was almost reconciled to us, for he said in parting: "_Auf
Wiedersehen!_"
*CHAPTER XIII*
The colonel's seven-passenger _Berliet_ was chug-chugging softly at the
villa door, the drowsy hum of the exhaust hinting of concealed power and
speed. The colonel, Reggy, Jack Wellcombe and I were about to commence
our long-looked-for trip to that battered corner of Belgium which still
remained in British hands.
Tim was standing at the door with his master's "British warm" thrown
across his arm, waiting for the colonel to come out. It was a clear
cold February morning, the air had in it just the faintest hint of
frost, but not a breath of wind stirred the green foliage of the pines.
Lady Danby's runabout stood across the road, and from beneath it peeped
a pair of trim limbs encased in thick woollen stockings and ending in a
pair of lady's heavy walking boots; telling Tim that her ladyship's
dainty "chauffeur" was somewhere there below.
The "lady-chauffeur" was one of that eccentric, but interesting, band of
mannish Englishwomen who invaded France in the early days of the war,
and who have done wonders toward making Tommy's life in a foreign land
agreeable. Intelligent, highly educated, remarkably indifferent to the
opinion of the outside world, Miss Granville was a character worth more
than a passing glance. Her toque was always pulled well over her ears,
her thick, short grey woollen skirt had two immense pockets in the
front, into which her hands, when not otherwise engaged, were always
deeply thrust. A long cigarette invariably drooped from the corner of
her pretty, but determined mouth, and she walked with a swinging,
athletic stride. Romance might have passed her by unnoticed; but the
world could not ignore her--she was too much a part of it. Some innate
chivalry impelled Tim to step across and offer his assistance to the
fair one in distress.
"Kin I be any help to ye, Miss?" he enquired, as he stooped down and
peered underneath the car at the little lady who, stretched at full
length upon, her back, was smoking a cigarette and at the same time
screwing home an unruly nut.
"Oh! Is that you, Tim?" she remarked without removing the cigarette or
taking her eyes off her work. "No, thanks, I think not--this is a
woman's job."
"Ladies does queer stunts in France," Tim commented meditatively; "we
ain't taken advantage uv dem in Canada de way we ought. See how de
womens here, carries wood on dere backs, an', look at dem fish-women
ketchin' skrimps in de sea. Gee, de gals to home ain't never seed real
work!"
"You should train them, Tim. It's all a matter of up-bringing. Won't
you have a cigarette?" she replied as she thrust a long open silver case
out from under the car toward him. Tim extracted an Egyptian of a size
such as he had never seen before.
"T'ankee, Miss--dat's a smoke fer a prince."
"That was the intention, Timothy," she remarked casually; and then came
an unexpected question: "Do ladies in Canada smoke, Tim?"
Tim was visibly embarrassed. "Not sich as we _calls_ ladies, Miss," he
stammered; and then realising that he had made a _faux pas_ he blundered
on--"that is, Miss, I mean t' say--"
A rippling laugh from beneath the car cut short further explanation.
"Tim, Tim," she cried mockingly, "what a sad courtier you would
make--you're too deliciously truthful."
Poor Tim was red with chagrin.
"I don' know wot a kertyer is," he replied defensively; "I'm a
hod-carrier meself."
"Stick to it, lad," she laughed, "the hod lost one of its best exponents
when you came to the war."
But the colonel now appeared at the door, and Tim, with a hasty adieu to
his fair tormentor, sprang across the road. When we were all snugly
tucked in the car, he stood for a moment looking ruefully toward the
cause of his recent embarrassment.
"Dat's a queer gent, sir," he observed to the colonel, "dat lady-shoffer
'cross de way. It ain't on'y her boots wot's like a man's--de works in
her belfry's queer too."
Reggy secretly sympathised with Tim's discomfiture, for it was only the
day before, when he had made a graceful but unavailing whack at a golf
ball, that he had turned to see her watching him intently--hands in
pockets, cigarette in mouth.
"Rotten stroke, Miss Granville?" he remarked, to cover his annoyance;
and she had coolly blown a cloud of smoke through her nostrils and
replied:
"You're dead lucky to have hit it at all."
As the car moved off Reggy exclaimed: "That's the sort of girl who never
gets a husband."
"Why not?" queried the colonel.
