in bed with a few magazines and books beside him. He was looking very
bright and happy.
"How are you feeling this morning?" It was our stock question.
He smiled pleasantly as he replied: "Splendid, sir, splendid. Your
nurses are charmingly attentive and kind. The rooms and meals are
delightful. I'm in great dread lest I get well too soon!"
He was wounded in the foot; it had been shot through with a piece of
high explosive shell. The small bones were fractured, but he appeared
to be suffering little. The nurse deftly assisted me with his dressing;
after we had finished he said:
"I have a slip of paper here you might be interested to see. I shall
always treasure it as a souvenir of a brave man."
He handed me a little crumpled square on which a few lines in pencil
were scrawled, and continued: "I showed that note to my commanding
officer before they carried me away. It was an humiliation, but it was
my duty."
"What does it mean?" I asked him. "I'm sure this little bit of paper
has a history."
He smiled reminiscently and began: "Our company had been holding a point
in the lines which, under a terrific bombardment, had become untenable.
The commanding officer ordered us to withdraw to a safer trench in the
rear. I called my men and we succeeded in retiring to the position
indicated, in good order and with few casualties.
"I thought every man had left the advanced trench, but a few moments
later when a small body of Germans attempted to storm it, we were
astonished to see it defended by rapid rifle fire from some unknown
source. The battle raged for some hours all along the line, but still
this little spot was stubbornly held. Again and again the Germans
assailed it; but each time with the same lack of success--each attack
they lost twenty or thirty men, and those who reached the trench were
apparently unable to oust its mysterious defenders. When dusk fell the
fighting ceased; and shortly after, I received this little note--it
speaks for itself."
I spread the paper upon my knee and read:
"_Sir:_
"Two other men and I were left behind when the Company withdrew. During
the fight we collected in eight stragglers from other battalions, so we
are now eleven. We held the line against all the attacks. If you, sir,
and the rest of the company wish to come back now, the trench is
perfectly safe.
"JAMES GUFFIN,
"_Sergeant._"
*CHAPTER IX*
Every military unit at the front has its "mascot." Ours was no
exception; in fact we overdid it, and became a sort of home for pets of
all shapes and sizes, from Jean, a little French boy nine years of age,
who wandered in one day from Soissons, to nursing sister Marlow's baby
goat.
Jean's mother was dead; his father was fighting at the front, and the
little chap being, as we discovered later, of a migratory disposition,
forsook his native haunts and "took the trail." How or why he came to
us, no one knows, but he liked our company, so he stayed.
A small boy being the only sort of animal we had not already adopted,
was hailed with joy, and before two days had passed, we had taken up a
collection and bought him a complete military uniform, from cap to
boots. He couldn't speak a word of English--but he was a boy, and as we
too had been boys not so very long ago we understood one another from
the start. Jean picked up English words with disturbing rapidity. He
had learned several distinct and artistic varieties of oaths before we
were aware he understood at all.
Jean and the goat had much in common. They had both been cast upon a
warlike world at a tender age. They had both adopted us, and both
accepted their living from us with gracious condescension.
According to world-wide custom, the goat was promptly nick-named
"Billy," although he was a mere bundle of lank grey wool with legs so
long that it must have made him dizzy every time he viewed the earth
below. He was just strong enough to stagger over to the nursing bottle
which Jean held out in his grimy fist.
Jogman loved Jean; Jean loved the goat, and the goat loved Jogman. Thus
was established an "odd-fellows" circle into which none might break.
"Dat's a hand fer ye," Tim commented to Jogman, as the pair watched Jean
feeding the goat. "A hand like dat ain't friends wit' soap an' water,
but de goat ain't too pertickler."
"I washed him about an hour ago," Jogman replied defensively, "but ye
can't keep th' boy clean--he ain't happy without dirt."
Jean sat upon the ground as they spoke, still holding the nursing bottle
up to Billy's greedy mouth. He understood only a little of what they
were saying, but looked up quickly at the last few words.
"I'm happy here--me," he cried. "_Bien content_--damn!"
The expletive was addressed to Billy who with a sudden tug had pulled
the bottle from his hand.
"Do ye know where small boys that swear go?" asked Jogman reprovingly.
"Big boys what swear go to de war," Jean contended, "an' me soldier
too."
"If you do it again I'll send ye back to yer aunt at Soissons," said
Jogman.
