PART SEVENTEEN

THE SUICIDE CLUB

§ 1

At midnight between the 26th and 27th of September, 1915, two men faced each other across a chequered French table-cloth in the bare _salle à manger_ of an _estaminet_ at Beuvry.

An orderly stood outside the door, an orderly with tiny highly-polished grenades on his shoulder-straps, and below the grenades two winking brass letters—the second of the letters being “G.” Outside the _estaminet_, a car waited; and past the car filed steady columns of tall men. These men, too, bore a winking “G” on each shoulder-strap of their excessively clean tunics.

Said the first of the two at the table, a broad-shouldered quiet man, rather full in the face, steady of eye, big of brown moustache—a man who wore the crossed swords and star of a Major General: “And so we have the job of cleansing their Augean stable for them. As far as I can make out, the position is this.” He spread a big white map on the table; indicated with one finger a semi-circle drawn in thick blue chalk. “Whether the 9th can hang on to Fosse Eight or not, is pretty doubtful. You already know the _political situation_”—he emphasized the words a trifle scornfully—“with regard to Hill 70. . . . The rest of the line, as far as the Hulluch Road, P. must look after. Now, what about those guns? . . .”

His companion, a saturnine aquiline Brigadier General of Artillery, well over six-foot, glass in his eye, drew a creased plan from his pocket; spread it over the table-cloth. As he did so, his long hands betrayed intense concentration; a concentration not belied by the clipped phrases in which he spoke.

“I’ve seen both the Brigades, sir,” he began, “and as they apparently know very little of the ground, I’ve arranged to take over both Artilleries myself. Our own can’t be up for three days. The Southdown batteries”—he pointed to the map—“are marked in red; the Northdown in blue.”

“Too far back,” commented the other, scrutinizing the coloured dots, the shaded arcs which showed their approximate ranges.

“They seem to have done the best they could under the circumstances.”

“The circumstances,” known to both the speakers, did not bear overmuch thinking of—being on a par with the “political situation” which, by a premature announcement in the English Parliament of the capture of Hill 70, was forcing them to attempt an attack both knew to be in the nature of a very forlorn hope.

The Gunner General went on detailing his plans: “I shall put Stark in command of the Left Group. He’s the only regular Colonel they’ve got.”

“Good man?” asked the other.

“Yes, sir. Very sound. I’ve known him for years: stuck pig with him in India. . . . We’re very short of ammunition for the Hows.”

“That’s nothing unusual. Allenby’s had to chuck it altogether in the Salient. What about eighteen-pounders?”

“We can just manage a two-hours’ bombardment. When do you propose attacking, sir?”

“Day after tomorrow.” The senior General glanced at his watch, saw it was past midnight. “As you were, tomorrow. Sometime in the afternoon.”

§ 2

At last, Peter Jameson slept.

All through that long afternoon of sunshine, the eighteen-pounders of the Fourth Brigade had been silent. Round the outside lip of the chalk-saucer, attack and counter attack had died in exhaustion. Only, at its extreme left edge, under the shadow of Fosse Eight, in the Hohenzollern Redoubt, kilted men fought out the light, hand to hand, with bomb and bayonet and grenade. In front of Loos, the saviour Cavalry watched the silent woods and the hill whereon death waited.

O’Grady had come back at dusk to report the situation. At nine o’clock, the men sleeping round the guns had been awakened by a vast crackle of rifle-fire far away on the left, by a torrent of white lights spurting up inky skies. This they had watched, as a dog, too tired to bay, watches the moon; watched and slept again—all save the weary sentries peering towards the lonely tree, and the weary signallers in the trench by the telephone.

But Doctor Carson might not sleep. All that afternoon, his red-crossed tilt had lured piteous bandaged men. All that night they came; staggering down the slopes; waiting a while; staggering on with a “Thank yer, doctor” towards Vermelles. The doctor was fifty-five and a specialist; but bending over those piteous men, he did not regret his quiet consulting-room in Harley Street—even though that which he accomplished for them scarcely required as much skill as he had possessed in his medical student days.

He felt a little lonely, there in the shadowed darkness, watching the lights leaping all about him; and when, from the Vermelles road, there came other men, tramping steadily together, he enjoyed the modulated voices which asked him: “I say, this is right for Loos, isn’t it? Thanks so much.”

These voices, when he inquired who they might be, all replied with one word: “Guards”; and tramped on through the night. . . .

Later, there arrived a car, with a Staff officer who inquired for Colonel Stark. Him, the doctor directed to a trench covered with a water-proof sheet: under which, after a moment, showed the light of a candle. The Staff officer with a “Thanks. Feels like rain,” departed: but the candle still shone. And after about an hour, another car arrived, with another Staff officer.

