The news of the London Scottish charge at Messines, and their success
in holding back the enemy at that time and point of terrific pressure,
was made public by the Censor almost at once. And great was the
jubilation at Head-Quarters and throughout the Second Battalion, and
grievous the anxiety in many a home over the tardy casualty lists, for
it was recognised that the losses must necessarily be heavy.
Lois suffered only one day of acutest mental distress, thanks to Ray’s
precious bits of pencilled notes, three of which--addressed to “Lady
Luard”--arrived all together the day after the news was made known.
But that one long day taught her to the full what long-drawn agonies
thousands of other anxious hearts must be suffering until all the
details were published.
Ray’s latest note, scribbled by the roadside just after his elevating
chat with the Adjutant, was very short and very scrawly in its writing.
But it told that he was alive and that was all she cared for.
“Can’t write much,” he said in it, “for my hand’s got the jumps yet.
We’ve just come through hell and I haven’t a scratch. I live and
marvel. God’s great mercy. They say we’ve done well. It was certainly
hot. Going to have a bit off-time, I believe, and we need it. Keep your
heart up. I can’t imagine anything worse than we’ve come through.”
Noel and Gregor MacLean swelled visibly with pride in the prowess of
their First Battalion,--so the girls asserted,--and certainly in their
at-length-completed uniforms they looked unusually big and brawny and
ready for anything.
A draft was preparing for the front to fill up the gaps in the
depleted First, and they enthusiastically put in for it. And, as they
were about the two fittest men in the regiment, thanks to their own
arduous preliminary training, they were accepted, and--again according
to the girls--forthwith became so massive in their own estimation that
it was as much as one’s place was worth for ordinary mortals to venture
to address them.
But the keenness of the draft for the front could not prevent a certain
heaviness of heart in those at home. The very necessity and the urgency
of the call induced forebodings as to the future. The First Battalion
had made a record. The draft would be emulous to live up to it. Not one
of them, as they helped the happy warriors in their preparations and
kept strong and cheerful faces over it all, but felt that they were
most likely parting with the boys for good, and that when the good-byes
were said they might well be the last ones.
Mrs Dare especially felt bruised to the heart’s core. Con gone, and
lying wounded somewhere,--and undoubtedly sorely wounded, for they
had never had a line from himself yet. Ray out there in the thick
of it, and any moment might bring word of his death. And now Noel
plunging into the mêlée with a joyous zest such as he had never shown
for anything in life before. And Alma and Lois on the tenterhooks of
ceaseless anxiety. It was a time that kept the women-folk much upon
their knees, and their hearts welled with unuttered prayers as they
went about their daily work.
A time, however, that was not without its compensations. If anxieties
filled the air, all hearts were opened to one another in amazingly
un-English fashion. Men with whom Mr Dare had had no acquaintance, made
a point of coming up to him and congratulating him on his son-in-law’s
safety in that hot night at Messines.
They expressed their sympathy in the matter of Con and hoped he
would soon have better news, and spoke admiringly of Noel’s pluck in
volunteering so speedily for the front.
And everywhere Mrs Dare and Lois and the girls went it was the same.
The frigid angularities of the British character were everywhere broken
down. The touch of common feeling evoked a new spirit of national
kinship. What touched one touched all. But in varying degree. Pleasant
and helpful as it was to experience this new feeling of kindliness and
sympathy in the air, the hearts most vitally affected alone knew how
sorely the war was bruising them.
But, as Alma said, whenever she could rush away from her patients for
a breath of home, “Work is the only thing to keep one’s thoughts off
one’s troubles, and it doesn’t pay to dwell on them. Here’s another
letter from Robert Grant. He says Con is progressing and hints that
there is a chance of his being exchanged as soon as he can travel. I do
wish we could hear from himself, if it was only just a word. I can’t
help fearing he’s more hurt than Mr Grant tells us.”
“It’s a great comfort to know that he’s alive, my dear,” said Mrs Dare,
“--when so many have gone for good.”
“Oh, it is. I assure you I am grateful, Mother. And yet I can’t help
longing for just that one word from himself. If he only signed his
letters even, it would be something.”
