A hospital is much the same anywhere, and number 13 General at Etaples
was no exception. On each side of the big marquee ran a row of beds in
perfect dressing. The sheets were turned down on the design so ably
portrayed in the War Office Sealed Pattern X.B.451.--"Method of turning
down sheets on Beds Hospital." On "Beds Barrack" the method is
slightly different and is just as ably shown on Sealed pattern X.B.452.
During moments of intense depression one is apt to fear the war-winning
properties of X.B.451 and 452 have not been sufficiently appreciated by
an unintelligent public.
The period of strain incurred on entrance was over as far as Vane was
concerned. For the sixth time since leaving his battalion he had, in a
confidential aside, informed a minion of the B.A.M.O. that he was a Wee
Free Presbyterian Congregationalist; and for the sixth time the worthy
recipient of this news had retired to consult War Office Sealed List of
Religions A.F.31 to find out if he was entitled to be anything of the
sort. In each case the answer had been in the negative, and Vane had
been entered as "Other Denominations" and regarded with suspicion. One
stout sergeant had even gone so far as to attempt to convert him to
Unitarianism; another showed him the list, and asked him to take his
choice.
In the bed next to him was a young Gunner subaltern, with most of his
right leg shot away, and they talked spasmodically, in the intervals of
trying to read month old magazines.
"Wonderful sight," remarked the Gunner, interrupted for a moment in his
story by the eternal thermometer. "Firing at 'em over open sights:
shrapnel set at 0. Seemed to cut lanes through 'em; though, God be
praised, they came on for a bit, and didn't spoil our shooting."
Vane, sucking a thermometer under his tongue, nodded sympathetically.
"A bit better than sitting in a bally O.P. watchin' other fellows poop
at the mud."
"How did you get yours?" he queried, as the Sister passed on.
"Crump almost at my feet, just as I was going into my dug-out. . . .
Mouldy luck, and one splinter smashed the last bottle of whisky." The
gunner relapsed into moody silence at the remembrance of the tragedy.
Two beds further along the Padre was playing a game of chess with a
Major in the Devons; and on the opposite side of the tent another
chaplain, grey haired and clean shaven, was talking and laughing with a
boy, whose face and head were swathed in bandages.
The R.C. and the C. of E. exponents hunting in couples as these two
always did. . . . They are not the only two who before the war would
have relegated the other to the nethermost depths of the deepest Hell;
but whose eyes have been opened to wisdom now.
Vane was no theologian--no more than are the thousands of others across
the water. Before the war he had been in the habit of dismissing any
religious question by the comforting assertion that if all one's pals
are in Hell, one might as well join them. But in the Game of Death the
thoughts of many men have probed things they passed over lightly
before. It is not doctrine they want; faith and belief in beautiful
formulas have become less and less satisfying. They are beginning to
think for themselves, which is anathema to the Church. Of old she
prevented such a calamity by a policy of terrorising her followers; of
later years she has adopted the simpler one of boring them. And yet it
is only simplicity they want; the simple creeds of helping on the other
fellow and playing the game is what they understand. But they will
have to be reminded of it from time to time. One wonders whether the
Church will be big enough to seize the opportunity that stares her in
the face.
Vane nodded to the grey-haired Roman Catholic as he paused at the foot
of his bed.
"Shoulder painful?" The priest held out a lighted match for Vane's
cigarette.
"Throbs a bit, Padre; but it might be worse." He smiled and lay back
on his pillows. "An arm makes one feel so helpless."
"I think I'd sooner lose an arm than a leg," remarked the Gunner from
the next bed. For a while they pursued this debatable point, much as
men discuss politics, and incidentally with far less heat. . . . It
was a question of interest, and the fact that the Gunner _had_ lost his
leg made no difference to the matter at all. An onlooker would have
listened in vain for any note of complaint. . . .
"Time you were getting to sleep--both of you." Margaret's voice
interrupted the conversation, and Vane looked up with a smile. She was
shaking an admonitory finger at Father O'Rourke, and with a sudden
quickening of the pulse he realised how perfectly charming she looked.
"Sister, dear," said the Gunner, "you're on my side, aren't you? It's
better to lose an arm than a leg, isn't it?"
For a moment she affected to consider the point. Then suddenly she
smiled, and came between their beds. "Unless you both of you go to
sleep at once I'll come and wash you again."
With a groan of horror the Gunner hid himself under the bed-clothes,
and Margaret, still smiling, turned to Vane.
"Good night, Derek," she said very low. "Sometimes I just want to sit
down and howl. . . ." And Vane, looking up into her face, saw that her
eyes were a little misty. . . .
