little sheepish.
"Indeed! Then if I'm not wanted, I'll go away again."
"No, no, Molly--don't do that." The boy rose eagerly, and went towards
her. Then he stopped awkwardly, and putting his hands in his pocket,
fidgeted with his feet.
"Well--why not?" The girl smiled provokingly. "And what are you
hopping about for? Are you going to try to learn to dance, as I
suggested?"
"I will if you will teach me, Molly--dear." He took a step forward
eagerly--and then paused again, aghast at the audacity of that "dear."
Something in the cool, fresh young girl standing so easily in front of
him, smiling with faint derision, seemed to knock on the head all that
carefully thought out plan which had matured in his mind during the
silent watches of the previous night. It had all seemed so easy then.
Johnson major's philosophy on life in general and girls in particular
was one thing in the abstract, and quite another when viewed in the
concrete, with a real, live specimen to practice on. And yet Johnson
major was a man of much experience--and a prefect of some standing at
school.
"My dear fellows," he had said on one occasion when holding the floor
in his study, "I don't want to brag, and _we_ do not speak about these
things." The accent on the _we_ had been wonderful. It implied
membership of that great body of youthful dare-devils to whom the wiles
of women present no terrors. "But women, my dear fellows, why--good
lord, there's nothing in it when one knows the way to manage them.
They adore being kissed--provided it's done the right way. And if you
don't know the right way instinctively, it comes with practice, old
boy, it comes with practice." Billy had listened in awe, though
preserving sufficient presence of mind to agree with the speaker in
words of suitable nonchalance.
Of course, Johnson major must have been right; but, devil take it,
there seemed remarkably little instinct available at the present
moment; and up to date in Billy's career, practice in the proper
procedure had been conspicuous by its absence.
"I think you're rather dull to-day." The girl was speaking again, and
there was more than a hint of laughter in her voice. "What's the
matter with you? Has that cigarette made you feel sick?"
"Certainly not. I--er--oh, Molly, I----"
The desperate words trembled on his lips--trembled and died away under
the laughter in her eyes.
"Yes?" she murmured inquiringly. "What is it, Billy?"
Oh, woman, woman! Just sixteen, but at two you have learned the
beginnings of the book of Eve.
"I--er--I--oh, dash it, let's go for a walk!" With a gasp of relief he
swung on his heel; the fatal plunge had been put off for a little; he
hadn't made a fool of himself--yet, at any rate. "Do you mind if I
smoke?"
"Not if you don't." The girl was walking demurely beside him, down the
narrow lane carpeted with its first layers of auburn brown. "Are you
sure it's wise? Two so close together might not be good for you."
Two close together--not good for him! Absurd; it was nothing to what
he was accustomed to, and yet--why, his head was throbbing, throbbing
as he looked at the girl beside him? What was that distant noise like
the slow beating of a mighty drum, that seemed to quiver and vibrate in
the air till it filled his brain with a great rush of sound, and then
sobbed away into silence? What was the matter with his right hand that
it burned and twitched so ceaselessly? Surely he hadn't burnt himself
with the cigarette! He looked down to see, but somehow things were
indistinct. It almost seemed as if he hadn't got a hand; the woods
were hazy--Molly seemed far away. In her place was a man, a man with a
stubby growth on his chin, a man who bent over him and muttered
something.
"Gawd, Ginger, the poor devil ain't dead neither! Lift him up
carefully. There's his right arm over there, and his back---- Oh, my
gawd! Poor devil!"
Thus had the battalion stretcher-bearers found him the day before. . . .
The man became irritable.
"Go away at once! Can't you see I'm with a lady. Molly, dear, where
are you? What is this dirty-looking fellow doing here at all?"
But Molly for the moment seemed aloof. He saw her there, standing in
the path in front of him--so close and yet somehow so curiously far
away.
"Molly, do you hear that noise--that strange beating in the air? I
think I'm going to be ill. Perhaps two close together are too much."
But no--apparently not. Suddenly everything was clear again, and there
was Molly with the autumn wind blowing the soft tendrils of hair back
from the nape of her neck; Molly, with the skirt that betokens the
half-way period between flapperhood and coming out; Molly, with her
lithe young figure half turned from him as she watched the sun sinking
over the distant hills.
"They adore being kissed." The words of the wonderful Johnson major
were ringing in his brain as he watched her, and suddenly something
surged up within him. What matter rules and theories? What matter
practice? There is only one way to kiss a girl, and rules and theories
avail not one jot. With a quick step he had her in his arms, and, with
his pulses hammering with the wonder of it, he watched her face come
round to his. He kissed her cheek, her eyes, her mouth--shyly at
first, and then with gathering confidence as a boy should kiss a girl.
The sweetness of it, the newness of it, the eternal joy of a woman in a
man's arms for the first time! Surely it had never been quite like
that with any one else before. Of course, other people kissed,
but--this was different. Suddenly the girl disengaged her arms and
wound them gently round his neck. She pulled his head towards her, and
kissed him again and again, while he felt her heart beating against his
coat.
"Billy, my dear!"
Almost he missed the whispered words coming faintly from somewhere in
the neighbourhood of his tie.
"Molly--Molly, darling--I love you!"
The boy's voice was shaky, his grip almost crushed her.
"Do you, Billy? I'm so glad! I want you to love me,
because--because----"
She looked at him shyly.
"Say it, sweetheart, say it." He held her at arm's-length--no longer
bashful, no longer wondering whether he dared; but insistent,
imperious, a young god for the moment. "Because what?"
"Because I love you too, you darling!"
Once again she was in his arms, once again did time cease, while the
lengthening shadows stole softly towards them; and a squirrel,
emboldened by their stillness, watched for a while with indulgent eyes.
At last the girl gently turned away, and the boy's arms fell to his
side.
"Molly, you've got a pin in your waistband. Look, you've pricked my
wrist."
"Billy, my dear, let me do it up. Why didn't you tell me, you poor old
boy?"
"I didn't notice it, I didn't even feel it, you darling."
The boy laughed gladly as she bound his handkerchief round the wounded
arm; and, bending forward, kissed her neck, just where the hair left
it, just where--but what had happened? Where was she? She had gone,
the trees had gone, the sun had set, and it was dark, terribly dark.
Once again that mighty drum beat close by, and voices came dimly
through a haze to the man's brain. Some one was touching him, a finger
was probing gently over his head, a sentence came to him as if from a
vast distance.
"Good God! Poor devil! If we have to go we must leave him. Any
movement would kill him at once."
"I won't have you touching the bandage that Molly has put on!" said the
man angrily. "My wrist will be quite all right; it's absurd to make a
fuss about a pin-prick."
And perhaps because there are sounds to which no man can listen
unmoved, the quiet-faced doctor drew out his hypodermic syringe. The
girl with the grey dress, her steps lagging a little with utter
physical weariness, paused at the foot of his bed, and waited with an
encouraging smile.
"Molly," he cried eagerly, "come and talk to me! I've been dreaming
about you."
But she merely continued to smile at him, though in her eyes there was
the sadness of a divine pity. Then once again something pricked his
arm. A great silence seemed to come down on him like a pall, a silence
that was tangible, in which strange faces passed before him in a
jumbled procession. They seemed to swing past like fishes drifting
across the glass window of an aquarium--ghostly, mysterious, and yet
very real. A man in a dirty grey uniform, with a bloodstained bandage
round his forehead, who leered at him; Chilcote, his company commander,
who seemed to be shouting and cheering and waving his arm; a sergeant
of his platoon, with a grim smile on his face, who held a rifle with a
fixed bayonet that dripped.
"All right, Chilcote," he shouted, "we'll have the swine out in a
minute!"
But Chilcote had gone, and through the silence came a muffled roar.
"The drum again!" he muttered irritably. "What the devil is the good
of trying to surprise the Huns if we have the band with us! You don't
want a band when you're attacking a village! A band is for marching
to, and dancing, not for fighting." Of course, if it was going to
continue playing, they might just as well have a dance, and be done
with it. He laughed a little. "You've had too much champagne for
supper, my boy," he soliloquised. "What do you mean by 'might as well
have a dance'? Can't you see that awe-inspiring gentleman in the red
coat is on the point of striking up now?" He looked across the room, a
room that seemed a trifle hazy, and thought hard. Surely he hadn't had
too much to drink, and yet the people were so vague and unreal? And
why the deuce did a ballroom band have a big drum? He gave it up after
a moment, and silently watched the scene.
He remembered now quite clearly, and with an amused laugh at his
momentary forgetfulness, he looked at his programme. The third supper
extra was just beginning, and two dances after that he had four in
succession with Molly--the fateful hour when he had determined to try
his luck.
At present she was having supper with a nasty-looking man, with long
hair and an eyeglass, who was reputed to be a rising politician, in the
running for an under-secretaryship, and was also reputed to be in love
with Molly. He looked savagely round the room, and, having failed to
discover them, he strolled to the bar to get a drink.
"Hallo, Billy; not dancing? She loves me; she loves me not! Cheer up,
dearie!"
An inane-looking ass raised his whisky-and-soda to his lips with a
fatuous cackle.
"I wonder they don't have a home for people like you, Jackson,"
remarked Billy curtly. "Whisky-and-soda, please."