"Too much brain," Reggy returned. "It's too humiliating for a man to
have a wife cleverer than himself."
"All depends upon the man," the colonel commented drily. Reggy ventured
no reply to this ambiguous retort, but for the next few miles seemed
lost in thought.
An hour's uneventful run brought us to the barricade on the outskirts of
Boulogne. It consisted of two large waggons placed at an oblique angle
across the road, at the foot of a steep hill. It was so ingeniously
arranged that a motor car could not pass except at low speed. We were
stopped by the French guard who stood with fixed bayonet--that long
slender wicked-looking instrument, the sight of which makes cold shivers
run up and down the back. The officer emerged from his little hut, and
saluted with all the grace peculiar to the true Frenchman.
"_Votre 'laisser-passer' monsieur, si'l vous plais?_" he demanded
politely.
The colonel unfolded the large blue pass, duly signed and stamped. It
was scrutinised closely, the name and number of the car were recorded,
and the officer, once more saluting, motioned us to proceed.
Running a barricade in France is not a healthful exercise. We did it
once, by mistake, but an immediate rifle shot brought us to a halt. The
sentry takes nothing for granted; if one goes through six times a day,
the pass must be produced each time. Even the small towns of northern
France cannot be entered or left without this ceremony.
We lunched at _Mony's_--every English and Canadian officer in France
knows the spot--a small Italian restaurant close to the theatre, where
substantial but delicious meals pop up from the cellar's depths. In
this small room with the sawdust-covered floor and the little glass
partitioned stalls, the full-stomached Signor Mony beams upon a
clientele such as no other like cafe in the world can boast.
French, Belgian, English; yes, at times Italian, Russian, Serbian and
even Japanese officers of high rank and ladies whose fame in charitable
and Red Cross work is international, dine in this unique cafe. The
little bar is in the dining room, and above its mahogany top you may see
the head and shoulders of the proprietor's youthful daughter--a girl of
such rare and artistic southern beauty that men and women too stare in
admiring wonder.
But the military and the nobility are not the only guests. The crowded
cafe distils a broad Bohemianism which startles one. At one table we
see two dark-eyed "ladies-of-the-street" boldly ogling a couple of young
subalterns in khaki who have just arrived from England. Brushing
shoulders with the finest in the land the demimondaine quaffs her green
liqueur, powders her nose and dabs again the painted cheek that riots in
its bloom. At another table two French generals, oblivious to the hum
about them, are planning schemes of war too deep for thoughts of giddy
girls who seek to catch their eye.
Above the glass partition curls the smoke of cigarettes, and the
laughing voices of Englishwomen tell us who are there. Upon the
leather-cushioned bench which skirts the wall, a handsome Belgian, well
past middle age, rests his chin upon the shoulder of a beautiful young
Russian girl, and gently puts his arm about her waist. And as we look
with passing interest at the pair, she takes the lit cigar from her
companion's lips and places it between her own, blowing the clouds of
smoke into his face. Every table but one is filled. The blended murmur
of a dozen different tongues, the popping of champagne corks, the
rippling laughter of the women, all combine in one strange sound in
stranger France. One thing only reminds us of the outer world. The
mani-coloured uniforms of soldiers of the several nations represented
tell us all too truly that only a few miles away is the great grim
battlefield and--death.
At 3 p.m. we started once more on the road and climbed the steep hill to
that broad highway which leads to Calais. But now we reached another
barricade, and an unexpected obstacle arose. The sentry regretted with
a shrug of the shoulders and both uplifted hands, but the road was under
repairs, and none might pass that way.
Jack came to the rescue and appealed to him in his inimitable French.
_Monsieur le Colonel_ with him was urgently needed at the front. The
shortest and quickest route was the only one for such an important
man--great speed was essential to the completion of pressing duties.
We could see the sentry wavering. Jack repeated: "_Mon Colonel est bien
presse--bien presse!_" The sentry capitulated--of course if the
_Colonel_ was _presse_, there was nothing else for it. He let us pass.
As we whirled along the road, Jack laughed in that boyish manner of his
and exclaimed:
"If you're ever held up by a French sentry, you must always be
_presse_--it's a great word! If you're only _presse_ enough you can get
anywhere in France."