The child sprang to his feet at once, and catching him by the hand cried
tearfully: "No!--No!--No!--not back to Soissons--Oh! _Je vous en prie,
non!_"
What strange fear had driven him from home? He couldn't or wouldn't
explain it; but he was in great dread of being sent back, and it was the
one threat which influenced him.
"Well, well," said Jogman soothingly, "be a good boy, an' don't swear no
more--then we kin keep ye with us."
Jogman had a good heart, but a bad stomach--it's difficult to get a
perfect combination. Jogman drank; so did the goat, but they imbibed
from different bottles and with different results. He had been on his
good behaviour for almost two weeks--his money had run out. But pay day
came at last and trouble always followed in its wake.
Thirty dollars--over one hundred and fifty francs in French money--was
enough to turn the head of any soldier. With a bulging pocket the
Tommy's heart throbbed nervously, until he got a chance to "blow it in."
But before this fortuitous event was completed Jogman had signally
disgraced himself and us. Tim accosted him as he was leaving the
hospital grounds:
"Where are ye goin'?" he demanded.
"Goin' to town to see th' sights," Jogman returned with a grin.
"_Some_ sights--dose gals," Tim growled. "Remember yer failin' an' don't
hit de can too hard. I can't bear seein' ye doin' mor'n six days 'First
Field' per week."
Jogman had good cause to know to what form of military punishment Tim
alluded. He had already had several trials of it.
Paris-plage was only two miles distant, and its smart cafes and pretty
girls called irresistibly to the lonely boys. The girls, however, never
worried Jogman. His life was full when his stomach was full, and the
fumes of "cognac" or "whiskey blanc" beckoned him like a siren's smile.
Loaded down with his full month's pay and with a twenty-four hour pass
in his pocket, he took the shortest path through the forest towards his
objective.
The day was clear and almost warm, and the soft breeze droned lazily
through the pines. As he reached the edge of the wood he saw before him
the sand dunes rolling gently toward the sea. There was a weird
fascination about those great hollows and hills of sand. Time and the
wind had beaten them so firmly that one might tread upon their crusted
surface and scarcely leave a footprint. Craters as large as the Roman
Coliseum, surrounded by tufted grass, spread before his gaze, but he
tramped stolidly on, hardly conscious of the lonely beauty of his
environment. All that Jogman saw was the top of the large French
hospital which marked the edge of the town and stood out clearly against
the deep blue of the sea.
When he came to the highest point of the dunes he idly noticed the
strange house surmounting it--a dwelling made from an overturned
fishing-smack, with door and windows in its side. But a little farther
on a habitation, stranger still, by accident attracted his attention.
He had lain down for a moment's rest beside some bushes, and on turning
his head was surprised to see a small window on a level with his eyes.
The house was buried in the sand; its little door, scarce big enough to
permit a man's body to pass through, was cunningly hidden by the brush
and grass. Whoever lived within was hiding from the world.
Jogman got upon his knees and thrust the brush aside; he pried open the
window and peered within. He saw a small room, neatly furnished with
bed and rug and chair. A dresser stood against the wall. An electric
light hung from the ceiling, but no wires were visible without. The
clothes still lying upon the bed, the overturned chair and the remains
of a lunch upon the table all spoke of a hasty departure. Perhaps it
had been the secret home of a German spy. If so, he had decamped some
time since.
Dismissing idle speculation, but making a mental note for future
reference, Jogman rose and proceeded on his quest. He soon found
himself in the streets of that lively little town which has been aptly
called the "Monte Carlo" of northern France. Its big gambling "Casinos"
had long since been turned to better use, and the beds of wounded
soldiers now replaced the gambling tables and _petits chevaux_.
Hurrying through the "Swiss Village" and scarcely taking time to
acknowledge the greetings of a Belgian lassie who waved her hand from a
shop window as he passed, he entered the _Cafe Central_ and seating
himself at one of the little round tables forthwith called for a drink.
The barmaid approached him.
"_M'sieur veut?_" she asked.
"Gimme a glass of Scotch an' soda," Jogman demanded.
"Ees eet wiskie m'sieur desires?" she queried in broken English.
"Yes--whiskey--big glass," said Jogman picturing the size with his two
hands.
"_Oui, m'sieur._"
She filled his glass. He drank it thirstily and called for another.
Several more followed their predecessors, and being now comfortably
alight he proceeded up street, seeking new worlds to conquer.
