The stage directions were equally simple. The curtain rises on a

German raid. Noises off, etc.; the flashes of guns, the bursting of

rum jars, the dazzling brilliance of flares lighting up the lowering

night. On the entrance of the Hun into the trench (if he did), a watch

would be kept on the hole (if any one was there to watch). On the

sound of the first crash of breaking china, no action. On the sound of

the second crash of breaking china, Percy himself (if alive) or a

substitute (if not), would dash forward and cut the string. The

trap-door would fall; and then, having repelled the Hun, they could

return and examine the bag at their leisure. So much for the plot.

Now for the action.

It has always been my contention that Brigadier-General Herbert

Firebrace rather brought it on himself. There are things which

generals may do, and there are things which they may not; or shall we

say, lest I be deemed guilty of _lèse majesté_, things it were better

they did not? All things to them are lawful, but all things most

undoubtedly are not expedient. And no one--not even his most fervent

admirer--could say that the General's action was a wise one. Let it be

understood that when the more exalted ones of the earth desire to make

a tour of trenches, there is a recognised procedure for doing it.

First comes the sergeant of the platoon occupying the portion of the

line under inspection--experience has shown the wisdom of having the

only trustworthy guide in front. Then comes the company commander,

followed by the Colonel, the Staff officer and the Great One.

Immediately behind, the Adjutant (taking notes), the platoon commander

(partially dazed), the machine-gun officer (not essential), and the

Sapper (if he's been caught by the human avalanche) advance in echelon.

At intervals the procession halts, and the same religious rite takes

place.

SERGEANT (_peering round the next traverse, in voice of fury_): "Don't

drink tea out of yer tin 'at, yer perisher! 'Ere's the General

a-coming."

COLONEL (_prompted by company commander_): "Now from here, sir, we get

a most magnificent field of fire behind--ah--those craters there. I

thought that--where was it we decided?--oh, yes, by--ah--putting a

Lewis gun here . . . er, well, perhaps you'd like to look yourself,

sir."

GREAT ONE: "Yes, very much. Have you got my periscope?" (_Staff

officer produces, and Great One peers through it._) "I quite agree

with you." (_After long inspection_) "You might make a note of it."

STAFF OFFICER: "Just make a note of that, will you?"

ADJUTANT (_makes note_): "Make a note of it, Bill, will you?"

PLATOON COMMANDER (_recovering slightly from stupor_): "Make a note of

what?"

MACHINE-GUN OFFICER: "All right, old boy. It's my pidgeon." (_Sotto

voce to SAPPER_) "I've had a gun there for the last two nights."

(_Aloud to OMNES_) "An excellent place, sir. I'll see to it."

SAPPER (_to M.G.O., with seeming irrelevance_): "Well, when he got to

the house he was told she was having a bath, and----" Procession moves

on, while infuriated sentry on sap duty misses the point of the story.

And that is the right way of touring the trenches.

Unfortunately General Firebrace was a new broom. It was quite

permissible for him to do what he did, but, as I said before, I am

doubtful if it was altogether wise. In a moment of rashness he decided

to go round the trenches alone. As a matter of fact, at the moment of

this resolve the Brigade-Major was out, the evening was fine, and the

General was energetic. Perfect peace reigned over that portion of the

battle area which concerned him, and he was anxious to see that the

arrangement of sentry groups in the various sap-heads met with his

approval. His predecessor, he recalled, had had words with the still

greater ones of the earth anent a couple of small, but nevertheless

regrettable, incidents when men had been removed somewhat forcibly by

the wily Hun from out those same sap-heads. So he settled his steel

helmet firmly on his head, and stepped out of his dug-out into the

communication trench.

Now in that particular part of the line the communication trenches were

long ones, and by the time he reached the front line it was getting

dark. A man of small stature, but withal fiery appearance, General

Herbert Firebrace strode along through the deepening gloom, humming

gently to himself. At first the trenches were fairly populous--he was

in a part of the front line between two groups of craters--and he found

it necessary to bark "Gangway!" continuously. Then he reached his

goal, the saps behind one of the groups--short trenches which stretch

out from the fire trench into No Man's Land and finish on the near lips

of the craters. He grunted with satisfaction as he found the first of

the saps held to his satisfaction. The sentry group were quietly

smoking; the sentry up at the head of the sap was watching fixedly

through his periscope. The rifles and bayonets of the men rested close

at hand, the Mills bombs were conveniently placed on a narrow ledge

under cover.

"Ha, good! All quiet here, my lads?"

"All quiet, sir," answered the corporal, scrambling up.

"That's all right. Good night, corporal." And the martial little

figure disappeared round the corner.

Now the corporal was new in that bit of the line; to be exact, he had

just returned from leave. That was one cause.

"Look out--oil-can!" The sentry gave a hail, and every one ducked.

That was the other cause.

For at the precise moment that an oil-can exploded with a thunderous

crump twenty yards or so beyond the trench, there was a sudden noise of

ripping canvas, an agonised shout, and the heavy crash of a body

encountering china. Then--silence. The sap parties heard only the

oil-can; Percy FitzPercy for a wonder was not brooding over his

invention, and there was no one who knew that close beside them in an

odoriferous underground abode the Brigadier-General lay completely

stunned, with his head in a metal soup tureen and his rather extensive

set of uppers in a disused tin hitherto devoted to that painstaking

gentleman, Mr. Maconochie.

Up to this point it will be willingly conceded, I think, by any one

acquainted with trench etiquette that the unfortunate predicament of

Herbert Firebrace, General and Great One, was only what he deserved.

To depart so flagrantly from the spirit of the rules as to wander round

front-line trenches alone and in the falling shades of night is asking

for trouble; and if the matter had ended there I have no doubt--knowing

the strict sense of justice which is one of the praiseworthy features

of the house of Firebrace--I have no doubt that he would have sent for

Percy FitzPercy and apologised handsomely for the inconvenience he had

so unwittingly caused. But the matter did not end there; it only

began. And the finale, reviewed dispassionately, undoubtedly gives one

to think--one might even say think furiously.

A quarter of an hour after the regrettable occurrence just described

Percy stood chatting lightly and inconsequently with his company

commander in the support line. At the moment he was expatiating on the

merits of a new pipe of his own invention designed for use in No Man's

Land on a dark night. Its exact beauties escape my memory; as far as I

can remember one put the bowl in one's mouth and the tobacco in the

stem and blew. It was an invention typical of Percy--utterly futile.

He had just called the company commander "dear old soul" for the tenth

time, and was explaining how no sparks or glowing ash could be seen if

you made use of this patent atrocity, when a Lewis gun started rattling

away in front. Half a dozen Verey lights shot up, there was a sudden

brisk burst of firing, with the explosion of a number of bombs.

"By Jove!" cried Percy, pipe and all else forgotten. "By Jove, dear

old man--a raid--what? A Hun raid--now for the man-trap!" He departed

at speed up the nearest boyau, leaving a trail of sparks behind him

like a catherine-wheel that has been out in the rain; to be followed by

his Captain, who had first taken the precaution of loading his

automatic.

The first man Percy met was the tooth-sucker, who was shaking with

uncontrollable excitement.

"There's a perisher fell in the 'ole, sir! Three of 'em come in, and

we killed two an' the other fell in the 'ole."

I am given to understand that on receipt of the news what little

intellect our pipe-inventor ever possessed completely deserted him.

Uttering hoarse cries, he dashed down the trench, and, unmindful of his

own orders to wait on the chance of catching a second, he feverishly

slashed at the string, and with an ominous clang and a squelch of mud

the trap-door descended into its appointed position. Certain it is,

when the company commander came in sight, he was standing upon it, in

an attitude strongly reminiscent of the heavy tragedian--out of a

"shop"--holding forth in his favourite Bodega.

"What the blazes are you doing there?" howled his infuriated Captain.

"Why aren't you in number eight sap, instead of doing a dumb-crambo

show?"

"The raid is over, sir," answered Percy, majestically. "The raider

is--ah--below."

"What the----" began the frenzied senior. And then he paused. "Great

Scott! What's that infernal shindy?"

From below their feet there rose a perfect orgy of breaking china and

rattling tins, with ever and anon a loud musical note as of a bucket

being belaboured with a stick. Grunts and guttural curses, followed by

strange hollow noises indicative of pain, for a while drowned all

attempts at conversation. Finally there was a grand finale of crashing

cups and tinkling tins, the sound of a heavy blow, a grunt of muffled

agony and--silence. The lights still hissed up into the night, stray

rifles still cracked at intervals, but otherwise--silence.

At last Percy spoke. "Do you know, dear old boy, I believe there are

two of them down there; 'pon my soul, I do--what?" He spoke with

deliberation, as befits an inventor. "It seemed to me that the one who

swore and the one who grunted were different people."

The tooth-sucker opined likewise; also Tomkins, who had arrived on the

scene.

"What is this dam foolishness?" said the Captain irritably. "Am I to

understand there are two Germans inside there, under the trench?"

"One for certain; two possibly--or even three, dear old boy." At the

thought of three, he of the teeth played a tune in his excitement.

"Then for heaven's sake get the top off and let's get them out!"

It was then that the last cruel blow of Fate was dealt to the hapless

Herbert. For after a brief period of feverish pulling, during which

the company commander broke his nails and Percy fell over backwards,

the trap-door remained _in statu quo_.

"What the devil's the matter with the beastly thing?" muttered the

Captain, savagely. "It's your fool-trick, FitzPercy! Can't you open

it?"

