The sergeant's water bottle's full,But it is strange to seeThe sergeant on the 'ear'ole forSome water for his tea.But ain't it strange when night is onAnd we are out o' sight,The sergeant takes his bottle outAnd swigs from it all nightCold water—Co-o-old water—Co-o, o-o, o-o, o-o, co-o-old water.(From "The Lost Rum Ration.")
The sergeant's water bottle's full,But it is strange to seeThe sergeant on the 'ear'ole forSome water for his tea.But ain't it strange when night is onAnd we are out o' sight,The sergeant takes his bottle outAnd swigs from it all nightCold water—Co-o-old water—Co-o, o-o, o-o, o-o, co-o-old water.
(From "The Lost Rum Ration.")
It was about seven o'clock in the evening and an unusual silence brooded over the Loos Salient. In the trenches the silence always broods; the soldiers, not knowing what the moment may bring forth, are uneasy; and the eternal hidden menace of the Unknown is intensified by the stillness. The evening was intensely dark; black, impenetrable shadows bulked in the trenches and became the colour of the parapet, parados and bay. Objects quite near at hand took on strange fantastic shapes and looked likemen lying asleep on the firesteps; only a closer examination would show that the phantoms were sandbags or ammunition boxes. Many of the boys were smoking; the lighted cigarettes glowed like rubies set in an illimitable spread of ebony.
It was raining; a soft, almost caressing rain dropped sleekly and helplessly down on the firing line. In this manner it had been falling for hours; the trenches were filled to the firestep with slush and muck; the duck-boards were afloat, and men changing their position in the trench clambered out over the top and walked along the reverse slope of the parapet. Now and again a wayfarer stuck in the clinging quicksand of the trench floor, only to free himself when he succeeded in climbing out of his Wellington boots.
Fitzgerald sat down on the firestep and sank into the soft mud. So complete was the stillness that he could distinctly hear all the varied sounds of the night mingling together in a long-drawn, slumberous murmur. The far-off death lullaby of a heavy shell, the soft, quivering croon of the damp wind, the sough of a boot as a soldier walked along the trench; the vague murmurings from a near dug-out, the enervating sizzle of falling rain, and the varied, indefinable night movements of Nature blended sleepily togetherin a slumber that made for nightmares and fevered dreams.
Fitzgerald dozed off, only to wake in an instant by hearing voices speaking very close to him.
"Spudhole, my rifle is full of dirt; half a sandbag of chalk has gone down the barrel," said the voice of Bowdy Benners.
"Mine is full up o' muck, too," said Spudhole. There was an indifference in his tones. He seemed to have lost all interest in his best friend, his "'ipe."
"I don't care a damn," he muttered. "A nipe's only made to be cleaned in this 'ere war as far as I can see."
"When is the rum coming up?" Bowdy enquired. "Probably we'll get none to-night."
"'S'up," said Bubb, "round the next bay in the dug-out."
"Well, I'm off," said Bowdy. "I'm half frozen. I'm for a good tot if it's going.... By the way," he asked, as if it had suddenly occurred to him, "how many of our fellows were blown up by the mine this morning?"
"Seven or eight," said Bubb, "or maybe more."
"And to think that to-night's Christmas Eve," said Benners, as if the conversation had forcibly reminded him of the fact.
The two men clambered over the top and made their way towards the dug-out from which the rum was issued.
Fitzgerald got up and followed.
As he crawled over the sandbags a starshell rose into the darkness and lit the scene of war. The country showed wet and livid, the barbed wire entanglements wound crookedly along the levels. The wires stretched out waiting for their prey with threatening barbs.
In the brooding silence and the locality of war, Hate and Vengeance persisted, and were well in keeping with the ominous night, and here it seemed they found their most direct expression. Fitzgerald looked around, and queer, fragmentary thoughts rioted in his head. He remembered a verse of a song which he had once heard, and repeated it aloud.
"Here comes I, Jack Straw;Such a man you never saw;Through a rock, through a reel,Through an old spinning-wheel,Through a mill hopper, through a bag of pepper;Sheep shanks, chicken bone—Give me a kiss or leave me alone."
"Here comes I, Jack Straw;Such a man you never saw;Through a rock, through a reel,Through an old spinning-wheel,Through a mill hopper, through a bag of pepper;Sheep shanks, chicken bone—Give me a kiss or leave me alone."
"What has put this nonsense into my mind?" he asked himself. "Probably it is because it is part of a Christmas carol.... And this isChristmas eve.... Two thousand years gone by and the message of the Prince of Peace not made manifest yet.... Well, I wonder if the rum is waiting...?"
