It was at the time when men still imagined that to be a pivotal man in
some way enhanced their chances of being demobilised that an abnormal
wave of acquisitiveness passed over us. Before it passed, I regret
to say, it _hovered_, chiefly on account of the prospect of a speedy
return home and the desire to take back some kind of trophy to satisfy
the still small voice of inquiry concerning papa and the Great War.
The very first day after we had arrived in the most unimportant
village imaginable (our usual luck), Roley, the fattest subaltern
on record, lurched into the room and told us of the discovery of a
wonderful trainload of abandoned Bosch material, Being a Regular
soldier, acquisitiveness runs through his whole being, of course, and
he gave us a most glowing account of the wonders to be found. "Full
of things," he cried, "coal, Bosch beds, field-guns and
souvenirs--hundreds of 'em."
I know no rabbit that could have pricked up his ears quicker than did
the pivotal men at the sound of that magic word. "Hail, Roley!" we
cried; "we who are about to be demobilised salute you!"
That evening a select conclave of super-scroungers met with great
solemnity. Beds for the men and coal for all--certainly, and _then_ we
would start collecting. By the morrow each man slept in luxury, while
subalterns from other companies came in to warm themselves by our
roaring fires. Not till then did we feel justified in turning our
thoughts to the furnishing of the baronial hall at home.
Some day, we pivotal men are still ready to believe, when
demobilisation is nearly complete we shall return to our bowler hats
and civic respectability, but meantime, let me tell you, respectable
elderly subalterns _enjoy_ things like clambering over a forbidden
Bosch train in search of loot. When we had climbed to the end of the
trucks and were thoroughly dirty, we found we had done very badly.
The souvenirs were there all right, but no matter how interesting and
desirable it may be, you simply cannot pack up a field-gun and send it
home--the tail part does stick out so.
Chardenal and I had picked up the best thing we could find, brass
cartridge cases (about three feet high) of a 5·9 gun, and some shorter
eight-inch affairs. It was hard work. I carried four of the former and
Chardenal carried two of each, and we looked as if we had come to mend
a main drain. Not having been in the Army long enough to have lost all
sense of shame, Chardenal began by trying to hide his cases under his
British warm. His biggest effort at concealment was made when passing
the sentry of the Brigade Headquarters' guard, and the noise he made
doing it brought the whole guard out. However, being sentries, they
took very little notice of what we did, except that the N.C.O. in
charge certainly did pick up one of the dropped cases and hand it to
Chardenal. This was after I had tried to help him and we had dropped
the whole lot.
After this Chardenal gave up all idea of concealment and tried to
express by his carriage that he accepted no responsibility whatever
for the souvenirs. He didn't want the things, not he! They were
_there_, certainly, and--well, yes, he was carrying them, but _why_
he was carrying them (here he would have shrugged his shoulders if
he could) he really couldn't tell you; it was a matter of absolute
indifference to him, anyway. Histrionically I have no doubt it was a
great piece of work, but the only possible inference anybody could
have drawn was that he might have been carrying them to oblige
me--which I resented.
Heavens, how our arms ached, for it was over two miles to the billet!
A collision of milk-trains could hardly have made more noise than we
did as we clashed and clanged down the main street. Of course we met
everybody we knew. People we hadn't seen for years, people we didn't
like, people who didn't like us--all seemed to have been paraded
especially for the occasion.
We got home in the end, and it was a great triumph. The only
unenthusiastic person was Mr. Brown, my batman, who surveyed the
things in silence, betokening that he knew quite well he would be
called upon to sew them up in sacking and label them "Officer's Spare
Kit, c/o Cox and Co." Then he looked sadly at my soiled tunic and my
British warm and asked if I had carried them far.
"Over two miles," I replied proudly. "Pity," he said; "there's a whole
dump of them at the bottom of the garden here."
There the matter might have ended if the fat Roley had not lurched
up again the next day with a steel box containing a dial-sight off
a field-gun. The dial-sight was a complicated affair of prisms and
lenses which probably cost the Bosch about sixty pounds, and we felt a
little sick at having overlooked such a find.
"Awful job I had too," he went on. "Some fellows were seen yesterday
taking stuff away and they've put a sentry on the train."
"Serve them right," we said.
Next day we returned to the trucks to try again. The sentry was
engaged in a little conversation, and whilst Chardenal took his
photograph (ostensibly for _The Daily Snap_ as "Sentry Guarding a
Train") I slipped behind the trucks, opened a couple of lids in the
tails of some field-guns, picked out two cases of sights and hurried
off. Chardenal joined me later and, concealing our swag under our
British warms, we walked as quickly as we could until the Brigadier
stopped and had a little chat with us about things in general. And
there we had to stand for a quarter of an hour on a freezing afternoon
with two fingers holding the box and the other fingers holding the
coat down to effect better concealment. Chardenal was in so much pain
and wore such an expression of agonized innocence that the Brigadier
wanted him to come into headquarters until he felt better.
"Well, what have you got?" asked Carfax, another candidate for
demobilisation, when we finally got back and showed him the cases.
"Only two?" he cried, "and you promised _me_ one!" We said things.
"What lenses are they?" he asked.
"I don't know," said Chardenal, "but, whatever's the heaviest kind,
that's the kind we've brought."
And we opened the boxes and they were empty.
The baronial hall will remain unfurnished. I'm fed up with the whole
business.