his skin beaten to a uniform tint of warm red by the sun and wind. For he
was the postman at the village of Ashalton. Except for two hours in the
little sorting-office, he spent the whole day on his bicycle, invariably
accompanied by his Irish terrier, Toffee. Toffee was as well known on the
countryside as Ned himself. He took the business of delivering letters as
seriously as his master. He trotted behind the bicycle with his tongue
out, and waited panting outside the gates of gardens while the important
government business was transacted. He never barked, and had no time for
fighting common, unofficial dogs. When the letters were delivered, his
master would return to his bicycle, and say: “Coom ahn, boy!” and Toffee
would immediately jump up, and fall into line. They were great companions.
Ned lived with his mother, and also he walked out with a young lady.
Her name was Ettie Skinner, and she was one of the three daughters of
old Charlie Skinner, the corn-merchant. Charlie Skinner had a little
establishment in the station-yard. He was a widower, and he and his
three daughters lived in a cottage in Neap’s Lane. It was very seldom
necessary to deliver letters at the Skinners’ cottage, but every morning
Ned had to pass up Neap’s Lane, and so, when he arrived at the cottage,
he dismounted, and rang his bicycle bell. The signal was understood by
Ettie, who immediately ran out to the gate, and a conversation somewhat
on this pattern usually took place:
“Hulloa!”
“Hulloa!”
“All right?”
“Ay.”
“Busy?”
“Ay. Mendin’ some old cla’es.”
“Oo-ay!”
“Looks like mebbe a shower.”
“Mebbe.”
“Coomin’ along to-night?”
“Ay, if it doan’t rain.”
“Well, so long!”
“So long, Ned.”
In the evenings the conversation followed a very similar course. They
waddled along the lanes side by side, and occasionally gave each other a
punch. Ned smoked his pipe all the time, and Toffee was an unembarrassed
cicerone. He was a little jealous of this unnecessary female, but he
behaved with a resigned acquiescence. His master could do no wrong. His
master was a god, a being apart from all others.
It cannot be said that Ned was a romantic lover. He was solemn, direct,
imperturbable. He was a Saxon of Saxons, matter-of-fact, incorruptible,
unimaginative, strong-willed, conscientious, not very ambitious, and
suspicious of the unusual and the unknown. When the war broke out, he
said:
“Ay, but this is a bad business!”
And then he thought about it for a month. At the end of that time he
made up his mind to join. He rode up Neap’s Lane one morning and rang
his bell. When Ettie appeared the usual conversation underwent a slight
variant:
“Hulloa!”
“Hulloa!”
“All right?”
“Ay.”
“Doin’ much?”
“Oo—mendin’ pa’s night-gown.”
“Oh! I be goin’ to jine up.”
“Oo—oh! Be ’ee?”
“Ay.”
“When be goin’?”
“Monday with Dick Thursby and Len Cotton. An’ I think young Walters, and
Bibbie Short mebbe.”
“Oh, I say!”
“Ay. Comin’ along to-night?”
“Ay, if it doan’t rain.”
“Well, see you then.”
“So long, Ned.”
On the following Monday Ned said good-by to his mother, and sweetheart,
and to Toffee, and he and the other four boys walked over to the
recruiting office at Carchester. They were drafted into the same unit,
and sent up to Yorkshire to train. (Yorkshire being one hundred and
fifty miles away was presumably the most convenient and suitable spot.)
They spent five months there, and then Len Cotton was transferred to the
Machine Gun Corps, and the other four were placed in an infantry regiment
and sent out to India. They did not get an opportunity of returning to
Ashalton, but the night before he left Ned wrote to his mother:
“Dear Mother, I think we are off to-morrow. They don’t tell us where
we are going but they seem to think it’s India because of the Eastern
kit served out and so on. Everything all right, the grub is fine. Young
Walters has gone sick with a bile on his neck. Hope you are all right.
See Toffee dont get into Mr. Mears yard for this is about the time he
puts down that pison for the rats. Everything O. K. Love from Ned.”
He wrote a very similar letter to Ettie, only leaving out the
instructions about Toffee and adding “dont get overdoing it now the warm
weathers on.”
