When we have finished slaying for the day, have stropped our gory
sabres, hung our horses up to dry and are sitting about after mess,
girths slackened and pipes aglow, it is a favourite pastime of ours
to discuss what we are going to do after the War.
William, our mess president and transport officer, says frankly,
"Nothing." Three years' continuous struggle to keep the mess going
in whiskey and soda and the officers' kit down to two hundred and
fifty pounds per officer has made an old man of him, once so full of
bright quips and conundrums. The moment Hindenburg chucks up the
sponge off goes William to Chelsea Hospital, there to spend the
autumn of his days pitching the yarn and displaying his honourable
scars gained in many a bloody battle in the mule lines.
So much for William. The Skipper, who is as sensitive to climate as
a lily of the hot-house, prattles lovingly during the summer months
of selling ice-creams to the Eskimos, and during the winter months of
peddling roast chestnuts in Timbuctoo. MacTavish and the Babe
propose, under the euphonious noms de commerce of Vavaseur and
Montmorency, to open pawn-shops among ex-munition-workers, and
thereby accumulate old masters, grand pianos and diamond tiaras to
export to the United States. For myself I have another plan.
There is a certain historic wood up north through which bullets
whine, shells rumble and no bird sings. After the War I am going to
float a company, purchase that wood and turn it into a
pleasure-resort for the accommodation of tourists.
There will be an entrance fee of ten francs, and everything else will
be extra.
Tea in the dug-out--ten francs. Trips through trenches, accompanied
by trained guides reciting selected passages from the outpourings of
our special correspondents--ten francs. At night grand S.O.S. rocket
and Very light display--ten francs. While for a further twenty
francs the tourist will be allowed to pick up as many souvenirs in
the way of rolls of barbed wire, dud bombs and blind crumps as he can
stagger away with. By this means the country will be cleared of its
explosive matter and I shall be able to spend my declining years in
Park Lane, or, anyway, Tooting.
Our Albert Edward has not been making any plans as to his future
lately, but just now it looks very much as if his future will be
spent in gaol. It happened this way. He had been up forward doing
some O. Pipping. While he was there he made friends with a battery
and persuaded the poor fools into doing some shooting under his
direction. He says it is great fun sitting up in your O. Pip, a pipe
in your teeth, a telescope clapped to your blind eye, removing any
parts of the landscape that you take a dislike to.
"I don't care for that tree at A 29.b.5.8"," you say to the
telephone. "It's altogether too crooked (or too straight). Off with
its head!" and, hey presto! the offending herb is not. Or, "That
hill at C 39.d.7.4" is quite absurd; it's ridiculously lop-sided. I
think we'll have a valley there instead." And lo! the absurd
excrescence goes west in a puff of smoke.
Our Albert Edward spent a most enjoyable week altering the geography
of Europe to suit his taste. Then one morning he made a trifling
error of about thirty degrees and some few thousand yards and removed
the wrong village.
"One village looks very much like another, and what are a few
thousand yards this way or that in a war of world-wide dimensions?
Gentlemen, let us not be trivial," said our Albert Edward to the
red-hatted people who came weeping to his O. Pip. Nevertheless some
unpleasantness resulted, and our Albert Edward came home to shelter
in the bosom of us, his family.
The unpleasantness spread, for twenty-four hours later came a chit
for our Albert Edward, saying if he had nothing better to do would he
drop in and swop yarns with the General at noon that day? Our Albert
Edward made his will, pulled on his parade boots, drank half a bottle
of brandy neat, kissed us farewell and rode off to his doom. As he
passed the borders of the camp The O'Murphy uncorked himself from a
drain, and, seeing his boon-companion faring forth a-horse, abandoned
the ratstrafe and trotted after him.