He gave his order to the waiter and lit a cigarette. He hardly heard
what the irrepressible Jackson was saying, but allowed him to babble on
in peace while his thoughts centred on Molly. How absolutely sweet she
was looking in that shimmering, gauzy stuff that just went with her
hair, and showed off her figure to perfection! If only she said "yes,"
he'd arrange the party going back in the cars so that he got her alone
in the two-seater. If only--good lord, would the dance never come?
He looked up, and saw her passing into the ball-room with her supper
partner; and, as he did so, she looked half round and caught his eye.
Just a second, no more; but on her lips had trembled the faintest
suspicion of a smile--a smile that caused his heart to beat madly with
hope, a smile that said things. He sat back in his chair and the hand
that held his glass trembled a little.
"I don't believe you've been listening to me, Billy." The egregious
Jackson emitted a plaintive wail. "I don't believe you've heard a word
I said."
"Perfectly correct in both statements, dear boy!" Billy rose abruptly
to his feet and smacked him on the back. "One must give up something
in Lent, you know."
"But it isn't Lent." Jackson looked aggrieved. "And you've made me
spill my drink."
But he spoke to the empty air and a melancholy waiter, for Billy was
back in the ballroom, waiting. . . .
"You smiled at me, lady, a while ago," he said softly in her ear, as
they swung gently through the crowded room. "I thought it was a smile
that said things. Was thy servant very presumptuous in thus reading
his queen's glance? Confound you, sir; that's my back!"
He glared furiously at a bull-necked thruster in a pink coat.
"Hush, Billy!" laughed the girl, as they lost him in the crowd.
"That's our master!"
"I don't care a hang who he is, but he's rammed one of my brace-buttons
into my spine! He's the sort of man who knocks you down and tramples
on your face, after supper!"
For a few moments they continued in silence, perhaps the two best
dancers in the room, and gradually she seemed to come closer to him, to
give herself up entirely to him, until, as in a dream, they moved like
one being and the music softly died away. For a moment the man stood
still, pressing the girl close to him, and then, with a slight sigh
that was almost one of pain, he let her go.
"Are you glad I taught you to dance?" she asked laughingly; while the
room shouted for an encore.
"Glad," he whispered, "glad! Ah! my lady, my lady, to dance with you
is the nearest approach to heaven that we poor mortals may have. For
all that"--he steered her swiftly through the expectant couples towards
a door covered with a curtain--"I want an answer to a question I asked
you just before my spine was broken!" He held up the curtain for her
to pass through, and piloted her to an easy-chair hidden behind some
screens in a discreetly lighted room. "Did your smile say things, my
lady? Did you tell me something as you went into the ballroom with
that long-haired lawyer?"
"My dear boy, I wasn't smiling at you! I was smiling at that nice Mr.
Jackson man."
"Molly, you're a liar! You know you hate that ass; you told me so
yourself yesterday!"
"All the more reason to smile at him. Billy, give me a cigarette."
She leaned towards him slightly as he offered her his case, and their
eyes met. Her breath came a little quicker as she read the message
blazing out of his, and then she looked away again. "And a match,
please," she continued quietly.
"Confound the match and the cigarette, too!" His voice was shaking.
"Molly, Molly, I know I'm mad! I know it's just the height of idiocy
from a so-called worldly point of view, but I can't help it. I've
tried and struggled; I've been away for two years and haven't seen you.
But, oh! my dear, the kisses you gave me when you were a flapper,
before you came out, before your mother got this bee in her bonnet
about some big marriage for you--those kisses are still burning my
lips. I can feel them now, princess, and the remembrance of 'em drives
me mad! I know I'm asking you to chuck your mother's ambitions; I know
I've got nothing to offer you, except the old name, which doesn't count
for much these days. But, oh! my lady, I just worship the very ground
you walk on. Is there just a chance for me? I'd simply slave for you,
if you'd let me!"
Through the closed door came stealing the soft music of a waltz, while
from another corner came the sound of a whispered tête-à-tête. Very
still was the girl as she sat in the big arm-chair, with the man
pleading passionately at her side. Once she caught her breath quickly
when he recalled the time gone by--the time before her mother's
political ambitions had ruthlessly waged war on her, and done their
best to drive Nature out of her outlook on life; and, when he had
finished speaking, she gave a little tired smile.
"Billy boy," she whispered, "is that how you've felt about it all this
while?"
He made no answer, but, stretching out his hands, he took hold of her
two wrists.
"You've really remembered those kisses when we were kids?" she went on
softly.
"Remembered them? Dear heavens, my lady, I wouldn't lose that
remembrance for untold wealth! It's been with me in Alaska; it's been
with me in Hong Kong. I've woken up at nights with the feel of your
lips on mine, and all the glory of you, and the sweetness; and it's
helped me on when everything was black, and made things bright when the
world was rotten!" With a bitter sigh he took his hands away and sat
back in his chair. "And I've failed! Jove! the wild schemes and the
plans, the golden visions and the Eldorados--all failed. Just a little
money, just enough to have a burst in England, just enough to be able
to see you. And then it slipped out. Lady, dear, I never meant to
before I came to the Towers. I knew you were there, but I never meant
to ask you. Wash it out, my princess; wash it out! I haven't said a
word. You've been teaching me a new step; let's go back and dance.
I've been mad this evening, and, unless we go back and dance, I can't
guarantee remaining sane!"
But the girl made no move. With parted lips she swayed towards him,
while he watched her, with the veins standing out on his forehead.
"Billy--I don't care; I'm mad, too!" The scent she used was mounting
to his brain--the nearness of her was driving him mad.
"Molly, get back to that ballroom; get back quick, or----" He spoke
through his clenched teeth.
"Or what, Billy boy?" She smiled deliciously.
And then he kissed her: a kiss that seemed to draw her soul to her
lips: a kiss that lifted him until he travelled through endless spaces
in a great aching void where time and distance ceased, and nothing
happened save a wonderful ecstasy, and ever and anon the mighty booming
of a giant drum.
He seemed to be treading on air, and though the ballroom had vanished,
and the discreet apartment with shaded lights had faded away, yet he
was very conscious of the nearness of his girl. But just now, he could
not see her--she eluded him, leaving an ever-present feeling that she
would be waiting for him round the next of those intangible masses he
seemed to be drifting through.
"You don't mind waiting, my princess?" he murmured ceaselessly. "After
this war it will all come right. Just now I've got to go--I must go
out there; but afterwards, it will all come right--and we'll live in a
house in the country and grow cabbages and pigs. You'll wait, you say?
Ah! my dear, my dear; it's sweet of you; but perhaps you ought to have
married the lawyer man. You might have been Mrs. Prime Minister one of
these days."
For a while the tired brain refused to act; the man felt himself
falling into unplumbed depths--depths which echoed with monstrous
reverberations.
"Molly, where are you, dear? It's cold, and my head is throbbing to
beat the band. If only that cursed drum would stop! Do you hear it
echoing through the air? And the noise hurts--hurts like hell, Molly.
Ah! Heaven, but it's cold; and I can't see you, my lady; I don't know
where you are."
Once again he became conscious of figures moving around him. They
seemed to be carrying motionless men past his feet--men on stretchers
covered with blankets. With staring eyes he watched the proceeding,
trying to understand what was happening. In front of him was a window
in which the glass had been smashed, leaving great jagged pieces
sticking out from the sides of the frame. He wondered vaguely why it
had been left in such a dangerous condition; when he and Molly had
their house such a thing would never be allowed to happen--if it did it
would be mended at once. He asked one of the passing figures what had
caused the damage, and when he got no answer he angrily repeated the
question.
He fretted irritably because no one seemed to take any notice of him,
and suddenly his head began throbbing worse than ever. But the hazy
indistinctness was gone; the man was acutely conscious of everything
around him. Memory had come back, and he knew where he was and why he
was there. He remembered the fierce artillery bombardment; he recalled
getting over the parapet, out on to the brown shell-pocked earth,
sodden and heavy with the drenching rain; he recalled the steady
shamble over the ground with boots so coated with wet mud that they
seemed to drag him back. Then clear in his mind came the picture of
Chilcote cheering, shouting, lifting them on to the ruins of what once
had been a village; he saw Chilcote falter, stop, and, with a curious
spinning movement, crash forward on to his face; he saw the Germans--he
saw fierce-faced men like animals at bay, snarling, fighting; he heard
once again that trembling cry of "_Kamerade_"; and then--a blank. The
amazing thing was that it was all jumbled up with Molly. He seemed to
have been with her lately--and yet she couldn't have been out there
with him. He puzzled a bit, and then gave it up: it hurt his head so
terribly to think. He just lay still, gazing fixedly at the jagged,
torn pane of glass. . . .
"They are all out, Doctor, except this one."
A woman was speaking close beside him, and his eyes slowly travelled
round in the direction of the voice. It was another woman--a woman he
hadn't seen before--swaying slightly as if she would drop.
"Good heavens! it's Billy Saunders!"
A man in khaki was bending over him--a man whom he recognised as a
civilian doctor he'd known at home--a man, moreover, who knew Molly.
"Do you know me, old chap?"
"Of course," answered the man. "What's all the trouble?"
The doctor bit his lip, and the man noticed his hand clench hard. Then
there started a low-voiced conversation, a conversation to which he
listened attentively--his hearing seemed abnormally acute.
"Has he spoken since he's been in, sister?"
