PART I

E-text prepared by Al Haines

Transcriber's note:

In the original book, the author was given as "Sapper," the

pseudonym of Herman Cyril McNeile. This e-book uses the

author's real name.

NO MAN'S LAND

by

H. C. McNEILE

Author of

"Men, Women, and Guns,"

"Sergeant Michael Cassidy, R.E.," and

"The Lieutenant and Others"

Hodder and Stoughton

London ---- New York ---- Toronto

MCMXVII

TO

THE INFANTRYMAN

PREFACE

During the first few days of November 1914 Messines was lost--in

silence; during the first few days of June 1917 Messines was

regained--and the noise of its capture was heard in London. And during

the two and a half years between these two events the game over the

water has been going on.

It hasn't changed very much in the time--that game--to the player. To

those who look on, doubtless, the difference is enormous. Now they

speak easily of millions where before they thought diffidently of

thousands. But to the individual--well, Messines is lost or Messines

is won; and he is the performer. It is of those performers that I

write: of the hole-and-corner work, of the little thumb-nail sketches

which go to make up the big battle panels so ably depicted over the

matutinal bacon and eggs.

And as one privileged to assist at times in that hole-and-corner work,

I offer these pages as a small tribute to those who have done so far

more than I: to the men who have borne the burden of the days, the

months, the years--to the men who have saved the world--to the

Infantrymen.

CONTENTS

PART I

THE WAY TO THE LAND

PART II

THE LAND:

I. A DAY OF PEACE

II. OVER THE TOP

III. THE MAN-TRAP

IV. A POINT OF DETAIL

V. MY LADY OF THE JASMINE

VI. MORPHIA

VII. BENDIGO JONES--HIS TREE

VIII. THE SONG OF THE BAYONET

PART III

SEED TIME:

I. THE SEED

II. THE FIRST LESSON

III. AN IMPERSONAL DEMONSTRATION

IV. SOMEWHAT MORE PERSONAL

V. A PROJECT AND SOME SIDE-ISSUES

VI. THE SECOND LESSON AND SOME FURTHER SIDE-ISSUES

VII. THE THIRD LESSON, AND A DIGRESSION

VIII. THE THIRD LESSON IS LEARNED

IX. "AND OTHER FELL ON GOOD GROUND"

PART IV

HARVEST

PART I

THE WAY TO THE LAND

I

It came suddenly when it did come, it may be remembered. Every one

knew it was coming, and yet--it was all so impossible, so incredible.

I remember Clive Draycott looking foolishly at his recall telegram in

the club--he had just come home on leave from Egypt--and then

brandishing it in front of my nose.

"My dear old boy," he remarked peevishly, "it's out of the question.

I'm shooting on the 12th."

But he crossed the next day to Boulogne.

It was a Sunday morning, and Folkestone looked just the same as it

always did look. Down by the Pavilion Hotel the usual crowd of Knuts

in very tight trousers and very yellow shoes, with suits most obviously

bought off the peg, wandered about with ladies of striking aspect.

Occasional snatches of conversation, stray gems of wit, scintillated

through the tranquil August air, and came familiarly to the ears of a

party of some half-dozen men who stood by a pile of baggage at the

entrance to the hotel.

"Go hon, Bill; you hare a caution, not 'arf." A shrill girlish giggle,

a playful jerk of the "caution's" arm, a deprecating noise from his

manly lips, which may have been caused by bashfulness at the

compliment, or more probably by the unconsumed portion of the morning

Woodbine, and the couple moved out of hearing.

"I wonder," said a voice from the group, "if we are looking on the

passing of the breed."

He was a tall, thin, spare fellow, the man who spoke; and amongst other

labels on his baggage was one marked Khartoum. His hands were sinewy

and his face was bronzed, while his eyes, brown and deep-set, held in

them the glint of the desert places of the earth: the mark of the

jungle where birds flit through the shadows like bars of glorious

colour; the mark of the swamp where the ague mists lie dank and

stagnant in the rays of the morning sun.

No one answered his remark; it seemed unnecessary, and each was busy

with his own thoughts. What did the next few days hold in store for

the world, for England, for him? The ghastly, haunting fear that

possibly they held nothing for England gnawed at men's hearts. It

would be incredible, inconceivable; but impossible things had happened

before. Many must have felt that fear, but to none can it have been

quite so personal, so hideously personal, as to the officers of the old

Army and the Navy. To them it was as if their own honour were at

stake, and I can see now a man opposite me almost sobbing with the fury

and the shame of it when for a while we thought--the worst. But that

was later.

"Time to go on board, gentlemen."

Almost as beings from another world, they passed through the noisy

throng, so utterly inconsequent, so absolutely ignorant and careless.

One cannot help wondering now just how that throng has answered the

great call; how many lie in nameless graves, with the remnants of Ypres

standing sentinel to their last sleep; how many have fought and cursed

and killed in the mud-holes of the Somme; how many have chosen the

other path, and even though they had no skill and aptitude to recommend

them, are earning now their three and four pounds a week making

munitions. But they _have_ answered the call, that throng and others

like them; they _have_ learned out of the book of life and death; and

perhaps the tall man with the bronzed face might find the answer to his

question could he see England to-day. Only he lies somewhere between

Fletre and Meteren, and beside him are twenty men of his battalion. He

took it in the fighting before the first battle of Ypres . . .

