THE HOURS BEFORE THE END
§1
On the following day we buried Doe at sundown. In a grave on Hunter
Weston Hill, which slopes down to W Beach, he lies with his feet
toward the sea.
The same evening the medical orderly abused my confidence and
informed the doctor that I was running a high temperature; and the
doctor told me to pack up, as he was sending me to hospital. I
refused.
I pointed out to him that if I, as a Company Commander, were to go
sick at this juncture of the Gallipoli campaign, I could never again
look the men of my company in the face. I tried to be funny about
it. I asked him if he knew that Suvla had been evacuated; and that
the Turks had therefore their whole Suvla army released to attack us
on Helles--to say nothing of unlimited reinforcements pouring
through Servia from Germany. I offered him an even bet that a few
days hence we should either be lying dead in the scrub at Helles, or
marching wearily to our prison at Constantinople. How, then, could I
desert my men at this perilous moment? "The Germans are coming, oh
dear, oh dear," I summed up; and then shivered, as I remembered
whose merry voice had first chanted those words.
All this I explained to the doctor, but I did not tell him that,
when I discovered my abnormal temperature, I had felt a quick spring
of joy bubbling up, for here was an excuse for getting out of this
Gallipoli, of which I was so sick and tired; and then I had
remembered how, in loyalty to Doe, I had replaced my old ideals, and
by their light I must stay. I must only leave the Peninsula when I
could leave it with honour of holding Helles for the Empire.
In the end the doctor and I compromised. He said he would not send
me to hospital, but that I must go down to the dump, and take things
easy for a few days. From there I could be summoned, since I took
myself so devilish seriously, to die with my men when the massacre
began. I told him that the dump was too far back, but that, if he
liked, I would go and live with Padre Monty in the Eski Line.
So a few days before Christmas I arrived with my batman and my kit
at Monty's tiny sand-bag dug-out. He gave me a joyous welcome,
stating that he would order the maids to light the fire in the best
bedroom and air the sheets. Meanwhile, would I step into his study?
§2
"I'm glad," said I to Monty at breakfast the next morning, "that I
shall spend Christmas alone with you here. I couldn't have stood
just now a riotous celebration with the regiment."
"Of course not," he agreed, and we both kept a silence in honour of
the dead.
"Though I doubt if it'll be a riotous Christmas for anyone," I
resumed. "Probably the last most of us will ever know."
"Stuff!" murmured Monty.
"'Tisn't stuff. Have you seen the Special Order of the Day that has
been printed and stuck up everywhere, congratulating us on our
attack of December 19, which, it says, 'contributed largely to the
successful evacuation of Suvla,' and telling us that to our Army
Corps 'has been entrusted the honour of holding Helles for the
Empire'?"
"Heavens!" he muttered. "We can't do it."
"Of course we can't; and we can't quit."
"Not without being wiped out," he agreed.
"Exactly. I wonder what it'll feel like, having a Turco bayonet in
one's stomach."
"Rupert," said Monty suddenly, "we've had a bad jar, and we're
getting morbid. Cheer up. Muddly old Britain will get us out of this
mess. And now we're jolly well going to make all we can out of this
Christmas. It'll certainly be the most _piquant_ of our lives.
_Adams!_"
"Sir?" Monty's batman appeared at the dug-out door in answer to the
call.
"Get your entrenching tool. We're going to dig up a little fir for a
Christmas tree."
So we spent the next days making our Christmas preparations,
determined to keep the feast. We decorated the sand-bag cabin--oh,
yes! Over the pictures of our people, pinned to the sand-bag walls,
we placed sprigs of a small-leaf holly that grew on the Peninsula.
We planted the little fir in a disused petrol-tin, and, after a
visit to the canteen, decorated it with boxes of Turkish delight,
sticks of chocolate, packets of chewing-gum, oranges, lemons, soap,
and bits of Government candles. It was a Christmas tree of some
distinction. And mistletoe? No, we couldn't find any mistletoe, but
then, as Monty said, it would have no point on Gallipoli, there
being no--just so; when we should be home again for Christmas of
next year, we would claim an extra kiss for 1915.