"No--only those dreadful moans. The whole of his face--absolutely
hopeless--spinal cord."
The man lying motionless caught the disjointed words. What did they
mean? They were mad--insane. Dying? He--Billy Saunders! What about
Molly--his Molly? What about. . . . Gentle fingers once again touched
his head, and, looking up, he saw the doctor's eyes fixed on his.
"They're shelling the hospital, dear old man; we've got to get----
Great Scott, look out!"
Like the moan of a giant insect, the shrill whine came through the air,
rising to an overwhelming scream. There was a deafening crash--a great
hole was torn in the wall just by the window with the jagged pane, and
the room filled with stifling black fumes. A sudden agonising stab,
and the man, looking up, saw Molly in front of him. She was standing
in the acrid smoke--beckoning.
"I'm coming, dear, I'm coming!" he cried; "it's good of you to have
waited, girl of mine--so good."
* * * * * *
"Are you hurt, sister?" The doctor, who had been crouching by the bed,
stood up.
"Not touched, thank you." She was white and shaking. "Did you hear
the bits whizzing through the room?"
"I did," remarked the doctor grimly, holding out an arm from which the
blood already dripped. "And I felt one of them too. But there's no
time to lose--I don't know what to do about him, poor old chap."
He turned once again to the bed, and even as he turned he knew that the
decision had been made for him: and he thanked the Maker. Billy
Saunders had also felt a bit--a jagged bit--through the heart.
VII
BENDIGO JONES--HIS TREE
My story--such as it is--concerns a camouflage tree and Bendigo Jones:
both of which--or whom--will require a little more introduction. That
Bendigo would indignantly repudiate any such necessity, I am fully
aware; nevertheless, even at the risk of offending him, I propose to
outline briefly his claims to greatness, before embarking on the
incident in his military career which forms the subject of these pages.
First however--the camouflage tree. It is only meet that the material
and sordid details of the stage properties should be given, before
branching into any discussion of the capabilities of the actor. The
phrase, then, does not imply--as the ignorant might possibly be led to
believe--a new type of tree. It does not grow in the tropics amongst a
riotous tangle of pungent undergrowth; it does not creak sadly in the
north wind on the open hill. It shelters not the hibiscus anthropoid,
it gives not lodging to the two-tailed newt. From a botanical point of
view, the tree is a complete and utter frost. It is, in point of hard
and bitter fact, not a tree at all.
"Camouflage" is that which conceals: it is a fraud, and speaketh not
the truth. I am not even certain whether it is a noun or a
preposition, but the point is immaterial. Along with other canons of
military matters, its virtue lies in its application rather than in its
etymology. What the eye doth not see the trench mortars do not trouble
is as true to-day as when Noah first mentioned the fact; and camouflage
is the application of this mighty dictum.
The value of any particular piece of camouflage depends entirely on its
capability for deceit; but to the youthful enthusiast I would speak a
word of warning. I have in mind the particular case of young Angus
MacTaggart, a lad from Glasgow, with freckles and a sunny disposition.
He was a sapper by trade, and on his shoulders there devolved, on one
occasion, the job of covering a trench mortar emplacement with a
camouflage of wire and grass which would screen the hole in which sat
the mortar from the prying gaze of Hun aeroplanes. It was a deep hole,
for the mortar was large; and the screen of wire was fastened to a
framework of wood. When the gun wished to do its morning hate, a
pessimistic individual first scoured the heavens with his glasses in
search of Hun planes. If the scouring revealed nothing, the screen was
lowered, and the gun was made ready. Then the detachment faded away,
and the gun was fired by a man of great personal bravery by means of a
long string. Ever since the first trench mortars, which consisted of a
piece of piping down which a jam-tin bomb was dropped, in the hopes
that when the charge at the bottom was lighted, the bomb would again
emerge, I have regarded trench mortars as dangerous and unpleasant
objects, and the people who deal with them as persons of a high order
of courage. One remembers the times when the bomb did not emerge, but
stuck half way and exploded violently; one remembers when the entire
gun fell over and propelled the bomb in the direction of battalion
headquarters; above all, one remembers the loathing and contumely with
which the mere arrival of the trench mortar in any part of the trenches
was greeted. Then there was no attempt at camouflage; one's sole
endeavour was to avoid being killed by the beastly thing.
To return, however, to Angus. Though of a sunny disposition, as I have
said, he was a somewhat earnest individual--and thorough withal. He
determined that as a camouflage, _his_ should stand pre-eminent; it
should be the model and pattern of all camouflages. He succeeded.
Labouring at night--largely with his own fair hands--he produced a
screen cunningly woven with grasses and weeds which he swore would defy
the most lynx-eyed pilot. He even went so far as to place in the
centre of it a large bunch of nettles, which he contended gave it an
air of insouciance and lightheartedness that had been lacking before.
Now, as I mentioned above, the value of camouflage depends on its
capability for deceit; and it is by this criterion that I claim his
work as a success. It should be added, however, in no uncertain tones,
that it is the Germans whom one is desirous of deceiving, and that is
where my warning to the youthful enthusiast comes in.
The thing came too quickly for warning. Suddenly from above the
inhabitants of the hole, with whom Angus was consuming a midday glass
of port, was heard the voice: "It must be somewhere about here, sir, I
think." The voice was right--it was.
They came through in a phalanx of fire, and descended abruptly on the
detachment below. It was a magnificent compliment to the work, but it
was unfortunate that the General should have been the one to consume
the nettles. However, I have always thought that Angus's voice of
disgust as he contemplated the wreckage of his screen did not improve
matters.
"The door," he remarked, with painful distinctness, "is full of
possibilities." With that he left.
I trust the moral of my digression is obvious. . . . Having then, in a
few well-chosen phrases, discussed one type of camouflage, I would pass
on and lead the thirster for information still farther into the
by-paths of knowledge. Just as there are many and divers types of
deceit, varying from that which conceals what is, to that which exposes
what is not--involved that last, but think it out--so are there many
types of camouflage. And the particular one with which I am concerned,
deals with a tree.
On a certain slight eminence in what was otherwise a flat and dreary
outlook, there stood the stump of a tree. It was a tired stump,
strongly reminiscent of the morning after. It had had a hard life, and
much of its pristine glory had faded. No longer did the sprightly
sparrow chirrup cheerfully to its young from leafy branches; no longer
did cattle recline in its shade during the heat of the day. It was
just a stump--a stump complete with splinters.
Its sole claim to notoriety lay in its position. It commanded a view
of the German lines which was not to be had elsewhere; in fact, from
the eminence on which it stood you could obtain the only good
observation of the opposite trenches in that particular sector of the
line.
It was the Brigade Major who first suggested the idea in the fertile
brain of the C.R.E. of the Division, who happened to be talking to him
at the moment. They were in the support line trenches, and close to
where they stood, the tree--gaunt, repulsive and toothpicky--raised its
stunted head to heaven.
"What a pity that tree ain't hollow!" ruminated the Staff officer
thoughtfully. "Splendid view from it of the Huns. Can't do anything
in that line, can you, Colonel?"
The C.R.E. thoughtfully considered the proposition. "Afraid not, old
boy," he answered after a few moments' deliberation. "Bit of a job
hollowing out a tree. All the same, you're quite right. It would make
a great O.P."
"Why not make another down in your yard, and put it up instead?" The
Brigadier joined in the discussion. "We must have better observation
in this sector if we possibly can."
"Cut this one down one night and put up a dummy in its place." The
C.R.E once again considered the wretched stump. "Not a bad idea,
General; the only question is who is to do it. It will have to be a
good model, or the Huns will spot the difference; and . . ." Suddenly
his face cleared. "By Jove! I've got it--Bendigo Jones. He's the man
for the job."
"And who the deuce is Bendigo Jones?" asked the General, as the Sapper
rapidly jotted down something in his note-book. "He sounds like a
prize fighter or the inventor of a patent medicine."
"Bendigo Jones, General, is my latest acquisition. I have it on no
less an authority than his own that he is a very remarkable man. I
gather that he is futurist by inclination, and dyspeptic by nature,
which I take to be a more or less natural sequence of events. At
present he adorns my office, and looks intense."
"He sounds rather like a disease," murmured the Brigade Major. "From
what you say, I gather he considers himself an artist."
"He sculpts, or whatever a sculptor does when he gets busy." The
Colonel smiled gently. "How he ever blew out here I cannot imagine,
but these things will occur. I offended him mortally, I regret to say,
the first day he arrived, by confessing that I had never even heard his
name, much less seen his work, but I think he's forgiven me. I allowed
him to arrange the timber yard to-day more aesthetically, and the
Sergeant-major thinks he is soft in the head, so Bendigo is supremely
happy."
"He sounds a perfect treasure," remarked the Brigadier drily.
"However, as long as he models that tree and we get it up somehow, and
I never see him, I shall be quite happy, old boy."
"It shall be done," answered the C.R.E., "by our little Bendy himself.
A life-size, hollow camouflage stump shall replace the original,
complete with peephole and seat."
Thus lightly was settled the immediate future of one of the world's
great ones. In view, however, of the fact that the world is so often
lamentably ignorant of greatness, it now becomes necessary for me to
carry out my second introduction and enlighten the Philistines as to
what they have missed by their miserable and sordid materialism.
