The Row in the Restaurant
"Stand down, Reedshires! File off by your right!" And the shattered
remnant of that fine battalion groped its way along a broken
communication trench to the rear, as a fresh battalion from the reserves
took over the trench they had won at such terrible cost.
They carried Bob Dashwood with them, and Dennis stumbled along like one
in a dream; back past the shell-torn wood, through the village, or
rather, the village heaps, and so to the rear, where they were to go
into billets until the drafts should bring them up to fighting strength
again.
It was a toilsome march, and the little band seemed strangely
insignificant as it passed other eager battalions hurrying up into the
firing line, all eleven hundred strong, some even more.
One of these came swinging by, singing a lusty chorus: "We're
here--because we're here--because we're here--because we're here!" etc.,
and a voice called out, "What cheer, mateys--who are you?"
"The Royal Reedshires!" was the proud reply. "What's your crowd?"
"Dirty Dick's!"
"Then good luck to you"; and Harry Hawke, remembering a certain famous
hostelry in his native land of Shoreditch, felt a fierce thirst come
over him.
"I'd give somethink to be in Dirty Dick's just na'--wouldn't you,
Cockie?" he murmured hoarsely to his left-hand file.
"Not 'arf, I wouldn't," responded Tiddler with a great gulp.
Before long they left our own batteries behind them, and the roar of the
firing, which never ceased, grew muffled in the distance.
They turned aside after a while, for the road was wanted for the motor
ambulances carrying their loads of maimed and mangled men from the
advanced dressing-stations to the Divisional Field Hospital, and meeting
them were the big lorries rushing up food, their headlights shining
brightly in long perspective until the approach of dawn extinguished
them.
Then, when the grey light stole over the gently undulating country,
officers and men looked at each other and at the battalion, and the
tired faces were wan and sunken with something that was not mere
physical fatigue.
The C.O., with his keen smile, and well-waxed little grey moustache, was
no longer in his accustomed place; "Nobby" Clark, who sang such good
songs at their improvised smokers, would never sing to them any more. As
for A Company, reduced to little more than a platoon and a half, it
straggled along like a sort of ragged advance guard, savage and
sleepy--oh, so sleepy, and covered with dust from head to heel, which
did not hide the ugly red splotches and smears that told of fierce grips
and the "haymaker's lift."
But at last they reached the little village, which was the end of the
journey, and broke off and crowded into a big barn that they had once
occupied before; and Dennis, who had tottered along without seeing
anything through his staring eyes for the last mile and more, tripped
and fell on his face, and lay so still that no one worried about him.
Very few of them worried about anything, as a matter of fact; even the
ration parties provoked no enthusiasm. All they wanted was to sleep, and
on many of the war-grimed faces was a smile of satisfied content. They
had helped to lift the curtain of the Great Push, and it had been
completely successful.
When Dennis opened his eyes, or rather, when he was conscious of opening
them, he found Bob standing beside him with a colonel of the R.A.M.C.
"They're not hurrying themselves over that dinner," said Dennis. "I'm
just as hungry as a hollow dog."
"He'll do," said the army doctor. "But for all that, a run home won't
hurt him."
"A run where, sir?" exclaimed Dennis, sitting bolt upright. "The thing's
only just beginning."
"For all that, my dear lad, you came very near making an end of it. Do
you know you've had a slight concussion and lay unconscious for two
days? But you're all right now, and you're going back to town for a week
with your brother. The Push will be going on when you return, and you
will be able to take up the thread where you left it."
The Colonel nodded with a friendly smile and went away, adding over his
shoulder, "I'll make out the papers at once, and you can both of you
get away by the next train that leaves railhead."
The next few hours were a dream to Dennis Dashwood, and when he had put
on a fresh uniform, which his man had mysteriously procured, and had
satisfied his terrific craving for food, Bob told him that our advance
was steadily pushing forward, and the weight of our superior artillery
was making itself irresistibly felt.
"Fact is, old man," said the Captain, "if you hadn't had an uncommonly
thick head you'd have gone under, and the P.M.O.'s quite right. A week
at home is absolutely necessary to set you up. My leg will be better at
the end of that time, and we shall both come back with the draft as fit
as fiddles."
Dennis groaned, but he felt the truth of what his brother said, and,
whisked down to the port of embarkation, they crossed the Channel with
an escort of T.B.D.'s, and both experienced that glorious thrill which
strikes every Englishman worthy of the name when the white cliffs of the
Old Country grow nearer and nearer.
Some day someone will write the epic of the Straits of Dover, and it
will be worth the reading.
The moment they had set foot on shore they were consumed by a terrific
impatience to reach their journey's end. But at last the hospital train
slowed up at Charing Cross, and their taxi passed between the double
crowd which every day waited to see the arrival of the wounded.
"Can you believe it, old chap?" said Bob, as they whirled through the
heavy summer foliage of Regent's Park and came to a halt.
"I've passed beyond that stage when anything surprises me, Den," laughed
his brother. "I believe if I woke up some morning and found myself on
the top of St. Paul's I should simply look upon it as an observation
post, and proceed accordingly."
He broke off as the glass doors opened and a well-known figure came out
on to the steps, and the next moment Mrs. Dashwood was in the arms of
her two soldier sons.
Their arrival had been witnessed from the window of the schoolroom, and
the new governess was powerless to repress the joyful yell or to check
the stampede as her young charges tore down the stairs.
"I've got something for you in my haversack, Billy," laughed Dennis,
producing a German helmet minus the spike; and what with buttons and
bits of shells, when the small fry retired to resume their study of
French irregular verbs it is to be feared the verbs were even more
irregular than usual.
The talk of the elders naturally turned on the Von Dussels, and Mrs.
Dashwood listened with bated breath to the account of their various
meetings with the German spy.