There wasn't another vehicle but ours upon that splendid highway, and we
bowled along at tremendous speed through green fertile valleys and
through leafless forests, rounding the curve which runs to the southeast
from Calais and skimming along the crest of a low smooth mountain for
mile upon mile.
We soon were on the road to St. Omer. From time to time the noisy whir
of an aeroplane overhead helped us to realise that we were gradually
drawing nearer to the real battle line, and once on looking up we could
see the giant human bird at a great height, sailing above us. He came
lower, so that we were able to see the pilot distinctly, and directed
his course straight above the road. At the time we were travelling
about fifty miles an hour, but he passed us as though we had been
standing still--a moment later he became a mere speck in the distance,
then faded into the mist beyond.
As we approached closer to the front we had expected to find the towns
deserted except by troops. In this we were agreeably disappointed. As
we entered St. Omer we found motors and waggons by the hundreds coming
and going in a busy rush; every store was open too, and business was
thriving with a thrift unknown before the war. Women and children,
soldiers and civilians, crowded the busy streets, and the hum of
industry was heard on every hand. Here not many miles from the
trenches, we could see again the undaunted confidence of France,
implicit reliance upon her troops, unswerving loyalty to her
ideals--unutterable contempt for the possibility of further German
invasion. It was a revelation in faith and a stimulus to merit such
whole-souled unbreakable trust.
We had just drawn up at the curb in the city square when a big
Rolls-Royce turned the corner and stopped close to us. It contained a
man who wore the uniform of the British Red Cross Society, and who well
matched the car in size; he descended and hastened over to our car.
"Jack!" he cried delightedly, "old Jack Wellcombe; by George, I'm glad
to see you!" As he spoke he shook Jack warmly by the hand. "You and
your friends must come over to the 'Bachelor's Own' with me."
Jack performed the round of introductions, and Mr. Harman, who proved to
be an American from Texas, reiterated that we must come and dine with
him.
"Thanks, Harman, old chap; we really must get along, we have to make
Poperinghe to-night," Jack protested; but his American friend refused to
take "no" for an answer.
"For," he concluded, parodying a line from a once popular opera, "'you
really must eat somewhere, and it might as well be here.' Don't be in a
hurry to get to Poperinghe," he continued. "I was over there this
afternoon when a German aviator came to call. Just as a preliminary,
and in order to show his good faith, he dropped a bomb on the
church--Some crash, I tell you. It trimmed one corner off the tower and
spattered the door rather badly."
"Was any one hurt?" Reggy enquired anxiously.
"Not at the moment," Harman replied, "but a few hundred fools, including
your humble servant, rushed into the square 'to see what made the wheels
go round.' He hovered over us gracefully for a few moments, waiting to
collect a good crowd of spectators, then he dropped a big one right into
the centre of the mass."
"Good Lord!" Reggy exclaimed in a horrified whisper, "what happened?"
"Nothing as bad as we deserved, but there were eleven killed and as many
more wounded--it was a horrible sight! You'll see the effects of it
still when you get there, in the broken windows and pieces of stone
knocked out of the buildings for fifty yards around."
We decided to stay for dinner. We motored down a side street and pulled
up at his "Bachelor's Own." It was a comfortable French house of the
better class, with floor of coloured tile and long glass doors
connecting all the down-stairs rooms. A piano and a grate-fire, around
which a few leather easy chairs were placed, gave the "lounge" an
appearance of homelike comfort--moreover, one might sit there and, by
merely turning the head, see everything of interest on that floor. We
noticed in the next room the table being spread for numerous guests, and
a Belgian servant bustling about at his work.
Harman motioned us to be seated, and after offering us some cigarettes,
told us to "make ourselves at home" as he must warn his butler (save
us!) of our arrival. When he returned a few moments later, beaming with
smiles, like the true host he proved to be, he remarked deprecatingly:
"You mustn't expect too much of an old bach's table in these rough
war-worn days; but as far as it goes this is open house to every man in
uniform."
Later in the evening, when guest after guest "dropped in," until there
were eighteen of us in all, we grasped the significance of his remark,
and realised what his genial hospitality meant to the lonely officers
who passed that way.
We didn't expect too much--in fact we didn't expect half of what we got.
