"Does he want a commission?" asked the Colonel.
"Yes, I should think so—naturally. You see he's been well brought up, and is well off. On his mother's side he belongs to one of the best families in the West of England, and—and—well, Tommies are having to rough it just now."
"And none the worse for it," snapped the Colonel.
"Exactly; and he's quite prepared to enlist as a private. I was only answering your question."
"Just so: let's see him."
A few minutes later Bob was undergoing a severe cross-examination by the Colonel, who had the reputation of being somewhat eccentric in his methods. Bob, who of course knew that he was being subjected to special treatment, did not know whether the old officer was pleased with him or not. He only knew that he was asked keen, searching questions in a brusque, military fashion, and that he was finally dismissed without knowing what was to become of him.
For some time after this Bob knew what it meant to be a Tommy; he soon found out, moreover, that his experiences in the O.T.C. did not prepare him for those he was now undergoing. Each morning he was up at half-past five, and then for several hours a day he was submitted to the severest drilling. He quite understood the necessity for men being physically fit before being drafted into the army at war time. When he lay down at night in the company of men whom in ordinary times he would never think of associating with, he was so tired that he forgot the uncomfortable surroundings and uncongenial society. Never in his life had he slept as he slept now. Never did he imagine he would have to put up with such privations.
In one sense he found that, as far as the privates went, the army was a great democracy. One man was as good as another. The sons of well-to-do families rubbed shoulders with colliers and farm labourers. Tommy was Tommy, whether he was "Duke's Son" or "Cook's Son." And yet, in another sense, education and social status were recognised. He found that in spite of themselves, and in spite of the fact that all distinctions were technically sunk between them, those who came from labourers' cottages found themselves almost instinctively paying deference to the men who did not belong to their class.
There were some half a dozen men in Bob's company who had come from good homes, and while general comradeship existed, these men naturally drifted together.
One of the great hardships to Bob was the food. The rancid butter, the coarse bread, the almost uneatable bacon, the tough meat, tried him sorely. At first he could scarcely swallow it. He got used to it at length, however, and found that he was none the worse for it. He also longed for the luxury of a private bath. Oh! just for half an hour in the porcelain bath in his mother's house! Just to have the exquisite pleasure of feeling the sting of cold pure water around his body!
But things were not to be. As he laughed to himself, "I am a full private, and I must take my chance like the rest of them!" Nevertheless, to a lad reared amidst all the refinements of a good home the change was so great that had he not felt it a bounden duty to be where he was, he would have felt like running away. Still he was not there for fun, neither had he anticipated an easy time. Sometimes, it is true, he was more than disgusted by what he saw. Many of the men did not seem to understand the ordinary decencies of life, and acted in such a fashion as to grate sorely upon his sensitive nature. Their language was often unprintable, while their ideas of life and conduct often made him sick.
How could such fellows as these fight for honour and truth? Some of them seemed to have no sense of honour or decency. He saw presently, however, that even these, who were not by any means representative of the whole, had far higher standards than he had at first thought. They were coarse, and some times brutal, but they were kind to their pals, and would put themselves to any trouble to do another chap a good turn.
One night it was very cold, although it had been very warm during the day. They had all been drilling hard, and were dog-tired. One of the men was evidently very seedy. He complained of a sick headache, and he was shivering with the cold.
"Bit off colour, mite?" said one.
"Jist orful, Bill. Gawd, I wish I was 'ome. The graand is so —— hard too, and I'm as sore as if some one had been a-beatin' me with a big stick."
"Ere mitey, you just 'ave my blanket. I don't want it. And let me mike my old overcoat into a bit of a pillow for yer."
"You are bloomin' kind, Bill, and I don't like——"
"Oh, stow it, it's nothink. Anything you'd like, mitey?"
"No, that is——"
"Come, out with it you ——. Wot is it? Shall I fetch the doctor?"
"Ee ain't no use! besides, you'd get into a —— row if you went to him now. When I wos 'ome and like this my mother used to go to a chemist and git me some sweet spirits of nitre, and it always made me as right as a trivet. But there ain't no such —— luck 'ere."
"Wot yer call it? Sweet spirits o' mitre? Never 'eerd on it afore.'Ow do you tike it?"
"Oh, you just puts it in 'ot water; but there, I can't 'ave it. Good night, Bill, and thank you for the blanket."
Bill, without a word, tired as he was, left the tent, and half an hour afterwards returned with the medicine.
"Gawd, Bill," said the sick man, "but you ain't a ——"
"Not so much chin music. There, tike it, and go to sleep."
Such little acts of kindness as these were constantly taking place, and they were by no means confined to men who belonged to the better-class but were more frequently seen among the roughest and coarsest.
Bob found out, too, that there was a rough sense of honour among them. Some of them seemed to revel in filthy language, but if a man did a mean thing, or didn't play the game according to their standard, he was in for a bad time. Indeed, he soon found out that, in a certain sense, the same code of honour which prevailed at Clifton, with exceptions, operated in this newly-formed camp.
Day after day and week after week passed, and still Bob knew nothing of what was to happen to him. He had enlisted as a private, but on Captain Pringle's advice had put down his name for a commission. From the first day, however, he had heard nothing more of it. From early morning till late in the day it was nothing but hard, tiring work.
It was all wonderfully strange to him, this intermingling with a mixed humanity, working like a slave for that which he had hitherto hated, and which he still hated. Still, he threw his whole heart into it, and he could not help knowing that he was progressing rapidly. After the first few days his tiredness and soreness passed away, and he could go through the most arduous duties without feeling tired. There was something in it all, too, which inspired him. The military precision of everything appealed to him, and the shouts, and laughter of hundreds of voices made life gay in spite of everything. As the days passed by, moreover, he could not help seeing that the association with clean-minded, healthy-bodied, educated men, was having a good effect upon the coarse-fibred portion of the strange community. They did not indulge so frequently in coarse language, neither was their general conduct so objectionable. It seemed as though they had something to live up to.
"Shut up, mate, and don't be a beast," Bob heard one man say to another one day.
"You are mighty squeamish, you son of a swine," was the rejoinder; "wot are you so partic'ler about?"
"'Cos I don't want to tell them 'ere fellers that we're a low lot."
"We're as good as they are, thet's wot we are. We're just all equals 'ere. They are Tommies just as we are. That's wotIses."
