“The last tattoo is beating, boys,The pickets are fast retreating, boys,Let every manFill up his canAnd drink to our next merry meeting, boys!”
“The last tattoo is beating, boys,The pickets are fast retreating, boys,Let every manFill up his canAnd drink to our next merry meeting, boys!”
“The last tattoo is beating, boys,
The pickets are fast retreating, boys,
Let every man
Fill up his can
And drink to our next merry meeting, boys!”
“Do you call that poetry?”
“No.”
This was rather awkward. Dormer had intended a snub. Not caring for poetry himself, he had tried to take a high line. He went on lamely:
“Oh! What do you call it then?”
“A most amazing picture of the mentality of 1815. Compare it with that of 1915. In that old war of ours against the French, we swore, we drank, we conquered. What do you think that same fellow would have to write about us to-day?”
“He wouldn’t,” put in Dormer, without avail.
“Something like this:
“‘’Z day is fast approaching, boys,In gas-drill we want coaching, boys,Our iron rationWill soon be in fashion.’
“‘’Z day is fast approaching, boys,In gas-drill we want coaching, boys,Our iron rationWill soon be in fashion.’
“‘’Z day is fast approaching, boys,
In gas-drill we want coaching, boys,
Our iron ration
Will soon be in fashion.’
What rhymes to coaching?”
“How should I know?”
“Joking apart, Dormer!” (As if Dormer had been joking.) “Do you catch the impulse of the slogan? Of course, iron rations and gas helmets make a much more efficient soldier than drums and bayonets and rum, but the zest is all gone!”
Dormer did not reply; a belated party of engineers of some special service were passing up the road, and from where he lay in the dug-out he could see khaki-covered bodies upon dusty legs, but no heads, the beam of the entrance was too low. Suddenly he said:
“Did you ever dream that the army was like a giant without a head?”
“What did you say?”
Good gracious, what had he said? He replied, “Oh, nothing,” and bit his lips. It must be want of sleep. Fortunately Kavanagh did not hear. He was going on with his poetry.
“The Colonel, so gaily prancing, boys,Has a wonderful way of advancing, boys,Sings out so largeFix bayonets and cha-a-a-rge,It sets all the Frenchmen a-dancing, boys!
“The Colonel, so gaily prancing, boys,Has a wonderful way of advancing, boys,Sings out so largeFix bayonets and cha-a-a-rge,It sets all the Frenchmen a-dancing, boys!
“The Colonel, so gaily prancing, boys,
Has a wonderful way of advancing, boys,
Sings out so large
Fix bayonets and cha-a-a-rge,
It sets all the Frenchmen a-dancing, boys!
“What days they must have been, Dormer! You ought to have been a Colonel. Can’t you see yourself on a big brown horse, gaily prancing? There ought to be a school for gaiety, just as there is for bayonet fighting and bombing.Can’t you imagine yourself in a shako, like a top hat, with the brim in front only, glazed, with whacking great numerals?”
Dormer wanted to say: “You’ve got a marvellous imagination!” which would have been intended as an unfavourable criticism. But the words stuck on his lips. Instead he said:
“It’s all very well. You don’t seem to see the serious part of all this—waste!”
“Waste, my dear fellow!” And to Dormer the harsh, cheerful voice had all the officious familiarity of a starling, gibing at one from an apple tree. “Waste is not serious. It is nature’s oldest joke. It used to be called Chaos. From it we came. Back to it we shall go. It will be called Immortality. The Graves Commission will give it a number, a signboard, and a place on the map, but it will be Immortality none the less. From Titans to tight ’uns, ‘each in his narrow grave.’”
“Oh, chuck it,” said Dormer, disgusted and having no memories of that quotation. “You’ve evidently never been in charge of a burying party!”
“I have. I did twelve months in the line, as a platoon commander. How long did you do that?”
“Twelve months about!”
“I believe you, where thousands wouldn’t. Twelve months was about the limit. In twelve months, the average Infantry subaltern got a job, or got a blighty! I know all about it!”
“Then you ought to know better than to speak so. It’s not a joke!”
“My dear Dormer, if it were not a grim joke it would be utterly unbearable.”
“I disagree entirely. It’s that point of view that we are suffering from so much. You don’t seem to see that this army is not an army of soldiers. It is an army of civilians enlisted under a definite contract. They aren’t here for fun.”
“Oh, come, Dormer, don’t you believe in enjoying the War?”
“I believe in getting it done.”
“You never will, in that frame of mind.”
“Oh, shan’t I? What would happen if I didn’t see that the right people get to the right place, with the right orders and right supplies, including you and your blessed flagwaggers?”
“Nothing to what will happen if the troops once begin to regard the show as a matter of business! You haven’t got a shako and a big brown horse, but you must play up, as if you had!”
“What rot you talk. I have a tin hat because it will stand shrapnel better than a shako. I have mules because they stand the life better than a horse?”
“Yes, but do you admire your tin hat? Do you really care for mules!”
