, I'd give you chaps a tune to 'elp you on like. ' That'sthe sort of bloke 'e was, chirpy up to the end. I 'ad to go on to the'Un trenches, an' I never saw 'im again, for a big shell came along an'buried 'im. 

"After all, " continued "Pongo" after a pause, "it's a life what 'as itsadvantages. I ain't got to put on a 'ard collar o' Sundays out 'ere likeme ole woman makes me do at 'ome. Then, I might 'ave stuck in that shell'ole and 'ave been drowned; I might not 'ave 'ad a clean shirt to drymeself with; I might 'ave been 'it by a 'crump' yesterday. Yes, it mightbe worse, an' I ain't never a one to grouse. "

Then someone who knew "Pongo" well made an apparently irrelevant remark. "There's plum and apple jam for rations again, " he said. 

"Pongo" rose to the fly at once. "Gawd!" he said, "if that ain't thebloomin' limit. I'd like to get me 'and round the neck of the bloke whatgets all the raspberry an' apricot an' marmalade. 'Ere 'ave I been twoyears in the trenches, an' what 'ave I seen but plum an' apple? If itain't plum an' apple, it's damson an' apple, which is jest the same onlythere's more stones in it. It do make me fair wild. .. . "

"Pongo, " insinuated someone at this moment, "I thought as 'ow you nevergrumbled. "

"Pongo's" voice sank to its ordinary level. "That ain't grumblin', " hesaid. "I ain't a one to grumble. "

But for the better part of an hour I heard him growling away to himself, and "plum and apple" was the burden of his growl. For even "Pongo"Simpson cannot always practise what he preaches. 

XIII

THE CONVERT

John North, of the Non-Combatant Corps, leaned over the counter andsmiled lovingly up into the shop girl's face. By an apparent accident, his hand slid across between the apple basket and the tins of biscuits, and came into gentle contact with hers. Knowing no French, hisconversation was strictly limited, and he had to make amends for this bytalking with his hand--by gently stroking her palm with hisearth-stained thumb. 

Mademoiselle Thérèse smiled shyly at him and her hand remained on thecounter. 

Private John North, thus encouraged, grew still bolder. He clasped herfingers in his fist, and was just wondering if he dared kiss them, whena gruff voice behind him caused him to stiffen, and to pretend he wantednothing but a penny bar of chocolate. 

"Now then, come orf it, " said the newcomer, a private with the trenchmud still caked on his clothes. "She's my young laidy, ain't yer, Thérèse?"

Thérèse smiled rather vaguely, for she knew no more Cockney than JohnNorth knew French. 

"You clear out of 'ere, " continued the linesman. "I don't want none o'you objector blokes 'anging around this shop, and if you come 'ere againI won't arf biff you one. "

Unfortunately, it is the nature of woman to enjoy the sight of two menquarrelling for her favours, and Thérèse, guessing what was happening, was so unwise as to smile sweet encouragement at John North. 

Even a Conscientious Objector loses his conscience when there is a womanin the case. John North turned up his sleeves as though he had been aboxer all his life, and proceeded to trounce his opponent with suchvigour that the biscuit tins were hurled to the ground and the contentsof a box of chocolates were scattered all over the floor. 

As far as we are concerned, Mademoiselle Thérèse passes out of existencefrom this moment, but the little incident in her shop was not withoutconsequences. In the first place, the Military Police cast the twomiscreants into the same guard room, where, from bitter rivals, theybecame the best of friends. In the second place, John North, having oncedrawn blood, was no longer content with his former life, and wanted todraw more. 

In the end he joined the Westfords, and fired his first shot over theparapet under direct tuition from his new friend. It matters littlethat his first shot flew several yards above the German parapet; theintention was good, and it is always possible that the bullet may havestung into activity some corpulent Hun whose duty called on him to leadpack horses about behind the firing line. 

 * * * * *

For weeks Holy John, as his company called him, passed out of my life. There were many other things to think of--bombs and grenades, attacksand counter-attacks, "barrages" and trench mortars, and all the otherthings about which we love to discourse learnedly when we come home onleave. John North was, for the time, completely forgotten. 

But one day when the Great Push was in full swing, I met him again. Fromhis former point of view he had sadly degenerated; from ours he hadbecome a useful fellow with a useful conscience that told him Englandwanted him to "do in" as many Huns as he could. 

I was supervising some work on a trench that had been German, but wasnow ours--the red stains on the white chalk told of the fight forit--when a voice I knew sounded from farther up the trench. 

"If you don't bloomin' well march better, I won't arf biff you one, Iwon't, " I heard, as the head of a strange little procession came roundthe traverse. At the rear of six burly but downcast Germans, camePrivate John North, late Conscientious Objector, driving his prisonersalong with resounding oaths and the blood-chilling manoeuvres of abayonet that he brandished in his left hand. 

"They'll all mine, sir, the beauties, " he said as he passed me. "Got 'emall meself, and paid me little finger for 'em, too, " and he held up abandaged right arm for my inspection. 

And, far down the trench, I heard him encouraging his prisoners withthreats that would delight a pirate or a Chinaman. 

How he, single-handed, captured six of the enemy I do not know, but hewas the first man to reach the German wire, they tell me, and he broughtin two wounded men from No Man's Land. 

Personally, then, it hardly seems to me that six Germans are enough topay for the little finger of Holy John, erstwhile ConscientiousObjector. 

XIV

DAVID AND JONATHAN

I

Strangely different though they were, they had been friends ever sincethey first met at school, eleven years before. Jonathan--for what othernames are necessary than the obvious David and Jonathan?--was then afat, sandy-haired boy, with a deep love of the country, and hands that, however often he washed them, always seemed to be stained with ink. Hehad a deep admiration, an adoration almost, for his dark-haired, dark-eyed David, wild and musical. 

The love of the country it was that first made them friends, and Davidbecame, so to speak, Jonathan's means of expression, for David could putinto words, and, later on, into music, what Jonathan could only feeldimly and vaguely. Jonathan was the typical British public-schoolboywith a twist of artistic sense hidden away in him, while David waspossessed of a soul, and knew it. A soul is an awkward thing to possessat school in England, for it brings much "ragging" and no littlecontempt on its owner, and Jonathan fought many battles in defence ofhis less-understood friend. 

Eleven years had wrought but little material change in them. Jonathan, after a few minor rebellions, had settled down in his father's officeand was learning to forget the call of the open road and the half-formeddreams of his youth. David, on the other hand, was wandering over theContinent nominally studying languages for the Consular Service, reallypicking up a smattering of poetry, a number of friends, and a deepknowledge of music. From Jonathan, he had learned to hide his sentimentsin the presence of those who would not understand, and to make hisreason conquer the wilder of the whims that ran through his brain. Jonathan, in turn, had gained a power, which he scarcely realised, ofappreciating music and scenery, and which no amount of office life wouldever diminish. 

Then the war broke out, and brought them together again. 

At the beginning of it, David, who had been amusing himself in Madrid byteaching the elements of grammar and a large vocabulary of English slangto any Spaniard who would pay for it, came home and enlisted withJonathan in a line regiment. For two months they drilled and exercisedthemselves in the so-called "arts of war. " Then, chiefly on account ofa soulless section commander, they applied for, and obtained, commissions in the same regiment. 

In the same billet, they re-lived their schooldays, and over the fire inthe evenings would call up old memories, or David would tell of hisadventures abroad, until late in the night. 

When the time came for them to go to the front, the Fates still favouredthem; they went out together to the same regiment in France, and weredrafted to the same company. Together they went up to the trenches forthe first time, together they worked, together they crouched under theparapet when the German shells came unpleasantly close, and, all thetime, Jonathan, calm and stolid, unconsciously helped the other, who, being cursed with a vivid imagination, secretly envied his friend'scalm. 

Now, nothing has more power to cement or break friendships than war. Theenforced company, the sharing of danger, the common bearing of allimaginable discomforts combine to make comrades or enemies. There are somany things to tax one's patience, that a real friend in whom one mayconfide becomes doubly dear, while you end by hating a man who has themisfortune to irritate you day after day. War made David and Jonathanrealise how much their friendship meant, and how necessary each was tothe other, the one because of his continued calm, the other because ofthe relief his love of music and of Nature brought with it. 

II

Near the end of April 1915 they came back to billets near Ypres. To thenorth a terrific battle was in progress, the last inhabitants werefleeing from the town, and huge shells screamed on their way, and burstwith appalling clouds of smoke among the already shattered houses. Occasionally a motor cyclist would come racing down the road, and, onceor twice, an ambulance came by with its load of gassed and wounded fromthe fighting to the north. 

One morning, when the Germans seemed fairly quiet, David and Jonathanset out arm in arm towards Ypres, to explore. An occasional shell--ahum, increasing until it became a roar, followed, a moment after, by afearful explosion--warned them not to proceed beyond the outskirts ofthe town, and here it was that they came upon a large villa, with lilacbudding in the garden. By mutual consent, they turned in at the talliron gate, and entered the half-ruined house. 

The part of the house giving on the road had been destroyed by a largeshell. Over a gaping hole in the ceiling was a bed, its iron legsweirdly twisted, which threatened to overbalance at any minute and tocome hurtling down into the hall beneath. Shattered picture framesstill hung on the walls, and on the floor near at hand lay a rosary, theCrucifix crushed by some heedless boot. The furniture lay in heaps, andthe front door was lying grotesquely across a broken mirror. Everywherewas wreckage. 

The other half of the house was still almost intact. In what had oncebeen the salon they found comfortable chairs and an excellent Pleyelpiano, while a copy of the _Daily Mirror_ gave the clue that the roomhad until recently been occupied by British troops. 

