THINNING RANKS
“Three months in that hell-hole of the salient have made their mark on
this battalion,” said Transport Sergeant Mackay.
“Yes, there's quite a lot of these round the first line and back about
here,” replied the pioneer sergeant, who was putting the finishing
touches upon some crosses, that were to be sent up the line that night.
“That's so, Fatty. Whose is that cross you are finishing?”
“That's Lieutenant Salford's, a fine young officer he was, too. Always
had a smile. The deeper the mud the more Sally smiled. And this here
is Lieutenant Booth's. There's a chap now that picked up wonderful. Two
months ago everybody thought he was a big soft slob, and those bombers
say that he was all, right. And here's the M. O.'s. Poor old doc! There
was a man, now, if there ever was one. He wasn't afraid of nothing. He
would go walking about with a smile when a bombardment was on, and in
that last big show the other day, they say him and the chaplain--there's
another peach--they 'carried on' wonderful. I wasn't around there at the
time, but the boys at the dressing station told me that them two worked
back and forward getting out the wounded, I think they had about thirty
injured up at that time, as if it was a kind of er summer shower that
was falling, let alone H. E.'s and whizzbangs, and then after they got
the last man out, the M. O. went in with some stretcher bearers, just
lookin' around before he left, and a shell came and got 'em all, and
they say it was about the last shell that was throwed. And that's where
poor Harry Hobbs got his, too. The Pilot went out just a minute before,
and when he came back that's what he saw. They say he was terrible cut
up over the M. O. Funny thing, the M. O.'s face was just as quiet as if
he had gone to sleep, but the rest of the boys, well you could hardly
get 'em together, and the Pilot walkin' up and down there lookin' like a
lost man. We buried 'em right there by Maple Copse. I want to tell
you, sergeant, that that's the hardest job I ever done in this war. The
Pilot, he broke right down in the middle of the service. It must have
been hard for him. I've been with him now at every funeral and he stands
up to his work like a man. He takes it kind of cheery almost, but when
we was puttin' down the M. O. and poor Harry, the Pilot just couldn't
appear to stand it. I cried like a baby, and you ought to have seen the
crowd, the O. C. and the adjutant and the pioneers, and they are all
pretty hardened up by this time. They have done enough plantin' anyhow.
They just all went to pieces. The shells was goin' overhead among the
trees, something awful, but nobody minded more than if they had been
pea-shooters. First time I ever seen the Pilot break, and I have been
with him ever since the first one we buried, and that was big Jim Berry.
A sniper got him. You don't remember? I guess you don't see much or get
much of the news back here.”
“Back here!” exclaimed Sergeant Mackay. “What do you mean, 'back here'?
Don't I have to go up every night with the transport, and through that
barridge, too. This aint no 'safety first' job.”
“I know, sergeant. I'm not sayin' you ain't at war. Believe me, I'd
rather be up front than to go up round Hell Fire Corner and come back
by the Menin Gate every night like you fellows. I ain't sayin' nothing
about that, but you don't see things that I see, and you don't get the
news same as I do. Now, about Jim Berry, you know, he was goin' to do
some snipin' in place of McCuaig, who went to the machine gun company.”
“McCuaig, in the machine gun company! I never heard that.”
“Well, that's what I'm sayin',” said Sergeant Matthews, “you don't get
some of the chances to get news down here, same as me. You see, when
we're sewin' up the boys and fixin' 'em up like, and when we're fixin'
up the graves and puttin' on the crosses, you get kind of thinkin' about
things, and kind of lonesome, and so the boys keep telling the news
to cheer themselves up, and that's how I heard about McCuaig. You see,
McCuaig was snipin' the first tour, and he's a killer, you bet, and he
had only cut three natches in his rifle. The boys say he had got four
of the Huns, but he had only put down three natches on his rifle to be
sure, and after he seen the machine gun work, stoppin' a raid, he comes
to the officer, and says he, givin' him his rifle: 'Say, this is all
right for sport, but it ain't good enough for killin' these devils. I'd
like to get on to your gang, if I can,' and they put him right onto the
machine gun. Say, he's sleepin' with that Lewis gun ever since. Just
pets it like a baby. What was I tellin' you? Oh, yes, about McCuaig and
Jim Berry. Well, he took McCuaig's place snipin' and a good sniper he
was too. He used to hunt, you know, up in the mountains with Jim Knight
every fall. Well, he started out snipin' the day after McCuaig quit, and
McCuaig gave him his rifle too, and took him up to the 'hide.' Well, big
Jim was always a careless cuss, you know. He gets his eye on the hole,
sightin' his rifle, and McCuaig was watchin' through one of them new
things--”
“Perry's scope.”
“Yes, that's it, Paris cope. Them French is mighty smart fellows,
you bet. When along walks a Hun. 'There he comes!' sings out McCuaig.
