IV

With spring comes also the thought of the Next Push.

But we do not talk quite so glibly of pushes as we did. Neither, for

that matter, does Brother Boche. He has just completed six weeks'

pushing at Verdun, and is beginning to be a little uncertain as to

which direction the pushing is coming from.

No; once more the military textbooks are being rewritten. We started

this war under one or two rather fallacious premises. One was that

Artillery was more noisy than dangerous. When Antwerp fell, we

rescinded that theory. Then the Boche set out to demonstrate that an

Attack, provided your Artillery preparation is sufficiently thorough,

and you are prepared to set _no_ limit to your expenditure of

Infantry, must ultimately succeed. To do him justice, the Boche

supported his assertions very plausibly. His phalanx bundled the

Russians all the way from Tannenburg to Riga. The Austrians adopted

similar tactics, with similar results.

We were duly impressed. The world last summer did not quite realize

how far the results of the campaign were due to German efficiency and

how far to Russian unpreparedness. (Russia, we realise now, found

herself in the position of the historic Mrs. Partington, who

endeavoured to repel the Atlantic with a mop. This year, we

understand, she is in a position to discard the mop in favour of

something far, far better.)

Then came--Verdun. Military science turned over yet another page, and

noted that against consummate generalship, unlimited munitions, and

selfless devotion on the part of the defence, the most spectacular and

highly-doped phalanx can spend itself in vain. Military science also

noted that, under modern conditions, the capture of this position or

that signifies nothing: the only method of computing victory is to

count the dead on either side. On that reckoning, the French at Verdun

have already gained one of the great victories of all time.

"In fact," said Colonel Kemp, "this war will end when the Boche has

lost so many men as to be unable to man his present trench-line, and

not before."

"You don't think, sir, that we shall make another Push?" suggested

Angus M'Lachlan eagerly. The others were silent: they had experienced

a Push already.

"Not so long as the Boche continues to play our game for us, by

attacking. If he tumbles to the error he is making, and digs himself

in again--well, it may become necessary to draw him. In that case,

M'Lachlan, you shall have first chop at the Victoria Crosses. Afraid I

can't recommend you for your last exploit, though I admit it must have

required some nerve!"

There was unseemly laughter at this allusion. Four nights previously

Angus had been sent out in charge of a wiring-party. He had duly

crawled forth with his satellites, under cover of darkness, on to No

Man's Land; and, there selecting a row of "knife-rests" which struck

him as being badly in need of repair, had well and truly reinforced

the same with many strands of the most barbarous brand of barbed wire.

This, despite more than usually fractious behaviour upon the part of

the Boche.

Next morning, through a sniper's loophole, he exhibited the result of

his labours to Major Wagstaffe. The Major gazed long and silently upon

his subordinate's handiwork. There was no mistaking it. It stood out

bright and gleaming in the rays of the rising sun, amid its dingy

surroundings of rusty ironmongery. Angus M'Lachlan waited anxiously

for a little praise.

"Jolly good piece of work," said Major Wagstaffe at last. "But tell

me, why have you repaired the Boche wire instead of your own?"

"The only enemy we have to fear," continued Colonel Kemp, rubbing his

spectacles savagely, "is the free and independent British voter--I

mean, the variety of the species that we have left at home. Like the

gentleman in Jack Point's song, 'He likes to get value for money'; and

he is quite capable of asking us, about June or July, 'if we know that

we are paid to be funny?'--before we are ready. What's your view of

the situation at home, Wagstaffe? You're the last off leave."

Wagstaffe shook his head.

"The British Nation," he said, "is quite mad. That fact, of course,

has been common property on the Continent of Europe ever since Cook's

Tours were invented. But what irritates the orderly Boche is that

there is no method in its madness. Nothing you can go upon, or take

hold of, or wring any advantage from."

"As how?"

"Well, take compulsory service. For generations the electorate of

our country has been trained by a certain breed of politician--the

_Bandar-log_ of the British Constitution--to howl down such a low and

degrading business as National Defence. A nasty Continental custom,

they called it. Then came the War, and the glorious Voluntary System

got to work."