"I call it a bit steep." A man in the Indian Cavalry broke the silence

of the group who were leaning over the side watching the coast fade

away. "In England two days after three years of it, and now here we

are again. But the sun being over the yard-arm--what say you?"

With one last final look at the blue line astern, with one last

involuntary thought--"Is it _au revoir_, or is it good-bye?"--they went

below. The sun was indeed over the yard-arm, and the steward was a

hospitable lad of cosmopolitan instincts. . . .

II

"It is impossible to _guarantee_ a ticket to Marseilles." So the

ticket vendor at Folkestone had informed them, and his pessimism was

justified by future events.

The fun began at the Gare du Nord. From what I have since learned, I

have often wished since that my mission in life had been to drive a

fiacre in Paris during the early days of August '14. A taxi conjures

up visions too wonderful to contemplate; but even with the humble

horse-bus I feel that I should now be able to afford a piano, or

whatever it is the multi-millionaire munition-man buys without a

quiver. I might even get the missus a fur coat.

Every living soul in Paris seemed obsessed with the idea of going

somewhere else; and the chances of the stranger within their gates

approached those of an icicle in Hades, as our friends across the water

would say. Finally, in despair, Draycott rushed into the road and

seized a venerable flea-bitten grey that was ambling along with

Monsieur, Madame, and all the little olive-branches sitting solemnly

inside the cab. He embraced Madame, he embraced the olive-branches;

finally--in despair--I believe he embraced Monsieur. He wept, he

entreated, he implored them to take him to the Gare de Lyon. It was

imperative. He would continue to kiss them without cessation and in

turn, if only they would take him and his belongings to the Gare de

Lyon. He murmured: "Anglais--officier anglais"; he wailed the mystic

word, "Mobilisation." Several people who were watching thought he was

acting for the cinematograph, and applauded loudly; others were

convinced he was mad, and called for the police.

But Monsieur--God bless him!--and Madame--God bless her!--and all the

little olive-branches--God bless them!--decided in his favour; and

having piled two suit-cases and a portmanteau upon that creaking cab,

he plunged into the family circle.

It was very hot; he was very hot; they were very hot; and though

Draycott confesses that he has done that familiar journey between the

two stations in greater comfort, he affirms that never has he done it

with a greater sense of elation and triumph. The boat train to

Marseilles, he reflected complacently; if possible a bath first;

anyway, a sleeper, a comfortable dinner, and----

"Parbleu, M'sieur; la Gare de Lyon c'est fermée." Madame's voice cut

into his reflections.

As in a dream he extricated himself from to-night's supper and three

sticky children, and gazed at the station. They were standing six deep

around the steps--a gesticulating, excited mob; while at the top, by

the iron railings, a cordon of soldiers kept them back. Inside,

between the railings and the station, there was no one save an odd

officer or two who strolled about, smoking and talking.

Mechanically he removed his baggage and dumped it in the road;

mechanically he re-kissed the entire party; he says he even kissed the

flea-bitten grey. Then he sat down on a suit-case and thought.

It was perfectly true: the Gare de Lyon was shut to all civilians; the

first shadow of war had come. As if drawn by a magnet the old men were

there, the men who remembered the last time when the Prussian swine had

stamped their way across the fields of France. Their eyes were bright,

their shoulders thrown back as they glanced appraisingly at the next

generation--their sons who would wipe out Sedan for ever from the pages

of history. There was something grimly pathetic and grimly inspiring

in the presence of those old soldiers: the men who had failed through

no fault of their own.

"Not again," they seemed to say; "for God's sake, not a second time.

This time--Victory. Wipe it out--that stain."

They had failed, true; but there were others who would succeed; and it

was their presence that made one feel the unconquerable spirit of

France.

III

The French officer in charge was polite, but firmly non-committal.

"There is a train which will leave here about midnight, we hope. If

you can get a seat on it--well and good. If not----" he shrugged his

shoulders superbly, and the conversation closed.

It was a troop train apparently, and in the course of time it would

arrive at Marseilles--perhaps. It would not be comfortable. "Mais,

que voulez-vous, M'sieur? c'est la guerre."

At first he had not been genial; but when he had grasped the fact that

mufti invariably cloaked the British officer, _en permission_, he had

become more friendly.

He advised dinner; in these days, as he truly remarked, one never

knows. Also, what was England going to do?

"Fight," Draycott answered promptly, with an assurance he did not feel.

"Fight, mon Colonel; ça va sans dire."

"C'est bien," he murmured, and stood up. "Vive l'Angleterre." Gravely

he saluted, and Draycott took off his hat.

"Mon Colonel, vive la France." They shook hands; and having once again

solemnly saluted one another, he took the Frenchman's advice and went

in search of dinner.

In the restaurant itself everything seemed normal. To the close

observer there was possibly an undue proportion of women who did not

eat, but who watched with hungry, loving eyes the men who were with

them. Now and again one would look round, and in her face was the

pitiful look of the hunted animal; then _he_ would speak, and with a

smile on her lips and a jest on her tongue she would cover a heart that

seemed like to burst with the agony of it. Inexorably the clock moved

on: the finger of fate that was to take him from her. They had

quarrelled, _sans doute_--who has not? there had been days when they

had not spoken. He had not been to her all that he might have been,

but . . . But--he was her man.