David seated himself at the piano and began to play, and Jonathan threwhimself in an arm-chair near the window to listen, and to watch thealternate cloud and sunshine outside. It was one of those perfectmornings of April, bright-coloured and windy, and the breeze in thelilacs combined with the notes of the piano until they could hardly betold apart. The rare whirr and explosion of a shell only had the effectof accentuating the intervening peace. Jonathan had never felt so at onewith Nature and with his friend, and more than once, stolid and calmthough he generally was, he felt a tear in his eye at an extra beautifullittle bit of music or the glory of the world outside. 

III

"Coming up to the villa this morning?" asked David of his friend a dayor two later. 

"I've got a confounded rifle inspection at half-past ten. You go on andI'll get up there as soon as I can, " answered Jonathan, and he went offto talk to his platoon sergeant while his friend strolled off to thevilla. 

When he was going up the road to Ypres an hour later, he met an orderlyon horseback. "Excuse me, sir, I don't think the road's extry nice now, "he said. "They're dropping some heavy stuff into Yips again. "

Jonathan smiled. "Oh, that's all right, " he said. "Thanks, all the same, for warning me. I'll take care. " And he hurried on up the road. 

It was not until he was inside the villa that he noticed anything out ofthe ordinary. Suddenly, however, he stopped aghast. The door by whichthey entered the salon was gone, and in its place was a huge gap in thewall. The furniture was buried under a mass of debris, and instead ofthe gilded ceiling above him was only the blue sky. The piano was stilluntouched, but on the keys, and on the wall behind, were splashes ofblood. Lying on the ground near it, half covered in plaster, was David. He forced himself to approach, and looked again. His friend's head wascompletely smashed, and one arm was missing. 

For some minutes he stood still, staring. Then, with a sudden quiver, heturned and ran. In the garden he tripped over something, and fell, buthe felt no hurt, for mad terror was upon him, and all sense had gone. He must get away from the dreadful thing in there; he must put milesbetween himself and the vision; he must run . .. Run . .. Run. .. . 

IV

Two privates found him, wild-eyed and trembling, and brought him to amedical officer. "Nerves, poor devil, and badly too!" was the diagnosis;and before Jonathan really knew what had happened, he was in hospital inRouen. 

Everyone gets "nervy" after a certain amount of modern warfare; even thenerves of the least imaginative may snap before a sudden shock. 

So with stolid Jonathan. After a year, he is still in England. "Whydoesn't he go out again?" people ask. "He looks well enough. He must beslacking. " But they realise nothing of the waiting at night for thedreaded, oft-repeated dreams; they cannot tell of the horrible visionsthat war can bring, they do not know what it means, that neurasthenia, that hell on earth. 

It is difficult to forget what must be forgotten. If you have "nerves"you must do all you can to forget the things that caused them, but wheneverything you do or say, think or hear, reminds you in some remote wayof all you must forget, then recovery is hard indeed. 

That is why Jonathan is still in England. If he hears or reads of thewar he thinks of his dead friend: if he hears music--even a streetorgan--the result is worse; if he tries to escape from it all, and hideshimself away in the country, the birds and the lilac blossom take himback to that morning near Ypres, when he first realised how much hisfriendship meant to him. And whenever he thinks of his friend, thathorrible corpse near the piano comes back before his tight-closed eyes, and his hands tremble again in fear. 

XV

THE RUM JAR

AND OTHER SOLDIER SUPERSTITIONS

The most notable feature in the famous history of the "Angels of Mons"was the fact that hundreds of practical, unpoetical, and stolid Englishsoldiers came forward and testified to having seen the vision. Whetherthe story were fact or fancy, it is an excellent example of a change inour national character. 

Before the war, the unromantic Englishman who thought he saw a visionwould have blamed in turn his eyesight, his digestion, his sobriety, andhis sanity before he allowed that he had anything to do with thesupernatural. He now tells, without the least semblance of a blush, thathe puts his faith in superstitions, and charms, and mascots, and thathis lucky sign has saved his life on half a dozen occasions. 

Of all the many and weird superstitions that exist in the British Armyof to-day, the most popular has to do with the jar that contains theration of rum. Rumour has it that once, long ago, a party that wasbringing up rations for a company in the trenches was tempted by thethought of a good drink, and fell. When all the rum had been consumedthe question arose as to how to explain matters, and the genius of theparty suggested breaking the jar and pretending that it had been hit bya bullet. When the party filed into the trench, the waiting company wasshown the handle of the jar, and had to listen to a vivid tale of how aGerman bullet that had just missed Private Hawkes had wasted all thecompany's rum. Rumour also has it that the unsteady gait of one memberof the party gave the lie to the story--but this is beside the point. 

From this little incident there has sprung up a far-reachingsuperstition--German bullets, the men have it, swerve instinctivelytowards the nearest rum jar. A few stray shots have helped to strengthenthe belief, and the conviction holds firm down nearly the whole lengthof the British line that the man who carries the rum jar runs a doublerisk of being hit. 

Mascots and talismans hold an important place in the soldier's life. Iknow of one man who used to carry in his pack a rosary that he hadpicked up in one of the streets of Ypres. One day his leg was fracturedin two places by a large piece of a trench-mortar bomb, but, in spite ofhis pain, he refused to be taken down to the dressing station until wehad hunted through his pack and found him his rosary. "If I don't takeit with me, " he said, "I'll get 'it again on the way down. "

And this is by no means an isolated example. Nearly every man at thefront has a mascot of some sort--a rosary, a black cat, a German button, or a weird sign--which is supposed to keep him safe. 

Their superstitions, too, are many in number. One man is convinced thathe will be killed on a Friday; another man would rather waste a dry--andtherefore valuable--match than light three cigarettes with it; anotherwill think himself lucky if he can see a cow on his way up to thetrenches; a fourth will face any danger, volunteer for any patrol, gothrough the worst attack without a qualm, simply because he "has got afeeling he will come through unhurt. " And he generally does, too. 

I once had a servant who used to wear a shoe button on a piece of stringround his neck. At some village billet in France a tiny girl had givenit him as a present, and he treasured it as carefully as a diamondmerchant would treasure the great Koh-i-noor stone--in fact, I amconvinced that he often went without washing just to avoid the risk ofloss in taking it off and putting it on again. To you in England itseems ridiculous that a man should hope to preserve his life by wearinga shoe button on a piece of string. But then, you have not seen thestrange tricks that Fate will play with lives. You have not watched howoften a shell will burst in a group of men, kill one outright, and leavethe others untouched; you have not joked with a friend one moment andknelt by him to catch his dying words the next; you have not stood atnight by a hastily dug grave and wondered, as you mumbled a fewhalf-remembered prayers, why the comrade who is lying there on awaterproof sheet should have been killed while you are left unhurt. 

Besides, there are so many things which tend to make a man superstitiousand to confirm him in his trust in mascots and charms. Many a man hashad a premonition of his death, many a man has come through long monthsof war, and then has been killed on the day on which he lost his mascot. 

The thought of superstition recalls to me Joe Williams, theex-policeman. Joe Williams was a fatalist, and believed every word heread in his little book of prophecies, so that the dawn of September 4thfound him glum and depressed. 

"It ain't no bloomin' good, " he grumbled. "It says in my book as 'owSeptember 4th is a disastrous day for England, so it will be. Thereain't no way of stopping Fate. " And when his section laughed at him forhis fears he merely shrugged his shoulders, and sat gazing into thebrazier's glow. 

The day wore quietly on, and I had forgotten all about Williams and hisgloomy prophecies when a corporal came along to my dug-out. "Williamshas been hit by a bomb, sir, " he said, "and is nearly done for. "

At the other end of the trench lay Joe Williams, near to death, whilehis comrades tied up his wounds. The glumness had gone from his face, and when he saw me he signed for me to stoop down. "What did I tell you, sir, about the disaster for England?" he whispered. "Ain't this abloomin' disaster?" and he tried to laugh at his little joke, but theflow of blood choked him, and he died. 

Perhaps, though, he was nearer the mark than he imagined, for it is arash thing to say that the death of a man who can joke with his dyingbreath is not a disaster to England. 

 * * * * *

It may all seem intensely foolish to you, and childish; it may strikeyou that our men at the front are attempting to bribe Fate, or that weare returning to the days of witches and sorcerers. But it is notwithout its good points, this growth of superstition. Man is such alittle, helpless pawn in the ruthless game of war, and death is sosudden and so strange, that the soul gropes instinctively in search ofsome sign of a shielding arm and a watchful power. The Bible, theCrucifix, a cheap little charm--any of these may bring comfort to theman in the trench, and give him the illusion that he is not one ofthose marked for the sickle of Death. 

A man who is confident that he will come through a battle unhurtgenerally does so, or, if Death comes, he meets it with a smile on hislips. The man who expects to be killed, who has no belief in someshielding power--though it be but symbolised by a common shoe button--istaken by Death very soon, but, even then, not before he has gone throughthose long, morbid hours of waiting that breed the germs of fear. 

The penny lucky charm that can bring comfort to a man in danger is not athing to be ridiculed. It may be a proof of ignorance, but to the man itis symbolical of his God, and is therefore worthy of all respect andreverence from others. 

XVI

THE TEA SHOP

Baker came to me directly after lunch. "Look here, " he said, "I'm notsatisfied. "

"What's the matter now?"

"I want something respectable to eat. Let's go into Poperinghe and get aproperly cooked tea. "

"It's six miles, " I objected, "and a confoundedly hot day. "

"All the better for an omelette appetite. "

I thought of the omelettes in the tea shop of Poperinghe, and I knewthat I was lost. "Can't you get horses?" I asked. 

"No luck. The transport has to shift to-day and there's nothing doing inthat line. I asked just before lunch. "

The omelettes danced up and down before my eyes until the interveningmiles over hard cobble stones dwindled to nothing. "All right, " I said. "Will you go and get leave for us? I'll be ready in a minute. " And Iwent off to borrow some money from Jackson with which to pay for myomelettes. 

