Chapter 12

Macgillivray moved out from the broken trench and hurried across the open. There were not more than fifty yards to cross, but in that narrow space the bodies lay huddled singly and heaped in little clumps. They reminded one exactly of the loafers who sprawl asleep and sunning themselves in the Park on a Sunday afternoon. Only the dead lay in that narrow strip; the living had been moved or had moved themselves long since. Macgillivray pushed on into the trench, along it to a communication trench, and up and down one alley after another, until he reached the most advanced trench which the British held. Here a pandemonium of fighting was still in progress, but to this Macgillivray after the first couple of minutes paid no heed. A private with a bullet through his throat staggered back from his loophole and collapsed in the doctor's arms and after that Macgillivray had his hands too full with casualties to concern himself with the fighting. Several dug-outs had been filled with wounded, and the doctor crawled about amongst these and along the trench, applying dressings and bandages as fast as he could work, seeing the men placed on stretchers or sent back as quickly as possible towards the rear. He stayed there until a message reached him by one of the stretcher-bearers who had been back to the dressing station that he was badly needed there, and that Mr. Dewar hoped he would get back soon to help them.

Certainly the dressing station was having a busy time. The darkness had made it possible to get back hundreds of casualties from places whence they dare not be moved by day. They were pouring into the station through the doctors' hands--three of them were hard at work there by this time--and out again to the ambulances as rapidly as they could be handled. Despite the open, shell-wrecked end and the broken roof, the cottage was stiflingly close and sultry, the heavy scent of blood hung sickeningly in the stagnant air, and the whole place swarmed with pestering flies. There was no time to do much for the patients. All had been more or less efficiently bandaged by the regimental stretcher-bearers who picked them up. The doctors did little more than examine the bandagings, loosening these and tightening those, making injections to ward off tetanus, performing an operation or an amputation now and again in urgent cases, sorting out occasionally a hopeless casualty where a wound was plainly mortal, and setting him aside to leave room in the ambulances for those the hospitals below might yet save.

One of these mortal cases was a young lieutenant. He knew himself that there was little or no hope for him, but he smoked a cigarette and spoke with composure, or simulated composure, to the doctor and the chaplain.

'Hello, padre,' he said, 'looks like a wash-out for me this time. You'll have to break it to the pater, you know. Afraid he'll take it rather hard too. Rough luck, isn't it, doc.? But then . . .' His face twitched with pain, but he covered the break in his voice by blowing a long cloud of smoke. '. . . After all, it's all in the game, y' know.' 'All in the game,' the chaplain said when he had gone; 'a cruel game, but gallantly played out. And he's the fourth son to go in this war--and the last male of his line except his father, the old earl. A family that has made its mark on a good few history pages--and this is the end of it. You think it's quite hopeless for him, doctor?'

The doctor looked up in surprise from the fresh slightly wounded case he was overhauling. 'Hopeless? Why, it's not even---- Oh! him? Yes, I'm afraid so. . . . I wish Macgillivray would come back,' he went on irritably. 'He's worth the three of us here put together. Where we have to fiddle and probe and peer he would just look--just half-shut those hawk eyes of his and look, and he'd know exactly what to do and what not to do. . . . That'll do, sergeant; take him off. . . . Where's that bottle of mine? What's this? Hand? Bandage not hurting you? All right. Pass him over there for the anti-tetanus. Now, then! . . .'

A burly private, with the flesh of his thigh showing clear white where the grimy khaki had been cut clear and hung flapping, limped in and pushed forward a neatly bandaged limb for inspection. 'A doctor did that up in the trenches,' he remarked. 'Said to tell you 'e did it an' it was all right, an' I only needed the anti-tempus an' a ticket for 'ome.'

'That's Macgillivray, I'll bet,' said young Dewar. 'Where was this?'

'Fourth German trench, sir,' said the man cheerfully. 'You know we got four? Four trenches took! We're winnin' this time orright. Fairly got 'em goin', I b'lieve. It'll be Glorious Vict'ry in the 'eadlines to-morrow.'

'Things like this, you know, must be,' quoted the chaplain softly, as another badly wounded man was brought in. 'I wonder what the victory is costing us?'

'Never mind. It's costing t'other side more, sir,' said the casualty grimly, and then shut lips and teeth tight on the agony that followed.

'I wish Macgillivray would come,' said Dewar when that was finished. 'He could have done it so much better. It's just the sort of case he's at his best on--and his best is something the medical journals write columns about. I wish he'd come.'

And then, soon after, he did come--came on a stretcher with a bandage about his head and over his eyes. 'Macgillivray!' cried the young doctor, and stood a moment staring, with his jaw dropped.