They touched at Gibraltar, Malta, Alexandria and Aden. At all these
places he merely sent the cryptic postcard. He did not write a letter
again until he had been three weeks up in the hills in India. As a
matter of fact it had been a terribly rough passage nearly all the
way, especially in the Mediterranean, and nearly all the boys had been
sea-sick most of the time. Ned had been specially bad and in the Red Sea
had developed a slight fever. In India he had been sent to a rest-camp up
in the hills. He wrote:
“Dear mother, everything all right. The grub is fine. I went a bit sick
coming out but nothing. Quite O. K. now. This is a funny place. The
people would make you laugh to look at. We beat the 2nd Royal Scots by
two goals to one. I wasn’t playing but Binnie played a fine game at half
back. He stopped their center forward, an old league player, time and
again. Hope you are keeping all right. Does Henry Thatcham take Toffee
out regler. Everything serene. Love from Ned.”
In this letter the words “2nd Royal Scots” were deleted by the censor.
India at that time was apparently a kind of training-ground for young
recruits. There were a few recalcitrant hill-tribes upon whom to practice
the latest developments of military science, and Ned was mixed up in one
or two of these little scraps. He proved himself a good soldier, doing
precisely what he was told and being impervious to danger. They were
five months in India, and then the regiment was suddenly drafted back to
Egypt. Big things were afoot. No one knew what was going to happen. They
spent ten days in a camp near Alexandria. They were then detailed for
work in connection with the protection of the banks of the Canal, and Ned
was stationed near the famous pyramid of Gizeh. He wrote to his mother:
“Dear mother, everything all right. Pretty quiet so far. This is a funny
place. Young Walters has gone sick again. We had the regimental sports
Thursday. Me and Bert Carter won the three-legged race. The grub is fine
and we get dates and figs for nuts. Hope your cold is all right by now.
Thanks for the parcel which I got on the 27th. Everything all right. Glad
to hear about Mrs. Parsons having the twins and that. Glad to hear Toffee
all right and so with love your loving son Ned.”
They had not been at Gizeh for more than a week before they were sent
back to Alexandria and placed on a transport. In fifteen days after
touching at Imbros, Ned and his companions found themselves on Gallipoli
peninsula. Heavy fighting was in progress. They were rushed up to the
front line. For two days and nights they were in action and their
numbers were reduced to one-third of their original size. For thirty
hours they were without water and were being shelled by gas, harried by
flame-throwers, blasted by shrapnel and high-explosive. At the end of
that time they crawled back to the beach at night through prickly bramble
which poisoned them and set up septic wounds if it scratched them. They
lay there dormant for two days, but still under shell-fire, and then
were hurriedly reformed into a new regiment, and sent to another part of
the line. This went on continuously for three weeks, and then a terrible
storm and flood occurred. Hundreds of men—some alive and some partly
alive—were drowned in the ravines. Ned and his company lost all their
kit, and slept in water for three nights running. At the end of four
weeks he obtained five days’ rest at the base. He wrote to Ettie:
“Dear Ettie, A long time since I had a letter from you. Hope all right.
Everything all right so far. We had a bad storm but the weather now keeps
fine. Had a fine bath this morning. There is a man in our company would
make you laugh. He is an Irish-Canadian. He plays the penny whissle fine
and sings a bit too. Sorry to say young Walters died. He got enteric and
phewmonnia and so on. I expect his people will have heard all right. How
is old Mrs. Walters? Dick Thursby got a packet too and Mrs. Quinby’s boy
I forget his name. How are them white rabbits of yours. I met a feller as
used to take the milk round for Mr. Brand up at Bodes farm. Funny wasn’t
it. Well nothing more now. I hope this finds you as it leaves me your
affectionate Ned.”
Ned was three months on Gallipoli peninsula, but he left before the
evacuation. During the whole of that time he was never not under
shell-fire. He took part in seven attacks. On one occasion he went over
the top with twelve hundred others, of whom only one hundred and seven
returned. Once he was knocked unconscious by a mine explosion which
killed sixty-seven men. At the end of that period he was shot through the
back by a sniper. He was put in a dressing-station, and a gentleman in a
white overall came and stuck a needle into his chest and left him there
in a state of nudity for twelve hours. Work at the field hospitals was
very congested just then. He became a bit delirious and was eventually
put on a hospital ship with a little tag tied to him. After some vague
and restless period he found himself again at Imbros and in a very
comfortable hospital. He stayed there six weeks and his wound proved to
be slight. The bone was only grazed. He wrote to his mother:
“Dear mother, Everything all right. I had a scratch but nothing. I hope
you enjoyed the flower show. How funny meetings Mrs. Perks. We have a
fine time here. The grub is fine. Sorry to say Binnie Short went under.