We hadn't looked forward to grilled _merlin_, roast chicken, tender
lamb, Jerusalem artichokes or delicious cantaloupe, nor to Gruyere
cheese served with crisp cream-wafers. In our modesty we had forgotten
to expect the mellow flavoured wines which clung to the sloping sides of
glass as delicate as a spider's web, or rich Havana cigars and real
Egyptian cigarettes. No, strange as it may seem to the casual reader,
we hadn't expected any of these things; we were prepared for Bologna
sausage and a can of sardines, but in these we were disappointed. A
whirlwind of plenty rose at Harman's magic call, and cast us adrift upon
a sea of luxury.
Towards the close of this splendid repast, I took occasion to ask our
benevolent host to what particular branch of the Red Cross work he was
devoting his energies.
"Just what you see," he answered with a laugh. "Cheering up dull dogs
like Wellcombe here, as they pass upon their weary way--that's about
all."
"He's talking bally rot!" cried Jack from his end of the table, "I'll
tell you what he does, as he won't tell you himself. He feeds the
hungry and the poor; he gives all kinds of delicacies, from pickles to
pheasants, to the wounded and sick soldiers in the Field Ambulances and
hospitals for miles around; he carries food and drink to the wounded
Tommies in the trenches and the Dressing Stations. I've seen him steal
out upon the battlefield in a perfect hell of machine gun bullets and
shrapnel--places where the devil himself wouldn't venture or expect to
get out alive--and carry back those poor shattered lads in his arms.
He--"
"Jack, Jack," Harman cried in protest, "for heaven's sake have a little
pity--I can't live up to a rep' like this!"
"Don't interrupt, please!" Jack commanded. "One word more and then I'm
through. He's been a perpetual Santa Claus to every boy at the front,
and a godsend to every man in the rear--a damn good fellow and a man."
He had risen to his feet and struck the table with his hand in his
earnestness. "Here's a toast for you, my comrades in arms," he cried in
conclusion: "Here's to Harman--Harman the Red Cross hero of St. Omer!"
As one man we rose to our feet and drained our glasses dry.
After dinner we crowded into the lounge, and Jack sat down at the piano.
With nimble fingers he drew soft music from the keys. We soon
discovered we were in a nest of artists, drawn together by a common tie.
Little Watkins, another Red Cross driver, who, as we afterwards learned,
had risked his life a score of times to help some wounded fellow on the
treacherous road, sang for us. It seems but yesterday that we sat there
in the smoke-filled room, listening with rapt attention to his silvery
tenor voice. The flames from the fire lit up his face as the throbbing
notes poured forth. _Je sais que vous etes jolie;_ we know now why he
sang so well--he was in love. Poor Watkins has many months since passed
to the "great beyond," but the sweet pathos of his voice still lingers
in the ears of those he charmed that night.
Kennerly Rumford was then called upon--yes, the world-renowned Kennerly
Rumford, in khaki in a little room in St. Omer--and in that magnificent
baritone of his filled the house until it rocked with glorious sound.
Rich, deep, rolling melody welled up from his great chest, until the
wonder of it struck us dumb. I looked about me; pipes rested unused
upon the table; cigarettes had been cast away, and the cigars, forgotten
for the nonce, were dead.
We were loathe to leave this house of entertainment, but time was
pressing, and we still had many miles to go.
The streets were black as pitch; no lights were permitted in the war
zone, but at last we found our way out of the town, and started.
*CHAPTER XIV*
As we sped along the road to Poperinghe, the headlights of our car made
a lone streak of white against the utter blackness of the outer world.
Occasionally on the wings of the wind came the boom of the big guns,
followed a moment after by the sharper crash of the bursting shells.
The barricades became more numerous, and from time to time we were
halted by a British sentry and our passes were scrutinised with especial
care.
It was about ten p.m. when we crept softly through the outskirts of the
little Belgian town which marked our destination for the night. We
pulled up at a small hotel, less than a hundred yards from the spot
where the German aviator had wrought such havoc that afternoon. The
stone walls of the buildings about were marked with holes, which showed
up plainly in the light from the car, and the cobblestones for several
yards around were splintered.
As is the case with most small hostels in northern France and Belgium,
the door through which we entered opened directly into the bar. The
blaze of light within, well screened off from the street by heavy
curtains, dazzled our eyes, and the crowded room with its round
marble-topped tables was heavy with smoke. The ever-smiling bar-maids
were having a busy time. Bottles of whiskey and soda, beer or wine,
stood upon every side, and the clink of glasses intermingling with the
clatter of foreign tongues, fell upon our ears. The soft, sibilant
French, the cockney English and the guttural Flemish warred with one
another in an unintelligible babble.