Doctor Carson, seeing blue cigar-smoke curling up against the candle-glow, thought to himself: “Hello. They’ve woken P.J.”

They had; and Peter, note-book in hand, squatted on his chalk-covered valise, peering at two maps; copying little red dots from one to the other. The original map from which Peter copied had been sent from Beuvry; and the last note in his book read “Report to G.O.C. Guards D.A. at Le Rutoire farm eleven A. M.”

§ 3

Weasel Stark’s preliminary instructions, given in the candle-lit gloom of a dirty trench at 3 o’clock in the morning, confined themselves to few words. The problem consisted firstly, secondly and lastly in efficient communication: Peter, awake at dawn, got busy on it. As primary difficulty, he encountered Purves.

Said Purves yawning: “As I understand things, you and the Colonel are going off to Le Rutoire. I remain here as Adjutant to Major Lethbridge, who will command the Brigade. Communication will of course be arranged by Divisional Signals.”

Growled Peter, shivering in the misty dawn: “For God’s sake forget ‘Training Manual Signallers.’ How much wire have we got on the telephone cart?”

Purves sent for Corporal Waller. Corporal Waller said he thought they had four and a half miles of “D 3.” Peter pulled out his map: showed the Corporal what he wanted done. Purves sulked in the background.

At five-fifteen, Seabright and Pirbright, carrying a red drum between them, set out to find the Third Brigade. At ten minutes to six, a very sleepy battery commander of that unit protested down the new wire that he had no instructions as to taking orders from the Adjutant of another Brigade. At five minutes to six Weasel Stark—overhearing the long range wrangle—came to the phone and explained the situation at some length of blasphemy. Throughout breakfast, eaten squatting on damp clay, similar conversations took place.

At ten-thirty, Corporal Waller again telephoned. He had found the Second and First Brigades; was tapping into their wire. Also, he had nearly run out of wire. . . .

“See that he gets some more,” rasped the Weasel to Purves. “You and I must be off, P.J.”

They made their way on foot, through sparse traffic, down a sodden road, towards the huge gutted farm. As they passed under the great gateway into the crowded courtyard, something exploded with an earth-shaking concussion.

“Six-inch How,” said the Weasel.

A very tall young subaltern, with carefully up-curled moustache and tiny bronze buttons on his loose tunic, came up; saluted the Colonel; and said, “Are you Colonel Stark, sir? . . . The Artillery General won’t be here till two o’clock.” Then, to Peter, “Hallo, Jameson, haven’t seen you since you left. . . . Come and have a drink before lunch, won’t you, sir?”

Peter introduced “Sandiland of Impey’s” to his Colonel; and the young Guardee led downstairs to the foul cellar they had visited on the night of the twenty-fifth. It was no longer a charnel-house. Down the middle of it, a long table, spread with a white cloth, testified the imminence of lunch. About the table, talking quietly, stood other tall men, all in identical tunics, all with the same carefully up-curled moustaches, the same modulated voices.

They called each other by nicknames: “I say, Bunny, what about those smoke-bombs?” “My dear Trousers, don’t panic.” “Where’s the General?” “Is Muggins about?”

Sandiland produced gin and vermouth. Talk grew general.

Peter did not take long to recognize the peculiar social atmosphere. It was merely glorified Eton. Everybody trying their best to assume that facts didn’t exist; that emotions didn’t exist; that they knew little and cared less about the job they had at heart. It was over twelve years since Peter had lived in that particular atmosphere: but he sniffed it gratefully. His voice changed to it. He said, “Oh, really. Well, of course, _I_ don’t know much about Gunnery,” knowing perfectly well that he knew considerably more about it than Sandiland—and, “It’s been very quiet round the batteries”—feeling that nobody had ever been quite so heavily shelled as the Fourth Southdown Brigade.

The Weasel, who happened to have been at Winchester before going on to Woolwich, felt suddenly and immensely superior to everybody on earth. For, on that point, all old English “public-school” men feel alike: which is what makes them at times so insufferable to outsiders. If a foreigner had asked any of the men in that cellar _why_ he was fighting, the foreigner would have met with an incredulous lift of the eyebrow: that particular lift of the eyebrow which no foreigner understands; but which conveys—to one who can interpret—“My dear fellow, I was at Eton” (or Winchester, or Haileybury, or Harrow, or Radley or a hundred other foundations of that classical tradition which literary pacifists despise) “and _one does, don’t you know, one just does_.”

Luckily, there is no “education” at English “public-schools.” They merely train boys to be _men_.

§ 4

The Infantry Brigadier, arriving about mid-day, declared to his Brigade-Major:

“My dear fellow, the whole countryside looks like Hampstead Heath. Have some one go out and clean it up, please. I really can’t have men wandering about _all_ over the skyline.”

