All in It : K(1) Carries On Part 27

"It was wonderful to see them go in," he said. "Our Batteries were on the extreme right of the British line, so we were actually touching the French left flank. I had met hundreds of _poilus_ back in billets, in _cafes_, and the like. To look at them strolling down a village street in their baggy uniforms, with their hands in their pockets, laughing and chatting to the children, you would never have thought they were such tigers. I remember one big fellow a few weeks ago, home on leave--_permission_--who used to frisk about with a big umbrella under his arm! I suppose that was to keep the rain off his tin hat.

But when they went for Maricourt the other day, there weren't many umbrellas about--only bayonets! I tell you, they were marvels!"

It would be interesting to hear the _poilu_ on his Allies.

The first train moves off, and another takes its place. The long lines of stretchers are thinning out now. There are perhaps a hundred left.

They contain men of all units--English, Scottish, and Irish. There are Gunners, Sappers, and Infantry. Here and there among them you may note bloodstained men in dirty grey uniforms--men with dull, expressionless faces and closely cropped heads. They are tended with exactly the same care as the others. Where wounded men are concerned, the British Medical Service is strictly neutral.

A wounded Corporal of the R.A.M.C. turns his head and gazes thoughtfully at one of those grey men.

"You understand English, Fritz?" he enquires.

Apparently not. Fritz continues to stare woodenly at the roof of the dock-shed.

"I should like to tell 'im a story, Jock," says the Corporal to his other neighbour. "My job is on a hospital train. 'Alf-a-dozen 'Un aeroplanes made a raid behind our lines; and seeing a beautiful Red Cross train--it was a new London and North Western train, chocolate and white, with red crosses as plain as could be--well, they simply couldn't resist such a target as that! One of their machines swooped low down and dropped his bombs on us. Luckily he only got the rear coach; but I happened to be in it! D' yer 'ear that, Fritz?"

"I doot he canna unnerstand onything," remarked the Highlander. "He's fair demoralised, like the rest. D' ye ken what happened tae me? I was gaun' back wounded, with _this_--" he indicates an arm strapped close to his side--"and there was six Fritzes came crawlin' oot o'

a dug-oot, and gave themselves up tae me--_me_, that was gaun' back wounded, withoot so much as my jack-knife! Demorralised--that's it!"

"Did you 'ear," enquired a c.o.c.kney who came next in the line, "that all wounded are going to 'ave a nice little gold stripe to wear--a stripe for every wound?"

There was much interest at this.

"That'll be fine," observed a man of Kent, who had been out since Mons, and been wounded three times. "Folks'll know now that I'm not a Derby recruit."

"Where will us wear it?" enquired a gigantic Yorks.h.i.+reman, from the next stretcher.

"Wherever you was 'it, lad!" replied the c.o.c.kney humourist.

"At that rate," comes the rueful reply, "I shall 'ave to stand oop to show mine!"

III

But now R.A.M.C. orderlies are at hand, and the symposium comes to an end. The stretchers are conveyed one by one into the long open coaches of the train, and each patient is slipped sideways, with gentleness and dispatch, into his appointed cot.

One saloon is entirely filled with officers--the severe cases in the cots, the rest sitting where they can. A newspaper is pa.s.sed round.

There are delighted exclamations, especially from a second lieutenant whose features appear to be held together entirely by strips of plaster. Such parts of the countenance as can be discerned are smiling broadly.

"I _knew_ we were doing well," says the bandaged one, devouring the headlines; "but I never knew we were doing as well as this. Official, too! Somme Battle--what? Sorry! I apologise!" as a groan ran round the saloon.

"Nevermind," said an unshaven officer, with a twinkling eye, and a major's tunic wrapped loosely around him. "I expect that jest will be overworked by more people than you for the next few weeks. Does anybody happen to know where this train is going to?"

"West of England, somewhere, I believe," replied a voice.

There was an indignant groan from various north countrymen.

"I suppose it is quite impossible to sort us all out at a time like this," remarked a plaintive Caledonian in an upper cot; "but I fail to see why the R.A.M.C. authorities should go through the mockery of _asking_ every man in the train where he wants to be taken, when the train can obviously only go to one place--or perhaps two. I was asked.

I said 'Edinburgh'; and the medical wallah said, 'Righto! We'll send you to Bath!'"

"I think I can explain," remarked the wounded major. "These trains usually go to two places--one half to Bath, the other, say, to Exeter.

Bath is nearer to Edinburgh than Exeter, so they send you there. It is kindly meant, but--"

"I say," croaked a voice from another cot,--its owner was a young officer who must just have escaped being left behind at a Base hospital as too dangerously wounded to move,--"is that a newspaper down there? Would some one have a look, and tell me if we have got Longueval all right? Longueval? Long--I got pipped, and don't quite--"

The wounded major turned his head quickly.