"Aided," the Colonel interpolated, "by a campaign of mural

advertisement which a cinema star's press agent would have boggled

at!"

"Quite so," agreed Wagstaffe. "Next, when the Voluntary System had

done its damnedest--in other words, when the willing horse had been

worked to his last ounce--we tried the Derby Scheme. The manhood of

the nation was divided into groups, and a fresh method of touting for

troops was adopted. Married shysters, knowing that at least twenty

groups stood between them and a job of work, attested in comparatively

large numbers. The single shysters were less reckless--so much less

reckless, in fact, that compulsion began to materialise at last."

"But only for single shysters," said Bobby Little regretfully.

"Yes; and the married shyster rejoiced accordingly. But the single

shyster is a most subtle reptile. On examination, it was found that

the single members of this noble army of martyrs were all 'starred,'

or 'reserved', or 'ear-marked'--or whatever it is that they do to

these careful fellows. So the poor old married shyster, who had only

attested to show his blooming patriotism and encourage the others,

suddenly found himself confronted with the awful prospect of having to

defend his country personally, instead of by letter to the halfpenny

press. Then the fat was fairly in the fire! The married martyr--"

"Come, come, old man! Not all of them!" said Colonel Kemp. "I have a

married brother of my own, a solicitor of thirty-eight, who is simply

clamouring for active service!"

"I know that, sir," admitted Wagstaffe quickly. "Thank God, these

fellows are only a minority, and a freak minority at that; but freak

minorities seem to get the monopoly of the limelight in our unhappy

country."

"The whole affair," mused the Colonel, "can hardly be described as a

frenzied rally round the Old Flag. By God," he broke out suddenly,

"it fairly makes one's blood boil! When I think of the countless good

fellows, married and single, but mainly married, who left _all_ and

followed the call of common decency and duty the moment the War broke

out--most of them now dead or crippled; and when I see this miserable

handful of shirkers, holding up vital public business while the pros

and cons of their wretched claims to exemption are considered--well, I

almost wish I had been born a Boche!"

"I don't think you need apply for naturalisation papers yet, Colonel,"

said Wagstaffe. "The country is perfectly sound at heart over this

question, and always was. The present agitation, as I say, is being

engineered by the more verminous section of our incomparable daily

Press, for its own ends. It makes our Allies lift their eyebrows a

bit; but they are sensible people, and they realise that although we

are a nation of lunatics, we usually deliver the goods in the end. As

for the Boche, poor fellow, the whole business makes him perfectly

rabid. Here he is, with all his splendid organisation and brutal

efficiency, and he can't even knock a dent into our undisciplined,

back-chatting, fool-ridden, self-depreciating old country! I, for one,

sympathise with the Boche profoundly. On paper, we don't _deserve_ to

win!"

"But we shall!" remarked that single-minded paladin, Bobby Little.

"Of course we shall! And what's more, we are going to derive a

national benefit out of this war which will in itself be worth the

price of admission!"

"How?" asked several voices.

Wagstaffe looked round the table. The Battalion were for the moment in

Divisional Reserve, and consequently out of the trenches. Some one

had received a box of Coronas from home, and the mess president had

achieved a bottle of port. Hence the present symposium at Headquarters

Mess. Wagstaffe's eyes twinkled.

"Will each officer present," he said, "kindly name his pet aversion

among his fellow-creatures?"

"A person or a type?" asked Mr. Waddell cautiously.

"A type."

Colonel Kemp led off.

"Male ballet-dancers," he said.

"Fat, shiny men," said Bobby Little, "with walrus mustaches!"

"All conscientious objectors, passive resisters, pacifists, and other

cranks!" continued the orthodox Waddell.

"All people who go on strike during war-time," said the Adjutant.

There was an approving murmur--then silence.

"Your contribution, M'Lachlan?" said Wagstaffe.