It came, as Christina would have expressed it in her early days,
like a 'blot from the blue.' On a certain fine morning, while
battalion drill was in progress, a mounted officer dashed upon the
scene and was forthwith engaged in earnest conversation with the
colonel. The news was evidently urgent, and it was received with
an obvious gravity. A thrill ran through the ranks; you would have
fancied you heard breaths of anticipation.
A minute later the companies were making for camp at the double.
Arrived there they were instructed to repair to billets and, with
all speed, pack up. And presently ammunition was being served out,
a hundred rounds to each man; and, later, 'iron' rations.
'We're awa' noo!' gasped Macgregor, recovering forcibly from
Willie's greedy clutch a pair of socks knitted by Christina.
'Ay, we're awa'; an' I'll bet ye we're for Flanders,' said Willie,
no less excited.
'Dardanelles!' shouted Macgregor, above the din that filled the
billet.
'Flanders!' yelled Willie, wildly, and started to
dance--unfortunately upon a thin piece of soap.
'Dardanelles!' Macgregor repeated as he gave his friend a hand up.
'Oh ----!' groaned Willie, rubbing the back of his head. 'But
what'll ye bet?'
'What ha'e ye got?'
'I'll bet ye thruppence--the thruppence ye lent me the day afore
yesterday.'
'Done! If ye win, we'll be quits; if ye loss----'
'Na, na! If I win, ye'll ha'e to pay me----'
'Ach, I've nae time to listen to ye. I've twa letters to write.'
'Letters! What aboot the bet?'
'Awa' an' chase yersel'! Are ye no gaun to drap a line to yer aunt?'
'No dashed likely! She's never sent the postal order I asked her
for. If I had got it, I wud ha'e payed what I'm owin' ye,
Macgreegor. By heavens, I wud! I'll tak' ma oath I----'
'Aweel, never heed aboot that,' Macgregor said, soothingly. 'Send
her a post caird an' let me get peace for three meenutes.'
'Ye canna get peace in this,' said Willie, with a glance round the
tumultuous billet.
'I can--if ye haud yer silly tongue.' Macgregor thereupon got his
pad and envelopes (a gift from Miss Tod), squatted on his bed, and
proceeded to gnaw his pencil. The voice of the sergeant was heard
ordering the men to hurry up.
'I'll tell ye what I'll dae,' said Willie, sitting down at his
friend's elbow. 'I'll bet ye a' I owe ye to a bob it's Flanders.
Ye see, I'll maybe get shot, an' I dinna want to dee in debt. An'
I'll send the auld cat a caird wi' something nice on it, to please
ye . . . . Eh?'
'Aw, onything ye like, but for ony sake clay up! Shift!' cried the
distracted Macgregor.
'Weel gi'e's a fag . . . . an' a match,' said Willie.
He received them in his face, but merely grinned as he languidly
removed himself.
The two scrawls so hastily and under such difficulties produced by
Macgregor are sacred. He would never write anything more boyish
and loving, nor yet more manly and brave, than those 'few lines' to
his mother and sweetheart. There was no time left for posting them
when the order came to fall in, but he anticipated an opportunity
at one of the stations on the journey south.
Out in the sunshine stood the hundreds of lads whose training had
been so brief that some carried ammunition for the first time.
There were few grave faces, though possibly some of the many grins
were more reflected than original. Yet there was a fine general
air of eagerness, and at the word 'attention' the varied
expressions gave place to one of determination.
Boom! boom! boom! . . . Boom! boom! boom! Dirl and skirl; skirl
and dirl! So to the heart-lifting, hell-raising music of pipes and
drums they marched down to the railway.
At the station it seemed as though they had been expected to break
all records in military entraining. There was terrific haste and
occasional confusion, the latter at the loading of the vans. The
enthusiasm was equalled only by the perspiration. But at last
everything and nearly everybody was aboard, and the rumour went
along that they had actually broken such and such a battalion's
record.
Private William Thomson, however, had already started his
inevitable grumbling. There were eight in the compartment, and he
had stupidly omitted to secure a corner seat.
'I'll bet ye I'm a corp afore we get to Dover,' he bleated.
'That's as near as ever ye'll be to bein' a corporal,' remarked the
cheerful Jake. 'But hoo d'ye ken it'll be Dover?'
'I'll bet ye ---- Na! I'll no tak' on ony mair wagers. I've a
tremenjous bet on wi' this yin'--indicating Macgregor--'every
dashed penny I possess--that we're boun' for Flanders. He says the
Dardanelles.'
All excepting Macgregor fell to debating the question. He had just
remembered something he had forgotten to say to Christina; also, he
was going away without the ring she was to have given him. He was
not sorry he was going, but he felt sad. . . .
The debate waxed furious.
'I tell ye,' bawled Willie, 'we're for Flanders! The Ninth's been
there since the----'
A sudden silence! What the ---- was that? Surely not--ay, it
was!--an order to detrain!
And soon the whisper went round that they were not bound for
anywhere--unless the ---- old camp. The morning's alarm and all
that followed had been merely by way of practice.
At such a time different men have different feelings, or, at least,
different ways of expressing them. Jake laughed philosophically
and appeared to dismiss the whole affair. Willie swore with a
curious and seemingly unnecessary bitterness, at frequent
intervals, for the next hour or so. Macgregor remained in a
semi-stunned condition of mind until the opportunity came for
making a little private bonfire of the two letters; after which
melancholy operation he straightway recovered his usual good
spirits.
'Never heed, Wullie,' he said, later; 'we'll get oor chance yet.'
Willie exploded. 'What for did ye get me to mak' sic a ---- cod o'
masel'?'
'Cod o' yersel'? Me?'
'Ay, you!--gettin' me to send a caird to ma ---- aunt! What for
did ye dae it?'
Macgregor stared. 'But ye didna post it,' he began.
'Ay, but I did. I gi'ed it to a man at the station.'
'Oh! . . . Weel, ye'll just ha'e to send her anither.'
'That'll no mak' me less o' a cod.'
'What way? What did ye write on the caird?'
Willie hesitated, muttered a few curses, and said slowly yet
savagely:--
'"Off to Flanders, wi'--wi' kind love"--_oh, dammit_!'