When we have finished slaying for the day, have stropped our gory
sabres, hung our horses up to dry and are sitting about after mess,
girths slackened and pipes aglow, it is a favourite pastime of ours to
discuss what we are going to do after the War.
William, our mess president and transport officer, says frankly,
"Nothing." Three years' continuous struggle to keep the mess going in
whiskey and soda and the officers' kit down to two hundred and fifty
pounds per officer has made an old man of him, once so full of bright
quips and conundrums. The moment HINDENBURG chucks up the sponge off
goes William to Chelsea Hospital, there to spend the autumn of his days
pitching the yarn and displaying his honourable scars gained in many a
bloody battle in the mule lines.
So much for William. The Skipper, who is as sensitive to climate as a
lily of the hot-house, prattles lovingly during the summer months of
selling ice-creams to the Eskimos, and during the winter months of
peddling roast chestnuts in Timbuctoo. MacTavish and the Babe propose,
under the euphonious _noms de commerce_ of Vavaseur and Montmorency, to
open pawn-shops among ex-munition-workers, and thereby accumulate old
masters, grand pianos and diamond tiaras to export to the United States.
For myself I have another plan.
There is a certain historic wood up north through which bullets whine,
shells rumble and no bird sings. After the War I am going to float a
company, purchase that wood and turn it into a pleasure-resort for the
accommodation of tourists.
There will be an entrance fee of ten francs, and everything else will be
extra.
Tea in the dug-out--ten francs. Trips through trenches, accompanied by
trained guides reciting selected passages from the outpourings of our
special correspondents--ten francs. At night grand S.O.S. rocket and
Very light display--ten francs. While for a further twenty francs the
tourist will be allowed to pick up as many souvenirs in the way of rolls
of barbed wire, dud bombs and blind crumps as he can stagger away with.
By this means the country will be cleared of its explosive matter and I
shall be able to spend my declining years in Park Lane, or, anyway,
Tooting.
Our Albert Edward has not been making any plans as to his future lately,
but just now it looks very much as if his future will be spent in gaol.
It happened this way. He had been up forward doing some O. Pipping.
While he was there he made friends with a battery and persuaded the poor
fools into doing some shooting under his direction. He says it is great
fun sitting up in your O. Pip, a pipe in your teeth, a telescope clapped
to your blind eye, removing any parts of the landscape that you take a
dislike to.
"I don't care for that tree at A 29.b.5.8"," you say to the telephone.
"It's altogether too crooked (or too straight). Off with its head!" and,
hey presto! the offending herb is not. Or, "That hill at C 39.d.7.4" is
quite absurd; it's ridiculously lop-sided. I think we'll have a valley
there instead." And lo! the absurd excrescence goes west in a puff of
smoke.
Our Albert Edward spent a most enjoyable week altering the geography of
Europe to suit his taste. Then one morning he made a trifling error of
about thirty degrees and some few thousand yards and removed the wrong
village.
"One village looks very much like another, and what are a few thousand
yards this way or that in a war of world-wide dimensions? Gentlemen, let
us not be trivial," said our Albert Edward to the red-hatted people who
came weeping to his O. Pip. Nevertheless some unpleasantness resulted,
and our Albert Edward came home to shelter in the bosom of us, his
family.
The unpleasantness spread, for twenty-four hours later came a chit for
our Albert Edward, saying if he had nothing better to do would he drop
in and swoop yarns with the General at noon that day? Our Albert Edward
made his will, pulled on his parade boots, drank half a bottle of brandy
neat, kissed us farewell and rode off to his doom. As he passed the
borders of the camp The O'Murphy uncorked himself from a drain, and,
seeing his boon-companion faring forth a-horse, abandoned the rat-strafe
and trotted after him.
