Lionel Trelawney Molyneux-Molyneux was of the race of the Beaux. Had
he flourished in the elegant days, Nash would have taken snuff with
him, D'Orsay wine--no less. As it was, the high priests of Savile
Row made obeisance before him, the staff of the _Tailor and Cutter_
penned leaders on his waistcoats, and the lilies of the field whined
"Kamerad" and withered away.
When war broke out Lionel Trelawney issued from his comfortable
chambers in St. James's and took a hand in it. He had no enthusiasm
for blood-letting. War, he maintained from the first, was a vulgar
pastime, a comfortless revolting state of affairs which bored one
stiff, forced one to associate with all sorts of impossible people
and ruined one's clothes. Nevertheless the West-end had to be saved
from an invasion of elastic-sided boots, celluloid dickeys, Tyrolese
hats and musical soup-swallowing. That was _his_ war-aim.
Through the influence of an aunt at the War Office he obtained a
commission at once, and after a month's joining-leave (spent closeted
with his tailor) he appeared, a shining figure, in the Mess of the
Loamshire Light Infantry and with them adventured to Gallipoli. It
is related that during the hell of that first landing, when boats
were capsizing, wounded men being dragged under by tentacles of
barbed wire, machine-guns whipping the sea to bloody froth, Lionel
Trelawney was observed standing on a prominent part of a barge, his
eye-glass fixed on his immaculate field boots, petulantly remarking,
"And now, damn it, I suppose I've got to get wet!"
After the evacuation the battalion went to France, but not even the
slush of the salient or the ooze of Festubert could dim his
splendour. Whenever he got a chance he sat down, cat-like, and
licked himself. Wherever he went his batman went also, hauling a
sackful of cleaning gear and changes of raiment. On one occasion,
hastening to catch the leave train, he spurred his charger into La
Bassée Canal. He emerged, like some river deity, profusely decorated
in chick-weed, his eyeglass still in his eye ("Came up like a
blinking U-boat," said a spectator, "periscope first"), footed it
back to billets and changed, though it cost him two days of his leave.
He was neither a good nor a keen officer. He was not frightened--he
had too great a contempt for war to admit the terror of it--but he
gloomed and brooded eternally and made no effort to throw the
faintest enthusiasm into his job. Yet for all that the Loamshires
suffered him. He had his uses--he kept the men amused. In that
tense time just before an attack, when the minute hand was jerking
nearer and nearer to zero, when nerves were strung tight and people
were sending anxious inquiries after Lewis guns, S.A.A., stretchers,
bombs, etc., Lionel Trelawney would say to his batman, "Have you got
the boot and brass polish, the Blanco, the brushes? Sure?" (a sigh
of relief). "Very well, now we'll be getting on," and so would send
his lads scrambling over the parapet grinning from east to west.
"Where's ole Collar and Cuffs?" some muddy warrior would shout after
a shrieking tornado of shell had swept over them. "Dahn a shell-hole
cleanin' his teef," would come the answer, and the battered platoon
chuckled merrily. "'E's a card, 'e is," said his Sergeant
admiringly. "Marched four miles back to billets in 'is gas-mask,
perishin' 'ot, all because he'd lost 'is razor an' 'adn't shaved for
two days. 'E's a nut 'e is and no error."
It happened that the Loamshires were given a job of crossing Mr.
Hindenburg's well-known ditch and taking a village on the other side.
A company of tanks, which came rolling out of the dawn-drizzle,
spitting fire from every crack, put seven sorts of wind up the
Landsturmer gentlemen in possession; and the Loamshires, getting
their first objectives with very light casualties, trotted on for
their second in high fettle, sterns up and wagging proudly. The
tanks went through the village knocking chips off the architecture
and pushing over houses that got in the way; and the Loamshires
followed after, distributing bombs among the cellars.
The consolidation was proceeding when Lionel Trelawney sauntered on
the scene, picking his way delicately through the débris of the main
street. He lounged up to a group of Loamshire officers, yawned, told
them how tired he was, cursed the drizzle for dimming his buttons and
strolled over to a dug-out with the object of sheltering there. He
got no further than the entrance, for as he reached it a wide-eyed
German came scrambling up the steps and collided with him, bows on.
For a full second the two stood chest to chest gaping, too surprised
to move. Then the Hun turned and bolted. But this time Lionel
Trelawney was not too bored to act. He drew his revolver and rushed
after him like one possessed, firing wildly. Two shots emptied a
puddle, one burst a sandbag, one winged a weather-cock and one went
just anywhere. His empty revolver caught the flying Hun in the small
of the back as he vaulted over a wall; and Lionel Trelawney vaulted
after him.
"Molly's gone mad," shouted his amazed brother-officers as they
scrambled up a ruin for a better view of the hunt. The chase was
proceeding full-cry among the small gardens of the main street. It
was a stirring spectacle. The Hun was sprinting for dear life,
Lionel Trelawney hard on his brush, yelping like a frenzied
fox-terrier. They plunged across tangled beds, crashed through crazy
fences, fell head over heels, picked themselves up again and raced
on, wheezing like punctured bagpipes.
Heads of Atkinses poked up everywhere. "S'welp me if it ain't ole
Collar and Cuffs! Go it, Sir, that's the stuff to give 'em!" A
Yorkshireman opened a book and started to chant the odds, but nobody
paid any attention to him. The Hun, badly blown, dodged inside a
shattered hen-house. Lionel Trelawney tore up handfuls of a ruined
wall and bombed him out of it with showers of brickbats. Away went
the chase again, cheered by shrill yoicks and cat-calls from the
spectators.
Suddenly there was an upheaval of planks and brick-dust, and both
runners disappeared.
"Gone to ground, down a cellar," exclaimed the brother-officers.
"Oh, look! Fritz is crawling out."
The white terrified face of the German appeared on the ground level,
then with a wriggle (accompanied by a loud noise of rending material)
he dragged his body up and was on his way once more. A second later
Lionel Trelawney was up as well, waving a patch of grey cloth in his
hand. "Molly's ripped the seat out of his pants," shouted the
grand-stand. "Yow, tear 'm, Pup!" "Good ole Collar and Cuffs!"
chorused the Loamshire Atkinses.
Lionel Trelawney responded nobly; he gained one yard, two yards,
five, ten. The Hun floundered into a row of raspberry canes, tripped
and wallowed in the mould. Trelawney fell on him like a Scot on a
three-penny bit and they rolled out of sight locked in each other's
embrace.
The Loamshires jumped down from their crazy perches and doubled to
see the finish, guided by the growlings, grunts, crashing of
raspberry canes and jets of garden mould flung sky-high. They were
too late, however. They met the victor propelling the remains of the
vanquished up a lane towards them. His fawn breeches were black with
mould, his shapely tunic shredded to ribbons; his sleek hair looked
like a bird's-nest; his nose listed to starboard; one eye bulged like
a shuttered bow-window; his eye-glass was not. But the amazing thing
about it was that he didn't seem to mind; he beamed, in fact, and
with a cheery shout to his friends--"Merry little scamper--eh,
what?"--he drop-kicked his souvenir a few yards further on,
exclaiming, "That'll teach you to slop soup over my shirt-front, you
rude fellow!"
"Soup over your shirt-front!" babbled the Loamshires. "What are you
talking about?"
"Talking about?" said Lionel Trelawney. "Why, this arch-ruffian used
to be a waiter at Claritz's, and he shed mulligatawny all over my
glad-rags one night three years ago--aggravated me fearfully."