"Sir:"Two other men and I were left behind when the Company withdrew. During the fight we collected in eight stragglers from other battalions, so we are now eleven. We held the line against all the attacks. If you, sir, and the rest of the company wish to come back now, the trench is perfectly safe."JAMES GUFFIN,"Sergeant."CHAPTER IXEvery military unit at the front has its "mascot." Ours was no exception; in fact we overdid it, and became a sort of home for pets of all shapes and sizes, from Jean, a little French boy nine years of age, who wandered in one day from Soissons, to nursing sister Marlow's baby goat.Jean's mother was dead; his father was fighting at the front, and the little chap being, as we discovered later, of a migratory disposition, forsook his native haunts and "took the trail." How or why he came to us, no one knows, but he liked our company, so he stayed.A small boy being the only sort of animal we had not already adopted, was hailed with joy, and before two days had passed, we had taken up a collection and bought him a complete military uniform, from cap to boots. He couldn't speak a word of English—but he was a boy, and as we too had been boys not so very long ago we understood one another from the start. Jean picked up English words with disturbing rapidity. He had learned several distinct and artistic varieties of oaths before we were aware he understood at all.Jean and the goat had much in common. They had both been cast upon a warlike world at a tender age. They had both adopted us, and both accepted their living from us with gracious condescension.According to world-wide custom, the goat was promptly nick-named "Billy," although he was a mere bundle of lank grey wool with legs so long that it must have made him dizzy every time he viewed the earth below. He was just strong enough to stagger over to the nursing bottle which Jean held out in his grimy fist.Jogman loved Jean; Jean loved the goat, and the goat loved Jogman. Thus was established an "odd-fellows" circle into which none might break."Dat's a hand fer ye," Tim commented to Jogman, as the pair watched Jean feeding the goat. "A hand like dat ain't friends wit' soap an' water, but de goat ain't too pertickler.""I washed him about an hour ago," Jogman replied defensively, "but ye can't keep th' boy clean—he ain't happy without dirt."Jean sat upon the ground as they spoke, still holding the nursing bottle up to Billy's greedy mouth. He understood only a little of what they were saying, but looked up quickly at the last few words."I'm happy here—me," he cried. "Bien content—damn!"The expletive was addressed to Billy who with a sudden tug had pulled the bottle from his hand."Do ye know where small boys that swear go?" asked Jogman reprovingly."Big boys what swear go to de war," Jean contended, "an' me soldier too.""If you do it again I'll send ye back to yer aunt at Soissons," said Jogman.The child sprang to his feet at once, and catching him by the hand cried tearfully: "No!—No!—No!—not back to Soissons—Oh!Je vous en prie, non!"What strange fear had driven him from home? He couldn't or wouldn't explain it; but he was in great dread of being sent back, and it was the one threat which influenced him."Well, well," said Jogman soothingly, "be a good boy, an' don't swear no more—then we kin keep ye with us."Jogman had a good heart, but a bad stomach—it's difficult to get a perfect combination. Jogman drank; so did the goat, but they imbibed from different bottles and with different results. He had been on his good behaviour for almost two weeks—his money had run out. But pay day came at last and trouble always followed in its wake.Thirty dollars—over one hundred and fifty francs in French money—was enough to turn the head of any soldier. With a bulging pocket the Tommy's heart throbbed nervously, until he got a chance to "blow it in." But before this fortuitous event was completed Jogman had signally disgraced himself and us. Tim accosted him as he was leaving the hospital grounds:"Where are ye goin'?" he demanded."Goin' to town to see th' sights," Jogman returned with a grin."Somesights—dose gals," Tim growled. "Remember yer failin' an' don't hit de can too hard. I can't bear seein' ye doin' mor'n six days 'First Field' per week."Jogman had good cause to know to what form of military punishment Tim alluded. He had already had several trials of it.Paris-plage was only two miles distant, and its smart cafés and pretty girls called irresistibly to the lonely boys. The girls, however, never worried Jogman. His life was full when his stomach was full, and the fumes of "cognac" or "whiskey blanc" beckoned him like a siren's smile. Loaded down with his full month's pay and with a twenty-four hour pass in his pocket, he took the shortest path through the forest towards his objective.The day was clear and almost warm, and the soft breeze droned lazily through the pines. As he reached the edge of the wood he saw before him the sand dunes rolling gently toward the sea. There was a weird fascination about those great hollows and hills of sand. Time and the wind had beaten them so firmly that one might tread upon their crusted surface and scarcely leave a footprint. Craters as large as the Roman Coliseum, surrounded by tufted grass, spread before his gaze, but he tramped stolidly on, hardly conscious of the lonely beauty of his environment. All that Jogman saw was the top of the large French hospital which marked the edge of the town and stood out clearly against the deep blue of the sea.When he came to the highest point of the dunes he idly noticed the strange house surmounting it—a dwelling made from an overturned fishing-smack, with door and windows in its side. But a little farther on a habitation, stranger still, by accident attracted his attention. He had lain down for a moment's rest beside some bushes, and on turning his head was surprised to see a small window on a level with his eyes. The house was buried in the sand; its little door, scarce big enough to permit a man's body to pass through, was cunningly hidden by the brush and grass. Whoever lived within was hiding from the world.Jogman got upon his knees and thrust the brush aside; he pried open the window and peered within. He saw a small room, neatly furnished with bed and rug and chair. A dresser stood against the wall. An electric light hung from the ceiling, but no wires were visible without. The clothes still lying upon the bed, the overturned chair and the remains of a lunch upon the table all spoke of a hasty departure. Perhaps it had been the secret home of a German spy. If so, he had decamped some time since.Dismissing idle speculation, but making a mental note for future reference, Jogman rose and proceeded on his quest. He soon found himself in the streets of that lively little town which has been aptly called the "Monte Carlo" of northern France. Its big gambling "Casinos" had long since been turned to better use, and the beds of wounded soldiers now replaced the gambling tables andpetits chevaux.Hurrying through the "Swiss Village" and scarcely taking time to acknowledge the greetings of a Belgian lassie who waved her hand from a shop window as he passed, he entered theCafé Centraland seating himself at one of the little round tables forthwith called for a drink. The barmaid approached him."M'sieur veut?" she asked."Gimme a glass of Scotch an' soda," Jogman demanded."Ees eet wiskie m'sieur desires?" she queried in broken English."Yes—whiskey—big glass," said Jogman picturing the size with his two hands."Oui, m'sieur."She filled his glass. He drank it thirstily and called for another. Several more followed their predecessors, and being now comfortably alight he proceeded up street, seeking new worlds to conquer.The butcher-shop door stood invitingly open. Jogman entered unsteadily; what maudlin idea was fermenting in his brain none but himself might say. The fat butcher, meataxe in hand and pencil behind his ear, approached to take his order."Bonjour, monsieur!" he said.Jogman placed one hand upon the slab, the better to steady the shop which, ignoring the law of gravity, was reeling in most unshoply fashion."Bone Dewar, yerself!" he cried, incensed at being addressed in an unintelligible language. "Why th' hell can't ye speak English—like a—white man?"How often we too have been unreasonably irritated by a foreign and incomprehensible tongue! Jogman's sense of injustice was preternaturally keen just then. The butcher was a trifle alarmed at his attitude without in the least understanding the cause of complaint."Quest ce que vous voulez, monsieur?" he demanded nervously."Drop that hatchet!" cried his irrational customer, making a step forward. "Drop it, er I'll drop you."The unfortunate shopkeeper grasped his weapon more firmly still, and stood tremulously on the defensive."I'll learn ye to do as ye're told!" shouted Jogman, and seizing a large knife from the slab he rushed at the frightened man who ran screaming into the street, with Jogman in hot pursuit.The sight of a British soldier brandishing a meat knife and chasing a fellow citizen along the main street was terrifying in the extreme to the peaceful denizens of the town. They ran shrieking for help, bolting into their shops or houses, and barring the doors as though the devil himself with a regiment of imps on horseback were at their heels.Jogman had cleared theRue de Londresand in the pride of drunken conquest was about to attack the lesser streets, when the Military Police hove in sight. Much to his annoyance the disturbance interrupted Sergeant Honk in a monosyllabic conversation, which he was holding with a pretty French girl. He humped himself around the corner just in time to see the Sergeant of Police take the belligerent Jogman by the scruff of the neck and the seat of his breeches and heave him into a waiting ambulance.Honk returned to his Juliette. She had retired to her balcony and refused to descend. Honk lifted his voice appealingly from the street:"H'I say! Down't ye' be h'afeered—'e won't come back, an' 'e wouldn't 'urt ye when h'I'm 'ere. Come h'on down!"But Juliette was obdurate, and turned a deaf ear to his entreaties."Merci—je ne descends point!" she returned. This was about as intelligible to Honk as Chinese script, but he understood the shake of the head all too well."Blast 'im," he grumbled; "them bloomin' blokes what drinks is goin' to 'ave th' 'ole bleedin' town h'about our h'ears. Th' gals won't look at a decent feller soon." And he forthwith went to drown his sorrow in a mug of beer.Honk's complaint was soon verified by the facts. Jogman's fame flew from house to house with such infernal rapidity that in less than twenty-four hours the French had learned an English phrase which it cost our lads several months of good conduct to eradicate. It was simple and to the point: "Canadians no good!" For weeks afterward it was shouted at them every time they entered the village. The populace gathered in little groups close to their own homes, while a few of the more timid locked themselves in and shouted through the shutters these same humiliating words.As Jogman