Gradually the ward settled down into silence. Right at the other end a
man was groaning feebly; while just opposite, looking ghastly in the
dim light, a boy was staring round the tent with eyes that did not see.
For hours on end he lay unconscious, breathing the rattling breath of
the badly gassed; then suddenly he would lift his head, and his eyes,
fixed and staring, would slowly turn from bed to bed. He looked as a
man looks who is walking in his sleep, and Vane knew he was very near
the Great Divide. He had been hit in the chest by a piece of shell,
and a bit of his coat impregnated with mustard gas had been driven into
his lungs. . . . Every now and then Margaret passed noiselessly down
the centre between the two rows of beds. Once she lent over Vane and
he closed his eyes pretending to be asleep. But every time as she came
to the boy opposite she stopped and looked at him anxiously. Once she
was joined by a doctor, and Vane heard their muttered conversation . . .
"I can't get him to take his medicine, Doctor. He doesn't seem able to
do anything."
"It doesn't much matter, Nurse," he whispered--why is it that the
sick-room whisper seems to travel as far as the voice of the
Sergeant-Major on parade? "He won't get through to-night, and I'm
afraid we can't do anything."
The doctor turned away, and Margaret went to the end of the tent and
sat down at her table. A reading lamp threw a light on her face, and
for a while Vane watched her. Then his eyes came back to the boy
opposite, and rested on him curiously. He was unconscious once again,
and it suddenly struck Vane as strange that whereas, up in front, he
had seen death and mutilation in every possible and impossible
form--that though he had seen men hit by a shell direct, and one man
crushed by a Tank--yet he had never been impressed with the same sense
of the utter futility of war as now, in face of this boy dying in the
bed opposite. To have come so far and then to pay the big price; it
was so hard--so very pitiful; and Vane turned over to shut out the
sight. He felt suddenly frightened of the thing that was coming nearer
and nearer to the dying boy; furious at the inability of the science
which had struck him down to save him. . . .
Vane closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but sleep was far away that
night. Whenever he opened them he saw Margaret writing at her table;
and once there came to him an irresistible temptation to speak to her.
He felt that he wanted her near him, if only for a moment; he wanted to
lean on her--he wanted to be taken in her arms like a little child.
Angrily he closed his eyes again. It was ridiculous, absurd,
weak. . . . But there have been times in this war when the strongest
man has sobbed like a child in his weakness. . . .
"Sister!" Vane hardly recognised it as his own voice calling.
"Sister!" Margaret came towards him down the ward. "Could you get me
something to drink?"
In a moment she had returned with some lemonade. "I thought you were
asleep, Derek," she whispered. "Are you feeling feverish?"
She put a cool hand on his forehead, and with a sigh of relief Vane lay
back. "I'm frightened, Margaret," he said so low that she scarce could
hear him. "Just scared to death . . . of that boy opposite. Ain't I a
damned fool?"
Her only answer was the faintest perceptible pressure on his forehead.
Then his hand came up and took hers, and she felt the touch of his lips
on it. For a moment she let it rest there, and then gently withdrew
it, while with a tired sigh Vane closed his eyes. . . .
He slept maybe for two hours, and then he found himself wide awake
again--every nerve intent, like a man aroused by a sudden noise.
Margaret was reading at her table; the man at the other end still
groaned feebly in his sleep; the boy was staring dazedly at nothing in
particular--but there was something else. He knew it.
Suddenly Margaret put down her book, and half rose from her chair, as
if listening; and at the same moment the Gunner woke up. Then they all
heard it together--that high pitched, ominous drone which rises and
falls in a manner there is no mistaking.
"Boche," said the Gunner, "Boche, for a tanner. And lots of them."
"Damn the swine," muttered Vane. "Can't they even leave a hospital
alone?" The next minute any lingering hope was destroyed. Both men
heard it--the well-known whistling whooce of the bomb--the vicious
crack as it burst; both men felt the ground trembling through their
beds. That was the overture . . . the play was about to commence. . . .
All around them bombs rained down till the individual bursts merged
into one continuous roar. The earth shook and palpitated, and, to make
matters worse, the lights suddenly went out. The last thing Vane saw
was Margaret as she made her way, calmly and without faltering, to the
boy's bed. He had a picture, printed indelibly on his brain, of a girl
with a sweet set face, of a gaping boy, stirred into some semblance of
remembrance by the familiar noise around him. And then, in the
darkness, he made his way towards her.
There was a deafening crash close to him, and a fragment tore through
the side of the tent. He could see the blinding flash, and
involuntarily he ducked his head. Then, running and stumbling, he
reached her. He felt her standing rigid in the darkness, and even at
such a moment he felt a sudden rush of joy as her hands come out to
meet him.