"We may be all equals as soldiers; but we cawn't git away from it, Bill, some of 'em are gentlemen. Thet's wot they are. Some of 'em just make me ashamed of myself sometimes. No, I ain't a puttin' on no side; but I just want to let 'em see that we workin' chaps can behave as well as they can. Thet's all. See?"
Meanwhile, good news came from the front. The Allies had driven the Germans back over the Marne, and were making progress all along the line.
The men cheered wildly as they heard the news.
"They'll git licked afore we get a smack at 'em," some ventured.
But in the main they knew better. They realised that the war was going to be long and bloody, and although going to the front possibly meant their death, there were very few who did not want to get there.
No one felt this more than Bob. He had now been three weeks in camp, and it seemed to him possible that it might be months before his time for action came. Of Captain Pringle he had heard nothing since he enlisted, and he was afraid he had gone to the front without having been able to do anything for him.
One evening he was sitting outside his tent, smoking his pipe. It had been a hot, sweltering day, although the summer was now over. Around him, as far as he could see, was a sea of bell-shaped tents. Everywhere was a great seething mass of men in khaki. Horses of all sorts abounded. Many of the men were bandying jokes one with another, others were at the canteen, while many more had gone to the nearest town. Bob himself had earlier in the day gone to the town to indulge in a "good square well-cooked meal," as he called it; and now, early as it was, although he little relished the thought of sleeping so-many in a tent, he was just thinking of going to bed. Near him a number of soldiers were singing gaily.
"Nancarrow!"
Bob turned his head, and saw a fellow soldier beckoning.
"What's up?"
"You are wanted."
"Where?"
"Officers' quarters."
As Bob obeyed the summons, he caught the song in which a great mass of men had joined.
"It's a long way to Tipperary,It's a long way to go;It's a long way to Tipperary,To the sweetest girl I know.Good-bye, Piccadilly;Farewell, Leicester Square.It's a long, long way to Tipperary.But my heart's right there."
As he reached the officers' quarters, he was surprised to see CaptainPringle.
"I've news for you, Nancarrow."
"Thank you, sir."
"You've got your commission."
"That's great. Thank you. I'm sure I owe it to you."
"Nonsense. Come this way. You've to go to Colonel Sapsworth. But that's not all. You start for the front almost immediately."
For a moment Bob could not speak. It was not fear that overwhelmed him, it was something more terrible. Every nerve in his body quivered, while his heart beat wildly.
"It's what you wanted, isn't it?"
"Yes, Captain. By Jove, that's great!"
And that was all Bob could say.
"I was afraid—that is, I thought you might be at the front," Bob stammered at length. "You told me, the day I enlisted, that you expected to go in a week."
"Yes, I know, but fresh orders came from headquarters. However, it can't be long now, thank Heaven! You were surprised at not seeing or hearing from me, I expect."
"I was a bit."
"Yes—well, that was by order."
Bob looked up inquiringly.
"You don't know Colonel Sapsworth," went on Captain Pringle. "He's what some of us call a holy terror. A fine officer, but has methods of his own. He's jolly good to us all, but he's determined to have no mugs about him. When I first brought you to him, I thought he didn't like you, but I found I was mistaken. All the same, he wanted to see the stuff you were made of. The truth is, he hasn't much of an opinion of O.T.C. men. He says that a lot of whipper-snappers from the public schools pass their exams, in the O.T.C., who are no more fit for officers than girls from a boarding-school. So, seeing you were willing to enlist as a private, he took you at your word. In fact, if Sapsworth had his way, he would have every officer in the Army rise from the ranks. No man, he maintains, can be a good officer unless he knows what it is to be a private. That was why you were sent here. He gave special instructions about you, however, and told the drill sergeant to keep his eye on you. He wanted to see what sort of stuff you were made of."
"I satisfied him, I hope?"
"You've got your Lieutenancy. That's the answer. Here we are."
Bob felt very uncomfortable during the next half-hour. As Pringle said, the Colonel was not a man who would stand any nonsense. He gave Bob some wholesome advice in no honeyed terms; he asked him many searching questions, after which he shook hands with him, and wished him good luck.
If Bob had worked hard as a private, he worked still harder as an officer. The work was, of course, different, yet it was essentially the same. Every day he expected orders to go to the front, but day followed day without the order being given. Meanwhile it seemed as though he were doing three days' work in one.
Of course the circumstances were somewhat more pleasant than they had been, the society was more congenial, and, instead of sleeping twelve in a tent, there were only two. Still the life was rough and hard.
"I wonder when we shall be off!" thought Bob, after what seemed to him an interminable number of days. "Pringle said we were to start immediately, and yet we are still hanging around here."
At length the orders arrived, and one night Bob found himself in a closely packed train bound for the South Coast. He wondered at what he called his good fortune in being allowed to start so soon, but reflected that he owed it to Captain Pringle's good offices and to what were called the Colonel's eccentricities. He rejoiced now, although he had been very reluctant at the time, that he had joined the O.T.C. This, of course, had made it possible for him to get to the front so soon.
Eager as he was to be in action, he could not help being saddened as he watched the men making their way to the trains. Splendid young fellows most of them were. The cream of England's manhood. They were almost without exception ruddy with health, and as hard as nails: straight, muscular men, who laughed at hardships, and who seemed to look at the whole business as a joke. They might have been going to a picnic, so merry were they. And yet, as Bob looked more closely, it was easy to see by the compressed lips, and the steely looks in their eyes, that they realised what they were doing.
"Good-bye, Piccadilly,Farewell Leicester Square,It's a long, long way to Tipperary,But my heart's right there."
They sang, and perhaps as they sang they pictured the homes to which they would never again return; they saw, as in a vision, the girls to whom they had said "Good-bye," perhaps for ever.
In a few days, perhaps, many of those light-hearted boys would be lying in the trenches, or in some ditch, stark and dead, or in some hospital maimed and crippled for life.
Yes, war was a ghastly, hellish business, and it should never be possible in Christian countries. This war, Bob felt, was one of the greatest crimes ever known, and all through which he had been passing ought only to be able to exist in troublous dreams.
Still he had no doubts about his duty. England's hands were clean, and England's path was clearly marked out. We were not fighting for gain or territory. With us it was a war of sacrifice, a war of duty. We were going in order to keep our word with a small state, to crush tyranny and slavery. But more, we were going to overthrow the war devil which the Germans had set up as a god. That was the thought that stirred Bob's heart and hardened his muscles. It was a war against war; he was really taking his part in a great mission on behalf of peace. Yes, it must be a fight to the finish. The sword must never be sheathed until this military god, which had turned all Europe into an armed camp, and which had made Germany a menace to the world, should never be able to lift its ghastly head again.
