Part 2

“I ain’t got _nothin’_ to say, sir, savin’ that I never joined the army to wash dixies, an’ I didn’t like the tone of voice him”--indicating the orderly Sergeant--“used to me. Also I’m a little deaf, sir, an’ my ’ands is that cut with barbed wire that it’s hagony to put ’em in boilin’ water, sir! An’ I’m afraid o’ gettin’ these ’ere germs into them, sir. Apart from which I ain’t got anything to say, sir!”

After this Private Smith assumes the injured air of a martyr, casts his eyes up to heaven, and waits hopefully for dismissal. (The other two similar cases were dismissed this morning!)

The Captain drums his fingers on the table for a few moments. “This is your first offence, Smith.”

“Yessir!”

“But it is not made any the less serious by that fact.”

The gleam of joy in Smith’s eye departs.

“Disobedience of an order is no trivial matter. A case like this should go before the Commanding Officer.”

Long pause, during which the accused passes from the stage of hope deferred to gloom and disillusion, and the orderly Sergeant assumes a fiercely triumphant expression.

“Twenty-eight days Field Punishment number one,” murmurs the Captain ruminatively, “or a court-martial”--this just loud enough for the accused to hear. The latter’s left leg sags a trifle, and consternation o’erspreads his visage.

“In view, Smith,” says the Captain aloud, “in view of your previous good record, I will deal with you myself. Four days dixie washing, and you will attend all parades!”

Before Private Smith has time to heave a sigh of relief the C.S.M.’s voice breaks on the air, “Left turrn! Left wheel, quick marrch!”

“A good man, Sergeant-Major,” says the Captain with a smile. “Have to scare ’em a bit at times, what?”

Battalion Orderly Room is generally a very imposing affair, calculated to put fear into the hearts of all save the most hardened criminals. At times the array is formidable, as many as thirty--witnesses, escort, and prisoners--being lined up outside the orderly room door under the vigilant eye of the Regimental Sergeant-Major. It is easy to see which is which, even were not the “dress” different. The prisoners are in clean fatigue, wearing no accoutrements or equipment beyond the eternal smoke-helmet. The escort are in light marching order, and grasp in their left hands a naked bayonet, point upwards, resting along the forearm. The witnesses wear their belts. Most of the accused have a hang-dog look, some an air of defiance.

“Escort and prisoners.... Shun!”

The Colonel passes into orderly room, where the Adjutant, the Battalion Orderly Officer, and Officer witnesses in the cases to be disposed of await him, all coming rigidly to attention as he enters. In orderly room, or “office” as the men usually call it, the Colonel commands the deference paid to a high court judge. He is not merely a C.O., he is an Institution.

The R.S.M. hovers in the background, waiting for orders to call the accused and witnesses in the first case. The C.O. fusses with the papers on his desk, hums and haws, and finally decides which case he will take first. The Adjutant stands near him, a sheaf of papers in his hand, like a learnéd crown counsel.

Not infrequently the trend of a case depends on whether the C.O. lunched well, or if the G.O.C. strafed or complimented him the last time they held palaver. Even colonels are human.

“Charge against Private Maconochie, No. 170298, drunk,” etc., reads the Adjutant.

After the evidence has been heard the Colonel, having had no explanation or defence from the accused, proceeds to pass sentence. This being a first “drunk” he cannot do very much but talk, and talk he does.

“You were drunk, Thomkins. You were found in a state of absolutely sodden intoxication, found in the main street of Ablain-le-Petit at 4 P.M. in the afternoon. You were so drunk that the evidence quotes you as sleeping on the side-walk. You are a disgrace to the regiment, Thomkins! You outrage the first principles of decency, you cast a slur on your battalion. You deliberately, of set purpose, intoxicate yourself at an early hour of the afternoon. I have a good mind to remand for a Field General Court-martial. Then you would be shot! Shot, do you understand? But I shall deal with you myself. I shall not permit the name of this battalion to be besmirched by _you_. Reprimanded! Reprimanded! Do you hear, sir!”

(Voice of the R.S.M., north front.) “Right turn. Right wheel; quick marrch!”