“We must be thankful for the smallest sparing mercy in these days. It
seems incredible that any of them should come back alive when one reads
the accounts of the fighting.”
“I don’t believe it helps one to read about it,” said Lois, who had sat
listening quietly.
“I’m sure it doesn’t,” said Alma. “I’m glad to say I have very little
time for reading. On the other hand one cannot help hearing our men
talk about it, and perhaps that’s worse, for they were in the thick of
it and know what they’re talking about. And, oh, if only the slackers
and shirkers at home could hear how the others think of them! Their
ears would tingle red for the rest of their lives. You hear pretty
regularly from Ray, Lo?”
“Every two or three days. I’ll get you his last ones,” and she slipped
quietly away.
“She is on the rack too,” said Mrs Dare with a sigh. “Any day may bring
us ill news. I dread the postman’s ring. And in a few days Noel will be
in it too. It’s hard on those who sit at home and wait.”
“But the boys are just splendid,” said Alma cheerfully. “They’re doing
their duty nobly. Just think how you, and we all, would have felt if
Noel had kept out of it. Why, we couldn’t have held our heads up,
Mother, and you know it.”
“I know,” nodded Mrs Dare. “I try to look at it that way, but the other
side will insist on being looked at also.”
“If any of them never come back,--well, we know that they will be
infinitely better off. They will have attained the very highest. No
man can do more than give his life for his country, and these boys are
giving themselves splendidly. I tell you my heart is in my throat at
thought of it all whenever I meet a regiment in the street. I could
cheer and cry at the same time. They are splendid!--splendid!--and
you can see in their eyes and faces that they understand. War is very
terrible, Mother, but I cannot help feeling that as a people we are on
a higher level than we were six months ago. There’s a new and nobler
spirit abroad.”
“To think--that it had to come in such a way!”
“That is one of the mysteries.”
Lois came quietly in with her precious letters.
“I envy you, dear,” said Alma, when she had read them. “Just one little
precious scrawl like those would be worth more to me than all Mr
Grant’s letters, glad as I am to get them.”
“But you know Con is safe,” said Lois softly.
“I have Mr Grant’s word for it, but I don’t know him from Adam. All
I’ve been able to learn is that he was an R.A.M.C. man and was taken at
the same time as Con. He is not a doctor, just one of the helpers.”
“I think I would be glad to have Ray wounded and a prisoner--if it
wasn’t very bad,” said Lois. “Though I’m sure he wouldn’t like to know
I feel like that.”
“And I----” began Mrs Dare. “No, it’s no good talking about it,” and
then almost in spite of herself, she said what was in her mind. “I
really cannot help feeling that if--if the worst had to come to any
of them, it would be better to be killed outright than shattered and
useless for life. Oh, it is terrible to think of. And so many will
be----”
“I would sooner have them back in pieces than not at all,” said Lois
quickly.
“So would I,” said Alma. “Half a man is better than no man when he’s
all you’ve got. Especially when the other half has been given to his
country. No, indeed! Let us get back all we can and be thankful.”
They were kept very busy at Oakdene with their wounded. In search of
extra help Mrs Dare had sent for Mrs Skirrow. But Mrs Skirrow had risen
on the wings of the storm.
She came, indeed, but it was only to explain why she could not come as
formerly.
“You see, mum, I got me ’ands as full as they’ll ’old at present. When
I heard they was goin’ to billet some o’ the boys in Willstead, I says
to myself, ‘That’s your ticket, Thirza Skirrow. Billeting’s your job.
You’re a born billeter.’ So I did up my place a bit, and made it all
nice an’ tidy and clean as a new pin. An’ I got four of ’em. Big lads
too an’ they eats a goodish lot. But we get on together like a house
afire. They calls me ‘Mother,’ an’ I makes thirty bob a week and me
keep off ’em, and feeds ’em well too. It’s better’n charing an’ more to
me taste, and it’s helping King and Country. An’ for me, I don’t mind
how long it lasts.”
“I’m glad you’ve been so sensible,” said Mrs Dare. “Perhaps you know of
someone else who could lend us a hand?”
“Know of plenty that’s needing it,--spite o’ the money they’re drawin’
from Government. But most o’ them that could if they would’s too
happy boozing in the pubs to do anything else. I’ll try and find you
someone, mum, an’ if I can I’ll send her along--or bring her by the
scruff.”