"My dear old boy," remarked the proud inventor vaguely, "it generally

opens--'pon my soul, it does." He turned his torch on to the reluctant

trench-board and examined it through his eyeglass. "By Jove! that's

it, dear old son, there's the trouble. The dud shell has slipped

forward and got wedged in the rafters. How doocid funny--what?"

"What is doocid funny, you blithering ass?"

"Why, if we'd gone on, dear old sport, the shell might have gone off.

By Jove, that's good, that is!" Percy chuckled immoderately. "If we go

on, the shell goes off!"

"You're the type of man who ought to be in a home," remarked his senior

officer dispassionately. "Get a saw as soon as you can, and cut

through the board. And if the bally shell goes off and kills you,

it'll serve you right. You're a disease, FitzPercy, that's what you

are. A walking microbe; an example of atavism; a throw-back to the

tail period." Still muttering, his company commander passed out of

sight, leaving the triumphant Percy completely unabashed and glowing

with righteous success.

Now, in the trenches saws do not grow freely. You cannot wander round

a corner and pick one up; in fact, a saw that will saw is an exceeding

precious thing. Moreover, they are closely guarded by their rightful

owners, who show great reluctance in parting with them. It therefore

was not surprising that over an hour elapsed before a perspiring

messenger returned with one and operations commenced. And during that

hour Percy lived.

It is given to few to see their hopes and aspirations realised so

beautifully and quickly; as in a dream he listened to the hideous

cachinnations that floated up through the slabs of the trench-board. A

continuous booming noise as of a bittern calling to its young was

varied with heavy grunts and occasional blows of a heavy bludgeon on

metal. And throughout it all there ran a delicate motif of crashing

cups and tinkling tins.

"We have them, dear old soul," murmured Percy ecstatically to himself;

"we have them simply wallowing in the mulligatawny!"

But there is an end of everything--even of getting a saw out of an R.E.

store. A glorious full moon shone down upon the scene as, an hour

afterwards, the trench-board was removed and the entrance opened. An

"up-and-over"--or trench-ladder--was lowered into the dug-out, and the

excited onlookers waited to vet the catch. At last the ladder shook,

as the first of the prisoners prepared to ascend.

"Entrance, dear old man," cried the stage-manager, majestically, "of

what we have hitherto described as 'male voices off.'"

"Get up, you swine, and get a move on!" rasped a voice in perfect

English from the depths of the hole; while a palsied silence settled on

the audience.

The ladder shook again, and at last there emerged from the bottom of

the trench a large round tin which completely encased the head of its

wearer, who slowly followed, maintaining a continuous booming roar.

Immediately behind him came the owner of the voice, severely chipped

about the face, but with the light of battle in his eyes.

"Now, you----" The words died away in his mouth. "Great heavens! The

General!" And as the frozen eye of the speaker, who had been the other

occupant of the hole, wandered round the stricken onlookers, even

Percy's nerve broke. It was the Colonel.

I will draw the veil of reticence over the remainder of this harrowing

narrative. The procession back to Brigade Head-quarters has become

historic. The attempt to remove the soup tureen on the spot caused its

unhappy possessor such agony, and gave rise to so much unseemly and

ill-repressed mirth on the part of the audience, that it was hastily

abandoned, and the wretched man was led gently back to his dug-out.

The Brigade-Major, who had been notified over the telephone, met him at

the entrance with a handkerchief suspiciously near his mouth.

"How dreadful, sir!" he murmured, in a voice that shook a little. "I

have--er--sent for a tin-opener."

The General was led to a chair, into which he sank wearily, while in

hushed tones the Colonel explained what had happened to the shaking

Staff.

"I was told that the General had been seen going down to the front line

alone," he remarked in a low tone, "and so I at once followed him.

Just as I got to the craters there was a small Hun raid. I let drive

at one of them with my revolver, and the next instant I fell through a

hole, full on top of some one's back. He let out a roar of pain and

scrambled up. Of course I thought it was a Hun, and proceeded to beat

him over the head with my stick. Great Scott, what a show!"

The Colonel mopped his brow, and the Staff shook still more.

"I'd dropped my revolver, or I'd probably have shot him. Then suddenly

there was a clang, and the hole was closed up, while at the same moment

something charged past me, head down, and hit the wall. There was a

roar of pain, and the tin became a fixture. The poor old boy had

rammed the wall with the soup tureen."

A gurgling noise from the chair interrupted him.

"What is it, sir?" cried the Staff Captain, solicitously.

The General hooted mournfully.

"Yes, sir. He'll be here very soon, sir. Not much longer now. We've

sent for a tinsmith from one of the Engineer companies."

But the booming cantata continued.

"What does he want?" whispered the Staff Captain. "A drink?"

The Brigade-Major looked hopeful.

"Yes; get a whisky and soda and a straw, if there's one left."

The booming died away.

A few minutes later the Staff, ably assisted by the General's batman,

got one end of the straw into the worthy Brigadier's mouth. The

Colonel closed those holes he could see with his fingers, and the

signalling officer held the drink.

"Now, are we ready?" cried the Brigade-Major anxiously. "All right,

sir--suck."

The experiment was not a success. Jets of liquid spurted in all

directions, an explosion like a geyser shook the tin, and the Staff

recoiled a pace. In fact, I am given to understand that the chief

clerk, an intensely interested spectator, so far forgot himself as to

counsel the Staff Captain to "sit on 'is 'ead."

"Do you think we could do anything with one of those instruments for

opening tongues?" hazarded the Staff Captain, when the silence had

become oppressive and the outbursts of fire extinguished.

"We might try." The signalling officer was doubtful, but sallied

forth, and after some delay returned with one. "Where shall we start?"

"Any old place." The Staff Captain gripped the implement and stepped

manfully forward. "We're going to try something else, sir--a

tongue-opener."

The General hooted apathetically; the onlookers looked anxious, and the

Staff Captain got his first grip on the tin.

"Hold the General's head, Bill," he cried to the Brigade-Major, "so

that I can get a purchase. Now, then--one--two----"

A howl of agony rent the air, and even the chief clerk looked pensive.

"It's his ear, you fool!" The Colonel dodged rapidly out of the door

to evade the human tornado within, and the situation became crucial.

Even the tinsmith, who arrived at that moment, a man of phlegmatic

disposition, was moved out of his habitual calm and applauded loudly.

"Thank heavens you've come!" gasped the Brigade-Major, keeping a wary

eye fixed on his frenzied senior, who, surrounded with _débris_ and red

ink, was now endeavouring to pull the tin off with his hands. "The

General has had a slight mishap. Can you remove that tin from his

head?"

The expert contemplated his victim in silence for a few moments.

"Yus," he remarked at length, "I can, sir, if 'e keeps quite still.

But I won't be answerable for the consequences if 'e don't."

"No more will I." The Brigade-Major mopped his brow. "For heaven's

sake get on with it."

Thus ended the episode of Percy FitzPercy--his man-trap.

It might have happened to any one, but only FitzPercy would have

searched carefully amongst the crockery, and having found what he was

looking for made a point of bringing it to head-quarters just as the

tin was finally removed.

To emerge into the light of two candles and an electric torch with a

bit of one ear and half a face deficient, and realise that the man

responsible for it is offering you your uppers in three parts and some

fragments, is a situation too dreadful to contemplate.

As I said before, Percy gave up trying after about ten seconds.

IV

A POINT OF DETAIL

"Hist!" The officer gripped the sergeant's arm just above the elbow,

bringing his mouth close up to his ear. "Don't move." The words were

hardly breathed, so low was the tense, sudden whisper, and the two men

crouched motionless, peering into the darkness which enveloped them.

"Where, sir?" The sergeant slowly twisted his head till it was almost

touching that of the man beside him; and he too, whose normal voice

resembled a human fog horn, scarcely did more than frame the words with

his lips.

"Behind that mound of chalk. Several of them." The sergeant's eyes

followed the line of the outstretched hand until they picked up the

dark menacing lump in the ground twenty feet away. Sombre, grim,

apparently lifeless, outlined against the night sky--it appeared almost

monstrous in size to the men who lay on the edge of a shell hole, with

every nerve alert. A bullet spat over them viciously, but they did not

alter their position--they knew they were not the target; and from

their own lines came the sudden clang of a shovel. All around them the

night was full of vague, indefinable noises; instinctively a man,

brought suddenly into such a place and ignorant of his whereabouts,

would have known that there were men all around him: men whom he could

not see, men who flitted through the shadows bent on mysterious tasks,

men who moved silently, with eyes strained to pierce the darkness.

Behind the German lines a trench tramway was in use; the metallic

rumble of the trolleys on the iron rails came continuously from the

distance. And suddenly from close at hand a man laughed. . . .

"Do you see them?" Once again the officer was whispering, while he

still grasped, almost unconsciously, the sergeant's arm.

"There--there! Look!"

Two or three shadowy blobs seemed to move uncertainly above the edge of

the chalk mound and then disappear again; and a moment afterwards, from

almost on top of them, came a hoarse guttural whisper. The officer's

grip tightened convulsively; the night of a sudden seemed alive with

men close to them--pressing around them. Almost involuntarily he got

up and moved back a few steps, still peering, straining to see in the

inky blackness. Something loomed up and bumped into him, only to

recoil with a muttered oath; and even as he realised it was a German he

heard his sergeant's low voice from a few feet away. "Where are you,

sir? Where are you?" The next moment he was back at his side.