OUR FARM

_July 30th, 1916._

We are staying at a farm; quite an orthodox, Bairnsfather farm, except that in lieu of one (nominal) dead cow, we possess one (actual) portion of Dried Hun. The view from our doorway is somewhat extensive, and full of local colour! There are “steen” other farms all around us, all of which look as though they had been played with by professional house-wreckers out on a “beno.” “AK” Company--what there is left of it--has at present “gone to ground,” and from the lake to “Guildhall Manor” (we are very Toney over here!) there is no sign of life. A Fokker dropped in to call half an hour ago, but Archie & Sons awoke with some alacrity, and he has gone elsewhere. It is too hot even to write, and the C.O. of “AK” Coy., who _will_ wash every day, is a disturbing influence. He splashes about in two inches of “wipers swill” as though he really liked it, and the nett result is that somewhere around 4 “pip emma” the rest of us decide to shave also, which ruins the afternoon siesta.

This is a great life. Breakfast at 2 A.M., lunch at noon, dinner at 4 P.M., and supper any old time.

Macpherson--one of those enthusiastic blighters--insisted on taking me for a walk this morning. Being pure Edinburgh, Mac collects rum, whisky, and miscellaneous junk of all descriptions. When he returns to Canada he intends to run a junk shop in rear of a saloon.

The Boche was in a genial mood this morning. As we squelched along Flossy way, “out for bear,” he began to tickle up poor old Paradise Wood with woolly bears, and Mount Sparrow with Minnies. Mac has no sense of humour, he failed to see the joke. “There is a pairfectly good pair of field-glasses to the left of Diamond Copse,” he said mournfully, “and we cannot get them.” Diamond Copse is the sort of place one reads about, and wishes one had never seen. It is about an acre and a half in extent, and was once a pretty place enough, with a few fine oak trees, and many young saplings. Nowadays, it can hardly show a live twig, while shell-holes, bits of shrapnel, stinking pools tinged with reddy-brown, and forlorn remnants of trench--not to speak of dead bodies--make it into a nightmare of a place.

“There is a sniper in Paradise Wood, and I do not like him,” Mac announced gravely, after the fifth bullet, so we dodged over a grave, under a fallen oak, and into a shell-wrecked dug-out full of torn web equipment, machine-gun belts, old bully-beef, biscuits, a stained blanket, and a boot with part of the wearer’s leg in it. The horse-flies were very annoying, and a dead donkey in a narrow street of Cairo would be as violets to patchouli compared with the smell. Mac kept nosing around, and finally retrieved a safety razor and a box of number nine pills from an old overcoat. “There is some one over there in need of burial,” he said, “I can see the flies.” The flies were incidental, but Mac is that kind of chap.

We found what was left of the poor fellow near by. There was nothing but bone and sinew, and torn remnants of clothing. It was impossible to identify the man, and equally impossible to move him. By his side lay a bunch of letters, dirty and torn, and in a pocket which I opened gingerly with a jack-knife, a photograph of a girl--“With love, from Mary.” The letters had no envelopes, and all began, “Dear Jimmy.” Mac read one, and passed it over to me: “Dear Jimmy,--Enclosed you will find a pair of socks, some chewing gum, and a pair of wool gloves I knitted myself. The baby is well, and so am I. Peraps you will get leeve before long. Take care of yourself, Jim dear. The pottatoes have done good, an’ I am growing some tommatos. My separashun allowence comes reglar, so don’t worry. You will be home soon, Jim, for the papers say the Germans is beaten. I got your letter written in May. Alice is well. Your lovin’ wife, Mary.” “Och, it’s a shame,” said Mac, not looking at me. “A Tragedy, and but one of thousands.”

We covered poor Jim over with old sand-bags, as best we might, and his letters and photograph with him. Then we came back to our farm to lunch.

AEROPLANES AND “ARCHIE”

There is something fascinating about aeroplanes. However many thousands of them one may have seen, however many aerial combats one may have witnessed, there is always the desire to see these things again, and, inwardly, to marvel.

