Somewhere in France--no, let me be bold and say in Paris--there is a
young French soldier named Charles. Less than two years ago he was a
plumber and whole; to-day he has but one arm, his left; the other and a
piece of his shoulder with it having gone in saving his country from the
foe.
Charles is shy and very modest, and no bigger than so many French
youths--he is only twenty-two--with dark-brown hair and blue eyes with
very black centres, and a moustache that never succeeds in looking more
than three weeks old. Being, however, brave, he does not let his maimed
condition unduly trouble him, but runs his errands (all that he can now
do) and whistles as he runs, and is glad to be alive at all, instead of
dead, as so many of his comrades are and as his Colonel is, as I shall
tell.
At the Front Charles's duties were these. A despatch--a _pli_, as they
call it--would be given him either back of the lines to deliver in the
trenches, or in the trenches to deliver back of the lines, and in order
to get there, if fighting was in progress, it was necessary for him to
crawl for perhaps one or two kilometres on his stomach. On a certain day
of intense activity, Charles in his trench was handed one of these
critical missives for the commanding officer, who was a kilometre or so
behind, and this he placed in his satchel and then began the hazardous
journey.
No one ever knows when the supreme moment of his life is coming; nor did
Charles, but it was then.
This being a terrific day--as a matter of fact it was during the famous
battle for the Maison du Passeur, when the French and Germans were
losing and retaking trenches for hours--he had to crawl all the way,
only to come suddenly upon the body of the commanding officer himself
stretched dead in a carrot field.
To Charles's mind there was then but one thing to do, and that was, as
he had been unable to deliver the message, to take it back to the
sender. He therefore started on the return journey, and was only a few
yards from his trench, and still un-hit, when he found a wounded officer
on the ground. Here was a new problem, but necessarily having to stand
up and throw aside all precautions, Charles got him as well as he could
on his back and, still un-hit, half carried, half supported, him to the
trench, and was at once away again with his despatch. It was at this
moment that an exploding shell hurled the satchel from big hands and
flung it on the open ground between the French trenches and the enemy's,
which were here separated only by a few yards. At any cost the despatch
must not fall into German hands, and Charles, who miraculously had not
been injured by the explosion, began instantly to climb out of the
trench to recover it, and this in spite of a sergeant, who called to him
to keep under cover. But Charles, having one idea and one only, and that
was to save from the foe the despatch that had been entrusted to him,
succeeded in reaching it and securing it; and then came another shell
that shattered his arm.
That is all he remembers; but he must have rolled back to the bottom of
the trench, where he was found, two days later, still clutching the
satchel. And after that, although he remembers the coffee he was given
to drink, all is a haze until he came fully to himself in hospital and
found that no longer had he a right arm.
Such is the story of Charles's effort for his country.
Now I do not claim for Charles that he is any braver or has a finer
sense of duty than many another French soldier; but this I know, that
when he recovered he was summoned to the Invalides to receive not only
the _Croix de Guerre_ but the _Médaille Militaire_ with the palm, which
corresponds to our Victoria Cross, and that now, although, having left
the Army, he no longer wears uniform but merely such poor civilian
clothes as he can afford as a messenger, when he walks along the
Boulevards--which he does as seldom as he can, so shy is he--there is
not an officer, seeing the ribbons on his coat, who does not salute this
little plumber with as much punctilio as though he were General JOFFRE
himself; and, blushing crimson, Charles returns the salute.
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[Illustration: _Patriotic Scots Lady_ (_patrolling Victoria main-line
station to assist any of her stranded countrymen arriving from the
Front_). "Can I help you in any way?"
_Perplexed Scot._ "Thank you, Mam. Is the toon far frae the station?"]
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"Mrs. Humphry Ward seems to have gone for inspiration to
contemporary characters, and now in 'Tasker Jevons' it is
difficult not to find the lineaments of a well-known writer."
_Evening Standard._
Quite so: and Miss MAY SINCLAIR made _A Great Success_ of it.
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