"RONNY."
This is not a Christmas story.
His real name was P----, but his name must not be mentioned on account
of the family who mourns for him in a corner of the County of Surrey.
We will simply call him "Ronny," as his school friends, and, later on,
his brothers-in-arms, used to call him.
"Ronny" was barely eighteen years old when war broke out. He was full
of spirit, and already had a knowledge of soldiering, so he volunteered
immediately, and soon got his commission.
His appearance was incredibly young. Fine features. A well-bred nose
and a child's eyes. When he first appeared in mess he was bombarded
with amiable chaff, all of which he took in good part and replied with
witty retaliation. He could exchange a joke without malice, like the
good sportsman that he was.
Above all, "Ronny" was fond of his job. He threw his whole soul into
the work of glory, which he accomplished with ease and grace, for he
had rare gifts of leadership. You should have seen him on the barrack
square with his men, this wisp of a boy. "Company, properly at ease
everywhere." The moment he spoke, discipline and obedience reigned. The
fact is, "Ronny" was "some" boy.
His Colonel thought him too good a soldier to leave behind when the
battalion was ordered abroad, even though he loved him as his son. Then
followed two long, weary years of fighting, which only served to draw
these two (master and pupil) closer together.
On 3rd September, 1916, during the Somme offensive, the battalion
was in action on the Ancre, and did gloriously. The day was won, but
at roll-call there was no "Ronny." At first he was said to be dead,
then wounded, but no trace of him could be found, either among the dead
or in the hospitals. So Captain P----, 20 years old, appeared in the
official lists as "Missing."
[Illustration: 14. "MULTIS ILLE BONIS FLEBILIS OCCIDIT."]
One day the Colonel received a letter from "Ronny's" parents. They had
seen his name in the lists. "What does this mean? They said 'Missing.'
Can we still hope?"
Between men of the same county and lineage, whose heart and blood have
but one pulse, there is no need to dissemble. "Your son was as my own,"
said the Colonel. "Our sorrow is the same."
So they mourned for "Ronny."
On 19th November two men, the Colonel and myself, visited, with heavy
hearts, the field of the Ancre (a further edition of the same fight),
still teeming with the heat of battle. The dead lay scattered around,
some horribly mutilated, some struck down in the very act of fighting,
with gestures of defiance to the enemy and their weapons--even to
Heaven itself. Alas, for the vanity of all human ambitions!
As for me--you remember, dear Colonel--I was distraught and beside
myself, and could only murmur, "Poor devils! Poor devils!" You were
calmer, more familiar (is it possible?) with these horrors. Yet your
sad eyes were a proof to me that even soldiers do feel.
I remember, as we turned to leave the field of death and honour, you
looked back, and I noticed that just in front of you, right in your
path, was a human head, already fleshless--a skull.
I seized you by the arm. "Stop!" I cried. Too late! Your heavy
boots---- The thing crushed like a broken egg-shell. I heard you say,
"God, if it were him!" "Who? What? Him?" I said. You didn't answer. You
were on your knees. The decaying cloth of the collar yielded to your
searching hands. The disc? Yes, there it was! ... I hear you now! I
shall never forget your cry: "Ronny, my Ronny!"