"Get back your own way," he whispered; "we've bumped a big patrol.

Don't fire." And as he spoke, with a slight hiss a flare shot up into

the night.

Now had it not been for that one untimely flare this story would never

have been written. Indecent curiosity in other wanderers' doings in No

Man's Land is an unprofitable amusement; while the sound of strafing,

to say nothing of revolver shots, is calculated to produce a tornado of

fire from all directions, administered impartially by friend and foe

alike. Wherefore it is more than likely that but for the sudden

ghostly light both the Englishmen would have got away. As it was, John

Brinton, M.C., Lieutenant in His Majesty's Regiment of the Royal

Loamshires, found himself crouching in a slight dip in the ground and

contemplating from a range of four feet no less than six Huns similarly

engaged. There was the sharp crack of a revolver, a struggle, a

muffled cry; then silence. Half a dozen more flares went up from each

line; everywhere sentries peered earnestly towards the sound of the

shot; a few desultory rifles cracked, and then the night resumed its

whispering mystery. But at the bottom of the dip five Huns lay on the

top of a stunned English officer; while the sixth lay still and

twisted, with a revolver bullet in his brain.

Twenty minutes afterwards the sergeant, crawling warily on his belly,

approached a saphead and after a brief word or two dropped in.

"'Ave you seen Mr. Brinton, sir," he asked anxiously of an officer whom

he found in the sap, pessimistically smoking a cigarette--saps are

pessimistic places.

"No." The officer looked up quickly. "He was out with you, wasn't he,

Sergeant Dawson?"

"Yes, sir--on patrol. We'd just a-got to that there chalk 'ummock,

when we ran into some of 'em. 'E said to me--'Get back,' 'e said,

'your own way,' and then they put up a flare. I couldn't see 'im as I

was lying doggo in a 'ole, but I 'eard a revolver shot about ten yards

away. I looked round when the flare was out, but couldn't see him, nor

'ear him. So I thought 'e might 'ave got back."

"Pass the word along for Mr. Brinton." The officer went out of the sap

into the fire trench. "And get a move on with it." He stood for a few

moments, looking thoughtful. "I hope," he muttered to himself, "I hope

the old boy hasn't been scuppered."

But--the old boy _had_ been scuppered. A runner failed to discover him

in the trench; two strong patrols scoured the ground around the chalk

'ummock and drew blank. And so, in the fullness of time there appeared

in the Roll of Honour the name of Lieut. John Brinton, of the Royal

Loamshires, under the laconic heading of Missing, believed Prisoner of

War, which is the prologue of this tale of the coalfields of France.

The part of the line in which the Royal Loamshires found themselves at

the time of the unfortunate matter of John Brinton, M.C., was somewhere

south of La Bassée and somewhere north of Loos--closer identification

is undesirable. It is not a pleasant part of the line, though there

are many worse. The principal bugbears of one's existence are the

tunnelling companies, who without cessation practise their nefarious

trade, thereby causing alarm and despondency to all concerned.

Doubtless they mean well, but their habit of exploding large quantities

of ammonal at uncertain hours and places does not endear them to the

frenzied onlookers, who spend the next hour plucking boulders from

their eyes. In addition, there is the matter of sandbags. The

proximity of a mine shaft is invariably indicated by a young mountain

of these useful and hygienic articles, which tower and spread and

expand in every direction where they are most inconvenient. I admit

that, having placed half the interior of France in bags, the disposal

of the same on arriving in the light of day presents difficulties. I

admit that the fault lies entirely with the harassed and long-suffering

gentleman who boasts the proud title of "spoil's officer." I admit----

But I grow warm, in addition to digressing unpardonably. The trouble

is that I always do grow warm, and digress at the mention of sandbags.

In part of the Loamshires' front line, mining activity was great. A

continuous group of craters stretched along No Man's Land, separating

them from the wily Hun, for half the battalion front--a group which we

will call Outpost. The name is wrong, but it will serve. To the near

lips of each crater a sap ran out from the front line, so that merely

the great yawning hole lay between the saphead and the corresponding

abode of the Germans on the other lip. Each night these sapheads were

held by a small group of men armed with Verey lights, bombs,

bowie-knives, and other impedimenta of destruction; while between the

saps the trench was held but lightly--in some cases, not at all. The

idea of concentrating men in the front line has long been given up by

both sides.

If therefore one strolls along the firing line--a tedious amusement at

all times--it is more than likely that one will find long stretches

completely deserted. The scene is desolate; the walk is strangely

eerie. Walls of sandbags tower on each side, in some cases two or

three feet above one's head; the clouds go scudding by, while the

shadows of a traverse dance fantastically as a flare comes hissing

down. The Hun is thirty yards away; the silence is absolute; the place

is ghostly with the phantoms of forgotten men. And sometimes, as one

walks, strange fancies creep into one's brain. Relics of childish

fears, memories of the bogey man who waited round the end of the dark

passage at home, come faintly from the past. And foolish though it be,

one wonders sometimes with a sharp, clutching pang of nervous

fear--What is round the next corner?

Nothing--of course not. What should there be? The night is quiet; the

trench is English. The next party is forty yards farther on; the

voices of the last still come softly through the air. And yet--and

yet----! But I digress again.

Now not one of the least of all the crimes of those responsible for the

disposal of the underworld of France, when it comes to the surface in

sandbags, is the following. (Lest any one may think that I am writing

a text-book, I would crave patience.) Be it known, then, that to keep

out a bullet some four feet of earth are necessary. Less than that and

the bullet will come through and impinge with great violence on the

warrior behind. This fact is well known to all whose path in life

leads them to the trenches; but for all that Tommy is a feckless lad.

In some ways he bears a marked resemblance to that sagacious bird, the

ostrich; and because of that resemblance, I have remarked on this

question of disposing sandbags in terms of pain and grief. The easiest

thing to do with a sandbag in a trench, if you don't want it, is to

chuck it out. Human nature being what it is, the distance chucked is

reduced to a minimum--in other words, it is placed on the edge of the

parapet. More follow--and they are placed beside it on the edge of the

parapet; which causes the inside edge of the parapet to increase in

height, but not in thickness. In other words, after a while the top

two or three layers of bags, though looking perfectly safe from the

inside, are not bullet proof. Which Tommy knows--but . . . well, I

have mentioned the ostrich.

Now this state of affairs existed in one or two places behind Outpost

craters. There were spots where the top of the parapet was not of

sufficient thickness to keep out a rifle bullet. And it was just by

one of these spots that the Company Commander, going round one night,

suddenly stumbled on something that lay sprawling at the bottom of the

trench--an unmistakable something. It lay half on the fire step and

half off, midway between two saps, and the head sagged back helplessly.

He switched on his torch, and having looked at the huddled form, cursed

softly under his breath. For it was his senior subaltern, and a bullet

had entered his head from behind just above the neck. It had come out

at his forehead, and we will not specify further.

"Stretcher bearers at once." He went back to the group he had just

left. "Mr. Dixon has been shot through the parapet, farther up."

"Killed, sir?" The N.C.O. in charge was in Dixon's platoon.

"Yes." The Company Officer was laconic. "Brains blown out. It's that

damned parapet--one sandbag thick. What the hell's the use of my

speaking?"

He had had a trying day, and his tone may be excused. "You sit here

and you do nothing. The whole company are a set of cursed lazy

loafers."

Seeing that the men were getting an average of six hours' sleep the

remark was hardly fair, but, as I said, the day had been a trying one

and this had been the last straw. He strode back again to the dead

subaltern, muttering angrily.

"Poor old man," he whispered gently, lifting the legs on to the fire

step and bending over the still form. "Poor old man; you've solved the

Big Mystery by now, anyway." The light of his torch fell on the dead

man's face, and he shuddered slightly: a bullet can do a lot of damage.

Then he climbed on the fire step and looked over the parapet. It was a

place where the spoils party had been particularly busy; and though the

Company Officer was full six foot, he could only just see over the top;

as a fire step it was useless to any one but a giant from a freak show.

"Hullo! what's happened?" A voice behind him made him turn round.

"That you, Dick? Poor little Jerry Dixon been shot through the

parapet--that's what's happened." He got down and stood at the bottom

of the trench beside the second-in-command. "The three top layers

there are only one bag thick." Once again his language became heated.

"Steady, old man," Dick Staunton puffed steadily at his pipe, and

looked at the body lying beside them. "Were you with him when he was

hit?"

"No. Came round visiting the sentries and found him lying there dead."

"Oh!" He switched on his torch and continued smoking in silence.

Suddenly he bent forward and peered closely at the shattered head.

"Give me a hand for a minute. I want to turn the boy over."

Faintly surprised, he did as he was bid.

In silence they turned the body over, and again there was silence while

Staunton carefully examined the spot where the bullet had entered.

"Strange," he muttered to himself after a few moments, "very strange.

Tell me, Joe"--his voice was normal again--"exactly how did you find

him? What position was he in?"

"He was half sitting on the fire step; with his head in the corner and

his legs sprawling in the bottom of the trench."

"Sitting? Then his face was towards you."

"Why, yes. Is there anything peculiar in the fact? He'd probably just

been having a look over the top, and as he turned away to get down he

was hit through the sandbags in the back of the neck. His head was a

bit forward as he was getting down, so the bullet passed through his

head and out of his forehead."

In silence they turned the boy over again and covered his face with a

pocket-handkerchief.

