SCENE.--_A shell-pitted plain and a cavalry regiment under canvas
thereon. It is not yet "Lights out," and on the right hand the
semi-transparent tents and bivouacs glow like giant Chinese lanterns
inhabited by shadow figures. From an Officers' mess tent comes the
twinkle of a gramophone, rendering classics from "Keep Smiling." In
a bivouac an opposition mouth-organ saws at "The Rosary." On the
left hand is a dark mass of horses, picketed in parallel lines. They
lounge, hips drooping, heads low, in a pleasant after-dinner doze.
The Guard lolls against a post, lantern at his feet, droning a fitful
accompaniment to the distant mouth-organ. "The hours I spent wiv
thee, dear 'eart, are.--Stan' still, Ginger--like a string of pearls
ter me--ee ... Grrr, Nellie, stop kickin!" The range of desolate
hills in the background is flickering with gun-flashes and grumbling
with drum-fire--the Boche evensong._
_A bay horse_ (_shifting his weight from one leg to the other_).
Somebody's catching it in the neck to-night.
_A chestnut_. Yep. Now if this was 1914, with that racket loose,
we'd be standing to.
_A gun-pack horse_. Why?
_Chestnut_. Wind up, sonny. Why in 1914 our saddles grew into our
backs like the ivy and the oak. In 1914----
_A black horse_. Oh, dry up about 1914, old soldier; tell us about
the Battle of Hastings and how you came to let William's own Mounted
Blunderbusses run all over you.
_A bay horse_. Yes, and how you gave the field ten stone and a
beating in the retreat to Corunna. What are your personal
recollections of Napoleon, Rufus?
_Chestnut_. You blinkin' conscripts, you!
_Black_. Shiss! no bad language, Rufus--ladies present.
_Chestnut_. Ladies, huh. Behave nice and ladylike when they catch
sight of the nosebags, don't they?
_A skewbald mare_. Well, we gotta stand up for our rights.
_Chestnut_. 'Struth you do, tooth and hoof. What were you in civil
life, Baby? A Suffragette?
_Skewbald_. No, I wasn't, so there.
_Bay_. No, she was a footlights favourite; wore her mane in plaits
and a star-spangled bearing-rein and surcingle to improve her
fig-u-are; did pretty parlour tricks to the strains of the banjo and
psaltery. _N'est-ce pas, cherie_?
Skewbald. Well, what if I did? There's scores of circus gals is
puffect lydies. I don't require none of your familiarity any'ow,
Mister.
_Bay_. Beg pardon. Excuse my bluff soldierly ways; but nevertheless
take your nose out of my hay net, please.
_A Canadian dun_. Gee! quit weavin' about like that, Tubby. Can't
you let a guy get some sleep. I'll hand you a cold rebuff in the
ribs in a minute. Wazzer matter with you, anyhow?
_Tubby_. Had a bad dream.
_Black_. Don't wonder, the way you over-eat yourself.
_Bay_. Ever know a Quartermaster's horse that didn't? He's the only
one that gets the chance.
_Skewbald_. And the Officers' chargers.
_Voice from over the way_. Well, we need it, don't we? We do all
the bally headwork.
_Bay_. Hearken even unto the Honourable Montmorency. Hello, Monty
there! Never mind about the bally headwork, but next time you're out
troop-leading try to steer a course somewhat approaching the
straight. You had the line opening and shutting like a concertina
this morning.
_An iron-grey_. Begob, and that's the holy truth! I thought my ribs
was goin' ivery minnut, an' me man was cursin' undher his breath the
way you'd hear him a mile away. Ye've no more idea of a straight
line, Monty avic, than a crab wid dhrink taken.
_Monty_. Sorry, but the flies were giving me gyp.
_Canadian dun_. Flies? Say, but you greenhorns make me smile. Why,
out West we got flies that----
_Iron grey_. Och sure we've heard all about thim. 'Tis as big as
bulldogs they are; ivery time they bite you you lose a limb. Many a
time the traveller has observed thim flyin' away wid a foal in their
jaws, the rapparees! F' all that I do be remarkin' that whin one of
the effete European variety is afther ticklin' you in the short hairs
you step very free an' flippant, Johnny, acushla.
_A brown horse_. Say, Monty, old top, any news? You've got a pal at
G.H.Q., haven't you?
_Monty_. Oh, yes, my young brother. He's got a job on Haig's
personal Staff now, wears a red brow-band and all that--ahem! Of
course he tells me a thing or two when we meet, but in the strictest
confidence, you understand.
_Brown_. Quite; but did he say anything about the end of the War?
_Monty_. Well, not precisely, that is not exactly, excepting that he
says that it's pretty certain now that it--er--well, that it will end.
_Brown_. That's good news. Thanks, Monty.
_Monty_. Not a bit, old thing. Don't mention it.
_Iron-grey_. 'Tis a great comfort to us to know that the War will
ind, if not in our day, annyway sometime.