was brought in to the Guard Room, Barker caught a glimpse of him."Well," Barker cried in scathing criticism; "the colonel said I wuz th' first t' disgrace th' unit. By cripes; I wuzn't th' last. You sure made a good job uv it!"The colonel was a busy man. His day was as varied and colourful as Job's coat. When it wasn't the vegetable woman who had to be bartered with, it was the iceman who sought, with true French business acumen, to show him why he wasn't really overcharged, although the bill was three times what the natives had to pay."Alvred" had been installed as "Interpreter," and throughout all these ridiculous and unsatisfactory arguments maintained a face as impassive as an English butler at a club dinner.If the electric light bill to the former tenant was eighty francs per month, and our bill was three hundred francs for the same period, monsieur was assured, on word of honour, that the party of the first part was undercharged, and would forthwith be requested to pay the difference. But one thing was certain; the account against us wasalwayscorrect.When the colonel had finished these little business details he was hurried away to the operating room. A serious case was awaiting his skilled hand. The wounded man, whose thigh had been shattered with a rifle bullet, was lying upon the table waiting patiently to be etherised. The colonel stepped over to pass a kindly word with him before he was put to sleep."And how are you this morning?" he enquired."Oh, verra weel in me'self," the poor fellow answered, with a ready smile, "but ma leg is a bit troublesome. I hope ye won't hae t' cut it off, sir?""Oh, I think not," the colonel declared reassuringly. "I expect it won't be as serious as that.""In course, sir, ye'll dae whichever ye think best—but I hae a wife and twa wee bairnies at hame, an' I were thinkin' as how I'd be better able tae dae for them wi' baith ma legs.""We'll do our very best to save it," the colonel answered.In a few minutes we were dressed in our white gowns and caps. The X-ray plates were brought in and placed in the illuminator for us to see the exact damage done. The thigh bone was badly splintered for a distance of three inches, and one large piece was torn away. We hoped to be able to put a steel plate upon the bone, and, by screwing it down, draw the fragments together with some fair chance of having them unite. This is a delicate operation, and not only demands considerable skill, but the operating facilities must be perfect.Fortunately our operating room was ideal, with its white enamelled walls and marble basins, its rubber covered floor, the most modern of surgical appliances, and, most important of all, a staff of highly trained nurses—it was as ideal as science could make it.With a bright keen knife the incision was made down to the bone. Alas! It was hopelessly fractured. For a space of several inches there was nothing but tiny fragments, and the one long loose piece we had seen in the X-ray plate. The colonel turned, and said:"What a pity! The space is so large, the bone will never regenerate. This leg should come off—but I promised to try and save it."We discussed the situation for a few moments, and finally decided to try an experiment. The loose piece of bone had not yet been thrown away. Might it be used as a splint? We fitted it in between the upper and lower fragment—it was just long enough to be wedged between. We drilled a hole through either end and fastened it firmly with silver wire. Would it grow or decay there? We had grave doubts, and time alone would tell.Let no one imagine that in the thousands of operations performed at the front surgeons become careless! Every case is a special one; every "Tommy" the private patient of the Empire. The surgeon's responsibility is as great—and he feels it, too—in that far-away land, as it is at home.We put the limb in a plaster cast to hold it firm. It had been a clean wound—no infection—we had hopes. Six weeks later the bone had united fairly well, and in three months McPherson was able to walk!But when this operation was done the colonel's troubles were by no means over for the day. It was ten o'clock, and "office" must be held. This miniature military "Police-Court" sits every morning, with the commanding officer as judge. If the court is small, it is by no means unimportant. Jogman realised this as he stood waiting with the guard and witnesses in the hall, the day after his great "debâcle."The colonel and adjutant were seated in due state, being in full "service dress," which, as distinct from undress, comprises belt and cap. The sergeant-major, in equally dread attire, ordered the guard and prisoner (the latter being minus both belt and cap—these appurtenances being denied him) to "'Shun!—Right turn; quick march!—Halt!—Right turn!" and the whole squad was in line, awaiting "office."The colonel's face wore a tired and worried expression; his smile had disappeared. The sergeant-major announced:"Private Jogman, sir!"The adjutant read the charge sheet. "Number 17462, Private James Jogman, is accused with conduct to the prejudice of good order and military discipline, in that he, on the afternoon of the 21st instant at 4 p.m., in the village of Paris-plage, was disorderly."The colonel turned to the accused: "Private Jogman, you have heard the charge against you, as read. Are you 'guilty' or 'not guilty'?""Not guilty,—sir," Jogman muttered shamefacedly.Sergeant Honk, as a witness, expressed his surprise by an almost imperceptible lifting of the brush of red hair which did service in lieu of eyebrows. The sergeant-major's lip curled slightly. The colonel's face remained immobile."Read the written statement of the Military Police, Mr. Adjutant," he commanded.The adjutant did so. Each line was correct and convincing. The accused, when asked, declined to express an opinion on it."Who is the first witness?" the colonel asked."Sergeant Honk, sir.""Sergeant Honk, what do you know of this case?" demanded the Colonel."Sir, h'on the afternoon of the twenty-first, at about four o'clock, h'I was talkin' to a lady h'on the main street of Paree-plaige, when h'I 'eard th' devil of a row—beg pardon, sir, it slipped h'out afore I thought.""Go on;" said the colonel drily. "I daresay what you state is quite correct."Thus encouraged, Honk resumed with morose enthusiasm: "H'I says to th' young lady, says h'I, 'Somethin's broke loose 'ere.' The women and men was a-screamin' an' runnin' into their 'ouses. H'I run to the corner as fast as me legs could carry me—" Jogman looked instinctively at Honk's queer limbs, as if he were about to do a mental calculation of his speed, but was immediately called to attention by the sergeant-major."When h'I got there, h'I see th' prisoner goin' like h—— (h'excuse me, sir); well, 'e were goin' some, I tell 'e, with a butcher's' knife in 'is mit——""Did he appear intoxicated?" the colonel interrupted."'Orrible drunk, h'I calls it, sir—'e were that same, sir; and afore h'I gets to 'im, th' Sergeant o' Police 'ad 'im by th' seat of 'is pants an' 'oisted 'im into the waggin!""Have you any questions to put to the witness?" the colonel asked."Yes, sir," Jogman replied. "Will Sergeant Honk state, sir, how many beers he had inside him when he thought he seed me?"The unfortunate Honk turned a deeper hue of red, and shuffled uncomfortably from one foot to the other."Your question is not allowed," the colonel replied sternly. "There is plenty of other evidence to show that Sergeant Honk's vision was reasonably accurate."Other witnesses were called, but the evidence was all equally damning. At last the colonel asked the prisoner if he had any further defence to offer.Jogman replied: "Yes, sir. Last month I fell from the boiler and my head has been queer ever since. When I take a drink I don't know what I'm doin'. I don't remember anything about all this."And the Colonel replied: "This month you fell from the water waggon, and your head is queerer than before. For the crime of which you are guilty you might be shot; but I intend being lenient with you—on one condition—"Jogman looked up expectantly."—and that is—that you sign the pledge that you will not touch another drop of liquor while you are in France."Honk looked as if he thought this worse than being shot. Jogman glanced furtively at the colonel's face; he had never seen him look so severe before. It was a big sacrifice, but it could not be avoided. He heaved a sigh and replied slowly: "I'll—sign—it, sir!""Twenty-eight days First Field Punishment!""Right turn, quick march!" cried the sergeant-major; and "office" was over for the day. Remorseful recollection of the pledge he had just signed clouded Jogman's brow."He's gone an' spoiled th' whole war fer me," he grumbled, as they led him away.CHAPTER XReggy might have been a success as Mess Secretary, if it hadn't been for the Camembert cheese. No one could have remained popular long under such a handicap. He had discovered it in some outlandish shop in Paris-plage. The shopkeeper had been ostracised and the health authorities called in.Some one has said that cheese improves with age. I do not propose to indulge in futile argument withconnoisseurs, but Reggy's cheese had passed maturity and died an unnatural death. When he produced its green moss-covered remains upon the table, the officers were forthwith divided into two factions—those who liked cheese and those who did not; and the latter class stated their objections with an emphasis and strength which rivalled the Camembert.Corporal Granger had charge of the Mess. He was a quiet, gentlemanly little chap who said little, thought much, and smoked when he had a chance. He opened the box before dinner, took a whiff which distorted his face, and silently passed the box to his assistants.Wilson and René—a French-Canadian lad—wrinkled their noses in unison over it; then Wilson drawled:"Smells—like a—disease—we uster have—in the ward upstairs."But René's atavistic sense approved the cheese. "Dat's bon fromage," he declaimed emphatically. "Cheese ain't good until it smells like dat.""Then folks to home eats a lot what's bad fer them—don't they?" Wilson retorted, with mild satire; "an' them so healthy too!"René disdained controversy, and with unruffled dignity continued laying the table. During the first few months of our labours he had been orderly to no less a person than the senior major—hence his feeling of superiority. But he and the Second-in-Command hadn't always agreed; the senior major had apenchantfor collecting excess baggage, and it behooved his unfortunate batman to pack, unpack and handle his ever-increasing number of boxes and bags. By the time we reached Boulogne these had become a great burden. René looked ruefully down upon it before he started to lift it, piece by piece, into the lorrie."Ba gosh!" he exclaimed, in perspiring remonstrance, "I hope de war don' last too long—er it'll take one whole train to move de major's bag-gage!"René was impressionable and had all the romantic instinct of the true Frenchman. As I watched him decorating the table with flowers—we were to have company that night, and it was to be an event of unusual importance to us—my recollection carried me back to a bleak October night on Salisbury Plain. It was scarcely nine p.m., but I had turned in and lay wrapped in my sleeping bag, reading by the light of a candle propped on a cocoa tin. René had just returned from "three days' leave," having travelled over fifty miles to see a little girl whose face had haunted him for weeks. He was flushed with excitement and had to unburden his heart to some one. He stepped into my tent for a moment, the rain running off his cap and coat in little rivulets onto the floor."I'm afraid you're in love, René," I teased, after he had given me a glowing account of his trip."I t'ink dat's right," he exclaimed, with sparkling eyes. "Why, dat's de purtiest gal what I ever see. Dose arms of hers! Gee, dere ain't lilies so white like dat, an' de roses of her cheeks!