'Didn't see him until he got past,' says Jim, pretty mad, because Jim
hated to show that he'd got 'buck fever,' or something, and waited for
the next. 'Here he comes!' says McCuaig, again. 'Bang!' goes Jim. 'I've
got him,' he shouts, hoppin' up to get a good look, when McCuaig grabs
him and jerks him down, swearin' somethin' awful, and tellin' him he
wasn't shootin' no mountain goats. 'Oh shaw!' says Jim. 'They can't get
me.' 'You keep your head down, Jim,' said McCuaig. That's the very last
words he said to him, just as he was leavin' him. He wasn't down the
next day when bang! goes Jim's rifle, and again up he jumps to see what
he'd got, when ping! goes a Boche bullet right through his head. You
know McCuaig was real mad, and he stood quiet at that hole for three
hours. Then he got Corporal Thom to shove up a hat on a rifle, when
ping! comes the bullet and bang! goes Jim's rifle. 'Guess he won't shoot
no more, unless there's shootin' in hell,' says he, and makes another
natch. Say, the boys all felt bad about Jim and so did the Pilot. Well,
we had to plant him that night, as we was goin' out next day. It was out
beyond the Loop. You don't know where that is, I guess.”
“Of course, I do,” asserted Mackay indignantly. “I've been all around
that front line. What are you givin' us!”
“Oh, you have, eh! Well, I wouldn't unless I had to, you bet. It's no
place for a man with a waist line like mine. Well, as I was sayin', that
cemetery was right out in the open, right under observation, and exposed
to machine guns, snipers, whizbangs, all the hull bloody lot of 'em.
Wasn't no place for a cemetery anyway, I say. I'm not after any bomb
proof job but a cemetery should be--”
“Should be a quiet and retired spot,” suggested one of the transport
boys.
“Yes. What's the use of getting livin' men shot up when they're buryin'
dead men, I want to know. Not saying anything about the officers that's
always round, and the chaplain. I say a cemetery should be somewhere out
of sight, like Maple Copse; now, there's a good place, except that the
roots make it hard diggin'. Up against a railway bank like that down at
Zillebeck, by the Railway Dugouts, there's a lovely place.”
“How would the Ramparts do, sergeant?” enquired another transport lad.
“Ramparts? You mean at Ypres? Yes,” said the sergeant, with a grin, “but
I'd hate to turn out the Brigade Headquarters Staff.”
“Go on, sergeant.”
“Well, as I was sayin', that's no place for a cemetery up there beyond
the Loop, but I didn't know so much about it then, you bet. That's where
we had to bury Jim. It was a awful black night, and of course, just as
we got out to the trench to go 'overland' to the cemetery, them flares
started up something awful. I don't know what they was lookin' for, but
when they went up, I want to tell you, I felt about the size of a tree,
and I wisht I was one. Well, Jim, you know, was pretty heavy, an awful
heavy carry he was for the boys. I was tryin' to hurry 'em along, but
that Pilot, he heads the procession, and on he goes at a funeral march
pace. Now I believe in doin' things right. I've heard of some pioneers
that hurries their job. I don't believe in that, but when you are
going across the open on a dark night, with them flares going up, I
say between flares is a good time to get a move on, but, no, that there
Pilot, he just goes that pace and no more. I want to tell you the boys
was nervous and the officers too. The O. C. and Major Bustead was there.
I could see the major fussin' to get on. Well, we got Jim down all
right, and just as the Pilot got started, darned if they didn't open up
the biggest kind of a machine gun chorus you ever heard.”
“What did you do, sergeant?”
“Me? Well, I started huggin' mud and saying all the good words I could
think of. Even the O. C. got down on his knees, and the major, he near
got into the grave, but that darned Pilot stood up there getting taller
every minute, and goin' on with his prayer, and the boys sayin' 'Amen!'
that loud and emphatic that I thought he'd take the hint and cut out
somethin', but cut out nothin'! Seemed as if his memory was workin'
over time, the way he kept a fetchin' up things that he could a easily
forgot, and when he comes to the benediction, the whizbangs begin to
come. Up goes his hand, the way they do. I thought to myself that that
was a kind of unnecessary display. I looks up and there he was, more
like a tree than ever. In fact, I says to myself--it's queer how you
think things at times like that--darned if they won't think the darned
fool is a tree, for nothin' but a darned tree would stand up in the
flare light and look so much like a tree anyhow. I guess that's what
saved him. He never moved until he was done, and then didn't he stay
with us pioneers after the rest had gone until we filled up. Say, he's
all right.”
“You bet he's all right,” said Sergeant Mackay, “and he's gettin' in his
work with the boys.”
“What do you mean, 'gettin' in his work'?” enquired the pioneer
sergeant.
“Oh, well, you know,” said Sergeant Mackay awkwardly, “he's makin' 'em
think a lot different about things. I know he has 'em tied up all right
in their language.” And this was as near to a confession of faith as the
sergeant cared to go.
“Oh, I can see a difference myself up the line,” said the pioneer
sergeant. “The boys used to get out of his way. He used to jump on 'em
something fierce. You remember?”
“Huh-uh!”
“Well, they just love to have him drop in now and they tell him things.