Ten thousand feet above, round balls of black smoke appear in the blue sky, coming, as it were, out of the nowhere into here. After long listening you hear the echo of the distant explosion, like the clapping together of the hands of a man in the aisle of an empty church, and if you search very diligently, you will at last see the aeroplane, a little dot in the ether, moving almost slowly--so it appears--on its appointed course. Now the sun strikes the white-winged, bird-like thing as it turns, and it glitters in the beams of light like a diamond in the sky. Now it banks a little higher, now planes down at a dizzy angle. Suddenly, short, sharp, distinct, you catch the sound of machine-gun fire. Quick stuttering bursts, as the visible machine and the invisible enemy circle about each other, seeking to wound, wing, and destroy. Ah! There it is! The Fokker dives, steep and straight, at our machine, and one can clearly see the little darts of flame as the machine-guns rattle. Our man quite calmly loops the loop, and then seems almost to skid after the Fokker which has carried on downwards, evidently hit. He swoops down on the stricken plane, pumping in lead as he goes. The twain seem to meet in collision, then--yes, the Fokker is plunging, nose-diving, down, down, at a terrific rate of speed. Our aviator swings free in a great circle, banks, and at top speed makes back to his air-line patrol, while the German Archies open up on him with redoubled violence, as, serenely confident, he hums along his way.

It is truly wonderful what a fire an aeroplane can pass through quite unscathed as far as actual hinderance to flight is concerned. Many a time you can count nearly two hundred wreathing balls of smoke in the track of the machine, and yet it sails placidly onward as though the air were the native element of its pilot and the attentions of Archie nonexistent.

It is Tommy who first gave the anti-aircraft gun that euphonious name. Why, no one knows. It must be intensely trying to be an Archie gunner. Rather like shooting at driven partridges with an air-gun, though far more exciting. The shells may burst right on the nose of the aeroplane, to all intents and purposes, and yet the machine goes on, veering this way or that, dropping or rising, apparently quite indifferent to the bitter feelings it is causing down below. It is the most haughty and inscrutable of all the weapons of war, to all outward appearances, and yet when misfortune overtakes it, it is a very lame duck indeed.

Archie is very much like a dog, his bark is worse than his bite--until he has bitten! His motto is “persevere,” and in the long run he meets with some success. Halcyon days, when he wags his metaphorical tail and the official communiqués pat him on the head. He does not like other dogs, bigger dogs, to bark at him. They quite drown his own bark, so that it is useless to bark back, and their highly explosive nature forces him to put his tail between his legs and run for it, like a chow pursued by a mastiff. No common-sense Archie stops in any place long after the five-nines and the H.E. shrapnel begin to burst around it. In that case discretion is indubitably the better part of valour.

Aeroplanes have a nasty habit of “spotting” Archies, whereby they even up old scores and prove their superiority. For even the lordly aeroplane does not charge an Archie barrage by preference.

It is when the planes come out in force, a score at a time, that poor Archibald has a rough time, and, so to speak, scratches his ear desperately with his hind leg. The planes do not come in serried mass, but, wheeling this way and that, diving off here and down yonder, so confuse poor Archie that he even stops barking at all, wondering which one he ought to bark at first! By this time most of the planes have sidled gracefully out of range, rounded up and driven down the iron-cross birds, and, having dropped their “cartes de visite” at the rail-head, are returning by ways that are swift and various to the place whence they came. All of which is most unsettling to the soul of Archibald.

In the evening, when the west is pink and gold, Archie’s eyes grow wearied. He sees dimly many aeroplanes, here and there, going and coming, and he _has_ been known to bark at the wrong one! Wherefore the homing aeroplane drops a star-signal very often to let him know that all is well, and that no German hawks menace the safety of the land over which he is the “ethereal” guardian, in theory, if not always in practice.

At night Archie slumbers profoundly. But the birds of the air do not always sleep. Many a night one hears the throb and hum of a machine crossing the line, and because Archie is asleep we pay him unconscious tribute: “Is it ours, or theirs?”

Once, not a mile from the front line, Archie dreamed he saw a Zeppelin. He awoke, stood to, and pointed his nose straight up in the air. Far above him, many thousands of feet aloft, a silvery, menacing sphere hung in the rays of the searchlights. And he barked his loudest and longest, but without avail, for the distance was too great. And the imaginative French folk heaped unintentional infamy upon him when they spoke quite placidly of “Archie baying at the moon!”

STIRRING TIMES

At the corner of the Grande Route de Bapaume near the square, stands the little old Estaminet of La Veuve Matifas.

It is only a humble Estaminet, where, in the old days, Pierre Lapont and old Daddy Duchesne discussed a “chope,” and talked over the failings of the younger generation, but nowadays it bears a notice on the little door leading into the back room, “For officers only.” The men have the run of the larger room, during hours, but the little parlour in rear is a spot sacred to those wearing from one star upwards.