—every time I meet her, I see her like more kinds of flowers!""But you'll see another bud next week, René," I interjected, "and forget all about this dainty little flower.""Me forget? Non!" he declared, with conviction—and then a wistful look crept into his big brown eyes. He sat upon the edge of Reggy's cot opposite and reminiscently smoothed the hair off his brow before he continued:"Sometime wen you're up de Gat'-ineau at home, an' de lumbermen free de logs in de riviere, you see dem float so peaceful down de stream. De water is run so slow an' quiet you don' see no movement dere; but bimeby de riviere go lil' faster, de ripples wash de banks, de logs move swifter an' more swift until dey come above de falls—-dey fall, crash, boom! One gets stuck, annuder an' annuder; dey jam—dey pile up higher an' more high—more hun'reds of logs come down, an' jam an' jam. De water can't pass—it overflow de bank an' spread out in a great lake over de fields."[image]RENÉ HAD RISEN IN THE EXCITEMENT OF HIS DESCRIPTIONRené had risen in the excitement of his description. The candle light shone faintly upon his broad shoulders and handsome, inspired face. His right arm was extended in harmony with the vehemence of his description. He continued more softly:"Dat riviere is me; de falls is my lil' gal at de turnin'-point of my life, an' de great lake is my love which has burst over de fields of my fancy an' freshes all de dry places. I can't tell you how I love dat gal—sometimes I tink—maybe—I marry her some day."At this juncture the senior major had thrust his head inside the tent."René," he called sternly, "get back to your work! Wash my rubber boots and keep an eye on the tent 'til I return."And poor René, thus rudely brought to earth, had crept silently away.At seven-thirty p.m., the shrill call of the bugle sounded "Officers' Mess":"The officers' wives get pudding and pies,The soldiers' wives get skilly—"It is the one call which every officer, senior or junior, knows by heart, and answers promptly.A mess dinner is a parade, and is conducted with all the pomp and dignity peculiar to a Chinese wedding. Woe betide the untrained "sub" who dares seat himself before the Commanding Officer has taken his place at the centre of the table! For the first time since our arrival in France, we were to be honoured with the presence of several ladies, and the whole mess was in a state of excitement compatible with the seriousness of such an occasion. It was so long since any of us had dined under the charming, but restraining, influence of the fair sex that, as Reggy afterward remarked, he was in a condition bordering on nervous prostration lest he forget to eat the ice cream with his fork, or, worse still, "butter" his bread withpaté de fois gras.Reggy had other worries on his mind as well. He had been taken aside early, and solemnly warned that if he, his heirs, executors or assigns, dared to bring forth upon the table so much as a smell of his ill-favoured cheese, he would be led out upon the sand dunes at early dawn and shot. This precaution having been duly taken, he was permitted to retire to the pantry with Fraser and Corporal Granger, and amuse himself making thirty Bronx cocktails for our express delectation. Promptly, as the last note of the bugle died away, the colonel and matron ushered our fair guests into the Mess Room.Had our long separation from the beautiful women of Canada whetted our sense of appreciation? Or was it some dim recollection of an almost-forgotten social world which stimulated our imagination? Certainly no more exquisite representatives of the, to us, long-lost tribe of lovely women ever graced a Mess Room in France!After the customary introductions had taken place, the twenty-five officers who now comprised our Mess distributed themselves in various awkward positions about the chairs of the five ladies—all the rest of our chairs were at the table—each trying vainly to give himself that appearance of graceful ease which indicates that the entertainment, ofgrandes damesis our chief sport in Canada.What a dreadful encumbrance one's hands are on such an occasion! A military uniform does not take kindly to having its wearer's hands thrust deeply into his breeches pockets, and, as every one knows, this is the only way to feel at ease when addressing a lady in her evening gown—if you fold your hands unostentatiously behind your back, it hampers your powers of repartee.Lady Danby, who conducted a Red Cross Hospital in a near-by town, appreciated our embarrassment, and did her best to make us feel at home."What a delightful Mess Room!" she exclaimed, as her tall, lithesome figure sank into an arm chair. "It must be so restful and refreshing after those dreadful operations!""Captain Reggy finds it very restful indeed," Burnham volunteered mischievously; "he spends a great deal of his time here—mixing drinks.""Ah!—and he does them so very well too," exclaimed Madame Cuillard, with a flash of her beautiful dark eyes toward the hero of the moment, and lifting her glass to him in gracious compliment. "He is a man after my own heart.""Madam, you flatter me," Reggy murmured, with a low bow, "and yet I fear I am not the first who has been 'after' such a kindly heart?""Nor you shall not be the last, I hope," the little widow returned, with a rippling laugh. "Still, 'Weak heart never won'—ah, non—I am forgetting my English—let it pass. A heart is so easy to be lost in France—you must be careful."Fraser's Gibsonian figure towered above the others as he and Father Bonsecour and the senior major stood chatting with two Canadian guests. The girls made a pretty contrast, petite, dainty and vivacious; the one with blue-black hair and large soft brown eyes, the other fair as an angel, with hair of finely spun gold and eyes as blue as the sea over the dunes."May I take your glasses?" Fraser queried."Thank you, by all means," said the little brunette smilingly. "There's nothing I regret more than an empty glass or a flower that is dead.""The former leaves little to hope, and the latter hopes little to leaf," asserted the senior major sententiously, animated by the beauty of our guests."What a dreadful pun, Major Baldwin!" cried the pretty blonde. "You deserve five days C.B.!""Thank Heaven," laughed the major, "we don't always get our deserts! We incorrigibles may still, for a moment"'Take the cash and let the credit go,Nor heed the rumble of the distant drum'!"But the Colonel interrupted these delightful inanities by offering his arm to Lady Danby and showing her to the seat of honour on his right. The other ladies were distributed as impartially as was possible amongst the remaining twenty-four of us. We stood for a moment with bowed heads while our chaplain repeated that concise but effective military grace:"For what we are about to receive, thank God!" and then we took our seats.The dinner was progressing splendidly. Wilson hadn't spilled the soup; René hadn't tripped over the rug; course after course had proceeded under Granger's worried eye with daintiness and despatch. Thesole meunierewas done to a turn, the roast pheasant and asparagus had been voted superb, and the ice-cold salad a refreshing interlude. Even the plum pudding, with its flaming sauce, had been transported without accident to the guests, when Reggy beckoned with a motion of the head to Granger, and whispered something in his ear.Granger was the best lad in the world when he wasn't disturbed, but if he became excited anything might happen. The order was transmitted to René, and in a moment the murder was out. Whether through misunderstanding, or René's secret pride in its possession, Reggy's cheese had been excavated, and before it was possible to interfere, its carcase was upon the table!The scent of hyacinth and lilies-of-the-valley faded on the instant; the delicate charm ofpoudre de rizwas obliterated and all the delicious odours of the meal were at once submerged in that wonderful, pungent, all-embracing emanation from the cheese.The colonel turned first red, then pale. He cast an appealing glance at Reggy—it was too late. The rest of us glared surreptitiously and silently at the culprit. An inspiration seized him. Unobserved, he signalled the mess president, who rose to his feet on the instant."Mr. Vice—The King!" he commanded."Ladies and gentlemen—The King!" came the formal but inspiring reply.The cheese was forgotten. We were upon our feet, and lifting our glasses we drank to our sovereign. Cigars and cigarettes were passed around, and we waited patiently until the colonel lighted his cigar—for no one smokes at mess until the O.C. has set the example, or given his permission. The offending element had been quickly but quietly removed from the table, and once more peace and happiness prevailed.But Reggy's fate as Mess Secretary was sealed!CHAPTER XIThe first line of a certain popular song emphasises a bold and truthful platitude, namely: "The World's growing older each day." The incontrovertible fact is plumped unexpectedly before us, and blocks our only exit down the passage of argument. If it had read: "The World's growingsmallereach day," we might have run to our text-book of Elementary Physics, and, placing a stubby but argumentative forefinger on the Law of the Indestructibility of Matter, have proved it a falsehood of the Nth. degree. But, of course, this must all have happened before the War. Every one knows now—every Tommy can tell you—that the world is really and truly smaller; for, if not, how is it he meets Bill, or Jake, or Harry on the streets ofPoperingheorDickibusch? He knows instinctively that the world is shrinking, and Halifax and Vancouver may be found any time jumbled together in a little Belgian village on the wrong side of the Atlantic. I hadn't seen Jack Wellcombe for twenty-five years—we had been school chums together—and his name had almost faded from the pages of my mind; so that on entering the hospital the morning after Reggy's last dinner, I received a slight shock as I lifted a new chart from the table and saw this name staring up at me:"Captain J. Wellcombe. Royal Army Medical Corps."Had the world really become so small? Could a quarter century be bridged in an instant? I seemed to see the little old stone schoolhouse once again; its low-ceilinged