“I hope you have good news of your own boys and Mr Skirrow.”
“Never a blessed word, mum, not since they left. They’ll be all right,
I reckon, or I’d heard about it. We’re not a family that worries much
so long as things is goin’ right. They’ll look after themselves out
there, wherever they are. And I’m doin’ me little bit at ’ome and quite
’appy, thank ye, mum!” and Mrs Skirrow, looking very solidly contented
with life, sailed away to buy in for her boys, and round up some help
for Mrs Dare if she could lay hands on it.
Out of that came the idea--already essayed in other parts of the
country--of opening rooms where the wives of the men who had gone to
the front could meet and talk, and spend their spare time in better
surroundings than the public-houses offered. And another channel for
helpful ministry, and another distraction from brooding thought, was
opened to them.
The boys were waiting in hourly expectation of orders to proceed to
the front, in the highest of spirits, and with a gusto not entirely
explicable to their womankind. By processes of severe elimination they
had reduced their absolutely necessary baggage to official requirements
and the restricted proportions of their new stiff green-webbing
knapsacks. They were now going up and down each day in full campaigning
kit, and looked, as Noel said, like blooming Father Christmases, so
slung about were they with bulging impedimenta of all kinds. They
looked bigger and burlier than ever,--‘absolutely massive,’ said Honor.
Then at last the call came. They were to parade at Head-Quarters and
remain there ready to go on at a moment’s notice.
Farewells to the elders were said at home. Neither Mrs Dare nor Mrs
MacLean would venture on them in public. Lois knew what it would be
like, having been through it already, and she stayed with them. Auntie
Mitt wept unashamedly, though she pretended it was only the beginning
of a cold. And when they had gone, all four shut themselves up for a
space in their bedrooms and betook themselves to their knees.
Honor and Vic, however, went up with them to Head-Quarters, to see the
impression they created in the trains with such loads on their backs,
to share in their reflected glory, and to delay the parting by that
much.
And the impression was highly satisfactory to all concerned. For all
minds were full still of the gallant work of the First Battalion at
Messines, and all knew that these young stalwarts were off presently to
fill the gaps. Appreciative glances followed their bumping progression
in and out of trains and stations, and the girls really felt it an
honour to be in such high company.
At Head-Quarters they--being connected with the draft--were admitted to
the floor of the house and found themselves in a bewildering maelstrom
of circulating Scots.
“I never saw so many bare knees in all my life,” whispered Vic.
“Aren’t they all splendid?” said Honor, sparkling all over, but not
referring entirely to brawny knees.
And splendid they were, though there were many eyes that saw them
but mistily--whereby they doubtless looked more splendid still. And
obtrusive lumps had to be forcibly choked down many throats, as fathers
and mothers, and sisters and other fellows’ sisters, tried their best
to keep brave and cheerful faces while they watched--knowing only too
well that they might be looking for the last time on the clear fresh
faces and bright eyes and stalwart forms.
It was dreadful to think that within a day or two these eager
upstanding boys, with their swinging kilts and cocked bonnets and
cheery looks, might be lying stiff and stark, rent into bloody
fragments by German shells. It did not do to think of it.
Honor and Vic went up into the gallery and watched the multifarious
crowd below.
“It makes me think of one of those colonies of ants you buy at Gamage’s
in a glass case at Christmas,” murmured Vic. “I had one once, but the
glass got broken and they all got out and got lost.... I suppose they
all know what they’re supposed to be doing, but they’re awfully like
those ants pushing about every which way----”
“They’ll get out soon. But I hope they’ll not get lost,” said Honor,
with a glimpse of the chill foreboding.
“Do you know, Nor, those boys walk quite differently since they got
their kilts,” said Vic, as they watched their two down below.
“I know. They fling out their toes with a kind of free kick as though
the world was at their feet. See that man--he does it beautifully. He’s
a sergeant or something. He looks as if he’d done it all his life.”
“It’s rather like the way cats walk on wet grass,” said Vic.
