SERGEANT-MAJOR RYAN
Many months later, on a clear February night, Shafto and Tremenheere
stood together outside Headquarters, “somewhere in France,” anxiously
observing the signs in the sky. Shafto, a machine-gun officer attached
to the Blanks, had been granted twenty-four hours’ leave, and made a
muddy and dangerous journey of fifteen miles to visit his old
schoolfellow, now on the staff of a General commanding a division. He
was challenged and so was his companion; their faces expressed the long
strain of a terrible war; both looked years older than their actual
age, for, like the sons and daughters of the worshippers of Moloch,
“they had passed through the fire.”
Shafto was fine-drawn to leanness, heavy lines were scored on his
forehead, he had twice been wounded, had taken part in desperate
fighting, witnessed many harrowing sights, and lost many friends.
The chill air was full of sounds; a continuous rolling of wheels,
rumbling of guns, and the distant scream of a shell.
“There goes a signal to lengthen the German range,” remarked Shafto.
“That’s right, for they often show up lights that mean nothing.”
“Look at that aeroplane of ours dropping red stars over the Boches’
first line of trenches. I suppose the lines are fairly close?”
“By Jove, you may say so! The men can shout across at one another, but
the trenches are a good four miles from where we stand.”
As he concluded, a star shell broke and lit up a vast expanse of
gleaming mud.
To the rolling and rumbling was now added a far-away sound of tramping
feet and song.
“Here they come!” exclaimed Tremenheere; “back to billets; they changed
at six o’clock, but it’s heavy going—mostly wading in slosh.”
The marching came nearer and nearer, also the sound of singing and
mouth-organs.
“‘Michigan,’” said Shafto, “is a favourite; poor old ‘Tipperary’ is
down and out.”
Presently the force which had been relieved, muddy to the waist, but
splendidly cheerful, splashed into the great courtyard.
“Irish,” explained Tremenheere; “magnificent fellows, born fighters.”
They watched the men as they fell out and scattered to their quarters
in outhouses, barns and offices; and then Shafto and his friends made
their way into the battered old chateau, and temporary Orderly
room—once a lady’s boudoir. It still exhibited strips of artistic
wall-paper, a cracked mirror, a beautiful Louis XIV. cabinet stacked
with papers, a few rude chairs, a couple of wooden tables.
Presently a sergeant-major came in to report, a fine stalwart fellow
with a heavy black moustache and, in spite of his muddy waders, an air
of complete self-possession. Having saluted and handed over his papers,
his quick blue eyes rested on Shafto. He started, saluted, and said:
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Shafto, sir, but I see you don’t know me.”
“Well, no, I can’t say that I do,” replied Shafto, casting his mind
over the last eighteen months.
“Well, of course, sir, I’m entirely different to what ye may remember
in Rangoon.”
“What?—you don’t mean to say——”
The late _pongye_ nodded with emphasis..
“I’m now Sergeant-Major Ryan, in the second battalion of the old
regiment.”
Then suddenly stepping back and lowering his voice, he added, “They
think I’m me brother. Shure, I never had one. And how is yourself,
sir?”
“All right; I’m a machine-gun officer attached to the Blanks.”
“And the young lady?”
“She’s a Red Cross nurse at Rouen—I saw her three months ago.”
“When next you meet will you give her my humble respects and tell her
I’ve not forgotten her invitation, an’ I’m coming to the wedding?”
“And no one will be more welcome; you have our address. I’m told you’ve
been in some heavy fighting?”
“Well, yes, sir, at Ypres we lost eighteen of our officers; oh, it was
a cruel bad mix-up. Still and all, the Boches were given their tea in a
mug! After our last charge ye’d see thim going every way—like crows in
a storm! Our guns are grand; as for them aeroplanes they do all but
speak; and the Tanks are wonders, God bless them!”
“You have been wounded?”
“Only just a cat’s scratch—the German wire is mighty stiff; and there’s
six-inch spikes. Well, since we were last together, sir, you and I have
been through a strange time and seen sights as we can’t talk about. One
thing is sure, we’ll worry through all right.”
“Oh, yes, we shall, and give the Boches something to think about.”
The sudden opening of a distant door released a roar of voices singing,
“Take me back to Blighty!” a rousing demand which instantly recalled
the sergeant-major to his duty.
“Well, sir,” he said, “I must be moving; so I’ll wish you good-bye, and
the best of luck.”
“The same to you, Ryan. You’ll let us have a line to say how you get
on, won’t you?”
Shafto held out his hand; Ryan gave it a hard, convulsive squeeze, and
in another moment the stalwart Irishman had saluted and tramped forth.
“An old friend, I see,” remarked Tremenheere.
“Yes, I knew him in Burma.”
“He is a tip-top non-com., and has the D.C.M. and the French Cross; he
worked miracles when his officers were killed at Ypres. They offered
him a commission, but he wouldn’t take it. The men love him; though he
has some funny fads, never touches meat, and sings queer outlandish
chants; but he’s the splendid sort of fellow who was _born_ for this
war; full of heroic qualities and as hard as a bag of nails. I suppose
his regiment was in Rangoon.”
“Not in my time,” replied Shafto. He hesitated for a moment, and then
added, “If I were to tell you how I came across that Irish
sergeant-major you’d say I was pulling your leg.”
“Oh, go on, then—pull away.”
“When I first met him he was a Burmese priest, with a shorn head,
yellow robe, and begging-bowl.”
“Come, I say, Douglas, this is a bit too much!”
“But it’s a fact. He had been a soldier for six or seven years, got a
bad stroke in the jungle, was taken in by Burmans, and was for seven
years a _pongye_. When the war broke out he flung off his yellow robe,
paid his passage to England, and is here, as you see, in his element.”
“It’s amazing—incredible—but incredible things come off nowadays.”
Shafto nodded.
“If he gets through this, do you suppose he will return to his
monastry?”
“Never! It is his fixed intention to go to Ireland; he has some money,
and hopes to settle down on his own little farm.”
“I’m afraid he’s some way off that yet; in the meanwhile, he is seeing
a good bit of life.”
“And death,” mentally added Shafto.
“I say,” exclaimed Tremenheere, glancing at his wrist-watch, “it’s time
for our dinner—come on!”
In the autumn of the same year, Shafto, who had again been severely
wounded, was granted a month’s leave, and he and Sophy were married. It
was the usual war wedding, no bridesmaids and no reception. Among the
friends, “welcome at the church,” were the Gregorys, Tebbs, Larchers,
MacNabs, Mrs. Malone, Mr. Hutton, and the Tremenheeres. Captain
Tremenheere supported his friend as best man.
One specially bidden guest was absent from the gathering. He lay
beneath a black wooden cross, near by to Guinchy, where gallant Irish
regiments had immortalised their colours. Alas! Sergeant-Major Michael
Ryan was among the missing. To the unspeakable grief of his comrades,
he had gone West—but not to Ireland.