room, the big box-stove, the well-hacked seats, and the rows of little boys and girls bowed over their greasy slates. The scent of midday lunches stowed away floated back to me in memory's dream, and the haw-tree brushed its leaves against the window pane. I saw Jack as he was then, with frank blue eyes and waving golden hair—courteous, genial and big-hearted, beloved by all; and I wondered as I stood there if by any chance this might be he.The nursing sister awoke me from this reverie: "He arrived in the early morning," she volunteered, "but as he was not seriously hurt I didn't call you, and dressed the wound myself."It was with a feeling of nervous tension and expectancy that I followed her down the hall to his room and entered. Alas! the world is full of disappointments. It was not Jack—this dignified man with the touch of grey about the temples—but still the resemblance grew stronger, the kindly blue eyes, the same winsome smile—I wondered still.We passed the customary greetings and chatted commonplaces for a few moments, and all the time his face wore an expression of puzzled enquiry, as if he too were trying to recall some faint memory from the past. At last I blurted out:"Are you by any chance related to Jack Wellcombe, of K——?""A very close relation," he returned laughingly. "I am his dearest friend; in fact—himself. And you—you are Mac—dear old Mac!" he cried, stretching out both hands to me in his impetuous, warm-hearted way. I could have hugged him, I was so glad to see him!"What a queer game is Life!" he exclaimed a moment later. "For years you and I have been shaken about, with many a jolt, in the dice-box of the world, and now, like two Jacks, we are once more tossed together upon the Table of Fate!"While we were chatting over old times, the nurse unwound his bandages."I hope it doesn't hurt too much?" I asked him, as I examined his wound preparatory to dressing it."It's a mere scratch," he returned lightly; "a piece of shrapnel through the flesh of the thigh; but the surgeon at the Field Ambulance thought I should come back to hospital for a week or two. Things are rather noisy around Ypres.""But what possessed you to join the R.A.M.C.?" I enquired. "You should be with the Canadians."He laughed. "Oh, you chaps were too long in coming over. I'd have lost three whole months of the war. I was in England when it broke out, and came over with the First Expeditionary Force.""You were in the retreat from Mons, then!" I exclaimed in envious admiration."Every foot of it," he replied. "Thatwasa fight, you may well believe. But the Huns didn't have it all their own way. I saw a strange scrap one day between a French and a German battalion. The Huns sprang suddenly out of an ambush and were upon the French with the bayonet before you could catch your breath. Taken by surprise, the 'poilus' ran for all they were worth for about a quarter of a mile—and they are some sprinters too—the Huns following them, shouting like demons. Suddenly the French stopped—they must have been running to get their second wind—wheeled about, and with fixed bayonets charged back like a streak of forked lightning through the Germans. You never saw such a surprised and rattled bunch of Huns since you were born. If it hadn't been so awful I could have shrieked with laughter. But the French weren't satisfied with going through them once; they turned about and came back at them again, like a regiment of cavalry. The Huns seemed stupefied with amazement and terror; they fought like men in a daze, and very few ever got back to tell the story of the 'cowardly French who ran away'!""We, too, have underestimated the French, I'm afraid," I said. "We are beginning to realise their possibilities as a fighting force, and the Germans aren't yet awake to their strength and determination.""They fought well at the battle of the Marne," Jack remarked. "It makes me smile still as I picture a fat little French officer with drawn sword—God only knows what he intended doing with it—who stood behind a haystack waving to his men to come on. He was absolutely fearless. Again and again he charged up that steep hill with the men, and when they couldn't make it, back he would come to hide behind his hay-stack and wait until he could induce them to try it again. About the fifth attack they succeeded and went on over the hill."I questioned him about the battle of Ypres. (This, of course, was the first battle of Ypres—not that in which the Canadians distinguished themselves.)"It was fast work at 'Wipers,'" he said, "with shells falling into the town like a thousand roaring devils. They dropped one into the signaller's billet. It tore a hole in the side of the building large enough to march an elephant through, and killed every mother's son of them. A 'Jack Johnson' came through the roof of our hospital and dropped into the ward—exit ward! There wasn't a bed left standing. Luckily we had removed most of the patients into the cellar—but those who were left are still there, buried in the ruins.""The usual German respect for the Red Cross!" I commented bitterly."The flag makes a good mark for their artillery," he returned, with a smile; "they always look for us.""You've had many narrow squeaks, I presume?"He laughed merrily. "So narrow that if I had had a big stomach it might have been whittled down to sylph-like proportions. I was standing one day close to a dug-out, talking to two brother officers. The 'Whizz-Bangs' and 'Coal Boxes' were sizzling over from time to time, but not especially close. An old friend of mine" (Jack always had an "old friend" everywhere!) "stuck his head out of the dug-out and shouted up to me:"'Drop in and have a drink, Jack—the water's fine!'"I told him I was never thirsty in the mornings. He looked surprised, but called back again:"'If you'll do me the honour to descend, I'll make you a fine long John Collins!'"'Well, well,' I said, 'as you're so kind and such a persistent beggar, I'll humour you.' The other two officers said they wouldn't go in, and so I climbed down into his dug-out and sat down."Just as I did so a big shell came—bang!—right where I had been standing. We sprang to our feet and looked out—the poor chaps I had just left had been literally blown to pieces!"He lay pensively silent for a moment or two, and there was a suspicious glint of moisture in his eyes as he turned his face toward the wall. Then he turned on his side once more, and smiling brightly up at me, murmured:"It's been a great lesson to me!""In what way?" I queried."Never to refuse a drink!"It will take more than a world's war to depress Jack. His cork-like spirit will always make him pop up serene to the surface of the whirlpool of life."You know the Guild Hall at Wipers?" he exclaimed a moment later."No; I haven't been to the actual firing line yet," I returned. "The only time we realise there is a war back here is when the trains of wounded come in; or, on a stormy night, when the wind blows fiercely from the trenches, and the boom of the great guns is driven here intermittently with the gusts.""As soon as I can stand upon this peg of mine, you and the colonel and I will motor up and see it all," he declared, with assurance."Agreed!" I cried. "You may now feel confident of a speedy recovery. But tell me more about 'Wipers.'"He raised himself on one elbow, and commenced reminiscently: "Our dear old colonel was billeted in the tenement row which used to be in the square of Ypres, close to the Guild Hall. We had been shelled out of place after place, but for several days lately Fritzie had left us in peace. It was too good to last long. One night they started chucking big shells into the cathedral and what was left of the square. I counted fifty-seven falling over and around the colonel's billet. I began to suspect the place. Taken as an exhibition of fire-works, it was a success, but as a health resort it had defects."It was about eleven o'clock, and some of the houses in the row had already been hit. Ye gods! Vesuvius in its balmiest days was like a Chinese lantern to this—for a second, in a lull, you would hear the whine of a big shell; then, crash! it went into a building, and shell and house went up together in one frightful smash-up."I went over to wake the old boy, as he showed no symptoms of having been disturbed. It was useless to rap—there was such an infernal racket with shells bursting, roofs toppling in and walls falling out. I stumbled up the dark stairs to his room. He was sound asleep—think of it! I spoke to him, but he didn't wake; so I shook him gently by the shoulder and he opened his eyes."'Hello, Wellcombe!' he growled, in his rough but genial way. 'What the devil brings you prowling around at this time of night?'"I told him that I thought the billet was becoming a trifle unsafe, as some of the other houses in the row had already been hit."'Is that all you came to tell me?' he asked, with indifference."I said it seemed sufficient to me, and told him we had no wish to lose him."'Well, well,' he came back at me, but not unkindly, 'and you woke me out of a sound sleep to tell me this! Go and get me a drink and then run along like a good fellow and go to bed.'"And after the old chap had his drink he thanked me, turned over in bed, and I believe was sound asleep again before I got out of the house—while a continual hell of fire and shells tore the guts out of the town about him! When I went back in the morning, there was only one house left standing in that row—the colonel's. The others were a crumpled mess of bricks and mortar!"I chatted with him as long as I could, and then, telling him I would drop in later in the day, continued my rounds on the wards.As we entered one of the smaller rooms, I noticed a bright-eyed, red-cheeked Scotch lad, not more than seventeen years of age, seated upon his cot. He was chatting animatedly with several others, but sprang to attention as we approached. The nurse unwound the bandages and showed me his wound—a bayonet cut across the palm. We had already heard from his comrades that this slip of a boy, with the smiling eyes and ringing laugh, was one of the finest bayonet fighters in his battalion, and had to his credit a string of German scalps that would make a Pawnee Chief green with envy. His wound was the result of grasping his opponent's bayonet during one of these fights.The nurse looked up at the boyish face—the big blue eyes and laughing mouth—he did seem such a child!"Howcanyou," she cried involuntarily; "howcana little lad like you bear to kill men with a bayonet?"
"Sir:
"Two other men and I were left behind when the Company withdrew. During the fight we collected in eight stragglers from other battalions, so we are now eleven. We held the line against all the attacks. If you, sir, and the rest of the company wish to come back now, the trench is perfectly safe.
"Sergeant."
CHAPTER IX
Every military unit at the front has its "mascot." Ours was no exception; in fact we overdid it, and became a sort of home for pets of all shapes and sizes, from Jean, a little French boy nine years of age, who wandered in one day from Soissons, to nursing sister Marlow's baby goat.