The church tower of Poperinghe shimmered in the heat and seemed tobeckon us on along the straight road that led through the miles of flatcountry, relieved here and there by stretches of great hop poles or bylittle red-roofed farms where lounged figures in khaki. 

In every field grazed dozens of horses and in every lane wereinterminable lines of motor lorries, with greasy-uniformed men crawlingabout underneath them or sleeping on the seats. In one place, aperspiring "Tommy" hurried round a farmyard on his hands and knees, andbarked viciously for the benefit of a tiny fair-haired girl and a filthyfox-terrier puppy; and right above him swung a "sausage" gleaming in thesunlight. Just outside Poperinghe we met company after company of men, armed with towels, waiting by the roadside for baths in the brewery, and, as we passed, one old fellow, who declared that his "rheumatics wasthat bad he couldn't wash, " was trying to sell a brand-new cake of soapfor the promise of a drink. 

The sun was hot in the sky, and the paving, than which nothing on earthis more tiring, seemed rougher and harder than usual; motor lorries, orcars containing generals, seemed, at every moment, to compel us to taketo the ditch, and we were hot and footsore when we tramped through theGrande Place to the tea shop. 

But here we were doomed to disappointment, for not a chair wasvacant--"Not room for a flea, " as Madame explained to us, and we had tocurb our appetites as best we could. 

The tea shop at Poperinghe! Where could you hope to find a more popularspot than was the tea shop in the early part of 1915? Where could youget better omelettes served by a more charming little waitress?--was shereally charming, I wonder, or did she merely seem so _faute de mieux_?Where could you find a nicer place to meet your friends from otherregiments, to drink coffee, to eat quantities of dainty French cakes? Itis not surprising that the shop at Poperinghe was always crowded by fourin the afternoon in those old days before the second battle of Ypres. 

As patiently as might be, Baker and I waited, lynx-eyed, until twochairs were vacated. 

"Mademoiselle, " we called, "deux omelettes, s'il vous plait. "

"Bien, messieurs, tout de suite. "

But we were far too hungry to wait, and before the omelettes arrived wehad cleared a great plate of cakes. After weeks of indifferent trenchcooking the first well-done omelette is a great joy, and, as I put downmy fork, I glanced inquiry at Baker. 

"Rather, " he answered to my unspoken question. 

"Mademoiselle, encore deux omelettes, s'il vous plait, " I ordered. "Nousavons une faim de loup. "

"Je m'en aperçois, messieurs les officiers, " answered our fairenchantress, as she hurried off to repeat our order in the kitchen, while a crowd of predatory officers glared murder at us when they foundwe did not intend to leave our places so soon. "Some fellows are pigs, "murmured one. 

"That was splendid, " said Baker when we started off on our homewardwalk. "But six miles is a hell of a long way. "

Personally, though, I enjoyed those six miles through the dusk, for weseemed to hear the hum of the traffic and the shouts of newsboys. Ourtea brought back souvenirs of England, and we talked of London and ofhome, of theatres, and of coast patrol on the southern cliffs, until thelittle low huts of our camp showed up ahead. 

 * * * * *

It is nearly two years now since Baker was killed. He was found gassedin a dug-out on Hill 60, and by his side lay his servant, who had diedin the attempt to drag him out to the comparative safety of the opentrench. Nearly two years since another friend gave up his life for hiscountry; nearly two years since another mother in England learned thather son had been killed in a "slight diversion on the Ypres salient"!

But it was thus that he would have wished to die. 

XVII

"HERE COMES THE GENERAL"

A servant brought me a note to my dug-out:

"Come down and have some lunch in trench 35D, " it ran, "in C Companyofficers' dug-out. Guests are requested to bring their own plates andcutlery; and, if it is decent, their own food. Menu attached. R. S. V. P. "

The menu was as follows:

 MENU OF LUNCHEON GIVEN BY C COMPANY AT THEIR COUNTRY RESIDENCE, "THE RETREAT, " 15/5/15. 

 SOUPS

 Soup à la Bully Beef. Soup à l'Oxo. 

 FISH

 Salmon (and Shrimp Paste) without Mayonnaise Sauce. Sardines à l'Huile (if anyone provides them). 

 ENTREES

 Maconochie, very old. Bully beef and boiled potatoes. 

 SWEETS

 Pineapple Chunks, fresh from the tin. English Currant Cake. 

 SAVOURY

 Welsh Rarebit. 

I read through the menu, and decided to risk it, and, procuring thenecessary crockery, I clanked through fully half a mile of trenches to CCompany. The officers' dug-out was in the cellar of an old cottage whichjust came in our line of trenches. The only access to it was by means ofa very narrow stairway which led down from the trench. The interior, when I arrived, was lit by three candles stuck in bottles, which showedofficers in almost every vacant spot, with the exception of one corner, where a telephone orderly was situated with his apparatus. I occupiedthe only untenanted piece of ground I could find, and awaited events. 

The soup was upset, as the moment when the servant was about to bring itdown from the outer air was the moment chosen for a rehearsal of thatfamous game, "Here comes the General. " The rules of this game aresimple. The moment anyone utters the magic phrase there is an immediaterush for the steps, the winner of the game being he who manages toarrive at the top first and thus impress the imaginary general with hissmartness. 

The soup stood but a poor chance in a stampede of eleven officers, thecandles were kicked out, and a long argument ensued as to whose platewas which, and why Martin's spoon should have gone down Fenton's neck, and if the latter should be made to forfeit his own spoon to make up forhis unintentional theft. 

Order was at length restored, and the meal was proceeding in comparativepeace, when, suddenly, Jones, who had not been invited to the luncheon, appeared at the top of the steps. 

"I say, you fellows, " he cried excitedly. "Here comes the General. "

"Liar!" shouted someone. But the magic words could not be allowed topass unnoticed, even though we were eating pineapple chunks at the time, and they are very sticky if you upset them over your clothes. 

A fearful scramble took place, in which everyone--with the exception ofWalters, who placed himself in the further corner with the tin ofpineapple--tried to go together up steps which were just broad enough toallow the passage of one man at a time. 

A conglomerate mass of officers, all clinging convulsively to eachother, suddenly burst into the open trench--almost at the feet of theGeneral, who came round the traverse into view of them at that moment. 

When I returned to C Company's dug-out, an hour or so later, to try torecover my plate and anything else that had not been smashed, I foundthree officers reading a message that had just come by telephone fromBattalion Headquarters. It was prefixed by the usual number ofmysterious letters and figures and ran:

"The Brigadier has noticed with regret the tendency of several officersto crowd into one dug-out. This practice must cease. An officer shouldhave his dug-out as near those of his own men as possible, and shouldnot pass his time in the dug-outs belonging to officers of othercompanies. "

"Here comes the General!" whispered somebody. 

I got first up the steps and hurried, a battered plate in my hand, alongthe trenches to my dug-out. 

XVIII

THE RASCAL IN WAR

Even the most apathetic of us has been changed by war--he who in timesof peace was content with his ledgers and daily office round is now inthe ranks of men who clamber over the parapet and rush, cheering, to theGerman lines; she who lived for golf, dances, and theatres is now caringfor the wounded through the long nights in hospital. Everyone in everyclass of life has altered--the "slacker" has turned soldier, and theburglar has become a sound, honest man. 

Strange it is that war, which might be expected to arouse all the animalpassions in us, has done us so much good! There are among the men in thetrenches many hundreds who were, before the war, vastly more at home inthe police courts and prisons than is the average Londoner at a publicdinner. That they should be brave is not astonishing, for adventure isin their bones, but they are also as faithful, as trustworthy, asamenable to discipline as any soldiers we possess. 

There was "Nobby" Clarke, for instance. "Nobby" was a weedy littleCockney who became my "batman, " or servant. He had complete control ofmy privy purse, did all my shopping, and haggled over my every halfpennyas carefully as though it were his own. Then, when he had served me forover six months, I overheard him one day recounting his prisonexperiences, and I discovered that he had been a pilferer and pickpocketwell known in all the London police courts. In his odd moments out ofjail, he would hover outside the larger stations, touch a bedraggled capwith a filthy finger, and say, "Kerry yer beg, sir?" in a threateningtone to all passers-by; his main income, however, appeared to come fromfar less respectable sources. 

And yet he served me more faithfully than I have ever been served beforeor since, and I have seldom been more sorry than I was when "Nobby"Clarke was hit. As we were tying him up--he had been wounded in eightplaces by a rifle grenade--he signed to me and I stooped over him. 

"I ain't got no one at 'ome as cares fer me, " he said, "so yer might'and me things round to the blokes 'ere. I've got a photograph of me olewoman wot died five years ago. It's in me pay book, sir, an' I'd likeyer to keep it jest to remind yer of me. " Then, his voice getting weakerevery moment, "I ain't been such a bad servant to yer, 'as I, sir?" hewhispered, his eyes looking appealingly into mine. And when "Nobby"Clarke, onetime loafer and pickpocket, passed away, I am not ashamed toown that there was a queer sort of lump in my throat. 

And he was only one of many, was "Nobby" Clarke. There was Bennett, thetramp, who was always ready with a song to cheer up the weary on themarch; there was a Jewish money-lender who was killed while trying tosave a man who was lying wounded in No Man's Land; there was Phillips, who had been convicted of manslaughter--he became a stretcher-bearer, and was known all over the battalion for his care of the wounded. 

In every regiment in every army you will find a little group of men whowere tramps and beggars and thieves, and, almost without exception, theyhave "made good. " For the first time in their lives they have beenaccepted as members of great society, and not driven away as outcasts. The Army has welcomed them, disciplined them, and taught them theelements of self-respect--a quality whose very existence they ignoredbefore the war. 