And now he was going; in half an hour her Pierre was going to leave

her. For him the bustle and glamour of the unknown; for her--the empty

chair, the lonely house, and her thoughts. Dear God! but war is a bad

thing for the women who stop behind. . . .

And on Draycott's brain a tableau is stamped indelibly, just a little

tableau he saw that night in the restaurant of the Gare de Lyon. They

came, the three of them, up the flight of steps from the seething

station below, into the peace and quiet of the room, and a roar of

sound swept in with them as the doors swung open. Threading their way

between the tables, they stopped just opposite to where he sat, and

instinctively he turned his head away. For her the half-hour was over,

her Pierre had gone; and it is not given to a man to look on a woman's

grief save with a catching in the throat and a pricking in the eyes.

It is so utterly terrible in its overwhelming agony at the moment, so

absolutely final; one feels so helpless.

The little boy clambered on to a chair and sat watching his mother

gravely; a grey-haired woman with anxious eyes held one of her hands

clasped tight. And the girl--she was just a girl, that's all--sat

dry-eyed and rigid, staring, staring, while every now and then she

seemed to whisper something through lips that hardly moved.

"Maman," a childish voice piped out. "Maman." He solemnly extended a

small and grubby hand towards her.

Slowly her head came round, her eyes took him in--almost

uncomprehendingly; she saw the childish face, the little dirty hand,

and suddenly there came to her the great gift of the Healer.

"Oh! mon bébé, mon pauv' p'tit bébé!" She picked him up off the chair

and, clutching him in her arms, put her face on his head and sobbed out

her heart.

"Come on." Draycott got up suddenly and turned to the man he was

dining with. "Let's go." They passed close to the table, and the fat

waiter, wiping his eyes on a dinner napkin, and the grey-haired woman

leaning gently over her, were talking in low tones. They seemed

satisfied as they watched the sobbing girl; and they were people of

understanding. "Pauvre petite," muttered the waiter as they passed.

"Mon Dieu! quelle vâche de guerre."

"My God!" said Draycott, as they went down the steps. "I didn't

realise before what war meant to a woman. And we shall never realise

what it means to our own women. We only see them before we go. Never

after."

IV

Half an hour later he encountered Monsieur le Colonel once again, and

suggested that they should split a bottle of wine together if he could

spare the time. It was then nine o'clock, and the three hours till

midnight loomed uninviting. His only hope, as he told him, was that

the train at present standing at the platform was not going to be

typical of the one he was to embark on. It seemed to be of endless

length, and presented a most enticing spectacle. Four fortunates in

each compartment had got the racks, otherwise the passengers stood: on

the footboards, in the corridors, on the seats. If any one opened a

door the pressure was such that at least six people fell on to the

platform, and in one carriage a small _poilu_ was being squeezed

through the open window. In the end he went--suddenly like a cork out

of a bottle, and the human mass closed up behind him.

Draycott laughed, the Colonel laughed, and went on laughing. He

laughed unrestrainedly, even as a man who enjoys a secret jest. At

last, with some difficulty, he controlled his mirth.

"Monsieur," he remarked gravely, but with twinkling eyes, "I fear your

hopes are ill-founded. This is the midnight train."

"Under those circumstances," Draycott murmured, with a ghastly attempt

at mirth, "the wine is off. I must go and secure my sleeping-berth."

Have you ever seen a fly-paper which has come "to the end of a perfect

day"? Lumps of glutinous flies drop off on one's head, and still it

seems as full as ever. It was the same with that train. Lumps of

Frenchmen, permanently welded together, fell out periodically, unstuck

themselves, and departed, only to return in a few moments with the long

thin loaves of France and bottles of wine. Sometimes they got in

again, sometimes they didn't--but they were happy, those poilus. What

matter anything, bar killing the Boche? And that was the only thing in

the air that night. . . .

In every carriage it was the same, until suddenly there came salvation.

A horse-box, with two horses in it and some grooms singing the

Marseillaise, loomed out of the darkness, and into it the fed-up

wanderer hurled his bag. Yet again did he embrace every one, including

the horses; and then, overcome with his labours, he sank into a corner

and laughed. And it was only when they had been under way for two

hours that he remembered his two other bags, sitting alone and forlorn

at the Gare de Lyon. . . .

It was a great journey that. The heat was sweltering, and they stopped

at every station between Paris and Marseilles--generally twice, because

the train was too long for the platform. And at every station the same

programme was repeated. Completely regardless of the infuriated

whistles and toots of the French conductors, absolutely unmindful of

the agonised shouts of "En voiture, en voiture! Montez, messieurs, le

train part," the human freight unloaded itself and made merry. As far

as they were concerned, let the train "part." It never did, and the

immediate necessity was the inner man. But it was all very

nerve-racking.

At times there were forty Frenchmen in the truck, at others none.

Whether they fell off or were pushed Draycott knew not: they simply

occurred--periodically. One man disappeared for five hours, and then

came back again; possibly he was walking to stretch his legs; there was

plenty of time. But to those who travel in trains de luxe, let me

recommend a journey in a cattle-truck, where, if one is lucky, one gets

a front seat, and sits on the floor with legs dangling over the side; a

bottle of wine in one hand, a loaf of bread in the other, and a song

when the spirit is in one. No breathless rushing through space: just a

gentle amble through the ripening corn, with the poppies glinting red

and the purple mountains in the distance; with a three days' growth on

one's chin and an amalgamation of engine soots and dust on one's face

that would give a dust storm off the desert points and a beating. That

is the way to travel, even if the journey lasts from Sunday night to

Tuesday evening, and a horse occasionally stamps on your face. And

even so did Clive Draycott, Captain of "Feet," go to the great

war. . . .