I saw Corporal Thom the other night showin' him his girl's picture, and
the Pilot thought she was a fine girl too, and got her address down,
and said he was going to write her and tell her what a fine chap the
corporal was, and you ought to see Corporal Thom swell up until he 'most
bust his tunic.”
“Oh, I know the corporal's dippy about the Pilot,” said Sergeant Mackay.
“Yes, and the officers, too,” said the pioneer sergeant. “There's
Captain Duff. Well, you know what a holy terror he is.”
“He's all right,” said Sergeant Mackay stoutly. “He was my chief for
about a month here, and he was the first one to get this transport
licked into shape, you bet.”
“I'm not saying anything against Captain Duff, but he was a roughneck,
you know well enough, and I guess he hadn't much use for the Pilot.”
“Oh, I know all about that,” said Sergeant Mackay. “The Pilot used to go
up with us on the transport. It was awful hard on Captain Duff, handlin'
the column and the mules and all the rest, to hold in when the Pilot was
along. The captain, he had to come round now and then to the rear. There
he would have a lovely time for a few minutes, with the Pilot safe up in
front. But the Pilot calmed him down all right.”
“Yes, and there's that young Captain Fraser,” said the pioneer sergeant,
with a note of enthusiasm in his monotonous voice. “There a soldier. He
just loved fightin'. I remember the night he got his wound. It was on
a raid of course. If there was a raid on, Captain Neil was sure to be
there. He just about got his arm blown off, but they say he's goin' to
be all right. I was at the regimental aid post when they fetched him in.
Oh, he was a dirty mess, face all cut up, and his arm hangin', and not a
word out of him until the Pilot comes along. Then he begins to chirp up
and the Pilot starts jollyin' him along one minute and sayin' Psalms to
him the next minute, and little prayers, and the boys around listenin',
sometimes grinnin' and sometimes all choked up, but I'm awful glad
Captain Neil is comin' round all right.”
By this time the pioneer sergeant had his crosses finished.
“Well,” he said, as he set the crosses against the wall, “there's three
of the finest officers we ever had in this battalion. You take 'em up
to-night when you go, sergeant.”
“We're not going up to-night. The boys are coming out this evening,”
replied Sergeant Mackay.
“No? Is that so? I never heard that. Guess I'll have to go up with
some other outfit. Comin' out this evening? Well, it's time they were.
They've had one hell all the time, I hear, this tour.”
“Yes,” continued Sergeant Mackay, “and the highlanders are sending up
their band to meet them and play them out. I call that a mighty fine
thing to do. You know our own band had to go up with water and rations
last night, and they can't get out until to-night. So the Highlanders'
band--”
“Pretty good band, too, isn't it?”
“Best pipe band in the army,” said Sergeant Mackay with enthusiasm.
“Oh, a pipe band!” exclaimed the pioneer sergeant in a disappointed
tone.
“Yes, a pipe band, what else?” enquired Sergeant Mackay truculently.
“Why don't they send up their real band, when they're doin' it, anyway?”
“What!” shouted Sergeant Mackay. “I'll tell you. For the same reason
that they don't make you O. C. in this battalion, you damned fat
lobster! There now, you've started me swearin' again, and I was quittin'
it.”
Sergeant Mackay's wrath at the slur cast upon the pipe band, the
only band, in his opinion, worthy of any real man's attention, was
intensified by his lapse into his habit of profanity, which, out of
deference to the Pilot, he for some weeks had been earnestly striving to
hold in check.
“Oh well, Scotty, don't spoil your record for me. I guess a pipe band is
all right for them that likes that kind of music. For me, I can't ever
tell when they quit tunin' up and begin to play.”
Sergeant Mackay looked at him with darkening face, evidently uncertain
as to what course he should adopt--whether to “turn himself loose” upon
this benighted Englishman or to abandon him to his deserved condition
of fatuous ignorance. He decided upon the latter course. In portentous
silence he turned his back upon Fatty Matthews and walked the whole
length of the line to get a mule back over the rope. It took him some
little time for the mule had his own mind about the manoeuvre and
the sergeant was unwontedly deliberate and gentle with him. Then, the
manoeuver executed, he walked slowly back to the pioneer sergeant and in
restrained and carefully chosen speech addressed him.
“Look here, Fatty, I'm askin' you, don't you ever say things like that
outside of these lines, for the sake of the regiment, you know. I'd
really hate the other battalions to know we had got such--” He halted
himself abruptly and then proceeded more quietly, “A man as you in this
battalion. My God, Fatty, they'd think your brains had run down into
your pants. I know they haven't, because I know you haven't any.” He
took a fresh breath, and continued his address in a tone of patient
remonstrance. “Why, man, don't you know that wherever the British Army
has gone, its Highland regiments have cleared the way; and that when the
pipes get playin' the devil himself couldn't hold them back?”
“I don't wonder,” said Fatty innocently. “They make a man feel like
fightin' all right.”
Sergeant Mackay scanned his face narrowly, uncertain as to whether
he should credit the pioneer sergeant with intelligence sufficient to
produce a sarcasm.
“What I mean is,” exclaimed Fatty, seeking to appease the wrathful
transport sergeant, “when you hear them pipes, you get so stirred up,
you know, that you just feel like kullin' somebody.”