"I say, Nancarrow, you look mighty grim."
"I'm in for grim work, Pringle."
"By gad, yes. How many of these chaps will be singing 'It's a long way to Tipperary' in a month from now? How many aching hearts are there because of this business? Yes, Nancarrow, you were right, war was born in hell, but we must see it through."
When they landed on French soil, they were received with great jubilation.
"Vive les anglais!" was the cry on every hand. Old men with tears in their eyes welcomed them; old women vied with each other in showering blessings upon them; young girls followed them with shouts of laughter, yet with sobs in their laughter, and wished them every blessing.
"Yes, monsieur," cried an old dame to Bob, as he entered a fruit-shop, "take what you will. You English are our friends, our saviours. We French did not want to fight, but the Germans forced us. And then, voilà! You came forward like the friends you are, and you say, 'Down with the German eagle. France shall have fair play.' No, no, I will take no payment. Take what you will."
"But you are, perhaps, poor, madame!" urged Bob. "This war has made it hard for you."
"Hard! Ah, you say the truth. We have a garden near by. My husband and sons worked in it—now they are all gone. My husband and four sons went, but two of my sons are dead—killed."
"Perhaps they are only taken prisoners."
"And is not that death? What is life in a German prison but death? But, never mind, I have my husband and two sons still alive—but no, I will not take your money. Perhaps you have a mother, young monsieur?"
"Yes," replied Bob, and the picture of his mother sitting alone in the old home at St. Ia flashed before his eyes.
"Ah, yes, I see," said the old woman. "I see. But perhaps you have brothers, sisters?"
"No, I am her only son."
"And she grieves to part with you?"
"Yes, but she wanted me to go. She was angry with me for keeping back so long."
"Ah, that is the true woman. She hates the Germans?"
"No, we have friends there. But she wanted me to be here for duty's sake, and for England's honour."
"Ah, yes—England's honour. You promised Belgium, didn't you? And then there is theEntente Cordiale.Vive l'Entente Cordiale, monsieur! Ah, must you go? There is nothing else you will take?"
"Nothing, madame. Good-bye. God be with you."
"If you meet my husband, Alphonse Renaud is his name, or my two sons,Jean and Albert, you will tell them you saw me, spoke to me."
"But certainly, madame."
"And when the war is over, and if you return this way, you will call and see me, won't you? Adieu, monsieur, and the good God be with you."
Bob felt all the better for the old woman's simple talk. She was only a commonplace old dame, but a kindly heart beat in her bosom. After all, this war, ghastly as it was, was bringing a thousand noble qualities to light, and it was certainly bringing the French and the English more closely together. There was a bond of sympathy, of brotherhood, existing, which was never felt before.
When they left the town, they were followed by shouts of thanks and good fellowship. Laughter and merry words were heard too. France was being baptized with molten iron and blood, but she was still light of heart. She was still true to her characteristics.
"Here, Nancarrow," said Captain Pringle, as they watched the men board a train. "You can talk this blessed lingo like a native. I can't get my tongue around the words, and they talk so fast that I can't understand them. Here's an old chap wants to say something," and he turned towards an old military-looking man, who saluted Bob, and then bowed profoundly.
"Monsieur," said the old man, "I only wanted to bid you God speed. Yes, yes, you English have saved us. But for you they, the German pigs, bah! would have been in Paris before now. They would have repeated 1870. I was in thatdébâcle, monsieur, and I know what I felt. If we had been willing to violate our treaty and had fallen back on Belgian territory, we might have saved ourselves. But no, a treaty was a treaty, and our word was given. Death rather than dishonour, monsieur! But they haven't had another Sedan this time. And why? It was because you English turned the scales. Ah, but you English can fight, and you are good comrades. Monsieur, I salute you! We shall win,mon capitaine."
"We'll give them a run for their money, anyhow," said Bob, dropping into colloquial French.
"Good, monsieur; that's it. And you are doing it for honour's sake. We lost in 1870, because we would not violate what those German pigs called a 'scrap of paper,' and now you are going to save us for the same thing. All for 'a scrap of paper.' They do not know what honour is! They cannot understand. But we shall win. We are driving them back. They are nearly at Mézières now. They will soon be over the border. And then!"
"And then—— Yes, then we shall see what we shall see. But thank you for your good wishes, monsieur."
Train after train moved slowly out, while old women waved their handkerchiefs and young girls threw kisses, and all poured out their blessings. The thing that seemed to impress them was that England, who had nothing to gain, and who needed not have taken any part in the war, was throwing all her great weight on their side for the sake of theEntente Cordiale, and for the sake of our honour.
A few hours later Bob found himself in Paris. Several of the trains had gone by another route, but both Bob and Captain Pringle, with many others, were ordered to Paris. Here they stayed one day, and then went on to the front.
Although he had often heard how the British soldier was loved in Paris, Bob had no conception of the truth until he got there. The attention which he and Captain Pringle received was embarrassing. Wherever they went they were watched and followed, while remarks of the most complimentary nature were made about them. Even in the restaurant where they went for dinner a number of Frenchmen entered with them, and insisted on paying for their repast.
"No, no, messieurs," they exclaimed, when Bob protested; "but you are our guests. You come as our friends, you come to help us to fight our battles. Your visit must cost you nothing.Vive l'Angleterre!"
Both men and women vied with each other in courteous acts. They insisted on shaking hands again and again, they plied them with cigarettes, while Bob was very much confused by two elderly dames, both of whom insisted on kissing him on both cheeks.
"What would you?" they cried. "We are each old enough to be your mother. Besides—ah, the good God knows what is in our hearts; have we not sons fifty miles away, fighting for France? We shall win, monsieur! Do you not think so? With such gallant men as you to help us we cannot fail. The Germans are pigs, devils; but we have driven them back, back! Soon they will be out of France."
In the streets it was sometimes difficult for them to get along. On every hand people came up and insisted on shaking hands. But few of them could speak English, and they imagined that Bob was just as ignorant of French.
Again and again they received slaps on the back, while cries of "Good old Sport!" reached them.