"You're too much of a blooming detective, you know, old man. Much

police work has made thee mad," laughed the Company Commander. "What

else can have happened?"

"I'm no detective, Joe." The other man smiled slightly. "But there

are one or two small points of detail which strike me, though I can

make nothing out of them, I admit. First--his height. He's six inches

shorter than you, and yet you could barely see over the top.

Therefore, what was he doing trying to look over the parapet here of

all places? Secondly, the way he fell. A man killed instantaneously,

and shot through the back of his head, would in all probability pitch

forward on his face. You say his face was towards you, and that he was

sitting in the corner of the traverse." He paused to fill his pipe.

"Go on," said the Company Commander curiously. "You interest me."

"The third point is one on which I admit that I am doubtful. The

bullet wound is clean. Now I am inclined to think--though I don't

know--that a bullet passing through a chalk bag would become jagged,

and would not be travelling straight when it continued its flight.

However, I don't attach much importance to that. And the fourth and

last point is almost too trifling to mention. Do you notice anything

peculiar about his uniform?"

The listener flashed his torch over the dead officer, "No," he said at

length. "I can't say that I do. Except that one of his regimental

badges is missing. I suppose you don't mean that, do you?" The

Company Officer laughed irritably.

"I do," returned the other quietly. "It's a point of detail, even if a

little one." He looked thoughtfully at the man in front of him. "Do I

strike you as a callous sort of devil, old man?"

"You seem to be treating the boy rather on the line of a specimen for

improving your deductive powers."

"Perhaps you're right." Staunton turned away. "But I didn't mean it

that way--quite. Sorry, Joe; the boy was a pal of yours?"

"He was."

"God rest his soul!" The second-in-command spoke low. Then, with a

final salute to the youngster whose soul had gone to the haven of

fighting men, he turned away and vanished into the night.

* * * * * *

The next day the Company Commander came round to Battalion

Head-quarters.

"My two best subalterns," grunted the Colonel in disgust, "within two

days. Very annoying. Good boys--toppers both of them. You'd go quite

a way, Dick, before you bettered Brinton and Dixon."

"You would," affirmed the second-in-command. "Quite a way."

"And with all your theorising last night, old man," remarked the

Captain slyly, "we both forgot the obvious solution. He got on the

fire step, found he couldn't see over--so he clambered up on top.

Then, when he was getting down, he was hit, and slithered into the

position I found him in."

Staunton regarded the speaker through a haze of tobacco smoke. "I

wonder," he murmured at length. "I wonder."

He did not state that during the morning he had made a point of

interrogating Jerry Dixon's servant. And that worthy--an old and

trusted soldier--had very positively denied that either of the Pelicans

Rampant, which formed the regimental badge, had been missing from his

master's coat the previous evening.

"Now Mr. Brinton's coat, sir," he remarked thoughtfully, "that did 'ave

a badge off, that did. But 'is servant!" He snorted, and dismissed

the subject scornfully.

As I say, the Major did not mention this fact. After all, it was such

a very small point of detail.

To the frivolous-minded, Dick Staunton was at times the cause of a

certain amount of amusement. Originally in the Army, he had left it

when a junior captain, and had settled down to the normal life of a

country gentleman. By nature of a silent disposition, he abominated

social functions of all sorts. He hunted, he fished, and he shot, and

spent the rest of his time studying the habits of the wild. And as

always happens to a man who lives much with nature, his mind gradually

got skilled in the noticing of little things. Small signs, invisible

to the casual observer, he noticed automatically; and without being in

any sense a Sherlock Holmes, he had acquired the habit of putting two

and two together in a manner that was, at times, disconcertingly

correct.

"Points of detail," he remarked one evening in the dug-out after

dinner, "are very easy to see if you have eyes to see them with. One

is nothing; two are a coincidence; three are a moral certainty. A

really trained man can see a molehill; I can see a mountain; most of

you fellows couldn't see the Himalayas." With which sage remark he

thoughtfully lit his pipe and relapsed into silence. And silence being

his usual characteristic he came into the Battalion Head-quarters

dug-out one evening and dropped quietly into a seat, almost unnoticed

by the somewhat noisy group around the table.

"Afternoon, Dickie." The Sapper officer looked up and saw him. "D'you

hear we're pinching your last recruit? Jesson--this is Major

Staunton." He turned to a second lieutenant in the Royal Loamshires

beside him as he made the introduction.

"How d'you do, sir." Jesson got up and saluted. "I've only just got

over from England; and now apparently they're attaching me to the R.E.,

as I'm a miner."

He sat down again, and once more turned his attention to that excellent

French illustrated weekly without which no officers' mess in France is

complete. Lest I be run in for libel, I will refrain from further

information as to its title and general effect on officers concerned.

For a few moments Staunton sat watching the group and listening with

some amusement to the criticisms on those lovely members of the fair

sex so ably portrayed in its pages, and then his attention centred on

the revolver he was cleaning. Jesson, a good-looking, clean-cut man of

about twenty-nine or thirty was holding forth on an experience he had

had in Alaska, which concerned a woman, a team of dogs, and a gentleman

known as One-eyed Pete, and as he spoke Staunton watched him idly. It

struck him that he seemed a promising type, and that it was a pity the

Tunnellers were getting him.

"Haven't you got enough disturbers of the peace already," he remarked

to the Tunnelling officer, "without snatching our ewe lamb?"

"We are at full strength as a matter of fact, Major," answered an

officer covered with chalk; "but they do some funny things in the

palaces of the great. We often get odd birds blowing in. I've been

initiating him all this morning into the joys of Outpost."

"And how is jolly old Blighty?" remarked the Adjutant. "Thank Heaven!

leave approaches."

"About the same." Jesson helped himself to a whisky-and-soda. "Darker

than ever, and taxis an impossibility. Still I dare say I shall be

glad enough to go back when my first leave comes due," he added with a

laugh.

"Is this your first time out?" asked Staunton.

"Yes." Jesson unbuttoned his burberry and took out his cigarette case.

Outside the dusk was falling, and he bent forward to get a light from

the candle flickering on the table in front of him. "The very first

time. I've been on Government work up to now."

It was at that moment that a very close observer might have noticed

that Dick Staunton's pipe ceased to draw with monotonous regularity: he

might even have heard a quick intake of breath. But he would have had

to be a very close one--very close indeed; for the next instant he was

again speaking and his voice was normal.

"I suppose you've been at the depot," he hazarded. "Who are there now?"

"Oh, the usual old crowd," answered Jesson "I don't expect you know

many of them though, do you, Major? Ginger Stretton in the 14th

Battalion--do you know him by any chance?"

"No, I don't think I do." His face was in the shadow, but had it been

visible a slightly puzzled frown might have been seen on his forehead.

"I suppose they still make all you fellows on joining go to the

regimental tailor, don't they?"

Jesson looked a trifle surprised at the question. "I don't think they

are as particular as they were," he returned after a moment.

"Personally I went to Jones & Jones." He casually buttoned up his

mackintosh and turned to the Tunneller. "If you're ready I think we

might be going. I want to see about my kit." He got up as he spoke

and turned towards the entrance, while at the same moment the Sapper

rose too. "I'd like to drop in again, sir, sometimes if I may." He

spoke to the shadow where Staunton had been sitting.

"Do." Jesson gave a violent start, for the voice came from just behind

his shoulder. Like the hunter he was, Dick Staunton had moved without

a sound, and now stood directly between Jesson and the door. "But

don't go yet. I want to tell you a story that may amuse you. Have

some tea."

"Er--won't it keep till some other time, Major? I'm rather anxious to

see about my kit."

"Let the kit keep. Sit down and have some tea."

"What the devil has come over you, Dickie?" The Adjutant was looking

frankly amazed. "You aren't generally so loquacious."

"That's why to-night my little whim must be humoured," answered

Staunton with a slight smile. "Sit down, please, Jesson. It's quite

an amusing little yarn, and I would like your opinion on it."

"No hope for you, old boy. Dickie has turned into a social success."

The Adjutant laughed and lit a cigarette, and once again became

immersed in his paper.

To the casual observer the scene was a very normal one. Four men in a

dug-out, yarning and reading; while outside the occasional whine of a

shell, the dirty deeds of a Stokes gun, the noises of the trenches

filled the air. Nothing unusual, nothing out of the way

except--something, an indefinable something. As the Sapper said

afterwards there must have been something tangible in the

atmosphere--else why did his pulses quicken. He glanced at the

Adjutant sitting opposite him engrossed in his book; he looked at

Staunton across the table--Staunton, with a slight smile on his

lips--and his eyes fixed on Jesson. He looked at Jesson beside

him--Jesson, whom he had met that morning for the first time. And all

he noticed about Jesson was that his left knee twitched

ceaselessly. . . .

He ran over in his mind the day's work. He had met him at about eleven

that morning, wandering along the support line with an officer in the

Loamshires whom he knew well, who had hailed him and introduced Jesson.

"A recruit--a new recruit," he had said, "for your atrocious trade.

He's just left old pimple-faced Charlie, who was writing returns in

triplicate as usual."

Now pimple-faced Charlie was his own Major, who habitually did write

returns in triplicate; wherefore, after a few remarks of a casual

nature in which he elicited the fact that Jesson was a mining engineer

and had suddenly been ordered while waiting at the base to join the

940th Tunnelling Company, he took him in tow and showed him round the

mine galleries.

