Part 3

“’A have got a pain in here, sirr,” said MacMannish, “an’ it’s sair, sorr,” pointing to the centre of his upper anatomy.

“Show me your tongue? H’m. Eating too much! Colic. Two number nine’s. Light duty.”

Lance-Corporal MacMannish about-turned with a smile of ecstatic joy and departed, having duly swallowed the pills.

“What did ye get, Jock?”

“Och! Light duty,” said the hero with the air of a wronged man justified, “but _you’ll_ be no gettin’ such a thing, Bowering!”

“And why not?” demanded the latter scowling. However, his name being then called put an end to the discussion.

“I have pains in me head and back, sir,” explained Mr. Bowering, “and no sleep for two nights.” The doctor looked him over with a critical, expert eye.

“Give him a number nine. Medicine and duty. Don’t drink so much, Bowering! That’s enough. Clear out!”

“_He’s_ no doctor,” declared the victim when he reached the street. “Huh! I wouldn’t trust a _cat_ with ’im!”

The next man got no duty, and this had such an effect on him that he almost forgot he was a sick man, and walloped a pal playfully in the ribs on the doorstep, which nearly led to trouble.

Of the remaining ten, all save one were awarded medicine and duty, but they took so long to tell the story of their symptoms, and managed to develop such good possible cases, that it was 8.45 before the parade fell in again to march back to billets, a fact which they all thoroughly appreciated!

Wonderful the swinging step with which they set forth, Corporal Jones at the head, Lance-Corporal MacMannish, quietly triumphant, bringing up the rear. They passed the Colonel in the village, and he stopped Corporal Jones to inquire what they were.

“Your men are marching very well, Corporal. ‘A’ Company? Ah, yes. Fatigue party, hey?”

“No-sir, sick-parade-sir!”

“Sick Parade! God bless my soul! Sick! How many men were given medicine and duty?”

“Nine, sir.”

“Nine, out of thirteen.... ‘A’ Company is on a route march this morning, is it not?”

“Yessir.”

“My compliments to Major Bland, Corporal, and I would like him to parade these nine men in heavy marching order and send them on a nine-mile route march, under an officer.”

“Very good, sir!”

Next day there were no representatives of “A” Coy. on sick parade!

BATMEN

This war has produced a new breed of mankind, something that the army has never seen before, although they have formed a part of it, under the same name, since Noah was a boy. They are alike in name only. Batmen, the regular army type, are professionals. What they don’t know about cleaning brass, leather, steel, and general valeting simply isn’t worth knowing. They are super-servants, and they respect their position as reverently as an English butler respects his. With the new batman it is different. Usually the difficulty is not so much to discover what they do not know, as what they do! A new officer arrives at the front, or elsewhere, and he has to have a batman. It is a rather coveted job, and applicants are not slow in coming forward. Some man who is tired of doing sentry duty gets the position, and his “boss” spends anxious weeks bringing him up in the way he should go, losing, in the interval, socks, handkerchiefs, underwear, gloves, ties, shirts, and collars galore! What can be said to the wretched man when in answer to “Where the ---- is my new pair of socks?” he looks faint and replies: “I’ve lost them, sir!” Verily, as the “professional” scornfully remarks, are these “Saturday night batmen!”

Yet even batmen are born, not made. Lucky is he who strikes on one of the former; only the man is sure to get killed, or wounded, or go sick! There is always a fly in the ointment somewhere. The best kind of batman to have is a kleptomaniac. Treat him well and he will never touch a thing of your own, but he will, equally, never leave a thing belonging to any one else!

“Cozens, where did you get this pair of pants?”

“Found them, sir!”

“Where did you find them?”

“Lying on the floor, sir,” with an air of injured surprise.

“_Where!_”

“I don’t justly remember, sir.”

Voice from right rear: “The Major’s compliments, sir, and have you seen his new pants?”

“Cozens!”

“Yessir.”

“Give me those pants.... Are those the Major’s?”

“Yes, sir, them’s them.”

Cozens watches the pants disappear with a sad, retrospective air of gloom.

“You ain’t got but the _one_ pair now, sir.” This with reproach.

“How many times have I got to tell you to leave other people’s clothes alone? The other day it was pyjamas, now it’s pants. You’ll be taking somebody’s boots next. Confound it. I’ll--I’ll return you to duty if you do it again!... How about all those handkerchiefs? Where did _they_ come from?”