V

Marseilles has always been a town of mystery--the gateway of the East.

Going from it one leaves European civilisation--if such a thing can be

said to exist to-day--and steps into the unknown. Coming to it through

that appalling Gulf of Lyons, beside which the dreaded Bay of Biscay

seems like the proverbial duck-pond, Notre Dame de la Garde holds out a

welcoming hand, and breathes of fast trains and restaurant cars, and

London. It is the town of tongues, the city of nations. It is not

French; it is universal.

And never can Marseilles have been so universal as in the early days of

August 1914. Usually a port of call only, then it was a terminus. The

ships came in, but did not leave: there seemed to be a concensus of

opinion amongst skippers that the _Goeben_ was a nasty thing to meet

alone on a dark night. And so the overcrowded docks filled up with

waiting vessels, while Lascars and Levantine Greeks, Cingalese and

Chinamen, jostled one another in the cafés.

The other jostlers were principally Americans of fabulous wealth: at

least as they thronged the shipping offices they said so. Also they

were very angry, which is where they differed from the Cingalese and

Chinamen, who liked Marseilles and prayed to remain for ever. But the

Americans desired to return to God's own country--they and their wives

and their sons and daughters; moreover, they expressed their desire

fluently and frequently. There is something stupendous about an

American magnate insisting on his rights on a hot day, when he can't

get them. . . . It cheers a man up when he is waiting and

wondering--and England is still silent.

It was just as Draycott had made the unpleasant discovery that no

longer did the weekly boat run from Marseilles to Tunis and thence to

Malta, and was debating on the rival merits of a journey through Italy,

and thence by Syracuse to the island of goats; or a journey through

Spain to Gibraltar, and thence by sea--with luck, that a railway

magnate entered and gave his celebrated rendering of a boiler

explosion. It appeared--when every one had partially recovered--that

he was the proud possessor of ten francs and three sous. He also

admitted to a wife suffering from something with a name that hurt, and

various young railway magnates of both sexes. It transpired that the

ten francs and three sous had been laboriously collected from his

_ménage_ only that morning; that the youngest hopeful had wept

copiously on losing her life's savings; and further, that it was the

limit of his resources. He had letters of credit, or something

dangerous of that sort, to the extent of a few million; he was prepared

to buy the whole one-donkey country by a stroke of the pen, but--in

hard cash--he had ten francs and three sous. . . .

It was pathetic; it was dreadful. An American multi-millionaire, one

of those strange beings of whom one reads, who corner tin-tacks and

things, and ruin or make thousands with a word, reduced to ten francs

and three sous.

For not another cent piece did America's pride obtain; not another sou

to add to the three. Politely, firmly, a harassed clerk shooed him

away. No, he could not tell him when the next boat would sail--perhaps

to-morrow, perhaps in a fortnight. He did not know, and he did not

care how he proposed to live during that period, and he had no

intention of furnishing him with any money to do it with. He had

definite orders from his firm: no cheques cashed under any

circumstances whatever. He was sorry the gentleman didn't like

Marseilles, or war, or France, or him personally; he regretted deeply

that the gentleman's wife liked peaches with every meal, and hoped he'd

manage all right on his ten francs; he---- And then came the

interruption.

They crowded to the door, and watched them coming. Occasionally a

cheer rang out, but for the most part they came in silence, passing

through the ranks of people that lined the road each side. Half way

down the column a band blared forth, and every now and then the Colonel

in front lifted his right hand gravely in a salute. They were small

men, the poilus of that regiment; but they marched well, with a swing,

and the glint of white teeth. Sometimes they waved a greeting to a

girl on the footpath, and she would smile back, or throw them a flower

or a kiss. And like a ripple going down the lines of spectators, men

took off their hats suddenly. The Colours were passing. . . .

Almost dazedly the American took off his hat as the ripple reached him;

then he put it on again and turned to Draycott.

"Hell!" he remarked tersely, "and I've been worry in' over a ten-franc

note. I guess I feel a bit small." He turned and followed the

regiment, with his hands deep in his pockets, and his shoulders squared.

VI

It came through the following afternoon--the news they had been waiting

for; and now for a certain period the curtain of discretion must be

drawn. I gather that Draycott has dim recollections of a stout field

officer endeavouring to stand on a small marble-topped table, with a

glass of beer in each hand. He was making a speech--chiefly in

Hindustani--to the frenzied mob of cheering Frenchmen around him. Then

he came to the point when the best people say "Vive la France!" He

remembered he had a hat on; he remembered he ought to take it off; he

did. The only thing he forgot was the beer. But as he said later when

they sorted him out, it was an old suit, and England didn't declare war

every day. . . .

The following night they left in an ancient old cargo boat, skippered

by the type of man who has since made our mercantile marine the glory

of the world. His job was to get his peculiarly odoriferous cargo home

to his owners as soon as possible; beyond that he either failed or

refused to look. The entire German Navy might have been waiting

outside for all he cared; he merely consumed a little more whisky, and

conducted morning prayers. He would give them no assurance; they went

at their own risk, but, if the boat got there, he would land them at

Gibraltar. And having thought the matter over, and realised that

firstly a journey through Italy might result in their being kept as

prisoners of war; secondly, that a journey through Spain would probably

take a fortnight at least; and thirdly, that any way they could do

neither as they could get no money, Draycott and his friends embarked

with the patent manure, and watched the lights of Marseilles growing

fainter and fainter till they dropped below the horizon astern.