Be it known then that for several years Bendigo Jones had been in the
habit of inflicting upon a long-suffering and inoffensive public a
series of lumps of material. What these lumps were supposed to
represent no one has yet discovered; and I am given to understand that
unless the proud perpetrator noted it himself on completion, he too was
usually unable to elucidate the mystery. It was not of great account,
as he ran not the slightest risk of contradiction whatever he said; and
as no person ever willingly went twice to his exhibitions, he could
vary the title daily without fear of discovery. Another great point
about his work was its many-sidedness. A lump looked at from one side
would perhaps represent "Pelican with young," while on the other "The
Children's Hour, or six o'clock at Mud View Villa," would be depicted.
This, needless to say, economised greatly in space and matter; and in
case any special exhibit failed to arrive in time, or was thrown away
by mistake, an old one turned upside down at once remedied the defect.
His nearest approach to fame occurred during the period which followed
the perpetration of his celebrated "Mother with her Child." It was
announced that the gifted sculptor had worked on it for five years; and
a certain amount of light was thrown on his methods by an interview he
managed to get published in some obscure journal.
"Rising with a hoarse cry," ran this effusion, "Mr. Bendigo Jones
hurled himself at his work. With a single blow he removed a
protuberance, and then sank back exhausted.
"'You see the difference,' he cried, 'you see how I have altered her
expression.'
"'Whose?' I murmured dazedly.
"'Why, the face of the woman. Ah! dolt, blockhead, have you no
eyes--have you no soul?'
"'But you told me that was a church at sunset,' I remonstrated feebly.
"'What has that to do with it?' he shouted. 'It is what I like to make
it, fool. What is a name? Nothing--a bagatelle. I have changed my
mind every day for the last five years, and now my life's work is
done--done.'
"Mr. Bendigo Jones sobbed quietly, and I stole away. It was not for me
to gaze on such grief. And as I went through the open window I heard
his final whisper.
"'It shall be none of these things. I will pander to vile
utilitarianism. It shall be--"A City Magnate at Lunch."'"
It may be remembered that when it was finally put on view in London,
enormous interest was aroused by an enterprising weekly paper offering
prizes to the extent of a thousand pounds to any one who could guess
what it was; and though Bendigo Jones's pocket was helped considerably
by his percentage of the gate money, his pride suffered considerably
when the answers were made public. They ranged from, "Model of the
first steam engine when out of control," to "An explosion of a ship at
sea," both of which happy efforts gained a bag of nuts. The answer
adjudged most nearly correct was sent in by a Fulham butcher, who
banked on "Angry gentleman quarrelling with his landlord on
quarter-day": which at any rate had the merit of making it human.
But I have digressed enough; I will return to my sad story. How our
friend ever did arrive in France is as much of a mystery to me as it
was to the Colonel; presumably a ruthless government, having decided it
required men, roped him in along with the other lesser lights. The
fiat went forth, and so did Bendigo--mildly protesting: to adorn in the
fullness of time the office of the C.R.E. of whom I have spoken. And
he was sitting there exhausted by his labours in helping the
Sergeant-major rearrange the timber yard aesthetically, when a message
arrived that the Colonel wished to speak to him.
"I understand, Jones, that you are a sculptor," remarked that officer
genially, as our hero entered the office. "Now, can you model a tree?"
Bendigo gazed dreamily out of the window. "A tree," he murmured at
length. "A little, beautiful tree. Green with the verdant loveliness
of youth . . . green . . . green."
"It isn't," snapped the Colonel. "It's brown, and damned hideous, and
full of splinters."
"Only to the eye of unbelief, sir." The sculptor regarded him
compassionately. "To us--to those who can see things as they ought to
be--more, as they spiritually are . . . it is different."
A door closed somewhat hastily, and the sounds from the next room
seemed to indicate that the Adjutant's cough was again troubling him.
The Colonel however remained calm.
"I have no doubt, Jones," he remarked dispassionately, "that what you
have just said has some meaning. It is even remotely possible that you
know what it means yourself. I don't; and I do not propose to try. I
propose, on the other hand, to descend to the sordid details of what I
wish you to do. You will commence without delay." He leaned back in
his chair, and proceeded to fill his pipe.
"Up the line there is a tree stump standing on rising ground, which I
wish you to copy. The model must be sufficiently good to deceive the
Germans. It will be hollow, and of such a size as will accommodate an
observer. The back will be hinged. When your model is made, the real
tree stump will be removed one night and the sham one substituted. Do
you follow me?"
It is more than doubtful if he even heard. A slight attack of
dyspepsia shook him as the Colonel finished speaking, and he passed his
hands twice through his hair. "The thought--the future vista--is
beautiful," he murmured. "And think; think of the advertisement.
To-morrow, sir, I will gaze upon it, and fashion it in clay. Then I
will return and commence the great work."
He faded slowly through the door; and after a long pause the Colonel
spoke. "I wonder," he remarked thoughtfully to the Adjutant who had
returned: "I wonder why such things are. . . ."
* * * * * *
I am given to understand that the arrival of Bendigo Jones at the scene
of his labours the next morning caused such a sensation amongst those
privileged to witness the spectacle that the entire trench was blocked
for two hours. To only a chosen band was vouchsafed the actual sight
of the genius at work; the remainder had to be content with absorbing
his remarks as they were passed down the expectant line. And it was
doubtless unfortunate that the Divisional General should have chosen
the particular moment when the divine fire of genius was at its
brightest to visit the support line in company with his G.S.O.I. and a
galaxy of other bright and shining luminaries of the military world.
"What is the meaning of this extraordinary crush in the trench this
morning?" he remarked irritably to his Staff officer, as the procession
was again held up by a knot of interested men.
"I really don't know, sir," murmured that worthy. "It's most unusual;
it's . . ."
His words were drowned by howls of delighted laughter from round the
traverse in front, and the next moment a perspiring soldier forced his
way into the bay where the great ones were temporarily wedged. It was
the special runner who was carrying the latest gem from the lips of
Bendigo--at work a little farther up--to the expectant and breathless
audience.
"Hay! little sandbag! Ho! little sandbag! 'Ow beautiful hart thou in
textchah."
"Go on, Bill. Did the perisher say that?" An incredulous member of
the group looked doubtful.
"Did 'e say it?" The carrier of news looked scornfully at the doubter.
"Did 'e say it? Lumme! 'E said it twice, and then he buried 'is mug
in its loverly fragrant surface, and pricked his nose on Ginger's
bayonet. 'E's mad, boys; 'e's as mad as a plurry 'atter; 'e's got bats
in 'is belfry."
Now, in spite of what I know of Bendigo Jones, I must admit that this
reputed remark taxes even my credulity. Mad he undoubtedly was when
viewed by the sordid standards of the vandals around him, but this
inspiring ode to a sandbag grew somewhat, I cannot but help thinking,
in the transmission. The regrettable thing was that it should have
reached this stage when it was unwittingly presented to the Divisional
General.
"Gangway!" he roared, as the hilarity remained unabated: "gangway!" He
elbowed his way through the suddenly silent throng and confronted the
special runner. "Now, my man, tell me--what is all this tommy rot
about?"
"Bloke farther up the trenches, sir, wot don't seem quite right in the
'ead." Somewhat confused at the sudden appearance of the powers that
be, the perspiring harbinger of bons mots relapsed into an
uncomfortable and depressing silence.
"Not right in the head," barked the General. "God bless my soul! It
must be the heat. Dreadful. What shall we do, Curtis?" He appealed
for support to his Staff officer.
"I think, sir, the Doctor might precede us," answered the other
resourcefully, "and see if the man is dangerous. If so, no doubt he
will arrange for his removal before he does any harm."
The A.D.M.S., or Assistant Director of Medical Services--the official
title of the principal bolus booster in a Division--emerged with a
sickly smile from behind a corner, and advanced unwillingly to the head
of the procession.
"Excellent idea," remarked the General affably. "You can prescribe for
him when you see the symptoms, old boy. Probably a most interesting
case--provided he doesn't stab you on sight."
"Sit on his head, Doc., if he comes for you," remarked the Staff
officer, gracefully handing over the position of leader, "and, above
all, dear old thing, don't let him bite you. Give him a Number Nine to
chew, and we'll bind him when he becomes unconscious."
"It's all jolly fine for you to laugh," said the Doctor peevishly.
"I'm fat and you're thin, and you can hide behind me."
They reached the bay of the trench next to Bendigo, just as a further
great utterance was starting on its way. In the excitement of the
moment, caused by the General's sudden appearance, much of this gem was
lost.
What was heard, however, did not diminish the Doctor's alarm.
"Howls in the leafy verdure," he remarked anxiously. "Good Heavens,
General, he must be up the tree stump!"
"That's all right, sir!" remarked a sergeant reassuringly. "'E's quite
'armless. It's his spirit mind, 'e says. He thinks the tree is full
of leaves."
"Yes--but who is howling in it," asked the General irritably. "I don't
hear a sound."
"It's his spirit mind again, sir," answered the sergeant respectfully.
"There ain't no one 'owling really; 'e means howls wot 'oot."
The procession paused awhile to digest this momentous fact, and the
Staff officer seized the opportunity to again comfort the Doctor.
"Get him at once, old sport, before he becomes homicidal. You never
know when the phase will change. He may fish in his tin hat with a
bent pin first or he may shoot you on sight, but I'd go at once if I
were you. You stand more chance."