"Hallo, Bobby!" he observed cheerfully. "That you? I didn't notice you before."

Bobby Little's hot eyes turned slowly on Wagstaffe, and he exclaimed feverishly:--

"Hallo, Major! Cheeroh! Did we stick to Longueval all right? I've been dreaming about it a bit, and--"

"We did," replied Wagstaffe--"thanks to 'A' Company."

Bobby Little's head fell back on the pillow, and he remarked contentedly:--

"Thanks awfully. I think I can sleep a bit now. So long! See you later!"

His eyes closed, and he sighed happily, as the long train slid out from the platform.

XIII

"TWO OLD SOLDIERS, BROKEN IN THE WARS"

The smoking-room of the Britannia Club used to be exactly like the smoking-room of every other London Club. That is to say, members lounged about in deep chairs, and talked shop, or scandal--or slumbered. At any moment you might touch a convenient bell, and a waiter would appear at your elbow, like a jinnee from a jar, and accept an order with silent deference. You could do this all day, and the jinnee never failed to hear and obey.

That was before the war. Now, those idyllic days are gone. So is the waiter. So is the efficacy of the bell. You may ring, but all that will materialise is a self-righteous little girl, in bra.s.s b.u.t.tons, who will shake her head reprovingly and refer you to certain pa.s.sages in the Defence of the Realm Act.

Towards the hour of six-thirty, however, something of the old spirit of Liberty a.s.serts itself. A throng of members--chiefly elderly gentlemen in expanded uniforms--a.s.sembles in the smoking-room, occupying all the chairs, and even overflowing on to the tables and window-sills. They are not the discursive, argumentative gathering of three years ago. They sit silent, restless, glancing furtively at their wrist-watches.

The clocks of London strike half-past six. Simultaneously the door of the smoking-room is thrown open, and a buxom young woman in cap and ap.r.o.n bounces in. She smiles maternally upon her fainting flock, and announces:--

"The half-hour's gone. Now you can _all_ have a drink!"

What would have happened if the waiter of old had done this thing, it is difficult to imagine. But the elderly gentlemen greet their Hebe with a chorus of welcome, and clamour for precedence like children at a school-feast. And yet trusting wives believe that in his club, at least, a man is safe!

Major Wagstaffe, D.S.O., having been absent from London upon urgent public affairs for nearly three years, was not well versed in the newest refinements of club life. He had arrived that morning from his Convalescent Home in the west country, and had already experienced a severe reverse at the hands of the small girl with bra.s.s b.u.t.tons on venturing to order a sherry and bitters at 11.45 A.M. Consequently, at the statutory hour, his voice was not uplifted with the rest; and he was served last. Not least, however; for Hebe, observing his empty sleeve, poured out his soda-water with her own fair hands, and offered to light his cigarette.

This scene of dalliance was interrupted by the arrival of Captain Bobby Little. He wore the ribbon of the Military Cross and walked with a stick--a not unusual combination in these great days. Wagstaffe made room for him upon the leather sofa, and Hebe supplied his modest wants with an indulgent smile.

An autumn and a winter had pa.s.sed since the attack on Longueval. From July until the December floods, the great battle had raged. The New Armies, supplied at last with abundant munitions, a seasoned Staff, and a concerted plan of action, had answered the question propounded in a previous chapter in no uncertain fas.h.i.+on. Through Longueval and Delville Wood, where the graves of the Highlanders and South Africans now lie thick, through Flers and Martinpuich, through Pozieres and Courcelette, they had fought their way, till they had reached the ridge, with High Wood at its summit, which the Boche, not altogether unreasonably, had regarded as impregnable. The tide had swirled over the crest, down the reverse slope, and up at last to the top of that bloodstained knoll of chalk known as the b.u.t.te de Warlencourt. There the Hun threw in his hand. With much loud talk upon the subject of victorious retirements and Hindenburg Lines, he withdrew himself to a region far east of Bapaume; with the result that now some thousand square miles of the soil of France had been restored once and for all to their rightful owners.

But Bobby and Wagstaffe had not been there. All during the autumn and winter they had lain softly in hospital, enjoying their first rest for two years. Wagstaffe had lost his left arm and gained a decoration.

Bobby, in addition to his Cross, had incurred a cracked crown and a permanently shortened leg. But both were well content. They had done their bit--and something over; and they had emerged from the din of war with their lives, their health, and their reason. A man who can achieve that feat in this war can count himself fortunate.