There is an Italian proverb--"Tutto il mondo è paese"--which means, inits broadest sense, "All the world is ruled by the same passion andqualities. " In the old days it needed a Dickens, and, later, a NeilLyons to discover the qualities of the criminal classes; now war hasbrought us all together--the erstwhile city merchant warms himselfbefore the same brazier as the man who would have picked his pocketthree years before--and we suddenly find that we are no better than thebeggar, and that a man who stole apples from a stall is no worse atheart than the inhabitant of Mayfair. 

It is not that our ideas of greatness have degenerated when we callthese men heroes; it is not that war is entirely a thing of evil, sothat the criminal shines as a warrior--it is that these "outcasts" havechanged. Statistics prove that crime has decreased since the war began, and crime will continue to decrease, for that indefinable instinct wecall patriotism has seized on all classes alike, so that the criminalcan make the supreme sacrifice just as magnificently as the man who has"kept straight" all his life. 

And the best of it is that this reform among burglars and beggars is notfor the "duration of the war only. " War has lost us our sons and ourfathers, it has brought appalling sorrow and suffering into the world, but it has given the very poor a chance they have never had before. Nomore are they outcasts; they are members of society, and such they willremain. If this were all the good that war could do, it would still beour ultimate gain that the great scourge is passing over the world. 

XIX

"PONGO" SIMPSON ON OFFICERS

"Orficers, " said "Pongo" Simpson, "is rum blokes. I've got a fam'ly ofsix kids back at 'ome, not counting Emma what's in service, an' I reckonmy orficer's more trouble to look after nor all the lot of 'em puttogether. It's always: 'Simpson, where the dooce is my puttees?' or'Simpson, you've sewed this 'ere button on in the wrong place, ' or'Simpson, the soup tastes like cocoa and the cocoa tastes likesoup'--does 'e expect me to kerry a bloomin' collection of canteens?Don't 'e think it better to 'ave cocoa what's got a bit o' soup in itthan to 'ave a canteen what's been washed in a shell 'ole along of adead 'Un? Why, if we was goin' to charge to Berlin to-morrer I'd 'ave tospend 'arf the night cleanin' 'is boots and buttons. 

"Yes, 'e's a funny sort o' bloke, my orficer, but, my Gawd!"--and hereSimpson expectorated to give emphasis to his statement--"I'd foller 'imagainst a crowd of 'Uns, or a lot of wimmen what's waiting for their'usbands what ain't come 'ome at three in the morning, or anythink elseyou like. 'E's an 'elpless sort of chap, an' 'e's got funny ideas aboutshavin' and washin'--sort of disease, you know--but 'e's a good sortwhen you knows 'is little ways. 

"Do you remember that young Mr. Wilkinson?" asked "Pongo, " and a few ofthe "old hands" in the dug-out nodded affirmatively. "'E was a one, 'ewas, " resumed "Pongo. " "Do you remember the day we was gassed on 'Ill60? 'E used to be my bloke then, and I was with 'im all the time. 'E wasa proper lad! When the gas 'ad gone over there was only five of ACompany left, with 'im in charge, and we knew as 'ow the 'Uns wouldattack as soon as they thought we was properly wiped out. And Mr. Wilkinson was fine. All down the trench 'e put blokes' rifles on theparapet, and the 'ole bloomin' six of us ran up an' down the trench likea lot of rabbits, firin' off rifle after rifle till the Alleymans must'ave thought we was an 'ole battalion. The only times when Mr. Wilkinsonwasn't firin' rifles, 'e was fusin' bombs, jest as busy as that littlegirl be'ind the counter of the Nag's 'Ead of a Saturday night. 'E must'ave sent a good number of 'Uns 'ome that day with bits of bombs insideof them. 

"And you should 'a' seen Mr. Wilkinson when the Sergeant wos for givin'in and goin' back to the second line! We'd all the gas in us more orless, and 'e could 'ardly talk, 'e was that bad, but when 'e 'eard theSergeant say as 'ow 'e was goin' back, 'e shouted like the Colonel on abattalion parade. 'Curse you, Sergeant!' 'e yelled, 'what's the good ofgoin' back? We've got to 'old this trench or 'op it. If you don't likethe air down there, come up on the parapet with me. ' And up 'e jumps onto the parapet with the gas clearin' away, and the Fritzes only 30 or 40yards off. 

"'It? Why, of course 'e was 'it. 'E was laughin' like a kid what'sstealin' apples--all excited like--when they got 'im right through the'ead, and 'e fell down on the other side of the parapet. But 'e'd donewhat 'e wanted to, for the Sergeant wasn't talkin' any more about goin'back. 'E crawled out over the parapet and brought poor Mr. Wilkinsonback, and got 'it in the leg while 'e was doin' it, too. But that didn'tmatter to 'im, for 'e was out to 'ave 'is own back, was the Sergeant, and we 'eld that bloomin' trench for another hour until the blokes gotup the communication trench to 'elp us. There's a lot of medals whatought to go to blokes as don't get them, and it might 'ave 'elped Mr. Wilkinson's mother if they'd given 'im the V. C. , but there weren't noother orficers about, and they didn't take any notice of us chaps. "

"Talkin' of 'Ill 60, " said Bert Potter, "there was that Captain--Imisremember 'is name--you know, that bloke what got into trouble at theole farm for giving a cow a tin o' bully beef, and the cow died nextday. I was in 'is trench with a machine gun when 'e got 'is little bit. A chunk out of an 'and grenade 'it 'im in the thigh, and 'e laughed like'ell becos 'e'd got a 'cushy' wound. Why, 'e even said as 'ow 'e couldwalk down to the dressing station, and we envied 'im like 'ell andthought it was only a flesh wound. I got 'it the next day and went tothe same 'orspital where 'e was. 'E'd 'ad 'is thigh bone smashed all tobits, and they'd jest taken 'is leg off when I saw 'im. 'E was weak as akid and chirpy as a sparrer, and only cursin' becos 'e was out of thingsfor the rest of the war. I never 'eard what 'appened to 'im, but thenurse told me as 'ow they was afraid 'e wouldn't recover becos ofemmyridge, or something with a name like that. And 'e wasn't more nortwenty-one years old neither, pore bloke. "

"But you won't beat the Medical Orficer anywhere, " said Jones, one ofthe stretcher-bearers who was on duty in the trenches. "'E don't 'ave tofight, but you should see 'im when things is busy up 'ere. Coat off an'sleeves up, workin' for 'ours on end till any man what wasn't an 'orsewould drop dead. 'E's 'ard on the shirkers and scrimshankers--e's thesort of bloke what would give you a dose o' castor oil for earache orfrost-bitten feet, but 'e's like a mother with the wounded. I've seen'im, too, goin' along the cutting when the whizz-bangs was burstin' allthe way down it, carryin' some wounded fellow in 'is arms as calmly asif 'e were an ole girl carryin' a parcel along Regent Street. And then, "said Jones, as he named the greatest point in the M. O. 's favour, "'e'sthe best forward on a wet day as ever I seed. "

Just at that moment a voice sounded from farther up the trench. "Simpson, " it said, "where the deuce is my toothbrush?"

"Jest comin', sir. I've got 'un, " answered "Pongo" Simpson as heproduced a greasy-looking toothbrush from his pocket. "'Ere, give usthat canteen of 'ot water, " he said quietly, "I used 'is toothbrush togrease 'is boots with yesterday--didn't think 'e'd miss it, for youdon't come out 'ere to wash your teeth. They 'ave got funny ways, these'ere orficers. 'Owever, " he continued as he wiped the brush dry on thesleeve of his tunic, "what the eye don't see, the 'eart don't grieveover. 'E'll only think as 'ow it's the water what's greasy. "

"Simpson, " came the voice from farther along the trench, a moment or solater, "this is the greasiest water I've ever tasted. What the deuceyou've done to it I don't know. "

XX

THE HAND OF SHADOW

"Come in, " said Margery Debenham, as she opened her eyes lazily to thesunlight. "Put my tea on the table, please, Mary. I'm too sleepy todrink it yet. 

"There's a letter from the front, miss, " said Mary with emphasis, as shewent out of the room. 

Margery was awake in a second. She jumped out of bed, slipped on adressing-gown, and, letter in hand, ran over to the window to read it inthe morning sunshine. As she tore open the envelope and found only asmall sheet of paper inside, she made a little _moue_ of disappointment, but the first words of the letter changed it into a sigh of joy. It wasdated September 13th and ran:

"MY DARLING, "At last I have got my leave, and am coming home to be married. Ourmonths of waiting are over. I leave here to-morrow afternoon, shallspend the night on the way somewhere, and shall arrive in London lateon the 15th, or during the morning of the 16th. I must spend the day intown to do a little shopping (I couldn't be seen at my own wedding verywell in the clothes I have on now) and expect to get down to Silton at3. 20 on the 17th. I have to be back in this hole on the 24th, so that ifwe get married on Saturday we shall have quite a nice little honeymoon. Darling little one! Isn't it too good to be true? I can hardly realisethat within a week I shall be

"Your devoted and hen-pecked husband

RONALD. "

"P. S. --I have written to father, and he will make all arrangements forSaturday. 

"P. P. S. --Shall I be allowed to smoke in the drawing-room?"

 * * * * *

Margery Debenham leant out of the window and gazed at the garden and theorchard beyond. The light flickered through the trees of the old flaggedpath along which she and Ronald had so often wandered, and she couldjust see the tall grass waving down at the bottom of the orchard, wherethey used to sit and discuss the future. Everything reminded her of herlover who was coming back to her, who would be with her again to-morrowafternoon. At the thought of the five long, weary months of waiting thatwere passed, and of the eight days of happiness that were coming, twolittle tears crept out of her eyes and down her cheeks. She brushed themimpatiently away, for she was too busy to cry. She must run and tell herparents; she must hurry over to talk to Ronald's father; she must writeto her friends; she must run down to the bottom of the orchard and watchfor a while the trout that lay in the little stream; she must laugh andsing until the whole village of Silton knew that her waiting was over, and that Ronald was in England again. 