The Brigade Major, strolling across the room, said: “I say, Bunny, I wish you’d take a peep round and see what we’re to do about these fellows wandering about on the skyline.”

Bunny disappeared and did not return till after lunch.

Nobody in all that farm seemed in the least degree excited about anything. Work was not _done—it proceeded_. Stark and Peter, returning to the outer air, watched the procedure. By now, their own communication orderlies, servants and telephonists had arrived. It began to rain, vaguely, unpleasantly. . . .

At one minute to two, a limousine, mud-spattered from roof to axle, tore down the road; pulled up slithering before the gateway. From the car, sprang a tall aquiline eye-glassed man; who said, “Hello, Stark. Sorry to be late. Look here”; drew a very dirty map from his pocket; and swept one finger over a blue semi-circle of it. Stark, drawing an identical map from his pocket, copied the semi-circle; asked: “Any particular instructions?”

“No.” The aquiline one was obviously working under extreme pressure. “You’ll get those from Trench later. This isn’t as much fun as pig-sticking, is it?” He leapt back into his car; whirled off down the road.

Two minutes afterwards Peter—note-book on knee—was writing from orders Stark’s dictation. . . .

§ 5

The remainder of the afternoon resolved itself into a constant dispatching of orderlies, a constant running in and out to the jingling clicking telephone station.

At half-past four, the aquiline one returned. Peter, instructed to report communication completed, found him closeted with a big vaguely seen man in the semi-dusk of yet another dug-out. At five o’clock, these two removed themselves.

Said the Weasel: “What sort of a dug-out was the one in which you found him?”

Said Peter: “Pretty good, sir.”

Ordered the Weasel: “Then we’d better occupy it.”

§ 6

In that flimsy tin-roofed tunnel, hidden away in mud between brick walls, glass-doored at each end, perpetually illumined with guttering candles, Peter spent three days and three nights. Incredible things happened in that tunnel: equally incredible things in the farm above. Our own howitzers shook it till the glass-doors rattled to splinters: shells, screaming down out of nowhere, missed it by inches, plunging visibly through the shattered roof of the farm, extinguishing candles, shattering telephone wires. Men came to it—all sorts and conditions of men: orderlies and Generals, Colonels and battery commanders. Guardsmen, dizzy with shell-fumes, staggered down its steps, were given gas-capsules, departed. Murchison the Brigade Major came to it, sojourned with them two days. A weary officer of the Third Southdown Brigade, who had been shelled out of his position with the loss of two guns and twenty men, dropped down on its muddy floor and slept like a dog, cap under head, in his spurred field-boots.

And always, Peter—in the dark forward compartment—sat by the telephone operator. Men were blown to bits above—(there were one hundred and twenty casualties in Le Rutoire during those three days): orderlies, sent out on cycles, failed to report, were never again heard of: men died at the batteries even as he spoke to the batteries: the farm rocked: lights went out: shelling stopped: shelling began again. But always, Peter Jameson was trying to explain over a wire which either carried four different voices or went absolutely dead, that Colonel Stark wanted fire directed here, that the Coldstreams reported two field-guns 200 yards South West of Metallurgique tower firing on G 24, that the Bois Hugo was full of M.G’s, that if Major Lethbridge couldn’t fire with A Battery, because A battery had three guns out of action, he must fire with B. . . .

The world-famous attack on Hill 70, when the Guards went over the top, (“By the right,” as the unemotional Pettigrew reported afterwards, “just as if there hadn’t been a Boche within miles of them”) resolved itself for P.J. into a jumble of buzzes, translated to scribbled message-forms, a pile of scribbled message-forms, translated to buzzes. (For by that time, speech on the majority of the sodden lines had become impossible.). . .

By late afternoon of the twenty-ninth, when the most incredible occurrence of all took place, Peter—still sitting at the telephone,—was too weary to appreciate it.

It had been a baddish day. Fosse Eight seemed by the accuracy of the hostile shell-fire, to have fallen at last. Major Lethbridge reported twelve guns of his sixteen now out of action, the remaining four being pushed up by hand owing to buffer troubles. Third Brigade wires refused to act. They had run out of whisky. A five-nine shell had missed the bomb-store wherein the servants and the orderlies slept by two feet; killing a horse and wounding three men. Murchison slept. The Colonel, just returned from visiting the Infantry Brigadier in his dug-out across the road, had found the Brigadier absent; tripped in a sodden trench; looked like a scare-crow; was swearing like a fish-fag. . . . At which precise moment, “Royalty” appeared in the tunnel!

