THE MISGUIDED ZEAL OF EUSTACE
The word "rest" as used at the front has been described as being purely
a technical term, bearing no relation whatever to the other word of
the same name. Certainly during the last fortnight of this particular
period Alf Higgins and Bill Grant found cause to realize the truth of
this description.
A new brigadier had just been appointed to command the Middlesex
Fusiliers Brigade. He was an upstanding young giant of thirty, and the
main tenets of his creed were fitness and efficiency. In pursuit of the
latter he organized strenuous sham fights over miles of country, and he
urged upon his colonels that only by encouraging athletic contests on a
hitherto unheard of scale could they hope to attain the former.
Alf and Bill were no athletes, but they continued to play football
with more vigor than skill until their platoon was knocked out of the
battalion competition. They bore their defeat with stoicism, hoping
that they would now be allowed to assume the much more accustomed and
congenial rôle of spectators. Instead of this they found themselves
(to their inexpressible indignation) called upon to sustain the
battalion's honor in cross-country runs under the eye of that
speechless but efficient officer Lieutenant Donaldson.
In the evenings, however, they were free to extract what amusement
they could out of life. The pierrot troupe, without which no division
at the front considered itself complete, played to packed houses every
other night in the Y.M.C.A.; while a cinematograph show had been rigged
up in a barn. Each day, also, a limited number of passes to Amiens
entitled such as were favored of Fortune to a blissful day's taste of
civilization.
To the officers, however, it seemed sometimes incredible that any of
the men could patronize these delights at all.
"I believe," said Richards to Allen one evening, "that every man in
this company must write to every relation, friend, acquaintance or
business connection he has in Blighty seven times in the week, just to
spite us!"
The company letters had just come in to be censored. Donaldson had gone
to a Sports Committee meeting, and Shaw, as mess president, was in
Amiens restocking the larder.
"Lord, what a pile!" said Allen, sitting down at the table and
beginning his task. "It's lucky I've no letters of my own to write--or
only a note."
He gave a sigh; the man at the front who has nobody in England to write
to is not to be envied.
"I have, though," said Captain Richards. "My wife'll be thinking I'm
dead if I don't write her a proper letter soon."
He also took a handful of letters and set to work.
"May I come in?" said a voice at the door. "Or are you too busy?"
"Come in, of course, major."
The second-in-command entered, glanced round and took in the situation.
"Don't let me interrupt you," he said politely. "I haven't come to see
_you_ at all, so don't flatter yourselves. I wanted to see Denis's
_Sketch_ and _Tatler_, that's all."
"On my bed, sir," said Allen.
"Thanks."
There was unbroken silence for some minutes. Then the major cast _The
Tatler_ from him with an exclamation of disgust.
"I wish," he said, "that that grinning little idiot would stop
advertising herself for a bit. You can't pick up a picture-paper
without seeing her selling things or dressing up or generally pushing
herself into the limelight. She wants smacking."
Both men at the table looked up.
"Who's the grinning idiot in question, major?"
"Isobel FitzPeter. Here you are--a whole page of her and her bally
bulldog, labeled 'A famous Beauty--and Friend.' Same photograph in _The
Sketch_, called 'Beauty and the Beast'! It makes me sick!"
Allen suddenly got up and went out of the room without a word, very
red in the face. Richards and Major Parker stared after him, the former
very embarrassed, the latter simply surprised.
"What's the matter?" asked the major blankly.
"I expect poor old Denis felt he might have used language unbefitting
your rank if he'd stayed. You see--don't let on to a soul, mind--he's
most frightfully gone on the FitzPeter girl."
"Good God, Dickie, what have I said? D'you mean they're engaged or
anything?"
"Oh, no. I don't believe she knows him at all. He used to play cricket
at her father's place, and they were rather pals then, I believe. But
since she's grown up, they've never met. But you know how it is out
here. If I hadn't had my wife to think about, I'd have gone mad long
ago. Denis doesn't seem to have many feminine belongings of his own,
so he's simply installed this girl as a kind of goddess. He seems to
live for the illustrated papers--simply devours them, and cuts out her
picture. This is all rather confidential, major."
"Of course. Poor old chap. You know, Dickie, I do happen to know the
lady. In peace time she was as nice a kid as you could want to meet.
If Denis hasn't met her since then, I don't wonder at him, because
she's really frightfully pretty. But her head has been utterly turned.
She acts as parlor-maid once a fortnight in a hospital my sister runs
in Kensington, and she's more hindrance than help, because she never
arrives in time, and she's always got some footling reason for wanting
to go early. But her photograph in V.A.D. uniform gets published
about once a fortnight, usually headed 'Nursing the Wounded,' or, 'An
Indefatigable War Worker'! The worst of it is she's got brains if she'd
use them; only she won't. A spoilt, thoughtless little idiot, and as
pretty as they make 'em. Poor old Denis."
At this point Allen returned and resumed his work without a word. The
major fell silent. Richards cast about for some subject to cover the
awkward break in the conversation.
