X
I did not meet Basil Norman for nearly four years. I joined the
Artists' Rifles early in 1915, fought for eleven months, and was given
a commission. After a short time in England I went out in all the glory
of a Sam Browne and one star, but in a few months I was wounded in the
chest, which earned me Blighty and a surfeit of Aunt Hannah, who still
contended that had we only concentrated on an _army_ instead of a
_navy_----
As I write, it all seems a blurred memory of colorless monotony, mud,
fatigue, death, and grim humor. In January, 1918, after a term of duty
as musketry instructor, I returned to France, and fought through the
horrible spring battles until, with cruel coincidence, I was wounded
again in the same place, and once more came to England with a bullet in
my chest--a bullet they dared not extract. In September I was
discharged.
One morning in November I sat by the fire in my den at Sloane Square. I
had resumed the tenancy of the rooms, and Mrs. Mulvaney looked upon me
as being even less mature than before, warning me about goloshes when
it was wet, and umbrellas when it wasn't, but appeared likely to be.
How long I sat there I do not know, but memory began to weave its
spell, driving my surroundings into a dim obscurity and bringing back
incidents of the past with vivid clarity. I gripped my head with both
hands, and, for the hundredth time, sought the truth that lay buried in
the holocaust of the nations.... My wound hurt again, and a dizziness
crept over me like a fog that rises from the sea and enshrouds the
land.
Futile.... Futile....
Had some one spoken? The words sounded distinctly.... I could have
sworn I heard them.
Was the whole war a dream, or was it real? Once more I was in Sloane
Square; there was my desk with its litter of papers, my pipe-rack, my
books.... Had I ever left them? Could it be true that I had led men
against machine-gun fire--and that I had killed? Were those boys who
died beside me, smiling like children in their sleep, really dead? Was
it all some hideous fantasy of an unhealthy brain--a gigantic charade
invented by the greatest buffoon of all time?
Futile.... Futile.... Futile.
I cursed, and pressed my brow with my hands. It was a fight for sanity,
as so many men have fought in the solitude of their rooms since the
hell of Flanders.
Like a panorama the events of the war crossed my mind, and yet those
that stood out most clearly were the unimportant things that came as
mere incidents during the unfolding of the world's destiny. The senior
chaplain's dog, which was shot by an A.P.M. and mourned by a whole
division ... the new arrival who thought he was a special charge of the
Lord's, and who persisted in looking over the top during the day--we
buried him next morning ... the night that the female impersonator from
a divisional concert-party lured the colonel into amorous confession
... the little chap who got no mail at Christmas, and said he hadn't
received a letter for two years ... one after the other these human
trivialities coursed through my brain, forcing the vaster issues aside.
From no apparent cause, the strain of reminiscence turned toward Basil
Norman. I had seen him somewhere, but whether in London or in the
country my poor tired brain seemed unable to determine. And then, with
no regard for relevancy, I was with my battalion once more, marching
with the Australians to hold a strategical point that one of our
brigades had saved from the disaster of March. Who was it said that the
Australians lacked discipline? Look at them grinning like youngsters at
a game, with the odds against any coming out alive! Discipline? Hell!
We rested at a cross-roads and smoked; one of our Tommies was singing
the refrain of a song that urged the country to call up all his
relations, even his father and his mother, but "for Gawd's sake" not to
take him. The sublime incongruity of it was so thoroughly British that
we laughed and called for a repetition. A few minutes later the
Australians passed us, going forward, and there was a reckless air of
bravado about them that boded ill for the Hun.
We waited an hour, two hours--perhaps more.
By Jove! Coming around the bend in the road was the brigade that had
held the line. Good work, you chaps! Well done! Bravo! That's it, you
fellows; give them a cheer! Beneath the mud and the dust and the
beards, they were livid with fatigue; the skin beneath their eyes had
dropped, and their jaws hung impotently, like those of idiots. There
wasn't a sound from their ranks as, too weary to lift them, they
dragged their feet through the dust of the road. They had held their
position for fifty-six hours, attacked incessantly from three sides by
overwhelming numbers. Damned good, you fellows; damned good!
Still buffeted by imagination, my memory of the scene seemed to fade;
yet one impression lingered that was both livid and blurred. It was
when that brigade, or what was left of it, had almost passed, and we
were tightening up the straps of our kits, that I caught a glimpse of
his face, or that of a man who could have passed as his twin. The
soldier beside him was limping painfully and leaning on him heavily in
an endeavor to keep up, and beneath the grimy pallor of that face I
could see the old wistful, whimsical smile.... I tried to cry out, but
something stuck in my throat, and next moment we were falling in.
It was Basil Norman, and the lame soldier beside him was the man with a
face like a pumpkin. Either that or my brain had become the plaything
of fancy.
Again my memory became a blank, and for a few minutes everything seemed
obscured. Some one was shouting! It was taken up by another, then by
many--the whole air was filled with noise.... I heard a woman's voice.
Good God! Had the Germans broken through?... "_Steady, men--get your
aim first._"... The shouting grew in intensity, and I pressed my
brow with my hands until the marks stood out like wounds. With a cry as
of an animal in pain, I rose to my feet and shook the shadows from my
eyes. There was my room--the smoldering fire--my chair ... but the
shouting--it was louder than before.
Feeling my reason tottering, I crossed to the window and threw it open.
People were running, and crying some word as they ran; one woman wept
openly, and no one heeded her; a taxi passed crowded to the roof with
hatless, gesticulating enthusiasts. Was the whole world mad? From every
direction came the noise of deep-throated shouting, swelling into a
vast _Te Deum_ of sound. A soldier with one foot leaned against a
lamp-post and rested his muscles from their labor with the crutches.
"Hello!" I cried. The khaki seemed to restore my grip on things. "I
say--hello!"
He turned round and hobbled over to my window. "Wot's the trouble?" he
said.
"This shouting," I cried; "these people running like rabbits. What does
it all mean?"
"Wot! don't you know?" He smacked his lips in appreciation of the
surprise he had in store for me. "Why, Fritz 'as took the count, 'e
'as."
"Then,----" Confound it; what made my lips quiver so? "Then--it's
peace?... You mean ... it's peace?"
He nodded half-a-dozen times. "The war," he said, feeling the
importance of his declaration, "is napoo. Kaiser Bill 'as 'opped the
twig, and the hold firm of 'im and Gott is for sale, with the goodwill
thrown in, I _don't_ think."