 * * * * *

Captain Ronald Carr hoisted his pack on his shoulder, and turned tothree officers who were looking at him enviously. "Cheer oh, youfellows, " he said, "think of me in two days' time, while you are being'strafed' by the Hun, rushing about town in a taxi, " and, with a wave ofhis hand, he marched off to battalion headquarters, followed by Butler, his servant. From battalion headquarters he had a distance of two milesto walk to the cross roads where he was to meet his groom with hishorse, but the day was hot and progress was rather slow. His firstquarter of a mile was along a narrow and winding communicating trench;after that the way was along a hidden road, but huge shell craters allalong told that the German artillery had it well marked. 

Away to the right a bombardment was in progress, and the dull thuds ofthe guns came sleepily through the September haze; above him, a skylarksang lustily; the long grass by the roadside smelt sweet and lush. AsRonald Carr strode down the road, he laughed to himself at the fairnessof the world. 

Of a sudden, a shell burst over some trees a few hundred yards away, and, as the white smoke rolled away, he felt aware of a change. 

Supposing he were to get wounded on the way down! With the next warningwhine of a coming shell he found himself ducking as never before, forCaptain Carr was not a man who often crouched for nothing. 

Another shell came, and another, and with each his feeling grew. Just somust a mouse feel, he thought, when a cat plays with it. He felt asthough he were at the mercy of an enormous giant, and that, each time hethought to escape, the shadow of a huge hand fell on the ground aroundhim, and he knew that the hand above was waiting to crush him. At thethought, the hair on his forehead grew damp; time after time he checkedhis mad impulse to quicken his pace, and caught himself glancingcovertly at his servant to see if he noticed his captain's strangebehaviour. Suppose the hand should crush him before he could get back toEngland, to his home, to his marriage!

Suddenly there were four short, loud hisses, and four shells burst alongthe road close in front of them. 

"They're searching the road. Quick, into the ditch, " shouted Carr tohis servant, as he jumped into an old trench that ran along theroadside. Butler turned to do the same, slipped on the _pavé_, and fellheavily, his ankle badly sprained. Those hateful hisses would come againbefore the man could crawl into safety, and this time they wouldprobably be nearer, and escape almost miraculous. Captain Carr leapedout of the trench again and helped his servant to his feet. 

"Cling on to me, man!" and, a moment after, he shouted, "down, here theycome again!" and they flung themselves on their faces scarce two feetfrom the ditch and probable safety. 

When Butler raised his head again after the four explosions, CaptainRonald Carr lay at his side, dead. The hand had grasped its prey. 

 * * * * *

Margery Debenham was standing in front of her mirror, getting ready togo to meet Ronald by the 3. 20 train, when Mr. Carr came to announce thereceipt of the War Office telegram. 

She could find no tears when she heard the news; she felt stunned, andvaguely bored by the platitudes of consolation people uttered. When shecould escape, she went slowly down the flagged path, where they used towalk to the orchard, where the future had been planned by two peoplefull of the happy confidence of the young. She flung herself down inthe long grass by the stream, and buried her hot face in her hands. 

"What does it all mean?" she said to herself. Then, a minute later, shethought of all the other women who had to bear the same pain, and allfor no reason. "There is no God, " she cried passionately. "No one canhelp me, for there is no God. " Day after day, night after night ofwaiting, and all for nothing. All those hours of agony, when the paperstalked of "diversions" on the British front, rewarded by the supremeagony, by the sudden loss of all hope. No more need to hunt for a lovedbut dreaded name through the casualty lists every morning; all that wasfinished now. 

The splash of a jumping trout in the pool under the willow tree took herthoughts away from her pain for the fraction of a second--justsufficient time to allow the soothing tears to come. 

"O God, " she murmured, "help me to see why. Help me, God, help me!" andshe burst into sobs, her face pressed down into the cool, long grass. 

XXI

THE VETERAN

Old Jules Lemaire, ex-sergeant in the 3rd regiment of the line, raisedhis wine glass. 

"Bonne chance, " he said, "and may you fight the devils as we did in 1870and 1871, and with more success too. "

"Enough of you and your 1870, " said someone roughly. "We go out to winwhere you lost; there will be no Woerth or Sedan in this war. We willdrive the Prussians back to Berlin; you let them march to Paris. We aregoing to act, whereas you can only talk--you are much too old, you see, Père Lemaire. "

The ex-sergeant put down his glass with a jerk as though he had beenstruck. He looked around on the company that filled the front room ofthe Faisan d'Or, and on the faces of the men who had looked up to himfor years as the hero of 1870 he now saw only the keenness to fight. Hewas old, forgotten, and no longer respected, and the blow was a hard oneto bear. 

The cloud of war was drifting up from the east, and the French Army wasmobilising for the Great War. The peasants of the village had just beencalled up, and within half an hour they would be on their way to thedepots of their different regiments, while Jules Lemaire, sergeant ofthe line, would be left at home with the cripples and the women and thechildren. 

"I will serve France as well as any of you, " he said defiantly. "I willfind a way. " But his voice was unheeded in the general bustle and noise, and Madame Nolan, the only person who appeared to hear him, sniffed withcontempt. 

Men destined for different regiments were saying good-bye to each other;Georges Simon, the blacksmith, with his arm round his fiancée's waist, was joking with Madame Nolan, who hurried about behind her little zinccounter; the door slammed noisily at each departure--and Jules Lemairesat unheeded in the corner by the old clock. 

And presently, when the front room was quiet and Madame Nolan was usingher dirty apron to wipe away her tears, the ex-sergeant crept outquietly into the street and hobbled along to his cottage. He reached upand took his old Chassepot rifle down from the wall where it had hungthese many years, and, while the other inhabitants thronged the road, cheering, weeping, laughing, Jules Lemaire sat before his little woodentable, with his rifle in his hands and a pile of cartridges before him. 

"There will be a way, " he murmured. "I will help my country; there willbe a way. "

 * * * * *

The grey invaders swept on through the village, and Jules Lemaire, fromhis hiding-place on the church tower, watched them come with tears ofimpotent rage on his cheeks. Battalion after battalion they passedby--big, confident Germans who jeered at the peasants, and who sang asthey plodded over the _pavé_. Once, when a company was halted beneathhim, while the officers went in to the Faisan d'Or across the road, tosee what they could loot in the way of drinks, the ex-sergeant aimedcarefully at the captain, but he put down his rifle without firing. 

At last, late in the afternoon when the dusk was beginning to hide thesouthern hills, Jules Lemaire's waiting came to an end. A large motorcar drew up outside the inn, and a general with three officers of hisstaff got out into the road. One of the officers spread a map on the olddoor bench--where Jules Lemaire had so often sat of an evening and toldof his adventures in the war--and, while an orderly went to procure winefor them, the four Germans bent over the plan of the country theythought to conquer. 

Suddenly a shot rang out from the church tower above them. The generalfell forward on to the bench, while his blood and his wine mingled in astaining stream that ran across the map of invincible France, anddripped down on to the dust below. 

 * * * * *

They met Jules Lemaire coming down the spiral steps of the church tower, his rifle still in his hand. They hit him with their rifle butts, theytied him up with part of the bell rope, and propped him up against thechurch wall. 

Just before they fired, Jules Lemaire caught sight of Madame Nolan, whostood, terrified and weeping, at the doorway of the inn. 

"You see, " he shouted to her, "I also, I have helped my country. I wasnot too old after all. "

And he died with a smile on his face. 

XXII

THE SING-SONG

As soon as the battalion marches back from the trenches to the villagein the first light of the morning, everyone turns his mind to methodswhich will help the few days of rest to pass as pleasantly as war andthe limited amusements afforded by two estaminets and a row of cottageswill permit. 

"Chacun son goût. " As he tramps along the street, B CompanySergeant-Major challenges Corporal Rogers to a boxing match on themorrow; Second Lieutenant White, who is new to war, sits in his billetand, by the light of a candle stuck in a bottle, traces the distance tothe nearest town on the off chance that he will get leave to visit it;the doctor demands of his new landlady, in the most execrable French, where he can find a field suitable for "le football"; and PrivateWilson, as he "dosses down" on the floor, suggests sleepily to PrivateJones that he will be thirsty in the afternoon and that Private Joneshas been owing him a drink since that day in Ouderdom three weeks ago. 

Besides such methods of passing the time, there are baths to be had inthe great brewery vats of the village, there is an inter-company hockeytournament to be played with a Tickler's jam tin in lieu of a ball, and, best of all, there is the "sing-song. "

Be it in a trench, or in a barn, or out in the open fields where thebattalion lies bivouacked under rows of waterproof sheets strung up asinadequate tents, the sing-song is sure of success, and a man with avoice like a mowing machine will receive as good a reception as wouldCaruso or Melba at Covent Garden. There is a French Territorial regimentwhich has a notice up at the entrance of its "music hall"--"Entrée pourMessieurs les Poilus. Prix un sourire. " Admission a smile! There isnever a man turned away from its doors, for where is the "poilu" orwhere is the "Tommy" who is not always ready with a smile and a laughand a song?

There are little incidents in life that engrave themselves deep in thememory. Of all the sing-songs I have attended, there is one that isstill vivid--the brush of time has washed away the outlines and edges ofthe others. 

We were billeted, I remember, in Eliza's farm--Eliza, for the benefit ofthose who do not know her, is fair, fat, fifty, and Flemish; a lady whoshakes everyone in the farm into wakefulness at five o'clock eachmorning by the simple process of stepping out of bed--when the Captaindecided that we wanted "taking out of ourselves. " "We'll have asing-song, " he announced. 