It was an uneventful voyage, and never for one hour after the first day

were they out of sight of land. It was the only concession the skipper

would make for the safety of his boat; and so they jogged along at a

peaceful ten knots and watched the sun set each evening in a blaze of

golden glory over the rocky coast of Spain. For the first time since

leaving England a week before, they were able to think. In the rush to

Paris, in the horse-box to Marseilles, in Marseilles itself, they had

been too busy. Besides, they were outsiders. . . .

Now, England was in it; the thing which they had known in their hearts

was coming, ever since a kindly senior subaltern had first taken it

upon himself to shape their destinies, had actually come. And

bitterest thought of all--_they_ were not there.

"It can't last more than three months." A pessimistic garrison gunner

from Malta, who was playing patience, cheated savagely. "I tell you no

European country could stand it." Undoubtedly the fatuous drivel of

certain writers had influenced even the Army itself. "Peace will be

declared before Christmas. An' I'll have sat on that cursed island,

and whenever I see a ship I'd like to poop at, the searchlight will go

out, an' I'll be bitten by sand flies." He glared morosely at

Draycott; until, suddenly, a dawning look of joy spread over his face.

"It's coming out. I swear it's coming out!"

"You cheated," remarked an onlooker cruelly. "I saw you with my own

eyes."

It was then that he burst into tears. . . .

Shut off as they were from the outside world--the old tramp had no

wireless--they could only wonder, and wait, fuming with impatience.

What had happened? Had the fleets met? Had the wonderful day which

the German Navy was popularly supposed to be living for--had it

arrived? And if it had--what had been the result? They could only

lean over the stern and try and grasp the one monumental fact--war.

And what did it hold in store? . . .

Visions of forlorn hopes, visions of glory, visions of the glamour of

war rose unbidden in their minds. And then, when they had got as far

as that, the smell of that patent manure obtruded itself once again,

and the dreamers of honours to come passed sadly down the gangway to

the Levantine villain who presided over the vermouth and the gin.

Which might be taken as the text for a sermon on things as they are.

In this war it is the patent manure and the vermouth which dominate the

situation as far as the fighters, at any rate, are concerned. The

talkers may think otherwise, may prate of soul-stirring motives, and

great ideals. But for the soldiers, life is a bit too grim and

overpowering for gloss. After a spell they come for their vermouth,

for something to help nerves a trifle jangled, something to give a

contrast to stark reality, and having had it they go back again to the

patent manure; while the onlookers see visions and dream dreams. I

suppose it's a fair division of labour! . . .

VII

It was the distinguished-looking gentleman in blue who came alongside

just after they dropped anchor at the Rock, who brought the glorious

news. He ascended the gangway with great dignity, and disappeared into

some secret place with the skipper. After some delay and a slight

commotion, various flags were hoisted, and he majestically appeared

again. It seemed that the hoisting of the flags had apparently been

successful. Suspicion had been averted by this simple act; there was

no longer any danger of being made a target for enthusiastic gunners.

And, what was more to the point, the distinguished gentleman was now

free to impart his great tidings.

"The German fleet, gentlemen," he remarked genially, "has ceased to

exist."

"Who said so?" asked a doubting voice.

"It is in all the Spanish papers." The Admiral, or whatever he was,

eyed the speaker compassionately. "A great action has taken place in

the North Sea; we have lost nineteen big ships in addition to

destroyers, and the German fleet is wiped out."

"It doesn't seem good enough, does it?" murmured a graceless member of

the group.

"But if it's really authentic?" Draycott turned to him doubtfully.

"And there must be something in it if it's in all the Spanish papers."

"On the contrary," returned the graceless one. "It is precisely that

fact that makes me believe there is nothing in it."

The remark seemed conclusive; and yet so detailed was the information

all over Gib, so definite the lists of vessels sunk on each side, that

even intelligent Scorps--as the inhabitants of the place are

known--were impressed. Strangely enough, exactly the same detailed

lists, with just sufficient difference to make them credible, were in

all the Italian papers at the same time--though this only transpired

later.

At the moment nothing much mattered but the time of the next boat going

East: it was their own little personal future that counted. A naval

battle--yes, perhaps; nineteen ships down--the German fleet as well;

fifty or sixty thousand men--gone, finished, wiped out. And yet it was

the next boat they wanted to know about.

Callous--I think not; merely a total incapability to realise a thing so

stupendous. It has been the same all through the war: the tragedies

have been too big for human minds to grasp. It is the little things

that tell; the isolated thumb-nail impressions that live in one's mind,

and will go with us to the grave. The one huddled form lying

motionless in the shell-hole, with its staring, sightless eyes; the one

small, but supreme sacrifice: that is the thing which hits--hits harder

than the _Lusitania_, or any other of the gigantic panels of the war.

The pin-pricks we feel; the sledge hammer merely stuns. And the danger

is that those who have felt the pin-pricks may confuse them with the

sledge hammer; may lose the right road in the bypaths of personal

emotion. War means so infinitely much to the individual; the

individual means so infinitely little to war. Only it is sometimes

hard to remember that simple fact. . . .