This apparently did not improve matters with Sergeant Mackay.
“Oh, darn it, you know what I mean!”
“No, Fatty,” said the sergeant solemnly. “I don't know what you mean,
but I'll suggest this to you, Fatty. You go down to that Pete mule, down
there at the end of the line and talk to him. I guess he'll understand
you. I'm busy just now.”
“I don't see what you're so hot about,” said the pioneer sergeant in an
aggravated voice, “but I'm going to see the boys come in anyway.”
When the distant sound of the pipes coming from the direction of the
front line was heard in camp, men of the various transport lines and
base units lined up to watch the battalion come in. For the rumour had
run that they had had a bad go, that they had beaten back no less than
three rather formidable raids of the enemy and had been badly cut up.
More than that, by reason of the lack of reinforcements, they had had
to do a double tour, so that they were returning from an experience of
thirteen days, in what was indeed the veritable mouth of hell.
“I guess they are all pretty well all in,” said Sergeant Matthews, who,
standing with his pioneers, had been carefully avoided by his friend
Sergeant Mackay. That enthusiastic Scot had for the time being abandoned
his transport, and was fraternising with the transport men of the
Highlanders, with whom he was sure he would feel himself in more
complete accord.
“Here they come, boys,” said a Scot, as the sound of the pipes grew
louder. “There's a drummer for ye. Listen 'til that double roll, wull
ye?”
“Ay, Danny, the boys will be shovin' out their chests and hitchin' their
hips about something awful.”
“Ye may say that, Hec. Will ye look at young Angus on the big drum, man,
but he has got the gr-rand style on him.”
“Ay, boys, they are the la-ads,” said Sergeant Mackay, yielding to the
influence of his environment and casually dropping into the cadence of
the Highlanders about him, which, during his ten years in the west,
his tongue had well-nigh lost. “It's a very fine thing, your pipers are
doing, playing our boys out in this way, and we won't be forgetting that
in a hurry.”
“Why for no?” enquired Hec, in surprise. “It's the Highlanders
themselves that love a bonny fighter.”
Down the road, between lines of silent men, came the pipers with waving
kilts and flying tartans, swinging along in their long swaying stride,
young Angus doing wonders on the big drum, with his whirling sticks, and
every piper blowing his loudest, and marching his proudest. Behind them
came the men of the battalion marching at attention, their colonel at
their head, grave of face and steady. Behind the colonel marched Major
Bayne, in place of the senior major, whom illness had prevented from
accompanying the battalion on this last tour, no longer rotund and
cheery as was his wont, but with face grey, serious and deep lined.
After him at the head of A Company marched Captain Duff, his rugged,
heavy face looking thinner and longer than its wont but even fiercer
than ever. With eyes that looked straight before then, heedless of the
line of silent onlookers, the men marched on, something in their set,
haggard faces forbidding applause. At the rear of the column marched the
chaplain alone, and every one knew that he had left up in the Salient
behind him his friend and comrade, the M. O., whose place in all other
marching had been at his right hand. All knew too how during this last
go, in the face of death in its most terrifying form, they had carried
out their wounded comrades one by one until all were brought to safety.
And all knew too, how the chaplain carried with him that day a sore and
lonely heart for the loss of one who was more to him than batman, and
who had become his loyal and devoted friend. The chaplain's face was
gaunt and thin, with hollow cheeks, but for all that, it wore a look of
serene detachment.
“Say, he looks awful tough,” said a voice in Sergeant Mackay's ear.
Sergeant Mackay turned sharply around upon Fatty Matthews.
“Tough! Tough!” he exclaimed, with a choke in his voice. “You're a
damned liar, that's what you are. He looks fine. He looks fine,” he
added again furiously. “He looks as if hell itself couldn't scare him.”
In the sergeant's eyes strange lights were glistening.
“Yes, you're right, sergeant,” said Fatty Matthews humbly. “You're
right, and that's where he's been, too, I guess.”
Bravely and gallantly, with the historic and immortal “Cock o' the
North” shrilling out on the evening air, the pipers played them on to
the battalion parade ground, where they halted, silent still and with
that strange air of detached indifference still upon them. They had been
through hell. Nothing else could surprise them. All else, indeed, seemed
paltry.
Briefly, but with heart-reaching words, the colonel thanked the pipers
for what he called “an act of fine and brotherly courtesy.” Then turning
to his men, he spoke a few words before dismissal.
“Men, you have passed through a long and hard time of testing. You have
not failed. I am not going to praise you, but I want you to know that
I am proud of you. Proud to be your commanding officer. I know that
whatever is before us, you will show the same spirit of endurance and
courage.
“We have lost this time twenty-nine men, eleven of them killed, and with
these three very brave and very gallant officers, among them our medical
officer, a very great loss to this battalion. These men did their duty
to the last. We loved them. We shall miss them, but to-day we are proud
of them. Let us give three cheers for our gallant dead.”
