The Sing-Song in the Dug-out
Three surgeons, hastily summoned to the spot, knelt with their
instruments beside Claude Laval, not twenty yards from the bodies of the
two German airmen whom he had brought down the afternoon before, and in
the circle that surrounded them stood the Generalissimo, holding the old
French colour which would never ornament the walls of that distant
hunting-lodge again.
"He will recover," said one of the doctors, getting up from his knee.
"But he will want the most careful attention. The whole thing is
marvellous. There is not one man in a thousand that could have lived
through such an adventure!"
The _pilote aviateur_ opened his eyes, for he had heard the surgeon's
words.
"Mon General," he said, but so faintly that the Commander of the French
Armies had to stoop over him, "I should not have lived if it had not
been for my companion. He is brave, that boy--oh, braver than I can make
you understand. But, mon General," and a wistful look came into the
deep-sunk eyes, "they have taken my Cross of the Legion and destroyed
it!"
"You were a chevalier of the Order, mon lieutenant, if I remember," said
the Generalissimo. "The Republic does not forget her sons when they
behave as you have behaved. You shall have another Cross, and this time
it will be the Cross of an Officer of the Legion of Honour. And listen!
The English lieutenant shall have one too, if the word of Cesar Joffre
carries any weight in France. Messieurs, let us salute these two brave
men who have both deserved so well of the Republic!" And, lifting his
kepi, the gallant Frenchman kissed Dennis on both cheeks amid a burst of
generous applause that came from the hearts of all of them.
"_Cher ami_," whispered Claude Laval, "if you see my brother, you will
tell him of our little escapade, hein?"
Dennis pressed Laval's left hand in both his own as he left him with a
happy smile on his face; and with a last look at the Aviatik, followed
General Joffre to his automobile.
"Adieu, lieutenant!" said the great soldier, with a lingering grip after
an interview that lasted half an hour, "I have no other message for your
General. He will find it all written in that envelope, which you will
give him."
"Now, Martique," said Dennis, settling himself beside him in the motor,
"I am in your hands." And almost before the car had started, Second
Lieutenant Dennis Dashwood, of the 2/12 Battalion, Royal Reedshire
Regiment, was sound asleep!
* * * * *
"Oh, hang it, Martique! What did you wake me for? I haven't been asleep
five minutes," grumbled Dennis. And then he sat bolt upright as he
recognised the handsome face of the man who had shaken him by the
shoulder, and saw the amused smile in his eyes.
"It is a good car, I admit," said Sir Douglas Haig. "But I hardly think
it has done the mileage between this place and Bar-le-Duc in so short a
time as that, and your chauffeur tells me that you have snored all the
way."
Dennis gasped, to find himself once more in front of the headquarters of
the General Commanding in Chief, and turned scarlet.
"I took the liberty of abstracting General Joffre's reply from your
pocket without disturbing you," continued Sir Douglas. "And I have had
the story of your extraordinary exploit from Martique here. Take my
advice, Dashwood, and be chary in future about embarking on such
adventures; they hardly come within the scope of your day's duty."
And then, seeing the shamefaced look that came over the lad, he added
quickly: "Do not read any censure into my words; they were only intended
to convey a little fatherly advice. And now the question arises, what is
to be done with you? You have shown a most remarkable aptitude, and
General Joffre has given such an account of your nerve that I am in two
minds whether or not to transfer you to my personal staff--or would you
prefer a spell of duty with your regiment?"
"Do you mean for the Great Push?" said Dennis, in an eager voice.
"Confound your great push!" said the General, with a faint flash of
sternness in his expressive eyes. "There's too much talk knocking around
about our future movements."
For the life of him Dennis could not help smiling all over his face.
"Well, I see where your heart lies," said the G.O.C. in Chief; "and
Martique, who is going your way, shall give you a lift. I wish you the
best of good luck, Mr. Dashwood, and I am very much obliged to you for
the way you have carried out your mission."
"By Jove!" whispered Dennis, as the car started for the firing-line. "He
did not deny it. There _is_ to be a push, and I'm going to be in it!"
* * * * *
The guns still thundered, and the shells had never ceased to rend and
pulverise the enemy position day and night. Otherwise, everything was
quiet on our front. The raids had ceased, and the wind was unfavourable
to any German gas attack.
"Come on, Dennis," said his brother; "there's nothing doing, and I'm fed
up. Let's drop in to that sing-song for an hour. They've got an awfully
good chap I'm told, who plays the piano like a blooming Paderewski."