He got gassed one night when he hadnt his mask on. The weather is mild
and pleasant. Glad to hear Henry takes Toffee out all right. Have you
heard from Ettie for some time. We had a fine concert on Friday. A chap
played the flute lovely. Hope you are now all right again. Your loving
son Ned.”
In bed in the hospital at Imbros a bright idea occurred to Ned. He made
his will. Such an idea would never have occurred to him had it not been
forced upon him by the unusual experiences of the past year. He suddenly
realized that of all the boys who had left the village with him only Len
Cotton, as far as he knew, remained. So one night he took a blunt-pointed
pencil, and laboriously wrote on the space for the will at the end of his
pay-book:
“I leave everything I’ve got to my mother Anne Picklekin, including
Toffee. I hope Henry Thatcham will continue to look after Toffee except
the silver bowl which I won at the rabbit show at Oppleford. This I leave
to Ettie Skinner as a memorial of me.”
One day Ned enjoyed a great excitement. He was under discharge from the
hospital, and a rumor got round that he and some others were to be sent
back to England. They hung about the island for three days, and were
then packed into an Italian fruit-steamer—which had been converted into a
transport. It was very overcrowded and the weather was hot. They sailed
one night and reached another island before dawn. They spent three weeks
doing this. They only sailed at night, for the seas about there were
reported to be infested with submarines. Every morning they put in at
some island in the Greek Archipelago, or at some port on the mainland. At
one place there was a terrible epidemic of illness, owing to some Greek
gentlemen having sold the men some doped wine. Fifteen of them died. Ned
escaped from this as he had not had any of the wine. He was practically
a teetotaler except for an occasional glass of beer. But he was far from
happy on that voyage. The seas were rough and the transport ought to have
been broken up years ago, and this didn’t seem to be the right route for
England.
At length they reached a large port called Salonika. They never went
into the town, but were sent straight out to a camp in the hills ten
miles away. The country was very wild and rugged, and there was great
difficulty with water. Everything was polluted and malarial. There was
very little fighting apparently, but plenty of sickness. He found himself
in a Scottish regiment. At least, it was called Scottish, but the men
came from all parts of the world, from Bow Street to Hong-Kong.
There was to be no Blighty after all, but still—there it was! He
continued to drill, and march, and clean his rifle and play the
mouth-organ and football. And then one morning he received a letter from
his mother, which had followed him from Imbros. It ran as follows:
“My dear Ned, How are you, dear? I hope you keep all right. My corf is
now pretty middlin otherwise nothin to complain of. Now dear I have to
tell you something which grieves me dear. Im afraid its no good keepin
it from you ony longer dear. _Ettie is walkin out with another feller._
A feller from the air station called Alf Mullet. I taxed her with it and
she says yes it is so dear. Now dear you mustnt take on about this. I
told her off I says it was a disgraceful and you out there fightin for
your country and that. And she says nothin excep yes there it was and
she couldn’t help it and her feelins had been changed you being away and
that. Now dear you must put a good face on this and remember theres just
as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it as they say dear. One of
Mr. Bean’s rabits died Sunday they think it overeating you never know
with rabits. Keep your feet warm dear I hope you got them socks I sent.
Lizzie was at chapel Sunday she had on her green lawn looked very nice I
thought but I wish she wouldn’t get them spots on her face perhaps its
only the time of year. Toffee is all right he had a fight with a hairdale
Thursday Henry says got one of his eres bitten but nothin serous. So now
dear I must close as Mrs. Minchin wants me to go and take tea with her
has Florrie has gone to the school treat at Eurley. And so dear with love
your lovin Mother.”
When he had finished reading this letter he uttered an exclamation, and a
cockney friend sitting on the ground by his side remarked:
“What’s the matter, mate?”
Ned took a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and lighted one. Then
he said:
“My girl’s jilted me.”
The cockney laughed and said:
“Gawd! is that all? I thought it was somthin’ serious!”
He was cleaning his rifle with an oil rag, and he continued: “Don’t you
worry, mate. Women are like those blinkin’ little Greek islands, places
to call at but not to stay. What was she like?”
“Oo—all right.”
“Pretty?”
“Ay—middlin’.”
“’As she got another feller?”
“Ay.”