And then, suddenly, sharp words of command down below,--the floor
cleared as if by magic of all but the draft for the front, and they
formed up in two long lines, and a General came along and inspected
them and said a few cheery words to them.
The girls thrilled at the general silence, the concentration on the
draft. They watched their two absorbedly, and to both it came right
home with almost overwhelming force that the parting that was upon them
might well be the final one. They would march proudly away with their
swinging kilts and skirling pipes, and then--they might never see them
again.
“Look at their faces!” whispered Honor. “Are those two really our boys?”
“They’re ours right enough. That’s their fighting-face. They’re
splendid.”
More words of command, they formed up in fours, the big doors swung
open, the pipes shrilled a merry tune, and with heavy tread of ordered
feet they passed out into the gray November day.
“Are they going?” gasped Honor, and turned to follow.
“Only to Central Hall,” said a Second Battalion man who was leaning
on the rail alongside them. “They’re to come back here for lunch
presently. They’ll go on later,--that is if they go on to-day at all.
Somebody was saying the transports aren’t ready.”
“They say there’s a German submarine dodging about the Channel waiting
for them,” said another next to him.
“This place breeds a fresh rumour every five minutes on an average.
You’re never sure of anything till it’s happened.”
So the girls waited hopefully, and criticised the setting of the tables
down below by obviously ’prentice hands; and in due course they were
rewarded by the draft marching in again, without kits this time, and
they all sat down at the tables and ate and drank in apparently jovial
humour.
But to the girls, subdued in spirit somewhat by the pertinacious
intrusion of the future possibilities which took advantage of this
long-drawn farewell, the rough-and-ready banquet had in it something of
the solemn and portentous,--something indeed of a sacrament, though the
apparently jovial ones down below did not seem to regard it so. It was
a farewell feast. It was hardly possible that all those stalwart diners
would return. And as their eyes wandered over them, returning oftenest
to their own two, they wondered who would be taken,--who left to return
to them.
“I couldn’t eat to save my life,” said Vic.
“Nor I. And I don’t believe they’re eating much either. They’re just
pretending to.”
When the feasting was over the place became a maelstrom again, with
much hearty wringing of hands, and good lucks, and good wishes, and
parting gifts of plethoric boxes of matches and cigars and cigarettes.
And then they were all formed up into two long lines again, and the
girls sped down the narrow stone staircases to be near them at the last.
They were just in time to march alongside their own two as far as the
Central Hall, but it was only when the hodden-gray mass was slowly
making its way down the dark stairway that they had the chance to speak.
“We’ve got to sleep in this hole to-night, they say,” said Noel.
“Rotten!”
“When do you think you’ll go?” asked Honor.
“Dear knows. We never know anything till we’re doing it.”
“We shall come up in the morning to see if you’re still here.”
“That’ll be nice. But don’t bother!”
“We may be here for days,” said Gregor. “We’ve got used to hanging on
and waiting orders. It’s the weariest part of the work.”
“Well, we’ll keep on coming up till you go. We’d like to see the last
of them, wouldn’t we, Vic?--I mean,” with a quick little catch of the
breath that nearly choked her, “the last till you come back.”
“Rather! You see, we wouldn’t be sure you really had gone unless we saw
it with our own eyes.”
“Think we’d bolt?--Or want to get rid of us?” grinned Noel.
“Oh--neither. Just to know, you know.”
And then the boys had to go below, and the girls went away home, and
hardly spoke a word all the way.
They went up again next day and found the draft still standing-by in
huge disgust at the delay.
And again the next day--and the next,--and the next; and each time
found the boys growling louder and deeper.
“Got us out of Head-Quarters and forgotten us, the bally idiots!”
was Noel’s opinion. “You might just trot round and ask ’em what they
jolly well mean by it. Tell ’em we’re not going to put up with it much
longer.”
“All going to desert for a change,” said Gregor. “It’s a sight harder
work than fighting.”
Then one morning when the girls arrived at the Hall it was lonely and
deserted. The draft had gone.
“Just as well, maybe,” said Honor philosophically, when she had got
her face quite straight again. “I believe I should have cried at the
last, and I hate crying in public.”
“Crying’s no good,” said Vic valiantly. “I’m glad they’re away at last.
It was beginning to tell on all of us.”