Madame Matifas is old, and very large.

“Mais, Monsieur le Capitaine, dans ma jeunesse.... Ah! Alors!”--and she dearly loves a good hearty laugh. She also sells most excellent champagne, and--let it be murmured softly--Cointreau, Benedictine, and very rarely a bottle of “Skee” (“B. & W.” for choice). She has twinkling brown eyes, fat comfortable-looking hands, and we all call her “Mother,” while she calls those of us who please her “Mon brave garçon.”

But La Veuve Matifas is not the sole attraction of the Bon Fermier nor are even her very excellent wines and other drinks, that may inebriate. She has two children: Cécile and Marie Antoinette. The former is, strange to say, “petite” and “mignonne”--she is also very pretty and she knows all the officers of our Division; most of the young and tender ones write to her from the trenches. You may kiss Cécile on the cheek if you know her well.

Marie Antoinette is of the tall, rather rich coloured, passionate type. She was engaged to a “Little Corporal” of the 77th Infantry of the Line. Alas, he died of wounds seven months ago. She wears mourning for him, but Marie is now in love with the Senior Major, or else we are all blind! (Uneasy rests the arm that wears a crown!) However, that is neither here not there. We like the widow Matifas, and we all admire her daughters, while some of us fall in love with them, and we _always_ have a “stirring time” when we reach rest billets within walking distance of the “Estaminet du Bon Fermier,” or even gee gee distance.

In defiance of the A.P.M. we float into town about 8 “pip emma” (the O.C. signals _will_ bring “shop” into every-day conversation) and stealthily creep up the little back alley which leads to the back door of the Estaminet. We gather there--four of us, as a rule--and we tap thrice. We hear a fat, uneven walk, and the heavy respiration of “Maman,” and then:

“Qui est là?”

“C’est nous, Mère Matifas!”

The door is unbolted, and we enter. Scholes invariably salutes Maman on both cheeks, and we--if we have the chance--salute her daughters. Then we carry on to the parlour. Pelham--who thinks all women love his goo-goo eyes--tries to tell Marie Antoinette, in simply rotten French, how much he loves her, and Marie gets very business-like, and wants to know if we want Moët et Chandon at 12 frcs. a bottle or “the other” at six.

So far we have never dared to try “the other,” for fear that we appear “real mean”! Maman bustles about, and calls us her brave boys, and _never_ says a word about the war, which is a real kindness to us war-weary people.

Cécile makes her entrance usually after the second bottle; probably to make her sister envious, because she always gets such a warm welcome. In fact there is an almost scandalous amount of competition for the honour of sitting next to her.

La Veuve Matifas stays until after the third bottle. She has tact, that woman, and a confidence in ourselves and her daughters that no man who is worthy of the name would take advantage of.

Last time we were there an incident occurred which literally took all our breaths away. We were in the middle of what Allmays calls “Close harmony” and Allmays was mixing high tenor, basso profundo, and Benedictine, when suddenly the door opened in a most impressive manner. That little plain deal door _felt_ important, and it had the right to feel important too.

The C.O. came in.

We got up.

The C.O. turned to Cécile, who was sitting _far_ too close to Pelham, in my estimation (for I was on the other side), and said, “Cécile, two more bottles please!” Then to us, “Sit down, gentlemen, carry on.” We were all fairly senior officers, but Maman nearly fainted dead away when we conveyed to her the fact that a real, live, active service Colonel was in her back parlour at 9.15 “pip emma,” ordering up the bubbly.

He stayed a whole hour, and we had to sing. And then he told us that he had been offered a Brigade, and was leaving us. We were all jolly sorry--and jolly glad too--and we said so. We told the girls. “Un Général!” cried Cécile. “Mon Dieu!” and before we could stop her she flung her arms round the C.O.’s neck and kissed him. We all expected to be shot at dawn or dismissed the service, but the C.O. took it like a real brick, and Pelham swears he kissed her back--downy old bird that he is!

After he had left we had a bully time. Marie Antoinette was peeved because she had not kissed the Colonel herself, and Cécile was sparkling because she _had_ kissed him. Which gave us all a chance. Mère Matifas drank two whole glasses of champagne, and insisted on dancing a Tarantelle with Allmays, whom she called a “joli garçon,” and flirted with most shamelessly. Pelham got mixed up with a coon song, and spent half an hour trying to unmix, and Scholes consoled Marie Antoinette. As for me, well, there was nothing for it--Cécile _had_ to be talked to, don’t you know!

