last too long--er it'll take one whole train to move de major's
bag-gage!"
Rene was impressionable and had all the romantic instinct of the true
Frenchman. As I watched him decorating the table with flowers--we were
to have company that night, and it was to be an event of unusual
importance to us--my recollection carried me back to a bleak October
night on Salisbury Plain. It was scarcely nine p.m., but I had turned
in and lay wrapped in my sleeping bag, reading by the light of a candle
propped on a cocoa tin. Rene had just returned from "three days'
leave," having travelled over fifty miles to see a little girl whose
face had haunted him for weeks. He was flushed with excitement and had
to unburden his heart to some one. He stepped into my tent for a
moment, the rain running off his cap and coat in little rivulets onto
the floor.
"I'm afraid you're in love, Rene," I teased, after he had given me a
glowing account of his trip.
"I t'ink dat's right," he exclaimed, with sparkling eyes. "Why, dat's
de purtiest gal what I ever see. Dose arms of hers! Gee, dere ain't
lilies so white like dat, an' de roses of her cheeks!--every time I meet
her, I see her like more kinds of flowers!"
"But you'll see another bud next week, Rene," I interjected, "and forget
all about this dainty little flower."
"Me forget? Non!" he declared, with conviction--and then a wistful look
crept into his big brown eyes. He sat upon the edge of Reggy's cot
opposite and reminiscently smoothed the hair off his brow before he
continued:
"Sometime wen you're up de Gat'-ineau at home, an' de lumbermen free de
logs in de riviere, you see dem float so peaceful down de stream. De
water is run so slow an' quiet you don' see no movement dere; but bimeby
de riviere go lil' faster, de ripples wash de banks, de logs move
swifter an' more swift until dey come above de falls---dey fall, crash,
boom! One gets stuck, annuder an' annuder; dey jam--dey pile up higher
an' more high--more hun'reds of logs come down, an' jam an' jam. De
water can't pass--it overflow de bank an' spread out in a great lake
over de fields."
[Illustration: RENE HAD RISEN IN THE EXCITEMENT OF HIS DESCRIPTION]
Rene had risen in the excitement of his description. The candle light
shone faintly upon his broad shoulders and handsome, inspired face. His
right arm was extended in harmony with the vehemence of his description.
He continued more softly:
"Dat riviere is me; de falls is my lil' gal at de turnin'-point of my
life, an' de great lake is my love which has burst over de fields of my
fancy an' freshes all de dry places. I can't tell you how I love dat
gal--sometimes I tink--maybe--I marry her some day."
At this juncture the senior major had thrust his head inside the tent.
"Rene," he called sternly, "get back to your work! Wash my rubber boots
and keep an eye on the tent 'til I return."
And poor Rene, thus rudely brought to earth, had crept silently away.
At seven-thirty p.m., the shrill call of the bugle sounded "Officers'
Mess":
"The officers' wives get pudding and pies,
The soldiers' wives get skilly--"
It is the one call which every officer, senior or junior, knows by
heart, and answers promptly.
A mess dinner is a parade, and is conducted with all the pomp and
dignity peculiar to a Chinese wedding. Woe betide the untrained "sub"
who dares seat himself before the Commanding Officer has taken his place
at the centre of the table! For the first time since our arrival in
France, we were to be honoured with the presence of several ladies, and
the whole mess was in a state of excitement compatible with the
seriousness of such an occasion. It was so long since any of us had
dined under the charming, but restraining, influence of the fair sex
that, as Reggy afterward remarked, he was in a condition bordering on
nervous prostration lest he forget to eat the ice cream with his fork,
or, worse still, "butter" his bread with _pate de fois gras_.
Reggy had other worries on his mind as well. He had been taken aside
early, and solemnly warned that if he, his heirs, executors or assigns,
dared to bring forth upon the table so much as a smell of his
ill-favoured cheese, he would be led out upon the sand dunes at early
dawn and shot. This precaution having been duly taken, he was permitted
to retire to the pantry with Fraser and Corporal Granger, and amuse
himself making thirty Bronx cocktails for our express delectation.
Promptly, as the last note of the bugle died away, the colonel and
matron ushered our fair guests into the Mess Room.
Had our long separation from the beautiful women of Canada whetted our
sense of appreciation? Or was it some dim recollection of an
almost-forgotten social world which stimulated our imagination?