VIII

It was from the top of the Rock that they watched their evil-smelling

boat depart, to plug on northward up the home trail, unperturbed by

naval battles or rumours thereof. And it was from the top of the Rock

they first saw the smoke of the P. and O., outward bound, on which they

were destined to complete the journey. Below lay the bay, dotted with

German and Austrian ships caught on the high seas at the outbreak of

war; a destroyer was going half-speed towards the Atlantic; a cruiser

lay in dock, her funnels smoking placidly. Out towards Algeciras an

American battleship, with her peculiar steel trellis turrets, was

weighing anchor; and in the distance, across the Straits, Africa,

rugged and inhospitable, shimmered in the heat haze of an August day.

"So long." The gunner subaltern waved a weary hand from his point of

vantage, where he was inspecting life with a telescope. "There's your

barge, but she won't leave till to-morrow. If this goes on for much

longer, my nerves will give way under the strain. The excitement is

too great."

It appears that Draycott had forebodings even before he got on board

that P. and O. Since then she has become almost historic amongst those

of the Regular Army whose abode at the beginning of the war was

overseas. Save for the fact that no one was playing the harmonium, or

any other musical instrument, the appearance of her decks as they came

alongside was reminiscent of one of those delightful pleasure steamers

on which one may journey, at comparatively small cost, up and down the

Thames. A seething mob of people, almost exclusively composed of the

male sex, glared furiously at them and one another--but principally at

them--as they came up the gangway, and departed in search of the

purser. All the stairs down to the dining saloon were occupied by

morose passengers, and an enlivening altercation was in progress

between two elderly gentlemen of ferocious aspect anent the remnants of

what had once been a cushion. A mild-looking being, closely clutching

a tired deck-chair, was descending to the dining saloon, where

infuriated men were loudly thumping the tables.

"Good heavens, gentlemen! what do you want?" A haggard purser peered

at them from his office. "Berths!" He broke into a shout of maniacal

laughter, and then pulled himself together. "The fourteenth stair

leading to the engine-room is not taken, but there's an exhaust pipe

passes under it, and it becomes too hot to sit on. There is room for

two in a coal bunker which should be empty by to-night; otherwise, the

hold, if you can find room."

"But what's all the trouble," they queried peevishly. "Surely----"

"Trouble!" The purser swallowed hard. "We have on board eighty-four

generals, two hundred and twenty colonels, and one thousand eight

hundred and ninety-one what-nots of junior rank. They have all been

recalled from leave; they have all come by this boat. The eighteenth

breakfast is now being served--perhaps." With a dreadful cry he seized

the brandy bottle, while they faded slowly and sadly away. There are

things too terrible for contemplation. . . .

It was a wonderful trip--that final stage to the Half Way House of

Malta. There was the dreadful incident of the short-sighted subaltern

who got into a full Colonel's bed by mistake, when that worthy officer

had just gone down on four no trumps redoubled. In vain to point out

the similarity of engine-room gratings--in vain to plead short sight.

The subsequent scene lingered in the memory for days.

There was the case of the sleep walker, who got loose in the hold, and

ambled heavily over four hundred infuriated human sardines, till he

finally fell prostrate into what was apparently the abode of spare

china.

Last but not least there was the dreadful Case of the Major-General's

Bath. Of this Draycott speaks first hand; he, personally, was an

awe-struck spectator. Now the question of baths on that boat was not

one to be trifled with. The queue for the pit of a popular play was as

nothing to the procession that advanced to the bath in the morning.

And the least penalty for sharp practice with regard to one's turn was

death.

Into the bathroom, then, prepared for him by a perspiring Lascar, the

Major-General stepped. At the time Draycott did not know he was a

Major-General: he was just a supreme being resplendent in a green silk

dressing-gown. The door closed, only to open again at once.

"I have forgotten my sponge," he announced. "I shall not be a moment."

He gazed directly at Draycott, who bowed, choking slightly. It was

inconceivable to imagine that the resplendent one thought he might--to

put it in the vulgar tongue--pinch his bath. By nature he was a

timorous individual, and that green dressing-gown--ye gods! perish the

thought.

It was while he waited humbly that the catastrophe occurred. Advancing

magnificently came a second being, still more resplendent, in a purple

dressing-gown; and he was complete, with towel, sponge, and soap. His

eye would have impaled a London taxi-driver, and, scenting trouble, the

Lascar made himself scarce.

"It is preposterous to keep people waiting in this manner," he boomed;

"perfectly monstrous." The next moment the door was shut and bolted,

and Draycott followed the Lascar's example--just in time: green

dressing-gown was returning with his sponge. In official parlance, a

general action seemed imminent. . . .

It opened with the crash of heavy artillery in the shape of strange and

loud expletives of an Indian nature, to be followed immediately by an

attack in force on the hostile position. This resulted in a sanguinary

repulse, and the attacking party hopped round, apparently in pain,

nursing a stubbed toe. The temporary set-back, however, seemed only to

raise the _morale_ of the force; and after a further heavy bombardment

of a similar nature to the one before, a succession of blows were

delivered in rapid succession at all points along the front, which

suddenly gave way and the victor was precipitated in some confusion,

but triumphant, upon the floor of the captured position.