Mining work was very active in the sector. Four or five small mines

and one big one were going up in the near future, so the tour of

inspection had been a long one. That his companion was not new to the

game was obvious from the outset; and his pertinent inquiries anent

cross-cuts, listening galleries, and the whole of the work in hand had

shown that he was keen as well. Altogether a promising recruit, he had

mused: quite a find--keen and able, two qualities which unfortunately

do not go hand in hand quite as often as one would like. And now

Staunton and this find of his were facing one another in silence across

the plank table of the dug-out; Jesson, with an expression of polite

indifference as befitted a subaltern compelled to listen to a senior

officer's story which he didn't want to hear; Staunton, with an

enigmatic smile. Then of a sudden Staunton spoke.

"Have you ever studied the question of the importance of matters of

detail, Jesson?" he remarked quietly to the impassive figure facing him

across the table.

"I can't say that I have, sir," answered the other, politely stifling a

yawn.

"You should. A most interesting study. My story concerns points of

detail. The imperative thing is to be able to sort out the vital

points from all the others; then piece them together, and arrive at the

right answer."

"It must be very easy to be led astray, I should imagine; and arrive at

the--er--wrong one." Jesson concealed a smile, and waited for the

Major to continue.

"Yes and no. It's all a matter of practice." Staunton's imperturbable

voice was as quiet as ever. "And anyway, it's only in peace time that

it matters very much whether one is right or wrong. Nowadays!

Well--_à la guerre comme à la guerre_." He smiled gently. "But my

story. I want you, as an impartial observer, just arrived, with an

unbiassed mind, to tell me if you think my joining up of two or three

points of detail is a sound one. Both these officers know the points

of detail, so your opinion will be more valuable than theirs.

"A few nights ago our battalion had one of those unfortunate little

contretemps that so often happen in war. A subaltern of ours, John

Brinton by name, went out on patrol, and never returned. An exhaustive

search in No Man's Land failed to discover his body; so we were

reluctantly compelled to conclude that he was in German hands; whether

alive or dead we don't know. There we have the first fact in my case.

Now for the second.

"Two nights after that another of our subalterns was killed in a way

which struck me as peculiar. I will not weary you with all the various

little points that led me to believe that the bullet which killed him

did not come from the trenches opposite; I will merely say that his

position, his height, and the depth of the trench were the most

obvious. And granted that my conclusions were correct, strange as it

might appear at first sight, his death must have been caused at close

quarters, possibly in the trench itself."

"Good Lord!" muttered the Adjutant, who was now listening with

interest. "What do you mean?"

"Two facts, you see," went on Staunton quietly. "And they would have

remained unconnected in my mind--Brinton's capture and Dixon's

death--but for a small point of detail. Dixon's jacket was without the

left regimental badge when his body was found. His servant knows he

had them both earlier in the day. On the contrary, Brinton had lost

his left regimental badge for some time. Am I interesting you?"

"Profoundly, thank you, sir." The man opposite smiled amiably.

"I'm glad of that; it's an interesting problem. You see the

significance of that small point about the badge, the way in which it

connects very intimately Brinton's capture and Dixon's death. So

intimately, in fact, does it connect them, that one is almost tempted

to assume that the man who killed Dixon was the man in possession of

Brinton's uniform. Are you with me so far?"

"The evidence seems a trifle slight," remarked Jesson.

"Quite true; the evidence is very slight. But then, it often is.

Everything up to date turns on the question of the badge. Let me

reconstruct a possible--only possible, mark you--story, based on the

supposition that my badge theory is correct. A German who speaks

English perfectly is given a nice warm uniform taken from a captured

British officer. Then he is told to go over to the British lines and

see what he can find out. He comes one night; perfectly easy; no

trouble; until walking along the front line he meets another

officer--alone: an officer of the same regiment as that whose uniform

he is wearing. Unavoidable; in fact, less likely to raise suspicion

with the frequent changes that occur if he goes to the same regiment

than if he went to another. But something happens: either the other

officer's suspicions are aroused, or the German does not wish to be

recognised again by him. The trench is quiet; an occasional rifle is

going off, so he does the bold thing. He shoots him from point-blank

range--probably with a Colt. As he stands there with the dead officer

in front of him, waiting, listening hard, wondering if he has been

heard, he sees the two badges on the officer's coat. So, being a cool

hand, he takes off the left one, puts it on his own coat, and

disappears for a time. Quite easy; especially when the trenches are

old German ones."

"Really, Major, you seem to have made a speciality of detective

fiction. As you said, I suppose your theory is possible."

Jesson spoke casually, but his eyes for the first time left the face of

the man opposite him and roved towards the door. For the first time a

sudden ghastly suspicion of the truth entered the Sapper's brain; and

even as it did so he noticed that Staunton's revolver--the cleansing

finished--pointed steadily at Jesson's chest.

"I am glad you think it possible. To render it probable we must go a

bit farther. The essence of all detective stories is the final clue

that catches the criminal, isn't it?" The revolver moved an inch or

two farther into prominence.

"Good Lord, Dickie? Is that gun of yours loaded?" cried the Adjutant

in alarm. For the first time he also seemed to become aware that

something unusual was happening, and he suddenly stood up. "What the

devil is it, Major? What have you got that gun on him for?"

"For fun, dear boy, for fun. It's part of the atmosphere. We've got

to the point haven't we, where--in my story, of course--the German

dressed in Brinton's uniform comes into the English lines. Now what

sort of a man would they send in this part of the line, where mining

activity is great? I continue the theory, you see; that's all."

He looked at Jesson, who made no reply; though without cessation he

moistened his lips with his tongue.

"A miner." The Adjutant's voice cut in. "Go on, for God's sake."

"Precisely--a miner. The second point of detail; and two points of

detail are a strange coincidence--nothing more. Only--there is a

third."

"And three are a moral certainty, as you've often said." The Adjutant

once again bent across the table and spoke softly. "Are you fooling,

Dickie--are you fooling? If so, the joke has gone far enough."

But the Sapper's eyes were fixed on a leg that twitched, and they

wandered now and then to a neck where--even in the dim light of a

candle--he could see a pulse throbbing--throbbing.

"It's not a joke," he said, and his mouth was dry. "What is the third

point of detail, Dickie?"

"Yes, what is the third point of detail, sir?" Jesson's voice was

steady as a rock. "I am very interested in your problem." He raised

his hands from the table and stretched them in front of him. Not a

finger quivered, and with a sublime insolence he examined his nails.

To the Sapper there occurred suddenly those lines of Kipling,

"For there is neither East nor West, border nor breed nor birth,

When two strong men come face to face though they come from

the ends of the earth."

He _knew_ now; he realised the man beside him was a German; he knew

that the sentence of death was very near. What the clue was that had

given the man away he hardly thought about--in fact, he hardly cared.

All he knew was that death was waiting for the man beside him, and that

his hands were steady as a rock.

Quietly Staunton leant forward and undid Jesson's mackintosh. Then he

sat back and with his finger he pointed at a spot above his left

breast-pocket. "You have never been out to the front, you say; your

coat is a new one by Jones & Jones; and yet--until recently--you have

been wearing the ribbon of a medal. What medal, Jesson, what medal?

It shows up, that clean patch in the light. John Brinton went to Jones

& Jones; and John Brinton had a Military Cross."

For a full minute the two men looked into one another's eyes--deep

down, and read the things that are written underneath, be a man English

or German. Then suddenly Jesson smiled slightly and spoke.

"You are a clever man, Major Staunton. When will the rifle practice

take place?"

* * * * * *

Thus it ended, the play of which John Brinton's disappearance formed

the prologue. But before the curtain rang down on the epilogue the

German told them one or two little things: that John Brinton was alive

and well; that the existence of Ginger Stretton, to whom he had alluded

so glibly, had only become known to him from a letter in Brinton's

coat; that the peculiarities of pimple-faced Charlie had been forced on

him by his guide before they met the Sapper.

"In fact," as the Adjutant remarked, "the fellow was almost too good a

sportsman to----" But that's the epilogue.

A file of men; a watery sun just starting its day's work; a raw, chilly

morning. In front--a man: a man with a white disc of paper pinned over

the heart.

A word of command; a pushing forward of safety catches; a volley; a

finish.

V

MY LADY OF THE JASMINE

The Kid staggered wearily along the road through the blinding rain.

Dodging between the endless streams of traffic, which moved slowly in

both directions, now stopping for ten minutes, now jolting forward

again for a couple of hundred yards, he walked on towards where he

thought his battalion was. The last Staff officer he had seen had told

him that, as far as he knew, they had pulled out to rest in some

dug-outs about four miles farther on--dug-outs which had only recently

been taken from the Germans. To start with he had got on to a lorry,

but when darkness fell, and the total progression had been one mile, he

decided to walk and save time. Occasionally the lights of a car shone

in his face, as its infuriated occupant broke every rule of the Somme

roads by double banking; that is, trying to pass the vehicles in front.

But at last the traffic wore thinner as the road approached the front

line, and an hour and a half after he had left the lorry, it stopped

altogether, save for pack-mules and squelching men. The rain still

sogged down, and--ye gods! the Kid was tired. Away into the night

there stretched a path of slippery duck-boards, threading its way

between shell holes half filled with water. Men loomed up out of the

darkness and went past him, slipping and sliding, cursing below their

breath. A shower of sparks shot up into the air from a dug-out on his

right, and a great lobbing flare away in the distance lit up the scene

for a second or two with a ghostly radiance. It showed the Kid the

only other near occupant of the reclaimed territory at the moment: a

mule, whose four hoofs stuck stiffly out of a shell hole--pointing at

him, motionless. With a shudder he moved on along the duck-walk.