Mother “pro-duced” a bottle of “B. & W.” also. In fact we had a most stirring time!

We still go to see La Veuve Matifas. She never speaks to us without saying at least once, “Ah! Mais le brave Général, image de mon mari, où est il?”

I have a photograph of Cécile in the left-hand breast pocket of my second-best tunic. Scholes says he is going to marry Marie Antoinette, “Après la Guerre,” in spite of the Senior Major!

SICK PARADE

“The Company,” read the orderly Sergeant, “will parade at 8.45 A.M., and go for a route march. Dress: Light marching order.”

A groan went up from the dark shadows of the dimly-lighted barn, which died down gradually on the order to “cut it out.” “Sick parade at 7.30 A.M. at the M.O.’s billet Menin-lee-Chotaw,” announced the O.S. sombrely. “Any of you men who wanter go sick give in your names to Corporal Jones right now.”

Yells of “Right here, Corporal,” “I can’t move a limb, Corporal,” and other statements of a like nature, announced the fact that there were quite a number of gentlemen whose pronounced view it was that they could not do an eight-mile route march the next day. Corporal Jones emerged, perspiring, after half an hour’s gallant struggle. Being very conscientious he took full particulars, according to Hoyle: name, number, rank, initials, age, religion, and nature of disease. The last he invariably asked for by means of the code phrase, “wossermarrerwi_you_?”

Having refused to admit at least half a dozen well-known scrimshankers to the roll of sick, lame, and lazy, he finished up with Private Goodman, who declared himself suffering from “rheumatics hall over. Me legs is somethin’ tur’ble bad.”

There were thirteen names on the report.

Menin-le-Château being a good three kilometres distant, the sick fell in at 6.30 A.M. the next day. The grey dawn was breaking in the East, and a drizzling rain made the village street even more miserable-looking than it was at all times. As on all sick parades, all the members thereof endeavoured to look their very worst, and succeeded admirably for the most part. They were unshaven, improperly dressed, according to military standards, and they shuffled around like a bunch of old women trying to catch a bus. Corporal Jones was in a very bad temper, and he told them many things, the least of which would have made a civilian’s hair turn grey. But, being “sick,” the men merely listened to him with a somewhat apathetic interest.

They moved off in file, a sorry-looking bunch of soldiers. Each man chose his own gait, which no injunctions to get in step could affect, and a German under-officer looking them over would have reported to his superiors that the morale of the British troops was hopeless.

At 7.25 A.M. this unseemly procession arrived in Menin-le-Château. In the far distance Corporal Jones espied the Regimental Sergeant-Major. The latter was a man whom every private considered an incarnation of the devil! The junior N.C.O.’s feared him, and the Platoon Sergeants had a respect for him founded on bitter experience in the past, when he had found them wanting. In other words he was a cracking good Sergeant-Major of the old-fashioned type. He was privately referred to as Rattle-Snake Pete, a tribute not only to his disciplinary measures, but also to his heavy, fierce black moustachios, and a lean, eagle-like face in which was set a pair of fierce, penetrating black eyes.

“If,” said Corporal Jones loudly, “you all wants to be up for Office you’ll _walk_. Otherways you’ll _march_! There’s the Sergeant-Major!”

The sick parade pulled itself together with a click. Collars and the odd button were furtively looked over and done up, caps pulled straight, and no sound broke the silence save a smart unison of “left-right-left” along the muddy road. The R.S.M. looked them over with a gleam in his eye as they passed, and glanced at his watch.

“’Alf a minute late, Co’poral Jones,” he shouted. “Break into double time. Double ... march!” The sick parade trotted away steadily--until they got round a bend in the road. “Sick!!!” murmured the R.S.M. “My H’EYE!”

A little way further on the parade joined a group composed of the sick of other battalion units, some fifty in all. Corporal Jones handed his sick report to the stretcher-bearer Sergeant, and was told he would have to wait until the last.

In half an hour’s time the first name of the men in his party was called--Lance-Corporal MacMannish.

“What’s wrong?” asked the doctor briskly.