With no joyous outburst, but with a note of fierce, strained
determination, came the cheers. In spite of all he could do, Barry could
not prevent a shudder as he heard the men about him cheering for those
whom he had so recently seen lying, some of them sorely mutilated, in
their grey blankets.
“Now, men,” concluded the O. C., “we must 'carry on.' You will have a
couple of hours in which to clean up and have supper, and then we shall
have to-night a cinema show, to which I hope you will all come, and
which I hope you will all greatly enjoy.”
The colonel's little speeches, as a rule, elicited appreciative cheers,
but this afternoon there was only a grave silence. After dismissal, the
men went to their huts and were soon busy giving themselves a “high mark
scrub” preliminary to the hot bath and “jungle hunt” in which they would
indulge themselves to-morrow.
As Barry was moving off the parade ground, the junior major caught up to
him, and took him by the arm and said:
“I have sent around my batman to your hut. He will look after you until
I can pick out a man from the new draft. We all know how you feel about
Hobbs, old man.”
“Thank you, major,” said Barry quietly. “I appreciate that.”
“You will be around to-night,” continued the major.
“No, I think not. I have a lot of things to do. All those letters to
write.” Barry shuddered as he spoke. For nothing in all his ministerial
experience was to him a more exhausting and heartbreaking task than
the writing of these letters to the relatives and friends of his dead
comrades.
“I think you had better come,” said the major earnestly. “I know the O.
C. would like it, and the boys would like it too.”
“Do you think so?” said Barry. “Then I'll be there.”
“Good man,” said Major Bayne, patting him on the shoulder. “That's the
stuff we like in this battalion.”
Barry found his hut in order, his things out for airing, his tub ready,
and supper in preparation.
“Thanks, Monroe,” he said to Major Bayne's batman, as he passed into his
hut.
As he entered his hut and closed the door, for the first time there
swept over his soul an appalling and desolating sense of loneliness. It
was his first moment of quiet, his first leisure to think of himself for
almost two weeks. With the loss of his batman there had been snapped
the last link with that old home life of his, now so remote but all the
dearer for that. It came to him that while he remained a soldier, this
was to be his continual experience. Upon his return from every tour
new gaps would stare at him. Up in the lines they did not so terribly
obtrude themselves, but back here in rest billets they thrust themselves
upon him like hideous mutilations upon a well loved face. He could
hardly force himself to remove his muddy, filthy clothes. He would
gladly have laid himself down upon his cot just as he was, and given
himself up to the luxury of his grief and loneliness, until sleep should
come, but his life as a soldier had taught him something. These months
of discipline, and especially these last months of companionship with
his battalion through the terrible experiences of war, had wrought into
the very fibre of his life a sense of unity with and responsibility for
his comrades. His every emotion of loss, of grief, of heart-sickness
carried with it the immediate suggestion and remembrance that his
comrades too were passing through a like experience, and this was his
salvation. Weary, sick, desolate as he felt himself in this hour, he
remembered that many of his comrades were as he, weary, and sick and
desolate. He wondered how the major's batman felt.
“Well, Monroe,” he said with an attempt at a voice of cheer, “pretty
tough go this time.”
“Yes, sir, very tough,” said Monroe. “I lost my chum this time,” he
added after a few moments' silence.
“Poor chap,” said Barry. “I'm awfully sorry for you. It's hard to leave
a friend up there.”
“It is that, sir,” replied Monroe, and then he added hurriedly but with
hesitation, “and if you will pardon me, sir, we all know it's awful
tough for you. The boys all feel for you, sir, believe me.”
The unexpected touch of sympathy was too much for Barry's self-control.
A rush of warm tears came to his eyes and choked his voice. For some
minutes he busied himself with his undressing, but Monroe continued
speaking.
“Yes, sir, the Wapiti bunch is getting pretty small. Corporal Thom was
with me--”
“Corporal Thom!” cried Barry. “Was Corporal Thom your chum?”
“Yes, sir, for six years we was on the Bar U. M. together. We was awful
close friends. He was a good chum.”
“Corporal Thom!” exclaimed Barry again; “he was your chum! He was a
great friend of mine too. You have indeed suffered a great loss.”
“He thought a lot of you, sir,” said Monroe. “He has often talked to me
about you.”
“But what a splendid death!” cried Barry. “Perfectly glorious!”
“I didn't hear, sir,” said Monroe; “I came down three days ago, and only
heard that a bomb got him.”
“Oh, splendid,” said Barry. “Nothing finer in the war. Let me tell you
about it. There was an enemy raid coming up. The corporal had got wind
of it and called his men out. They rushed into the front line bay. Just
as they got there, eight or ten of them, a live bomb fell hissing among
them. They all rushed to one end of the bay, but the corporal kicked the
bomb to the other end, and then threw himself on top of it. He was blown
to pieces, but no one else was hurt.”
During the recital of this tale, Monroe stood looking at Barry and when
he had finished his eyes were shining with tears.
“Ay, sir, he was a man, sir,” he said at length.
“Yes, you have said it, Monroe. He was a man, just a common man, but
uncommonly like God, for He did the same thing. He gave Himself for us.”