After all he was but a kid, and he was almighty tired.

For three days he seemed to have been on the run without closing his

eyes. First the battalion had gone over the top; then they had worked

like slaves consolidating what they'd won; afterwards he had been sent

for because of his knowledge of French and German to go back to

Divisional Head-quarters; and then he had come back to find the

battalion had moved. And any who may have tried walking five or six

miles by night in heavy rain to an unknown destination along some of

the roads east of Albert, will bear out that it is a wearisome

performance. When to these facts is added the further information that

the age of the boy was only eighteen, it will be conceded that the

breaking-point was not far off.

Now I have emphasised the physical condition of the Kid, as he was

known to all and sundry, because I think it may have a bearing on the

story I am going to relate. I am no expert in "ologies" and other

things dealing with so-called spiritualistic revelations. I might even

say, in fact, that I am profoundly sceptical of them all, though to say

so may reveal my abysmal ignorance. So be it; my thumbs are crossed.

This is not a controversial treatise on spiritualism, and all that

appertains thereto. One thing, however, I will say--in my ignorance,

of course. Until some of the great thinkers of the world have beaten

down the jungle of facts beyond our ken, and made a track--be it never

so narrow--free from knaves and charlatans, it is ill-advised for Mrs.

Smith or Lady de Smythe to believe that Signer Macaroni--_né_

Jones--will reveal to them the secrets of the infinite for two pounds.

He may; on the other hand, he may not. That the secrets are there, who

but a fool can doubt; it is only Signer Macaroni's power of

disinterested revelation that causes my unworthy scepticism.

And so let us come back to the Kid, and the strange thing that happened

in a recently captured German dug-out on the night of which I have been

writing. It was just as he had decided--rain or no rain--to lie down

and sleep in the mud and filth--anywhere, anything, as long as he could

sleep--that suddenly out of the darkness ahead he heard the Adjutant's

voice, and knew that he had found the battalion. With almost a sob of

thankfulness at the unexpected finish to his worries, he hailed him.

"Hullo! is that you, Kid?" The Adjutant loomed out of the darkness.

"We thought you were lost for good. Are you cooked?"

"I'm just about done in," answered the boy. "Where is B Company?"

"I'll show you. It's the hell of a place to find even by day; but

you've got 'some' dug-out. Beer, and tables, and beds; in fact, it's

the first dug-out I've seen that in any way resembles the descriptions

one reads in the papers."

"Well, as long as I can get to sleep, old man, I don't care a damn if

it's the Ritz or a pigsty." The Kid plucked his foot from a mud-hole,

and squelched on behind the Adjutant.

Now much has been written about German dug-outs--their size, their

comfort, the revolving book-cases, the four-poster beds. Special

mention has frequently been made of cellars full of rare old vintages,

and of concreted buttery hatches; of lifts to take stout officers to

the ground, and of portable derricks to sling even stouter ones into

their scented valises. In fact, such stress has been laid upon these

things by people of great knowledge, that I understand an opinion is

prevalent amongst some earnest thinkers at home that when a high German

officer wishes to surrender he first sends up two dozen of light beer

on the lift to placate his capturers, rapidly following himself with a

corkscrew. This may or may not be so; personally, I have had no such

gratifying experience. But then, personally, I have generally been

hard put to it to recognise the dug-outs of reality from the dug-outs

of the daily papers. Most of them are much the same as any ordinary,

vulgar English dug-out; many are worse; but one or two undoubtedly are

very good. In places where the nature of the ground has lent itself to

deep work, and the lines have been stagnant for many moons, the Huns

have carried out excellent work for the suitable housing of their

officers. And it was down the entrance of one of these few and far

between abodes that the Kid ultimately staggered, with the blessed

feeling in his mind of rest at last. Round a table in the centre sat

the other officers of B Company, discussing the remains of a very

excellent German repast. As he came in they all looked up.

"The lost sheep," sang out the Captain cheerfully. "Come on, my

kidlet, draw up, and put your nose inside some beer."

"Not a bad place, is it?" chimed in the Doctor, puffing at a large and

fat cigar of Hun extraction. "Excellent cellar of rare old ale, cigars

of great potency--real genuine Flor de Boche--a picture gallery

of--er--a pleasing description, and a bed. What more can man desire?"

"Private MacPherson does not approve, I fear me, of the pictures,"

chuckled the senior subaltern. "I heard him muttering dark things

about 'painted Jezebels,' and 'yon scarlet women of Babylon.'"

"It must be very dreadful for all concerned to go through life with a

mind like MacPherson's." The Doctor was examining his cigar

doubtfully. "There is an obstruction in this. It's either going to

explode with great force in a minute, or else I'm coming to the motto.

Hi! you blighter----" he jumped up hurriedly to avoid the stream of

beer that shot across the table from the Kid's overturned glass.

"Idiot child." The Company Commander roused himself from his gentle

doze to contemplate the delinquent. Then he smiled. "Man, he's

asleep; the boy's beat to a frazzle."

"Aye, you're right. Tim, come off that bed; the Kid is fair cooked.

Wake up, infant." The Doctor shook him by the shoulder. "Wake up.

Take off your boots, and then get down to it on the bed."

The Kid sat up blinking. "I'm very sorry," he said after a moment.

"Did I upset the beer?"

"You did--all over me," laughed the Doctor. "Get your boots off and

turn in."

"I'm so cursed sleepy." The Kid was removing his sodden puttees.

"I've walked, and walked, and I'm just about----" He straightened

himself in his chair, and as he did so the words died away on his lips.

With a peculiar fixed look he stared past the Doctor into the corner of

the dug-out. "My God!" he whispered at last, "what are you doing here?"

A sudden silence settled on the mess, and instinctively everybody,

including the Doctor, glanced towards the corner. Then the Doctor

turned once more to the boy, and his glance was the glance of his

profession.

"What's the matter, Kid?" His tone was abrupt, even to curtness. "Did

you think you saw something?"

"I thought--I thought----" The boy passed his hand over his forehead.

"I'm sorry--I must have been dreaming. It's gone now. I suppose I'm

tired." But his eyes still searched the dug-out fearfully.

"What did you think you saw?" asked the Doctor shortly.

"I thought I saw----" Once again he stopped; then he laughed a little

shakily. "Oh! it doesn't matter what I thought I saw. Damn it! I'm

tired; let me turn in."

The Doctor's eye met the Company Commander's over the table, and he

shrugged his shoulders slightly. "Dead beat." His lips framed the

words, and he returned to the contemplation of his cigar, which was not

doing all that a well-trained cigar should.

The Kid stood up and glanced round the mess at his brother officers a

little shamefacedly; only to find them engrossed--a trifle

ostentatiously--in their own business. "I'm sorry, you fellows," he

blurted out suddenly. "Forgive me being such a fool; I suppose I'm a

bit tired."

The Doctor took him firmly by the arm, and led him towards the bed.

"Look here, old soul," he remarked, "if you wish to avoid the wrath of

my displeasure, you will cease talking and go to bed. Every one knows

what it is to be weary; and there's only one cure--sleep."

The Kid laughed and threw himself on the bed. "Jove!" he muttered

sleepily; "then it's a pleasant medicine, Doctor dear." He pulled a

blanket over his shoulders; his head touched the pillow; his eyes

closed; and before the Doctor had resumed his seat the Kid was asleep.

* * * * * *

It seemed only a minute afterwards that he was awake again, staring

into the dim-lit dug-out with every sense alert. He was conscious

first of a faint elusive scent--a scent which was new to him. His mind

wandered to the scents he knew--Chaminade, Mystérieuse, Trèfle

Incarnat--but this was different. Delicate, sensuous, with the

slightest suggestion of jasmine about it, it seemed to permeate every

part of him. Vaguely expectant, he waited for something that he knew

must happen. What it would be, he had no idea; he felt like a man

waiting for the curtain to rise on a first night, when the music of the

overture is dying away to a finish. He experienced no fear: merely an

overwhelming curiosity to witness the drama, and to confirm his

certainty about the owner of the scent. In his mind there was no doubt

as to who she was. It was the girl he had seen in the corner as he was

taking off his puttees: the girl who had looked at him with eyes that

held the sadness of the world and its despair in them; the girl who had

vanished so quickly. Her disappearance did not strike him as peculiar;

she would explain when she came. And so the Kid waited for the

drop-scene to lift.

It struck him as he glanced round the dug-out that the furniture had

been moved. The table seemed nearer the wall; the chairs were

differently arranged. Instead of the remnants of a finished meal,

papers arranged in neat piles met his eye. The place looked more like

an office than a mess. Suddenly he stiffened into attention; steps

were coming down the entrance to the dug-out. A man came in, and with

a gasp the Kid recognised a German soldier. He strove to shout--to

warn his brother officers who he knew were peacefully sleeping in

valises on the floor; but no sound came. His tongue stuck to the roof

of his mouth; he could only watch, rigid and motionless.

The German moved to the hanging lamp, and turned it up till a bright

light flooded the dug-out.

"Now," the Kid's brain was racing, "he must see them. My God! they

must have got back during the night."

But no. The German servant moved towards the cupboard which contained

the food, brushing so close to the bed that the Kid could have touched

him with ease as he passed. Very cautiously he raised his head as he

saw the man, his back turned, fumbling on the shelves, and looked round

the room. Then with the icy hand of terror clutching at his heart he

lay back again. The room was empty; his brother officers had

gone--murdered probably--and with him it could only be a question of

moments before he too was discovered.