He made his way into the trench again, and came in sight of the dug-out, with its candle lit in a niche of the chalky wall, and its huddled occupants lying on the floor. A few, no doubt, were asleep. Two or three were sitting, their backs against the chalk, their heads bent down almost between their knees. All were dressed in sheepskin coats, khaki trousers and high boots, and wore full equipment, their cartridge pouches being well stocked with ammunition. Although a bank of earth was heaped up on the doorstep, it did not prevent the water from dripping inside. The floor of the dug-out was as mucky as the floor of the trench. Stooping down, Fitzgerald crawled in through the narrow door of the shelter.
Bubb was already inside, scraping the muck from his boots with a clasp knife. Behind him, with his back against the wall, sat Bowdy Benners, cutting a lump of cheese into small portions.
The cheese was a big item of the Christmas Eve rations.
He was sitting down now, his head thrust forward,his big hands busy with the cheese. As Fitzgerald entered he looked up, then glanced round the dug-out.
"Not much grub to-night, boys," he said. "Four biscuits, a half a tin of bully and a piece of cheese for each man."
"And the rum?" asked Bubb, forestalling every man with the question.
"It's here all right," said Bowdy.
They stared open-mouthed for a full second, then a roar of delight echoed through the dug-out and the sleepers awoke. Bubb rose to his feet, whirled his clasp knife round his hand, endeavoured to dance a jig, and only stopped when his head came in forcible contact with the roof for the third time. Fitzgerald chuckled; a glow of satisfaction lit up his handsome face, and his eyes rested lovingly on the sandbag which stood in an angle of the wall near the door. Then he lay back, rested his head on the wall and stared at the candle. In that position he looked a very charming boy, and he knew it. In civil life he must have been very fond of society, the company of notable people, and above all of pretty women.
Again he looked at the sandbag in the angle of the wall, but his eyes were not the only onesfixed on that object. And no wonder: the sandbag contained the rum jar.
"Well, wot about a tot?" asked Bubb.
Bowdy rose and took the sandbag into the middle of the room, where he uncovered the precious jar and filled a mess-tin of liquor. He handed the tin to Bubb.
"Cheero!" said the Cockney, and drank. He passed the tin round and wiped his lips. "There's some guts in rum," he muttered, and his voice was full of emotion. "Gawd! it doesn't 'arf warm up the inside of a bloke. Now, wot about a Christmas dinner?" he continued. "Bully ain't wot one would call très bon, is it? Christmas dinner of bully beef! Gor'blimey! that's no blurry good!"
"It's a funny thing that a full belly always is associated with happiness," said Fitzgerald, shaking his head and laughing loudly. Rum went easily to his head. "If a man gets married, he feeds well, and if a child is born to him, he stuffs himself with viands. It's always his belly."
"Always," said Bubb, reaching a second time for the mess-tin.
"It doesn't matter what Fitz says," remarked Bowdy Benners, sinking his chin into the collarof his sheepskin coat. "What I say is this: We must have a Christmas dinner to-morrow."
"How can we get one?" Fitz enquired.
"Easy enough that," said Bowdy. "I know an old woman of the Café Calomphie. A parcel of good things could be got there for a few francs. I could go down to Les Brebis in an hour."
"But they're shelling the road," Fitzgerald remarked. "Blowing holes in it, and the houses are flying about the streets. Not only that, but you're not supposed to go away from here. And again, all shops are closed at nine o'clock. It's well past eight now...."
"But that doesn't matter," said Bowdy. "The woman of the café is a great friend of mine."
"Ye're a sly old dawg, Bowdy," said Bubb. "No one 'ud fink that to look at yer."
Bowdy went red in the face, and proceeded to buckle his equipment, his hands trembling a little over the job.
"We'll have a collection, anyhow," said Fitzgerald, and he flung a coin into his mess-tin. Several coins followed, and in the end the magnificent sum of twelve francs fifty was collected.
Bowdy put the money in his pocket, took a lastlong-drawn pull at his cigarette, and went outside.
"I'll be back again in no time," were his final words.
The men turned their attention to the rum jar again; tongues were loosened and stories of past Christmases went round the dug-out. Bubb, strong on the traditions of the regiment, told the story of the Brigadier's kit inspection at St. Albans the Christmas previous.
"The 'ole Brig come round when 'e was inspectin' us, and 'e looked at my pack," said Bubb. "'That's the neatest pack I've seed in the 'ole battalion,' says the Brig. ''Ave yer got everything that's laid down in orders in that 'ere pack?' 'e says to me. 'Everything,' I sez. 'I know that the contents of a nice pack is always nice and clean,' 'e says. 'I'll just 'ave a look at yer pack. Take it off and take out everything and lay them out,' 'e says. Gor' blimey! I did wot 'e ordered me, an' my bloomin' pack was full of straw. 'Twas lighter to carry than the or'nary caboosh. Fourteen days' spudhole," Bubb concluded.