Indeed, this was the popular form of salutation. It was nearly all theEnglish many of them knew, and appearing to believe that this was theBritish form of salutation, they indulged in it freely.
At length their duties in Paris were at an end, and then Bob, with a strange feeling at heart, mounted a train which was to take him to within a short distance of the line of battle.
They had not long left the French capital, before Bob realised that he was passing through country which not long before had been the scene of carnage. The train passed slowly along, and was often held up owing to the terrible exigencies of war.
"Do you see that, Nancarrow?" said Pringle, pointing to a field in which wheat had been planted, but which had never been garnered. Indeed it would be impossible to garner it. It had been trampled under foot by tens of thousands of hurrying feet.
Here and there they saw trenches that had been hastily dug, and then discarded when they were no longer of use. Repeatedly they saw the ruins of villages, some of which had been wantonly, barbarously destroyed by the invading foe.
It was a warm day, windless and clear, and as the train stopped at roadside stations or drew up at sidings, they could not help being impressed by the peace which seemed to reign. The birds still sang on the tree branches, cattle still lowed in the fields, and peasants still worked on their little farms.
"If one closed one's eyes, it would seem as though war were impossible," said Bob.
"Yes, but you'd be quickly undeceived when you opened them," replied Pringle. "Look at those trees!" and he pointed to a small wood, where charred trunks of trees, splintered branches, and blackened leaves told their story.
"I expect some of our men were there, or the Germans thought they were," said Pringle, "and so they——" and he shrugged his shoulders significantly.
"Perhaps some poor beggars may be lying wounded around there even yet," suggested Bob.
"I don't think so. As far as I can learn, the whole line has been carefully searched, and every man that could be saved has been. But, by God, the thought of it is awful!"
"Yes, no one knows what may have happened in a firing-line hundreds of miles long. It must have been hell."
What struck them forcibly, however, was the cheerfulness of the peasantry. At the little roadside stations the people crowded around the trains and cheered the soldiers.
"Yes, monsieur," said one old farmer, "my little house was destroyed—burnt to the ground. I had lived there ever since I was married, and all my children were born there. Two of them,grace à Dieu, are at the front now. Where do we live? Ah, monsieur, they spared a barn, and we are there now. It's not so bad as it might be, and we are cheerful."
"And your harvest?" asked Bob.
"Ah, that was saved. It was in the fields in small stacks, and not yet brought to the yard. Had it been, it would have been burnt with the house. The turnips and the mangolds are still in the field, badly trampled, but not destroyed. Oh yes, it might have been worse, much worse—with us. Thank God, we had no daughter at the house."
"Why do you thank God for that?"
"Need you ask, monsieur? Those Germans are devils, devils! Ah, here is Jules Viney; let him tell you what he has had to suffer."
And then an elderly man told a story which I will not here set down. It was too horrible, too heart-rending. Bob's heart sickened as he heard it, and he found his teeth becoming set as he vowed to fight long as God gave him breath.
"She was but little more than a child, either," cried the man, who wastrembling with passion, "and had only a year or two ago made her FirstCommunion. As fair and as pure a child as ever God made. But, thankGod, she is dead!"
"Dead?"
"Dead, yes! How could she live after those devils from the deepest hell—— But she took her own life, and she is with the saints."
"And this is the fruits of the German culture, when it is overruled by the War God," thought Bob. "Great God, I did not believe that these stories could be true!"
About two o'clock the train stopped at a siding, where an official told them they must remain for at least an hour.
"Things have been terrible here," said the man; "a terrible battle was fought all around," and he waved his arms significantly.
"Let's get out," said Bob. "I see some trenches over yonder. I remember reading about an engagement here."
A few minutes later they were face to face with evidences of battle. The whole country-side was devastated. Everything had been swept away by the hordes who breathed out death. Sickeningdébriswas seen on every hand. Swarms of flies and insects had fastened upon heaps of filthy garbage. Nothing was seen of comfortable homesteads but charred, smoke-begrimed walls. Exploded shells lay around. Great excavations, the work of huge bombs, were seen on every hand. All around, too, they could see the carcases of horses, killed in battle, the bones of which were beginning to appear. The smells were horrible.
"Let's get away from this!" said Pringle; "it's worse than any hell I ever dreamed of."
But Bob refused to move. He seemed to be fascinated by what he saw. He loathed the sickening sights which met his gaze, but he could not tear himself away.
"See the hundreds of little mounds!" he cried. "They will be the graves of the fellows who fell here. Don't you remember what we read in the papers? When the Germans retreated, a number of men were left behind to dig little graves, and throw the dead into them."
"Come away, I tell you!" shouted Pringle.
"This is the beginning of war's aftermath, only the beginning—but, great God, think of it! What is that?"
"What?"
"Surely that's some one alive over there! Don't you see? In the ditch yonder."
As if by a magnet the two men were drawn to the spot to which Bob had pointed.
"It's a man, anyhow," said Pringle.
"No, there are two."
"They are alive."
"No, they are dead."
A few seconds later they reached the spot, and saw what they will never forget, if they live twice the years allotted to man.
In a dry ditch, locked in each other's embrace, were two dead soldiers, one a Frenchman, the other a German. Both had evidently been wounded, but they had engaged in a death struggle. They had fought to the deaths without either conquering the other, and they had died in each other's arms.
There was no look of fury or hatred in the face of either. The hand of death had smoothed away all traces of this. Nevertheless, it had been a duel to the death.
They were little more than boys, perhaps about twenty-four, and both were privates. Their faces proclaimed their nationalities even more plainly than their uniforms.
"I expect they had never seen each other before," said Bob, like one thinking aloud; "they bore no enmity towards each other."
"Except that one was French and the other German," said Pringle. "That was enough for them. Somehow they found themselves together, and fought it out. I expect it was at night time. By God, it's ghastly, isn't it? And this is war!"
"No, it's only the shadow of it, the aftermath. There are no groans here, no suffering. It's peace, but it's the peace of horrible, unnatural death. We shall see real war presently."
"Come, let's get away. It's sickening."
"The Prime Minister was right. It's hell let loose. All the same, I'm aching to be at it. I never hated it as I hated it now. God helping us, this shall be Europe's last war."
They slowly returned towards the railway siding when in the distance they saw the train standing still.
"Look," said Pringle, "there's been a fire here. It looks as though they had a meal. Here's an empty wine bottle, and a crust of bread."