The butcher-shop door stood invitingly open. Jogman entered unsteadily;
what maudlin idea was fermenting in his brain none but himself might
say. The fat butcher, meataxe in hand and pencil behind his ear,
approached to take his order.
"_Bonjour, monsieur!_" he said.
Jogman placed one hand upon the slab, the better to steady the shop
which, ignoring the law of gravity, was reeling in most unshoply
fashion.
"Bone Dewar, yerself!" he cried, incensed at being addressed in an
unintelligible language. "Why th' hell can't ye speak English--like
a--white man?"
How often we too have been unreasonably irritated by a foreign and
incomprehensible tongue! Jogman's sense of injustice was
preternaturally keen just then. The butcher was a trifle alarmed at his
attitude without in the least understanding the cause of complaint.
"_Quest ce que vous voulez, monsieur?_" he demanded nervously.
"Drop that hatchet!" cried his irrational customer, making a step
forward. "Drop it, er I'll drop you."
The unfortunate shopkeeper grasped his weapon more firmly still, and
stood tremulously on the defensive.
"I'll learn ye to do as ye're told!" shouted Jogman, and seizing a large
knife from the slab he rushed at the frightened man who ran screaming
into the street, with Jogman in hot pursuit.
The sight of a British soldier brandishing a meat knife and chasing a
fellow citizen along the main street was terrifying in the extreme to
the peaceful denizens of the town. They ran shrieking for help, bolting
into their shops or houses, and barring the doors as though the devil
himself with a regiment of imps on horseback were at their heels.
Jogman had cleared the _Rue de Londres_ and in the pride of drunken
conquest was about to attack the lesser streets, when the Military
Police hove in sight. Much to his annoyance the disturbance interrupted
Sergeant Honk in a monosyllabic conversation, which he was holding with
a pretty French girl. He humped himself around the corner just in time
to see the Sergeant of Police take the belligerent Jogman by the scruff
of the neck and the seat of his breeches and heave him into a waiting
ambulance.
Honk returned to his Juliette. She had retired to her balcony and
refused to descend. Honk lifted his voice appealingly from the street:
"H'I say! Down't ye' be h'afeered--'e won't come back, an' 'e wouldn't
'urt ye when h'I'm 'ere. Come h'on down!"
But Juliette was obdurate, and turned a deaf ear to his entreaties.
"_Merci--je ne descends point!_" she returned. This was about as
intelligible to Honk as Chinese script, but he understood the shake of
the head all too well.
"Blast 'im," he grumbled; "them bloomin' blokes what drinks is goin' to
'ave th' 'ole bleedin' town h'about our h'ears. Th' gals won't look at
a decent feller soon." And he forthwith went to drown his sorrow in a
mug of beer.
Honk's complaint was soon verified by the facts. Jogman's fame flew
from house to house with such infernal rapidity that in less than
twenty-four hours the French had learned an English phrase which it cost
our lads several months of good conduct to eradicate. It was simple and
to the point: "Canadians no good!" For weeks afterward it was shouted
at them every time they entered the village. The populace gathered in
little groups close to their own homes, while a few of the more timid
locked themselves in and shouted through the shutters these same
humiliating words.
As Jogman was brought in to the Guard Room, Barker caught a glimpse of
him.
"Well," Barker cried in scathing criticism; "the colonel said I wuz th'
first t' disgrace th' unit. By cripes; I wuzn't th' last. You sure
made a good job uv it!"
The colonel was a busy man. His day was as varied and colourful as
Job's coat. When it wasn't the vegetable woman who had to be bartered
with, it was the iceman who sought, with true French business acumen, to
show him why he wasn't really overcharged, although the bill was three
times what the natives had to pay.
"Alvred" had been installed as "Interpreter," and throughout all these
ridiculous and unsatisfactory arguments maintained a face as impassive
as an English butler at a club dinner.
If the electric light bill to the former tenant was eighty francs per
month, and our bill was three hundred francs for the same period,
monsieur was assured, on word of honour, that the party of the first
part was undercharged, and would forthwith be requested to pay the
difference. But one thing was certain; the account against us was
_always_ correct.
When the colonel had finished these little business details he was
hurried away to the operating room. A serious case was awaiting his
skilled hand. The wounded man, whose thigh had been shattered with a
rifle bullet, was lying upon the table waiting patiently to be
etherised. The colonel stepped over to pass a kindly word with him
before he was put to sleep.