"I suppose you've seen nothing more of Madame Ottilie of the big eyes?"
laughed Bob.
"I am certain that I passed her at the Piccadilly Tube station two days
ago," said Mrs. Dashwood. "But she has dyed her hair red. I am convinced
it was the woman, and she knew that I recognised her. Oh, it is a shame
that these people are allowed to remain in our midst with their
wonderful system of transmitting intelligence."
"Well, I don't think their intelligence is likely to help them now,"
said Dennis. "We've got the beggars set. We've proved that, man to man,
our fellows are miles better than the enemy, and it's only a matter of
time. Whatever we take now, we retain--no falling back as in the old
days. And, by Jove, mater, you should just hear our artillery!"
"I hear it every day, sleeping and waking," said his mother, putting her
hands to her ears. "And oh, how I wish your dear father had been with
you! He hasn't had a day's leave since the war started."
"And I'm afraid he isn't likely to put in for one," said Bob. "The
Governor's great idea is to stick to his job. He's made our brigade one
of the finest in the Army, and they just worship him out there."
How the time flew!--faster even than the week's kit leave that had
brought Dennis home before--and though Bob still walked with a slight
halt, his leg was getting better every day; while Dennis openly declared
that it was simply absurd to have given him leave at all.
"Look here, old chap," said the Captain on Monday, "I'm going up to the
War Office to-day to report myself fit and receive my orders about
taking that draft over. Of course, it's delightful to be at home again,
but there's no earthly reason why we should put in our full leave and
feel that we're slacking."
"Right-o!" responded Dennis promptly, "I want to buy one or two things
to take over, and I'll come into town with you."
Mrs. Dashwood's heart beat quicker, but she made no attempt to stand in
their way, feeling secretly proud of their eagerness, and the two
brothers parted outside the Strand Tube, having arranged to meet at a
certain well-known restaurant at a given time. It was easier to get into
the War Office than to get out of it, and Dennis, his own mission
accomplished, was cooling his heels outside the appointed rendezvous
when someone tapped him on the shoulder.
"I thought I couldn't be mistaken, Dashwood," cried a cheery voice.
"What, Wetherby, old chap!" And Dennis looked at the badge on the
brand-new uniform of the lad who had accosted him. "Great Scott! Have
they sent you to ours?" And his old schoolfellow grinned delightedly.
"Yes, I've just been getting my things. Left the O.T.C. last week--join
the reserve battalion to-morrow."
"And if I've anything to say about it, you'll come out with the draft on
Wednesday. Bob will work that for you. Remember Bob, of course? Look
here, I'm waiting for him now. Let's go in here and have some grub. He's
bound to turn up in a few minutes"; and linking his arm in that of his
old schoolfellow, they passed into the restaurant together.
"The Red Tulips" was filling up rapidly, but they secured a little
table, and turned down a chair for Bob. It was a gay place, all gilt and
glitter, with a string band on one side of the long hall, and at
hundreds of other little tables well-dressed people were lunching, a
goodly sprinkling of officers in uniform among them.
At the next table to their own was a stout Major, whom Dennis instantly
identified as a "dug-out."
His face was flushed and he was talking loudly, names of battalions
flowing glibly from his well-oiled tongue. His companions were an
over-dressed lady and a young "nut" who ought to have been in uniform.
"There's no doubt about it," said the Major. "My battalion--the
Sloggers, you know--absolutely take the biscuit. The --th are a very
decent crush, and so are the --th and the --th. They make up our
brigade, you know. I shall just get back in time, and as soon as I
arrive we have orders to leave Barbillier to support Dashwood's Brigade,
which has been awfully cut up in this last business."
"Confound that old gasbag!" muttered Dennis, leaning across the table to
Wetherby. "That's the way information gets about--he's no right to be
talking like that."
"Certainly not," replied Wetherby, "but I think they're going now. That
waitress girl is making out the bill--a pretty long one, too--she's been
writing hard for the last five minutes."
"You see, what really happened was this," continued the red-faced Major,
"Dashwood's Brigade was at ----"
"You'll excuse me, sir," said a voice, "but I happen to be in Dashwood's
Brigade, and we're not at all anxious that our movements should be given
broadcast in a place like this."
"Eh, what!" stuttered the field officer, looking at the single star
that adorned Dennis's cuff, and waxing furious. "What the dickens is the
service coming to? Do you know who I am, sir?" And he fixed his eyeglass
into the frown that was intended to slay this young whippersnapper who
presumed to dictate to a man with a crown on his shoulder.
But Dennis made no reply, for his eyes were resting on the white-aproned
waitress, who was busy with her pay-book, and he saw two things.
One was that it was no bill she was making out; the other, that the red
hair under her coquettish little cap matched oddly with the great black
eyes that were bent on her writing.
"Pardon me," he said, striding behind the Major's chair; and as his hand
stretched forward for the pay-book the waitress looked up, and he knew
that it was Ottilie Von Dussel!
"You here!" he exclaimed, and the perforated leaf on which she had been
writing came away in his fingers as she closed the book.
She gave a little cry, and one of the musicians stepped down from the
platform and came up to them.
"You must not make a disturbance here, sir," he said rudely, and the
next moment he was flung back across an adjoining table with a cut lip.
Dennis swung round as people sprang to their feet, but Ottilie Von
Dussel was making her way swiftly towards a neighbouring door.
"Stop that woman!" he shouted. "She is a German spy!" But everybody was
talking at once, and the white cap vanished out of sight.
"I shall report you, sir," thundered Dennis to the loquacious Major,
flourishing the leaf he had secured. "Every word of your conversation
has been written down. There was a carbon in that book, and that
she-fiend has escaped with the duplicate. Within forty-eight hours the
German headquarters will receive information that may cost us a thousand
lives!"