Fitzgerald was singing a song and waving an empty mess-tin over his head. The song was one of his own making, a Rabelaisian production with a snappy chorus. All joined in and drankin turn. Suddenly they heard the dull rumble of approaching shells and the loud explosions of the missiles in the fields outside. Fitzgerald lit a cigarette and finished a chorus.
"They're strafing again," he said. "The damned pastime will never come to an end."
CHAPTER VIICHRISTMAS DAY
Blurry well freezin' and cold as sin,Christmas Day in the mornin';The big guns welcome the Saviour in,Christmas Day in the mornin';Used to have fingers and used to have toes,Used to have ears as well as a nose,But now I don't think that I've any of thoseChristmas Day in the mornin'.Wish we was safe in a stall to-day,Christmas Day in the mornin';Watching the cattle munchin' their hay,Christmas Day in the mornin';The Prince of Peace was born, we're told,Snug in a stall in the days of old;Lord, look down on us 'ere in the cold,On Christmas Day in the mornin'.(From "Carols of Good Will.")
Blurry well freezin' and cold as sin,Christmas Day in the mornin';The big guns welcome the Saviour in,Christmas Day in the mornin';Used to have fingers and used to have toes,Used to have ears as well as a nose,But now I don't think that I've any of thoseChristmas Day in the mornin'.
Wish we was safe in a stall to-day,Christmas Day in the mornin';Watching the cattle munchin' their hay,Christmas Day in the mornin';The Prince of Peace was born, we're told,Snug in a stall in the days of old;Lord, look down on us 'ere in the cold,On Christmas Day in the mornin'.
(From "Carols of Good Will.")
The dawn was at hand, the dawn of Christmas Day. Fitzgerald was standing on the firestep looking over No Man's Land towards the enemy's trenches. It was his hour on sentry-go. The rain was still falling, and his hands and feet felt very cold, but he was powerless to restore any warmth to his body by moving about. To leave the firestep for a momentwas dangerous. He knew that if he stuck in the mud of the trench he could not extricate himself, for he felt utterly worn out. He had been warm enough when he went on watch owing to the rum which he had drunk, but now he was shivering as if his whole being had been stricken with ague. He tried to warm his legs by striking one against the other, but his feet felt so heavy that he desisted after two or three ineffectual endeavours to release them from the mud. The slightest movement was a monstrous futility, and now that it had become so difficult to move he did not want to remain still, and he had the greatest desire in the world to be free-footed and doing something.
The Germans were shelling the sector on the right, and the chill, wet morning was lit up by the lurid flashes of bursting explosives. The air was full of the rumbling and crashing of the conflict; shells sped across the trench, careering towards some distant objective, probably the village, where old Bowdy was routing out the essentials for a Christmas dinner. And Bowdy had not returned yet; some nine hours had gone by since he departed on his mission.
"Probably he has got blown to pieces," Fitzgerald muttered. "Poor old Bowdy."
Then he passed, without further thought of Bowdy, to memories which came into his head at random. He thought of his home, away up a little glen in Galway, of the neighbours there, of Doalty Fadhan, the great gambler, who always won when he turned his coat outside in, of Eamon Hudagh, who got drunk at Glenagh Fair and lost his clothes somewhere at night; in the morning he came across the hills in a red flannel petticoat; of Paddy Brogan who cleared out the same fair with a stone in the foot of a woman's stocking. "I wish I was in Glenagh now," Fitzgerald said. "A good turf fire, a bit and a sup and the neighbours coming in for the night's raking." Then all these memories and desires floated together and jumbled themselves up in his head, and he fell asleep. He was awakened by a feeling that everything was not as it should be. For the unusual there was only one place to look, out on his front, and his eyes were already fixed on the grey, formless level which lay between his trench and the enemy's. Nothing changed there, everything just.... Then Fitzgerald saw a huge bulk take shape on his right front, twenty yards from the trench and fifty yards away from the spot where he stood. The bulk rose upright, like a gigantic monster of somepre-Adamite age, paused for a second as if considering something, then it burst in twain, and Fitzgerald flopped down into the mucky trench, half blinded and deafened by the flash and thunder of the exploding mine.
The earth had vomited its entrails out, a million rocks rioted through the air and ricochetted off the parapet; the dawn was thick with flying rubbish, the greater part of which seemed to be falling into the trench, dropping with a sickly splosh into the muck. The world was falling down around the ears of the Irishman.
"Out and man the mine crater!"
The order came along the trench like a half strangled whisper. Fitzgerald rose from the muck and spluttered the message along to the next bay, then gripped his rifle and clambered up and across the parapet.