_Canadian dun_. You bet. Gee, I wish it was all over an' I was home
in the foothills with the brown wool and pink prairie roses
underfoot, and the Chinook layin' my mane over.
_Iron-grey_. Faith, but the County Cork would suit me completely; a
roomy loose-box wid straw litter an' a leak-proof roof.
_Tubby_. Yes, with full meals coming regularly.
_A bay mare_. I've got a two-year-old in Devon I'd like to see again.
_Monty_. I've no quarrel with Leicestershire myself.
_Gunpack horse_. Garn! Wot abaht good old London?
_Chestnut_. Steady, Alf, what are you grousing about? You never had
a full meal in your life until Lord Derby pulled you out of that
coster barrow and pushed you into the Army.
_Tubby_. A full meal in the Army--help!
_Brown_. Listen to our living skeleton. Do you chaps remember that
afternoon he had to himself in an oat field up Plug Street way? When
the grooms found him he was lying on his back, legs in the air, blown
up like a poisoned pup. "Blimy," says one lad to t'other, "'ere's
one of our observation bladders the 'Un 'as brought down."
_Chestnut_. I heard the Officer boy telling the Troop Sergeant that
he'd buy a haystack some day and try to burst you, Tubby. The
Sergeant bet him a month's pay it couldn't be done.
_Tubby_. Just because I've got a healthy appetite----
_Brown_. Healthy appetites aren't being worn this season, Sir--bad
form. How are the politicians' park hacks to be kept sleek if the
troop-horse don't tighten his girth a bit? Be patriotic, old dear;
eat less oats.
_Chestnut_. That mess gramophone must be redhot by now. It's been
running continuous since First Post. I suppose somebody's mamma has
sent him a bottle of ginger-pop, and they're seeing life while the
bubbles last.
_Monty_. Yes, and I suppose my young gentleman will be parading
to-morrow morning with a _camouflage_ tunic over his pyjamas, looking
to me to pull him through squadron drill.
_Iron-grey_. God save us, thin!
_A Mexican roan_. _Buenas noches!_
_Gunpack horse_. Hish! Orderly Officer. 'E's in the Fourth Troop
lines nah; you can 'ear 'im cursin' as he trips over the heel
shackles.
_Monty_. Hush, you fellows. Orderly Officer. _Bong swar_.
* * * * * * * *
_Once more heads and hips droop. They pose in attitudes of sleep
like a dormitory of small boys on the approach of a prefect. The
line Guard comes to life, seizes his lantern and commences to march
up and down as if salvation depended on his getting in so many laps
to the hour. From the guard-tent a trumpet wails, "Lights out."_
X
"CONVEY," THE WISE IT CALL
I am living at present in one of those villages in which the
retreating Hun has left no stone unturned. With characteristic
thoroughness he fired it first, then blew it up, and has been
shelling it ever since. What with one thing and another, it is in an
advanced state of dilapidation; in fact, if it were not that one has
the map's word for it, and a notice perched on a heap of brick-dust
saying that the Town Major may be found within, the casual wayfarer
might imagine himself in the Sahara, Kalahari, or the south end of
Kingsway.
Some of these French towns are very difficult to recognise as such;
only the trained detective can do it. A certain Irish regiment was
presented with the job of capturing one. The scheme was roughly
this. They were to climb the parapet at 5.25 a.m. and rush a quarry
some one hundred yards distant. After half an hour's breather they
were to go on to some machine-gun emplacements, dispose of these,
wait a further twenty minutes, and then take the town. Distance
barely one thousand yards in all. Promptly at zero the whole field
spilled over the bags, as the field spills over the big double at
Punchestown, paused at the quarry only long enough to change feet on
the top, and charged yelling at the machine-guns. Then being still
full of fun and _joie de vivre_, and having no officers left to
hamper their fine flowing style, they ducked through their own
barrage and raced all out for the final objective. Twenty minutes
later, two miles further on, one perspiring private turned to his
panting chum, "For the love of God, Mike, aren't we getting in the
near of this damn town yet?"
I have a vast respect for Hindenburg (a man who can drink the
mixtures he does, and still sit up and smile sunnily into the jaws of
a camera ten times a day, is worthy of anybody's veneration), but if
he thought that by blowing these poor little French villages into
small smithereens he would deprive the B.E.F. of head-cover and cause
it to catch cold and trot home to mother, he will have to sit up late
and do some more thinking. For Atkins of to-day is a knowing bird;
he can make a little go the whole distance and conjure plenty out of
nothingness. As for cover, two bricks and his shrapnel hat make a
very passable pavilion. Goodness knows it would puzzle a guinea-pig
to render itself inconspicuous in our village, yet I have watched
battalion after battalion march into it and be halted and dismissed.
Half an hour later there is not a soul to be seen. They have all
gone to ground. My groom and countryman went in search of
wherewithal to build a shelter for the horses. He saw a respectable
plank sticking out of a heap of débris, laid hold on it and pulled.
