"TWO OLD SOLDIERS, BROKEN IN THE WARS"
The smoking-room of the Britannia Club used to be exactly like the
smoking-room of every other London Club. That is to say, members
lounged about in deep chairs, and talked shop, or scandal--or
slumbered. At any moment you might touch a convenient bell, and a
waiter would appear at your elbow, like a jinnee from a jar, and
accept an order with silent deference. You could do this all day, and
the jinnee never failed to hear and obey.
That was before the war. Now, those idyllic days are gone. So is the
waiter. So is the efficacy of the bell. You may ring, but all that
will materialise is a self-righteous little girl, in brass buttons,
who will shake her head reprovingly and refer you to certain passages
in the Defence of the Realm Act.
Towards the hour of six-thirty, however, something of the old spirit
of Liberty asserts itself. A throng of members--chiefly elderly
gentlemen in expanded uniforms--assembles in the smoking-room,
occupying all the chairs, and even overflowing on to the tables and
window-sills. They are not the discursive, argumentative gathering
of three years ago. They sit silent, restless, glancing furtively at
their wrist-watches.
The clocks of London strike half-past six. Simultaneously the door of
the smoking-room is thrown open, and a buxom young woman in cap and
apron bounces in. She smiles maternally upon her fainting flock, and
announces:--
"The half-hour's gone. Now you can _all_ have a drink!"
What would have happened if the waiter of old had done this thing, it
is difficult to imagine. But the elderly gentlemen greet their Hebe
with a chorus of welcome, and clamour for precedence like children at
a school-feast. And yet trusting wives believe that in his club, at
least, a man is safe!
Major Wagstaffe, D.S.O., having been absent from London upon urgent
public affairs for nearly three years, was not well versed in the
newest refinements of club life. He had arrived that morning from his
Convalescent Home in the west country, and had already experienced a
severe reverse at the hands of the small girl with brass buttons on
venturing to order a sherry and bitters at 11.45 A.M. Consequently, at
the statutory hour, his voice was not uplifted with the rest; and he
was served last. Not least, however; for Hebe, observing his empty
sleeve, poured out his soda-water with her own fair hands, and offered
to light his cigarette.
This scene of dalliance was interrupted by the arrival of Captain
Bobby Little. He wore the ribbon of the Military Cross and walked with
a stick--a not unusual combination in these great days. Wagstaffe made
room for him upon the leather sofa, and Hebe supplied his modest wants
with an indulgent smile.
An autumn and a winter had passed since the attack on Longueval. From
July until the December floods, the great battle had raged. The New
Armies, supplied at last with abundant munitions, a seasoned Staff,
and a concerted plan of action, had answered the question propounded
in a previous chapter in no uncertain fashion. Through Longueval and
Delville Wood, where the graves of the Highlanders and South Africans
now lie thick, through Flers and Martinpuich, through Pozieres and
Courcelette, they had fought their way, till they had reached the
ridge, with High Wood at its summit, which the Boche, not altogether
unreasonably, had regarded as impregnable. The tide had swirled over
the crest, down the reverse slope, and up at last to the top of that
bloodstained knoll of chalk known as the Butte de Warlencourt. There
the Hun threw in his hand. With much loud talk upon the subject of
victorious retirements and Hindenburg Lines, he withdrew himself to
a region far east of Bapaume; with the result that now some thousand
square miles of the soil of France had been restored once and for all
to their rightful owners.
But Bobby and Wagstaffe had not been there. All during the autumn and
winter they had lain softly in hospital, enjoying their first rest for
two years. Wagstaffe had lost his left arm and gained a decoration.
Bobby, in addition to his Cross, had incurred a cracked crown and a
permanently shortened leg. But both were well content. They had done
their bit--and something over; and they had emerged from the din of
war with their lives, their health, and their reason. A man who can
achieve that feat in this war can count himself fortunate.
Now, passed by a Medical Board as fit for Home Service, they had said
farewell to their Convalescent Home and come to London to learn what
fate Olympus held in store for them.
"Where have you been all day, Bobby?" enquired Wagstaffe, as they sat
down to dinner an hour later.
"Down in Kent," replied Bobby briefly.
"Very well: I will not probe the matter. Been to the War Office?"
"Yes. I was there this morning. I am to be Adjutant of a Cadet school,
at Great Snoreham. What sort of a job is that likely to be?"
"On the whole," replied Wagstaffe, "a Fairy Godmother Department job.
It might have been very much worse. You are thoroughly up to the
Adjutant business, Bobby, and of course the young officers under you
will be immensely impressed by your game leg and bit of ribbon. A very
sound appointment."
"What are they going to do with you?" asked Bobby in his turn.
"I am to command our Reserve Battalion, with acting rank of
Lieutenant-Colonel. Think of that, my lad! They have confirmed you in
your rank as Captain, I suppose?"
"Yes."
"Good! The only trouble is that you will be stationed in the South of
England and I in the North of Scotland; so we shall not see quite
so much of one another as of late. However, we must get together
occasionally, and split a tin of bully for old times' sake."
"Bully? By gum!" said Bobby thoughtfully. "I have almost forgotten
what it tastes like. (Fried sole, please; then roast lamb.) Eight
months in hospital do wash out certain remembrances."
"But not all," said Wagstaffe.
"No, not all. I--I wonder how our chaps are getting on, over there."
"The regiment?"
"Yes. It is so hard to get definite news."
"They were in the Arras show. Did better than ever; but--well, they
required a big draft afterwards."
"The third time!" sighed Bobby. "Did any one write to you about it?"
"Yes. Who do you think?"
"Some one in the regiment?"
"Yes."
"I didn't know there were any of the old lot left. Who was it?"
"Mucklewame."
"Mucklewame? You mean to say the Boche hasn't got _him_ yet? It's like
missing Rheims Cathedral."
"Yes, they got him at Arras. Mucklewame is in hospital. Fortunately
his chief wound is in the head, so he's doing nicely. Here is his
letter."