My dear Charles,--I never meant to give myself away; I meant to go
on talking about the old War till the end, just as if I was taking a
leading part in it, so that you should have still believed I was doing
the bull-dog business with the best of them. But no, let me be honest
and tell you that I have practically ceased to be a dog. The only
painful connection I can boast of recently with the War is that,
having cause to travel from place to place in this country, I was
unhappy enough to strike six meatless days in succession, which gave
me to think that even embusquing in France has its drawbacks. On
the seventh day I was accused, by good people who know not Thomas,
of being (1) a Russian, (2) an American, (3) a Belgian, and (4) an
Irishman, which made me feel that these gaudy colours I have burst
into are not so famous as I supposed; and on the eighth day I find
myself insulted in twenty-seven places by an angry mosquito, whom in
the small hours of the morning I had occasion to rap over the knuckles
and turn out of my billet. And I've got a nasty cold, and nobody loves
me or cleans my buttons, and if I want to go anywhere there are no
more motor cars and they make me pay a penny for the tram, and my wife
doesn't think I'm a hero any longer, and little James is being taught
to blush and look away and start another subject when anybody says
"Dad-dad," and (if you can believe this) I've just been made to pay a
franc-and-a-half for a tin of bully beef.
But you don't sympathise, not a bit of it; why should you? I
shouldn't if I were in your place. I should just cut off the supply
of cigarettes and shaving-soap, stop wishing me good luck, and, with
haughty contempt, say, "Call yourself a soldier!" Nevertheless, my
friend, whatever I may _be_, I _look_ extraordinarily magnificent, so
much so that a short-sighted Major has taken his pipe out of his mouth
as I have drawn near and has as good as saluted me. When he saw I was
only a Captain (and a temporary Captain at that) he tried to cover his
mistake; but he didn't deceive me; he didn't need to take his pipe out
of his mouth in order to scratch his head, did he?
There is this to be said about being at war, you never know what is
going to happen to you next. For the most part this is just as well.
There is, however, a decent percentage of pleasant surprises, which
is, I suppose, the only thing that makes the business tolerable. No
orderly ever came up to the trenches, when I was in them, but he
gave rise to the hope that he had orders for me to come out at once
and command in chief. Some such orderly did arrive at last, but the
instructions he gave me said nothing about taking over the B.E.F.
Nevertheless orders were orders and I obeyed them and came out. Having
a private conversation with Fortune on the way down the communication
trench, I thanked her very sincerely for her kindness and said I was
so grateful that I would never ask her for anything else.
But you know human nature as well as I do; I soon found myself saying
what a hard life it was in an office, and how one missed the open-air
life one had with one's regiment and the healthy appetite it gave
one. Besides which, as I pointed out to Fortune, my solid worth wasn't
being recognised as it should be. "I don't ask for favours," I told
her. "All I ask is bare justice." Now, if I'd been Fortune, Charles,
and a man had spoken to me like that, after all I'd done for him, I'd
have had him marching up that communication trench again, with a full
pack, at five o'clock in the very next forenoon.
But Fortune, ever kind and forgiving, did no such thing. She
did remonstrate with me gently of nights, when the noise of the
bombardments was particularly fierce and prolonged. "What about those
poor fellows right up in front," she said, "who are sitting out in
the wind and the rain and going through _that_?" "Yes," said I,
"what about them? Can't you do something for them? Do you know that
this is their fourth night of it in succession, and the only bit of
change you've been able to give them was sleet instead of rain on the
Sunday?" That used to put Fortune in the cart, and she'd try and work
the conversation round to my own case again. But what with the wind
and the noise and the downpour and the mud, I was too hot on the
other subject, and I said that Fortune ought to be ashamed of herself,
carrying on like that; and it was a disgraceful war and the police
ought to stop it, and I'd a very good mind to write to the papers
about it.
Then the next day would be fine and dry and warm, and it would be
early closing for the Bosch artillery, and the infantry would go
marching past my office window, whistling and singing and behaving as
if the whole thing was a jolly old picnic; and who'd be an inkslinger
in such weather? And Fortune, modestly intruding, would say to me
casually, "I think I've arranged that rather well, don't you?"
"Ah, you've arranged something at last, have you?" I'd say, assuming
that she must be thinking about me, and I'd open my official envelopes
with an unusual interest, feeling practically sure that one of them
must contain immediate orders for me--the one and only me--to proceed
forthwith to England and reorganise the War Office, taking over a
couple of six-cylinder cars and a furnished flat in St. James's for
the purpose.
Poor old Fortune! what could she say next? She'd look at me, more in
sorrow than in anger, and murmur, "Aren't you forgetting that this is
a war and you are supposed to be fighting it?" Did I blush for shame?
Not I. As bold as brass I'd look old Fortune straight in the face
and, with righteous indignation, would say, "I know as well as you do,
Ma'am, that it is a war; but there's no reason why it shouldn't be a
_just_ war." Thinking it out I have never been quite able to see what
I meant by that, as applied to my own case. However, I seem to have
said the right thing, and it appears to have impressed Fortune very
considerably, because--well, Charles, here I am.
Yet if there is justice in this world (and I subsist on the confident
hope and belief that there is not) I know what the end of it must be.
That confounded orderly, turned traitor, will one day search me out,
however far I may have wandered from the battlefield meanwhile, and,
saluting ironically, will hand me an envelope marked "Urgent, secret,
confidential, personal, private." The contents will be a piece of news
and some orders, and all that Fortune will have had to do with it
will be to attach a forwarding slip, "Passed to you, please, for your
information and necessary action." The news will be that for everyone
else the War is over, and the infantry and the rest of them will take
over forthwith my present circumstances, being free to revel in the
trams and the mosquitoes and the nasty colds to their hearts' delight.
The orders will be that for me the War is about to begin again in
grim earnest, and that to-morrow at dawn I take over and defend
till further notice, and against all the most noisy and loathsome
inventions that man can devise, that sector of the trenches which
extends from the Swiss frontier to the sea.
When that day comes I shall be too busy (taking cover) to have leisure
to write to you. Meanwhile I shall still be in touch with life from
time to time and will pass on to you such scraps as come my way. Yours
ever, Henry.
* * * * *
"The India Office goes to Mr. Montagu."--_The Star._
Mahomet had to go to the Mountain, but Mr. Montagu is more fortunate.
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[Illustration: _Bill_. "I dessay some women can do men's work. But
they'll never git men's wages."
_Joe_ (_much married_). "Wotchermean--_never?_ They always 'ave!"]
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