Monroe turned away to his work in silence.
“Monroe,” said Barry, calling him back, “look here, lad, it would not
be right for us to grieve too much for Corporal Thom. We ought to be
thankful for him and proud of him, should we not?”
“Yes, sir, I know, sir, but,” he added while his lip trembled, “you hate
to lose your chum.”
Only under compulsion of his conscience did Barry go to the cinema show
that night, which in this camp was run under the chaplain service and by
a chaplain. He knew what the thing would be like. His whole soul shrunk
from the silly, melodramatic films which he knew would constitute the
programme as from a nauseating dose of medicine. The billboard announced
a double header, a trite and, especially to Canadians, a ridiculous
representation of the experiences of John Bull and his wife and pretty
daughter as immigrants to the Canadian Northwest, which was to be
followed by the immortal Charlie Chaplin.
The cinema hut was jammed--the whole battalion, now much reduced in
numbers, officers and men being present, and with them the men of the
base units and transports of other battalions. It was in some senses an
unusual gathering. There was an entire absence of the wonted chaff and
uproarious horseplay; instead a grave and almost bored air rested upon
the men's faces. The appalling experiences of the past thirteen days
seemed to dwarf all other things in comparison. They had been in the
presence of the Big Thing; all else seemed petty; they had been looking
into death's cold eyes; after that other sights seemed trivial. Many of
them carried sore hearts for their comrades with whom they had at other
times foregathered in just such circumstances as these, but nevermore
again.
It was the custom in the battalion, as the officers came into such
gatherings as this, to receive them with a ripple of applause, but
to-night there was silence. Barry arrived late. When he appeared there
fell upon the men a hush, and then as he moved toward the front seats
reserved for the officers, the men began to rise until the whole
battalion was standing silent and motionless, and so remained until he
had found a seat. It was Major Bayne who called his attention to this
unusual demonstration, which was reserved only for great occasions and
for nothing less than a battalion commander.
“They are saluting you, Pilot,” said Major Bayne in a whisper, himself
standing with the other officers.
Barry quickly lifted his eyes, saw the men standing, with all eyes
directed toward him, slowly looked over the rows of faces, smiled a
bright but slightly wavering smile, turned and saluted the Commanding
Officer, and sat down all trembling and shaken by this most touching
tribute of sympathy and affection.
The show began with some pictures of great allied leaders which excited
a mild interest and drew some perfunctory applause. Then came the tragic
comedy of John Bull's experiences as an immigrant, when just as the
interest began to deepen, the machine blew up, and the pictures were off
for the night.
Ordinarily such a contretemps would have been by no means fatal to the
evening's enjoyment, for in the battalion there was no lack of musical
and other talent, and an impromptu entertainment was easily possible.
Ordinarily, too, in such an emergency there would at once have arisen
a demand for the chaplain, who had come to be recognised as a great
standby in times of need such as this. To-night, however, everything
seemed changed. The mild suggestion of one of the men that the chaplain
should take the piano was promptly discouraged by the dissenting growls
of the others present. They knew well how their chaplain was feeling.
“What shall we do?” asked Major Bayne of Barry.
“Get Coleman to the piano. He is a perfect wizard,” suggested Barry,
indicating a young lieutenant who had come to the battalion with the
recent draft, and who had done some accompaniments for Barry's violin
playing.
Lieutenant Coleman, on being called for, went to the piano, and began
to play. He was indeed a wizard as Barry had said, with a genius for
ragtime and popular music hall ditties, and possessed also of the
further gift of improvisation that made his services invaluable on just
such an occasion as this.
From one popular air to another he wandered, each executed with greater
brilliance than the last, but he failed to excite anything more than a
mild interest and approval. The old songs which on other occasions had
been wont to let loose the song birds of the battalion seemed to have
lost their power. It was not gloom, but a settled and immovable apathy
which apparently nothing could break.
“This is going awfully slow,” said Major Bayne to Barry. “I wish
something could be done.”
“The boys are tired out,” answered Barry, himself weary and sick of the
performance and longing more than anything else for solitude and his
cot.
The Commanding Officer came over and sat beside them. He was obviously
worried and uneasy.
“I don't like this,” he said to the major. “Coleman is doing his best,
and is doing mighty well, but there is no heart in the boys, and it
isn't entirely due to physical weakness. I wish we could start something
that would wake them up before they leave. They would sleep much
better.”
“The Pilot here can do it,” said Major Bayne in an undertone, “but I
rather hate to ask him for he is pretty much all in.”
They sat a little while longer listening to the men's half hearted
drawling of “The Tulip and the Rose.”
“This won't do,” said the O. C. abruptly. “Get Dunbar over here.”
“Dunbar,” said the O. C. when Barry had come to him. “This thing is as
dull as ditchwater. I want to get the boys started up a bit. They are
hopelessly dull. Look at their eyes. Do you know what they are seeing?”
“Yes, sir,” said Barry, “they are seeing what they have been looking at
for the last thirteen days.”