Jean's mother was dead; his father was fighting at the front, and the little chap being, as we discovered later, of a migratory disposition, forsook his native haunts and "took the trail." How or why he came to us, no one knows, but he liked our company, so he stayed.
A small boy being the only sort of animal we had not already adopted, was hailed with joy, and before two days had passed, we had taken up a collection and bought him a complete military uniform, from cap to boots. He couldn't speak a word of English—but he was a boy, and as we too had been boys not so very long ago we understood one another from the start. Jean picked up English words with disturbing rapidity. He had learned several distinct and artistic varieties of oaths before we were aware he understood at all.
Jean and the goat had much in common. They had both been cast upon a warlike world at a tender age. They had both adopted us, and both accepted their living from us with gracious condescension.
According to world-wide custom, the goat was promptly nick-named "Billy," although he was a mere bundle of lank grey wool with legs so long that it must have made him dizzy every time he viewed the earth below. He was just strong enough to stagger over to the nursing bottle which Jean held out in his grimy fist.
Jogman loved Jean; Jean loved the goat, and the goat loved Jogman. Thus was established an "odd-fellows" circle into which none might break.
"Dat's a hand fer ye," Tim commented to Jogman, as the pair watched Jean feeding the goat. "A hand like dat ain't friends wit' soap an' water, but de goat ain't too pertickler."
"I washed him about an hour ago," Jogman replied defensively, "but ye can't keep th' boy clean—he ain't happy without dirt."
Jean sat upon the ground as they spoke, still holding the nursing bottle up to Billy's greedy mouth. He understood only a little of what they were saying, but looked up quickly at the last few words.
"I'm happy here—me," he cried. "Bien content—damn!"
The expletive was addressed to Billy who with a sudden tug had pulled the bottle from his hand.
"Do ye know where small boys that swear go?" asked Jogman reprovingly.
"Big boys what swear go to de war," Jean contended, "an' me soldier too."
"If you do it again I'll send ye back to yer aunt at Soissons," said Jogman.
The child sprang to his feet at once, and catching him by the hand cried tearfully: "No!—No!—No!—not back to Soissons—Oh!Je vous en prie, non!"
What strange fear had driven him from home? He couldn't or wouldn't explain it; but he was in great dread of being sent back, and it was the one threat which influenced him.
"Well, well," said Jogman soothingly, "be a good boy, an' don't swear no more—then we kin keep ye with us."
Jogman had a good heart, but a bad stomach—it's difficult to get a perfect combination. Jogman drank; so did the goat, but they imbibed from different bottles and with different results. He had been on his good behaviour for almost two weeks—his money had run out. But pay day came at last and trouble always followed in its wake.
Thirty dollars—over one hundred and fifty francs in French money—was enough to turn the head of any soldier. With a bulging pocket the Tommy's heart throbbed nervously, until he got a chance to "blow it in." But before this fortuitous event was completed Jogman had signally disgraced himself and us. Tim accosted him as he was leaving the hospital grounds:
"Where are ye goin'?" he demanded.
"Goin' to town to see th' sights," Jogman returned with a grin.
"Somesights—dose gals," Tim growled. "Remember yer failin' an' don't hit de can too hard. I can't bear seein' ye doin' mor'n six days 'First Field' per week."
Jogman had good cause to know to what form of military punishment Tim alluded. He had already had several trials of it.
Paris-plage was only two miles distant, and its smart cafés and pretty girls called irresistibly to the lonely boys. The girls, however, never worried Jogman. His life was full when his stomach was full, and the fumes of "cognac" or "whiskey blanc" beckoned him like a siren's smile. Loaded down with his full month's pay and with a twenty-four hour pass in his pocket, he took the shortest path through the forest towards his objective.
The day was clear and almost warm, and the soft breeze droned lazily through the pines. As he reached the edge of the wood he saw before him the sand dunes rolling gently toward the sea. There was a weird fascination about those great hollows and hills of sand. Time and the wind had beaten them so firmly that one might tread upon their crusted surface and scarcely leave a footprint. Craters as large as the Roman Coliseum, surrounded by tufted grass, spread before his gaze, but he tramped stolidly on, hardly conscious of the lonely beauty of his environment. All that Jogman saw was the top of the large French hospital which marked the edge of the town and stood out clearly against the deep blue of the sea.
When he came to the highest point of the dunes he idly noticed the strange house surmounting it—a dwelling made from an overturned fishing-smack, with door and windows in its side. But a little farther on a habitation, stranger still, by accident attracted his attention. He had lain down for a moment's rest beside some bushes, and on turning his head was surprised to see a small window on a level with his eyes. The house was buried in the sand; its little door, scarce big enough to permit a man's body to pass through, was cunningly hidden by the brush and grass. Whoever lived within was hiding from the world.
Jogman got upon his knees and thrust the brush aside; he pried open the window and peered within. He saw a small room, neatly furnished with bed and rug and chair. A dresser stood against the wall. An electric light hung from the ceiling, but no wires were visible without. The clothes still lying upon the bed, the overturned chair and the remains of a lunch upon the table all spoke of a hasty departure. Perhaps it had been the secret home of a German spy. If so, he had decamped some time since.
Dismissing idle speculation, but making a mental note for future reference, Jogman rose and proceeded on his quest. He soon found himself in the streets of that lively little town which has been aptly called the "Monte Carlo" of northern France. Its big gambling "Casinos" had long since been turned to better use, and the beds of wounded soldiers now replaced the gambling tables andpetits chevaux.
Hurrying through the "Swiss Village" and scarcely taking time to acknowledge the greetings of a Belgian lassie who waved her hand from a shop window as he passed, he entered theCafé Centraland seating himself at one of the little round tables forthwith called for a drink. The barmaid approached him.
"M'sieur veut?" she asked.
"Gimme a glass of Scotch an' soda," Jogman demanded.
"Ees eet wiskie m'sieur desires?" she queried in broken English.
"Yes—whiskey—big glass," said Jogman picturing the size with his two hands.
"Oui, m'sieur."
She filled his glass. He drank it thirstily and called for another. Several more followed their predecessors, and being now comfortably alight he proceeded up street, seeking new worlds to conquer.
The butcher-shop door stood invitingly open. Jogman entered unsteadily; what maudlin idea was fermenting in his brain none but himself might say. The fat butcher, meataxe in hand and pencil behind his ear, approached to take his order.
"Bonjour, monsieur!" he said.
Jogman placed one hand upon the slab, the better to steady the shop which, ignoring the law of gravity, was reeling in most unshoply fashion.
"Bone Dewar, yerself!" he cried, incensed at being addressed in an unintelligible language. "Why th' hell can't ye speak English—like a—white man?"
How often we too have been unreasonably irritated by a foreign and incomprehensible tongue! Jogman's sense of injustice was preternaturally keen just then. The butcher was a trifle alarmed at his attitude without in the least understanding the cause of complaint.
"Quest ce que vous voulez, monsieur?" he demanded nervously.
"Drop that hatchet!" cried his irrational customer, making a step forward. "Drop it, er I'll drop you."
The unfortunate shopkeeper grasped his weapon more firmly still, and stood tremulously on the defensive.
"I'll learn ye to do as ye're told!" shouted Jogman, and seizing a large knife from the slab he rushed at the frightened man who ran screaming into the street, with Jogman in hot pursuit.
The sight of a British soldier brandishing a meat knife and chasing a fellow citizen along the main street was terrifying in the extreme to the peaceful denizens of the town. They ran shrieking for help, bolting into their shops or houses, and barring the doors as though the devil himself with a regiment of imps on horseback were at their heels.
Jogman had cleared theRue de Londresand in the pride of drunken conquest was about to attack the lesser streets, when the Military Police hove in sight. Much to his annoyance the disturbance interrupted Sergeant Honk in a monosyllabic conversation, which he was holding with a pretty French girl. He humped himself around the corner just in time to see the Sergeant of Police take the belligerent Jogman by the scruff of the neck and the seat of his breeches and heave him into a waiting ambulance.
Honk returned to his Juliette. She had retired to her balcony and refused to descend. Honk lifted his voice appealingly from the street:
"H'I say! Down't ye' be h'afeered—'e won't come back, an' 'e wouldn't 'urt ye when h'I'm 'ere. Come h'on down!"
But Juliette was obdurate, and turned a deaf ear to his entreaties.
"Merci—je ne descends point!" she returned. This was about as intelligible to Honk as Chinese script, but he understood the shake of the head all too well.
"Blast 'im," he grumbled; "them bloomin' blokes what drinks is goin' to 'ave th' 'ole bleedin' town h'about our h'ears. Th' gals won't look at a decent feller soon." And he forthwith went to drown his sorrow in a mug of beer.
Honk's complaint was soon verified by the facts. Jogman's fame flew from house to house with such infernal rapidity that in less than twenty-four hours the French had learned an English phrase which it cost our lads several months of good conduct to eradicate. It was simple and to the point: "Canadians no good!" For weeks afterward it was shouted at them every time they entered the village. The populace gathered in little groups close to their own homes, while a few of the more timid locked themselves in and shouted through the shutters these same humiliating words.
As Jogman was brought in to the Guard Room, Barker caught a glimpse of him.
"Well," Barker cried in scathing criticism; "the colonel said I wuz th' first t' disgrace th' unit. By cripes; I wuzn't th' last. You sure made a good job uv it!"
The colonel was a busy man. His day was as varied and colourful as Job's coat. When it wasn't the vegetable woman who had to be bartered with, it was the iceman who sought, with true French business acumen, to show him why he wasn't really overcharged, although the bill was three times what the natives had to pay.