“All yours, sir, back from the wash!” With a sigh, one is forced to give up the unequal contest.

Albeit as valets the batmen of the present day compare feebly with the old type, in certain other ways they are head and shoulders above them. The old “pro” refuses to do a single thing beyond looking after the clothing and accoutrements of his master. The new kind of batman can be impressed to do almost anything. He will turn into a runner, wait at table, or seize a rifle with gusto and help get Fritz’s wind up. Go long journeys to find souvenirs, and make himself generally useful. He will even “bat” for the odd officer, when occasion arises, as well as for his own particular boss.

No man is a hero in the eyes of his own batman. He knows everything about you, even to the times when your banking account is nil. He knows when you last had a bath, and when you last changed your underwear. He knows how much you eat, and also how much you drink; he knows all your friends with whom you correspond, and most of your family affairs as revealed by that correspondence, and nothing can hide from his eagle eye the fact that you are--lousy! Yet he is a pretty good sort, after all; he never tells. We once had a rather agéd sub. in the Company whose teeth were not his own, not a single one of them. One night, after a somewhat heavy soirée and general meeting of friends, he went to bed--or, to be more accurate, was tucked in by his faithful henchman--and lost both the upper and lower sets in the silent watches. The following morning he had a fearfully worried look, and spake not at all, except in whispers to his batman. Finally, the O.C. Company asked him a question, and he _had_ to say something. It sounded like “A out mo,” so we all instantly realised something was lacking. He refused to eat anything at all, but took a little nourishment in the form of tea. His batman was to be observed crawling round the floor, perspiring at every pore, searching with his ears aslant and his mouth wide open for hidden ivory. We all knew it; poor old Gerrard knew we knew it, but the batman was faithful to the last, even when he pounced on the quarry with the light of triumph in his eye. He came to his master after breakfast was over and asked if he could speak to him. Poor Gerrard moved into the other room, and you could have heard a pin drop. “Please, sir,” in a stage whisper from his batman, “please, sir, I’ve got hold of them TEETH, sir! But the front ones is habsent, sir, ’aving bin trod on!”

The biggest nuisance on God’s earth is a batman who spends all his spare moments getting drunk! Usually, however, he is a first-class batman during his sober moments! He will come in “plastered to the eyes” about eleven o’clock, and begin to hone your razors by the pallid rays of a candle, or else clean your revolver and see if the cartridges fit! In his cups he is equal to anything at all. Unless the case is really grave the man wins every time, for no one hates the idea of changing his servant more than an officer who has had the same man for a month or so and found him efficient.

Not infrequently batmen are touchingly faithful. They will do anything on earth for their “boss” at any time of the day or night, and never desert him in the direst extremity. More than one batman has fallen side by side with his officer, whom he had followed into the fray, close on his heels.

Once, after a charge, a conversation ensued between the sergeant of a certain officer’s platoon and that officer’s batman, in this fashion:

“What were _you_ doin’ out there, Tommy?”

“Follerin’.”

“And why was you close up on his heels, so clost I could ’ardly see ’im?”

“Follerin’ ’im up.”

“And why wasn’t you back somewhere _safe_?” (This with a touch of sarcasm.)

“Lord, Sargint, you couldn’t expect me to let _’im_ go out by ’isself! ’E might ha’ got hurt!”

RATIONS

“Bully-beef an’ ’ard-tack,” said Private Boddy disgustedly. “Bully-beef that’s canned dog or ’orse, or may be cats, an’ biscuits that’s _fit_ for dawgs.... This is a ’ell of a war. W’y did I ever leave little old Walkerville, w’ere the whiskey comes from? Me an’ ’Iram we was almost pals, as you may say. I worked a ’ole fortnight in ’is place, at $1.75 per, an’ then I----” Mr. Boddy broke off abruptly, but not soon enough.

“Huh!” broke in a disgusted voice from a remote corner of the dug-out, “then I guess you went bummin’ your way till the bulls got you in Windsor. To hear you talk a chap would think you didn’t know what pan-handlin’ was, or going out on the stem.”

“Look ’ere,” said Boddy with heat, “you comeralong outside, you great long rubberneck, you, an’ I’ll teach you to call me a pan-’andler, I will. You low-life Chicago bum, wot never _did_ ’ave a better meal than you could steal f’m a Chink Chop Suey.”