“Royalty,” represented by a jolly fair-haired youngster in a darkish rain-coat, followed the missing Infantry Brigadier past the telephone shelf where Peter sat, into the rear part of the tunnel. Murchison, miraculously awaking, and the Weasel, with his tunic off, stood up and said “Sir.”

Peter, who imagined them to be greeting the Brigadier, found a dark-moustached young man beside him.

Whispered the dark-moustached young man, taking Peter’s knowledge for granted: “I’d rather be a Tommy in the front line than have to look after _him_. Once the Guards are in the trenches, we can’t keep _him_ away from them. _He_ ran away from G.H.Q. this morning, and _he’s_ insisted on tramping all round the front line. _He_ enjoys it. I don’t! It isn’t right, you know. It really isn’t. _He_ might remember that _he’s_ the heir to the throne. Don’t you think so?”

Peter, realizing the jolly fair-haired youngster to be the Prince of Wales, whispered agreement. The conference in rear of the tunnel broke up.

“Thank goodness _he’s_ going,” whispered Peter’s companion. “This job will turn my hair gray.”

The three passed out through the shattered glass-door; up mud-steps into the farm. . . . Very far away, Peter heard a low whistle, a whistle that rose to a high-pitched scream, seemed to surge up the skies. Interminably they waited; penned in the dusk. Impotent! Down upon them, faster and faster, shrieking and howling, rushed noise. . . . They were deaf. . . . The tunnel staggered. . . . Light disappeared. . . . Glass tinkled about them. . . . Things thudded from walls to floor. . . . Noise stopped. . . . Peter heard the Weasel’s voice: “Good God, I hope that didn’t get him”: saw a shadow stumble up the steps. They waited—interminably. Murchison’s voice called: “It’s all right, Colonel.” . . .

“Will you please speak to Mr. Purves, sir?” asked the unconcerned operator at the telephone.

§ 7

And the next night, first of October, they were relieved. The thing seemed impossible. They had always lived in the tunnel; would continue to live there till the end of time. The big man in khaki who sat talking to them had no corporeal existence. He was a joke—an elaborate joke. “Of course, Stark, I shan’t occupy _these_ headquarters.” Of course he wouldn’t. Why should he? Nobody except themselves. . . .

“Hallo,” laughed a voice, “your Adjutant’s gone to sleep.”

“I’m not asleep, sir.” Peter, very indignant, started up from the Weasel’s berth on which he had been sitting; dived back to his own part of the tunnel. The two Colonels heard his voice down the telephone: “Very well Corporal. If the Brigade’s gone, you can disconnect. Are the horses ready? Just coming up the road. Thanks. . . .”

And then, for the first time in his life, Peter knew fear. Real crazy fear. It was midnight. Pitch-dark. Not a shell falling. But a shell might fall. If it did, what would happen to Little Willie? Little Willie was trotting up that damned road. If anything happened to Little Willie. If Jelks hadn’t fed Little Willie properly. Little Willie was the finest horse. . . .

“Your coat, sir, and your spurs. I’ve packed your belt in the valise. And there’s only two cigars left, sir?”

Driver Garton, smiling, proffered one of them.

“Got a match?” asked Peter.

§ 8

The batteries of the 4th Brigade had been amazingly fortunate; got away almost without a casualty.

Laughed the Colonel, as he and Peter trotted side by side through cool rain: “Well, P.J., you won’t forget Le Rutoire in a hurry.”

Peter turned in his saddle, looked back towards the farm: “I should think not,” he said, and added, “Though I suppose that dug-out must have been pretty safe.”

“Safe?” Stark laughed again. “Why, man, it wouldn’t have stopped a direct hit from a pip-squeak.” . . .

They passed the cross-roads of Corons de Rutoire. “Francis!” thought Peter suddenly. Through the blurr of sleep, memory came back, clear-cut, horribly personal. He must find out what had happened to Francis. Then he fell fast asleep in his saddle; woke with a start to find Little Willie at walk through shadowy traffic.

“It’s a pity that attack didn’t succeed,” the Colonel was saying. “If it had, we might have got a brace of medals between us. As it is, if you live to be as old as Methuselah you’ll never see a worse show than the first two days of the battle of Loos.”

§ 9

Next morning, as they rode, Brigade behind them, through the streets of Béthune, Peter fumbled in his breeches pocket; found a coin; stretched it down to the boy trotting at Little Willie’s head; took the proffered paper; spread it on his saddle-peak.

“Any news?” asked the Weasel.

For answer, Peter held up the staring headlines.

“Great British Victory,” they read. “Triumph of Staff Work. Hill 70 Ours. Official.”

* * * * *

Peter ripped the paper to shreds; flung it in the gutter.