Something made Dormer say in spite of himself:
“I did once come across a man who cared!”
“There, what did I tell you. He was winning the War!”
(“Whatever did I tell him that for?” Dormer asked himself vexedly. “A nice song he’ll make of it.”) But he only said:
“You’re all wrong, as usual. He did nothing of the sort. He just made a row in billets!”
“Quite right too. Most of ’em deserve a row!”
“Possibly, but he went the wrong way to work!”
“Ah, that depends!”
(Irritating brute!)
“No, it doesn’t. Were you ever at Ypres?”
“Was I not. I was hit at Hooge stables, and had to walk nearly a couple of miles to get to a dressing station!”
“Well, then, you remember, in the back billets, a place called the ‘Spanish Farm’?”
“Don’t I just. Great big old house, with a moat, and pasture fore and aft.”
What a way to put it!
“Well, this chap I’m telling you of, was billeted there. He was attached to a Trench Mortar Battery. He was in charge of the mules. He didn’t talk a lot of rot about it, as you suggest he should. One of his mules was wounded and the other sick. He broke down the front of the shrine at the corner of the pasture to get a bit of shelter for them!”
The effect of this recital was not what Dormer expected.
“That was an unspeakably shocking thing to do, worse than losing any number of mules!”
“I suppose you’re a Catholic?”
“Yes, I am!”
“I thought as much. Well, I’m not, nor was this driver I’m telling you about. He just hated the waste and destruction of it all.”
“So he destroyed something more precious and permanent.”
“He thought a live mule was better than a dead saint.”
“He was wrong!”
And then the fellow shut up, got quite sulky. Dormer was delighted with his prowess in argument, waited a moment, turned on his side, and slept, as only men can who live in the open air, in continual danger of their lives, and who lose the greater portion of the night in ceaseless activity.
When his servant woke him, with tea and orders and the nightly lists of traffic and stores, it was a wonderful golden and green sunset, tremulous with the evening “hate.” The purple shadows were just sufficiently long to admit of getting the wounded back, and the road was filled with ambulances, whirring and grinding as they stopped, backed, and restarted, while a steady punctual crash, once a minute, showed that the Bosche were shelling the road or oneof the innumerable camps or dumps along it, in the neighbourhood. Amid all this clamour, Kavanagh was not silenced, but recited at the top of his voice, and Dormer had a suspicion that the real reason was that it helped to keep down the nervousness that grew on men, as the years of the War rolled on, and the probability of being hit increased. Especially as, far overhead, the planes that circled and swooped like a swarm of gleaming flies, were attracting considerable anti-aircraft fire, and all round, big jagged bits were coming to earth with a noise almost echoing that of the ambulances.
Dormer’s tidy mind was soon called into action. Some wounded who had died on the way to the dressing station, had been laid out beside the road as the ambulances had enough to do without carrying corpses ten miles. He went to make sure the M.O. had arranged for a burial party, as he had the strongest belief that casualties lying about were bad for the morale of the troops. When he got back to the dug-out, Kavanagh was “going on,” as he bent over a map of the extensions of the divisional cable lines, like a crow on a gate.
“See those chaps, Dormer?”
“Quis procul hinc—the legends writThe—er—Picard grave is far away,Quis ante diem periitSed miles, sed pro patria.”
“Quis procul hinc—the legends writThe—er—Picard grave is far away,Quis ante diem periitSed miles, sed pro patria.”
“Quis procul hinc—the legends writ
The—er—Picard grave is far away,
Quis ante diem periit
Sed miles, sed pro patria.”
“Do you believe in pronouncing Latin like Julius Cæsar or like Jones Minor?”
“I don’t believe in it at all. Pure waste of time!”
“Dormer, you are a Utilitarian!”
“Have it your own way so long as you get that cable line of yours sited. I’ve got parties coming up to-morrow to dig it in!”
“I shall be ready for them. Think of all that language, and language is only codified thought, buried in the ground, Dormer!”
“I have all the thinking I want over all the men buried in the ground. We’re losing far too many!”
The “victory” of the Somme had been a saddening experience for Dormer.
“That shows how wrong you are. We are mortal. We perish. But our words will live.”
“Rot! Do you mean to say that ‘825 Brigade relieve you to-morrow Nth. Div. Ack, ack, ack’ will live! Why should it? It’ll be superseded in four days. Who wants to perpetuate it?”
“I disagree with you, Dormer, I really do. Here we are at the great crisis of our lives, of the life of European Civilization perhaps. Some trumpery order you or I transmit may mean in reality ‘Civilization is defeated, Barbarism has won!’ or it may mean, I hope, ‘Lift up your eyes unto the hills from whence——’”
“I wish you wouldn’t joke about the Bible!”
“I’m not joking, and you’ll find it out before long. Men will fight so long as they’ve got something to fight about!”
“Well, they have. They want to get home. They’ll fight fast enough about that.”
“Not they. That isn’t the thing to make ’em fight. It’s more likely to make ’em run away. They want an idea.”