"Alvred" had been installed as "Interpreter," and throughout all these ridiculous and unsatisfactory arguments maintained a face as impassive as an English butler at a club dinner.
If the electric light bill to the former tenant was eighty francs per month, and our bill was three hundred francs for the same period, monsieur was assured, on word of honour, that the party of the first part was undercharged, and would forthwith be requested to pay the difference. But one thing was certain; the account against us wasalwayscorrect.
When the colonel had finished these little business details he was hurried away to the operating room. A serious case was awaiting his skilled hand. The wounded man, whose thigh had been shattered with a rifle bullet, was lying upon the table waiting patiently to be etherised. The colonel stepped over to pass a kindly word with him before he was put to sleep.
"And how are you this morning?" he enquired.
"Oh, verra weel in me'self," the poor fellow answered, with a ready smile, "but ma leg is a bit troublesome. I hope ye won't hae t' cut it off, sir?"
"Oh, I think not," the colonel declared reassuringly. "I expect it won't be as serious as that."
"In course, sir, ye'll dae whichever ye think best—but I hae a wife and twa wee bairnies at hame, an' I were thinkin' as how I'd be better able tae dae for them wi' baith ma legs."
"We'll do our very best to save it," the colonel answered.
In a few minutes we were dressed in our white gowns and caps. The X-ray plates were brought in and placed in the illuminator for us to see the exact damage done. The thigh bone was badly splintered for a distance of three inches, and one large piece was torn away. We hoped to be able to put a steel plate upon the bone, and, by screwing it down, draw the fragments together with some fair chance of having them unite. This is a delicate operation, and not only demands considerable skill, but the operating facilities must be perfect.
Fortunately our operating room was ideal, with its white enamelled walls and marble basins, its rubber covered floor, the most modern of surgical appliances, and, most important of all, a staff of highly trained nurses—it was as ideal as science could make it.
With a bright keen knife the incision was made down to the bone. Alas! It was hopelessly fractured. For a space of several inches there was nothing but tiny fragments, and the one long loose piece we had seen in the X-ray plate. The colonel turned, and said:
"What a pity! The space is so large, the bone will never regenerate. This leg should come off—but I promised to try and save it."
We discussed the situation for a few moments, and finally decided to try an experiment. The loose piece of bone had not yet been thrown away. Might it be used as a splint? We fitted it in between the upper and lower fragment—it was just long enough to be wedged between. We drilled a hole through either end and fastened it firmly with silver wire. Would it grow or decay there? We had grave doubts, and time alone would tell.
Let no one imagine that in the thousands of operations performed at the front surgeons become careless! Every case is a special one; every "Tommy" the private patient of the Empire. The surgeon's responsibility is as great—and he feels it, too—in that far-away land, as it is at home.
We put the limb in a plaster cast to hold it firm. It had been a clean wound—no infection—we had hopes. Six weeks later the bone had united fairly well, and in three months McPherson was able to walk!
But when this operation was done the colonel's troubles were by no means over for the day. It was ten o'clock, and "office" must be held. This miniature military "Police-Court" sits every morning, with the commanding officer as judge. If the court is small, it is by no means unimportant. Jogman realised this as he stood waiting with the guard and witnesses in the hall, the day after his great "debâcle."
The colonel and adjutant were seated in due state, being in full "service dress," which, as distinct from undress, comprises belt and cap. The sergeant-major, in equally dread attire, ordered the guard and prisoner (the latter being minus both belt and cap—these appurtenances being denied him) to "'Shun!—Right turn; quick march!—Halt!—Right turn!" and the whole squad was in line, awaiting "office."
The colonel's face wore a tired and worried expression; his smile had disappeared. The sergeant-major announced:
"Private Jogman, sir!"
The adjutant read the charge sheet. "Number 17462, Private James Jogman, is accused with conduct to the prejudice of good order and military discipline, in that he, on the afternoon of the 21st instant at 4 p.m., in the village of Paris-plage, was disorderly."
The colonel turned to the accused: "Private Jogman, you have heard the charge against you, as read. Are you 'guilty' or 'not guilty'?"
"Not guilty,—sir," Jogman muttered shamefacedly.
Sergeant Honk, as a witness, expressed his surprise by an almost imperceptible lifting of the brush of red hair which did service in lieu of eyebrows. The sergeant-major's lip curled slightly. The colonel's face remained immobile.
"Read the written statement of the Military Police, Mr. Adjutant," he commanded.
The adjutant did so. Each line was correct and convincing. The accused, when asked, declined to express an opinion on it.
"Who is the first witness?" the colonel asked.
"Sergeant Honk, sir."
"Sergeant Honk, what do you know of this case?" demanded the Colonel.
"Sir, h'on the afternoon of the twenty-first, at about four o'clock, h'I was talkin' to a lady h'on the main street of Paree-plaige, when h'I 'eard th' devil of a row—beg pardon, sir, it slipped h'out afore I thought."
"Go on;" said the colonel drily. "I daresay what you state is quite correct."
Thus encouraged, Honk resumed with morose enthusiasm: "H'I says to th' young lady, says h'I, 'Somethin's broke loose 'ere.' The women and men was a-screamin' an' runnin' into their 'ouses. H'I run to the corner as fast as me legs could carry me—" Jogman looked instinctively at Honk's queer limbs, as if he were about to do a mental calculation of his speed, but was immediately called to attention by the sergeant-major.
"When h'I got there, h'I see th' prisoner goin' like h—— (h'excuse me, sir); well, 'e were goin' some, I tell 'e, with a butcher's' knife in 'is mit——"
"Did he appear intoxicated?" the colonel interrupted.
"'Orrible drunk, h'I calls it, sir—'e were that same, sir; and afore h'I gets to 'im, th' Sergeant o' Police 'ad 'im by th' seat of 'is pants an' 'oisted 'im into the waggin!"
"Have you any questions to put to the witness?" the colonel asked.
"Yes, sir," Jogman replied. "Will Sergeant Honk state, sir, how many beers he had inside him when he thought he seed me?"
The unfortunate Honk turned a deeper hue of red, and shuffled uncomfortably from one foot to the other.
"Your question is not allowed," the colonel replied sternly. "There is plenty of other evidence to show that Sergeant Honk's vision was reasonably accurate."
Other witnesses were called, but the evidence was all equally damning. At last the colonel asked the prisoner if he had any further defence to offer.
Jogman replied: "Yes, sir. Last month I fell from the boiler and my head has been queer ever since. When I take a drink I don't know what I'm doin'. I don't remember anything about all this."
And the Colonel replied: "This month you fell from the water waggon, and your head is queerer than before. For the crime of which you are guilty you might be shot; but I intend being lenient with you—on one condition—"
Jogman looked up expectantly.
"—and that is—that you sign the pledge that you will not touch another drop of liquor while you are in France."
Honk looked as if he thought this worse than being shot. Jogman glanced furtively at the colonel's face; he had never seen him look so severe before. It was a big sacrifice, but it could not be avoided. He heaved a sigh and replied slowly: "I'll—sign—it, sir!"
"Twenty-eight days First Field Punishment!"
"Right turn, quick march!" cried the sergeant-major; and "office" was over for the day. Remorseful recollection of the pledge he had just signed clouded Jogman's brow.
"He's gone an' spoiled th' whole war fer me," he grumbled, as they led him away.
CHAPTER X
Reggy might have been a success as Mess Secretary, if it hadn't been for the Camembert cheese. No one could have remained popular long under such a handicap. He had discovered it in some outlandish shop in Paris-plage. The shopkeeper had been ostracised and the health authorities called in.
Some one has said that cheese improves with age. I do not propose to indulge in futile argument withconnoisseurs, but Reggy's cheese had passed maturity and died an unnatural death. When he produced its green moss-covered remains upon the table, the officers were forthwith divided into two factions—those who liked cheese and those who did not; and the latter class stated their objections with an emphasis and strength which rivalled the Camembert.
Corporal Granger had charge of the Mess. He was a quiet, gentlemanly little chap who said little, thought much, and smoked when he had a chance. He opened the box before dinner, took a whiff which distorted his face, and silently passed the box to his assistants.
Wilson and René—a French-Canadian lad—wrinkled their noses in unison over it; then Wilson drawled:
"Smells—like a—disease—we uster have—in the ward upstairs."
But René's atavistic sense approved the cheese. "Dat's bon fromage," he declaimed emphatically. "Cheese ain't good until it smells like dat."
"Then folks to home eats a lot what's bad fer them—don't they?" Wilson retorted, with mild satire; "an' them so healthy too!"
René disdained controversy, and with unruffled dignity continued laying the table. During the first few months of our labours he had been orderly to no less a person than the senior major—hence his feeling of superiority. But he and the Second-in-Command hadn't always agreed; the senior major had apenchantfor collecting excess baggage, and it behooved his unfortunate batman to pack, unpack and handle his ever-increasing number of boxes and bags. By the time we reached Boulogne these had become a great burden. René looked ruefully down upon it before he started to lift it, piece by piece, into the lorrie.
"Ba gosh!" he exclaimed, in perspiring remonstrance, "I hope de war don' last too long—er it'll take one whole train to move de major's bag-gage!"