Undoubtedly the sight which confronted them on rounding the traverse
justified their worst fears. The Doctor recoiled with a choking noise
and endeavoured to wave the Staff officer forward.
"Not on your life, Doc.," remarked that worthy grimly--"not on your
life. Go right in; and with your bulk you oughtn't to feel it much,
wherever he kicks you."
Personally, I maintain the whole thing was rather hard on Bendigo.
Before sending him up the line he should have been labelled; some
warning as to his habits should have been noised abroad by the town
crier. Then the unfortunate episode with the General would never have
occurred. He would have made allowances, and withdrawn early for light
refreshment.
But when a man whose face is of the type peculiar--the sort that you
give the baby to play with--practises the habits of fourteen years
unsuccessful dyspeptic futurism in a support line trench on a hot day,
the result is likely to be full of incident. True--the wretched
Bendigo knew no better; but no more did the General. And life is made
of these trifling misunderstandings. . . .
The entranced spectators stiffened to attention as the procession of
great ones--partially hidden behind the Doctor--advanced with due
military precautions. Even the phlegmatic and weary Sapper who was
assisting the genius, with base utilitarian details, such as the size
of the trap door at the back of the proposed model, showed signs of
animation. Not so Bendigo. With an expression on his face suggestive
of great internal pain, he remained seated on the fire-step muttering
softly to himself and clasping to his bosom a large lump of what
appeared to be mud.
Suddenly he placed it on the step beside him and rose with an air of
determination. The staff performed two or three nimble steps of the
foxtrot variety to the rear, and as they did so Bendigo sprang to the
assault. With a sweeping half-arm blow he struck the mud and the mud
retaliated. While it lasted the action was brisk, but the issue was
never in doubt. After two minutes in fighting, Bendigo withdrew
exhausted, and most of the mud went with him. What was left looked
tired.
"A clear case of shell shock," muttered the Staff officer nervously in
the Doctor's ear. "For Heaven's sake do something!"
"Yes, but what the deuce am I to do?" Perspiring freely the gallant
officer advanced slowly in the direction of Bendigo, who suddenly
perceived him.
The sculptor smiled wearily and pointed a languid hand at the result of
his labours. "A great work, my friend," he murmured. "One of my most
wonderful studies."
"Doubtless," remarked the Doctor cautiously. "Don't you
think--er--you'd better lie down?"
"The leafy foliage; the wonderful green effect; the tree--as I see it.
Fresh, fragrant, superb." Bendigo burbled on, heedless of his mundane
surroundings.
"What is the fool talkin' about?" howled the General, who was standing
on tip toe trying to see what was happening.
"Hush, sir, I beg of you!" The Doctor looked round nervously. "A most
peculiar----"
"I won't hush," roared his irascible senior. "Why should I hush? Some
idiot is standing on my feet; and I'm wedged in here like a sardine.
Let me speak to him." The General forced his way forward. "Now,
you--my man, what the devil are you doing? And what's that damned lump
of mud on the fire-step?"
"I am Bendigo Jones," returned the other dreamily.
"Sculptah--artist--genius."
"I didn't ask who you were," barked the now infuriated General. "I
asked you what that thing that looks like an inebriated blancmange is
meant to be."
"That model?" Bendigo bent forward and gazed at it lovingly. "That is
yonder tree as I see it. The base materialist with the foot rule will
inform you of the mundane details."
The Sapper alluded to scowled heavily at the unconscious Bendigo.
Somewhat uncertain as to what a base materialist might be, he felt
dimly that it was a term to be resented.
"I was sent up 'ere, sir, with 'im to help 'im make a model of that
there stump," he remarked morosely. "That's the fifteenth mess 'e's
made this morning; and 'e's carried on 'orrible over the 'ole lot. If
I might say so, sir, 'e don't seem quite right in his 'ead."
"I am inclined to agree with you," answered the General grimly. "He
must be swept up and . . ."
Exactly what fate was in store for Bendigo will never be known. One of
those visitations of fate which occur periodically in the trenches
interrupted the General's words, and ended the situation in more ways
than one.
"Look out, sir," cried a sergeant, with a sudden shout. "Rum jar
coming."
It came: wobbling, turning, and twisting, the little black object
descended from the skies towards them, and the crouching occupants of
the trench heard it hit the ground a few yards away. Then it burst
with a deafening roar: a roar which was followed by an ominous creaking.
It was the phlegmatic Sapper--the base materialist--who broke the news
first.
With an expression of great relief on his face he gazed over the top of
the trench. "Thank 'Eavens! you can't make a sixteenth, mate. The
whole plurry tree's nah poo."
"Nah poo," murmured Bendigo Jones. "Nah poo. What is nah poo?" He
stood up and peered over the top also. "I see no change. To some eyes
it might seem that the tree had fallen; to mine it lives for
ever--fragrant and cool." He descended and trod heavily on the
General's toe. "To you, sir, as a man of understanding, I give my
morning's labours. I have rechristened it. It symbolises 'Children at
play in Epping Forest.'"
Magnificently he thrust the lump of disintegrating dirt into the arms
of his outraged superior. "It is yours, sir; I, Bendigo Jones, have
given you my masterpiece."
Then he departed.
* * * * * *
The only man who really suffered was the base materialist. Two hours
later he rolled up for his dinner, in a mood even more uncommunicative
than usual.
"'Ullo, Nobby," remarked the cook affably, "you don't seem yer usual
chatty self this morning. An' wot 'ave you got on your neck?"
"Less of it," returned the other morosely. "It's Hepping Forest. And
that"--he plucked a fragment from his hair--"that is the bally twins
playin' ''Unt the slipper.'"
Even the cook was stirred out of his usual air of superiority by this
assertion, and contemplated the speaker with interest. "You don't
say." He inspected the phenomenon more closely. "I thought as 'ow it
was mud."
"It is." Nobby was even more morose. "It belonged to that 'orror
Bendigo Jones, and 'e went and give it to the General." The speaker
swallowed once or twice. "Then the General, 'e gives it back, in a
manner of speaking. Only Bendy had gone by the time it come, and--I
'adn't. Lumme! wot a life."
VIII
THE SONG OF THE BAYONET
Two men were seated at a table in a restaurant. Dinner was over, and
from all around them came the murmur of complacent and well-fed London.
A string band of just sufficient strength gave forth a ragtime effort;
a supreme being hovered near to ensure that the '65 brandy was all it
should be. Of the men themselves little need be said: my story is not
of them. Only their conversation, half serious, half joking, brought
back the picture of Jimmy O'Shea--Irishman, cowpuncher, general
scallywag, and his doctrines of war and the way of his death. As I sat
at the next table lazily watching pictures in the haze of tobacco
smoke, their words conjured up the vision of that incomparable fighter
who paid the great price a year ago, and now lies somewhere near Le
Rutoire in the plains beyond Loos. For their talk was of a strange
thing: the bayonet and the psychology of killing. . . .
"Have you ever killed a man, Joe? that is, killed him with a bayonet?"
It was the man in mufti who was speaking; and his companion--a Major in
khaki--laughed shortly.
"I can't say that I have. I've shot one or two Huns, but I've never
put a bayonet into one."
The other grunted. "They were teaching me to use a bayonet this
morning. It's rather fun. An intensely pugilistic little man stamped
his foot at me, and brandished a ball on the end of a stick in front of
my face. One's aim and object, as far as I could tell from the book of
the words, was to stab the ball with the point of one's bayonet, and at
the same time grunt in a manner calculated to cause alarm and
despondency to every one within earshot. At times you hit the ball
with the butt of the rifle; at others you kick it, endeavouring if
possible not to stub your toe. Everything depends on what part of the
German's anatomy it is supposed to represent at the moment." He paused
and relit his cigar; then he smiled slightly. "I rather enjoyed it.
The pugilistic warrior was quite pleased with me. He barked 'stomach'
at me out of my turn, and there was the dam ball about a yard away. I
stabbed it, kicked it, hit it with my butt, and fell down, all in the
course of two seconds. But you know, Joe,"--again he paused
slightly--"it's one thing to joke and talk about it here. I can't help
thinking it's going to be a very different matter when one gets to the
real goods. Fancy putting a foot of cold steel into a man's body."
A woman paused by their table on the way out.
"So you've actually joined up, you poor dear. Your wife told me you
quite liked it."
"Yes, dear lady." He stood up and bowed. "After refusing me a
commission for two years they've pushed me into what I believe they
call the Feet. It's rather jolly. I haven't felt so well for years."
"And what do you do?" She adjusted her wrap to pass on.
"Oh! learn to stab people, and kick them in the tummy; and all sorts of
little parlour tricks like that."
"You dreadful man! I don't believe you're a bit bloodthirsty really."
She shook a reproving finger at him and laughed. "But I shan't mind a
bit if you kill a lot of those nasty Germans."
She drifted away, and the man in mufti sat down again. "The last time
I saw her she had a concert for the wounded at her house. A slightly
bow-legged woman of great bulk was singing about her soldier lover, who
saved her icckle bruvver. My hostess cried--she's that type. Only a
little of course; but one tear somehow arrived."
The soldier laughed. "There are a few like that; thank heaven! not
many. They've learned, Dick; they're learning every day."