“Oh, well, it’s all in the gime. If you _will_ go gallivanting about
these foreign parts enjoyin’ yerself, what d’yer expect? What time’s kick
off this afternoon?”
“Two o’clock.”
“Reckon we’re goin’ to win?”
“I doan’t know. ’Pends upon whether McFarlane turns out.”
“Yus, ’e’s a wonderful player. Keeps the team together like.”
“Ay.”
“Are you playin’?”
“Ay. I’m playin’ right half.”
“Are yer? Well, you’ll ’ave yer ’ands full. You’ll ’ave to tackle Curly
Snider.”
“Ay.”
Ned’s team won the match that afternoon, and he wrote to his mother
afterwards:
“Dear mother, We just had a great game against 15/Royal South Hants.
McFarlane played center half and he was in great form. We led 2-0 at half
time and they scored one at the beginnin of the second half but Davis got
throu towards the end and we beat them by 3-1. I was playin quite a good
game I think but McFarlane is a real first class. I got your letter all
right. I was sorry about Ettie but of course she knows what she wants I
spose. You dont say what Toffee did to the _other dog_. You might tell
Henry to let me have a line about this. Fancy Liz being at chapel. I
almos forget what shes like. Everything is all right. The grub is fine.
This is a funny place all rocks and planes. The Greeks are a stinkin lot
for the most part so now must close with love, Ned.”
Having completed this letter, Ned got out his pay-book and revised
his will. Ettie Skinner was now deleted, and the silver bowl won at
the rabbit-show at Oppleford was bequeathed to Henry Thatcham in
consideration of his services in taking Toffee out for runs.
They spent a long and tedious eight months on the plains of Macedonia,
dodging malaria and bullets, cracking vermin in their shirts, playing
football, ragging, quarreling, drilling, maneuvering and, most
demoralizing of all, hanging about. And then a joyous day dawned. This
hybrid Scottish regiment was ordered home! They left Salonika in a French
liner and ten days later arrived at Malta. But in the meantime the gods
had been busy. The wireless operators had been flashing their mysterious
signals all over the Mediterranean and the Atlantic. At Malta the order
was countermanded. They remained there long enough to coal, but the men
were not even given shore leave. The next day they turned eastwards again
and made for Alexandria.
The cockney was furious. He had the real genius of the grouser, with the
added venom of the man who in the year of grace had lived by his wits
and now found his wits enclosed in an iron cylinder. It was a disgusting
anti-climax.
“When I left that filthy ’ole,” he exclaimed, “I swore to God I’d try and
never remember it again. And now I’m darned if we ain’t goin’ back there.
As if once ain’t enough in a man’s lifetime! It’s like the blooming cat
with the blankety mouse!”
“Eh, well, mon,” interjected a Scotsman, “there’s ane thing. They canna
keel ye no but once.”
“It ain’t the killing I mind. It’s the blooming mucking about. What d’yer
say, Pickles?”
“Ah, well ... there it is,” said Ned sententiously.
There was considerable “mucking about” in Egypt, and then they started
off on a long trek through the desert, marching on barbed-wire mesh that
had been laid down by the engineers. There was occasional skirmishing,
sniping, fleas, delay, and general discomfort. One day, in Southern
Palestine, Ned was out with a patrol party just before sun-down. They
were trekking across the sand between two oases when two shots rang out.
Five of the party fell. The rest were exposed in the open to foes firing
from concealment on two sides. The position was hopeless. They threw up
their hands. Two more shots rang out and the cockney next to Ned fell
forward with a bullet through his throat. Then dark figures came across
the sands towards them. There were only three left, Ned, a Scotsman, and
a boy who had been a clerk in a drapery store at Lewisham before the war.
He said:
“Well, are they going to kill us?”
“No,” said the Scotsman. “Onyway, keep your hands weel up and pray to
God.”
A tall man advanced, and to their relief beckoned them to follow. They
fell into single file.
“These are no Tur-r-ks at all,” whispered the Scotsman. “They’re some
nomadic Arab tribe.”
The Scotsman had attended evening continuation classes at Peebles, and
was rather fond of the word “nomadic.”
They were led to one of the oases, and instructed to sit down. The Arabs
sat round them, armed with rifles. They remained there till late at
night, when another party arrived, and a rope was produced. They were
handcuffed and braced together, and then by gesticulation told to march.