“They’ve had enough ideas, I should think. I seem to remember the walls covered with posters, with an idea a-piece.”
“Those ideas were much too superficial and temporary. They want to feel that they are something, or that they do something so important that it doesn’t matter whether they live or die!”
“That’s all wrong. It does matter. This War will be won by the side that has most men and most stuff left.”
“Nonsense. It will be won by the side that has the most faith.”
“Oh, well, you go and have faith in your cable line. I’ve got to have it in these working parties.”
It was now dusk enough for the main body of troops to get on the move. The broad valley below was in ultramarine shadow, the round shoulders of the down touched with lemon-coloured afterglow. Up the drift of chalk dust that represented where the road had once been, an insignificant parish road from one little village to another, but now the main traffic artery of anArmy Corps, there came pouring the ceaseless stream, men, men, men, limbers, men, mules, guns, men.
The longer he looked at them, the more certain he became that he was right. Not merely the specialists in mechanics, engineers, ordnance, signals, gunners, but the mere infantry had taken months to train, and could be knocked out in a moment. The problem, of course, was to save them up until the moment at which they could produce the maximum effect.
How docile they were. Platoon for this, platoon for that, section of engineers, then a machine-gun company. Then rations, then limbers, wagons, hand-carts full of every conceivable kind of implement or material. Very soon he was obliged to stand in the middle of the road, with the stream of traffic going up, before him, and the stream of traffic coming back, behind, so that in addition to checking and directing one lot he had to keep an eye on the other to see that they did not begin to smoke until they were well down the side of the hill. Gradually the darkness thickened, and the crowd thinned, and the thunder of the front died down. At length he was left with only a belated hurrying limber or two, or ambulance, sent back for the third or fourth time to clear the accumulation of casualties. At last he felt justified in getting into his bunk and shutting his eyes.
Thank goodness that fellow wasn’t back. He,Dormer, would be asleep, and would not hear him. He counted the khaki shoulders and dusty wheels that went round and round beneath his eyelids, until he went off.
Unfortunately for that particularmalaisewhich the War occasioned to his precise and town-bred spirit, that was not his last sleep that he slept that night. Many a one never woke again to hear the earth-shaking clamour of the barrage, to see that eternal procession of men, men, mules, limbers, men, guns, ambulances, men, lorries, going on and on like some gigantic frieze. But Dormer did. He was one of those who, had he been born in the Middle Ages, would have been described as under a curse, or pictured as working out an atonement for his own or some one else’s misdeeds. He had to go on doing his very best, and the more he disliked the whole business the harder he worked. The harder he worked the longer it seemed to that desired day when he might return to the quiet niceties of a branch bank in a provincial town. And all the time Kavanagh kept up that ceaseless argument as to one’s mental attitude. Dormer didn’t really believe in having such a thing, for he felt bound to join issue with the absurd ramblings of the other, and he could not escape, because their jobs naturally threw them together and because he secretly admired the way that Kavanagh did his work.
So the days turned into weeks and the weeksinto months, the casualty lists grew longer and longer, the visible fruits of the immense effort grew smaller and smaller, and as the year wore on, the weather broke, and the only conditions that make life in the open tolerable, light and drought, disappeared, and they dwelt in the sodden twilight of tent or hut, while what had been the white powdery dust, became the cement-like mud that no scraping could remove. Sitting dejectedly over some returns he heard
“Still, be still, my soul, the arms you bear are brittle!”
“It’s all very well to sit there and sing. This offensive is a failure, we shall never get through.”
“I’m afraid you’re right, Dormer. I told you how it would be. I hope we shall learn the lesson.”
“It means another winter in the trenches.”
“Evidently.”
“It’s very bad for the men. They’ve nothing to show for all that’s been done.”
“That’s nothing new.
“‘I’m sick of parading,Through cold and wet wading,Or standing all day to be shot in a trench!I’m tired of marching,Pipe-claying and starching,How neat we must be to be shot by the French.’
“‘I’m sick of parading,Through cold and wet wading,Or standing all day to be shot in a trench!I’m tired of marching,Pipe-claying and starching,How neat we must be to be shot by the French.’
“‘I’m sick of parading,
Through cold and wet wading,
Or standing all day to be shot in a trench!
I’m tired of marching,
Pipe-claying and starching,
How neat we must be to be shot by the French.’
That’s what the men thought of it a hundred years ago. Then, they had to pipeclay their belts, two whacking great chest-constricting cross-belts.And their officers didn’t arrange for them to play football, every time they went out to rest. In fact they didn’t go out to rest. They just stayed in the line.”
“It wasn’t very dangerous, was it?”
“There wasn’t the shell-fire, of course, but what about disease?”
“They were regulars.”
“My dear fellow, when is a soldier not a soldier?”
“I don’t like riddles.”
“This is a serious question. How long will the War last?”
“Oh,” cried Dormer bitterly, “another two years, I suppose.”
“You’re about twenty wrong. We shall have conscription shortly, then the real strength will be put into the fight and will compensate for the losses of France and the inertia of Russia. We shall then settle down to the real struggle between England and Germany for the markets of the world.”