How true it is, that great utterance of our hand-books on war! "Every

leader must bear in mind the necessity of immediately consolidating a

newly won position, in order to resist the counter-attack of the enemy,

which sooner or later is bound to be launched."

In this case it was distinctly sooner. With a loud shout the defending

troops arose from a recumbent position--to wit, the bath--and with

deadly accuracy launched the contents of a large bucket of hot water

upon the still prostrate foe.

"What is the meaning of this monstrous intrusion?" The battle cry of

the purples rang through the quivering air.

"You s'scoundrel! you impudent s'scoundrel!"

With a loud spluttering noise the greens got up and assumed a

belligerent attitude. "You m'miserable villain! that is _my_ bath.

How d'dare you--how d'dare you--throw w'water over me. D'do you know

what I am, sir? I am a Major-General, sir, and I shall report your

infamous c'conduct to the captain."

"And I, sir," howled his opponent, "will have you put in irons; I will

have you chained to the crow's-nest, if they have one on board.

Keel-hauled, sir, amongst the barnacles and things. I, sir, I am a

Lieutenant-General."

Draycott was still slightly dazed when he landed in Malta.

IX

Thus did he reach the Half Way House on his journey to the Land; and at

that Half Way House he was destined to remain for a short space. It

may be that there is a harder school than forced inaction; if so, I

have no desire to become a pupil. "Those are your orders; there is

nothing more to be said." Only too true; there _is_ nothing more to be

said--but thinking is a different matter. . . .

And what brush can paint the indescribable longing of those who were

fitted for it, who were trained in its ways, to get to their goal--to

get to the Land of Promise. For it was a Land of Promise; it was the

land of the regular soldier's dreams. And in those days there was no

thought of the dream becoming a nightmare. . . .

So Clive Draycott and those with him, in that little rocky outpost of

Empire, carried on as cheerfully as a wet sirocco wind and an

ever-present heart-burning to be in France would allow, and waited for

deliverance.

Perhaps they suffered more acutely than even those who were in the

Great Retreat. Out of it, as they thought, out of it. Would they ever

be able to hold up their heads again?

And then the worst thing of all: that awful day when the news came

through--the news which England got one Sunday. Fellows kept it from

the men as far as they could; they covered up places on the map with

their hand, unostentatiously; and when they had found Compiègne they

folded the map up, and told the men everything was well. It was that

evening that Draycott and a pal watched the sun go down over Gozo from

St. Paul's Bay, where the statue stands in the sea, and the shallow

blue water ripples against the white sandstone.

"My God! it can't be true!" His companion turned to him, and his eyes

were tired. "It can't be true. We're b----" And his lips would not

frame the word.

Only, in their hearts they knew it was true; and in their hearts a

dreadful hopelessness wormed its bitter way. But crushing it down

there was another feeling--stronger and more powerful. England _could_

not be beaten, _would_ not be beaten; the thing was impossible,

unbelievable. Triumphant it arose, that great certainty. It arose

then, and has never died since, though at times the sky has been black

and the storm clouds ominous. They knew that all would be well; and

now--after three years--all is well. Their faith has been justified,

the faith of the men who waited their call to the work. Only a small

proportion remain to see that justification with their own eyes; the

Land has claimed the rest. Ypres, the Marne, Neuve Chapelle,

Festubert--names well-nigh forgotten in the greater battles of

to-day--in each and all of them the seed of "a contemptible little

Army" has been sown. Thus it was ordained in the Book of Fate.

But at the moment there were just two men, sick of heart, watching the

sun, in a blaze of golden glory, setting over Gozo. . . .

X

Draycott's deliverance from the Half Way House came in three or four

weeks. With the men swarming in the rigging, and the Territorials who

had come to replace them cheering from the shore, the transport moved

slowly down the Grand Harbour past the French and British warships that

lay at anchor. It would indeed be pleasing to record the fact that the

departing warriors sang patriotic songs concerning their country's

greatness; and that the officers with a few well-chosen words improved

the shining hour, and pointed the moral of the great Entente with

special reference to the warships around them. But being a

truthful--or, shall we say, comparatively truthful--historian, I regret

that it cannot be done.

Such songs as did rise above the medley of catcalls and gibes of a dark

nature which passed in playful badinage between the sister services

were of a nature exclusively frivolous; and the conversation of such

officers as were not consuming the midday cocktail consisted entirely

of a great thankfulness that they had seen the last of an abominable

island, and a fervent prayer that they would never see it again.

The relief of it--the blessed relief! They would be in time for the

end of the show any way, which was something. They were not going to

miss it all; they would be able to look their pals in the face after it

was over. A few, it is true, shook their heads and communed together

in secret places: a paltry few, who looked serious, and spoke of a long

war and a bloody war such as had never been thought of. Avaunt

pessimism! war was war, and a damned good show at the best of times for

those who were trained to its ways. The Germans had asked for it for

years, and now they had got it--and serve 'em right. A good sporting

show, and with any luck they would get the fag end of the hunting at

home after peace was declared.

Thus it was, nearly three years ago; thus it has been, with slight

modifications, ever since. A nation of sportsmen going merrily forth,

with the ideal of sport as their guide, to fight a nation of swine,

with the ideal of fouling as theirs. And so the world wags on in its

funny old way, while the gods laugh, and laugh, and laugh. . . .