Most of the men were already out and rushing towards the crater of the mine. Fitzgerald had a vivid impression of flying figures in sheepskin coats, of rifles in air, of bursting shells, of men stumbling, falling and rising, of hoarse-voiced oaths and imprecations, of queries and answers. "Not our mine, is it?" "I thought we were too far apart." "Are we to get into the blurry 'ole'fore the gas clears away?" were a few of the remarks which came to his ears.
A corporal halted near him and shouted something about the risk the men were running. "We'll be poisoned by the fumes in the crater," he said. "We're coming across too soon. Far too soon," he muttered; "far too blurry soon!"
But no one paid any heed. To stop on the open was dangerous, and the Germans were out already. They could be seen, dark figures breaking through the enemy's barbed wire entanglements. Presently they would be engaged with the British in a hand-to-hand encounter for the possession of the crater.
Fitzgerald reached the rim of the hole and stood there for a moment looking down. Heavy coils of thick smoke wound snake-like along the bottom, where the black earth was illumined by ghastly phosphorescent lights that trailed up the sides in thin sluggish streaks. A few soldiers were already going down into the place and halting from time to time, taking stock of the scene before them. All were spluttering and coughing, and a few had pulled their gas helmets down over their heads and faces. "This is no blurry bean-fast, I can tell yer," Spudhole muttered as he tried to clamber back, crawling with difficulty almostknee-deep in the rubble. As he moved the clay shot away from beneath him, and he found himself in the unenviable plight of being able to advance a foot, only to find himself slipping back a yard.
The enemy shelled with unceasing persistency, and men were getting struck on the rim of the crater. Anywhere was better than where they were standing—they flopped into the crater, making futile efforts to save themselves, from rolling to the bottom, by clawing at the clay of the sides. Once down, however, they found to their relief that breathing was easier than they had anticipated.
"What now?" somebody enquired, looking vaguely round.
"What indeed? What's to be done?"
"We'll get killed like blurry rats down 'ere.... The Alleymongs are coming over in droves...."
"It's better to fight them on the top than to let them stone us to death down here."
Sergeant Snogger, in a sheepskin coat, which was freshly ripped across the shoulder by a bullet or shell splinter, rolled down the side of the crater and landed at the bottom. In a moment he was on his feet.
"Up to the top, boys!" he cried. "Don't stand here arguing like fishwives. Up to the top or you'll be damned unlucky."
Immediately the men were crawling up like ants, but with extreme difficulty. Their heavy boots, their equipments and rifles impeded their movements, each man was a khaki-clad Sisyphus, battling against an incline such as the patient Sisyphus never experienced. The men, grunting and swearing, seemed to be making no headway, the scaling of the craterside, about sixty feet in depth, was a Herculean task for men strong of wind and limb, for them it was a task of despair.
"We'll never get there," Bubb grunted. Then his eyes sought the top. "Gor' blimey!" he muttered, "there they come."
A man, dressed in German uniform, stood on the rim of the crater, a rifle in his hand, and looked down. As the soldiers watched, he raised his rifle to his shoulder and pointed it at the crush in the bottom of the crater.
The movement was his last. Bowdy Benners arrived at that moment, dressed in full marching order, his rifle in his hand and the bayonet fixed. The "point" was delivered at the shoulder, and Benners' long arms put all the zest of a strong body into the movement. The German cameclean over the rim of the crater and rolled down to the bottom, clawing at the air with frenzied fingers.
Bowdy lay down at the top, and his rifle became active. Round after round sped across the open towards the foe, who were now coming up in bulk and getting very close to the crater.
"Keep it up, Bowdy!" cried Snogger. "Are they near?"
"They're not far away," said Bowdy without looking round. "Devil blow me blind, they'll be here in a second if you don't come up and give me a hand.... Ha! They've stopped now, a shell has caught a couple."
"All right, Bowdy, we're here," the sergeant shouted reaching the summit.
The main body of Germans, advancing in open order, was still some fifty yards away. As far as could be ascertained at the moment, the delay (they should have been across the open three minutes ago) was due to a heavy curtain fire which had greeted them just as they came out of their trenches. The fire caught them at the barbed wire entanglements, concussion shells tore up the wires and swept them around the bodies of the attackers, and the impartial shrapnel rained viciously down on the huddled heaps of wounded.
The quick were advancing, a dispirited party of men, in open order, glad to get away from their own trenches, which were suffering cruel chastisement. Some were willing to fight even yet; five or six had flung themselves down on the ground and trained their rifles on the British positions, opening a wild erratic fire of slight intensity. Cold hands never hold a rifle steady on a Christmas morning.
The men in the crater lay down behind the parapet which the exploding mine had formed and opened fire with deadly effect.
"That'll knock the blurry stuffin' out o' them," Spudhole remarked. "There they come now, their 'ands up in the air." It was even as he remarked. The advanced line of Germans put their timorous hands over their heads and stepped diffidently towards the mine. "Kamerad! Kamerad!" they whined, their arms shaking as if stricken with palsy. The snipers threw their rifles away and joined in with their mates. All were sick of the job.