Dormer frowned. “You’re a Socialist,” he said.
“Never mind my opinions. It won’t matter by the time we get back into civvys what we are!”
Something rose up in Dormer. He said with certainty:
“You’re wrong. The men’ll never stand it. Two years at most.”
“The men stood it very well in the Peninsularfor six years, and most of them had been fighting somewhere or other for the previous quarter of a century.”
“Once again, they were regulars.”
“Once again, so are you.
“‘For gold the sailor ploughs the main,The farmer ploughs the manor,The brave poor soldier ne’er disdain,That keeps his country’s honour!’
“‘For gold the sailor ploughs the main,The farmer ploughs the manor,The brave poor soldier ne’er disdain,That keeps his country’s honour!’
“‘For gold the sailor ploughs the main,
The farmer ploughs the manor,
The brave poor soldier ne’er disdain,
That keeps his country’s honour!’
That’s you to the life, Dormer. Twenty years hence you’ll be a bronzed veteran, in a dirty uniform, with a quarter of a century’s polish on your Sam Browne. You have already had more iron whizz past your head than any regular soldier gets in a lifetime, or even the lifetime of two or three generations. You’ve had a practical experience of war that any general might envy. The only complaint I have to make against you is that you’re conducting the whole business as if you were back in your beastly bank, instead of, as the song says, behaving as one ‘That keeps his country’s honour!’”
“That’s all nonsense. I’ve just sent the 561 Brigade to occupy the new line that was taken up after the stunt last Thursday. You know what it’s like. It’s the remains of a German trench turned round, so that they have all the observation. They’ve strafed it to Hell, and we are firing on photographs of trenches that are probably empty. It’s all nonsense to say the defendingside loses more men than the attacking. That’s true while the attack is in progress, but an attack in its very nature cannot last long, and then the defenders get their own back.”
As he said the words they were enveloped in an explosion that shook the wet out of the canvas upon them, and whose aftermath of falling débris was echoed by stampeded traffic in the road.
“The Bosche seem set on proving you right,” laughed Kavanagh. “They forget, as you do, that, sooner or later, an attack gets through and ends the War.”
“Not this one. Nothing but no more reserves will end this. And that may happen to both sides at once. It may all end in stalemate!”
“If it does, we shall fight again. We represent Right. The enemy represents Wrong. Don’t you ever forget that for a moment.”
“I don’t. I believe we are in the right, or I should never have joined up.” When really moved, there came into Dormer’s grey inexpressive face a queer light, that might have made the Germans pause, had they seen it. He was a man of few theories, but he was literally ready to die for those few, when they were attacked. He went on shyly: “But I don’t believe in war as a permanent means of settling ‘disputes.’”
“Bravo!” cried Kavanagh. “I like you when you speak out. I only wish you did more of it. You’re quite right, but what you don’t see is that modern society is so rotten that it can onlybe kept alive by violent purges, credit cycles, strikes, and wars. If it were not for such drastic remedies people of the twentieth century would perish of ease and comfort.”
“Come, ease and comfort never killed anyone.”
“Spiritually!”
“Oh, I don’t go in for spiritualism!” Dormer was saying, when his servant brought him his tea. There was bread, that had rolled on the floor of a lorry until it tasted of dust, oil, blood, and coal. There was butter. There was marmalade. There was some cake they had sent him from home. Leaning his elbows on the board on which they wrote, he held his enamel mug in both hands and swilled his chlorinated-water, condensed-milk tasting tea. For the first time, as he clasped the mug and filled his gullet he was warm, hands, mouth, neck, stomach, gradually all his being. He put the mug down nearly empty and shoved the cake over to Kavanagh. “Have some?” he mumbled.
They found themselves in a village of the Somme country, hardly recognizable for the division that had come there for the offensive, five months before. Just infantry, with the necessary services, without artillery, or cavalry, they were billeted in barns and cottages up and down a narrow valley, with cliff-like downs rising eachside and a shallow, rapid stream flowing between poplars and osier beds at the bottom. Dormer was entrusted with the critical military operation of organizing Football, Boxing and entertainment, and spent his time to his great satisfaction, up and down the three miles of road that ran through the Divisional Area, notebook in hand, listing the battalions or companies as entering for one or another of these sports. He liked it and it suited him.
Mildly interested in sport as such, what he liked about his job was that it kept his feet warm and his mind employed, and he arranged so that his daily journey ended sufficiently far from Head-quarters for some hospitable unit to say, “Oh, stop and have lunch!” It would then be a nice walk back, a quiet hour or so, getting the correspondence into shape before the Colonel returned from the afternoon ride, by which he shook down his lunch and made a place for his dinner. After that would be tea, orders to sign and circulate, mess, a game of cards, and another day would be done. He had long found out that the great art of war lay not in killing Germans, but in killing time.