"Yes, and here's a pipe half full of tobacco. It might have been thrown down in a hurry, as though some chap were having a quiet smoke, and was suddenly called to duty. Look, it's an English-made pipe. It must have belonged to one of our men. I wonder where he is now. I'll take it as a souvenir."
As they drew near to the siding they heard the soldiers singing lustily:
"It's a long way to Tipperary."
Both of them were strangely silent as the train crawled slowly towards its destination. Their visit to one little corner of the stricken field had made them realise the meaning of war as they had never realised it before. Before the afternoon was over their eyes were still more widely opened by a passing train to the meaning of the work that lay before them.
It was going slowly, more slowly than their own, and Bob saw that it was full of wounded soldiers. How many there were he could not estimate, but it seemed to him that there must be hundreds. Some were laughing and talking cheerfully, while others lay with their eyes closed. More than one brave fellow held a wounded comrade's head on his knees.
It was only a minute, and the train had passed them. One trainload going to the front full of strong, stalwart men, hale and hearty, another returning full of the wounded. And this was war!
And why?
It was all because a war devil reigned in Germany, which the military caste worshipped as a kind of Deity.
Presently the train stopped. They had reached their destination. They were close to the front.
"Listen," said some one, and all the men were strangely silent.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
It was the great iron-mouthed messengers of death which sent molten lead into great masses of flesh and blood. It was the voice of the great guns—the contributions of science to the ghastly crime of war.
Captain Trevanion did not go to the front as soon as he had expected. That was why, although few people in St. Ia knew anything about it, he again found himself at Penwennack. As chance would have it, he found Nancy at home. The Admiral had been called to London on Admiralty business, and so the girl, who had not yet undertaken the duties for which she had offered herself, was alone when the Captain arrived.
"Nancy," said Trevanion, who had been a friend of the family for years, "forgive me, but I could not help coming. The date of our starting has been put off for a day or two, so I found myself with a few hours to spare. You do not seem pleased to see me. Why?"
"I am sorry you should think so," was Nancy's reply. "But, you see, I did not expect you. Wouldn't it be—that is—isn't it a sort of anti-climax to come down here like this, after the great send-off St. Ia gave you?"
She laughed nervously as she spoke, and, although a faint flush tinged her cheeks, it was easy to see that she was far from well.
"What do I care about climaxes or anti-climaxes?" cried Trevanion. "I came because I couldn't help it. I knew you hadn't gone abroad, and I came just on the chance of seeing you. I caught the early train at Plymouth, and here I am. I must get back to-night."
"I'm afraid I'm no good at tennis or golf just now," said Nancy, "stillI'll——"
"Hang tennis and golf!" interrupted Trevanion. "I didn't come all the way from Plymouth for that. I came because—because—but you know why? I say," he went on hurriedly, "you know Gossett of the Engineers, don't you? He goes to-morrow, and—and he was married yesterday. Both he and—and his wife felt they couldn't wait any longer. I suppose her people tried to dissuade her from getting married at such a time as this; but she wouldn't listen to them. 'I'm going to get married because Jack is going to the front,' was her reply to the croakers. 'I want him to feel that he has a wife waiting at home for him.' 'But suppose he should be killed?' said an old dame. 'Then I'd rather be his widow than his fiancée,' was her reply. Plucky, wasn't it?"
Nancy did not reply.
"Hosts of chaps have done the same thing," went on Trevanion hurriedly. "They had meant to have waited for months, but when the war came on they determined to marry right away."
"Are you thinking of getting married?" Nancy was angry with herself the moment she had spoken, but she was excited beyond measure, and the words escaped her almost unconsciously.
"Would to God I could!" cried Trevanion excitedly. "I'd give—heavens, what wouldn't I give for the chance! I say, Nancy, you know why I've come down, don't you? You—you didn't give me a chance to speak the other day, but now I feel as though I can't be silent any longer. You know how I love you, Nancy—you must know, you must have seen it for months—and—and—perhaps in a way it's cowardly of me to come to you like this, when I'm possibly going to my death. But I couldn't help myself, Nancy. If—if—you could only give me a little hope!"
Nancy did not reply—indeed, for the moment she was unable to speak. The last three weeks had tried her sorely. She had as she had thought decided to link her fate with that of Bob Nancarrow. She had, in spite of herself, confessed her love for him, and had promised to be his wife. Then suddenly the heavens had become black. The great war had broken out, and then when almost every young man she knew had offered himself for his country, the man she loved had proved a coward, and had sought to hide his cowardice behind pious platitudes. She blushed with shame as she thought of it. She hated herself for having loved a man who was unworthy to call himself an Englishman. And yet she had told him that she loved him. She had allowed him to hold her in his arms, while he had rained kisses on her lips. She, the daughter of Admiral Tresize, she, who bore a name which had ever been honoured among people who had fought for their country's safety and honour, had promised herself to a poltroon, a coward! The thought was maddening, and yet she had not been able to drive her love from her heart. In spite of his cowardice she still loved him. Even when she sought to insult him at the recruiting meeting she loved him. She constantly found herself trying to make excuses for him. But the fact remained. He had held back in the time of his country's peril, he had refused to listen when the King had sent out his call! Even when she had given him the white feather, his manhood had not been aroused. He had stood like a sulky school-boy, ashamed of his cowardice, but still a coward.
Yes, all was over between herself and Bob Nancarrow. How could it be otherwise? She had given him every chance to explain himself, and she had listened to his reasons for holding back. And such reasons! How could she, Nancy Tresize, who came from a race of fighters, accept such paltry excuses? Christianity to her meant the highest code of honour: it meant faithfulness to promise, it meant honour, it meant truth, it meant defending the weak—and in all this Bob had failed.
And yet she loved him. In her heart of hearts she did not believe he was a coward; as for meanness and dishonour, they were alien to his nature.
Of course she knew why Captain Trevanion had come, even before he had spoken. She had not been blind during the past year, and therefore, could not mistake the meaning of his attentions. She admired him too. He was just the kind of man she had always admired. He was the son of one of the oldest and most honoured families in the land; he was generous, chivalrous, brave, handsome. What more could she want? How the people cheered at the recruiting meeting! And what wonder? He had touched their hearts by his burning words, and he was just off to fight for his country.
Every selfish interest, every tradition of her family pleaded for him. She was fond of him too. She had always liked him as a friend; she had always admired him as a loyal gentleman and a soldier. Of course, he was not clever. He was no lover of books, and, compared with Bob, he was an ignoramus; but what did that matter? He was a brave man—a gentleman.