"Take them prisoners," said Sergeant Snogger. "There's nothing else to be done."
An hour later when the wounded had been carried back to the trench and the prisoners were marched off to the village at the rear, the victorswere left to themselves, in undisputed possession of their hard-won crater.
The Christmas morning scene was one never to be forgotten: the rain-swept crater, the crumbling clay, the fumes of gunpowder, the dead bodies, the monotonous hum of ragtime choruses, the shells bursting across the top, the dirty rifles and the dirtier men who endeavoured to clean them. Bowdy Benners was there with a full pack and a bulging haversack. Fitzgerald and Spudhole were deep in a discussion on some nonsensical subject; but the discussion served its object, it brought the men's minds away from the stark reality of their surroundings. Snogger sitting on his haunches, was giving details of the fight to his platoon commander, Captain Thorley.
Bubb drew up towards Bowdy and asked him for a drink from his water-bottle. Benners handed it to him with a solemn look. Spudhole drank.
"Good?" asked Bowdy.
"Wonderful stuff," said Spudhole.
"Hand it round," said Bowdy.
All drank from the water bottle in turn, and each man winked knowingly when he drank. None of the men had expected any rum that morning, the rations of the night before had beenso short; the limbers met with a mishap when coming up to the Vallé Dump. Of course, all were aware that Bowdy had come into possession of the rum by illegitimate means. However, no enquiries were made.
"Now what about a smoke before dinner?" Bubb remarked, fixing a knowing glance on Bowdy. "'As anybody got a fag to spare? Many a pore bloke 'as 'gone West' since I 'ad my last fag."
Fitzgerald fumbled about in his haversack and found a box, a little tin box, lying snug and dry amidst a crush of papers and broken biscuits. Some fifty cigarettes were enclosed within. He handed them round.
They lit them up. The drink and the smoke exercised a cheering effect upon the men. A look of pleasure stole over every face and the men burst into uncontrollable fits of laughter when Spudhole, standing on a platform of clay, placed his arms akimbo and wished all a merry Christmas. "If we 'ave to spend the day 'ere, we must spend it 'ere, we must stick it 'ere, and there's no more to be said," he laughed. "We'll get relieved to-night," he added; "that's if we're lucky."
"Suppose we build a dug-out and light a fire,"said Snogger. "There's 'arf-a-dozen poles standin' over the top; we've got waterproof sheets, trenchin' tools and good chalk to work in."
Drawing their tools from their equipment, the men set to labour with zeal, hollowed out a shelter in the chalk, roofed it over and lit a fire. The latter was the most difficult feat, and several entrenching tool handles had to be cut into thin spales and placed over the flames before the fire burned properly.
"Devil blow me blind if that's not very clever," said Bowdy Benners when the flames were dancing merrily against the wall of the dugout. "It almost puts me in mind of Christmas away in Blighty. Now we'll see what we've in hand for a meal for our Christmas dinner. I'll look in my pack."
He opened his pack and took out the treasures, which he piled against the wall of the dug-out. The pack contained three large loaves, cut into thick chunks, eight tins of sardines, a tin of condensed café-au-lait, two bottles of champagne and several slabs of Menier's chocolate. The bulging haversack was another treasure wallet; it contained apples and pastry in abundance, also a tin of lard, which would presently be used for frying bully beef.
During all the morning the artillery fire had not wholly slackened, but now a quiet moment held the line. Dinner was prepared. First the men made tea, using the water from their water-bottles and boiling it in mess-tins over the fire. Then they cooked their bully beef on the mess-tin lids and cut the bread into nice thin slices. It was Fitzgerald who proposed that all slices should be thin, and none gainsaid his whim. The first course consisted of sardines and bread; the second course of bread and fried bully. Tea was served with every course. Followed pastry for dessert, and fruit was served out in dainty portions. They brought the meal to an end by drinking French wine and English rum, and lighting up their cigarettes.
During the meal the platoon commander was deep in talk with Sergeant Snogger and when the Christmas dinner was over he came forward and spoke to the party.
"My boys," he said, "this, I suppose, is the most interesting Christmas you've ever spent."
Bubb: "Too interestin' for me, sir."
Platoon Commander: "Yes, I suppose it is. But I hope that neither you nor any of us will spend Christmas under such conditions again. Such things must be at times, I suppose, and seeingthat it came to our turn, I must admit that we did as well as any platoon in the British Army. You stuck to your posts like bricks and reaped honours from a fight where the odds were very much against us. Rifleman Benners at a critical moment showed great resource in putting one of the enemy out of action. For this we must thank him."