So the Company Sergeant-Major was called in to make arrangements, and ateight o'clock that evening we wandered into the Orchestra Stalls. Theconcert hall was a large barn with a double door in the middle which hadbeen opened wide to allow the admittance of a cart, which was placed inthe entrance to act as a stage. All around the high barn, and perchedprecariously on the beams, were the men, while we of the OrchestraStalls were accommodated on chairs placed near the stage. Behind thecart was a background consisting of Eliza and her numerous gentlemenfriends, her daughter, an old lady aged roughly a hundred, and a cowthat had no right to be there at all, but had wandered in from thenearest field to see the show. An orchestral accompaniment was kept up, even during the saddest recitation, by dozens of little pigs thatscrambled about in the farmyard and under the stage. And beyond the farmswayed the tall poplars that stood along the road which led straightaway into the distance, whence came sudden flashes of light and thelong, dull rumble of the guns. 

Of the programme itself, I have but the vaguest recollection, for theprogrammes are the least interesting part of these performances. Thefirst item, I remember, was a dreadful sentimental song by PrivateHiggs which accident converted from comparative failure into howlingsuccess. Just as he was rendering the most affecting passage, PrivateHiggs stepped back too far, the cart--of the two-wheeledvariety--overbalanced, and the sad singer was dropped down amongst thelittle pigs below, to the great joy of the crowd. 

Then came a Cockney humorist, who, in times of peace, was the owner of afried fish and chip barrow in that home of low comedians--the East End. After him appeared Sergeant Andrews, disguised in one of Eliza'sdiscarded skirts, with a wisp of straw on his head to represent a lady'shair. Some vulgar song he sang in a shrill, falsetto voice that causedgreat dismay among the pigs, as yet unused to the vagaries of theBritish soldier. 

After the interval, during which the audience _en masse_ made apilgrimage to Eliza's back door to buy beer at a penny a glass, therecame the usual mixture of the vulgar and the sentimental, for nothing onearth is more sentimental than a soldier. There was the inevitable"Beautiful Picture in a Beautiful Golden Frame, " and a recitation inYiddish which was well applauded simply because no man had any idea whatit was about. The Sergeant-Major gave a very creditable rendering of"Loch Lomond" in a voice that would terrify a recruit, and we finishedup the evening with a song requesting a certain naughty boy to hold outhis hand, which was shouted by everyone with so much vigour that onewondered how it was the men could still sing "God save the King" whenthe time came. 

And far into the night, when the farmyard lay still and ghostly, and thepigs had gone off to bed, we still sat and talked in the "Officers'Mess, " and recalled jokes of George Robey and Harry Tate, or hummed overthe tunes we had heard at the last Queen's Hall concert. As the Captainhad said, we wanted "taking out of ourselves, " and it had just needed animpromptu concert in an old Flemish barn to do it. 

XXIII

THE "STRAFE" THAT FAILED

There is a certain battery in France where the name of Archibald Smithbrings a scowl to every brow and an oath to every lip. The Battery Majorstill crimsons with wrath at the thought of him, and the ObservingOfficer remembers bitterly the long, uncomfortable hours he spent, perched up in a tree a hundred yards or so from the German lines. Andthis is how Archibald Smith was the unwitting cause of so much anger tothe battery, and the saver of many a German life. 

One morning shortly before dawn the Commanding Officer of an infantryregiment was wading down a communicating trench, when he met anartillery officer, accompanied by three men with a big roll of telephonewire. 

"Hullo, what are you doing at this hour?" he asked. 

"We hope to do some good 'strafing, ' sir, " said the subaltern. "I'mcoming up to observe. Some aeroplane fellow has found out that BrotherBoche does his relieving by day in the trenches opposite. We hope tocatch the relief to-day at ten. "

"Where are you going to observe from?"

"There's an old sniper's post in one of the trees just behind yourtrenches. If I get up there before light I shall get a topping view, andam not likely to get spotted. That's why I'm going up there now, beforeit gets light. "

"Well, are you going to stick up on that confounded perch until teno'clock?" asked the C. O. "You'd better come and have some breakfast withus first. "

But the Observing Officer knew the necessity of getting to his post assoon as possible and, reluctantly refusing the Colonel's invitation, hewent on his way. Ten minutes later, he was lying full length on aplatform constructed in one of the trees just behind the firing line. With the aid of his glasses, he scanned the German sandbags and, in thegrowing light, picked out a broad communicating trench winding towardsthe rear. "Once they are in that gutter, " he muttered, "we shall getlots of them, " and he allowed this thought to fortify him during hislong wait. 

 * * * * *

"Quite sure the telephone's all right?" asked the Observing Officer forthe fiftieth time. "If that wire were to go wrong we should have nomeans of getting on to the battery, for the infantry can only get on by'phoning to Brigade Headquarters first, and you know what that means. "

The telephone orderly, situated in a trench almost underneath theobserver's tree, smiled consolingly, "That's all right, sir, " he said. "I can ring up the battery in a second when the 'Uns come, as they oughtto in a minute. "

He had hardly spoken when they came. The subaltern could see them quitedistinctly at the turnings of the trench, and at other times anoccasional head or rifle showed itself. "God!" said the subaltern, "ifwe search that trench with shrapnel, we must get heaps of them, " and heissued a hurried order. Trembling in his excitement, he awaited thereport "Just fired, sir, " but nothing happened. The orderly called andcalled the battery, but there was no reply. The wire was cut!

Half an hour later, the Battery Major came across his Observing Officerand a sergeant gazing dismally at two ends of cut wire. 

"I was just coming down to see what was the matter. I hear from theBrigade that some doddering idiot has cut our wire. Who in the hell wasit?"

"I don't know, sir. All I know is that I have seen a wonderful target, and couldn't fire a round at it. The relief's over by now, and, as weleave this sector to-night, we've lost a priceless chance. "

"It must be some wretched infantry blighter, " said the Major. "I'll justgo and have a talk to their C. O. , " and he hurried off to the Colonel'sdug-out, leaving the Observer to lament his lost target. 

The C. O. Smiled soothingly. "My dear Wilson, " he said to the Major, "Idon't think it could have been one of our men. They have been warned sooften. What do you say, Richards?" he asked the Adjutant. 

"Well, sir, I'm not sure. I saw that young fellow Smith with some wireabout half an hour ago, but I don't expect he did it. I'll send for himto make sure. "

Second Lieutenant Archibald Smith certainly looked harmless enough. Hewas thin and freckled, and his big blue eyes gazed appealingly throughhis glasses. 

"Where did you get that wire you had just now?" asked the Adjutant. 

Smith beamed. "I got it just behind the wood, sir. There's a lot of oldwi . .. " but the Major interrupted him. "That's the place, " he criedexcitedly. "Well, what the devil did you go cutting my wire for?"

Archibald Smith looked at him in alarmed fascination. "I didn't think itwas any good, sir. I wa-wanted some string, and. .. . "

"What did you want string for? Were you going to hang yourself to theroof of your dug-out?"

"No, sir. I wanted to wrap up a p-parcel to send home, sir. I wa-antedto send back some socks and underclothes to be darned. I'm very sorry, sir. "

"Sorry? Sorry be damned, and your underclothes too!" And the BatteryMajor, who had more bad language at his disposal than most men in theArmy, for once forgot he was in the presence of a senior officer. 

 * * * * *

While the Major, his subaltern, and three men with a roll of wire wendedtheir sorry way back to the battery, Archibald Smith, surprised andhurt, sat in his dug-out, amusing himself by making fierce bayonetthrusts at his parcel, and alternately wishing it were the Major orhimself. 

XXIV

THE NIGHTLY ROUND

I swear, and rub my eyes. 

"Dusk, sir, " says the Sergeant-Major with a smile of comprehension, andhe lets fall the waterproof sheet which acts as a door to my dug-out. Iyawn prodigiously, get up slowly from my bed--one of two banks of earththat run parallel down each side of my muddy hovel, rather after thefashion of seats down each side of an omnibus--and go out into thetrench, along which the command "Stand to arms" has just been passed. The men leave their letters and their newspapers; Private Webb, whoearned his living in times of peace by drawing thin, elongated ladies invarying stages of undress for fashion catalogues, puts aside hisportrait of the Sergeant, who is still smiling with ecstasy at a tin ofchloride of lime; the obstinate sleepers are roused, to a great flow ofbad language, and all stand to their arms in the possibility of anattack. 

It is a monotonous time, that hour of waiting until darkness falls, forgossip is scarce in the trenches, and the display of fireworks in theshape of German star shells has long since ceased to interest us--alwaysexcepting those moments when we are in front of our trench on somepatrol. Away to the left, where the artillery have been busy all day, the shelling slackens as the light fades, and the rifle shots grow moreand more frequent. Presently the extra sentries are posted--one man inevery three--the disgusted working parties are told off to their work offilling sandbags or improving the communication trenches, and the long, trying night begins. 

All down the line the German bullets spin overhead or crack like whipsagainst our sandbags, sending little clods of earth down into thetrench; all down the line we stand on our firing platforms, and answerback to the little spurts of flame which mark the enemy trench; suddenflashes and explosions tell of bombs or grenades, and star shells fromboth sides sweep high into the air to silhouette the unwary and to giveone something to fire at, for firing into the darkness with theprobability of hitting nothing more dangerous than a tree or a sandbagis work of but little interest. 

I wander on my rounds to see that all the sentries are on the alert, and, suddenly, nearly fall over a man lying face downwards along thebottom of the trench. "Here, you can't sleep here, you know; you give noone a chance to pass, " I say, and, for answer, I am told to "shut up, "while a suppressed but still audible giggle from Private Harris warns methat the situation is not as I had imagined. The figure in the mud getsup and proves to be an officer of the Engineers, listening for sounds ofmining underneath us. "I think they're at it again, but I'm not certainyet, " he says cheerfully as he goes off to his own dug-out. I, in turn, lie down in the mud with my ear pressed to the ground, and I seem tohear, far beneath me, the rumble of the trolleys and the sound of thepick, so that I am left for the rest of the night in the uncomfortableexpectation of flying heavenwards at any moment. 