“Say, fellers,” a quiet voice interposed, “cut it out. This ain’t a Parliament Buildings nor a Montreal cabaret. There’s a war on. If youse guys wants to talk about rations, then go ahead, shoot, but cut out the rough stuff!”

“Dat’s what _I_ say, Corporal,” interrupted a French-Canadian. “I’m a funny sort of a guy, I am. I likes to hear a good spiel, widout any of dis here free cussin’ an’ argumentation. Dat ain’t no good, fer it don’t cut no ice, _no’ d’un ch’en_!”

“Talkin’ of rations,” drawled a Western voice, “when I was up to Calgary in ’08, an’ was done gone busted, save for two bits, I tuk a flop in one of them houses at 15 cents per, an’ bot a cow’s heel with the dime. You kin b’lieve me or you needn’t, but I _tell_ you a can of that bully you’re shootin’ off about would ha’ seemed mighty good to _me_, right then, an’ it aren’t so dusty naow.”

Private Boddy snorted his contempt. “An’ the jam they gives you,” he said, “w’y at ’ome you couldn’t _give_ it away! Plum an’ happle! Or wot they call plain happle! It ain’t never seed a plum, bar the stone, nor a happle, bar the core. It’s just colourin’ mixed up wiv boiled down turnups, that’s what it is.”

“De bread’s all right, anyways,” said Lamontagne, “but dey don’t never git you more’n a slice a man! An dat cheese. Pouff! It stink like a Fritz wot’s laid dead since de British takes Pozières.”

Scottie broke in.

“Aye, but hold yerr maunderin’. Ye canna verra weel have aught to clack aboot when ’tis the Rum ye speak of.”

“Dat’s all right,” Lamontagne responded, “de rum’s all right. But who gets it? What youse gets is one ting. A little mouthful down de brook wot don’t do no more than make you drier as you was before. What does de Sargents get? So much dey all is so rambunctious mad after a feller he dasn’t look dem in de face or dey puts him up for office! Dat’s a fine ways, dat is! An’ dem awficers! De limit, dat’s what dat is. I was up to de cook-house wid a--wid a rifle----”--“a dirty rifle too, on inspection, by Heck,” the Corporal supplemented--“wid a rifle, as I was sayin’,” continued Lamontagne, with a reproachful look in the direction of his section commander, “an’ I sees wot was in de cook-house a cookin’ for de awficers” (his voice sunk to an impressive whisper). “D’ere was eeggs, wid de sunny side up, an’ dere was bif-steaks all floatin’ in gravy, an’ pottitters an’ _beans_, an’ peaches an’ peyers.”

“Quit yer fool gabbin’,” said Chicago. “H’aint you got no sense in that mutt-head o’ yourn? That’s food them ginks BUYS!”

Boddy had been silent so long he could bear it no longer.

“’Ave a ’eart,” he said, “it gives me a pain ter fink of all that food the horficers heats. Pure ’oggery, I calls it. An’ ter fink of th’ little bit o’ bread an’ biscuit an’ bacon--wot’s all fat--wot we fellers gets to eat. _We_ does the work, an’ the horficers sits in easy chairs an’ Heats!! Oh _w’y_ did I join the Harmy?”

At this moment, Private Graham, who had been slumbering peacefully until Lamontagne, in his excitement, put a foot in the midst of his anatomy, added his quota to the discussion. Private Graham wore the King and Queen’s South African medal and also the Somaliland. Before drink reduced him, he had been a company Q.M.S. in a crack regiment. His words were usually respected. “Strike me pink if you Saturday night soldiers don’t give me the guts-ache,” he remarked with some acerbity. “In Afriky you’d ha’ bin dead an’ buried months ago, judgin’ by the way you talks! There it was march, march, march, an’ no fallin’ out. Little water, a ’an’ful o’ flour, an’ a tin of bully wot was fly-blowed two minutes after you opened it, unless you ’ad eat it a’ready. An’ you talks about food! S’elp me if it ain’t a crime. Rations! W’y, never in the ’ole ’istory of the world ’as a Army bin better fed nor we are. You young soldiers sh’d learn a thing or two afore you starts talkin’ abaht yer elders an’ betters. Lord, in th’ old days a hofficers’ mess was somethin’ to dream abaht. Nowadays they can’t ’old a candle to it. Wot d’yer expec’? D’yer think a horficer is goin’ to deny ’is stummick if ’e can buy food ter put in it? ’E ain’t so blame stark starin’ mad as all that. You makes me sick, you do!”