"D'you know when we go back to the line, sir?" he asked at last.
"Not settled. End of the week, I think. Look here, I've interrupted you
fellows quite enough. Give me some of those letters."
"Thanks awfully, sir. You're a sportsman."
By dinner time the pile was finished, and Allen had time to write his
note.
"DEAR PEGGY," he wrote,--
"Just a line to tell you I'm still alive, and hoping to remain so.
You might write to me when you've time. In great haste,
"Your affectionate cousin,
"DENIS.
"P.S. If you happen to see Miss FitzPeter, please give her my kind
regards."
This missive he addressed to Lady Margaret Clowes, at an address in
Mayfair. She was only a very distant cousin of Allen's, and there was,
on the face of it, no particular reason why he should have written
to her at all. The regularity with which he had recently done so,
therefore, coupled with the unfailing manner in which the postscript
contained a polite message to Isobel FitzPeter, had given away to
Margaret the true state of affairs; and because she liked and admired
her shy cousin, she had contrived to keep his name not too insistently,
and yet quite firmly, before Isobel's mind. She had determined, also,
that when next Allen should come home on leave, she would engineer a
meeting between them.
If he had known this it would have filled him with joy, tempered with
apprehension, for he was not blind to the fact that the Isobel he had
known had developed into a new and rather formidable creature. She
was now a public character, the last word in smartness, and sometimes
rather a loud word at that. He felt that she was removed now to a
sphere beyond his reach, for he was a very humble-minded person.
Altogether, one way and another, he contrived to be acutely miserable
when he had time to think about anything but his work, and he rather
welcomed than otherwise the prospect of going back into the line.
In due course an operation order came through from Battalion
Headquarters, setting forth in minutest detail the times at which
officers' valises would be packed and sent to the transport,
mess-boxes made ready, blankets tied into bundles and delivered to the
quartermaster, billets cleaned and platoons ready to move. When the
time came there was the usual air of hopeless confusion, the accustomed
mutual recriminations between conflicting or overlapping authorities;
and in the end--also as usual--the battalion marched out at the
appointed hour, leaving behind it very little to show that it had ever
been there.
The brigade was to take over the same part of the line it had last
occupied; but in the three weeks' interval that had elapsed since they
had been relieved, Hindenburg had carried out his famous "retirement
according to plan," and our friends found themselves only just entering
the shelled area about the point where, in the days of the Big Thaw,
their front line had been.
The 5th Battalion this time moved straight up into the front line,
where they were comparatively comfortable. The weather was still cold,
but fine; the trenches--originally German property--had turned renegade
and were now serving the British very efficiently against their old
masters. The sector was still very quiet: to all appearance the enemy
had gone away and left no address. Altogether things were very much
pleasanter than last time up.
Alf, after his former fiasco, was no longer a "runner"; but his chum,
Bill Grant, had been selected for this work, so that the two were no
better off than last time, so far as being together was concerned. Alf
felt lonely. None of the other men in his platoon took much interest in
him. He wanted Bill's companionship--his contemptuous patronage of and
his real affection for his slower-witted companion.
His loneliness increased daily, until it became acute; and at last one
day, being on sentry-go in a bay all by himself, he bethought himself
of his Button. His mates were snoring in a dug-out close by; no sign
had been seen from the German trenches all day. He had strained his
eyes across No-Man's-Land until he had begun to feel intolerably drowsy
himself. If something did not happen soon, there was a danger that the
officer or N.C.O. on duty might find him asleep at his post.
Eustace seemed to be his only chance.
He rubbed the Button.
"What wouldst thou have? I am ready...."
"'Op it, quick!" was Alf's startling rejoinder.
Eustace, looking upset, complied. He was beginning to wonder whether he
was being victimized. This new Master of his who gave incomprehensible
orders and then seemed far from pleased when the orders were carried
out, also seemed to have a taste for summoning him merely for the
pleasure of seeing him vanish.
But Alf had a better reason than this. He had heard voices further
along the trench. A moment after Eustace had disappeared, Lieutenant
Shaw came round the traverse with the N.C.O. on duty, in the course of
his tour of inspection along the "C" Company front.
"Alone, Higgins?" asked the officer, with a hint of surprise in his
voice.
"Yessir."
"I thought I heard voices."
"Only me 'ummin', sir."
"I see. All quiet?"
"Yessir! Nothin' doin' at all!"
"Well"--Second-Lieutenant Shaw had not yet shed his youthful pride
at being in the thick of things, and puffed himself out a little and
became most impressive--"you want to keep an extra sharp look-out from
now until we stand-to at dusk. We've an idea that something's going to
happen. Probably Fritz will try a raid. This quiet is very suspicious."
He passed on with the sergeant. As soon as he was well out of earshot,
Alf recalled the spirit, who looked so hurt that his Master felt that
an apology was due to him.