"I'm with you," said Dennis. And they made their way into the
subterranean dug-out which had so nearly proved his tomb on the night we
had carried the front-line trench.
It seemed odd to plunge suddenly into an atmosphere of merriment within
a few yards of the men posted at the periscopes along the sandbagged
parapet. The electric lights were burning, and a blue haze of tobacco
smoke obscured the air from a semicircle of listeners, sitting on
packing-cases and forms round the piano on the platform, and the chorus
of "Gilbert the Filbert," sung with a will, greeted them as they
descended the stairs.
All sorts and conditions of men were gathered there--officers and
privates in mutual good fellowship. The Second-in-Command of the
Reedshires had just given them a ballad, and sung it jolly well too; and
the armourer sergeant and one of their own lieutenants were fooling
about as they waited to appear in a comic turn.
The lieutenant was dressed as a French peasant girl, and really looked
quite pretty; and the armourer sergeant was supposed to resemble George
Robey!
"Oh, there's the chap I was speaking to you about," said Captain Bob,
pointing to a wounded Highlander, whose head was enveloped in a bandage.
"He's a regular genius on the keyboard; that is why there are such a lot
of chaps here to-night. He only blew in a couple of days ago from the
brigade on our right when he heard we were lucky enough to have a
piano."
They made room for the two new-comers; and as the closing lines of the
chorus died away, there were great cries of "Jock, Jock! We want Jock!"
from the audience.
The Highland private's face expanded into a sheepish grin, and as he
stepped up on to the platform you could have heard the proverbial pin
drop. Not a sound but that dull burst and boom that they had all got
used to and scarcely heard now, and then the keys of the piano broke in
upon the tense hush, touched by a master hand.
"Isn't that fine!" whispered the Second-in-Command, who was sitting next
to Dennis. "When this beastly war has finished that man would fill
Queen's Hall to the roof. And to think he's just one of Kitchener's
privates, and the first pip-squeak that comes his way may still that
marvellous gift for ever!"
Dennis nodded, for the improvised melody which had just ceased had
touched him, as it had touched every man in the room.
But there is no time for sentiment in the trenches; it is out of place
there, and after a roar of "Bravo!" and a great clapping of hands had
succeeded a momentary pause, voices cried clamorously: "Give us that
thing you sang last night, Jock--that song with the whistling chorus!"
"Now you'll hear the reverse of the medal, and upon my soul, it's
equally good!" explained the Second-in-Command. "He's like poor old
Barclay Gammon and Corney Grain and half a dozen of those musical-sketch
men rolled into one. It's his own composition too."
There was a great chord on the piano, the performer laid his cigarette
on the music rest, and made an amazing face by way of introduction.
"Gentlemen, I call this song 'All Boche'--because it is," he remarked.
And then he sang a string of purely topical verses, brilliantly clever
in their allusions to the everyday events in which they all bore their
part, and he did not spare the failings of various officers and
N.C.O.'s, who were supposed to be imaginary, but whom everybody
recognised; and when he had done he resumed his seat quietly on the edge
of the platform as though it had been nothing, and Dennis went over to
him.
"I say, you know, that's the best thing I've heard for years," said the
lad enthusiastically. "Would it be possible to have a copy of the words,
or is it asking too much?"
"I'll write them down with pleasure, sir," said the wounded Highlander;
"but I've got no paper."
Dennis whipped out his pocket-book and tore out some leaves, withdrawing
to his packing-case to leave the obliging soldier undisturbed.
But man proposes--you know the old proverb, and before Dennis could seat
himself, the voice of the Company Sergeant-Major rang out from the head
of the staircase: "Fall in, everybody, and as sharp as you like!"
There was an instant stampede up and out into the thunder of the guns;
and as men scurried along the trench the wounded Highlander handed one
of the folded leaves to a sergeant of Dennis's platoon.
"Give that to your Second Lieutenant," he said, "and guid necht." And
the sergeant, spying Dennis in front of him, delivered his message.
"By Jingo, he's written them quickly! I hope they're all here," said the
boy, diving into his new dug-out in search of his trench helmet. And
opening the paper in the candlelight, he read to his utter astonishment
and rage:
"If you want the words of my song you must come and fetch them,
little beastly Dashwood! What a lot of fools you English are!
And so your Great Push will begin at 7.30 in the morning. Very
well, we shall be ready for you!"