'Yes,' said Macgillivray with lips tight drawn. 'It's me. That's Dewar, isn't it? No need to undo the bandage, Dewar. It's my eyes--both gone--a bullet through them both. And I'll never hold a scalpel again. You can give me some morphia, Dewar--and send me on to the ambulance out of the way. I'm no good here now--or anywhere else, now or ever. I won't die, I know, but----'

They gave him the morphia, and before he slid off into unconsciousness he spoke a last word to the chaplain: 'You were right, padre. You remember . . . it's the women pay the hardest. . . . I'm thinking . . . of . . . my wife.'

The chaplain's thoughts went back to the wife and mother of the Dohertys, to the legless market-gardener and his ailing wife, to the boy lieutenant who was the last of his line, and a score more he knew, and his eyes followed as the stretcher bore out the hulk that had been a man who had done much to relieve pain and might have done so much more.

The voice of another new-arriving casualty broke his thoughts. 'We're winnin', doctor,' it was saying exultantly. 'All along the line we're winnin' this time. The Jocks has got right away for'ard, an' the Ghurkies is in wid their killin' knives on our left. An' the Irish is in front av all. Glory be! 'Tis a big foight this time, an' it's winnin' we are. Me good arm's gone I know, but I'd rather be here wid wan arm than annywhere else wid two. An' what's an arm or a man more or less in the world? We're winnin', I tell ye--we're winnin'!'

A SMOKER'S COMPANION

Except for the address, 'No. 1, Park-lane,' marked with a muddy forefinger on the hanging waterproof sheet which served as a door, there was nothing pretentious about the erection--it could not be called a building--which was for the time being the residence of three drivers of the Royal Field Artillery. But the shelter, ingeniously constructed of hop-poles and straw thatch, was more or less rain-proof, and had the advantage of being so close to the horse-lines that half a dozen strides brought the drivers alongside their 'long-nosed chums.' It was early evening; but the horses having been watered and fed, the labours of their day were over, and the Wheel and Lead Drivers were luxuriating in bootless feet while they entertained the Gunner who had called in from his own billet in the farm's barn.

The Gunner was holding forth on Tobacco Gifts. 'It's like this, see,' he said. 'An' I knows it's so 'cos I read it myself in the paper. First you cuts a coo-pon out o' the paper wi' your name an' address on it. . . .'

'But, 'ere, 'old on,' put in the Wheel Driver. ''Ow does my name get on it?'

'You write it there, fat'ead. Didjer think it growed there? You writes your name same as the paper tells, see; an' you cuts out the coo-pon an' you sends sixpence for one packet o' 'baccy. . . .'

'Wot sorter yarn you givin' us now?' said the Wheel Driver. 'I didn't send no sixpence, or cut out a cow-pen. I gets this 'baccy for nothin'. The Quarter tole me so.'

'Course you gets it,' said the Gunner impatiently. 'But somebody must 'a' paid the sixpence. . . .'

'You said I paid it--an' I never did,' retorted the Wheel Driver.

''E means,' explained the Lead Driver, 'if you was sendin' a packet of 'baccy you'd send sixpence.'

'Where's the sense in that?' said the Wheel Driver. 'Why should I sen' sixpence when I can get this 'baccy for nothin'? I got this for nothin'. It's not a issue neither. It's a Gif'. Quartermaster tole me so.'

'We know that,' said the Gunner; 'but if you wanted to you could send sixpence. . . .'

'I could not,' said the Wheel Driver emphatically. 'I 'aven't seed a sixpence since we lef 'ome. They even pays us in bloomin' French bank notes. An' how I'm goin' to tell, after this war's over, whether my pay's in credit----'

'Oh, shut it!' interrupted the Lead Driver. 'Let's 'ear 'ow this Gift thing's worked. Go on, chum.'

'It's this way, see,' the Gunner took up his tale anew. 'S'pose you wants to send a gift . . . or mebbe you'll unnerstan' this way better. S'pose your best gel wants to sen' you a gift. . . .'

'I ain't got no bes' gel,' objected the Wheel Driver. 'I'm a married man, an' you knows it too.'

The Gunner took a deep breath and looked hard at the objector. 'Well,' he said, with studied calm, 'we'll s'pose your missis at 'ome there wants to sen' you out some smokes. . . .'

'An s'pose she _does_ want to?' said the Wheel Driver truculently. 'Wot's it got to do wi' you, anyway?'

With lips pursed tight and in stony silence the Gunner glared at him, and then, turning his shoulder, addressed himself deliberately to the Lead Driver.

