Private Randle Janvers Binderbeck and Private John Hodge (of No. 12
Platoon) both enlisted in 1914. Previously Handle wrote articles,
mostly denunciatory. He denounced the Government of the day, tight
skirts, Christian Science, scorching on scooters, the foreign policy
of Patagonia and many other things. John, on the other hand, had not
an agile brain. He worked on a farm in some incredibly primitive
capacity, and the only thing that he denounced was the quality of
the beer at the "Waggon and Horses." It certainly was bad.
In the Army Randle had no ambition except to get out of it and to
remain a private while in it. His ambition for his civil career was
tremendous. He tried to prod the placid John (his neighbour in their
hut) into an equal ambition.
"My poor Hodge," said Randle to John, "you must cultivate a soul above
manure. Does it satisfy you, as a man made in the image of God, to be
able to distinguish between a mangold and a swede? Think of the glory
of literature, the power of the writer to send forth his burning words
to millions and sway public opinion as the west wind sways the pliant
willow."
"I dunno as I'd prefer that to bird-scaring or suchlike," murmured
John.
Goaded by such beast-like placidity, Randle would forget all restraint
in trying to lash John into a worthy ambition.
It was for talking after "Lights out" that Randle and John were given
a punishment of three days' confinement to barracks. Randle, pouring
out a devastating torrent of words in the manner of a public orator,
bitterly denounced the punishment; John, who had merely snored (the
Captain said it took two to make a conversation), bore it with the
stoicism of ignorance.
Randle used to dream of Peace Day. He heard Sir DOUGLAS HAIG order his
Chief-of-Staff to summon Private Randle Janvers Binderbeck. "Release
him at once," said HAIG, in Randle's dream, "to resume his colossal
mission as leader and director of public opinion."
If John dreamed, it was of messy farmyards and draughty fields; but it
is improbable that he dreamed at all.
They both went to the War and faced the Hun. Randle thought of the
Hun only as a possible wrecker of his career, therefore as a foe of
mankind. John hardly thought of the Hun except in the course of coming
into contact with him, and then he used his bayonet with careless
zeal.
Randle steeled himself against the rough edges of soldiering. He
allowed neither the curses of corporals nor the familiarities of
second-lieutenants to affect his dreams of the future. Always, even
_sotto voce_ in the last five minutes before going over the top, he
kept before John his vision splendid.
It was thoir luck to remain together and unhurt. Then arrived the
great day when the Hun confessed defeat. Randle vainly awaited a sign
from the Commander-in-Chief.
There came, however, a moment when No. 12 Platoon was paraded at the
Company Orderly-room. Particulars were to be taken before filling up
demobilisation forms. Men were to be grouped, on paper, according to
the nation's demand for their return to civil life.
Randle Janvers Binderbeck knew this was _der Tag_. Magnanimously he
overlooked the delay and felt that HAIG might, after all, have an
excuse. John Hodge remained placid. He had long ago classed Randle's
goadings with heavies and machine-guns, as unavoidable incidents of
warfare.
Randle and John were called into the orderly-room together. By an
obvious error John was first summoned to the table.
"Well, Hodge," said the Company Sergeant-Major, "what's your job in
civil life?"
"I dunno as I got any special job," said John. "I just sort o' helped
on the farm."
"You must have a group," said the C.S.M. "What did you mostly do
before the War?"
"S' far as that do go," said John, "I were mostly a bird-scarer."
"'Bird-scarer,'" said the C.S.M. "I know there's a heading for that
somewhere. Agricultural, ain't it? 'Bird-scarer.' Ah, here we are.
'Group 1.' You'll be one of the first for release."