As for Bob, all their former relations were ended. He himself had closed and bolted the door between them. The choice had been between her and honour on the one hand, and selfish ease and cowardice on the other. And Bob had chosen to be a coward. What could she do, therefore, but drive him from her mind, and crush all affection for him? Was it not her duty to her father, her family, and to herself to accept Trevanion?
"You are not vexed with me, are you?" went on Trevanion, after he had waited a few seconds.
"No, not vexed."
"Then—then, can't you give me a word of hope? I—I don't even ask you to make a definite promise, although I'd give my eyes if you could; but if you could tell me that you liked no one better, and that I—I may speak again—if—if I come back, I could go away with a braver heart. I should feel all the time as if I were fighting for you. Just say something to cheer me, won't you, Nancy?"
"I'm afraid I can't," the girl's voice was hoarse as she spoke.Evidently his words had moved her greatly.
"Why? There is no one else, is there?"
"No, yes, that is——"
"Some one else! But, Nancy——"
"No, there is no one else."
"Then, Nancy, promise me something. Give me an inkling of hope."
She shook her head.
"But why?"
"Because—because it would not be fair to you."
"Anything would be fair to me if you'd give me some hope."
"Even if I could only offer you half my heart?"
"Give me half, and I'd quickly gain the rest," laughed Trevanion."Why, why, I should be in heaven if you could say even so much."
"Do you care so much?" and there was a touch of wistfulness in her voice.
"So much! Why, you know. You have been the only thing I've cared for—for months. Why, you—-you are everything to me. I'm not a clever fellow, I know that—but—but—I can fight, Nancy. And it's all for you."
Nancy stood still a few seconds, evidently fighting with herself. She knew she could not in honour promise even what Trevanion had asked for without telling him the truth. And this was terribly difficult. She felt that he had a right to know, and yet it was like sacrilege to tell him.
"You see," went on the Captain, "your father——!"
"Stop!" cried the girl; "before you say any more, I must tell you something. It's very hard, but I must. I said there was no one else, but that's not—true."
"Not true! Then, then——"
"There was some one else, although it's—all over."
"But, but who? No, forgive me for asking. I've no right to ask.Besides, you say—that—that it's a thing of the past."
"You have a right to ask if—if——"
"If what? Tell me who—if you think it fair of me to ask."
"Can't you guess?"
"There can be no one, except—I say, Nancy, you can't mean Nancarrow?"
She nodded her head.
"But, Nancy—that—that——"
"Don't, please. I loved him—at least I thought I did, and—and we were engaged. If—if—that is, but for the war, he would have spoken to father by this time, and—and everything would have been made known. When—he played the coward, I found out my mistake, and I told him so."
"Great heavens, yes! It was, of course, only a foolish fancy. A girl like you could never seriously care for that class of man."
"I am ashamed of myself when I think of him," and Nancy's voice was hoarse as she spoke. "In a way I feel contaminated. If there is anything under heaven that I despise, it's a coward. I want to forget that I—I ever thought of him. I want to drive him from my mind."
"And that is what keeps you from promising me anything. But surely you do not care for him now. Why—why, you couldn't! The fellow who could show the white feather at such a time as this, and then try and cover up his cowardice by all that religious humbug, is not of your class, Nancy. He's a rank outsider. I'm sorry I was ever friends with him. Your father told me he was mad with himself for ever allowing him inside the house."
"That's why I'm so ashamed of——"
"We'll drive him from our minds, Nancy. There, he's done with. He's not worthy of a thought. You owe it to yourself, to your name, your country, to banish it from your mind."
For the moment Nancy was angry with Trevanion. She wanted to defend Bob. She wanted to tell him that Bob was braver than he. But she could not. She had spoken truly when she said that she was ashamed of herself for having allowed herself to think of him.
"Give me even the shadow of a promise," went on Trevanion, "and all thought of him will be for ever gone."
"No," said Nancy, "I can promise nothing—now."
"But will you try—to—to care for me?"
"Yes," said the girl, "I'll promise that, if—if it will be of any comfort to you."
"I don't fear now," cried Trevanion. "Everything will be right. What you have been telling me is nothing—just a passing fancy which will be—nothing. Give me a kiss, Nancy, and——"
"No," said the girl, and she shrank back almost instinctively, "not that; but the other—yes, I'll promise to try."
"I'm the happiest man in England with only that," laughed Trevanion; "what shall I be when—when the war is over, and I come back to claim my own. I shall find you waiting for me, shan't I?"
"I—I don't know. I may not come back. It what the papers say is true, even the nurses are not safe."
"But have you really settled to go abroad as a nurse?"
"I thought you understood that when you were here last. I go to London the day after to-morrow, and in a week from now I expect to be in one of the French hospitals."
"I had hoped you'd given up that," said the Captain moodily.
"Why should you hope that? If it's your duty to go, it is mine. There are plenty of nurses for the English hospitals, but there are fewer volunteers for Belgium and France. I suppose the most hopeful cases are sent home to England. Those who are dangerously wounded remain in France or Belgium. That's where I want to be."
Trevanion looked at her with admiring eyes. Even while he hoped she would remain in England, he admired her determination to go and nurse the worst cases.
"What a wife she'll be!" he reflected. "Proud as Lucifer and honourable to the finger tips. Yes, I've got her. She'll regard even this shadow of a promise as binding on her. As for Nancarrow, he's done with for ever. Thank heaven for that! By Jove, I'm a lucky beggar!"
"Perhaps we may meet in France, Nancy," he said aloud; "I may be wounded, and——"
"Don't!" she said, with a shudder.
"Heavens, she loves me!" thought the Captain. "She can't bear the idea of my being wounded."
"Anyhow, the man who has you as a nurse may thank his lucky stars," he said aloud, "and of this you may be sure, if there's any chance of our meeting, I shall make the most of it. Trust me for that."
That same day Trevanion made his way back to Plymouth with a glad heart. He regarded his engagement with Nancy as good as settled, for he knew that she regarded even the suggestion of a promise as sacred. Besides, he had everything in his favour. He knew that the old Admiral favoured his suit, and would do his best to remove any doubts which might exist in Nancy's mind. As for Bob Nancarrow, he was a negligible quantity. Nancy had driven him out of the house with scorn and anger in her heart. How could it be otherwise? The fellow was an outsider, a poltroon, a coward. He knew how Nancy despised such; knew that even if she loved him, she would regard it as a sacred duty to crush a love which to her would be a disgrace to the name she bore.