Over and over again, every day and all day, as he moved up and down those wintry roads, he looked at the faces of the men who knew now that the great offensive had resulted in infinitesimal gains, enormous losses, and only approached the end of the War by so many weeks. He failed entirely to make out what was going on in theirminds. Officers were always officially pleased to see him because he was attached to Divisional Head-quarters, because he came to talk about games, not about work, because he was, as he was perfectly conscious, one of the most difficult fellows in the world to quarrel with. He had never had any great bitterness in life, and was so averse to official “side” that he made an effort to appear as informal as possible. Sometimes N.C.O.’s would be produced, consulted as to whether a team could be got together, what amount of special training could be allowed intending pugilists, without interfering with necessary drills and fatigues, what histrionic, (or to put it frankly), what music-hall talent could be found. The N.C.O.’s were (of course) keen, smart, attentive, full of suggestions and information. They had to be. They kept their jobs by so being, and their jobs gave them just the opportunity to live about as well as lumbermen in the remote parts of North America, instead of existing like beasts in barns, not pet animals, not marketable produce, but just beasts, herded and disposed of, counted and controlled, for such was the fate of the average infantryman, and war being what it is, there came a gradual acquiescence in it. It could be no other.
But all those plain soldiers, of whom only one or two per cent had even a voice in their entertainment, of what they thought, who knows? Dormer wondered. He wondered even more athimself. Why on earth, in the midst of a European War that had changed his whole existence so dramatically, he should want to go bothering his head about what was happening to other people he couldn’t think, but he went on doing it. Otherwise the life suited him rather well, and with every fresh week that separated him from the offensive, a sort of balance so natural to the thoroughly balanced sort of person that he was, went on adjusting itself, and he found himself thinking that perhaps in the new year there might be a new chance, the French, the Russians, the Italians might do something, so might we. Then it would be over, and one could go home.
It was then that the inevitable happened. He knew it as soon as he got into the room at the Mairie that served for Q. office. He was so sure that he stood turning over the correspondence on his desk, the usual pile of returns, orders, claims and indents, without reading them, certain that the Colonel was going to speak to him. At last the Colonel did speak:
“Look here, Dormer, I thought we settled this?”
There it was, the blue questionnaire form, the other memorandums, Divisional, Corps, Army French Mission, Base Authority, all saying “Passed to you please, for necessary action.” With an absurd feeling that it did not matter what he said, or did, and that the whole thing was arranging itself without him, he got out:
“What is that, sir?”
“This—er—civilian claim for compensation. Something about a girl in a hayfield. What did you do, when we were up in Flanders?”
He rebelled so against the unfairness of it.
“Major Stevenage had the matter in hand. I went with him to the spot.”
“What did you find?”
“It was not what I—you—we thought, sir. The words ‘La Vierge’ were intended to convey that a shrine had been damaged.”
“A shrine? Really. How odd the French are? It was accidental, was it? Bad driving?”
“No, sir, not exactly. A driver wanted shelter for his mules——”
“Quite right, quite right.”
“So he broke into the shrine——”
“Ah, that was a mistake, of course. Whatever were his unit about to let him?”
“The matter was not reported until later.”
“Then they placed him under arrest and stoppages?”
“They were moved immediately, sir. But I didn’t gather that any action was taken.”
“But when Major Stevenage found it out?”
“It had happened so long before that he thought it was impossible to pursue the matter. So I made a report and sent it to the proper authority, to see if an ex. gratia payment could be made.”
“And they have done nothing, of course. So the French Mission have dug it up again.”
“Indeed, sir.”
“Yes. Oh, I can’t wade through all this. But I tell you what, young Dormer. You’ve got yourself involved in this correspondence, and I shouldn’t be at all surprised if you didn’t ever get out. I shouldn’t really.”
“I can’t see that I’ve done anything wrong, sir.”
“Can’t you? Well, it’s no good your telling the French Mission that, I’m afraid. You might go and try to persuade them that there’s a mistake, or an exaggeration, and get them to drop it. You’d better go and see them anyhow. They’re at Flan! Take what’s-his-name with you.”
From this, Dormer, by long experience, understood that he was to go to Army Head-quarters and to take the Divisional French Liaison Officer with him. He neither liked nor disliked the job. It was the sort of thing one had to do in war-time and he was used to it. So he went down the little stony street to the pork-butcher’s, where, upon the swing-gate that admitted one to the dank, greasy, appetizing interior, where every sort of out-of-the-way portion of the pig lay cooked and smelling “sentimental,” hung the placard “French Liaison Officer,” with the number of the Division carefully smudged out. Here, blue-coated, booted and spurred, sat the French Liaison Officer, innumerable small printed sheets of instructions before him, carefully arranged on this pile or on that, while in between lay the cardboard-covereddossiers.
Dormer’s immediate impression was: “Not enough to do. Passing the time away,” but he had too much sympathy with such an attitude to say so. He was greeted with effusion:
“My dear Dormer, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
Dormer never liked effusion. He replied briefly:
“This,” and threw the papers on the table.
It amused him to watch the change in the other’s face from purely official politeness to perfectly genuine determination to keep out of it.