"Lie down," he shouted, "lie down at once. . . ."
"The boy," she cried. "Help me with him, Derek."
Together they picked him up, fumbling in the darkness, and laid him on
the ground beside his bed. Then Vane took her arm, and shouted in her
ear, "Lie down, I tell you, lie down . . . quite flat." Obediently she
lay down, and he stretched himself beside her on the ground. To the
crashing of the bombs were now added the shouts and curses of men
outside; and once Margaret made an effort to rise.
"The patients, Derek. Let me go."
With his one sound arm he kept her down by force. "You can do
nothing," he said roughly. He felt her trembling against him, and a
wave of fury against the airmen above took hold of him. He was no
novice to bombing; there had been weeks on end when the battalion had
been bombed nightly. But then it had been part of the show--what they
expected; here it was so different.
A sense of utter impotence filled his mind, coupled with a raging
passion at the danger to the girl beside him. And suddenly his lips
sought hers.
"It's all right, my dear," he kept on saying, "quite all right. It'll
be over soon." And so almost unconscious of what they said or did,
they lay and listened to the tornado of Death around them. . . .
It is on record that one man once said that he thought it was rather
amusing to be in a raid. That man was a liar. He was also a
fool. . . . To be bombed is poisonous, rather more poisonous than to
be shelled. If there are no dug-outs there is only one thing to be
done, and that is what Vane was doing.
To lie flat on the ground minimises the danger except from a direct
hit; and a direct hit is remarkably sudden. And so--since every
occupant of Number 13 was well aware of this fact, approximately five
seconds elapsed after the light went out before all the patients who
could move, and most of those who couldn't, were lying on the floor
beside their beds.
Gradually the explosions became fewer and fewer; though the earth still
shook and throbbed like a living thing, and at last it seemed to Vane
that the raid was over. He was lifting himself on his elbow
preparatory to going outside and exploring, when an ominous whistling
noise seemed to pierce his very brain. He had just time to throw
himself on to the girl beside him so that he partially covered her,
when the last bomb came. He heard the top of the marquee rip: there
was a deafening roar in his ears: a scorching flame enveloped him. He
lay stiff and rigid, and the thought flashed through him that this was
the end. The next moment he knew he was safe, and that it was merely
another close shave such as he had not been unaccustomed to in the
past. The bomb had burst in the tent, but the Fate which ordained
things had decided it should miss him. It had done so before, and Vane
laughed to himself . . .
"Close, my lady, very close," he whispered--"but not quite close
enough." With a quick, savage movement he turned Margaret's face
towards him, and kissed her on the lips. For a while she clung to him,
and then he felt her relax in his arms. She had fainted, and as he
realised this, he felt something pressing down on him. With his sound
arm he fumbled above his head, and found it was the canvas of the tent.
Tugging and scrambling, he half dragged, half carried Margaret through
the entrance which still remained intact, and laid her down on the
grass outside. Men and nurses were moving about in the darkness,
stumbling over guy ropes and tent pegs. For the moment every one was
too intent on his own affairs to bother over a mere faint, and Vane
left her lying against the side of the tent. Then he cautiously felt
his way round to investigate the damage. A great crater midway between
Number 13 and the next tent showed where the first close one had
fallen, but he had no wish to explore that any further. He stumbled
round the edge and went on. Then in the faint light given by the moon,
he saw what had happened when the last bomb had burst. It was nothing
worse than many similar sights he had seen, but Vane as he looked at
the wreckage cursed bitterly and fluently. And then of a sudden he
stopped cursing, and drew a deep breath. . . . Staring up at him in
the cold white light was what was left of the Gunner subaltern. The
bomb had burst at the foot of his bed . . . A cheery soul . . . A
bitter end . . .
Opposite, the bed blown in half, the boy who would not have lasted
through the night sprawled uncouthly on to the floor. God knows! a
merciful release. . . . A few hours sooner--that's all. . . . And to
both--Kismet.
All around lay fragments and debris. For a few seconds he stood there
motionless, while every now and then the canvas heaved where it lay on
the ground, and someone crawled out into the open. Then he felt a
touch on his arm, and, turning, he saw Margaret. Dry-eyed, she watched
with him, while the wounded dragged themselves painfully past the still
smoking crater, and the acrid smell of high explosive tainted the air.
In the far distance the drone of aeroplanes was getting fainter and
fainter. Success had crowned the raider's daring exploit; they were
entitled to their well-earned rest. And so for a space did Vane and
Margaret stand. . . . It was only when very gently he slipped his arm
round her waist that a hard dry sob shook her.
"Oh! the devils," she whispered--"the vile devils."