"Up to a point. I am learning to stab people; a thing which, when you
actually come down to it, is beyond her comprehension. She vaguely
knows that that is a soldier's job--or one of them; but it means
nothing to her. And I don't know that it means very much more to me."
"You'll find it will, my dear fellow, when the moment comes, and you've
got your rag out and are seeing red. Let's go."
The two men got up; waiters hastened forward; and in a few moments
their table was empty. For a brief space the curtain of imagination
had been lifted; the drama of grim stark death had flashed into a
setting of luxury and life. . . .
And with the rise of the curtain Jimmy O'Shea had stepped on to the
boards; for no man who knew him could ever hear the word bayonet
without recalling him, if only for a second.
He was a mixture was Jimmy--one of those strange jumbles of character
in which no country is more rich than Ireland. He would not take a
commission, though times and again he was offered one by his Colonel.
"I can teach the boys more as a sergeant, sir," he would answer; "teach
them better how to score the points that win."
"You bloodthirsty ruffian," laughed the Colonel. "Your old doctrine, I
suppose, of close-quarter work."
"You have it, sir," answered O'Shea quietly. "Every dead German is one
point up to us; every dead Englishman is a point down. I am teaching
the boys how to kill, and not be killed themselves."
"But what the devil do you suppose they have been taught?" The C.O.
would lean back and light a cigarette. "To sit and pick buttercups,
and ask the Huns to shoot 'em?"
"Shooting, is it?" Jimmy's tone expressed immeasurable scorn. "The
shooting will look after itself. It's the bayonet I talk to them
about, and where to put it, and how to use it. As you know yourself,
sir, a man will shoot to kill, where he'll hesitate to use his
bayonet--if he's new."
"That's so. It's instinctive at times."
"Bedad, sir, they have no instinct when I've finished with them--save
one. Kill clean and kill fast; and God help you if you slip. . . ."
It is possible that when a person has given no thought to war, and the
objects of war, this distinction may seem strange. Death is a big
matter to the average being, and one of some finality; and the manner
of one's going may strike him as of little account. In which
assumption he is perfectly right--if he is the member of the party who
is going to be killed. But that is not the idea which a man going into
a scrap should hold for a moment. A man goes into a scrap to kill--not
to be killed. To die for one's country may be glorious; to kill for
one's country is very much more so, and a deuced sight less
uncomfortable. Wherefore, as Jimmy O'Shea would have said, if you'd
asked him, "It's outing the other swine you're after, me bucko; not
being outed yourself. Once you've got your manicured lunch hooks (as a
phrase for hands I liked that sentence) on the blighter's throat, it's
up to you to kill him before he kills you. And don't forget it's no
dress rehearsal show. You won't fail twice."
Now I do not wish to appear over-bloodthirsty, or to pretend for one
moment that war is a gigantic and continuous shambles. It is not. But
the essence of war is man power, and the points are scored by putting
men out of action, without being put out of action yourself. The idea
may not be nice--but war is not nice: one may not approve of the sea
being salt, but disapproval does not alter hard truth. And having once
granted that fact--and surely none can deny it--it is the different
methods of scoring points which must be discussed. Some are
impersonal--some are not: some are done in cold blood--some in hot.
The whole thing is just a question of human nature; and in war, above
every other known thing in this world, it is human nature that tells:
it is human nature that is the great deciding factor. A man throws a
bomb into a saphead full of Huns. He lies there covered by the
darkness, crouching, waiting---- One, two, three--and the sharp roar
of the explosion shatters the peace of the night. Guttural cursings
and a dreadful agonised moaning follow in the silence that seems the
more intense through the contrast. And with a smile of great content
wreathing his face, the bomber creeps stealthily away to avoid
intrusive flares. The matter was impersonal, the groaning Hun was a
Hun, not an individuality. . . .
A couple of men, mud-caked and weary, with a Lewis gun between them,
are peering over the top in an early light of dawn. Beside them there
are others: tense, with every nerve alert, looking fixedly into the
grey shadows, wondering, a little jumpy.
"Wot is it, Bill?" A man at the bottom of the trench is fixing a rifle
grenade in his rifle. "Shall I put this one over?"
"Gawd knows." Bill is craning his head from side to side, standing on
the fire-step. "Lumme! there they are. Let 'em 'ave it, Joe. It's a
ruddy working party." Drawing a steady hand he fires, only to eject
his spent cartridge at once and fire again. With a sudden phlop the
rifle grenade goes drunkenly up into the mist; with a grunt of joy the
Lewis gun and its warrior discharge a magazine at the dim-seen figures.
And later, with intense eagerness, the ground in front will be searched
with periscopes for the discovering and counting of the bag. The
matter is impersonal; the dead are Huns, not individuals. . . .
But with a bayonet the matter is different. No longer is the man you
fight an unknown impersonality. He stands before you, an individual
whose face you can see, whose eyes you can read. He has taken unto
himself the guise of a man; he has dropped the disguise of an
automaton. In those eyes you may read the redness of fury or the
greyness of terror; in either case it is you or him. And a soldier's
job is to kill. . . .
In nine cases out of ten he has forfeited the right to surrender, for
as Jimmy used to say, "There's only one method of surrendering, and
that's by long-distance running. When the blackguards come out of
their trenches fifty yards away and walk towards you bleating, 'Yes,
sare; coming at once, sare, thick or clear, sare;' you may take 'em
prisoners, boys."
Thus the doctrine in brief of Jimmy O'Shea, sergeant and cowpuncher,
scallywag and sahib, devil and tender-hearted gentleman. I lifted my
glass in a silent toast. The music was sobbing gently; the voices of
women came stealing into my reverie; the smell of the brandy in my
glass brought back a memory of other women, other brandy. . . .
The square in the old French town was alive with market carts, which
lumbered noisily over the cobble stones, while around the pavements,
stalls and barrows did a roaring trade. It was market-day, and the hot
summer sun shone down on the busy crowds. Soldiers and civilians,
women and small children bargained and laughed and squabbled over the
prices of "oofs" and other delicacies for the inner man. Except for
the khaki and the ever present ambulance which threaded its way through
the creaking country carts, it might have been peace time again in
Northern France. Yet eight or nine miles away were the trenches.
Facing the square was an open-air café, where a procession of large
light beers was pursuing its way down various dry throats, belonging to
officers both French and British: beer that was iced, and beautiful to
behold. Away down a little farther on sat Jimmy O'Shea; not admitted
into the sacred portals marked "Officers only," but none the less happy
for that. In front of him was a small glass of cognac. . . .
It was just as a stout and somewhat heated Frenchman in civilian
clothes got up from the little table next to mine that it happened.
There was no sound of warning--it just occurred. The house by the
clock was there one moment; the next moment it was not. A roar filled
the air, drowning the clattering carts; bricks, tables, beds went
hurtling up into space; walls collapsed and crashed on to the cobbles.
A great cloud of stifling dust rose swiftly and blotted out the scene.
Then silence--the silence of stupefaction settled for a while on the
watching hundreds, while bricks and stones rained down on them from the
sky.
It was the little Frenchman who spoke first. "Mon Dieu! une bombe. Et
moi je suis le Maire." He walked unsteadily towards the cloud of dust,
and with his going pandemonium broke loose. Mechanically the beer went
down our throats, while in all directions carts bumped and jolted,
wheels got locked, barrows overturned. Still the same blue sky; still
the same serene sun; but in the place of a quiet grey house--wreckage,
dust, death. And around us the first frenzy of panic.
"Do you put that down to an aeroplane?" I looked up to see Jimmy
O'Shea beside me. "All right, mother." He was patting an excited
woman on her back. "I'll help you." He started to pick up the
contents of her barrow, which reposed principally in the gutter, having
been knocked off by a bolting horse. "No need to get your wind up.
You're cutting no ice in this show; you're only on as a super."
The woman somewhat naturally did not understand a word; but O'Shea had
a way with women and children, wherein lay the charm of his strange
mixture of character.
"Now these eggs, mother dear, these eggs. Bedad! they've gone to their
last long rest. We can't even scramble them. Oofs, dear heart, oofs;
napoo--finis."
"_C'est tout napoo._" She even laughed as she looked at the
concentrated essence of yellow and white flowing slowly down the
gutter. "_Mon Dieu! voilà une autre._" Another thunderous roar;
another belching, choking cloud of dust and death, and a house on the
other side of the square collapsed.
"It's no aeroplane, sir," said Jimmy, with his eyes on the sky. "It's
a long-range gun, or I'm a Dutchman." He looked down to find a little
girl clasping his knee and whimpering. "And phwat is it, me angel?"
He caught her up in his arms and laughed. "Shure! and I've forgotten
me little glass of stuff. Come along with me and find it."
He strode away, only to return with her in a second or two, laughing
all over her face. Yes--he had a way with him, had Jimmy O'Shea.
But it was in the final tableau of that morning's work that I remember
him best. It was a long-range gun as he said; and they put in fifteen
twelve-inch shells in an hour, round about the square. Two got the
hospital, and one hit a barber's shop where an officer was being
shaved. I remember we saw him with half his face lathered, and later
on we found his hand still gripping the arm of the chair. As for the
barber--God knows----
We sorted out the remnants of some children from the débris of one
house; and I left O'Shea after a while with a little kid of eight or
nine in his arms. She was booked for God's nursery, and the passing
was not going to be easy, for she was hit--nastily. And it was while
Jimmy was nursing the poor torn atom with the tenderness of a woman
that another sergeant of his battalion came on the scene to see if he
could help.