“Well, Dormer, you’ve heard of System D?”
He had to think whether it was Swedish gymnastics or a patent medicine.
“It means ‘Debrouillez vous,’ or ‘Don’t get mixed up with it.’ That is my advice to you. In any case I shall leave it alone. It is a matter of discipline purely.”
“Quite so.” Dormer did not care whether the sarcasm was obvious. “But I have received orders to go and see your Chief at Army Head-quarters, and to take you with me. I suppose you don’t mind going. It’ll be a ride.”
“I shall be delighted. I will go and tell my servant to have my horse round. I will introduce you to Colonel Lepage. He is a man of excellent family.”
“I thought you would,” said Dormer to himself.
Accordingly, they rode together. The Frenchmanrode with style, being bound to show that he was of the class of officer who could ride, a sharp demarcation in his army. Dormer rode as he did everything else. He had learned it as part of his training, without enthusiasm, knowing that a motor-byke was a far better way of getting about. But he was careful of a horse as of anything else. They arrived at Flan. It was another little stone-built village. The only difference he could see between it and Louches, which they had just left, was that it stood on the top of a hill, the other along the bottom of a valley.
Its present temporary occupants, however, he could soon see to be a vastly different category. Every little house was placarded with the signs or marks of the offices or messes it contained. Very-well-groomed orderlies and signallers strolled or waited. Big cars and impeccable riding horses were being held or standing. They found the French Mission, got their horses held (instead of turning off the petrol, and kicking down a stand, thought Dormer) and entered.
It was the little Picard parlour of some smallrentier, who, having sold beetroot to advantage during fifty years, found himself able at last to fold his shirt-sleeved arms, and from his window, or often from his doorway, to watch other people doing what he had done in the little paved Place.
He, of course, had gone to Brittany, Bordeaux, the Riviera, to be out of the sound of the guns that had killed his son, and his vacant place hadbeen scheduled by a careful Maire as available for billeting. The French army, more impressed by orders, better trained, more experienced, had carefully removed every picture, book, or cushion and stored them in safety—where a British Mess would have left them—at least until they were broken or disappeared. At small tables sat two or three officers in azure, with three or more bars on the cuff. Dendrecourt halted before one of these, clicked his heels, and saluted, and asked if he might present the Captain Dormer, of the English Army. Colonel Lepage rose with effusion, excessively English:
“My dear Dormer, charmed to meet you. Sit down. What can we do for you?”
“I have been sent to see you about a civilian claim for compensation.”
“L’affaire Vanderlynde!” put in Dendrecourt.
“Aha!” The Colonel tapped his blotting-pad with a paper knife, and knitted his brows. “What have you to propose?”
“My General”—Dormer was sufficiently practised to avail himself of that fiction—“wished me to explain that this matter has been fully investigated.”
“Ah! so we may shortly expect to hear that the guilty individual has been arrested?”
“Well, not exactly an arrest, sir. The whole affair rests upon a mistake.”
“What sort of mistake?” The other officersgave up whatever they were doing, and gathered round at the tone of the last question.
“Upon investigation, it appears that the claim is not for—er—personal violence.”
“I should be obliged if you would define personal violence.”
“That would take us rather far afield, sir. All I want to point out is that the expression ‘La Vierge’ does not refer to Mademoiselle Vanderlynden, but to an image in a shrine.”
There was some beginnings of a titter and Dormer was conscious that he was blushing violently. But Colonel Lepage quelled the others with a look. He had the matter so well in hand that Dormer began slowly to feel that he must be one of those political soldiers, whose every act and speech is dictated by the necessities of some policy, hatched high up among Foreign Offices and their ante-rooms, and worked out in detail by underlings dealing with underlings. Moreover, Dormer was perfectly conscious that he was a junior officer, and therefore a splendid target. Colonel Lepage would not meet him that evening at Mess. He resigned himself, and the Colonel drew a long breath, and let himself go.
“Upon my word, it is all very fine for you others. We are much obliged for the information as to the meaning of the wordVierge. And also for being told that no arrest has been made and that no compensation has been offered. Unfortunately the matter has gone a good dealfurther than you suppose, and we have to furnish a report to a higher authority, to the French War Office in fact. The matter is a most serious one. The claim is for trespass upon private property not demarcated for billeting under the law of 1873. You follow?”
Dormer held his peace. With the exception of the word demarcated, the Colonel’s English was as good as his own and many times more voluble. He contented himself with thinking “Cock—cock—cock—cock pheasant!”
“Then there is the actual damage to the fabric. You may not be aware that such an object is held in great veneration by the owners, more particularly in Flanders where they are very devout. But the most serious thing of all was the treatment accorded to the Mayor when he was—with the most perfect legality—called in by the claimant to take official note of the damage. This functionary was grossly insulted by the English troops and I regret to say that these occurrences are far too frequent. Only last Easter at Bertezeele, the procession of the Religious Festival was the object of laughter of the troops, who may not be aware that the inhabitants attach great importance to such matters, but who should be so instructed by their officers. And at Leders-cappell only last week, the Mayor of that Commune also was insulted in the middle of his official duties. These incidents are very regrettable and must be checked. Therefore I regret to say that yourexplanation is valueless. Perhaps you will be so good as to convey this to your General?”