A word or two explaining The O'Murphy. Two years ago we were camped
at one end of a certain damp dark gully up north. Thither came a
party of big marines and a small Irish terrier, bringing with them a
long naval gun, which they covered with a camouflage of sackcloth and
ashes and let off at intervals. Whenever the long gun was about to
fire the small dog went mad, bounced about behind the gun-trail like
an indiarubber ball, in an ecstasy of expectation. When the great
gun boomed he shrieked with joy and shot away up the gully looking
for the rabbit. The poor little dog's hunt up and down the gully for
the rabbit that never had been was one of the most pathetic sights I
ever saw. That so many big men with such an enormous gun should miss
the rabbit every time was gradually killing him with disgust and
exasperation.
Meeting my groom one evening I spoke of the matter to him, casually
mentioning that there was a small countryman of ours close at hand
breaking his heart because there never was any rabbit. I clearly
explained to my groom that I was suggesting nothing, dropping no
hints, but I thought it a pity such a sportsman should waste his
talents with those sea-soldiers when there were outfits like ours
about, offering all kinds of opportunities to one of the right sort.
I again repeated that I was making no suggestions and passed on to
some other subject.
Imagine my astonishment when, on making our customary bi-weekly trek
next day, I discovered the small terrier secured to our tool-limber
by a piece of baling-wire, evidently enjoying the trip and abusing
the limber-mules as if he had known them all his life. Since he had
insisted on coming with us there was nothing further to be said, so
we christened him "The O'Murphy," attached him to the strength for
rations and discipline, and for two years he has shared our joys and
sorrows, our billets and bully-beef, up and down the land of
Somewheres.
But it was with our Albert Edward he got particularly chummy. They
had the same dislike of felines and the same taste in biscuits. Thus
when Albert Edward rode by, ears drooping, tail tucked in (so to
speak), _en route_ to the shambles, The O'Murphy saw clearly that
here was the time to prove his friendship, and trotted along behind.
On arriving at H.Q. the comrades shook paws and licked each other
good-bye. Then Albert Edward stumbled within and The O'Murphy hung
about outside saucing the brass-collared Staff dogs and waiting to
gather up what fragments remained of his chum's body after the
General had done with it. His interview with the General our Albert
Edward prefers not to describe; it was too painful, too humiliating,
he says. That a man of the General's high position, advanced age and
venerable appearance could lose his self-control to such a degree was
a terrible revelation to Albert Edward. "Let us draw a veil over
that episode," he said.
But what happened later on he did consent to tell us. When the
General had burst all his blood vessels, and Albert Edward was
congratulating himself that the worst was over, the old man suddenly
grabbed a Manual of Military Law off his desk, hurled it into a
corner and dived under a table, whence issued scuffling sounds,
grunts and squeals. "See that?" came the voice of the General from
under the table. "Of all confounded impudence!--did you see that?"
Albert Edward made noises in the negative. "A rat, by golly!" boomed
the venerable warrior, "big as a calf, came out of his hole and stood
staring at me. Damn his impudence! I cut off his retreat with the
manual and he's somewhere about here now. Flank him, will you?"
As Albert Edward moved to a flank there came sounds of another
violent scuffle under the table, followed by a glad whoop from, the
General, who emerged rumpled but triumphant.
"Up-ended the waste-paper basket on him," he panted, dusting his
knees with a handkerchief. "And now, me lad, what now, eh?"
"Fetch a dog, sir," answered Albert Edward, mindful of his friend The
O'Murphy. The General sneered, "Dog be blowed! What's the matter
with the old-fashioned cat? I've got a plain tabby with me that has
written standard works on ratting." He lifted up his voice and
bawled to his orderly to bring one Pussums. "Had the old tabby for
years, me lad," he continued; "brought it from home--carry it round
with me everywhere; and I don't have any rat troubles. Orderly!
"Fellers come out here with St. Bernard dogs, shotguns, poison,
bear-traps and fishing-nets and never get a wink of sleep for the
rats, while one common cat like my old Pussums would---- Oh, where
is that confounded feller?"
He strode to the door and flung it open, admitting, not an orderly
but The O'Murphy, who nodded pleasantly to him and trotted across the
room, tail twinkling, love-light shining in his eyes, and deposited
at Albert Edward's feet his offering, a large dead tabby cat.
Albert Edward remembers no more. He had swooned.