A buzz of voices which reaches me as I return from a visit to a workingparty informs me that the one great event of the night has takenplace--the rations and the mail have arrived and have been "dumped" bythe carrying party in a little side trench. Before I reach the spot aman comes hurrying up to me, "Please, sir, " he says, "young Denham hasbeen hit by a rifle grenade. 'E's got it very bad. " Just as I pass theside trench, I hear the sergeant who is issuing the letters call:"Denham. A letter for young Denham, " and someone says, "I'll take it tohim, Sergeant, 'e's in my section. "

But the letter has arrived too late, for when I reach the other end ofthe trench Denham is dead, and a corporal, is carefully searching hispockets for his letters and money to hand over to the platoon commander. They have carried him close to the brazier for light, and the flamesfind reflection on the white skin of his throat where his tunic has beentorn open, and there is an ugly black stain on the bandage that has beenroughly tied round him. Only one man in millions, it is true, but onemore letter sent home with that awful "Killed" written across it, andone more mother mourning for her only child. 

And so the night draws on. Now there is a lull, and the sentries, standing on the fire platforms, allow their heavy lids to fall in amoment's sleep; now a sudden burst of intense fire runs along the line, and everyone springs to his rifle, while star shells go up by dozens;now a huge rumble from the distance tells that a mine has been fired, and we wonder dully who fired it, and how many have been killed--dullyonly, for death has long since ceased to mean anything to us, and ourpowers of realisation and pity, thank God! have been blunted until theonly things that matter are food and sleep. 

At last the order to stand to arms is given again, and the new day comescreeping sadly over the plain of Flanders. What looked like a great handstretched up appealingly to heaven becomes a shattered, broken tree; theuniform veil of grey gives place to grass and empty tins, dead bodieslying huddled up grotesquely, and winding lines of German trenches. Thesky goes faintly blue, and the sun peeps out, gleaming on the drops ofrain that still hang from our barbed wire, and on the long row ofbayonets along the trench. 

The new day is here, but what will it bring? The monotony may be brokenby an attack, the battalion may be relieved. Who knows? Who cares?Enough that daylight is here and the sun is shining, that periscopes andsleep are once more permitted, that breakfast is at hand, and that someday we shall get back to billets. 

XXV

JOHN WILLIAMS, TRAMP AND SOLDIER

On a wet and cheerless evening in September 1914, John Williams, tramp, sat in the bar of the Golden Lion and gazed regretfully at the tankardbefore him, which must of necessity remain empty, seeing that he hadjust spent his last penny. To him came a recruiting sergeant. 

"Would you like a drink, mate?" he asked. 

John Williams did not hesitate. 

"You ought to be in the Army, " said the sergeant, as he put down hisempty tankard, "a fine great body of a man like you. It's the best lifethere is. "

"I bean't so sartain as I want to be a sojer. I be a hindependent man. "

"It's a good life for a healthy man, " went on the sergeant. "We'll talkit over, " and he ordered another drink apiece. 

John Williams, who had had more than enough before the sergeant hadspoken to him, gazed mistily at his new acquaintance. "Thee do seem tohave a main lot o' money to spend. "

The sergeant laughed. "It's Army pay, mate, as does it. I get a fine, easy life, good clothes and food, and plenty of money for my glass ofbeer. Where did you sleep last night?" he asked suddenly. 

"If I do mind me right, " said John Williams, "it were in a leaky barn, over Newton way. "

"Where are you going to sleep to-night?" asked the sergeant again. 

Williams remembered his empty pocket. "I doan't know, " he said withregret. "Most likely on some seat in the park. "

"Well, you come along o' me, and you'll get a comfortable barricks tosleep in, a life as you likes, and a bob a day to spend on yourself. "

John Williams listened to the dripping of the rain outside. To hisbemused brain the thought of a "comfortable barricks" was very, verytempting. "Blame me if I doan't come along o' thee, " he said at length. 

In wartime a medical examination is soon over and an attestation paperfilled up. "There's nothing wrong with you, my man, " said the MedicalOfficer, "except that you're half drunk. "

"I bean't drunk, mister, " protested Williams sleepily. 

"We'll take you at your word, anyhow, " said the doctor. "You're toogood a man physically to lose for the Army. "

Thus it was that John Williams took the King's Shilling, and swore toserve his country as a soldier should. 

 * * * * *

One of the most wonderful things about the British Army is the way thatrecruits are gradually fashioned into soldiers. There are thousands ofmen fighting on our different fronts who, a year ago, hated the thoughtof discipline and order; they are now amongst the best soldiers we have. But there are exceptions--Private John Williams was one. In a littleover a year of military service, he had absented himself without leaveno fewer than eleven times, and the various punishments meted out to himfailed signally in their object to break him of his habit. In everyrespect save one he was a good soldier, but, do what it would, the Armycould not bring him to see the folly of repeated desertion; the life inthe Army is not the life for a man with the wander thirst of centuriesin his blood. Williams had all the gipsy's love of wandering andsolitude, and not even a threatened punishment of death will cure a manof that. 

So it came about that John Williams sat outside his billet one Septemberevening, and watched the white chalk road that ran over the hill towardsAmiens. After the flat and cultivated country of Flanders, the rollinghills called with an unparalleled insistence, and the idea of spendingthe two remaining days before the battalion went back to the trenches incompany with sixty other men in a barn grew more and more odious. If hewere to go off even for twenty-four hours, he would receive, on return, probably nothing more than a few days Field Punishment, which, afterall, was not so bad when one grew used to it. He was sick of the life ofa soldier, sick of obeying officers half his age, sick of being orderedto do things that seemed senseless to him; he would be quit of it allfor twenty-four hours. 

John Williams went to the only shop in the village to buy food, with theaid of fifty centimes and a wonderful Lingua Franca of his own, and whenhis companions collected in their billet that night he was already faraway on the open road. He walked fast through the still Septemberevening, and as he walked he sang, and the woods echoed to the strangesongs that gipsies sing to themselves as they squat round their fires atnight. When at last he came to a halt he soon found sleep, and layhuddled up in his greatcoat at the foot of a poplar tree, until the dawnawoke him. 

All through the summer day he walked, his Romany blood singing in hisveins at the feel of the turf beneath his feet, and evening found himstrolling contentedly through the village to his billet. Suddenly asentry challenged: "'Alt! who goes there?"

"Downshires, " came the reply. 

"Well, what the 'ell are you doin' of 'ere?"

"I be going back to my regiment. "

"Well, your regiment's in the trenches. They relieved us sudden likelast night, owing to us getting cut up. You see, they Germans attackedus and killed a good few of our chaps before we drove 'em out again, sothe Downshires 'ad to come up and relieve us late; somewhere abouteleven o'clock they must 'ave left 'ere. What are you doing of, any'ow?"he asked jokingly. "Are you a bloomin' deserter what's come to bearrested?" But he posed the question to empty air, for Williams wasretracing his steps at a steady double. 

"Seems to me that bloke 'll get hisself inter trouble, " said the sentryof the Westfords as he spat in disgust. Then he forgot all about it, andfell to wondering what the bar of the Horse and Plough must be lookinglike at the moment. 

John Williams knew that he had burnt his boats, and he became a deserterin real earnest. For several weeks he remained at large, and each daymade the idea of giving himself up of his own accord more difficult toentertain; but at last he was singled out from among the many men whowander about behind the firing line, and was placed under a guard thatput hope of escape out of the question. Not even the wander thirst inhis gipsy blood could set his feet on the wide chalk road again, or givehim one more night of freedom. 

 * * * * *

"He might have a long term of imprisonment, mightn't he, sir?" asked thejunior member of the Court Martial. "He could have no idea that hisregiment was suddenly warned for the trenches when he deserted. Besides, the man used to be a tramp, and it must be exceptionally hard for a manwho has led a wandering life to accustom himself to discipline. It mustbe in his blood to desert. " And he blushed slightly, for he soundedsentimental, and there is little room for sentiment in an army on activeservice. 

The President of the Court was a Major who liked his warm fire and hislinen sheets, which, with the elements of discipline and warfare, occupied most of his thoughts. "I fear you forget, " he said rathertestily, "that this is the twelfth occasion on which this man has madeoff. I have never heard of such a case in my life. Besides, on thisoccasion he was warned that the Downshires were in the trenches by thesentry of the Westfords, and, instead of giving himself up, hedeliberately turned round and ran off, so that the excuse of ignorancedoes not hold water. That the man was a tramp is, to my mind, no excuseeither--the army is not a rest home for tired tramps. The man is anout-and-out scoundrel. "

So the junior member, fearful of seeming sentimental and unmilitary, timidly suggested the sentence of death, to which the other two agreed. 

"We must make an example of these fellows. There are far too many casesof desertion, " said the Major, as he lit his pipe and hurried off to histea. 

 * * * * *

Thus ended the career of No. 1234 Pte. John Williams, formerly a trampin the west of England, unmourned and despised. 

On the morning after he had been shot, his platoon sergeant sat before abrazier and talked to a corporal. "'E ain't no bloomin' loss, 'e ain't. 'E gave me too much trouble, and I got fair sick of 'aving to report 'imabsent. It serves 'im blamed well right, that's what I say. "

The corporal sipped his tea out of an extremely dirty canteen. "Well, "he said at length, "I 'ope as the poor devil don't find it so warm where'e's gone as what it is 'ere. I quite liked un, though 'e were a bitfree with 'is fists, and always dreamin' like, " which was probably theonly appreciation ever uttered in memory of John Williams, tramp andsoldier. 