Dormer had a feeling that whatever he said would make no earthly difference, so he merely muttered:
“Very good, sir,” and turned on his heel.
Walking their horses down the hill from Flan, Dendrecourt said:
“My word, he was in a state of mind, wasn’t he? our Colonel.”
Dormer had the clearest possible presentiment that the moment the door closed upon them, the Colonel had said ‘Pan’ in imitation of a cork being snapped into a bottle, and that all the rest of the officers had laughed. So he said:
“What on earth is behind all this, Dendrecourt?”
“Why, nothing, except the dignity of France.”
“The whole job is only worth a pound or two. I’d have paid it out of my own pocket rather than have all this about it.”
“Well, of course, you may have enough money to do it, but, my dear Dormer, a few pounds in England is a good many francs in France, not only in exchange value, but in sentiment. Then, no one likes having his grandmother’s tomb broken into——”
“I suppose they will get over it, if they are paid enough money,” rejoined Dormer, bitterly, for it was exactly what he had heard before.
“Certainly!” replied Dendrecourt, without noticing, “but it is most unfortunate at thismoment. There is a religious revival in France. A new Commander-in-Chief and a new spirit, and these insults to the religious sentiment are very trying. Then there is the insult to the Mayor.”
“Oh, devil take the Mayor!”
The Frenchman shrugged. “The devil has taken all of us, my friend. We are a sacrificed generation. You find the Mayor of Hondebecq annoying. So do I. But not more than everything else. You would not like it if French soldiers laughed at an English Mayor!”
“My dear Dendrecourt, in England a Mayor is somebody. Not an old peasant dressed up in a top hat and an apron, all stars and stripes.”
“Well, here is lunch!” (He called it lernch.) “I will not join with you, Dormer, in the game of slanging each other’s nationality.”
Dormer dismounted and handed over his horse, and went in to lunch, walking wide in the legs and feeling a fool. The only pleasure he had had was the male-game-bird appearance of Colonel Lepage.
Of course he said nothing about his morning’s work, and of course Colonel Birchin had forgotten it. At the end of the week the Division moved into the line and he had to go forward with that fellow Kavanagh to check the workings of communications. They were “in” four weeks, and came out in the great cold of January, 1917, and were moved up near to Doullens. They had not been out a week before the Colonel sent for him. He knew what it would be about, but the wholeof his mind being occupied with keeping warm, he did not care. They were in huts, on a high plateau. White snow obliterated every colour, softened every outline as far as the eye could reach, except where the road to Arras lay black with its solid ice, the snow that the traffic had trodden into water, refrozen into a long black band, scattered with cinders, gravel, chalk, anything that made it negotiable.
Dormer looked at the collection of huts, with the obvious pathways between, the obvious, inevitable collection of traffic, lorries and limbers, motor-cycles and horses, that accumulated round any Head-quarters. He wondered how long it would take the Bosche to discover it in some air-photo and bomb it all to blazes. Inside Q. office, in spite of two big stoves in the tiny box of a place, it was so cold that every one breathed clouds of steam, and the three officers, and the clerks, sat in their coats.
“Look here, Dormer!”—the Colonel sounded as though he had a personal grievance—“just look what I’ve got from the army.”
It was an official memorandum, emanating from Army Head-quarters and duly passed through the Corps to whom they had belonged, and by Corps to the Division, inquiring what results had been arrived at in the Vanderlynden affair, and whether it could not be reported to the Minister of War that the matter had reached a satisfactory conclusion.
“I thought you settled all that, while we were at Louches?”
“Well, sir, I went to see them at Army Head-quarters and explained, or tried to.”
“You don’t seem to have done any good at all. In fact it looks as though you and Dendrecourt had a nice morning ride for nothing.”
“I couldn’t get a word in. It suited somebody’s politics to blackguard us just then, and I left it at that. It didn’t seem any use arguing, sir.”
“Well, this must be stopped somehow. We shall have the French War Minister taking the matter up with Whitehall, directly, and a nice figure we shall all cut. I’ve known men sent to Salonika or Mespot, as company commanders, for less than this.”
“Very good, sir. What shall I do?”
“Get on with it. Find out who did the beastly damage, and straf him. Straf somebody, anyhow, and bring the remains here in a bag. We can show it to Corps, and they can write a sermon on the efficiency of the Adjutant-General’s Department.”
“Yessir. If you refer to the correspondence you will see that the name of the unit is mentioned.”
Dormer stood perfectly still, while his superior officer turned over the closely written, printed or typed sheets. His face was carefully veiled in official blankness. He had an idea.
“Well, here you are,” the Colonel was saying, “469 Trench Mortar Battery. You’ll have to goand see ’em. You ought to have done so long before!”