Certainly no more exquisite representatives of the, to us, long-lost
tribe of lovely women ever graced a Mess Room in France!
After the customary introductions had taken place, the twenty-five
officers who now comprised our Mess distributed themselves in various
awkward positions about the chairs of the five ladies--all the rest of
our chairs were at the table--each trying vainly to give himself that
appearance of graceful ease which indicates that the entertainment, of
_grandes dames_ is our chief sport in Canada.
What a dreadful encumbrance one's hands are on such an occasion! A
military uniform does not take kindly to having its wearer's hands
thrust deeply into his breeches pockets, and, as every one knows, this
is the only way to feel at ease when addressing a lady in her evening
gown--if you fold your hands unostentatiously behind your back, it
hampers your powers of repartee.
Lady Danby, who conducted a Red Cross Hospital in a near-by town,
appreciated our embarrassment, and did her best to make us feel at home.
"What a delightful Mess Room!" she exclaimed, as her tall, lithesome
figure sank into an arm chair. "It must be so restful and refreshing
after those dreadful operations!"
"Captain Reggy finds it very restful indeed," Burnham volunteered
mischievously; "he spends a great deal of his time here--mixing drinks."
"Ah!--and he does them so very well too," exclaimed Madame Cuillard,
with a flash of her beautiful dark eyes toward the hero of the moment,
and lifting her glass to him in gracious compliment. "He is a man after
my own heart."
"Madam, you flatter me," Reggy murmured, with a low bow, "and yet I fear
I am not the first who has been 'after' such a kindly heart?"
"Nor you shall not be the last, I hope," the little widow returned, with
a rippling laugh. "Still, 'Weak heart never won'--ah, non--I am
forgetting my English--let it pass. A heart is so easy to be lost in
France--you must be careful."
Fraser's Gibsonian figure towered above the others as he and Father
Bonsecour and the senior major stood chatting with two Canadian guests.
The girls made a pretty contrast, petite, dainty and vivacious; the one
with blue-black hair and large soft brown eyes, the other fair as an
angel, with hair of finely spun gold and eyes as blue as the sea over
the dunes.
"May I take your glasses?" Fraser queried.
"Thank you, by all means," said the little brunette smilingly. "There's
nothing I regret more than an empty glass or a flower that is dead."
"The former leaves little to hope, and the latter hopes little to leaf,"
asserted the senior major sententiously, animated by the beauty of our
guests.
"What a dreadful pun, Major Baldwin!" cried the pretty blonde. "You
deserve five days C.B.!"
"Thank Heaven," laughed the major, "we don't always get our deserts! We
incorrigibles may still, for a moment
_"'Take the cash and let the credit go,_
_Nor heed the rumble of the distant drum'!"_
But the Colonel interrupted these delightful inanities by offering his
arm to Lady Danby and showing her to the seat of honour on his right.
The other ladies were distributed as impartially as was possible amongst
the remaining twenty-four of us. We stood for a moment with bowed heads
while our chaplain repeated that concise but effective military grace:
"For what we are about to receive, thank God!" and then we took our
seats.
The dinner was progressing splendidly. Wilson hadn't spilled the soup;
Rene hadn't tripped over the rug; course after course had proceeded
under Granger's worried eye with daintiness and despatch. The _sole
meuniere_ was done to a turn, the roast pheasant and asparagus had been
voted superb, and the ice-cold salad a refreshing interlude. Even the
plum pudding, with its flaming sauce, had been transported without
accident to the guests, when Reggy beckoned with a motion of the head to
Granger, and whispered something in his ear.
Granger was the best lad in the world when he wasn't disturbed, but if
he became excited anything might happen. The order was transmitted to
Rene, and in a moment the murder was out. Whether through
misunderstanding, or Rene's secret pride in its possession, Reggy's
cheese had been excavated, and before it was possible to interfere, its
carcase was upon the table!
The scent of hyacinth and lilies-of-the-valley faded on the instant; the
delicate charm of _poudre de riz_ was obliterated and all the delicious
odours of the meal were at once submerged in that wonderful, pungent,
all-embracing emanation from the cheese.
The colonel turned first red, then pale. He cast an appealing glance at
Reggy--it was too late. The rest of us glared surreptitiously and
silently at the culprit. An inspiration seized him. Unobserved, he
signalled the mess president, who rose to his feet on the instant.
"Mr. Vice--The King!" he commanded.