“You are right, Dunbar, and that's what I want them to forget. Now I
know you don't feel very fit, and I hate to ask you, but I believe you
can do something for the men with that violin of yours. What do you
say?”
“I have already sent a man for it,” said Major Bayne. “I knew he'd do
it, and his violin lies there under the piano.”
Without announcement or preface Barry walked straight to the stage where
Coleman, having miserably failed to strike fire with “The Tulip and the
Rose,” was grinding out, with great diligence and conscientious energy,
“Irish Eyes.” Barry picked up his violin from the floor, mounted the
stage, laid his violin on the piano, then he took his place behind the
pianist and, bending over him, reached down, caught him under the legs
and while still in full tide of his performance, lifted him squarely off
the stool and deposited him upon a chair at one side of the stage. Then,
ignoring the amazed look upon Coleman's face, he proceeded gravely to
tune his violin to the piano. The act itself, the cool neatness with
which it was performed, the astonished face of the outraged pianist,
all together created a situation excessively funny. The effect upon
the audience was first one of surprise, then of unalloyed delight.
Immediately every man in the hall was wide awake, and as the humour
of the situation grew upon them, they began to cheer in quite a lively
manner.
When Barry put his violin to his chin they cheered again, for often had
he bewitched them with the magic of his instrument.
Before he began to play, he glanced over his shoulder at the discomfited
Coleman and remarked in an undertone, perfectly audible throughout the
hall, “Now we'll have some music.”
Again the audience went off in a perfect storm of delighted cheers,
which were renewed from time to time as Barry would turn looking with a
grave face upon the still amazed Coleman, not yet quite recovered from
his first astonishment.
When quiet was finally restored, Barry began to play. For his opening
number he made a daring choice. It was the intricate but altogether
tuneful Ballade and Polonaise by Vieuxtemps. Throughout the somewhat
lengthy number he held his audience fixed under the mastery of his art.
It was a triumph immediate and complete. When he had finished the
last brilliant movement of the Polonaise, the men burst again into
enthusiastic cheering, moved not only by the music but more by the
spirit of their chaplain, which they could not fail to understand and
appreciate.
He had already achieved what the O. C. had desired, but he was not yet
done with them. Having finished his classical selection, which he was
quite well aware Coleman could not touch, he turned to the latter and
gravely motioned him to the piano stool. Coleman hesitated, not knowing
quite what would be demanded of him.
“Come on, Coleman, be a sport,” shouted a young officer, the audience
joining once more in encouraging cheers.
Still Coleman hesitated. One never knew just what vagary the chaplain
might put on. Failing to move him by imploring gesture, Barry finally
approached him, and with elaborate, courteous formality, offered him his
hand, and finally conducted him to the piano stool. Again the delighted
audience went into a roar of cheers.
From that moment, and for a full hour, Barry had them at his will, now
listening spellbound to some simple old heart song, now beating hand and
foot to a reel, now roaring to the limit of their lung power some old
and well-loved popular air.
“Ain't he a bird?” said the major to the Commanding Officer.
“He's fine,” assented the Commanding Officer with a great sigh. “I can't
tell you what a burden he has lifted from me. It's worth a week's rest
to the men, and, poor chaps, they need it.” Lowering his voice, he
leaned over to the major and said, “We may be going up again to-morrow
night.”
“To-morrow night, colonel!” exclaimed the major, aghast.
“Not a word, but I have exceedingly grave news. The front line is driven
in. One of the battalions holding is completely wiped out.”
“Wiped out? Good God, and where are the enemy?”
“As far as I can hear, although I haven't the particulars, they have
broken through from Hooge to Hill 60, are through Sanctuary Wood, and
down to Maple Copse. Two relief battalions have gone up and are holding.
The chances are we shall have to go to back them up to-morrow evening.
It's hard on the boys, for they have come through a long and bitter
experience, but not a word of this, major, to any one. We shall let
them have their rest to-night. That's why I was so anxious about this
entertainment. That's why I am particularly grateful to that Pilot of
ours. He is a wonder, and by the look of him he is about all in. He is
staying magnificently with the game. And now, major, I am going to do
something that will please him immensely. At least I think it will.”
At a pause in the music, the O. C. arose and moved toward the stage.
Barry at once stepped back to the rear. Standing before the men, the O.
C. spoke briefly:
“I wish to thank in your name, men, our chaplain, and his assistant, Mr.
Coleman, for the very delightful evening they have given us. I know how
you feel by the way I feel myself. I need say no more, and now, seeing
that we have missed our parade service for the last two Sundays, and as
I should not like the chaplain to become rusty in his duty, I'm going
to ask him to bring our very pleasant evening to a close with a little
service such as he himself would suggest.”
Hardly were the words out of his mouth, when Barry took up his violin
and said:
“Boys, did you have a good time to-night?”
“Yes, sir; you bet we had, sir.”
“Well, then, if you had, sing this,” and recited for them the first
verses of the old hymn,
“Abide with me, fast falls the even tide.”
When they had sung the first verse, he said again:
“Now sing these words,” and once more he recited the stirring verse:
“I fear no foe, with Thee at hand to bless.”