They trailed across the sand for three hours and a half. There was no
moon, but the night was tolerably clear. At length they came to another
oasis, and were bidden to halt. They sat on the sand for twenty minutes,
and one of the Arabs gave them some water. Then a whistle blew, and
they were kicked and told to follow. The party wended its way through a
grove of cedar trees. It was pitch dark. At last they came to a halt by
a large hut. There was much coming and going. When they entered the hut,
in charge of their guard, they were blinded by a strong light. The hut
was comfortably furnished and lighted by electric light. At a table sat
a stout, pale-faced man, with a dark mustache—obviously a German. By his
side stood a tall German orderly. The German official looked tired and
bored. He glanced at the prisoners and drew some papers towards him.
“Come and stand here in front of my desk,” he said in English.
They advanced, and he looked at each one carefully. Then he yawned,
dipped his pen in the ink, tried it on a sheet of paper, swore, and
inserted a fresh nib.
“Now, you,” he said, addressing the Scotsman, when he had completed these
operations. “Name, age, profession, regiment. Smartly.”
He obtained all these particulars from each man. Then he got up and
came round the table, and looking right into the eyes of the clerk from
Lewisham, he said:
“We know, of course, in which direction your brigade is advancing, but
from which direction is the brigade commanded by Major-General Forbes
Fittleworth advancing?”
The three of them all knew this, for it was common gossip of the march.
But the clerk from Lewisham said:
“I don’t know.”
The German turned from him to the Scotsman and repeated the question.
“I don’t know,” answered the Scotsman.
“From which direction is the brigade commanded by Major-General Forbes
Fittleworth advancing?” he said to Ned.
“Naw! I doan’t know,” replied Ned.
And then a horrible episode occurred. The German suddenly whipped out a
revolver and shot the clerk from Lewisham through the body twice. He gave
a faint cry and crumpled forward. Without taking the slightest notice of
this horror, the German turned deliberately and held the revolver pointed
at Ned’s face. In a perfectly unimpassioned, toneless voice he repeated:
“From which direction is the brigade commanded by Major-General Forbes
Fittleworth advancing?”
In the silence which followed, the only sound seemed to be the drone of
some machine, probably from the electric-light plant. The face of Ned
was mildly surprised but quite impassive. He answered without a moment’s
hesitation:
“Naw! I doan’t know.”
There was a terrible moment in which the click of the revolver could
almost be heard. It seemed to hover in front of his face for an
unconscionable time, then suddenly the German lowered it with a curse,
and leaning forward, he struck Ned on the side of his face with the flat
of his hand. He treated the Scotsman in the same way, causing his nose to
bleed. Both of the men remained quite impassive. Then he walked back to
his seat, and said calmly:
“Unless you can refresh your memories within the next two hours you will
share the fate of—that swine. You will now go out to the plantation at
the back and dig your graves. Dig three graves.”
He spoke sharply in Arabic to the guards, and they were led out. They
were handed a spade each, two Arabs held torches for them to work by, and
four others hovered in a circle twelve paces away. The soil was light
sand, and digging was fairly easy. Each man dug his own grave making
it about four feet deep. When it came to the third grave the Scotsman
whispered:
“Dig deep, mon.”
“Deeper than others?”
“Ay, deep enough to make a wee trench.”
“I see.”
They made it very deep, working together and whispering. When it was
practically completed, apparently a sudden quarrel arose between the
men. They swore at each other, and the Scotsman sprang out of the trench
and gripped Ned by the throat. A fearful struggle began to take place on
the edge of the grave. The guard ran up and tried to separate them. And
then, during the brief confusion there was a sudden dramatic development.
Simultaneously they snatched their spades. Both the men with the torches
were knocked senseless, and one of them fell into the third grave. The
torches were stamped out and a rifle went off. It was fired by a guard
near the hut, and the bullet struck another Arab who was trying to use
his bayonet. Ned brought a fourth man down with his spade and seized his
rifle, and the Scotsman snatched the rifle of the man who had been shot,
and they both leapt back into their purposely prepared trench.
“We shallna be able to hold this long, but we’ll give them a run for
their money,” said the Scotsman.
The body of one Arab was lying on the brink of their trench and the other
in the trench itself. Fortunately they both had bandoliers, which Ned and
his companion instantly removed.
“You face east and I’ll take west,” said the Scotsman, his eyes
glittering in the dim light. “I’m going to try and scare that Boche
devil.”