"Ladies and gentlemen--The King!" came the formal but inspiring reply.
The cheese was forgotten. We were upon our feet, and lifting our
glasses we drank to our sovereign. Cigars and cigarettes were passed
around, and we waited patiently until the colonel lighted his cigar--for
no one smokes at mess until the O.C. has set the example, or given his
permission. The offending element had been quickly but quietly removed
from the table, and once more peace and happiness prevailed.
But Reggy's fate as Mess Secretary was sealed!
*CHAPTER XI*
The first line of a certain popular song emphasises a bold and truthful
platitude, namely: "The World's growing older each day." The
incontrovertible fact is plumped unexpectedly before us, and blocks our
only exit down the passage of argument. If it had read: "The World's
growing _smaller_ each day," we might have run to our text-book of
Elementary Physics, and, placing a stubby but argumentative forefinger
on the Law of the Indestructibility of Matter, have proved it a
falsehood of the Nth. degree. But, of course, this must all have
happened before the War. Every one knows now--every Tommy can tell
you--that the world is really and truly smaller; for, if not, how is it
he meets Bill, or Jake, or Harry on the streets of _Poperinghe_ or
_Dickibusch_? He knows instinctively that the world is shrinking, and
Halifax and Vancouver may be found any time jumbled together in a little
Belgian village on the wrong side of the Atlantic. I hadn't seen Jack
Wellcombe for twenty-five years--we had been school chums together--and
his name had almost faded from the pages of my mind; so that on entering
the hospital the morning after Reggy's last dinner, I received a slight
shock as I lifted a new chart from the table and saw this name staring
up at me:
"Captain J. Wellcombe. Royal Army Medical Corps."
Had the world really become so small? Could a quarter century be bridged
in an instant? I seemed to see the little old stone schoolhouse once
again; its low-ceilinged room, the big box-stove, the well-hacked seats,
and the rows of little boys and girls bowed over their greasy slates.
The scent of midday lunches stowed away floated back to me in memory's
dream, and the haw-tree brushed its leaves against the window pane. I
saw Jack as he was then, with frank blue eyes and waving golden
hair--courteous, genial and big-hearted, beloved by all; and I wondered
as I stood there if by any chance this might be he.
The nursing sister awoke me from this reverie: "He arrived in the early
morning," she volunteered, "but as he was not seriously hurt I didn't
call you, and dressed the wound myself."
It was with a feeling of nervous tension and expectancy that I followed
her down the hall to his room and entered. Alas! the world is full of
disappointments. It was not Jack--this dignified man with the touch of
grey about the temples--but still the resemblance grew stronger, the
kindly blue eyes, the same winsome smile--I wondered still.
We passed the customary greetings and chatted commonplaces for a few
moments, and all the time his face wore an expression of puzzled
enquiry, as if he too were trying to recall some faint memory from the
past. At last I blurted out:
"Are you by any chance related to Jack Wellcombe, of K----?"
"A very close relation," he returned laughingly. "I am his dearest
friend; in fact--himself. And you--you are Mac--dear old Mac!" he cried,
stretching out both hands to me in his impetuous, warm-hearted way. I
could have hugged him, I was so glad to see him!
"What a queer game is Life!" he exclaimed a moment later. "For years
you and I have been shaken about, with many a jolt, in the dice-box of
the world, and now, like two Jacks, we are once more tossed together
upon the Table of Fate!"
While we were chatting over old times, the nurse unwound his bandages.
"I hope it doesn't hurt too much?" I asked him, as I examined his wound
preparatory to dressing it.
"It's a mere scratch," he returned lightly; "a piece of shrapnel through
the flesh of the thigh; but the surgeon at the Field Ambulance thought I
should come back to hospital for a week or two. Things are rather noisy
around Ypres."
"But what possessed you to join the R.A.M.C.?" I enquired. "You should
be with the Canadians."
He laughed. "Oh, you chaps were too long in coming over. I'd have lost
three whole months of the war. I was in England when it broke out, and
came over with the First Expeditionary Force."
"You were in the retreat from Mons, then!" I exclaimed in envious
admiration.