For an instant he had a wild idea of hurling himself upon the German:

of taking him unawares--of trying to escape. Then the soldier turned:

the opportunity had passed, and once again the silent spectator on the

bed lay rigid. The servant, stolid and unemotional, moved heavily

about the dug-out, laying the table for a meal. Once it seemed to the

Kid that he looked straight at him; he could have sworn that he must

have been seen; and yet--apparently not. The man gave no sign, and it

occurred to the Kid that perhaps he was lying in the shadow.

Stealthily he wormed himself even nearer the wall: impelled by the

instinct of self-preservation that would put off to the last possible

moment the inevitable discovery. And hardly had he edged himself in

against the wall, when with a sinking heart he heard voices outside:

voices which spoke in German. With only the servant to tackle, somehow

he had not felt so hopeless; now he knew the end had come.

Two officers entered, wiping the perspiration from their foreheads.

One from his badges of rank he recognised as a Colonel--the other was a

Lieutenant; and the discussion was--as far as their difference of rank

allowed--obviously of an acrimonious nature. The Kid listened

intently; thanking Heaven, not for the first time in his life, that

some one with a grain of common sense had had him taught French and

German by a method other than the Public School one. The predilection

of his aunt's gardener for pens, ink, and paper would not have helped

him much in that conversation.

"Beer, you fool," grunted the Colonel to the stolid servant. "Then,

go."

Impatiently he waited till the orderly's footsteps died away, and then

he turned savagely on the other officer.

"I tell you, Lieutenant Rutter, we _must_ know," he snarled. "A

girl--what is a girl, when big issues are at stake? There are many

more girls, Lieutenant Rutter; many more girls. Be very careful lest

not only does this one die, but you also meet with an accident. Dead

men cannot make love to those other girls." He banged his fist on the

table and glared at the Lieutenant, who was staring moodily in front of

him.

"I know that, Excellency," he returned after a moment. "But there is a

proverb about bringing a horse to the water and not being able to make

him drink."

"Bah! There are methods, my friend, of drowning the brute with water,

if it won't drink willingly. And those methods will have to be adopted

in this case."

"They are doubtless effective in killing the horse; but they will not

lead us very much farther in our inquiries."

"Which is the reason why I have allowed you so much rope. I know as

well as you do that willing information is worth ten times as much as

when it is forced. You have made love to the girl, you have been

playing the fool for six weeks with her, and we are no nearer than when

we started." He sneered openly. "Since when have we become so

dilatory, my friend? You seem to have lost your form with the fair

sex."

The Lieutenant flushed, and his fist clenched. "Don't mention those

others. I love this girl."

"No doubt thinking of marriage?" The sneer was even more in evidence.

"Yes, Excellency, I am thinking of marriage." His voice was ominously

quiet.

"I am afraid, Lieutenant Rutter, it will remain in the beautiful and

nebulous realms of thought, unless----" He paused and drained his beer

ostentatiously, though all the while his eyes never left his

companion's face.

"Unless," repeated the Lieutenant drearily, "she agrees to do some

charming and honourable spying work for us on the other side of the

lines."

"You speak very strangely, Lieutenant Rutter." The little pig eyes of

the senior officer glinted menacingly. "Have a care."

"Pardon, Excellency. For the moment I forgot." With a weary gesture

he got up. "I will ask her this morning." He looked at his watch.

"She should be here very soon."

"Then I will await the result of your interview through here." The

Colonel moved to a door half concealed by a curtain. "You shall have

your turtle dove, Rutter, in peace and quiet." He chuckled harshly.

"You know what we want?"

"By heart, Excellency."

"And you remember that her brother the Comte is not really dead. For

our purposes he is a prisoner."

"I am not likely to forget; but I warn you, Excellency, I have but

little hope of succeeding."

The Colonel's jaw shut like a vice. "Then God help you both, my

friend; God help you both." His voice was soft, but horribly menacing;

and as the curtain dropped behind him, the Kid, who had been listening

spellbound, understood for the first time the type of man who

represented Prussian militarism.

Instinctively his heart warmed towards the Lieutenant, who with a weary

gesture of despair was resting his head on his arms. He was young,

clean cut, almost an Englishman to look at, save for his close-cropped

bristling hair; and, moreover, he was up against it. All the Kid's

sporting instincts rose within him. Boche or no Boche this was not the

type of swine who launched gas and liquid fire on a horror-struck

world. Forgetful of everything he was on the point of going over to

him and telling him to stick it out, when his eyes rested on the

entrance. And there was the girl: the girl he had seen in the corner,

the girl of the jasmine scent. For a while she stood watching the

bowed figure at the table, and then she tip-toed across to him and laid

her hand on his head.

With a quick start he looked up, and into his face there came the light

of all the ages, the light of the man for the woman he loves.

"Marie," he whispered hoarsely. "Marie--_que je t'adore_." He caught

her to him and kissed her on the lips. Then, with a bitter groan, he

pushed her away and sat down again.

"Fritz, what is it?" she cried in wondering tones. "You sent for me,

my dear. Why? I came; but it is not right for me to come to you

here--in your dug-out."

"I was ordered to send for you, my Marie." His French was pure if

guttural.

"Ordered!" An adorable look of amazement came on her face. "And you

liked not this order, my Fritz. But why? It is not right for me to be

here, I know; but now that I have come, it is very nice, _mon ami_.

Why do you look so glum?"

For a while he did not reply, but paced the dug-out with long, uneven

steps. And the Kid, watching his lady of the jasmine, saw her bite her

lips, as a look of puzzled fear came into her great round eyes. At

last the man paused in front of her and took her roughly by the arms,

so that she cried out.

"You love me, Marie?" he demanded hoarsely. "You love me enough to

marry me when this accursed war is over?" His voice sank over the last

few words, and he glanced, half fearfully, at the curtained door.

"But of course, my Fritz," she answered softly. "You have been good to

me, and you are different to these others. Mon Dieu! they frighten

me--those harsh, brutal men; but they have been good to me and the

little mother for your sake. It is terrible, I suppose--a French girl

and a German officer; but the little god Love, _mon ami_, he laughs at

the great god Mars--sometimes. Poor little me--I cannot help myself."

She laughed adorably, and the Kid laughed with her. She seemed to him

like the spirit of the Spring, when the bluebells are flowering and the

world is young. But on the German's face there was no answering smile.

It was set and stern, and imprinted with a look of such utter

hopelessness that the Kid, who saw it over the girl's shoulder, almost

cried out with the pain of it.

"Do you love me enough, Marie," he went on at length, "to do a big

thing for me--a very big thing?"

"That depends on what it is." She spoke gaily, but the Kid could see

her body stiffen slightly. "I'm no good at big things."

"Will you go to Paris for me?" His voice was dull and jerky.

"Paris!" She gazed at him in amazement. "But how, and why?"

"It will be easy to get you there." He seized on the part of her

question which postponed for a few seconds the hideous thing he was to

ask her. "We can arrange all that quite easily. You see----" He

rambled on with the method of making plans for the journey, until he

caught her eyes, and the look in them made his faltering words die away

to a dreadful silence.

"And why do you want me to go to Paris, Fritz?" Her voice was hardly

above a whisper.

Twice he essayed to speak; twice he failed to do more than falter her

name. Then with a gasping cry he took her in his arms and kissed her

passionately. "They shan't," he muttered; "by God! they shan't." And

it was as the Kid watched the scene, with parted lips and quickened

breath, that the curtain moved aside, and he saw the Colonel, like an

evil spirit, regarding the pair with cold malevolence.

"Delightful!" he remarked after a few moments of cynical observation;

"delightful! Lieutenant Rutter, you are to be congratulated.

Mademoiselle--you are charming; all that my young friend has said, and

more."

He moved forward and stood by the table, while Marie--her face as white

as death--clung to her lover. "Who is he, Fritz, this ugly old man?"

she whispered terrified.

"Permit me to introduce to you . . ." Fritz forced the words from his

dry lips, only to stop at the upraised hand of the other.

"My name, dear young lady, is immaterial," he remarked genially. "Just

an ugly old man, who has had no time to bask in the sunshine of the

smiles of your charming sex." He sat down and lit a cigar. "So you

are going to become a German's wife! Ah, Fritz, my boy, you're a lucky

dog! You'll have to guard your Marie carefully from the rest of the

garrison, when we have finally won and the war is over." He gave a

grating laugh, and blew out a cloud of smoke.

"What do you want of me?" asked Marie, in a terrified whisper, looking

at him like a bird at a snake.

"A little service, my dear young Fräulein to be--a little service to

the Fatherland. You must not forget that Germany is now your country

in spirit, if not in actual truth. You are pledged to her just as you

are pledged to your Fritz--in fact, he being an officer, the two are

one and the same thing." He smiled again, and waved his cigar gently

in the air. "And not only will your service benefit the country that

you have chosen as your own, but it will benefit you, because it will

bring the end of the war, and with it your marriage, closer."

He paused to let the words sink in, but she still watched him

fascinated.

"One thing more." His eyes gleamed dully through the haze of smoke as

he fixed them on her. "Unless this little service is fulfilled, though

it won't make any difference to the ultimate result as far as Germany

is concerned, it will make a very considerable difference as far as you

and--er--Fritz are concerned."

"What do you mean?" The girl hardly breathed the words.