"God! Jimmy," I heard him say, "this makes one sick."
"Sick!" O'Shea's voice was quiet. "Sick! I've stuck many of them,
thank the powers, but never again--never again, my bucko--will it be
anywhere save in the stomach. Anything else is too quick."
I looked at his face; and I understood. . . .
Yes--I understood because I had seen: otherwise, I should not. He
would have been talking another language--one to which I was a
stranger: even as were those around me, in that London restaurant,
strangers--even as the men, when they first come to France, are
strangers. That is the point which is in danger at times of being
overlooked, especially by those who remain behind. The men are not
changed in nature because they don a khaki coat, or even because they
go into the trenches. They have gone to a new school, that is all; and
if they would do well they must learn all the lessons--the many and
very divergent lessons--they are taught. For in the hotch-potch of war
there is a strange mixture of the material and the spiritual; and
though at present I am concerned with the former, the latter is just as
important. It is the material side of which the men such as Jimmy
O'Shea are the teachers. Unless the pupils learn from the O'Sheas,
they will have to do so from the Hun. And the process may not be
pleasant. . . .
There are many branches of the main lesson: the counters in the game
may be shells or bombs or rifle bullets or bayonets. But the method of
scoring is the same in each case--one down or one up. And of them all
the bayonet is the counter which is at once the most deadly and the
most intolerant of mistakes. A good friend, a hard taskmaster is the
bayonet, and O'Shea was the greatest of all its prophets. . . . The
main object of his life was to imbue his men, and any one else he could
persuade to listen, with its song. His practical teaching was sound,
very sound; his verbal lashings were wonderful, unique. He'd talk and
talk, and one's joy was to watch his audience. A sudden twitch, a snap
of the jaw, and a bovine face would light up with unholy joy. The
squad drawn up ready for practice, with the straw-filled sacks in front
of them, would mutter ominously, and teeth would show in a snarl.
Absurd, you say; not a bit; just a magnetic personality, and men of the
right stuff. Dash it! I've seen even the Quartermaster, whose ways do
not lie near such matters, hopping about from one leg to the other when
Jimmy's peroration rose to its height.
"Have you a child, MacNab, a little wee kid?" he would begin.
"I have, sargint," MacNab would answer.
"Then can you imagine that wee kid with his little hands cut off? Is
it a boy, MacNab?"
"It is, sargint."
"It is. That's good. But they preferred doing it to boys, MacNab.
Listen to me, the lot of you. Don't mind the aeroplane. Number Two in
the rear rank. They're like gooseberries out here." Number Two's eyes
would abruptly come to earth again and focus themselves on the man in
front. "I want you to think," Jimmy would go on quietly, "of the
dirty, lousy crowd of German waiters you remember at home in the days
before the war. Do you remember their greasy-looking clothes, and
their greasy-looking faces, and the way you used to treat 'em as the
scum of the world? Would you have one of them, MacNab, cut the hands
off your kid; would you, me bucko?"
"I would not, sargint." MacNab's slow brain was working; his eyes were
beginning to glint.
"Then come out here." Jimmy's voice rose to a shout. "Come out and
move. Do you see that sack? do you see that white disc? Run at it,
you blighter; run, snarl, spit. That's the German who has killed your
kid. The white paper is his heart; run, man, run. Stab him, kill him;
stuff your bayonet in him, and scream with rage."
The bewildered MacNab, on the conclusion of this tirade, would amble up
to the sack, push his gun feebly in its direction, completely miss
it--and look sheepishly into space.
"Mother of heaven! The first competitor in Nuts and May. Did you hear
me tell you to hit the sack, MacNab? For God's sake, man, stick your
bayonet in; hit it with your butt; kick it; tear it in pieces with your
teeth; worry it; do anything--but don't stand there looking like a
Scotchman on Sunday. The dam thing's laughing at you."
And so at last MacNab would begin. Bits of sacking would fly in all
directions, streams of straw and sawdust would exude. He's kicked it
twice, and hit it an appalling welt with the butt of his gun. The
sweat pours from his face; but his eyes are gleaming, as he stops at
last from sheer exhaustion.
"Splendid, MacNab; you're a credit to Glasgow, me boy. Are you
beginning to feel what it's like to stick your point into something,
even though it's only a sack?"
But MacNab is already more than half ashamed of his little outburst; he
is unable to understand what made him see red--and somewhat
uncomfortably he returns to his place in the squad. Only, if you look
at Jimmy, you will see the glint of a smile in his eyes: the squad is
new--the beginning has not been bad. He knows what made MacNab see
red; by the time he has finished with him, the pride of Glasgow will
never see anything else. . . .
And yet what do they know of seeing red, these diners of London? It is
just as well, I grant, that they should know nothing; but sometimes one
wonders, when they talk so glibly of the trenches, when they dismiss
with a casual word the many months of hideous boredom, the few moments
of blood-red passion of the overseas life, what would they think--how
would they look--if they did know.
Would they look as did O'Neil's bride, when the robber chief's head
arrived at the breakfast table? Lest there be any unfortunates who
know not Kipling let me quote:
As a derelict ship drifts away with the tide
The Captain went out on the Past from his Bride,
Back, back, through the springs to the chill of the year,
When he hunted the Boh from Maloon to Tsaleer.
As the shape of a corpse dimmers up through deep water,
In his eye lit the passionless passion of slaughter,
And men who had fought with O'Neil for the life
Had gazed on his face with less dread than his wife. . . .
Perhaps--who knows? It is difficult to imagine the results of an
impossibility--and knowledge in this case is an impossibility. Still
at times the grim cynicism of the whole thing comes over one with a
rush, and one--laughs. It is the only solution--laughter. Let us blot
it out, all this strange performance in France: let us eat, drink and
be merry. But some quotations are better not finished. . . .
"Come and join us at our table." A girl was speaking, an awfully dear
girl, one to whom I had been among the many "also rans." Her
husband--an officer in the infantry--grinned affably from another table.
"In a moment," I answered her, "I will come, and you won't like me at
all when I do." Then I remembered something. "Why do you dine with
that scoundrel?"
"Who?--My funny old Dick? A dreadful sight, isn't he, but quite
harmless."
"Is he? You ask him about the German at Les Boeufs whom he met
unexpectedly, and see what he says."
The "Ballad of Boh da Thone" came back--the humour of it. Dick--the
old blackguard--a rifle butt, and a German's head after he'd hit
it--one side; a boiled shirt, dress clothes, and a general air of
complacent peacefulness--the other. And the girl: it is always the
girl who points the contrast. . . .
I laughed. "Go away, and talk to your harmless husband. I am wrapped
in thought, or was, till you disturbed me."
What did she know--God bless her--of the details, the filthy, necessary
details of war. To her it was just a parting from one man, who went
into an unknown land where there was danger--hideous, intangible danger.
But of the reality. . . .
It is all contained in the one axiom--Kill, and kill at once, so as to
have a maximum of time to kill more. And with the bayonet, do not let
it be imagined for a moment that the work is easy. Bayonet fighting
requires perfect condition, a fair share of strength, and a quick eye.
Mistakes, when a man comes to the real thing, are not likely to occur
twice, and there are many things which a man must learn who aspires to
become even as Jimmy O'Shea.
How to go round a traverse when a Boche is on the other side, and it's
him or you; how to take on three men in succession, when the last one
throws his arms round your neck, and burbles, "Ve vos friends--nein?"
Jimmy was great on that point: with the bayonet jabbed upwards into the
chin, and the sapient remark, "Ve _vos_, ma tear." But enough; this is
not a treatise on bayonet fighting, and I have in mind to tell of
O'Shea's last fight.
There is just one more scene which comes back vividly before I reach
the end, and that is the final exercise he gave his men in their
training. When they'd thrust and parried and stabbed; when they'd
jumped trenches and thrust their bayonets into sacks on the other side;
when they'd been confronted with strange balls of straw in unexpected
places, and kicked them or jabbed them or bit them as the case might
be--then came the gem, the _bonne bouche_.
These preliminary practices were only one stroke, one thrust; the last
was a fight to the death in a manner of speaking, and it was generally
preceded by one of Jimmy's better stories. The best he kept for
recital just before going over the top; so as to send 'em along
frothing at the mouth, as he put it.
"You don't remember Captain Trent, do you, boys?" he'd begin. "Just
stand easy a while, and I'll tell you about him. After that you've got
to fight a bit. He was a great officer, boys, a grand officer--one of
the best. Did you ever hear how he was killed? Come out here,
Malvaney; we'll just start the scrapping while I tell you. Do you see
this straw ball on the top of the stick? As long as it's off the
ground, it's a German. Hit it, stick it, bite it, kick it, and go on
till I put it on the ground again. And curse, you blighter, curse.
Just think it's the German who stuck his bayonet into Captain
Trent--one of _your_ officers--while he was lying on the ground wounded
in the head."
The ball began to dance. "Go on, Malvaney. Kill it, man, kill it;
grunt, snarl; think of the swine and what they've done. Jab, jab--up
in his throat. I'll get you a live one to practise on one day." At
last the ball would come to rest, and Malvaney--his teeth bared,
snarling--would face Jimmy, who stood there smiling grimly. And in a
few seconds Malvaney would grin too, and the blood lust would die out
of his eyes. . . .