"And how are you this morning?" he enquired.
"Oh, verra weel in me'self," the poor fellow answered, with a ready
smile, "but ma leg is a bit troublesome. I hope ye won't hae t' cut it
off, sir?"
"Oh, I think not," the colonel declared reassuringly. "I expect it won't
be as serious as that."
"In course, sir, ye'll dae whichever ye think best--but I hae a wife and
twa wee bairnies at hame, an' I were thinkin' as how I'd be better able
tae dae for them wi' baith ma legs."
"We'll do our very best to save it," the colonel answered.
In a few minutes we were dressed in our white gowns and caps. The X-ray
plates were brought in and placed in the illuminator for us to see the
exact damage done. The thigh bone was badly splintered for a distance
of three inches, and one large piece was torn away. We hoped to be able
to put a steel plate upon the bone, and, by screwing it down, draw the
fragments together with some fair chance of having them unite. This is
a delicate operation, and not only demands considerable skill, but the
operating facilities must be perfect.
Fortunately our operating room was ideal, with its white enamelled walls
and marble basins, its rubber covered floor, the most modern of surgical
appliances, and, most important of all, a staff of highly trained
nurses--it was as ideal as science could make it.
With a bright keen knife the incision was made down to the bone. Alas!
It was hopelessly fractured. For a space of several inches there was
nothing but tiny fragments, and the one long loose piece we had seen in
the X-ray plate. The colonel turned, and said:
"What a pity! The space is so large, the bone will never regenerate.
This leg should come off--but I promised to try and save it."
We discussed the situation for a few moments, and finally decided to try
an experiment. The loose piece of bone had not yet been thrown away.
Might it be used as a splint? We fitted it in between the upper and
lower fragment--it was just long enough to be wedged between. We
drilled a hole through either end and fastened it firmly with silver
wire. Would it grow or decay there? We had grave doubts, and time
alone would tell.
Let no one imagine that in the thousands of operations performed at the
front surgeons become careless! Every case is a special one; every
"Tommy" the private patient of the Empire. The surgeon's responsibility
is as great--and he feels it, too--in that far-away land, as it is at
home.
We put the limb in a plaster cast to hold it firm. It had been a clean
wound--no infection--we had hopes. Six weeks later the bone had united
fairly well, and in three months McPherson was able to walk!
But when this operation was done the colonel's troubles were by no means
over for the day. It was ten o'clock, and "office" must be held. This
miniature military "Police-Court" sits every morning, with the
commanding officer as judge. If the court is small, it is by no means
unimportant. Jogman realised this as he stood waiting with the guard
and witnesses in the hall, the day after his great "debacle."
The colonel and adjutant were seated in due state, being in full
"service dress," which, as distinct from undress, comprises belt and
cap. The sergeant-major, in equally dread attire, ordered the guard and
prisoner (the latter being minus both belt and cap--these appurtenances
being denied him) to "'Shun!--Right turn; quick march!--Halt!--Right
turn!" and the whole squad was in line, awaiting "office."
The colonel's face wore a tired and worried expression; his smile had
disappeared. The sergeant-major announced:
"Private Jogman, sir!"
The adjutant read the charge sheet. "Number 17462, Private James Jogman,
is accused with conduct to the prejudice of good order and military
discipline, in that he, on the afternoon of the 21st instant at 4 p.m.,
in the village of Paris-plage, was disorderly."
The colonel turned to the accused: "Private Jogman, you have heard the
charge against you, as read. Are you 'guilty' or 'not guilty'?"
"Not guilty,--sir," Jogman muttered shamefacedly.
Sergeant Honk, as a witness, expressed his surprise by an almost
imperceptible lifting of the brush of red hair which did service in lieu
of eyebrows. The sergeant-major's lip curled slightly. The colonel's
face remained immobile.
"Read the written statement of the Military Police, Mr. Adjutant," he
commanded.
The adjutant did so. Each line was correct and convincing. The
accused, when asked, declined to express an opinion on it.
"Who is the first witness?" the colonel asked.
"Sergeant Honk, sir."
"Sergeant Honk, what do you know of this case?" demanded the Colonel.
"Sir, h'on the afternoon of the twenty-first, at about four o'clock, h'I
was talkin' to a lady h'on the main street of Paree-plaige, when h'I
'eard th' devil of a row--beg pardon, sir, it slipped h'out afore I
thought."
