"I suppose you have not got an odd tin or two of bully to give away,
sir? My fellows are about--"
For answer, the Major took the Lieutenant by the arm and led him
towards the lorry.
"You have come," he announced, "to the very man you want. I am
practically Mr. Harrod. In fact, I am a Corps Supply Officer. How
would a Maconochie apiece suit your boys?"
Cockerell, repressing the ecstatic phrases which crowded to his
tongue, replied that that was just what the doctor had ordered.
"Where are you bound for?" continued the Major.
"St. Grégoire."
"Of course. You were pulled out from there, weren't you? I am going to
St. Grégoire myself as soon as I have finished my round. Home to bed,
in fact. I haven't had any sleep worth writing home about for four
nights. It is no joke tearing about a country full of shell-holes,
hunting for people who have shifted their ration-dump seven times in
four days. However, I suppose things will settle down again, now that
you fellows have fired Brother Boche out of the Kidney Bean. Pretty
fine work, too! Tell me, what is your strength, here and now?"
"One officer," said Cockerell soberly, "and eighteen other ranks."
"All that's left of your platoon?"
Cockerell nodded. The stout Major began to beat upon the tailboard of
the lorry with his stick.
"Sergeant Smurthwaite!" he shouted.
There came a muffled grunt from the recesses of the lorry. Then a
round and ruddy face rose like a harvest moon above the tailboard, and
a stertorous voice replied respectfully--
"Sir?"
"Let down this tailboard; load this officer's platoon into the lorry;
issue them with a Maconochie and a tot of rum apiece; and don't forget
to put Smee under arrest for dangerous driving when we get back to
billets."
"Very good, sir."
Ten minutes later the survivors of Number Nine Platoon, soaked to the
skin, dazed, slightly incredulous, but at peace with all the world,
reclined close-packed upon the floor of the swaying lorry. Each man
held an open tin of Mr. Maconochie's admirable ration between his
knees. Perfect silence reigned: a pleasant aroma of rum mellowed the
already vitiated atmosphere.
In front, beside the chastened Mr. Smee, sat the Major and Master
Cockerell. The latter had just partaken of his share of refreshment,
and was now endeavouring, with lifeless fingers, to light a cigarette.
The Major scrutinised his guest intently. Then he stripped off his
British Warm coat--incidentally revealing the fact that he wore
upon his tunic the ribbons of both South African Medals and the
Distinguished Service Order--and threw it round Cockerell's shoulders.
"I'm sorry, boy!" he said. "I never noticed. You are chilled to the
bone. Button this round you."
Cockerell made a feeble protest, but was cut short.
"Nonsense! There's no sense in taking risks after you've done your
job."
Cockerell assented, a little sleepily. His allowance of rum was
bringing its usual vulgar but comforting influence to bear upon an
exhausted system.
"I see you have been wounded, sir," he observed, noting with a little
surprise two gold stripes upon his host's left sleeve--the sleeve of a
"non-combatant."
"Yes," said the Major. "I got the first one at Le Gateau. He was only
a little fellow; but the second, which arrived at the Second Show at
Ypres, gave me such a stiff leg that I am only an old crock now. I was
second-in-command of an Infantry Battalion in those days. In these, I
am only a peripatetic Lipton. However, I am lucky to be here at all:
I've had twenty-seven years' service. How old are you?"
"Twenty," replied Cockerell. He was too tired to feel as ashamed as he
usually did at having to confess to the tenderness of his years.
The Major nodded thoughtfully.
"Yes," he said; "I judged that would be about the figure. My son would
have been twenty this month, only--he was at Neuve Chapelle. He
was very like you in appearance--very. His mother would have been
interested to meet you. You might as well take a nap for half an hour.
I have two more calls to make, and we shan't get home till nearly
seven. Lean on me, old man. I'll see you don't tumble overboard ..."
So Lieutenant Cockerell, conqueror of the Kidney Bean, fell asleep,
his head resting, with scandalous disregard for military etiquette,
upon the shoulder of the stout Major.
V
An hour or two later, Number Nine Platoon, distended with concentrated
nourishment and painfully straightening its cramped limbs, decanted
itself from the lorry into a little _cul-de-sac_ opening off the Rue
Jean Jacques Rousseau in St. Grégoire. The name of the _cul-de-sac_
was the Rue Gambetta.
Their commander, awake and greatly refreshed, looked round him and
realised, with a sudden sense of uneasiness, that he was in familiar
surroundings. The lorry had stopped at the door of Number Five.
"I don't suppose your Battalion will get back for some time," said the
Major. "Tell your Sergeant to put your men into the stable behind this
house--there's plenty of straw there--and--"
"Their own billet is just round the corner, sir," replied Cockerell.
"They might as well go there, thank you."
"Very good. But come in with me yourself, and doss here for a few
hours. You can report to your C.O. later in the day, when he arrives.
This is my _pied-à-terre_,"--rapping on the door. "You won't find many
billets like it. As you see, it stands in this little backwater, and
is not included in any of the regular billeting areas of the town. The
Town Major has allotted it to me permanently. Pretty decent of him,
wasn't it? And Madame Vinot is a dear. Here she is! _Bonjour, Madame
Vinot! Avez-vous un feu_--er--_inflammé pour moi dans la chambre_?"
Evidently the Major's French was on a par with Cockerell's.
But Madame understood him, bless her!
"_Mais oui, M'sieur le Colonel_!" she exclaimed cheerfully--the rank
of Major is not recognised by the French civilian population--and
threw open the door of the sitting-room, with a glance of compassion
upon the Major's mud-splashed companion, whom she failed to recognise.
A bright fire was burning in the open stove.
Immediately above, pinned to the mantelpiece and fluttering in
the draught, hung Cockerell's manifesto upon the subject of
non-combatants. He could recognise his own handwriting across the
room. The Major saw it too.
"Hallo, what's that hanging up, I wonder?" he exclaimed. "A memorandum
for me, I expect; probably from my old friend 'Dados.'[1] Let us get a
little more light."
[Footnote 1: D.A.D.O.S. Deputy Assistant Director of Ordnance Stores.]
He crossed to the window and drew up the blind. Cockerell moved too.
When the Major turned round, his guest was standing by the stove, his
face scarlet through its grime.
"I'm awfully sorry, sir," said Cockerell, "but that
notice--memorandum--of yours has dropped into the fire."
"If it came from Dados," replied the Major, "thank you very much!"
"I can't tell you, sir," added Cockerell humbly, "what a fool I feel."
But the apology referred to an entirely different matter.