Jack seemed as much at home here as ever. The pretty blonde bar-maid,
the daughter of the house, came forward to greet him, and shook him
warmly by the hand. She assured him, and us, that "_M'sieu le Capitaine
was ton jours le lien venu_." In fact, we were made so welcome that we
were shown forthwith into a private room, the better to avoid the noise
and smoke of the bar.
"What are the prospects of a bed or two for four?" Jack asked the
Belgian lassie.
Mademoiselle was _desole_, but she feared the prospects were _bien
mal_--in other words, nil. She would enquire across the way, however,
and see if any of the houses round about could still boast an empty bed.
She returned shortly, more _desole_ than ever. What with the thousands
of Belgian, French and English troops billeted in the town, there was
not a vacant room left. She would give up her own room for monsieur,
but _helas_, it was so _petite_ there was only accommodation for one.
Reggy laughed. When Reggy could laugh at the prospect of no bed for the
night the situation must have been amusing. "Colonel, you'll have to
take the bed," he cried, "and the rest of us can sleep in the car."
"No, no," Jack protested; "We must all be together. We'll take a run up
to the convent and see what Sister Paulo has to say."
"Good Lord!" laughed the Colonel. "You don't suppose a nun is going to
house four strange officers for the night, do you?"
"All things are possible--in Belgium," Jack returned. "You don't yet
know the size of the Belgian heart. Sister Paulo and I are old friends.
I had the pleasure of bringing her and several other Sisters of Charity
out of Ypres one night last fall, during the bombardment. The _Bosches_
had killed some of them and shot their poor convent full of holes.
Sister Paulo gave me this silver crucifix as a memento of the occasion."
He held up for our inspection an exquisite little cross. "I have always
carried it since--she's a good sort; more woman than nun."
"If I should die and by mischance arrive in Hades," cried the colonel,
"I hope you'll be in heaven, for I'm sure you'll have enough pull with
St. Peter to get me up!"
As we crossed the dark square, crowded as it was with troops of the
three nations on their way to and from the trenches, we could hear
distinctly the rattle of artillery and the bursting of the German
shells, not many miles away. A mischievous gun might have dropped a
shell into that square at any moment--we wondered why it didn't. There
could be only one reason. No humanitarian consideration ever deterred
the German; but the town was so full of spies that it would not have
been good business to bombard it. A few months later, when the spies
were all eliminated, the long-range German guns soon made short work of
Poperinghe.
We arrived at a two-storey brick building, and after a lengthy pull at
the bell-rope the door was slowly opened a little way. Jack enquired
for Sister Paulo, and upon giving his name, the door was immediately
thrown wide and we were ushered into a small waiting-room. We had
scarcely seated ourselves when a tall nun, with saint-like face and
frank smiling eyes entered the room. She recognised Jack at once and,
holding out both hands in greeting to him, exclaimed in excellent
English:
"My dear Capitaine! How glad I am to see you once more--you are as
welcome as your name."
"These are some very dear friends of mine, Sister Paulo," Jack cried,
after he had introduced us individually, "and we have come to you in
distress--we poor sons of men have no place to lay our heads."
"Ah!" said Sister Paulo, with a gracious smile, "perhaps we shall now
have an opportunity of doing you a little kindness for your many, many
goodnesses to us." She turned to us and continued: "You see, Capitaine
Wellcombe risked his life to save ours. He came to our Convent in Ypres
during the night of that frightful battle, when the shells were falling
in thousands about us, and the city was in ruins. One big shell tore
through the wall and fell into the building--I shall never forget the
horror of that night! The streets were lit up by fires, and the noise
was awful beyond words. We were distracted--we seemed to have been
forgotten by every one, when suddenly Captain Wellcombe came like an
angel from above and climbed in through the rent in the wall. One by one
he carried us out in his arms and put us in an ambulance. He took us
through those dreadful streets and brought us here to safety. He is a
brave man, and every night we pray for his protection."
For once in his life Jack looked embarrassed, and blushed like a
school-girl. "Sister Paulo exaggerates, I'm afraid," he said, in some
confusion. "It seemed more dangerous than it really was."