“Dat’s what _I_ say,” commented Lamontagne!

From afar came a voice crying, “Turn out for your rations.”

In thirty seconds the dug-out was empty!

OUR SCOUT OFFICER

We have a certain admiration for our scout officer; not so much for his sleuth-hound propensities, as for his completely _dégagé_ air. He is a Holmes-Watson individual, in whom the Holmes is usually subservient to the Watson.

Without a map--he either has several dozen or none at all--he is purely Watson. With a map he is transformed into a Sherlock, instanter. The effect of a _new_ map on him is like that of a new build of aeroplane on an aviator. He pores over it, he reverses the north and south gear, and gets the magnetic differential on the move; with a sweep of the eye he climbs up hills and goes down into valleys, he encircles a wood with a pencil-marked forefinger--and asks in an almost pained way for nail-scissors. Finally, he sends out his Scout Corporal and two men, armed to the teeth with spy-glasses and compasses (magnetic, mark VIII), to reconnoitre. When they come back (having walked seventeen kilometres to get to a point six miles away) and report, he says, wagging his head sagely: “Ah! I knew it. According to this map, 81×D (parts of), 82 GN, south-west (parts of), 32 B^1, N.W. (parts of), and 19 CF, East (parts of), the only available route is the main road, marked quite clearly on the map, and running due east-north-east by east from Bn. H.Q.”

But he is a cheerful soul. The other day, when we were romancing around in the Somme, we had to take over a new line; one of those “lines” that genial old beggar Fritz makes for us with 5.9’s. He--the Scout Officer--rose to the occasion. He went to the Commanding Officer, and in his most ingratiating manner, his whole earnest soul in his pale blue eyes, offered to take him up to his battle head-quarters.

This offer was accepted, albeit the then Adjutant had a baleful glitter in _his_ eye.

After he had led us by ways that were strange and peculiar through the gathering darkness, and after the Colonel had fallen over some barbed wire into a very damp shell-hole, he began to look worried. We struck a very famous road--along which even the worms dare not venture--and our Intelligence Officer led us for several hundred yards along it.

An occasional high explosive shrapnel shell burst in front and to rear of us, but, map grasped firmly in the right hand, our Scout Officer led us fearlessly onwards. He did not march, he did not even walk, he sauntered. Then with a dramatic gesture wholly unsuited to the time and circumstances, he turned and said: “Do you mind waiting a minute, sir, while I look at the map?” After a few brief comments the C.O. went to earth in a shell-hole. The Scout Officer sat down in the road, and examined his map by the aid of a flash-light until the Colonel threw a clod of earth at him accompanied by some very uncomplimentary remarks. “I think, sir,” said the Scout Officer, his gaunt frame and placid countenance illumined by shell-bursts, “that if we cross the road and go North by East we may perhaps strike the communication trench leading to the Brewery. _Personally_, I would suggest going overland, but----” His last words were drowned by the explosion of four 8.1’s 50 yards rear right. “Get out of this, sir! Get out of this DAMN quick,” roared the C.O. The Scout Officer stood to attention slowly, and saluted with a deprecating air.

He led.

We followed.

He took us straight into one of the heaviest barrages it had ever been our misfortune to encounter, and when we had got there he said he was lost. So for twenty minutes the C.O., the Adjutant, nine runners, and, last but not least, the Scout Officer, sat under a barrage in various shell-holes, and prayed inwardly--with the exception of the Scout Officer--that _he_ (the S.O.) would be hit plump in the centre of his maps by a 17-inch shell.

It were well to draw a veil over what followed. Even Holmes-Watson does not like to hear it mentioned. Suffice to say that the C.O. (with party) left at 5.30 P.M. and arrived at battle head-quarters at 11.35 P.M. The Scout Officer was then engaged in discovering a route between Battle H.Q. and the front line. He reported back at noon the following day, and slept in a shell-hole for thirteen hours. No one could live near the C.O. for a week, and he threatened the S.O. with a short-stick MILLS.

If there is one thing which the Scout Officer does not like, it is riding a horse. He almost admits that he cannot ride! The other day he met a friend. The friend had one quart bottle of Hennessey, three star. The Scout Officer made a thorough reconnaissance of the said bottle, and reported on same.

