MY DEAR CHARLES,--You didn't catch sight of any mention of me in
despatches, did you? I have been rather too busy myself to read the list
properly, but I did just have time to cast a casual eye over the "H's,"
and I didn't notice the name of "Henry" standing out in heavy-leaded
capitals. It must be an inadvertence, of course. They must have said
something about me, as, for instance: "Especially to be remarked is the
noble altruism of Lieut. Henry, who on more than one march has been
observed to take his pack, containing all his worldly goods, off his
back and to hand it without ostentation to some lucky driver of a
limber, saying, 'Take it, my lad; your need is greater than mine.'" Or
again, referring to my later career: "The pen is mightier than the
sword, but Lieut. Henry's indelible pencil, when engaged on official
correspondence, is mightier than both." Or at least, at the very
beginning of things, I'm quite sure the Mentioner devoted a passing
phrase to me: "By the way, I have just received a consignment described
on the Movement Order as 'Officer, one, Henry, Lieut.' Speaking frankly
as between ourselves, what is it exactly? In any case I would gladly
exchange for a dozen tins of bully beef."
Talking of despatches, I see that our old friend the Regimental
Anarchist has not escaped notice. I never thought he would, for a less
unnoticeable man I don't remember meeting. He is one of those big untidy
fellows, very nice for purposes of war and all that, whom not the
cleverest adjutant could manage to conceal on a ceremonial parade. His
service equipment alone was notorious in the division. While we were
still in England he and I used to share a billet. Every night the last
thing I saw before going to sleep was the Anarchist trying on a new
piece of personal furniture. He had at least a hundred aunts, and each
of them had at least a hundred bright ideas; besides which few days went
by but he paid a generous visit to the military outfitter. Never in my
life shall I forget the sight of him during our last moments at home.
While others were stuffing into themselves the last good meal they
expected to taste for three years or the duration, he was putting on
patent waterproof after patent waterproof. He stepped forth at last,
sweating at every pore, and it wasn't raining at the time and didn't
look like raining till next winter. The 38-lb. limit prevented his
putting more than four coats into his valise, and his method of packing
didn't economise space. If there had been any limit, however generous,
to the amount of room an officer may occupy in the column of route we'd
have had to go abroad without our Anarchist, and a much quieter and more
respectable life we'd have had that way.
Even in our earliest days in B.E.F., when we were well behind the firing
line, he started playing with fire. Thinking that we shared his low
tastes he would gather us round him and lecture us on the black
arts.--"This little fellow," he would say, fetching an infernal machine
out of his pocket--"this little fellow is as safe as houses provided he
has no detonator in his little head. But we will just make sure." A
flutter of excitement would pass round the audience as he started
unscrewing the top to make sure. "Of course," he'd continue, finding the
screw a bit stiff and getting absorbed in his toy--"of course, if there
_should_ happen to be a detonator inside, you have only to tickle it and
almost anything may happen." While he'd be struggling with the screw,
the front row of the audience would be shifting its ground to give the
back rows a better view. "You can't be too careful," he'd say, passing
it lightly from one hand to the other in order to search for his
well-known clasp-knife, "for if you're not careful," he'd explain,
tucking the bomb under his arm so as to have both hands free to open the
knife--"if you're not careful," he'd say, suddenly letting go the knife
in order to catch the bomb as it slid from his precarious hold--"if
you're not very careful" (getting to real business with the murderous
blade), "very--very--careful...." But none of us were ever near enough
by that time to hear what would happen if we weren't (or even if he
wasn't).
And then those strange nights in the trenches, when he and I used to be
on duty together! I would be waiting in our luxurious, brightly-lit
gin-palace of a dug-out for him to join me at our midnight lunch. He'd
come in at last, clad in his fleece lining, the only survivor of his
extensive collection of overcoats, its absence of collar giving him a
peculiarly clerical look. He'd sit down to his cocoa, but hardly be
started on the day before yesterday's newspaper (just arrived with the
rations) before the private bombardment would begin. I would spring to
attention; he would go on reading. "Hush!" I'd say. (Why "Hush!" I don't
know.) "What's all that for?" "Me," he'd say, turning to the personal
column. And then I'd know that, seizing the opportunity of being
unobserved, he'd been out for nocturnal stroll with a handful of bombs,
seeking a little innocent pleasure. The gentlemen opposite, not being
cricketers themselves or knowing anything about the slow bowler, had, as
usual, mistaken him for a trench mortar and were making a belated reply.
Only his servant accompanied him on these jaunts. He was a nice quiet
villain, whose lust for adventure had, I always imagine, been long ago
satisfied by a dozen or so gentle burglaries in his civilian past. He
didn't want to kill people; his job in life was to keep his master alive
and well fed. So when the latter went out bombing he thought he might as
well go out with him, and occupy himself picking turnips for to-morrow's
stew.
When the Anarchist wasn't distributing bombs he was collecting bullets.
Being untidy by nature, he didn't particularly care where they hit him,
provided they didn't damage his pipe. That was all he cared about, his
lyddite and his tobacco. I often wonder how it was he didn't get the two
habits of his life mixed up--fill a pipe with H.E., light it and finish
off that way. But he didn't; he has just gone on collecting lead,
letting it accumulate about his person until it got too heavy to be
convenient and then resorting to the nearest hospital to have it
removed. I hear he's there now, the result, I gather, of a bit of a
show. It was his servant who was walking about that unhealthy field at
that imprudent time and found him. One would like to paint a romantic
picture of the meeting, but I doubt if there was much romance about it.
I am quite sure all the Anarchist cared about was his tobacco pouch and
all the servant was interested in was the further collection of
vegetables, just in case.
I can see our Anarchist, lying in his little white bed in the hospital,
surrounded by his sevenpenny racing novels (with or without covers), his
tins of navy-cut (some empty, some full), his fleece lining, his
compass, his socks, his field-glasses, his ties, his revolver and his
last month's letters (some opened, some not), all jumbled happily
together, with his ragged old shaving-brush reigning proudly in the
midst. I doubt if he knows he's been "mentioned," for one could never
get him to take interest in any news which wasn't "sporting"; possibly
he is made suspicious by the uncomfortable presence of unopened
telegrams in all corners of his bed. But one thing I do hope, and that
is that this bed is, at any rate, not strewn, inside and out, with
unexploded hand-grenades.
Yours ever, HENRY.
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