"Good boy--not half bad!" O'Shea would nod approvingly. "The worst of
it is the swine will never stand up to you--bayonet to bayonet. They
prefer women and wounded men--like the Captain. Come here, MacNab, and
get an appetite for your dinner. You can just rest a while--I'll get
on a bit with that story. It was way back in the Spring, down south a
bit; and we went over the top. Have you been over the top, MacNab?"
"I have that," answered the Scotchman in a reminiscent tone.
"How many did you kill?"
"Four-r--ah'm thinking; but ah'm no certain aboot one of them."
"Four! And none too dusty. Hit it, MacNab, me boy"--the ball would
dance in his face--"hit it, as if 'twas the one of which you are not
certain. Listen here, boys"--once again the ball was at rest on the
ground--"I was behind Captain Trent when we went over--in the third
wave; and when I got to the Germans I was just in time to see it."
Jimmy's pauses were always dramatic.
"See wot, sargint?" An interested and comparatively new arrival to the
battalion would lean forward.
"Captain Trent lying at the bottom of the trench--he'd gone over with
the first wave--and a Hun pulling a bayonet out of him. Moreover,
Captain Trent was wounded in the head." His voice gathered in fury.
"Think of it, me bohunks; then think of a conscientious objector; and
then come and kill this ruddy ball. A dirty filthy scut of a German
waiter murdering a wounded Englishman. Hit it, MacNab; hit it; stab
it, kick it; think you're scrambling for whisky in a prohibited area."
"Wot did you do, sargint?" The new arrival was still interested.
"What would you have done, Marmaduke? Come here, my boy; come here and
breathe blood."
The new arrival--a little bashful at his sudden notoriety--stepped
forward. "I'd have killed him, sargint."
"Then kill this ball; go on--kill it. Damme, boy; you're jumping about
like an old woman looking for a flea in a bed. Move, boy, move; the
ball's the flea, and you're the old trout. Bite it, boy, bite it;
stamp on it; take out your fork and stick it with that." The ball came
to rest; the new arrival mopped his brow. "Did I ever tell you how to
kill a man with your dinner fork, by sticking it into his neck? I will
some day; it's a good death for a Hun."
"Did you catch that there swine, sergeant?" Another voice from the
squad took up the tale.
"Did I catch him? Did I catch him? If I hadn't caught him, Percival,
I wouldn't be here now. I wouldn't dare look an exempted indispensable
in the face--let alone you. And for a fat man he ran well."
"Didn't 'e fight?" Marmaduke had more or less recovered his breath.
"Fight!" O'Shea grinned at the recollection. "He looked up; he saw me
about five yards away; he gave one squawk like the female ducked-billed
platypus calling to her young, and he faded round the traverse like the
family do when the landlord comes for the rent. Come here,
O'Sullivan--and break up the home."
Marmaduke retired, to be replaced by a brawny Irishman.
"I caught him, O'Sullivan--hit, man, hit--just as he reached his
dug-out. Kick it, man; you can't use your butt from there. Jab,
jab--you blighter; for God's sake use your gun as if you loved it. He
stuck in the door, O'Sullivan, for half a second. There's the
ball--that's his back. Go on. Good, good." With an awful curse the
Irishman lunged and the ball dropped to the ground.
"Dead," O'Shea grinned. "That's what I did; through the back. But the
blamed thing stuck; I couldn't get it out. What do you do then,
Marmaduke?"
"Put a round in, sargint, and blow it out."
"Good boy, Marmaduke. You'll be a Field-Marshal before you've done.
That's what I did too; and I blew the swine down the entrance. Now
then, half with sticks and half with rifles; go on--fight----"
This, as I said, was one of Jimmy's better stories. Incidentally it
had the merit of being true. . . .
But one could continue indefinitely. Some one will write a book one
day about Jimmy O'Shea, and the manner of his life. If so, order an
advance copy; it will be the goods. Just at the moment it was the
manner of his death that had me. I was back again in derelict
Vermelles, with its spattered water tower, and the flat desolate plain
in front. Loos is out of sight over the hill; only the great slag heap
lies squat and menacing on one's left, with the remnants of Big Willie
and Little Willie near to its base in the old blood-soaked Hohenzollern
redoubt. Cambrin, Guinchy, La Bassée--silent and haunted, teeming with
ghosts, lie stagnant in the morning sun. The cobwebs drift across the
Hulluch road, and in the distance, by the first bend, a man pushing a
wheeled stretcher comes slowly walking back to the dressing station.
It's still going on: nothing much has changed; and yet--the cigar is
good; the brandy superb: the brandy Jimmy preferred. He only spent one
leave in England; as a sergeant he couldn't get more; but I dined with
him one night, dress clothes and all complete, and we drank that
brandy. One need hardly say, perhaps, that the writing on the register
of his birth would have been hard put to it to spell O'Shea. There
have been many like him this war, from "the legions of the lost ones
and the cohorts of the damned"; and they've come to us out of the waste
places, out of the lands that lie beyond the mountains. Unhonoured,
unknown, they've finished the game; and having finished, they lie at
peace. Britain called them; they came--those so-called wasters; look
to it, you overmuch righteous ones, who have had to be dragged by the
hairs of your heads--bleating of home ties and consciences. . . .
I forget which of the stories I heard him telling the men that morning
before they went over. He read one lot a thing he swore he'd got out
of a German paper--Heaven knows if it was true. I remember it ended
up: "Above all things show no mercy to the accursed English. They are
the starters of this war; so spit on them, kick them, use them as the
swine they are."
"There you are, boys," cried Jimmy cheerily, "listen to what the
pretties say about you. You'll be into 'em in a minute; and don't
forget what I've told you about the way to use your gun. Kill fast and
kill clean. Don't you put up with any back lash from a sausage-eating
waiter. Remember you're English, me boys; and remember the
Regiment--the Regiment that's never yet failed."
And so he went on; worth a hundred times his weight in gold to men
going in for the first time.
"Your point is at his throat, boy, don't forget it. You ain't playing
the goat with a dam lump of straw now; you're going to get a bit of
your own back with a real live Fritz. And if you make a mistake you
may not have a chance of making another. Go there steady; don't get
blown, or you'll find you won't be able to do what you'd like when you
bump Master Boche."
He passed me with a salute and a wink.
"Coming over?" he asked me.
"I am, Jimmy, with some wire and other atrocities."
"Good," he said. "The boys are simply frothing blood."
He went on; and that was the last time I saw Jimmy O'Shea alive.
Ye Gods! My Lord ----, some day I'll tell you of your son's end. You
kicked him out--perhaps rightly; though mercy was never your strong
point. But if any of the belted ancestors in that gallery of yours did
as much for England as Jimmy did, or died as gloriously as Jimmy died,
well, you should be a proud man, prouder even than you are. He sent
the boys over raving mad with blood, and they struck Bavarians--and
good Bavarians: men who could fight, and men who did fight. They were
at it, teeth, feet, and steel for ten minutes: primitive, lustful
fighting; and then the Bavarians broke; with the boys after them,
stabbing and cursing. One or two were left, though they wouldn't
surrender, more power to them. A Bavarian officer, in fact, concluded
the eventful career of Sapper O'Toole, the company rum-swallowing
champion. True he brained that officer with a coil of barbed wire on
the end of a pick helve, even as the bullet entered his heart; but he
was a great loss to us. And it was just as we surged over their bodies
that we came to the tableau.
Jimmy lay round the traverse. We found him at the bottom when we'd
sorted out the litter. There were six of them he'd done in in all; you
could trace what had happened. They'd been lining the trench, and he'd
taken them in order. It was in the fifth that his bayonet stuck. He
couldn't get it out. It was still there. At that moment, evidently,
Number Six had come at him, and he'd had no time. So they closed; and,
my God! they'd fought.
I think they both must have gone out about the same time. Jimmy was
shot through the heart by the Bavarian's revolver; the Bavarian's
throat was cut with Jimmy's clasp knife.
No bad end, my lord; what say you? I will show you the exact spot some
day, and your son's grave near by. I'd have his picture in the gallery
if I were you. . . . I've got a snapshot I can let you have, taken in
France. But I treasure it; and unless you hang it in the place of
honour, amongst the Raeburns--I keep it. Mark you, he deserves that
place of honour. . . .
* * * * * *
"Captain Johnson's compliments, sir, and are you coming over to have a
liqueur at his table?"
The waiter's voice cut in on my thoughts. The band was hitting a
ragtime stunt; London had dined and was pleased with itself; Dick and
his lady were beckoning. For the moment it felt like coming to from an
anaesthetic.
I shook myself and got up. Of course I was drinking a liqueur with
them: another glass of brandy--Jimmy O'Shea's brandy.
"Are you in love?" queried the girl anxiously as I sat down. "You've
been muttering to yourself and squinting and Dickie got worried about
you."
"Not more than usual--though I'm glad to learn the symptoms." Then I
looked at her, and the wonder of a girl in love hit me almost like a
blow. In it lay the answer to my thoughts. No longer a cynical
amusement in their failure to realise the contrast, but rather a mighty
thankfulness. For it is they, in their blessed ignorance, who keep us
sane.
I raised my glass. "To things as they are, my lady," I murmured. And
from the land of shadows Jimmy drank with me.