René was impressionable and had all the romantic instinct of the true Frenchman. As I watched him decorating the table with flowers—we were to have company that night, and it was to be an event of unusual importance to us—my recollection carried me back to a bleak October night on Salisbury Plain. It was scarcely nine p.m., but I had turned in and lay wrapped in my sleeping bag, reading by the light of a candle propped on a cocoa tin. René had just returned from "three days' leave," having travelled over fifty miles to see a little girl whose face had haunted him for weeks. He was flushed with excitement and had to unburden his heart to some one. He stepped into my tent for a moment, the rain running off his cap and coat in little rivulets onto the floor.
"I'm afraid you're in love, René," I teased, after he had given me a glowing account of his trip.
"I t'ink dat's right," he exclaimed, with sparkling eyes. "Why, dat's de purtiest gal what I ever see. Dose arms of hers! Gee, dere ain't lilies so white like dat, an' de roses of her cheeks!—every time I meet her, I see her like more kinds of flowers!"
"But you'll see another bud next week, René," I interjected, "and forget all about this dainty little flower."
"Me forget? Non!" he declared, with conviction—and then a wistful look crept into his big brown eyes. He sat upon the edge of Reggy's cot opposite and reminiscently smoothed the hair off his brow before he continued:
"Sometime wen you're up de Gat'-ineau at home, an' de lumbermen free de logs in de riviere, you see dem float so peaceful down de stream. De water is run so slow an' quiet you don' see no movement dere; but bimeby de riviere go lil' faster, de ripples wash de banks, de logs move swifter an' more swift until dey come above de falls—-dey fall, crash, boom! One gets stuck, annuder an' annuder; dey jam—dey pile up higher an' more high—more hun'reds of logs come down, an' jam an' jam. De water can't pass—it overflow de bank an' spread out in a great lake over de fields."
[image]RENÉ HAD RISEN IN THE EXCITEMENT OF HIS DESCRIPTION
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RENÉ HAD RISEN IN THE EXCITEMENT OF HIS DESCRIPTION
René had risen in the excitement of his description. The candle light shone faintly upon his broad shoulders and handsome, inspired face. His right arm was extended in harmony with the vehemence of his description. He continued more softly:
"Dat riviere is me; de falls is my lil' gal at de turnin'-point of my life, an' de great lake is my love which has burst over de fields of my fancy an' freshes all de dry places. I can't tell you how I love dat gal—sometimes I tink—maybe—I marry her some day."
At this juncture the senior major had thrust his head inside the tent.
"René," he called sternly, "get back to your work! Wash my rubber boots and keep an eye on the tent 'til I return."
And poor René, thus rudely brought to earth, had crept silently away.
At seven-thirty p.m., the shrill call of the bugle sounded "Officers' Mess":
"The officers' wives get pudding and pies,The soldiers' wives get skilly—"
"The officers' wives get pudding and pies,The soldiers' wives get skilly—"
"The officers' wives get pudding and pies,
The soldiers' wives get skilly—"
It is the one call which every officer, senior or junior, knows by heart, and answers promptly.
A mess dinner is a parade, and is conducted with all the pomp and dignity peculiar to a Chinese wedding. Woe betide the untrained "sub" who dares seat himself before the Commanding Officer has taken his place at the centre of the table! For the first time since our arrival in France, we were to be honoured with the presence of several ladies, and the whole mess was in a state of excitement compatible with the seriousness of such an occasion. It was so long since any of us had dined under the charming, but restraining, influence of the fair sex that, as Reggy afterward remarked, he was in a condition bordering on nervous prostration lest he forget to eat the ice cream with his fork, or, worse still, "butter" his bread withpaté de fois gras.
Reggy had other worries on his mind as well. He had been taken aside early, and solemnly warned that if he, his heirs, executors or assigns, dared to bring forth upon the table so much as a smell of his ill-favoured cheese, he would be led out upon the sand dunes at early dawn and shot. This precaution having been duly taken, he was permitted to retire to the pantry with Fraser and Corporal Granger, and amuse himself making thirty Bronx cocktails for our express delectation. Promptly, as the last note of the bugle died away, the colonel and matron ushered our fair guests into the Mess Room.
Had our long separation from the beautiful women of Canada whetted our sense of appreciation? Or was it some dim recollection of an almost-forgotten social world which stimulated our imagination? Certainly no more exquisite representatives of the, to us, long-lost tribe of lovely women ever graced a Mess Room in France!
After the customary introductions had taken place, the twenty-five officers who now comprised our Mess distributed themselves in various awkward positions about the chairs of the five ladies—all the rest of our chairs were at the table—each trying vainly to give himself that appearance of graceful ease which indicates that the entertainment, ofgrandes damesis our chief sport in Canada.
What a dreadful encumbrance one's hands are on such an occasion! A military uniform does not take kindly to having its wearer's hands thrust deeply into his breeches pockets, and, as every one knows, this is the only way to feel at ease when addressing a lady in her evening gown—if you fold your hands unostentatiously behind your back, it hampers your powers of repartee.
Lady Danby, who conducted a Red Cross Hospital in a near-by town, appreciated our embarrassment, and did her best to make us feel at home.
"What a delightful Mess Room!" she exclaimed, as her tall, lithesome figure sank into an arm chair. "It must be so restful and refreshing after those dreadful operations!"
"Captain Reggy finds it very restful indeed," Burnham volunteered mischievously; "he spends a great deal of his time here—mixing drinks."
"Ah!—and he does them so very well too," exclaimed Madame Cuillard, with a flash of her beautiful dark eyes toward the hero of the moment, and lifting her glass to him in gracious compliment. "He is a man after my own heart."
"Madam, you flatter me," Reggy murmured, with a low bow, "and yet I fear I am not the first who has been 'after' such a kindly heart?"
"Nor you shall not be the last, I hope," the little widow returned, with a rippling laugh. "Still, 'Weak heart never won'—ah, non—I am forgetting my English—let it pass. A heart is so easy to be lost in France—you must be careful."
Fraser's Gibsonian figure towered above the others as he and Father Bonsecour and the senior major stood chatting with two Canadian guests. The girls made a pretty contrast, petite, dainty and vivacious; the one with blue-black hair and large soft brown eyes, the other fair as an angel, with hair of finely spun gold and eyes as blue as the sea over the dunes.
"May I take your glasses?" Fraser queried.
"Thank you, by all means," said the little brunette smilingly. "There's nothing I regret more than an empty glass or a flower that is dead."
"The former leaves little to hope, and the latter hopes little to leaf," asserted the senior major sententiously, animated by the beauty of our guests.
"What a dreadful pun, Major Baldwin!" cried the pretty blonde. "You deserve five days C.B.!"
"Thank Heaven," laughed the major, "we don't always get our deserts! We incorrigibles may still, for a moment
"'Take the cash and let the credit go,Nor heed the rumble of the distant drum'!"
"'Take the cash and let the credit go,Nor heed the rumble of the distant drum'!"
"'Take the cash and let the credit go,
Nor heed the rumble of the distant drum'!"
But the Colonel interrupted these delightful inanities by offering his arm to Lady Danby and showing her to the seat of honour on his right. The other ladies were distributed as impartially as was possible amongst the remaining twenty-four of us. We stood for a moment with bowed heads while our chaplain repeated that concise but effective military grace:
"For what we are about to receive, thank God!" and then we took our seats.
The dinner was progressing splendidly. Wilson hadn't spilled the soup; René hadn't tripped over the rug; course after course had proceeded under Granger's worried eye with daintiness and despatch. Thesole meunierewas done to a turn, the roast pheasant and asparagus had been voted superb, and the ice-cold salad a refreshing interlude. Even the plum pudding, with its flaming sauce, had been transported without accident to the guests, when Reggy beckoned with a motion of the head to Granger, and whispered something in his ear.
Granger was the best lad in the world when he wasn't disturbed, but if he became excited anything might happen. The order was transmitted to René, and in a moment the murder was out. Whether through misunderstanding, or René's secret pride in its possession, Reggy's cheese had been excavated, and before it was possible to interfere, its carcase was upon the table!
The scent of hyacinth and lilies-of-the-valley faded on the instant; the delicate charm ofpoudre de rizwas obliterated and all the delicious odours of the meal were at once submerged in that wonderful, pungent, all-embracing emanation from the cheese.
The colonel turned first red, then pale. He cast an appealing glance at Reggy—it was too late. The rest of us glared surreptitiously and silently at the culprit. An inspiration seized him. Unobserved, he signalled the mess president, who rose to his feet on the instant.
"Mr. Vice—The King!" he commanded.
"Ladies and gentlemen—The King!" came the formal but inspiring reply.
The cheese was forgotten. We were upon our feet, and lifting our glasses we drank to our sovereign. Cigars and cigarettes were passed around, and we waited patiently until the colonel lighted his cigar—for no one smokes at mess until the O.C. has set the example, or given his permission. The offending element had been quickly but quietly removed from the table, and once more peace and happiness prevailed.
But Reggy's fate as Mess Secretary was sealed!
CHAPTER XI
The first line of a certain popular song emphasises a bold and truthful platitude, namely: "The World's growing older each day." The incontrovertible fact is plumped unexpectedly before us, and blocks our only exit down the passage of argument. If it had read: "The World's growingsmallereach day," we might have run to our text-book of Elementary Physics, and, placing a stubby but argumentative forefinger on the Law of the Indestructibility of Matter, have proved it a falsehood of the Nth. degree. But, of course, this must all have happened before the War. Every one knows now—every Tommy can tell you—that the world is really and truly smaller; for, if not, how is it he meets Bill, or Jake, or Harry on the streets ofPoperingheorDickibusch? He knows instinctively that the world is shrinking, and Halifax and Vancouver may be found any time jumbled together in a little Belgian village on the wrong side of the Atlantic. I hadn't seen Jack Wellcombe for twenty-five years—we had been school chums together—and his name had almost faded from the pages of my mind; so that on entering the hospital the morning after Reggy's last dinner, I received a slight shock as I lifted a new chart from the table and saw this name staring up at me:
"Captain J. Wellcombe. Royal Army Medical Corps."