When they had finished the verse, he said to them
“Shall we have another?”
“Go on, sir!” they said. “Sure thing!” “Finish it up!”
“Then,” said Barry, “sing these words”:
“I need Thy presence every passing hour,
What but Thy grace can foil the tempter's power.”
Then when he had finished the verse, he dropped the violin and, moving
to the edge of the platform, said, in a voice vibrant with emotion:
“Don't sing these words, but say them as I play them for you.”
He then recited the moving words with which the old hymn closes:
“Hold Thou Thy cross before my closing eyes;
Shine through the gloom and point me to the skies;
Heaven's morning breaks, and earth's vain shadows flee,
In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me.”
“I want every one of you to say the words to himself as I play them.”
In long-drawn, tremulous notes he voiced the beautiful plea for aid in
the hour of man's supreme need, which finds expression in the first
two lines. Then, with his bow gripping the strings in a great sweeping
crescendo, he poured forth in full strong chords the triumphant faith
with which the hymn closes.
He laid his violin on the piano, stood quite a few moments looking upon
them, then said:
“Men, listen to these great words. They might have been written for
us, and for these days;” and he recited to them the words of the Hebrew
psalm, eloquent of courage in the face of a crumbling world:
“God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.
Therefore will not we fear, though the earth be removed, and though the
mountains be carried into the midst of the sea.
Though the waters thereof roar and be troubled, though the mountains
shake with the swelling thereof. Selah.
There is a river, the streams whereof shall make glad the city of God,
the holy place of the tabernacles of the Most High.
God is in the midst of her; she shall not be moved. God shall help her
and that right early.
The heathen raged, the kingdoms were moved; he uttered his voice, the
earth melted.
The Lord of hosts is with us; the God of Jacob is our refuge. Selah.
Come, behold the words of the Lord, what desolations he hath made in the
earth.
He maketh wars to cease unto the end of the earth; he breaketh the bow,
and cutteth the spear in sunder: he burneth the chariot in the fire.
Be still and know that I am God; I will be exalted among the heathen, I
will be exalted in the earth.
The Lord of hosts is with us; the God of Jacob is our refuge.”
Then they followed him in the General Confession, and the Lord's prayer.
“Captain Dunbar,” said the O. C., offering him his hand, “you have
done for us to-night a greater thing than you know just now. You will
understand better tomorrow. With all my heart I thank you on the men's
behalf and on my own behalf, for I assure you I needed it as much as
they did. I want to assure you, too, sir, that I received to-night the
thing I needed.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Barry simply, too weary to utter another word,
and staggered out, half dead with exhaustion.
Half an hour later, as he was leisurely undressing, and drinking the cup
of cocoa which Monroe had prepared for him, a message summoned him to
the orderly room. There he found Colonel Leighton with Major Bayne and
the company commanders.
“I have a communication here for you, Captain Dunbar,” said the O. C.,
“from your D. A. C. S.,” and he passed him a little slip.
It was the announcement of his “leave.”
“Well, what do you think of that?” said the O. C. “How does that suit
you?”
“Well, sir,” said Barry, uncertainty and hesitation in his voice, “I'd
like the leave, all right, but can I conveniently be spared just now?”
“Most certainly,” said the O. C., “and, what's more, I want you to go
to-night. Can you get ready?”
“I suppose so, sir,” said Barry, wearily.
“By Jove! listen to him,” said the O. C. “He hates to leave us, doesn't
he?” And they all laughed. “Now, Dunbar,” he said, “no more posing. You
catch the leave train to-night at Poperinghe. As a matter of fact, I
think it starts somewhere about twelve.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Barry. “I think I can catch it.”
“Then good luck!” said the O. C., rising from his chair. “Every one
of us here would like to be in your place, but since it isn't himself,
every man is glad that it should be you.”
Still Barry hesitated.
“I really hate to leave you, sir, just now,” he said. “I mean that,” he
added with a little nervous laugh.
“Oh, come on, Dunbar,” said the O. C. in a voice whose gruffness might
signify almost any emotion, but with a touch upon his shoulder that
Barry knew meant comradeship. “Say good-bye to the boys here, and get
out.”
They had just finished the plan for the campaign of the next night, and
every man in that little company knew that for him this might be his
last “Good-bye” to the chaplain. It only added to the depth of their
feeling that they knew that of all this Barry was unconscious. But,
whether it was that unconsciously he had gathered something of the real
significance of the situation, or whether it was that he himself had
reached the limit of emotional control, as he passed from man to man,
shaking hands in farewell, his lips refused to utter a single word, but
in his eyes were unshed tears that spoke for him.
Major Bayne followed him to the door, and outside:
“Take my horse and Monroe with you, and good-bye, old man. All sorts of
good luck. Remember that we all feel to-night that you are really one of
us, and that we are better men because we have known you. Goodbye.”
Again Barry was conscious of that strange suggestion, almost of
impending calamity.
“I hate to go, major,” he said. “I believe I'll wait.”
“Nonsense,” said the major impatiently. “Take your leave when you get
your chance, and have a good time. You have earned it.”