'S'pose _your_ missis . . .' he began, but got no further.

'He ain't got no missis; leastways, 'e ain't supposed to 'ave,' the Wheel Driver interjected triumphantly.

That fact was well known to the Gunner, but had been forgotten by him in the stress of the moment. He ignored the interruption, and proceeded smoothly. 'S'pose your missis, if you 'ad one, w'ich you 'aven't, as I well knows, seein' me 'n' you walked out two sisters at Woolwich up to the larst night we was there. . . .'

The Wheel Driver chuckled.

'Thought you was on guard the las' night we was in Woolwich,' he said.

'Will you shut your 'ead an' speak when you're spoke to?' said the Gunner angrily.

'Never mind 'im, chum. Wot about this Gif' business?'

'Well,' said the Gunner, picking his words carefully. 'If a man's wife _or_ gel _or_ sister _or_ friend wants to send 'im some smokes they cuts this coo-pon, same's I've said, an' sends it up to the paper, wi' sixpence an' the reg'mental number an' name of the man the gift's to go to. An' the paper buys the 'baccy, gettin' it cheap becos o' buyin' tons an' tons, an' sends a packet out wi the chap's number an' name and reg'ment wrote on it. So 'e gets it. An' that's all.'

The Wheel Driver could contain himself no longer. 'An' how d'you reckon I got this packet, an' no name or number on it--'cept a pos'card wi' a name an' address wrote on as I never 'eard before?'

'Becos some good-'earted bloke in Blighty[1] that doesn't 'ave no pal particular out 'ere asks the paper to send 'is packet o' 'baccy to the O.C. to pass on to some pore 'ard-up orphin Tommy that ain't got no 'baccy nor no fren's to send 'im like, an' 'e issues it to you.'

'It ain't a issue,' persisted the Wheel Driver. 'It's a Gif. The Quarter sed so 'isself.'

Splashing and squelching footsteps were heard outside, the door-curtain swung aside, and the Centre Driver ducked in, took off a soaking cap, and jerked a glistening spray off it into the darkness.

'Another fair _soor_ of a night,' he remarked cheerfully, slipping out of his mackintosh and hanging the streaming garment in the door. 'Bust me if I know where all the rain comes from.'

'Any luck?' asked the Lead Driver, leaning over to rearrange the strip of cloth which, stuck in a jam-tin of fat, provided what--with some imagination--might be called a light.

'Five packets--twenty-five fags,' said the Centre Driver. 'There was two or three wantin' to swap the 'baccy in their packets for the fags in the other chaps', so I done pretty well to get five packets for mine.'

''Twould 'a' paid you better to 'ave kep' your 'baccy and made fags out o' it wi' cig'rette papers,' said the Wheel Driver.

'Mebbe,' agreed the Centre Driver. 'An' p'raps you'll tell me--not being a Maskelyne an' Cook conjurer meself--'ow I'm to produce the fag-papers.'

The Gunner chuckled softly.