Platoon: "Hear, hear. Good old Bowdy!" etc.
Platoon Commander: "I haven't much further to say except that I'm going to recommend Rifleman Benners for the D.C.M. I am not going to make any inquiries as to where he spent last night and the early hours of this morning. As all you men assert that he was in the trenches I'll take your word for it! I'm not going to inquire where the champagne, bread and other things came from, but if I may, I'll say that I've never in all my life enjoyed a meal half as well as I enjoyed my Christmas dinner in the Loos Salient."
That night the Irish were relieved.
A month later the D.C.M. was given to Bowdy Benners.
CHAPTER VIIIBACK TO HIS OWN
We're out't for duration now and do not care a cuss,There's beer to spare at dinner time and afters now for us,But if our buttys still were out in Flanders raising Cain,We'd weather through with those we knew on bully beef again—The Old Sweats!The grub it was skimp with the Ole Sweats,But if rations was small,'Twas the same for us all,Same for the 'ole of the Ole Sweats.(From "Soldier Songs.")
We're out't for duration now and do not care a cuss,There's beer to spare at dinner time and afters now for us,But if our buttys still were out in Flanders raising Cain,We'd weather through with those we knew on bully beef again—The Old Sweats!The grub it was skimp with the Ole Sweats,But if rations was small,'Twas the same for us all,Same for the 'ole of the Ole Sweats.
(From "Soldier Songs.")
The dark night clung close to the wet levels of No Man's Land, and a breeze whimpered across the grasses, crooning wearily. The whole world seemed tired; the star-shells rose lazily over the German trenches, burned drowsily for a space, and fell sluggishly to earth. The light failing, the circle of horizon grew less, and objects quite close at hand became hidden from view. The hour was about ten, and Bowdy Benners felt tired and sleepy. He was sick of it all—the night raids, the attacks, and bombing encounters. His mind turned to home—quiet London—the peaceful houses, the easynights of untroubled sleep, afternoon teas, and the hundred-and-one comforts of civil life which were so far removed from him at the moment.
"It must be ten now," he muttered. "I suppose I'll get relieved presently."
The door of a near dug-out opened, and the ray of a candle shone out into the trench. One of his mates came out, his rifle in his hand, his waterproof ground-sheet over his shoulders.
"Is that you, Bubb?" he asked. "Taking a turn as sentry?"
"All right," Bubb answered. "Thought I wasn't coming out, eh? Are you fed up?" he asked.
"A bit sick of it," said Bowdy. "I'm tired of looking across the parapet day and night. How do you like it?"
"Rotten," said Spudhole. "The weather is so damned rotten! Everything's rotten."
He got upon the firestep, placed his rifle against the wall, and tied his waterproof across his shoulders.
"Old Flanagan is back," said Bubb, as Bowdy made his way towards the dug-out. "'E 'as come wiv a fresh draft o' men."
"Who? Flanagan? Where is he?" Bowdy asked in one mouthful.
"He's in the dug-out," said Bubb.
Bowdy rushed in, almost trampling on the face of a man who was asleep near the door. Yes, Flanagan was there—handsome Flanagan, the gallant youngster with a college education.
He was an Irish boy and belonged to the section at St. Alban's in the old days. He was a fine-looking youth of medium height, with heavy dark hair, an intelligent forehead, impassioned nostrils and an air of aloofness which became him well. He had a frank and open expression, pensive grey eyes and high cheekbones. He came from the West of Ireland and had studied for the priesthood. But feeling that this was not his vocation he entered the Civil Service. His people belonged to an old Irish family full of pride and poverty. Flanagan, though well educated, was a bit of a rake and loved the bottle. When excited he spoke with a delicious brogue and paid little heed to his grammar, but he was an omnivorous reader and carried a number of books about with him in his haversack. Montaigne was a great favourite of his. He had gone home badly wounded seven months earlier and his mates never expected to see him out in France again.
He was now sitting in a corner of the dug-out,his handsome face radiant with joy and eagerness, betraying a certain boyish innocence which in no way detracted from the dignity of his features.
"You've come back again, Flan?" Bowdy said, and gripped him by the hand.
"Yes, I'm back again," he answered.
"Glad to be with us?" Bowdy queried. "Glad to leave London and come out here?"
"Of course I am," he answered, handing Benners a cigarette.
The confession staggered Benners, but in a way he was not surprised. Flanagan was a youngster who took eagerly to the life of war, its romance and roving. He wanted to attempt everything; nothing was too big for him. With him it was no sooner see than try, and his store of enthusiasm was so unbounded that he generally succeeded in most projects. But to come back again when his wound must surely have been a permanent Blighty one!
"Why have you come back?" Bowdy asked. "Tell me all about it while I rouse the brazier and make a mess-tin of tea."