A word or two explaining The O'Murphy. Two years ago we were camped at
one end of a certain damp dark gully up north. Thither came a party of
big marines and a small Irish terrier, bringing with them a long naval
gun, which they covered with a _camouflage_ of sackcloth and ashes and
let off at intervals. Whenever the long gun was about to fire the small
dog went mad, bounced about behind the gun-trail like an indiarubber
ball, in an ecstasy of expectation. When the great gun boomed he
shrieked with joy and shot away up the gully looking for the rabbit. The
poor little dog's hunt up and down the gully for the rabbit that never
had been was one of the most pathetic sights I ever saw. That so many
big men with such an enormous gun should miss the rabbit every time was
gradually killing him with disgust and exasperation.
Meeting my groom one evening I spoke of the matter to him, casually
mentioning that there was a small countryman of ours close at hand
breaking his heart because there never was any rabbit. I clearly
explained to my groom that I was suggesting nothing, dropping no hints,
but I thought it a pity such a sportsman should waste his talents with
those sea-soldiers when there were outfits like ours about, offering all
kinds of opportunities to one of the right sort. I again repeated that I
was making no suggestions and passed on to some other subject.
Imagine my astonishment when, on making our customary bi-weekly trek
next day, I discovered the small terrier secured to our tool-limber by a
piece of baling-wire, evidently enjoying the trip and abusing the
limber-mules as if he had known them all his life. Since he had
insisted on coming with us there was nothing further to be said, so we
christened him "The O'Murphy," attached him to the strength for rations
and discipline, and for two years he has shared our joys and sorrows,
our billets and bully-beef, up and down the land of Somewheres.
But it was with our Albert Edward he got particularly chummy. They had
the same dislike of felines and the same taste in biscuits. Thus when
Albert Edward rode by, ears drooping, tail tucked in (so to speak), _en
route_ to the shambles, The O'Murphy saw clearly that here was the time
to prove his friendship, and trotted along behind. On arriving at H.Q.
the comrades shook paws and licked each other good-bye. Then Albert
Edward stumbled within and The O'Murphy hung about outside saucing the
brass-collared Staff dogs and waiting to gather up what fragments
remained of his chum's body after the General had done with it. His
interview with the General our Albert Edward prefers not to describe; it
was too painful, too humiliating, he says. That a man of the General's
high position, advanced age and venerable appearance could lose his
self-control to such a degree was a terrible revelation to Albert
Edward. "Let us draw a veil over that episode," he said.
But what happened later on he did consent to tell us. When the General
had burst all his blood vessels, and Albert Edward was congratulating
himself that the worst was over, the old man suddenly grabbed a Manual
of Military Law off his desk, hurled it into a corner and dived under a
table, whence issued scuffling sounds, grunts and squeals. "See that?"
came the voice of the General from under the table. "Of all confounded
impudence!--did you see that?"
Albert Edward made noises in the negative. "A rat, by golly!" boomed the
venerable warrior, "big as a calf, came out of his hole and stood
staring at me. Damn his impudence! I cut off his retreat with the manual
and he's somewhere about here now. Flank him, will you?"
As Albert Edward moved to a flank there came sounds of another violent
scuffle under the table, followed by a glad whoop from the General, who
emerged rumpled but triumphant.
"Up-ended the waste-paper basket on him," he panted, dusting his knees
with a handkerchief. "And now, me lad, what now, eh?"
"Fetch a dog, Sir," answered Albert Edward, mindful of his friend The
O'Murphy. The General sneered, "Dog be blowed! What's the matter with
the old-fashioned cat? I've got a plain tabby with me that has written
standard works on ratting." He lifted up his voice and bawled to his
orderly to bring one Pussums. "Had the old tabby for years, me lad," he
continued; "brought it from home--carry it round with me everywhere; and
I don't have any rat troubles. Orderly!
"Fellers come out here with St. Bernard dogs, shot-guns, poison,
bear-traps and fishing-nets and never get a wink of sleep for the rats,
while one common cat like my old Pussums would----Oh, where is that
confounded feller?"
He strode to the door and flung it open, admitting, not an orderly but
The O'Murphy, who nodded pleasantly to him and trotted across the room,
tail twinkling, love-light shining in his eyes, and deposited at Albert
Edward's feet his offering, a large dead tabby cat.
Albert Edward remembers no more. He had swooned.