"You will break their hearts!" I said. "Can't you use them as scouts,
or--"
Eric blazed right out this time.
"For God's sake, Laing, allow me to command my own battalion!" he cried.
Then--characteristically--"I'm sorry, old boy! You mean well, I know;
but really I must do things my own way. We don't require Bisley
specialists in a hand-to-hand battle. As for Roy Birnie, a little less
sniping and a little more intelligence won't do him any harm at all.
Now I'm off to harangue the battalion. Sergeant, is my groom outside? I
want my horse."
*CHAPTER X*
*DISCIPLINE! DISCIPLINE! DISCIPLINE!*
Exhortation before Action was a form of military ceremonial exactly to
our commander's taste. I had heard him address his followers many a
time. Nearly thirty years ago I had formed one of an audience of
fourteen--shivering in shorts and jerseys in an east wind at the back of
the school pavilion what time we were addressed by one Eric Bethune,
about to lead us into a Final House Match which, owing to the size,
speed and prestige of our opponents, could be regarded as little else
than a forlorn hope. We won that Final House Match. I decided then,
and have never departed from that belief, that no more gallant and
inspiring leader of a forlorn hope than that same Eric could have been
found among the manhood of our race. And here we were again, eight
hundred strong this time, gathered in hollow square for the same
purpose.
Eric spoke to us for perhaps five minutes, sitting his horse like a
graven image, with the last rays of the setting sun glinting upon his
burnished equipment. ("Protective dinginess" was anathema in Eric's
battalion.) Around him, steel-helmeted, perfectly aligned, motionless,
stood his men. It was characteristic of their commander that he did not
preface his address with the order that they should stand at ease. All
ranks remained rigidly at attention while he spoke.
I need not repeat his words. It is enough to say that, having heard
them, I, for one, would willingly have followed the speaker anywhere he
chose to lead me, without a thought (for all my fundamental convictions
on the subject) of limited objectives, or artillery time-tables, or
other mechanical hindrances to free fighting. He moved his men,
too--representatives of the dourest and most undemonstrative element of
the dourest and most undemonstrative nation in the world. I could see
the effect of his words, in the glow of tanned faces, in the setting of
square jaws, in the further stiffening of sturdy, rigid bodies. It was
hard to decide which to be most proud of--the leader, or the men. I
glowed inwardly as my eye ran down the motionless ranks. Great hearts!
Great stuff! And, above all, representative stuff--truly
representative, at last! They were not of the Regular Army type, nor
the Territorial type, nor Kitchener's Army type. They were of the
National Army--Britain in Arms--voluntary Arms--The Willing Horse,
reinforced and multiplied to his most superlative degree.
Five minutes later A Company were streaming down the road in fours, Eric
striding at their head with the company commander and adjutant. He had
sent his horse back to the transport lines, and was "foot-slogging"
exultantly with his men. I returned to the farm kitchen. I entered
rather suddenly. Our newly-appointed assistant adjutant was sitting at
the table, with his head buried in his arms. His back was to the door.
I tripped heavily upon the door-sill. Roy sat up hurriedly, and busied
himself with the papers before him.
"Everything cleared up now?" I asked briskly, slipping off my heavy
marching equipment.
"Yes, sir," replied a muffled voice--"very nearly."
"In that case," I continued, with great heartiness, "we can get away
almost immediately. I am expecting our relief here in five minutes."
I babbled on a little longer, to give him time to recover. Presently he
turned upon me, and spoke. His face was flushed--absurdly like his
mother's when something had roused her chivalrous indignation.
"Uncle Alan, it's a rotten shame! I had a wonderful scheme all mapped
out! It was in Orders, too! We had marked down all sorts of cushy
spots for sniping Boche machine guns from. I had an aeroplane map of our
sector, with Thiepval, and Beaumont Hamel, and everything! Now, my poor
chaps are all sent back to their companies, where they will be treated
like dirt; and--I am given a job as assistant office boy!"
It is impossible to furnish adequate comfort to a man who has been
deprived unexpectedly of his first independent command. I merely patted
Roy's shoulder, and said gruffly--
"Discipline, Discipline, Discipline, lad! That's the only thing that
matters!"
Roy sat up at once. He was a soldier, through and through.
"I beg your pardon, sir," he said. "I am afraid I was mixing up Major
Laing with Uncle Alan! That wasn't the game, was it? My error! It
shan't occur again." He smiled resolutely. "I think everything is in
order now. Shall I hand these files over to the Orderly-room sergeant?"
"Righto!" I said. "Was that a despatch rider I saw at the door just
now?"
"Yes--from Brigade Headquarters. He left two messages."
"Did you give him a receipt for them?"
"No. He slung them in and bolted off. I expect Brigade Headquarters
are on the move, and he didn't want to lose touch with them."
"Never mind! See what they are about."
Roy opened the first envelope, and extracted a field despatch-form. He
glanced at it, and grinned.
"It's lucky we got this before going up into the line!" he observed; and
read aloud:
_The expression "Dud" must no longer be employed in Official
Correspondence._
"It's a memo from Olympus," I explained: "They mean well, but their
sense of proportion is not what it might be. And the next article?"
Roy did not reply. I looked up. His face was as white as chalk. He
was breathing heavily through his nose, staring in a stupefied fashion
at the flimsy pink slip in his hand.
"My God!" he muttered; "My God! It'll break his heart."
"What on earth's the matter, old man?" I leaned across the table. Roy
thrust the despatch towards me.
"From Divisional Headquarters," he said, mechanically. "The Brigade
Major has sent it on."
The message was quite brief:
_Lt.-Col. E. F. B. Bethune, D.S.O., commanding Second Battalion, Royal
Covenanters, will return home forthwith and report to War Office._
Pinned to the despatch was a hastily scrawled covering slip from the
Brigade Major:
_Passed to you, for immediate compliance, please._
The next thing that I remember was Roy's voice:
"They've done it on him! The dirty dogs! They're sending him home! Did
you--know?"
"No! Yes! Well, I was half afraid of it. I knew the people higher up
were getting a bit restive: in fact, I tried to warn him only this
afternoon. But I never dreamed they would strike back at a moment like
this. You are right, Roy--it will break his heart." (It was the second
occasion upon which I had employed that phrase within the last hour.)
Another thought struck Roy.
"You are in command now!" he said.
"I suppose so; but not until this despatch is actually delivered to the
Colonel."
We were silent again. We were both picturing the same scene, I fancy.
Presently Roy said:
"If only it had been delayed in some way!"