Had the world really become so small? Could a quarter century be bridged in an instant? I seemed to see the little old stone schoolhouse once again; its low-ceilinged room, the big box-stove, the well-hacked seats, and the rows of little boys and girls bowed over their greasy slates. The scent of midday lunches stowed away floated back to me in memory's dream, and the haw-tree brushed its leaves against the window pane. I saw Jack as he was then, with frank blue eyes and waving golden hair—courteous, genial and big-hearted, beloved by all; and I wondered as I stood there if by any chance this might be he.
The nursing sister awoke me from this reverie: "He arrived in the early morning," she volunteered, "but as he was not seriously hurt I didn't call you, and dressed the wound myself."
It was with a feeling of nervous tension and expectancy that I followed her down the hall to his room and entered. Alas! the world is full of disappointments. It was not Jack—this dignified man with the touch of grey about the temples—but still the resemblance grew stronger, the kindly blue eyes, the same winsome smile—I wondered still.
We passed the customary greetings and chatted commonplaces for a few moments, and all the time his face wore an expression of puzzled enquiry, as if he too were trying to recall some faint memory from the past. At last I blurted out:
"Are you by any chance related to Jack Wellcombe, of K——?"
"A very close relation," he returned laughingly. "I am his dearest friend; in fact—himself. And you—you are Mac—dear old Mac!" he cried, stretching out both hands to me in his impetuous, warm-hearted way. I could have hugged him, I was so glad to see him!
"What a queer game is Life!" he exclaimed a moment later. "For years you and I have been shaken about, with many a jolt, in the dice-box of the world, and now, like two Jacks, we are once more tossed together upon the Table of Fate!"
While we were chatting over old times, the nurse unwound his bandages.
"I hope it doesn't hurt too much?" I asked him, as I examined his wound preparatory to dressing it.
"It's a mere scratch," he returned lightly; "a piece of shrapnel through the flesh of the thigh; but the surgeon at the Field Ambulance thought I should come back to hospital for a week or two. Things are rather noisy around Ypres."
"But what possessed you to join the R.A.M.C.?" I enquired. "You should be with the Canadians."
He laughed. "Oh, you chaps were too long in coming over. I'd have lost three whole months of the war. I was in England when it broke out, and came over with the First Expeditionary Force."
"You were in the retreat from Mons, then!" I exclaimed in envious admiration.
"Every foot of it," he replied. "Thatwasa fight, you may well believe. But the Huns didn't have it all their own way. I saw a strange scrap one day between a French and a German battalion. The Huns sprang suddenly out of an ambush and were upon the French with the bayonet before you could catch your breath. Taken by surprise, the 'poilus' ran for all they were worth for about a quarter of a mile—and they are some sprinters too—the Huns following them, shouting like demons. Suddenly the French stopped—they must have been running to get their second wind—wheeled about, and with fixed bayonets charged back like a streak of forked lightning through the Germans. You never saw such a surprised and rattled bunch of Huns since you were born. If it hadn't been so awful I could have shrieked with laughter. But the French weren't satisfied with going through them once; they turned about and came back at them again, like a regiment of cavalry. The Huns seemed stupefied with amazement and terror; they fought like men in a daze, and very few ever got back to tell the story of the 'cowardly French who ran away'!"
"We, too, have underestimated the French, I'm afraid," I said. "We are beginning to realise their possibilities as a fighting force, and the Germans aren't yet awake to their strength and determination."
"They fought well at the battle of the Marne," Jack remarked. "It makes me smile still as I picture a fat little French officer with drawn sword—God only knows what he intended doing with it—who stood behind a haystack waving to his men to come on. He was absolutely fearless. Again and again he charged up that steep hill with the men, and when they couldn't make it, back he would come to hide behind his hay-stack and wait until he could induce them to try it again. About the fifth attack they succeeded and went on over the hill."
I questioned him about the battle of Ypres. (This, of course, was the first battle of Ypres—not that in which the Canadians distinguished themselves.)
"It was fast work at 'Wipers,'" he said, "with shells falling into the town like a thousand roaring devils. They dropped one into the signaller's billet. It tore a hole in the side of the building large enough to march an elephant through, and killed every mother's son of them. A 'Jack Johnson' came through the roof of our hospital and dropped into the ward—exit ward! There wasn't a bed left standing. Luckily we had removed most of the patients into the cellar—but those who were left are still there, buried in the ruins."
"The usual German respect for the Red Cross!" I commented bitterly.
"The flag makes a good mark for their artillery," he returned, with a smile; "they always look for us."
"You've had many narrow squeaks, I presume?"
He laughed merrily. "So narrow that if I had had a big stomach it might have been whittled down to sylph-like proportions. I was standing one day close to a dug-out, talking to two brother officers. The 'Whizz-Bangs' and 'Coal Boxes' were sizzling over from time to time, but not especially close. An old friend of mine" (Jack always had an "old friend" everywhere!) "stuck his head out of the dug-out and shouted up to me:
"'Drop in and have a drink, Jack—the water's fine!'
"I told him I was never thirsty in the mornings. He looked surprised, but called back again:
"'If you'll do me the honour to descend, I'll make you a fine long John Collins!'
"'Well, well,' I said, 'as you're so kind and such a persistent beggar, I'll humour you.' The other two officers said they wouldn't go in, and so I climbed down into his dug-out and sat down.
"Just as I did so a big shell came—bang!—right where I had been standing. We sprang to our feet and looked out—the poor chaps I had just left had been literally blown to pieces!"
He lay pensively silent for a moment or two, and there was a suspicious glint of moisture in his eyes as he turned his face toward the wall. Then he turned on his side once more, and smiling brightly up at me, murmured:
"It's been a great lesson to me!"
"In what way?" I queried.
"Never to refuse a drink!"
It will take more than a world's war to depress Jack. His cork-like spirit will always make him pop up serene to the surface of the whirlpool of life.
"You know the Guild Hall at Wipers?" he exclaimed a moment later.
"No; I haven't been to the actual firing line yet," I returned. "The only time we realise there is a war back here is when the trains of wounded come in; or, on a stormy night, when the wind blows fiercely from the trenches, and the boom of the great guns is driven here intermittently with the gusts."
"As soon as I can stand upon this peg of mine, you and the colonel and I will motor up and see it all," he declared, with assurance.
"Agreed!" I cried. "You may now feel confident of a speedy recovery. But tell me more about 'Wipers.'"
He raised himself on one elbow, and commenced reminiscently: "Our dear old colonel was billeted in the tenement row which used to be in the square of Ypres, close to the Guild Hall. We had been shelled out of place after place, but for several days lately Fritzie had left us in peace. It was too good to last long. One night they started chucking big shells into the cathedral and what was left of the square. I counted fifty-seven falling over and around the colonel's billet. I began to suspect the place. Taken as an exhibition of fire-works, it was a success, but as a health resort it had defects.
"It was about eleven o'clock, and some of the houses in the row had already been hit. Ye gods! Vesuvius in its balmiest days was like a Chinese lantern to this—for a second, in a lull, you would hear the whine of a big shell; then, crash! it went into a building, and shell and house went up together in one frightful smash-up.
"I went over to wake the old boy, as he showed no symptoms of having been disturbed. It was useless to rap—there was such an infernal racket with shells bursting, roofs toppling in and walls falling out. I stumbled up the dark stairs to his room. He was sound asleep—think of it! I spoke to him, but he didn't wake; so I shook him gently by the shoulder and he opened his eyes.
"'Hello, Wellcombe!' he growled, in his rough but genial way. 'What the devil brings you prowling around at this time of night?'
"I told him that I thought the billet was becoming a trifle unsafe, as some of the other houses in the row had already been hit.
"'Is that all you came to tell me?' he asked, with indifference.
"I said it seemed sufficient to me, and told him we had no wish to lose him.
"'Well, well,' he came back at me, but not unkindly, 'and you woke me out of a sound sleep to tell me this! Go and get me a drink and then run along like a good fellow and go to bed.'
"And after the old chap had his drink he thanked me, turned over in bed, and I believe was sound asleep again before I got out of the house—while a continual hell of fire and shells tore the guts out of the town about him! When I went back in the morning, there was only one house left standing in that row—the colonel's. The others were a crumpled mess of bricks and mortar!"
I chatted with him as long as I could, and then, telling him I would drop in later in the day, continued my rounds on the wards.
As we entered one of the smaller rooms, I noticed a bright-eyed, red-cheeked Scotch lad, not more than seventeen years of age, seated upon his cot. He was chatting animatedly with several others, but sprang to attention as we approached. The nurse unwound the bandages and showed me his wound—a bayonet cut across the palm. We had already heard from his comrades that this slip of a boy, with the smiling eyes and ringing laugh, was one of the finest bayonet fighters in his battalion, and had to his credit a string of German scalps that would make a Pawnee Chief green with envy. His wound was the result of grasping his opponent's bayonet during one of these fights.
The nurse looked up at the boyish face—the big blue eyes and laughing mouth—he did seem such a child!
"Howcanyou," she cried involuntarily; "howcana little lad like you bear to kill men with a bayonet?"