Thus it came about that all three found themselves on French soil. The Captain went at the head of a Cornish regiment, brave and fearless, determined to do his duty as a soldier should. The ethics of the war had never cost him a moment's thought. England was at war, and that was enough for him. He was needed in the firing-line, and he, without a question or a reason, save that he was a soldier, must be there.
Nancy, on the other hand, went because she wanted to nurse—to save. It was a woman's work—the noblest any woman could do. She was not allowed to fight herself, although she would gladly have done so; but even although she could not fight, she would be near the line of battle. She would do all in her power for the brave fellows who had fallen in fighting their country's battles.
As for Bob, he was there because he had listened to what he was sure was the Call of God. He hated war, he hated the soldiers' calling, and, because he hated it, he was there. Not one in the whole of His Majesty's Army was more eager to be in the thick of the fight than he, because he wanted to take his part in killing the war devil which had turned a great part of Europe into a hell.
September was nearly at an end when Bob, alighting at a little station, heard the booming of guns. The country-side seemed quiet and peaceful but for this. There were evidences that fighting had been going on, but at present no fighting was to be seen. The sky was a great dome of blue, the air was pure and sweet. It was as though great Mother Nature were defying the War God to disturb her tranquillity. Scarcely a breath of wind stirred; bird and beast and flower were composing themselves for their nightly sleep.
And yet to Bob the atmosphere was tense with excitement. The very calm of the evening was unnatural. He felt as though lightnings should be flashing, the wind roaring.
"Boom! Boom! Boom!"
The great War God was roaring, and from his mouth death came. With every boom of the guns men were falling, souls were going home to God.
Bob felt a shiver to the centre of his being. It seemed to him as though the foundations of his life were shaken. He had never experienced such a feeling before. He did not think it was fear; rather it was awesomeness. For a moment he regarded life, his own life, from a new standpoint. He was only a pawn on a chess-board, one of a million of human beings, none of whom had any personality, any will. Life and death were nothing. Each had to fill his place, and to do what was allotted to him, regardless of consequences.
He found himself thinking of lines from "The Charge of the LightBrigade":
"Theirs not to make reply,Theirs not to reason why,Theirs but to do and die,Into the valley of DeathRode the six hundred."
Suddenly he found himself alert. The men were forming into marching order, and almost unconsciously he was performing the duties allotted to him.
Bob saw that a large mass of men had gathered. Other trains had arrived before the one by which he had come, and each had brought its quota from England.
He realised, as he had never realised before, how efficiently, quietly, and at the same time wonderfully, the forces at home were working. He, like others, had read several weeks before, that something like a hundred thousand men had landed on French soil without a casualty, without a mishap. It had come to him, as it had come to us all, as a kind of surprise, that such a mass of humanity, with horses, accoutrements, and provisions, could have been sent to France with so little noise, and without the nation's knowing anything about it. Yet so it was. While we were wondering, the work was done.
But that was not all. While the country was asleep, or while it was pursuing its usual avocations, tens of thousands of men were leaving our shores, taking the places of those who had fallen or adding to the force already there, while tens of thousands more were preparing to leave. The heart of the Empire was moved, and her sons were offering themselves, many thousands every day, to fight her battles.
"How many men have we at the front?" we often asked.
No one knew, although we hazarded many guesses. But we knew that we were doing what we could, that a great river of humanity was flowing into France, and that hundreds of thousands of our bravest hearts were beating on foreign soil, and that no matter how many men fell wounded or dead, ten times their number could and would be supplied.
Bob's heart thrilled as he thought of it. He was only an obscure youth, who had first fought his battle on the solitary battlefield of his own soul, and then, as a consequence, could no longer keep himself from throwing himself into this great light against tyranny and militarism.
They were marching towards the firing-line! The boom of the guns sounded more and more near. Sometimes above the steady tramp, tramp of the soldiers they thought they heard the ghastly whistle of the shells as they went on their mission of death.
Bob looked on the faces of the men as they marched. Yes, it was easy to see by the steely glitter of their eyes, the tightly compressed lips, that every nerve was in tension, that they knew they were entering the danger zone. Many were praying who had not prayed for years, while others, careless of life or death, marched forward, with a laugh on their lips.
It is not for me to describe what took place during the next few days. Indeed, I could not if I would. First, the news which has reached me concerning them is scanty—so scanty that even if I recorded every word of it, it would add but little interest to the narrative I am writing. More than that, I am utterly ignorant of the art of war, and if I tried to describe in anything like detail the events which have been related to me, I should, doubtless, fall into many mistakes, and convey altogether wrong impressions. Besides, I am not so much writing the story of the war, as the story of Robert Nancarrow, and of what has befallen him these last few weeks.
For the first fortnight after Bob joined the British forces at the front, he was disappointed at not being placed in the fighting-line. Moreover, his duties seemed to him of an unimportant nature, such as could have been performed by the most unintelligent. He saw others take the places which he longed to occupy, while he had to attend to merely mechanical duties.
Still he did not complain. The work he was doing had to be done, and since some one must do it, why not he as well as another? The great fact which cheered him was that little by little the Allies were slowly gaining ground in this "Battle of the Rivers," even although he saw but little of it. Neither, for that matter, did he know very much of the progress which was being made generally. He was so situated that he heard very little of what was being done. People in England were far better informed of what was taking place than the soldiers, except in some little corner of the great battlefield where they were individually engaged.
He saw enough, however, to realise the horror all around him, and to become inured to the life he was living.
"Oh, to be in the thick of it!" he cried again and again, as day after day passed, and he was continually delegated to what seemed to him unimportant duties. He little realised that his time was coming, and that he was to be baptized with a baptism of fire more terrible than befell many, even in that time of horrible carnage.
It was on a Sunday morning in October, in this year of our Lord, 1914, that the events which I have now to describe, began. In England I remember it was like a summer day, while in France it was even warmer, and more cloudless. The night had been comparatively still, and the enemies' guns had scarcely been heard since sunset.
The sentries had reported all well, and when the morning came, it seemed to be generally believed that it would be a quiet day. On the distant hills, several miles away, the German hordes were entrenched and alert. The day previous the Allies had been less harried, and tens of thousands who had been well-nigh worn out by continuous fighting had gained some measure of respite.