"Pest! Rupert," exclaimed Monty, "we've forgotten to send any
Christmas cards. To work at once!"
We sat down at the tiny table and cut notepaper into elegant shapes,
sticking on it little bits of Turkish heather, and printing beneath:
"A Slice of Turkey" (which we thought a very happy jest); "Heather
from Invaded Enemy Territory. Are we downhearted? NO! Are we going
to win? YES!"
And by luck there arrived a parcel from Mother with a cake. Of plum
pudding we despaired, till one fine morning there came a present
(half a pound per man) of that excellent comestible from the _Daily
News_ (whom the gods preserve and prosper).
"All is now ready," proclaimed Monty.
Christmas Day dawned beautiful in sky and atmosphere. It would have
been as mild and gracious as a windless June day had not the Turk,
nervous lest these dogs of Christians should celebrate their
festival with any untoward activity, opened at daylight a
prophylactic bombardment.
We stood in the dug-out door and watched the shells dropping.
"Does it strike you, Rupert," asked Monty, making a grimace, "that
Old-Man-Turk has more guns firing than ever before?"
"Yes," I answered. "The guns from Suvla have come."
The words were no sooner out of my mouth than a shell shrieking into
our own cookhouse, drove us like rabbits into the dug-out.
"Does it strike you, Rupert," said Monty, "that Turk Pasha has some
pals with him who are firing heavier shells than ever before?"
"Yes," said I. "The Germans have come."
§3
The afternoon we devoted to preparations for the feast of the
evening. We laid the table. There was a water-proof ground-sheet for
the cloth. There were little holly branches stuck in tobacco tins.
And there were candles in plenty (for they were a Government issue,
and we could be free with them). At Monty's suggestion, who
maintained that the family must be gathered at the Christmas board,
we placed photographs of our people on the table. There was a
picture of Monty's sister and (for shame, Monty! fie upon you for
keeping it dark so long) the picture of somebody else's sister.
There was the portrait of my mother, and oh! in a silent moment, I
had nearly placed on the table the dear face of Edgar Doe, but,
instead, I put it back in my pocket, saying nothing to Monty, and
feeling guilty of a lapse.
We were glad when the darkness came, for we wanted to try the effect
of the candles, both those on the table and those on the Christmas
tree. And truly the darkness, the candles, the flying sparks from
our Yule log, and the smell of burning wood made Christmas
everywhere.
Then we sat down to the meal. The menu said: "Consommé Gallipoli,
Stew Dardanelles, Plum Pudding, Dessert, Lemonade à la Tour Eiffel."
The soup was very good, even if it was only the gravy from the next
course. And the stew in its plate looked almost too fine to disturb;
the very largest onion was stuck in the middle--was it not Christmas
Day? The pudding we set on fire with the Army rum issue. And the
dish of dessert was a fine pile of lemons and oranges--the lemons
not being there to be eaten, of course, but to make the show more
brave.
Then the batmen were fetched in and given the presents from the
Christmas Tree. And we drank healths in lemonade à la Tour Eiffel.
We toasted the King, the Allies, "Johnny Turk beyond the Parapet,"
and, above all, "Our People at home, God bless 'em!" We sang "For
they are jolly good fellows," and it was wonderful what a fine thing
two officers and their soldier-servants made of it. Somebody, warmed
up by this lively chorus, raised his glass and suggested "To Hell
with the Kaiser!" But this toast we disallowed, on the ground that
it would spoil our kindly feeling, and besides, as Monty observed
compensatingly, he would be toasted enough when he got there.
And, when it was all over, I went out into the darkness to walk
alone for a little, and to get the chill night air blowing upon my
forehead. It was as clear and fine a night as it had been a
day--cloudless, still, and starlit. And--forgive me--but I could
only think of him whom we had left on Hunter Weston Hill, with his
feet toward the sea, lying out there in the cold and the quiet. O
God, when should I get used to it?