"A mess-tin of tea!" he exclaimed, as Bowdy bent over the brazier. "God, it's good to hear that, old man! The cups are so small at home.Little things. But a mess-tin full! Heavens, things are done on such a big scale in the trenches! One gets long hours of fighting, of working, of watching. Everything is taken in big mouthfuls here; there's nothing petty in the job. But at home—the soft beds—but I could not sleep; the little tea-cups—but I had no appetite; the politeness, the swank, the fine dresses—but the whole thing made me ill. We've been looking on the gods here, and I went back to live with ordinary mortals—I couldn't stick it!"
"You're a big fool, Flan," said Benners, as he fanned the brazier with a week-old copy of an English paper. "I would like to get home. I'd be in no hurry...."
"You think so," said Flanagan, "but you'd soon change your mind. I spent two months in hospital, then I was sent to a convalescent camp. But my shoulder wouldn't mend; you know I got it in the shoulder. I couldn't raise my arm; something was dislocated. But that didn't matter.... The convalescent camp was a damned nice place, near Brighton and beside the sea. There was an old sergeant-major, a rheumaticky old fellow who talked through his nose. But a good fellow all the same. We called him Nick Nock. He had no end of trouble with us, the Old Sweats,and he was always on the look-out for me. Got my name into his head somehow, and maybe I was not easy-going enough for a rheumaticky old man. He must have been about sixty-five.
"We slept in huts. Nick Nock would come to the door of our hut in the early morning. 'Are yer all in bed yet?' he would shout. (Flanagan gave an imitation of a man speaking through his nose). 'Are yer never goin' to get up? Where's Flanagan?'
"'Close the door, Nick Nock,' someone would say. 'It's too blurry cold. Close the door, will yer?"
"'I'll not close the door,' the old man would answer. 'I'll get every man of you out o' bed 'fore I leave 'ere. They're up in all the huts bar this'n.'
"'Oh! Close the door,' one would say, rising up in bed and lighting a cigarette.
"'I'll not close the door,' the sergeant would answer. 'Wot I want to know is this: where's Flanagan?'
"'Dead,' one would say. 'Gassed in the knees.'
"''E's 'angin' on the wires,' from another.
"''Is bed wasn't slept on last night,' from Nick Nock. 'When I see 'im, 'e'll be for it. And you'll all be for it if ye're not out o' kip when Icome back 'ere in ten minutes from now. Mind that.'
"'Close the door, Nick Nock,' the hut would shout, as the sergeant turned to go out.
"'I'll not shut the door.'
"'Leavin' it like that and it so cold,' all would expostulate. 'Please shut the door.'
"'I'll not shut the door,' from Nick Nock. 'One would fink that the whole damn caboosh is out on a Sunday School treat.'
"Then the old man would go out, closing the door behind him. Time for me to appear then. I would come out from under the table where I had hidden. I had been out all night and just got into the hut before Nick Nock."
"Was Nick Nock ever out here?" asked Bowdy.
"Sixty-five and rheumaticky, what could he do?" said Flanagan. "But he felt it. Once he said to us, 'You know, boys, I feel out o' place 'ere. You fellows 'ave been out an' fightin', and 'ere when you come 'ome, I'm bossin' ye. It's not fair.'
"Ah! but another time he gave us a lecture, and this was how he began:—
"'Boys, there 'as been great changes in the harmy of late years. When I joined, it twasn't as good as it is now, but after I came things improved,and at the present day a man cannot do better than roll up an' become a soldier.'"
"Damn Nick Nock," said Bowdy Benners. "Tell me something about yourself. What did you do after you left the convalescent camp?"
"Well, I went off on leave from the convalescent camp, lost my pass, and forgot when I had to return. I came back seven days late. Things took a turn; Nick Nock reported me and I was taken before a medical board. The board had to determine whether I was in a fit state to survive seven days in jankers or not. Three or four old and wise men pummelled me, sounded me, and did a lot of other things. Finally they discharged me from the army. God! I could jump over the moon with joy. I bought a suit of civvies, brown tweeds, patent leather boots, and a nice white collar, a dainty little tie, a velours hat. I was quite a swell. Some of my friends live in London and I stopped with them. They were going to help me, get me a bomb-proof job with good pay and lazy hours. I had been a bit of a rake before the war, but they did not mind that. A boy must have his fling. I had proved myself a man when the country called. You know the things they would say, stock phrases that are worthy of an auctioneer. I liked it for a little, Bowdy; butthen, the small teacups, the small talk, the little tit-bits of scandal...."
Flanagan got to his feet, stuck his hands in his pockets, and looked at Bowdy.