A spirited report.

Unhappily the C.O. ordered a road reconnaissance an hour later, and our Scout Officer had to ride a horse. The entire H.Q. sub-staff assisted him to mount, and the last we saw of Holmes-Watson, he was galloping down the road, sitting well on the horse’s neck, hands grasping the saddle tightly, rear and aft. Adown the cold November wind we heard his dulcet voice carolling:

“I put my money on a bob-tailed nag!... Doo-dah ... Doo-dah! _I_ put my money on a bob-tailed nag; ... Doo-dah! ... Doo-dah!! ... _DEY!!!_”

MARTHA OF DRANVOORDE

Martha Beduys, in Belgium, was considered pretty, even handsome. Of that sturdy Flemish build so characteristic of Belgian women, in whom the soil seems to induce embonpoint, she was plump to stoutness. She was no mere girl; twenty-seven years had passed over her head when the war broke out, and she saw for the first time English soldiers in the little village that had always been her home. There was a great deal of excitement. As the oldest of seven sisters, Martha was the least excited, but the most calculating.

The little baker’s shop behind the dull old church had always been a source of income, but never a means to the attainment of wealth. Martha had the soul of a shop-keeper, a thing which, in her father’s eyes, made her the pride of his household.

Old Hans Beduys was a man of some strength of mind. His features were sharp and keen, his small, blue eyes had a glitter in them which seemed to accentuate their closeness to each other, and his hands--lean, knotted, claw-like--betokened his chief desire in life. Born of a German mother and a Belgian father, he had no particular love for the English.

When the first British Tommy entered his shop and asked for bread, old Beduys looked him over as a butcher eyes a lamb led to the slaughter. He was calculating the weight in sous and francs.

That night Beduys laid down the law to his family.

“The girls will all buy new clothes,” he said, “for which I shall pay. They will make themselves agreeable to the English mercenaries, but”--with a snap of his blue eyes--“nothing more. The good God has sent us a harvest to reap; I say we shall reap it.”

During the six months that followed the little shop behind the church teemed with life. The Beduys girls were glad enough to find men to talk to for the linguistic difficulty was soon overcome--to flirt with mildly, and in front of whom to show off their newly-acquired finery. From morn till dewy eve the shop was crowded, and occasionally an officer or two would dine in the back parlour, kiss Martha if they felt like it, and not worry much over a few sous change.

In the meantime old Hans waxed financially fat, bought a new Sunday suit, worked the life out of his girls, and prayed nightly that the Canadians would arrive in the vicinity of his particular “Somewhere in Belgium.”

In a little while they came.

Blossoming forth like a vine well fertilised at the roots, the little shop became more and more pretentious as the weekly turnover increased. Any day that the receipts fell below a certain level old Beduys raised such a storm that his bevy of daughters redoubled their efforts.

Martha had become an enthusiastic business woman. Her fair head with its golden curls was bent for many hours in the day over a crude kind of ledger, and she thought in terms of pickles, canned fruits, chocolate, and cigarettes. The spirit of commerce had bitten deep into Martha’s soul.

More and more officers held impromptu dinners in the back parlour. Martha knew most of them, but only one interested her. Had he not shown her the system of double entry, and how to balance her accounts? He was a commercial asset.

As for Jefferson, it was a relief to him, after a tour in the trenches, to have an occasional chat with a moderately pretty girl.

One rain-sodden, murky January night, very weary, wet, and muddy, Jefferson dropped in to see, as he would have put it, “the baker’s daughter.”

Martha happened to be alone, and welcomed “Monsieur Jeff” beamingly.

Perhaps the dim light of the one small lamp, perhaps his utter war weariness, induced Jefferson to overlook the coarseness of the girl’s skin, her ugly hands, and large feet. Perhaps Martha was looking unusually pretty.

At all events he suddenly decided that she was desirable. Putting his arm around her waist as she brought him his coffee, he drew her, unresisting, on to his knee. Then he kissed her.

Heaven knows what possessed Martha that evening. She not only allowed his kisses, but returned them, stroking his curly hair with a tenderness that surprised herself as much as it surprised him.

Thereafter Martha had two souls. A soul for business and a soul for Jefferson.

The bleak winter rolled on and spring came.