"Go on;" said the colonel drily. "I daresay what you state is quite
correct."
Thus encouraged, Honk resumed with morose enthusiasm: "H'I says to th'
young lady, says h'I, 'Somethin's broke loose 'ere.' The women and men
was a-screamin' an' runnin' into their 'ouses. H'I run to the corner as
fast as me legs could carry me--" Jogman looked instinctively at Honk's
queer limbs, as if he were about to do a mental calculation of his
speed, but was immediately called to attention by the sergeant-major.
"When h'I got there, h'I see th' prisoner goin' like h---- (h'excuse me,
sir); well, 'e were goin' some, I tell 'e, with a butcher's' knife in
'is mit----"
"Did he appear intoxicated?" the colonel interrupted.
"'Orrible drunk, h'I calls it, sir--'e were that same, sir; and afore
h'I gets to 'im, th' Sergeant o' Police 'ad 'im by th' seat of 'is pants
an' 'oisted 'im into the waggin!"
"Have you any questions to put to the witness?" the colonel asked.
"Yes, sir," Jogman replied. "Will Sergeant Honk state, sir, how many
beers he had inside him when he thought he seed me?"
The unfortunate Honk turned a deeper hue of red, and shuffled
uncomfortably from one foot to the other.
"Your question is not allowed," the colonel replied sternly. "There is
plenty of other evidence to show that Sergeant Honk's vision was
reasonably accurate."
Other witnesses were called, but the evidence was all equally damning.
At last the colonel asked the prisoner if he had any further defence to
offer.
Jogman replied: "Yes, sir. Last month I fell from the boiler and my
head has been queer ever since. When I take a drink I don't know what
I'm doin'. I don't remember anything about all this."
And the Colonel replied: "This month you fell from the water waggon, and
your head is queerer than before. For the crime of which you are guilty
you might be shot; but I intend being lenient with you--on one
condition--"
Jogman looked up expectantly.
"--and that is--that you sign the pledge that you will not touch another
drop of liquor while you are in France."
Honk looked as if he thought this worse than being shot. Jogman glanced
furtively at the colonel's face; he had never seen him look so severe
before. It was a big sacrifice, but it could not be avoided. He heaved
a sigh and replied slowly: "I'll--sign--it, sir!"
"Twenty-eight days First Field Punishment!"
"Right turn, quick march!" cried the sergeant-major; and "office" was
over for the day. Remorseful recollection of the pledge he had just
signed clouded Jogman's brow.
"He's gone an' spoiled th' whole war fer me," he grumbled, as they led
him away.
*CHAPTER X*
Reggy might have been a success as Mess Secretary, if it hadn't been for
the Camembert cheese. No one could have remained popular long under
such a handicap. He had discovered it in some outlandish shop in
Paris-plage. The shopkeeper had been ostracised and the health
authorities called in.
Some one has said that cheese improves with age. I do not propose to
indulge in futile argument with _connoisseurs_, but Reggy's cheese had
passed maturity and died an unnatural death. When he produced its green
moss-covered remains upon the table, the officers were forthwith divided
into two factions--those who liked cheese and those who did not; and the
latter class stated their objections with an emphasis and strength which
rivalled the Camembert.
Corporal Granger had charge of the Mess. He was a quiet, gentlemanly
little chap who said little, thought much, and smoked when he had a
chance. He opened the box before dinner, took a whiff which distorted
his face, and silently passed the box to his assistants.
Wilson and Rene--a French-Canadian lad--wrinkled their noses in unison
over it; then Wilson drawled:
"Smells--like a--disease--we uster have--in the ward upstairs."
But Rene's atavistic sense approved the cheese. "Dat's bon fromage," he
declaimed emphatically. "Cheese ain't good until it smells like dat."
"Then folks to home eats a lot what's bad fer them--don't they?" Wilson
retorted, with mild satire; "an' them so healthy too!"
Rene disdained controversy, and with unruffled dignity continued laying
the table. During the first few months of our labours he had been
orderly to no less a person than the senior major--hence his feeling of
superiority. But he and the Second-in-Command hadn't always agreed; the
senior major had a _penchant_ for collecting excess baggage, and it
behooved his unfortunate batman to pack, unpack and handle his
ever-increasing number of boxes and bags. By the time we reached
Boulogne these had become a great burden. Rene looked ruefully down
upon it before he started to lift it, piece by piece, into the lorrie.