"I mean that there will be no marriage. Painful--but true."

The Kid watched the young officer's arm tighten convulsively round her

waist--and began to see red. Then the harsh guttural voice continued.

"Well, now, without wasting any more time, let us come to the point. I

had proposed to let Lieutenant Rutter explain things to you;

but--er--from one or two things I overheard, it struck me he might not

make them clear." The beady eyes came slowly round to the Lieutenant.

"That is why I interrupted." Once again he stared at the trembling

girl. "To be brief, Mademoiselle Marie, we anticipate an attack--a big

attack--by the English. We have good information that it is coming in

this neighbourhood."

The Kid pricked up his ears; what the devil was the man talking about?

"We have every reason to hope that Ovillers, Fricourt, Thiepval are

impregnable; at the same time--in war--one never leaves things to

chance." The Kid's astonishment turned to stupefaction; he himself had

been in the storming of Ovillers. "And the chance," continued the

imperturbable voice, "in this matter is the probable action of the

French--your charming compatriots--er--compatriots, _that were_,

Fräulein. We anticipate this offensive in about a month or six weeks;

and the matter on which we require all the confirmation we can is

whether the French, after their hideous losses at Verdun, can play any

important part in this operation of the enemy. That is where you can

help us."

For a moment there was dead silence, and then the girl turned her

stricken face to the man beside her. "Dear God!" she muttered, "is

this why you made love to me? To make me a spy?"

"Marie--no, on my honour; I swear it!" Forgetful of the man sitting at

the table Fritz stretched out his hand in an agony of supplication.

"Lieutenant Rutter." With a snarl the Colonel stood up. "You forget

yourself. I am speaking. A truce to this fooling. Mademoiselle"--he

turned again on the girl--"we have other things to do beside babble of

love. Call it spying if you will, but we want information, and you can

help us to get it--_must_ help us to get it."

"And what if I refuse?" Superbly she confronted him; her voice had

come back; her head was thrown up.

"In the first place you will not marry Lieutenant Rutter; and in the

second place--have you heard that the Comte de St. Jean was taken

prisoner at Verdun?"

"Philippe. Oh, monsieur, where is he?" The girl threw herself on her

knees before him. "I implore you--he is my only brother."

"Indeed. Well, if you ever desire to see him again you will carry out

my suggestion. Otherwise----" he paused significantly.

"Oh, you could not! You could not be so cruel, so vile as to harm him

if he is a prisoner. It would break my mother's heart."

"Mademoiselle, there is nothing which I would scruple to

do--nothing--if by so doing I advanced the glorious cause of our

Fatherland." The man's small eyes gleamed with the fire of a fanatic;

revolting though he was, yet was there an element of grandeur about

him. Even the Kid, watching silently from the bed, felt conscious of

the power which seemed to spring from him as he stood there, squat and

repulsive, with the lovely French girl kneeling at his feet. He saw

her throw her arms around his knees, and turn up her face to his in an

agony of pleading; and then of a sudden came the tragedy.

Discipline or no discipline, a man is a man, and Fritz Rutter had

reached the breaking-point. Perhaps it was the sight of the woman he

loved kneeling at the feet of one of the grossest sensualists in

Europe, perhaps---- But who knows?

"Marie," he cried hoarsely, "it's not true. Philippe is dead; they

cannot hurt him now. Get up, my dear, get up." With folded arms he

faced the other man as the girl staggered to her feet. Heedless of the

blazing passion on the Colonel's face, she crept to Fritz and hid her

face against his chest. And as she stood there she heard the voice of

her tormentor, thick and twisted with hate.

"For that, Lieutenant Rutter, I will have you disgraced. And then I

will look after your Marie. Orderly!" His voice rose to a shout as he

strode to the door.

"Good-bye, my love." Fritz strained her to him, and the Kid saw her

kiss him once on the lips. Then she disengaged herself from his arms,

and walked steadily to where the Colonel still shouted up the entrance.

Outside there was the sound of many footsteps, and the girl paused just

behind the cursing maniac in the door.

"So you will look after me, will you, monsieur?" Her voice rose clear

above the noise, and the man turned round, his malignant face

quivering. The Kid watched it fascinated, and suddenly he saw it

change. "I think not," went on the same clear voice; and the guttural

cry of fear rang out simultaneously with the sharp crack of a revolver.

"My God!" Rutter stood watching the crumpling figure as it slipped to

the ground in front of the girl; and then with a great cry he sprang

forward. And with that cry, which seemed to ring through his brain,

there came the power of movement to the Kid. He hurled himself off the

bed towards the girl--his girl--his lady of the jasmine. But he was

too late. The second shot was even truer than the first, and as her

head hit the floor she was dead.

Regardless of Rutter the Kid knelt down beside her, and as he did so,

he got it--in the face.

"What the blazes are you doing?" roared an infuriated voice. "Damn

you! you young fool--you've nearly killed me."

Stupefied the boy looked around. The same dug-out; the same officers

of B company; the same beer bottles; but where was the lady of the

jasmine? Where was the man who lay dead in the doorway? Where was

Rutter?

He blinked foolishly, and looked round to find the lamp still burning

and his brother officers roaring with laughter. All, that is, except

the Doctor on whose stomach he had apparently landed.

But the Kid was not to be put off by laughter. "I tell you it happened

in this very dug-out," he cried excitedly. "She killed the swine in

the doorway there, and then she killed herself. This is where she

fell, Doc, just where you're lying, and her head hit the wall there.

Look, there's a board there, nailed over the wall--where her head went.

Don't laugh, you fool! don't laugh--it happened. I dreamed it. I know

that now; but it happened for all that--before the big advance. I tell

you she had light golden hair--ah! look." The Doctor had prised off

the board, and there on the wall an ominous red stain showed dull in

the candlelight. Slowly the Doctor bent down and picked up something

with his fingers. Getting up he laid it on the table. And when the

officers of B Company had looked at it, the laughter ceased. It was a

little wisp of light golden hair--and the end was thick and clotted.

"To-morrow, Kid, you can tell us the yarn," said the Doctor quietly.

"Just now you're going to have a quarter-grain of sleep dope and go to

bed again."

* * * * * *

The following evening the officers of B Company, less the Kid, who was

out, sat round the table and talked.

"What do you make of it, Doc?" asked the Company Commander. "Do you

really think there is anything in the Kid's yarn? I mean, we know he

dreamed it--but do you think it's true? I suppose that tired as he was

he would be in a receptive mood for his imagination to run riot."

For a long while the Doctor puffed stolidly at his pipe without

answering. Then he leaned forward and put his hand in his pocket.

"Imagination, you say. Do you call that imagination?" He produced the

lock of hair from a matchbox. "Further, do you call that imagination?

I found it under the pillow this morning." On the table beside the

match-box he placed a small pocket handkerchief, and from it there came

the faint, elusive scent of jasmine. "And last of all, do you call

that imagination? I found it in one of the books yonder." He placed

an old envelope in front of him, and the others crowded round. It was

addressed to Ober-Lieutenant Fritz Rutter.

VI

MORPHIA

The man stirred uneasily, and a faint moan came from his lips. A

numbness seemed to envelop his body from the waist downwards, and in

the intervals of a stabbing pain in his head, he seemed to hear people

whispering near by. A figure passed close to him, the figure of a girl

with fair hair, in a grey dress--the figure of a girl like Molly. A

red-hot iron stabbed his brain; his teeth clenched on his lips; he

fought with all his will, but once again he moaned; he couldn't help

it--it was involuntary. The girl stopped and came towards him; she was

speaking to him, for he heard her voice. But what was she saying? Why

did she speak so indistinctly? Why--ah, but her hand on his forehead

was cool. It seemed to quiet those raging devils in his head; it

helped him, as Molly always helped him. It seemed to--why, surely, it

must be Molly herself, with her dear, soft touch, and her lips ready to

kiss, and the sweet smell of her hair mounting to his brain like wine.

Something pricked his arm: something that felt like the needle of a

syringe; something that . . . But anyway, what the deuce was she

doing? Then suddenly he recalled that pin at the back of her dress,

where he'd pricked his wrist so badly the first time he'd kissed her.

He laughed gently at the remembrance; and the hand on his forehead

trembled. For laughter to be a pleasant thing to hear it is essential

that the person who laughs should be in full possession of--well, it is

better, at any rate, that his head should not have been hit by a bomb,

especially if it was his lower jaw that bore the brunt.

"What are you trembling for, Molly?" The voice was tender. "The pain

has quite gone--I must have had a touch of the sun."

But for a question to be answered it must be audible; and the girl

whose hand was on his forehead heard no words. Merely was there a

great and wonderful pity in her eyes, for the remnant--the torn-up

remnant--who had fought and suffered for her. And the remnant, well,

he was way back in the Land of Has-been. Did I not say that the pin

was at the back of Molly's waist?

The woods were just at their best, with the glorious yellow and brown

of early autumn, touched with the gold of the setting sun. In a

clearing a boy was sitting on a fallen tree-trunk, puffing furiously at

a cigarette. Twice had the smoke gone the wrong way, and once had it

got into his eyes; but when one is aged sixteen such trifles are merely

there to be overcome. The annoying thing was that he was still engaged

in absorbing the overflowing moisture from his eyes, with a

handkerchief of doubtful cleanliness, when a girl came into the glade

and started to laugh.

"There's no good pretending, Billy. The smoke has got into your eyes,

and your handkerchief is dirty, and you aren't impressing me in the

slightest."