'You should 'a' done like old Pint-o'-Bass did, time we was on the Aisne,' he said. 'Bass is one of them fag-fiends that can't live without a cigarette, and wouldn't die happy if he wasn't smokin' one. 'E breathes more smoke than 'e does air, an' 'e ought to 'ave a permanent chimney-sweep detailed to clear the soot out of 'is lungs an' breathin' toobs. But if Pint-o'-Bass does smoke more'n is good for 'im or any other respectable factory chimney, I'll admit the smoke 'asn't sooted up 'is intelleck none, an' 'e can wriggle 'is way out of a hole where a double-jointed snake 'ud stick. An' durin' the Retreat, when, as you knows, cigarettes in the Expeditionary Force was scarcer'n snowballs in 'ell, ole Pint-o'-Bass managed to carry on, an' wasn't never seen without 'is fag, excep' at meal-times, an' sleep-times, an' they bein' so infrequent an' sketchy-like, them days, wasn't 'ardly worth countin'. 'Twas like this, see, that 'e managed it. You'll remember that, when we mobilised, some Lost Dogs' 'Ome or Society for Preventin' Christian Knowledge, or something, rushes up a issue o' pocket Testaments an' dishes out one to everybody in the Battery. Bound in a khaki cover they was, an', comin' in remarkable 'andy as a nice sentimental sort o' keepsake, most of 'em stayed be'ind wi' sweet'earts an' wives. Them as didn't must 'ave gone into "Base kit," cos any'ow there wasn't one to be raked out o' the Battery later on excep' the one that Pint-o'-Bass was carryin'. Bein' pocket Testaments, they was made o' the thinnest kind o' paper an' Bass tole me the size worked out exackly right at two fags to the page. 'E started on the Creation just about the time o' Mons, an' by the time we'd got back to the Aisne 'e was near through Genesis. All the time we was workin' up thro' France again Bass's smokes were workin' down through Exodus, an' 'e begun to worry about whether the Testament would carry 'im through the campaign. The other fellers that 'ad their tongues 'anging out for a fag uster go'n borrow a leaf off o' Bass whenever they could raise a bit o' baccy, but at last Bass shut down on these loans. "Where's your own Testament?" he'd say. "You was served out one same as me, wasn't you? Lot o' irreligious wasters! Get a Bible give you an' can't take the trouble to carry it. You'd ha' sold them Testaments at a sixpence a sack in Woolwich if there'd been buyers at that price--which there weren't. An' now you comes beggin' a page o' mine. I ain't goin' to give no more. Encouragin' thriftlessness, as the Adjutant 'ud call it; an', besides, 'ow do I know 'ow long this war's goin' to last or when I'll see a fag or a fag-paper again? I'll be smoking Deuteronomy an' Kings long afore we're over the Rhine, an' mebbe," he sez, turnin' over the pages with 'is thumb an' tearin' out the Children of Israel careful by the roots, "mebbe I'll be reduced to smokin' the inscription, 'To our Dear Soldier Friend,' on the fly-leaf afore I gets a chance to loot some 'baccy shop in Berlin. No," 'e sez. "No. You go'n smoke a corner o' the _Pet-it Journal_, an' good enough for you, unprovident sacriligeous blighters, you--givin' away your own good Testaments."

'Young Soapy, o' the Centre Section, 'im that was struck off the strength at Wipers later through stoppin' a Coal-Box, tried to come the artful, an' 'ad the front to 'alt the Division padre one day an' ask 'im if 'e'd any spares o' pocket Testaments in store, makin' out 'e'd lost 'is through lendin' it to 'is Number One, who had gone "Missin'." Soapy made out 'e couldn't sleep in 'is bed at night--which wasn't sayin' much, seein' we mostly slep' in our seats or saddles them nights--becos 'e hadn't read a chapter o' the Testament first. An' the old sky-pilot was a little bit surprised--he'd 'a bin more surprised if 'e knew Soapy as well as I did--an' a heap pleased, and most of all bowed down wi' grief becos 'e 'adn't no Testament that was supernumary to War Establishment, and so couldn't issue one to Soapy. But two days later 'e comes 'unting for Soapy, as pleased as a dog wi' two tails, an' smilin' as glad as if 'e'd just converted the Kaiser; an' 'e lugs out a big Bible 'e'd bought in a village we'd just passed through, an' writes Soapy's name on the fly-leaf an' presents it to 'im, and tells 'im 'e'll come an' 'ave a chat any time 'e's near the Battery. The Bible was none o' your fiddlin' pocket things, but a good substantial one, wi' pitchers o' Moses in the bulrushes an' Abraham scarifyin' 'is son, an' such like. An' the leaves was that thick that Soapy might as well 'ave smoked brown paper or the _Pet-it Journal_. But that wasn't the worst of it. Soapy chucked it over the first 'edge soon as the padre 'ad gone, but next day the padre rolls up and tells Soapy a Sapper 'ad picked it up and brought it to 'im--'im 'avin' signed 'is name an' rank after "Presented by----" on the fly-leaf. An' 'e warns Soapy to be more careful, and 'elps 'im stow it in 'is 'aversack, where it took up most the room an' weighed a ton, an' left Soapy to distribute 'is bully beef an' biscuits an' cheese an' spare socks and cetera in all the pockets 'e 'ad. An even then poor Soapy wasn't finished, for every time the padre got a chance 'e'd 'op round an' 'ave a chat, as 'e called it, wi' Soapy, the chat being a cross-examination worse'n a Court-Martial on what chapter Soapy 'ad been readin,' an' full explanations of same. Soapy was drove at last to readin' a chapter, so 'e could make out 'e savvied something of it.'

The Gunner tapped out his pipe on the heel of his boot and began to re-fill it.

'If you'll believe me,' he said, 'that padre got poor Soapy pinned down so he was readin' near a chapter a day--which shows the 'orrible results that can come o' a little bit of simple deception.'

'An' how is Pint-o'-Bass goin' on wi' his Testament?' asked the Lead Driver.