"I used to lie awake at night—the beds were so damned soft and uncomfortable—and think of the nights spent out in the trenches, sitting in a snug dug-out with the rain pattering on the roof, or through it," Flanagan went on, fixing his gaze at the candle. "Again my thoughts would run on the long night marches up the road, with the moonlight on the cobbles, and the big poplars standing upright like pompous sergeant-majors, away up to the star-shells, the big guns and the trenches. I thought of these things night after night, and I began to feel afraid. I knew that it was coming, I knew that I would leave England and come out to France again. I felt stifled at home; everything was so small and little. God, the tea is beginning to bubble already!
"Do you remember, old man, that night when we lay in the orchard, waiting to go up to the trenches to attack?" he suddenly asked, thrusting his face almost into Bowdy's. "Do you mind the buses, crowded with soldiers carrying rifles at all angles, going by on the road, the star-shells flaring up in the sky, and the bayonets glittering?The buses—going, going like hell, and the stars above shining through the apple trees—the trees were in blossom then, if you mind.... Don't you remember it?" he asked.
"I shall never forget it," Bowdy answered.
"And the raids?" he questioned, in a slow voice. "Crawling out through the long grasses with the poppies flicking you in the face, your nerves tense, not knowing what the next moment would bring. I thought of these things day after day, and in the end I succumbed to the old lure.
"'Twas a difficult job getting back again. There was I, dismissed from the army, and no more good as a fighter; my shoulder stiff and sore; my discharge papers showing that I was medically unfit, and in fact a thorough wash-out. But something had to be done. 'Twas then that I met old Nick Nock again. He was discharged, too—time-expired. I met him, I grieve to state, in a pub. I stood him a drink and told him my predicament. He thought for a moment, then he said: 'Why not come back from the back o' beyond, a sailor, go up to the recruiting station an' call yerself Bill Jackson an' get taken on again. Don't mention a word about yer shoulder, an' maybe the M.O. won't notice it. Gawd! I'dgo wiv yer meself, Flanagan, if it wasn't fer those damned rheumatics.'
"I tried the dodge, got taken on as Bill Jackson, who was at one time A.B. before the mast, and now Flanagan is dead to the British Army henceforward, evermore."
"The tea is about ready, Bill Jackson," Bowdy said, as his mate sat down on the floor between the legs of a man who was sound asleep and breathing heavily. "If you care to wait a little, I'll fry a rasher of bacon. Rations are pretty plump to-night."
"And is there any rum going?" Flanagan asked, springing to his feet again. He was too excited to remain still. "How strange that I had forgotten to ask about the rum rations until now," he muttered. "I suppose there'll be a tot after a little?"
"It's within the bounds of possibility," Bowdy remarked, as he put two rashers of bacon in the mess-tin lid and placed the lid on the brazier. "But we'll see to that later. Necessities before luxuries out here, Bill Jackson," he added.
The bacon was ready and they sat down, Flanagan and Bowdy, and commenced to eat. Meals have no season in the trenches, but they are always welcome.
"God, it's good to be back here!" said Flanagan. "I've never been so happy in all my life! I hope the war won't end until this happiness is worn out."
He was sincere in his expressions, and his mood almost became Bowdy's before the meal was at an end. They lay back when they had eaten and lit cigarettes. The smoke wreathed upwards to the roof, where the mice was scurrying amidst the rafters under the sandbags. The soldiers were still asleep on the floor, their bodies curled up in queer attitudes.
"They sleep sound," said Flanagan. "Who is that snoring? Is it old Snogger?"
"Snogger it is," said Bowdy.
"I thought so," said Flanagan. "I knew his snore. I couldn't sleep like that at home—I'm very glad to be out here again. It's a great life, and I like it more than ever before. I suppose I'll get tired of it again, after a while. The novelty will wear out in due time, I've no doubt. By the way, have you Fitzgerald with you yet?" he asked.
"He's here," Bowdy made answer. "He's in love with a French girl named Fifi. He's very fond of her."
"He's in love, is he?" said Flanagan. "I mindhim at St. Albans; he was in love so often. But none would take him seriously," he said. "Why, I don't know."
Bubb, the sentry, came to the door.
"'Oo's next on?" he yelled. "Sleepin' there like 'ogs, you is. Get up out't!"
"Leave him alone," said Flanagan, alluding to the soldier whom Bubb was endeavouring to rouse up. "I'll do his turn."
"Well, blimey, that's a strange caper," said Bubb, as Flanagan disappeared through the door. "One would fink 'e was in love wiv this 'ere caboosh. I know o' one squadder that ain't, that's this 'ere kid. Well, any'ow, I'm goin' to 'ave a kip."
Bubb and Bowdy lay down together and dropped off to sleep, listening to the patter of the rain on the roof, while outside on the firestep Flanagan was standing on guard, humming an old Irish song, his heart filled with the joy of a wanderer who has returned to his kind.
CHAPTER IXTRENCH FEVER