XXVI

THE CLEARING HOUSE

You collect your belongings, you stretch and yawn, you rub your eyes torid them of sleep--and incidentally you leave great black marks all downyour face--you struggle to get on your equipment in a filthysecond-class carriage where are three other officers struggling to geton their equipment, and waving their arms about like the sails ofwindmills. Then you obtain a half share of the window and gaze out asthe train crawls round the outskirts of the town, that lies still andquiet in the dusk of the morning. You have arrived at yourdestination--you are at the base. 

This quaint old town, with its streets running up the hill from theriver, with its beautiful spires and queer old houses, is the greatclearing house of the British Army. Here the new troops arrive; herethey leave for the front; here, muddy and wounded, they are driven inmotor chars-à-bancs and ambulances from the station to the hospitals;here they are driven down to the river-side and carried on to thehospital ships that are bound for England. 

And this gigantic clearing house buzzes with soldiers in khaki. Thereare the hotels where the generals and staff officers take their tea;there are the cafés haunted by subalterns; there are little "Débits deVins" where "Tommies" go and explain, in "pidgin" English, that they aredying for glasses of beer. In all the streets, great motor lorrieslumber by, laden with blackened soldiers who have been down on the quay, unloading shells, food, hay, oil, anything and everything that can beneeded for the British Expeditionary Force. And, in the two mainthoroughfares of an afternoon, there flows an unceasing crowd--generalsand privates, French men and women, officers hunting through the shopsfor comforts to take up the line, people winding their busy way throughthe throng, and people strolling along with the tide, intent onsnatching all they can of pleasure and amusement while they have theopportunity. 

And a few years ago these same streets would lie sleepily in the sun, dreaming of the days of splendour long by. In the square before thewonderful cathedral there would be stillness--here and there, perhaps, apigeon would come fluttering down from the ledges and cornices of theGothic façade; sometimes a nondescript dog would raise a lazy head tosnap at the flies; occasionally the streets would send back a nasal echoas a group of American tourists, with their Baedekers and maps, camehurrying along to "do" the town before the next train left forParis--beyond that . .. Nothing. 

Now, in the early morning, the Base seems almost to have relapsed intoits slumber of yore. As yet, the work of the day has not begun, and thewhole town seems to stir sleepily as the screeching brakes bring yourtrain to a standstill. As you stumble out of the carriage, the onlyliving person in the place appears to be a sentry, who tramps up anddown in the distance, on guard over a few empty trucks and a huge pileof bundles of straw. 

It is a little disappointing, this arrival at the Base, for there is noteven a proper station in sight; you have been brought, like so manysheep or cows, into the dismal goods station, and you look in vain forthe people who should be there to welcome you, to throw flowers, and tocheer as you arrive at the first halt of your great Odyssey. However, you shake yourself, you bundle your valise out of the carriage on to therailway line, and, with your late carriage companions, you go across tothe sentry and his bundles of straw. 

"Can you tell us where the Railway Transport Officer is to be found?"you ask. "We've got orders to report to him as soon as we can. "

"Yes, sir, they's always got those orders, but you won't find 'im notbefore 'alf-past nine. 'Is office is over there in them buildings. " Anda subaltern in the office gives you the same information--it is now fiveo'clock, and the R. T. O. Who has your movement orders will not be herefor four and a half hours. "Go and have a look round the town, " suggeststhe subaltern. 

The idea of "looking round a town" at five in the morning! You slouchover the bridge, and wander up and down the empty streets until an hotelshows up before you. You are very tired and very dirty and veryunshaven. Instinctively you halt and feel your chins. "Dunno when we'llget another bath, " suggests one of the party, and he goes to ring thebell. For ten minutes you ring the bell, and then the door is opened bya half-clothed porter who is also very tired and very dirty and veryunshaven. He glares at you, and then signs to you to enter, after whichhe runs away and leaves you in a hall in the company of a dust pan andbrush and a pile of chairs pushed up in the corner--no welcome and noflowers. 

But in a moment there is a shuffle on the stairs, and a fat, buxomwoman, with a cheerful face and a blouse undone down the back, makesher appearance. Oh yes, Messieurs les Officiers can have a bath--for twofrancs, including a towel; and they can have breakfast--for three and ahalf francs, including "ze English marmalade" and "un oeuf à la coque"(which sets you to wondering whether she means a cock's egg, and, if so, what sort of a thing it may be). "It is a nice bath, " she tells you, "and always full of Messieurs les Anglais, who forget all about the warand only think of baths and of football. No, zere is only one bath, butze ozer officiers can wait, " and she leads one of the party away intothe dim corridors and up dim staircases. 

Breakfast and a wash work wonders, and you still keep cheerful when theR. T. O. Tells you at half-past nine that your camp is three miles away, that you may not see your valise for days unless you take a "taxi, " andthat there are only three "taxis" in the town. You wander about insearch of one during the whole morning, you find the three all hidingaway together in a side street, you bundle your valises into one, andarrive at the camp just in time for lunch. 

It is a strange life, that life at the Base--it is like life on an"island" in a London thoroughfare, with the traffic streaming by oneither side. All day long there are men arriving to go to the front, allday long there are men coming back on their way to England. For a weekyou live on this "island, " equipping men for drafts all the morning--formost of them seem to have dropped part of their equipment into the seaon the way across--and sitting in cafés in the evenings, drinkingstrange mixtures of wines and syrups and soda water. 

Then, one day, the Colonel sends for you. Your turn has come to set outon that journey which may have no return. "You will proceed to the frontby the four o'clock train this afternoon, " he says. "You are instructedto conduct a party of 100 Northshire Highlanders, who are in 'S' Camp, which is over there, " and he waves his hand vaguely in the direction ofthe typewriter in the corner of the room. 

These are your instructions, and, after a prolonged hunt for "S" Camp, you march off to the station at the head of a hundred Scotchmen, not oneof whom you can understand. At the station you make a great show ofnominal rolls and movement orders, and finally get your Highlanderspacked safely in their compartments under strict injunctions not toleave the train without your orders. 

Now comes the time to look after your own comfort. If you have "been up"before you have learnt that it is wise to stroll into the town for yourlast proper tea, and not to come back much before six o'clock, by whichtime the train is thinking of reluctantly crawling out of the station. If, in your absence, someone has else has tried to settle in yourcompartment, providing his rank is not superior to your own, you get ridof him either by lying strenuously or by using a little force. Thus, ifyou are lucky, a good liar, or a muscular man, you can keep the carriagefor yourself, your particular friend, your kits, and your provisions(which last, in the form of bottles, require no small space). 

All along the line are children, waving their grubby hands and shoutingin monotonous reiteration, "Souvenir biskeet, souvenir bully biff, " andyou throw them their souvenirs without delay, for no man sets out forwar without a plentiful stock of more interesting provisions to keep hisspirits up. All along the train, in disobedience of orders, the carriagedoors are open, and "Tommies" and "Jocks, " and "Pats" are seated on thefootboards, singing, shouting, laughing. 

This, until night falls. Then, one by one, the carriage doors are shut, and the men set about the business of sleeping. Here and there, perhaps, is a man who stays awake, wondering what the future will bring him, howhis wife and children will get on if he is killed, and how many of thesemen, who are lolling in grotesque attitudes all round him, will evercome back down the line. In the daylight, the excitement drives awaythese thoughts--there are songs to sing and sights to see--but as thetrain jolts on through the night, there seems to be an undefinablefeeling of fear. What will it be like to be shelled, to fight, to die?

Morning brings cheerfulness again. There are halts at Boulogne andCalais; news must be obtained from English sentries and French railwayofficials; there is, in one place, a train of German prisoners; thereare long halts at tiny stations where you can procure hot water whilethe O. C. Train discusses life with the R. T. O. ; there are thethousand-and-one things which serve to remind you that you are in thewar zone, although the country is peaceful, and you look in vain forshell holes and ruined houses. 

At length the railhead is reached--from here the rumble of the guns canbe heard--and the detrainment takes place. You fall your Highlanders inby the side of the train, you jerk your pack about in a vain effort tomake it hang comfortably, a whistle blows, and you start off on yourlong march to your regiment, to those dull, mumbling guns, to your firstpeep of war. 

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A "cushy" wound, a long and aching journey in a motor ambulance, anerve-racking night in a clearing hospital, where the groans of thedying, the hurrying of the orderlies, and your own pain all combine in anightmare of horror, and next morning you are in the train oncemore--you are going back to the Base. But how different is this from thejourney up to the front! The sound of distant firing has none of theinterest of novelty; the shelling of an aeroplane, which would havefilled you with excitement a short time ago, does not now even cause youto raise your eyes to watch; you are old in warfare, and _blasé_. 

There is no room for fear on this train; it is crowded out by pain, byapathy, by hope. The man next you cannot live a week, but he seemscontent; at all events, it is not fear that one sees in his face. Thereis no fear--there is hope. 

The train is bright with flowers; there are nurses, and books, andwell-cooked food--there is even champagne for the select few. There isno longer the shattered country of the firing line, but there are hillsand rivers, there is the sea near Wimereux, and the hope of being senthome to England. There are shattered wrecks that were men, there is theknowledge of hovering death, but, above all, there is hope. 

So the train hastens on--no crawling this time--to the clearing house, the Base. Past the little sun-washed villages it runs, and the gleamingSeine brings smiles to wan faces. There, look, over there in thedistance, are the wonderful spires and the quaint houses and the river, all fresh and laughing in the sun, and the trees up on the hill abovethe town are all tender green. Even if one is to die, one may get backhome first; at all events, one has been spared to see God's cleancountry, and to breathe untainted air again. 

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_Printed in Great Britain by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld. , London andAylesbury, for Simpkin, Marshall, Hamilton, Kent & Co. , Ltd. _