"Sorry, Eustace, but if the orficer 'ad seen you talkin' to me, there'd
'ave been trouble. Civilians ain't allowed in the trenches, 'cept with
a special pass; so when anybody comes, you must 'op it without waitin'
for orders. See?"
Eustace bowed gravely.
"Now, look 'ere," continued Alf, gazing earnestly over the parapet
as he spoke, "I just bin thinkin' about yer. If you could only get
out o' this 'abit o' practical jokin' an' so on, you might be quite a
useful sort o' feller. Now, tell me fair, what can you do? I don't mean
larkin' with airyplanes, but serious things."
"My Lord hath but to command."
"Yes, it's easy enough to say that, but I can't think o' things....
Now, s'posin' ... that is.... Look 'ere, what I really want is
something to keep me safe if the blighted Boche comes over. Now, what
can you show me?"
"Master, I comprehend not thy speech."
"Lumme, I speak plain enough English, I 'ope. I say, what I want is
something to keep me safe if the Boche comes over. The Boche, you know!
Fritz! The 'Un! The fellers across there, you blinkin' image! The
Germans!"
"My Lord desires protection from his enemies."
"That's better, Eustace. Think it out, and you'll get there in time."
"It shall be so. Behold!"
An object appeared in the Spirit's hand.
"Behold, O Lord of Might, the helmet of invisibility. Clad in this thou
canst be seen of no mortal eye. So mayest thou move among the hosts of
the enemy, seeing all, yet seen of none."
"By gum!" commented Alf, much impressed, "that's a bit of all right.
Shouldn't mind doing daylight patrols with that on. Knocks a tin 'at
all to blazes."
He pondered a moment and began to see the disadvantages of the idea.
"The trouble is," he explained, "the orficer seems to think the 'osts
of the enemy is goin' to move about _us_ just now. Where should I be
then? They'd all think I'd 'ad the wind up and 'opped it. An' then, 'ow
about shell-fire? Just bein' invisible won't stop no Perishin' Percies.
What I want is something--well, you know what I mean. Can't you get me
something to keep off the bullets?"
"Verily that can I," said Eustace, with an air suggesting that Alf was
simply wasting his time with niggling details. "Just such a thing as
thou desirest was aforetime in the treasury of the great King Uz; my
spirits shall procure it for thee. Whoso weareth this can come to no
hurt through weapons forged by man."
"That's the ticket, if Mr. What's-'is-name won't be wanting it for
'isself. 'E's probably 'elpin' with this 'ere War somewhere or other."
"Uz hath been dead these many cycles--upon him be peace!" returned
Eustace. He raised his hand, and, with an awesome clang, a cumbrous
suit of armor, complete in every detail, fell into the trench. The
djinn wore an expression of mild triumph. This time, he seemed to
think, even this strange new master of his must be satisfied. He was
not in the least prepared for Alf's reception of his performance.
"Take it away," shrieked Private Higgins, in an agony at the idea of
having to explain away such a phenomenon to his superiors. "Take it
away, you blinkin' fool, and 'op it yerself. What the blazes d'you
think yer doin'? 'Ere, get out of it, quick. Somebody's comin'."
Somebody was.
The whole of Number Nine Platoon, awakened from its slumbers, came
tumbling out of its dug-outs, adjusting its gas masks as it came.
A horrible ghoul, dimly recognizable through the windows of its
respirator as Sergeant Lees, came and gibbered at Alf.
"What's up, sergeant?" asked Alf in amazement.
"Gas!" replied the sergeant, removing his mouthpiece for a moment in
order to speak more clearly. "Why the 'ell ain't you got yer mask on?
Didn't you 'ear the gong?"
Higgins realized with horror what had happened. The clang of the armor
had been mistaken for a gas-gong by a sentry in the next bay, who had
promptly given the alarm. He tried feebly to straighten matters out;
but it was too late now. The word had spread; the Boche, seeing the
commotion in our lines, had sprung to arms; and both armies stood
tense, each convinced that the other was going to make a surprise
attack. A heavy fusillade with rifles and machine guns, rifle grenades
and trench mortars began, and in its turn spread along the lines with
great swiftness. Then somebody put up an S.O.S. flare, and the guns,
which had only been waiting for this invitation, joined in. For the
next few minutes the Messina earthquake or an eruption of Vesuvius
would have been welcomed as quiet interludes by Richards, Allen & Co.
Further back, astonished Staff-Officers were springing to the telephone
to demand by what right this intense but unauthorized warfare was
taking place, and what it was all about, anyway. Further back still,
troops in rest billets looked up from their magazines or their letters
home and thanked Heaven that they were not in the shoes of the poor
blighters in the line.
Then both sides seemed to discover that nothing much was happening
after all, and the whole thing died away as suddenly as it had
begun. But that night the sentries were doubled, and as Higgins
sulkily performed his extra hours of duty, his feelings towards his
well-meaning but tactless familiar were such that he nearly brought his
adventures to an untimely close by cutting off the Button and flinging
it over the parapet.