Then--to quote him verbatim--"there came a great roarin' from in
undernath of it, Sor, an' a black divil of an infantryman shoved his
head up through the bricks an' drew down sivin curses on me for
pullin' the roof off his house. Then he's afther throwin' a bomb at
me, Sor, so I came away. Ye wouldn't be knowin' where to put your
fut down in this place, Sor, for the dhread of treadin' in the belly
of an officer an' him aslape."
Some people have the bungalow mania and build them bijoux maisonettes
out of biscuit tins, sacking and whatnot, but the majority go to
ground. I am one of the majority; I go to ground like a badger, for
experience has taught me that a dug-out--cramped, damp, dark though
it may be--cannot be stolen from you while you sleep; that is to say,
thieves cannot come along in the middle of the night, dig it up
bodily by the roots and cart it away in a G.S. waggon without you,
the occupant, being aware that some irregularity is occurring to the
home. On the other hand, in this country, where the warrior, when he
falls on sleep suffers a sort of temporary death, bungalows can be
easily purloined from round about him without his knowledge; and what
is more, frequently are.
For instance, a certain bungalow in our village was stolen as
frequently as three times in one night. This was the way of it. One
Todd, a foot-slogging lieutenant, foot-slogged into our midst one
day, borrowed a hole from a local rabbit, and took up his residence
therein. Now this mud-pushing Todd had a cousin in the same
division, one of those highly trained specialists who trickle about
the country shedding coils of barbed wire and calling them "dumps"--a
sapper, in short. One afternoon the sapping Todd, finding some old
sheets of corrugated iron that he had neglected to dump, sent them
over to his gravel-grinding cousin with his love and the request of a
loan of a dozen of soda. The earth-pounding Todd came out of his
hole, gazed on the corrugated iron and saw visions, dreamed dreams.
He handed the hole back to the rabbit and set to work to evolve a
bungalow. By evening it was complete. He crawled within and went to
sleep, slept like a drugged dormouse. At 10 p.m. a squadron of the
Shetland ponies (for the purpose of deceiving the enemy all names in
this article are entirely fictitious) made our village. It was
drizzling at the time, and the Field Officer in charge was getting
most of it in the neck. He howled for his batman, and told the
varlet that if there wasn't a drizzle-proof bivouac ready to enfold
him by the time he had put the ponies to bye-byes, there would be no
leave for ten years. The batman scratched his head, then slid softly
away into the night. By the time the ponies were tilting the last
drops out of their nosebags the faithful servant had scratched
together a few sheets of corrugated, and piled them into a rough
shelter. The Major wriggled beneath it and was presently putting up
a barrage of snores terrible to hear. At midnight a battalion of the
Loamshire Light Infantry trudged into the village. It was raining in
solid chunks, and the Colonel Commanding looked like Victoria Falls
and felt like a submarine. He gave expression to his sentiments in a
series of spluttering bellows. His batman trembled and faded into
the darkness _à pas de loup_. By the time the old gentleman had
halted his command and cursed them "good night" his resourceful
retainer had found a sheet or two of corrugated iron somewhere and
assembled them into some sort of bivouac for the reception of his
lord. His lord fell inside, kicked off his boots and slept
instantly, slept like a wintering bear.
At 2 a.m. three Canadian privates blundered against our village and
tripped over it. They had lost their way, were mud from hoofs to
horns, dead beat, soaked to the skin, chilled to the bone, fed up to
the back teeth. They were not going any further, neither were they
going to be deluged to death if there was any cover to be had
anywhere. They nosed about, and soon discovered a few sheets of
corrugated iron, bore them privily hence and weathered the night out
under some logs further down the valley. My batman trod me underfoot
at seven next morning. "Goin' to be blinkin' murder done in this
camp presently, Sir," he announced cheerfully. "Three officers went
to sleep in bivvies larst night, but somebody's souvenired 'em since,
an' they're all lyin' hout in the hopen now, Sir. Their blokes
daresent wake 'em an' break the noos. All very 'asty-tempered gents,
so I'm told. The Colonel is pertickler mustard. There'll be some
fresh faces on the Roll of Honour when 'e comes to."
I turned out and took a look at the scene of impending tragedy. The
three unconscious officers on three camp beds were lying out in the
middle of a sea of mud like three lone islets. Their shuddering
subordinates were taking cover at long range, whispering among
themselves and crouching in attitudes of dreadful expectancy like men
awaiting the explosion of a mine or the cracking of Doom. As
explosions of those dimensions are liable to be impartial in their
attentions I took horse and rode afield. But according to my batman,
who braved it out, the Lieutenant woke up first, exploded noisily and
detonated the Field Officer who in turn detonated the Colonel. In
the words of my batman--"They went orf one, two, three, Sir, for orl
the world like a machine-gun, an eighteen-pounder and an How-pop-pop!
Whizz-bang! Boom!--very 'eavy casu-alities, Sir."