Dormer could not help adding, maliciously:
“Wouldn’t it be sufficient if I were to send ’em a chit, sir?”
“No, it wouldn’t. We’ve had quite enough of this procrastination. It’ll land us all in a nice hole, if we’re not careful. You go and see them and insist on getting to the bottom of it.”
“Yes, sir. The order of battle will give their position.”
“I’ll see to that. I’ll have it looked up and let you know in the morning.”
“Yes, sir.” He went back to his hut, delighted.
Escape. Escape. Even the illusion of escape for a few hours, it must be at least that, for if the 469 Trench Mortar Battery were in the same Division, the same Corps even, he would have heard of them. They must be at least a day’s journey away, and he would be able to get away from the blasting and withering boredom for at least that. Colonel Birchin, a regular, who had been on various Staff appointments since the very early days, had no conception how personnel changed and units shifted, and unless he (Dormer) were very much mistaken, it would be a jolly old hunt. So much the better. He would have his mind off the War for a bit.
The reply came from Corps that, according to the order of battle, 469 Trench Mortar Batterywas not in existence, but try Trench Mortar School at Bertezeele. It was all one to Dormer. He might simply be exchanging one cold hut for another, he might travel by rail and lorry instead of on horse or foot. But at any rate it would be a different hut that he was cold in and a different mode of conveyance that jolted him, and that was something, one must not be too particular in war-time. So he jumped on a lorry that took him into Doullens and at Doullens he took train and went through Abbeville and the endless dumps and camps by the sea, up to Étaples, where the dumps and camps, the enormous reinforcement depôts and mile-long hospitals stretched beside the line almost into Boulogne, where was a little pocket, as it were, of French civilian life, going on undisturbed amid the general swamping of French by English, on that coast, and of civilian life by military. Here he got a meal and changed and went off again up the hill, past Marquise, and down a long hill to Calais, in the dark, and then on, in the flat, where the country smelled different from the Somme, and where the people spoke differently and the names of the stations sounded English, and where there were French and Belgian police on the platforms.
He slept and woke at St. Omer, and slept again and woke to find all the lights out and a general scurry and scatteration, with the drone of aeroplanes and the continual pop-popping of anti-aircraft fire. Then came the shrieking whirr andsharp crash of the first bomb, with its echo of tinkling glass, barking of dogs, and rumour of frightened humanity.
Like most people accustomed to the line, Dormer regarded the bombing of back billets as a spectacle rather than as one of the serious parts of warfare, and got out to stroll about the platform with officers going up as reinforcements. They exchanged cigarettes and news and hardly stopped to laugh at the horrified whisper of the R.T.O., “Don’t light matches here!” It was soon over, like all bombing. If you were hit you were hit, but if you weren’t hit in the first minute or two, you wouldn’t be, because no plane could stay circling up there for very long, and the bomber was always more frightened than you were. Then the train moved on, and Dormer could feel on each side of him again the real camp life of units just behind the line, mule standings, gun parks, and tents and huts of infantry, and services. It was midnight before he got out at Bailleul. He had left the camp on the Arras road in the morning, had made a great loop on the map and reached a railhead as near the line as he had been twenty-four hours before. He stumbled up the stony street to the Officers’ Rest House, drank some cocoa out of a mug and fell asleep, his head on his valise.
In the morning he got a lift out to Bertezeele, and found the Trench Mortar School. He reflected that it would really be more correct tosay that he took a lift to the Trench Mortar School, and incidentally touched the village of Bertezeele. For the fact was that the English population of the parish exceeded the French native one. Men of all sorts and conditions from every unit known to the Army List (and a good many that had never graced the pages of that swollen periodical) were drawn into this new device for improved killing. Dormer himself, one of those who, since the elementary home camp training of 1915, had been in or just behind the trenches, wondered at the complicated ramifications with which the War was running. Apparently those curious little brass instruments, the bane of his life as an infantry platoon commander, which used to come up behind his line and there, while totally ineffective in the vital matter of beating the Germans, were just sufficiently annoying to make those methodical enemies take great pains to rob him of his food and sleep for many ensuing days, were all done away with.
Stokes, whoever he was, but he was certainly a genius, had effected a revolution. Owing to him, neat tubes, like enlarged pencil-guards, with a nail inside the blind end, upon which the cap-end of the cartridge automatically fell, were being used, as a hosier might say, in all sizes from youths’ to large men’s. Stokes was branded with genius, because his invention combined the two essentials—simplicity with certainty. He had brought the blunderbuss up to date.
What else were these short-range, muzzle-loading, old-iron scattering devices? Just blunderbusses. History was not merely repeating itself. As the War went on it was moving backwards. Tin helmets of the days of Cromwell, bludgeons such as Cœur de Lion used upon Saladin, and for mere modernity, grenades like the original British Grenadiers of the song. He had never had any head for poetry, but he could remember some of the stuff Kavanagh had sung in the dug-out. Not tow-row-row. That was the chorus. Ah! he remembered.