"Every foot of it," he replied. "That _was_ a fight, you may well
believe. But the Huns didn't have it all their own way. I saw a
strange scrap one day between a French and a German battalion. The Huns
sprang suddenly out of an ambush and were upon the French with the
bayonet before you could catch your breath. Taken by surprise, the
'poilus' ran for all they were worth for about a quarter of a mile--and
they are some sprinters too--the Huns following them, shouting like
demons. Suddenly the French stopped--they must have been running to get
their second wind--wheeled about, and with fixed bayonets charged back
like a streak of forked lightning through the Germans. You never saw
such a surprised and rattled bunch of Huns since you were born. If it
hadn't been so awful I could have shrieked with laughter. But the
French weren't satisfied with going through them once; they turned about
and came back at them again, like a regiment of cavalry. The Huns
seemed stupefied with amazement and terror; they fought like men in a
daze, and very few ever got back to tell the story of the 'cowardly
French who ran away'!"
"We, too, have underestimated the French, I'm afraid," I said. "We are
beginning to realise their possibilities as a fighting force, and the
Germans aren't yet awake to their strength and determination."
"They fought well at the battle of the Marne," Jack remarked. "It makes
me smile still as I picture a fat little French officer with drawn
sword--God only knows what he intended doing with it--who stood behind a
haystack waving to his men to come on. He was absolutely fearless.
Again and again he charged up that steep hill with the men, and when
they couldn't make it, back he would come to hide behind his hay-stack
and wait until he could induce them to try it again. About the fifth
attack they succeeded and went on over the hill."
I questioned him about the battle of Ypres. (This, of course, was the
first battle of Ypres--not that in which the Canadians distinguished
themselves.)
"It was fast work at 'Wipers,'" he said, "with shells falling into the
town like a thousand roaring devils. They dropped one into the
signaller's billet. It tore a hole in the side of the building large
enough to march an elephant through, and killed every mother's son of
them. A 'Jack Johnson' came through the roof of our hospital and
dropped into the ward--exit ward! There wasn't a bed left standing.
Luckily we had removed most of the patients into the cellar--but those
who were left are still there, buried in the ruins."
"The usual German respect for the Red Cross!" I commented bitterly.
"The flag makes a good mark for their artillery," he returned, with a
smile; "they always look for us."
"You've had many narrow squeaks, I presume?"
He laughed merrily. "So narrow that if I had had a big stomach it might
have been whittled down to sylph-like proportions. I was standing one
day close to a dug-out, talking to two brother officers. The
'Whizz-Bangs' and 'Coal Boxes' were sizzling over from time to time, but
not especially close. An old friend of mine" (Jack always had an "old
friend" everywhere!) "stuck his head out of the dug-out and shouted up
to me:
"'Drop in and have a drink, Jack--the water's fine!'
"I told him I was never thirsty in the mornings. He looked surprised,
but called back again:
"'If you'll do me the honour to descend, I'll make you a fine long John
Collins!'
"'Well, well,' I said, 'as you're so kind and such a persistent beggar,
I'll humour you.' The other two officers said they wouldn't go in, and
so I climbed down into his dug-out and sat down.
"Just as I did so a big shell came--bang!--right where I had been
standing. We sprang to our feet and looked out--the poor chaps I had
just left had been literally blown to pieces!"
He lay pensively silent for a moment or two, and there was a suspicious
glint of moisture in his eyes as he turned his face toward the wall.
Then he turned on his side once more, and smiling brightly up at me,
murmured:
"It's been a great lesson to me!"
"In what way?" I queried.
"Never to refuse a drink!"
It will take more than a world's war to depress Jack. His cork-like
spirit will always make him pop up serene to the surface of the
whirlpool of life.
"You know the Guild Hall at Wipers?" he exclaimed a moment later.
"No; I haven't been to the actual firing line yet," I returned. "The
only time we realise there is a war back here is when the trains of
wounded come in; or, on a stormy night, when the wind blows fiercely
from the trenches, and the boom of the great guns is driven here
intermittently with the gusts."
"As soon as I can stand upon this peg of mine, you and the colonel and I
will motor up and see it all," he declared, with assurance.
"Agreed!" I cried. "You may now feel confident of a speedy recovery.
But tell me more about 'Wipers.'"
He raised himself on one elbow, and commenced reminiscently: "Our dear
old colonel was billeted in the tenement row which used to be in the
square of Ypres, close to the Guild Hall. We had been shelled out of
place after place, but for several days lately Fritzie had left us in
peace. It was too good to last long. One night they started chucking
big shells into the cathedral and what was left of the square. I counted
fifty-seven falling over and around the colonel's billet. I began to
suspect the place. Taken as an exhibition of fire-works, it was a
success, but as a health resort it had defects.