''E don't need to smoke it, now we're in these fixed positions an' getting liberal supplies from these people that sends up to the papers' Tobacco Funds. But 'e's savin' up the rest of it. Reckons that when we get the Germans on the run again the movin' will be at the trot canter an' gallop, same's before; an' the cigarette supplies won't be able to keep up the pace. An' besides, 'e sez, 'e reckons it's only a fair thing to smoke a cig'rette made wi' the larst chapter down the 'Igh Street o' Berlin the day Peace is declared.'

[1] England.

THE JOB OF THE AM. COL.

The wide door of the barn creaked open and admitted a swirl of sleety snow, a gust of bitter cold wind, and the Bombardier. A little group of men round a guttering candle-lamp looked up.

'Hello, Father Christmas,' said the Centre Driver. 'You're a bit late for your proper day, but we'll let you off that if you fill our stockin's up proper.'

'Wipe yer feet careful on the mat,' said the Lead Driver, 'an' put yer umbrella in the 'all stand.'

''Ere, don't go shakin' that snow all over the straw,' said the Wheel Driver indignantly. 'I'm goin' to sleep there presently an' the straw's damp enough as it is.'

'Glad you're so sure about sleepin' there,' the Bombardier said, divesting himself of his bandolier and struggling out of his snow-covered coat. 'By the look o' things, it's quite on the cards you get turned out presently an' have to take up some pills to the guns.'

'Pretty busy to-night, ain't they?' said the Centre Driver. 'We heard 'em bumpin' away good-oh.'

'You don't 'ear the 'alf of it back 'ere,' said the Bombardier. 'Wind's blowin' most o' the row away. They're goin' it hot an' strong. Now where's my mess-tin got to? 'Aven't 'ad no tea yet, an' it's near eight o'clock. I'm just about froze through too.'

'Here y'are,' said the Centre Driver, throwing a mess-tin over. 'An' the cook kep' tea hot for you an' the rest that was out.'

'Pull that door shut be'ind you,' said the Wheel Driver. 'This barn's cold as a ice-'ouse already, an' the roof leaks like a broke sieve. Billet! Strewth, it ain't 'arf a billet!'

The Bombardier returned presently with a mess-tin of 'raw' (milkless and sugarless) tea and proceeded to make a meal off that, some stone-hard biscuits and the scrapings of a pot of jam.

'What sort o' trip did you 'ave?' asked the Centre Driver. 'Anyways peaceful, or was you dodgin' the Coal-Boxes this time?'

'Not a Coal-Box, or any other box,' said the Bombardier, hammering a biscuit to fragments with a rifle-butt. 'An' I 'aven't 'ad a shell drop near me for a week.'

'If we keeps on like this,' said the Centre Driver, 'we'll get fancyin' we're back on Long Valley man-oovers.'

'Wot you grousin' about anyway?' remarked the Wheel Driver. 'This is a Ammunition Column, ain't it? Or d'you s'pose it's an Am. Col.'s bizness to go chasin' after bombardments an' shell-fire. If you ain't satisfied you'd better try'n get transferred to the trenches.'

'Or if that's too peaceful for you,' put in the Lead Driver, 'you might apply to be sent to England where the war's ragin' an' the Zeppelins is killin' wimmin an' window-panes.'

'Talkin' o' transferring to the trenches,' said the Bombardier putting down his empty mess-tin and producing his pipe. 'Reminds me o' a Left'nant we 'ad join us a month or two back. It was the time you chaps was away attached to that other Division, so you didn't know 'im. 'E'd bin with a Battery right through, but 'e got a leave an' when 'e come back from England 'e was sent to us. 'Is batman[1] tole me 'e was a bit upset at first about bein' cut adrift from 'is pals in the Battery but 'e perked up an' reckoned 'e was goin' to 'ave things nice an' cushy for a bit. An' 'e as much as says so himself to me the first time 'e was takin' ammunition up an' I was along with 'im. I'd been doin' orderly at the Battery an' brought down the requisition for so many rounds, an' it bein' the Left'nant's first trip up, an' not knowin' the road 'e 'as me up in front with 'im to show the way. It was an unusual fine mornin' I remember, 'avin' stopped rainin' for almost an hour, an' just as we started somethin' that might 'ave been a sun tried 'is 'ardest to shine. Soon as we was on the road the Left'nant gives the word to march at ease, an' lights up a cig'rette 'imself.

'"Great mornin' ain't it, Bombardier?" 'e sez. "Not more'n a foot or two o' mud on the roads, an' the temperature almost above freezin'-point. I'm just about beginnin' to like this job on the Am. Col. 'Ave you bin with a Battery out 'ere?"

'I tole 'im yes an' came to the Column after bein' slightly wounded.