Bob awoke just before dawn. All along the lines were watchful sentinels; but many thousands, assured by the reports of those on outpost duty that all was well, were asleep. Presently theréveillésounded, and then, what had seemed an uninhabited tract of country, was peopled by a great armed host. Men in khaki were everywhere. On every hand were preparations for breakfast; laughter and shouts were heard on every hand. As the light increased, Bob saw thousands upon thousands of men. They literally swarmed everywhere.
"Colonel Sapsworth wants you, sir."
Bob turned and saw a soldier saluting him as delivered his message.
"I wonder what that means," thought Bob, as he found his way towards the spot where the Colonel was. A minute later his heart was beating high with joy and excitement. He was informed that he was appointed to a post of responsibility, which might be of importance. A number of men were to be placed under his command, and great events might be taking place in a few hours.
"I shall know definitely soon," Colonel Sapsworth said, when he had given him some general directions. "Meanwhile you know what to do."
He had scarcely spoken, when a man came to the a tent and asked for admission; a second later he had entered, bearing a despatch.
Colonel Sapsworth read it hastily.
"By God!" he muttered under his breath; "but I expected it!"
It was a despatch sent from the General of the Division telling him that an attack on his forces would possibly be made that day—that men in the Flying Corps had been able to see the general movements of the enemy, and had brought the news that before long great masses of men would be upon them.
A few minutes later everything was in order. The officers had each received his instructions, and were on thequi vive.
It was only half an hour past daylight, and the dewdrops were still glistening on the grass and shining on the tree-tops. It seemed as if some occult influences were at work, and that the men were conscious of the fact that the atmosphere was laden with tragedy, for instead of laughter and merry jest, a strange silence prevailed.
Only one sound broke the great stillness which had fallen on the camp.It was the sound of a body of men singing:
"O God, our help in ages past,Our hope for years to come,Our shelter from the stormy blast,And our eternal home."
Bob had heard both hymn and tune a hundred times in St. Ia. He thought, too, from the intonation of the men's voices, that they were Cornish lads who sang. For the moment he forgot where he was, and was oblivious to the fact that he was in the midst of a great armed host, and that tens of thousands of men were all around him, each armed with implements of death. He was in Cornwall again, and he was breathing the Sabbath morning air. He heard the church bells ringing in the distance, while the hymn he heard came from some humble Meeting House where simple people met together for prayer and praise.
"A thousand ages in Thy sightAre like an evening——"
"Some religious swabs," laughed one.
"Boom! boom! Crack, crack, boom!"
The hymn was broken off in the middle. The sound of guns was nearer than Bob had ever heard it before. The enemy had evidently decided upon a surprise attack.
A horrible screech rent the air, and, looking up, Bob saw an explosion. It was as though a bouquet of fire were falling on them; and then he heard noises such as he had never heard before. It was the groans of the wounded; the cries of men pierced by arrows of fire; the moaning of brave fellows torn and mutilated for life.
The British guns answered the fire of the enemy, while all around quick, decisive commands were given.
For some hours after this Bob had only a vague remembrance of what took place. He knew that the position they now occupied had been captured from the enemy, who had receded only with the idea of endeavouring to take it again. Evidently they had kept the secret of their plans well, for from all the reports given on the previous night there had been no likelihood of an early attack. But for the Flying Corps they would have been utterly surprised, and even as it was their preparations had to be hurriedly made.
"Boom! boom!" bellowed forth the big guns.
"Crack! crack!" said the voices of a thousand rifles.
Bob's remembrance was that he was calmly fulfilling the orders that had been given to him, and that he was strangely oblivious of danger.
Event after event seemed to follow each other, like so many pictures in a cinema performance.
He remembered his men in their trenches coolly firing, while shot and shell fell thick around them.
Later, they moved forward, and took cover under some raised ground, where they lay silently and warily watching.
He was watching too. In his eagerness he had risen to his feet, and thus exposed himself to the sight of the enemy. The ground was torn up at his feet, and he felt something burning hot graze his arm, as if some one had touched him with a burning knife.
But he was unhurt! He knew that a bullet had only touched his arm. An inch to the right, and it would have missed him altogether; two inches to the left, and his arm would have been shattered; a foot to the left, and he would, in all probability, have been killed.
He saw a body of men in German uniform moving nearer to them. It was a great mass of soldiers, who came on in great blocks of sixty or eighty, four deep. The British waited silently, awaiting the word of command. Eagerly they longed for the word, "Fire!"
At last it came, and almost as if by magic a thousand rifles went off at the same moment, leaving great gaps in the German ranks which had a few seconds before been filled with a living, breathing humanity.
Again the crack of rifles, and again gaps were made. But still the enemy came forward. Bob even thought he heard the cry of "Vorwärts! Vorwärts!"
Now and then above the din he heard what seemed like the sound of singing. It sounded like the tune he had heard early in the morning.
Meanwhile the cannonade continued to rage. The heavens were full of bursting shells, even the very skies seemed like hell.
Hour after hour the fusillade continued, and presently there was a halt in the enemies' progress. They were falling back.
"Now at them! Give 'em ——"
There was a wild rush forward. How long it continued Bob could not tell. Behind them the big English guns were booming, and he knew that our artillery was pounding at the German trenches a long distance away.
Forward! forward!
Shot and shell were dropping thickly around, while on the right and left men were falling. In the distance lay the German trenches. Could they be reached? Yes, a few minutes later our men were in them. For a time at all events Bob's company was in comparative safety.
Panting aloud the hardy lads threw themselves into position. They had gained their immediate object, but could they hold it?
Suddenly amid the din a musical note rang out; it pierced the very heavens, it was more penetrating than the boom of the big guns, the screech of shells, or the crack of rifles.
From the distant heather, perhaps half a mile away, men with clear sight could see great masses of humanity in grey rise, seemingly out of the earth, and Bob heard the distant sound of fifes and drums.
"They are going to charge us!"
Who said this no one knew, but it did not matter. All knew it was true. Strong stalwart men they were who rushed madly forward. They were commanded to do so, and they must not disobey. Every step meant death to many, but Germany was careless about her losses. They must win the victory, they must get back the position they had lost, no matter what it might cost.
"We are lost!" thought Bob: "what are we against so many?"
But even before the thought had passed his mind, out from their cover came the British—sections, companies, battalions.