XI

On the boat Draycott hardly realised. For the first week of the three

he spent in England he hardly realised--he was too excited. He was

going out; that was all that mattered; until one morning his eyes were

opened to his personal case. It is easy to see things where others are

concerned; but in one's own case. . . .

He was at home on three days' leave, and the girl was there too.

"Good Lord!" he remarked at breakfast; "Jerry Thornton gone too." His

eye was running down the casualty list. "Whole battalion must have

taken it in the neck--five officers killed, fourteen wounded. I wish

to heaven----" He looked up, and the words died away on his lips.

"I didn't realise what war meant to women." His remarks at the Gare de

Lyon hit him like a blow. For he had seen the look in the girl's eyes;

he had seen the look in his mother's. Blotted out at once, it is true;

effaced the instant they had realised he was watching them; but--too

late. He had seen.

"Was that Major Thornton, dear?" His mother was speaking. "The one

who shot so well?" Her voice was casual; her acting superb. And God!

how they can act--these women of ours.

For a moment something stuck in his throat. He saw just such another

breakfast room, with a woman staring with dull eyes at the laconic name

in the paper: a name which so baldly confirmed the wire she had had

three days before. Stunned, still dazed by the shock, she sat

silently, apathetically; as yet she could hardly feel the blow which

Fate had dealt her. In time perhaps; just now--well, it couldn't be;

there must be some mistake. Other men had died--true; but--not hers.

He was different; there must be some mistake. . . .

For each and every name in that list Clive Draycott of a sudden

realised the same thing was occurring. And then he saw it--personally;

he felt it--personally; he realised that it concerned him--personally.

Those other women had looked, just as had his mother and the girl, a

few weeks ago. Those other women had laughed and joked and asked

casual questions to cover their true feelings, just the same. Those

other women had been through it all and---- "We only see them before

we go--never after." In the theatre, at the restaurant, playing the

fool with us, dancing with us--then we see them; afterwards--when the

train has gone and we are looking out of the window or talking with the

man opposite, then, we do not see them. And it is just as well. "Mon

Dieu! Quelle vâche de guerre." . . .

Something of all this did Draycott feel at that moment; something which

caught him and shook him and mocked him. Something which whispered,

"You ass, you wretched ass! You think it's you who will suffer; you

think it's you who will be acclaimed a hero. Fool! Your sufferings,

your achievements, whether you live or die, are as nothing to those of

these two women. You may wear the cross for a moment's heroism: they

bear it all the time. And they get no praise; they just endure." . . .

Yes; something like that struck him for the first time as being

personally applicable to himself. And having looked thoughtfully out

of the window for a moment, he laughed gently, and then he spoke.

"That's the fellow," he remarked quietly. "An' if the tea ain't cold

I'll take another dish. Three glasses of the old man's port, Dolly, is

enough. I had four last night."

XII

A week later he sat in a mud bath at Havre, which went by the name of a

rest camp; the Way to the Land was nearly trodden. Thousands of others

had sat in that glutinous mud before him; hundreds of thousands were

destined to do so after. And each and all of them were thinking men;

wondering in a greater or less degree according to the size and

activity of their grey matter what it was all about. To some the

Unknown gave the prospect of sport, and they thanked their stars they

were nearly there; to some it gave the prospect of Duty, and they

trusted they would not fail. With some the fear of the future blotted

out their curiosity; with others curiosity left no room for fear. But

in every case they had something to think about--even if it were only

the intense discomfort of their surroundings. And in every case the

woman over the water had--nothing.

By cattle trucks and carriages, by so-called fast trains and unabashed

troop trains they left in batches big and small; and others came and

filled the gaps. The Land was calling; the Seed must not be delayed.

* * * * * *

"You'll have to wait till it's dark." A weary Quartermaster, wandering

through Ypres, met Draycott and stopped. "Thank God! you've come.

We've got three officers left and a hundred and twenty men."

"Where are they?" he demanded. "How shall I find them?"

"Very likely you won't." The other laughed mirthlessly. "I'll take

you up to-night--we walk the last bit to the trenches. If a flare goes

up--stand still; there's no other rule."

"You're about done in, Seymour," said Draycott, watching him keenly.

"What's the trouble?"

"The trouble is Hell." The Quartermaster passed his hand wearily over

his forehead. "Utter, absolute, complete--Hell. The boys have been in

the front line for twenty-one days; and"--he spoke with a sudden

dreadful earnestness--"the end is not far off."

"My God!" muttered Draycott, "is it as bad as that?"

* * * * * *

No trenches, no dug outs, no reserves. Ceaseless German attacks, rain,

mud, death. And then, three or four days of icy coldness, with the

bitter Arctic wind cutting the sodden, tired, breaking men like a

knife. Fighting every hour, with rifles and bayonets and

fists--sleepless, tired out, finished. Only a spirit which made

possible the impossible supported them: only the glory of their

traditions held the breaking line of Old Contemptibles to the end. And

at the end--they died. . . .

But their spirit lives on, undimmed, untarnished. It is the spirit of

the New Armies--the Civilian Armies of Britain. They were training

back in England when Clive Draycott went to the Land: they were

learning the message of the old Regulars from New Zealand to Yukon. It

is not learned in a day--that message: there is much watering and

weeding to do before the seed can reach perfection, but the Land would

not wait. . . . It was greedy then--as now; the only difference was

the amount of grain available. And when Clive Draycott went to it

there was very little. To God Almighty the praise. What there was,

was very good.