"It was about eleven o'clock, and some of the houses in the row had
already been hit. Ye gods! Vesuvius in its balmiest days was like a
Chinese lantern to this--for a second, in a lull, you would hear the
whine of a big shell; then, crash! it went into a building, and shell
and house went up together in one frightful smash-up.
"I went over to wake the old boy, as he showed no symptoms of having
been disturbed. It was useless to rap--there was such an infernal racket
with shells bursting, roofs toppling in and walls falling out. I
stumbled up the dark stairs to his room. He was sound asleep--think of
it! I spoke to him, but he didn't wake; so I shook him gently by the
shoulder and he opened his eyes.
"'Hello, Wellcombe!' he growled, in his rough but genial way. 'What the
devil brings you prowling around at this time of night?'
"I told him that I thought the billet was becoming a trifle unsafe, as
some of the other houses in the row had already been hit.
"'Is that all you came to tell me?' he asked, with indifference.
"I said it seemed sufficient to me, and told him we had no wish to lose
him.
"'Well, well,' he came back at me, but not unkindly, 'and you woke me
out of a sound sleep to tell me this! Go and get me a drink and then
run along like a good fellow and go to bed.'
"And after the old chap had his drink he thanked me, turned over in bed,
and I believe was sound asleep again before I got out of the
house--while a continual hell of fire and shells tore the guts out of
the town about him! When I went back in the morning, there was only one
house left standing in that row--the colonel's. The others were a
crumpled mess of bricks and mortar!"
I chatted with him as long as I could, and then, telling him I would
drop in later in the day, continued my rounds on the wards.
As we entered one of the smaller rooms, I noticed a bright-eyed,
red-cheeked Scotch lad, not more than seventeen years of age, seated
upon his cot. He was chatting animatedly with several others, but
sprang to attention as we approached. The nurse unwound the bandages
and showed me his wound--a bayonet cut across the palm. We had already
heard from his comrades that this slip of a boy, with the smiling eyes
and ringing laugh, was one of the finest bayonet fighters in his
battalion, and had to his credit a string of German scalps that would
make a Pawnee Chief green with envy. His wound was the result of
grasping his opponent's bayonet during one of these fights.
The nurse looked up at the boyish face--the big blue eyes and laughing
mouth--he did seem such a child!
"How _can_ you," she cried involuntarily; "how _can_ a little lad like
you bear to kill men with a bayonet?"
[Illustration: "HOW CAN YOU?" SHE CRIED INVOLUNTARILY,
"HOW CAN A LITTLE LAD LIKE YOU BEAR TO
KILL MEN WITH A BAYONET?"]
His lips parted over his even white teeth in a broader smile than ever,
but he flushed deeply as he exclaimed: "Oh, ma'm, when ye're in a charge
an' ye see them steekin' yer best chums--ye go fair mad--everything
turns red afore ye, an' ye could kill the whole bleedin' lot!"
"Bravo!" cried the little nurse enthusiastically, clapping her
hands--she had been carried away, as I admit I too was, by his sincerity
and vehemence. "May you live long and grow to be a great man, as you
deserve!"
After dressing his hand and the wounds of the others, we passed on into
the next room, where a poor fellow, shot through the hip, lay suffering
in heroic silence.
It required three of us to do his dressing, because, on account of the
peculiar position of the wound, he had to be turned upon his side each
time, and with a fractured hip this was a process of great difficulty.
This wonderful war has produced its many heroes, but when the great
Recorder above opens His book at doomsday, He will find the name of
William Hoare written large on the pages of valour.
Throughout the painful dressing Nursing Sister Dolly stood at his head,
and, placing her strong little arms about his great shoulders would tell
him to lift himself by her; and Hoare would gratefully lock his hands
behind her neck and help to raise himself. What he suffered, God only
knows! He made no sign of complaint, but gritted his teeth together
like a vise and never spoke until the operation was over. Beads of
sweat stood upon his brow, and his face was pale, but no groan had
escaped.
"Have a little brandy, Hoare," Sister Dolly coaxed; "it'll do you
good--you look so white." Tears of sympathy stood in her eyes, but
Hoare smiled bravely up at her and said simply:
"Thank you--it would be welcome."
"You are a splendid soldier, Hoare," I remarked, as Sister Dolly hurried
away for the stimulant.