PART SIX

PLAYING AT SOLDIERS

§ 1

Except for the newness of his “Cavalry-cord” tunic and a slight lack of suppleness in the carefully-browned belt, nothing about the quiet gray-eyed young man in the otherwise-empty first-class compartment on the London, Brighton & South Coast Railway betrayed the civilian of a day ago. The battered valise and an old-fashioned Army basin, leather-covered—relics of a trip to the East—did not smack of the newly-joined. Close-cut dark hair, clipped moustaches, correctly-wound puttees and dubbined shooting-boots, completed the illusion. But Peter Jameson’s mind had not yet cast off its old allegiances.

Rather, as he whirled Sussexwards, did those discarded problems assume acuter import. One by one he conned over the arrangements made—fortnightly reports from Lime Street, weekly statements and a bi-weekly letter from Bramson, accurate statistics from Reid; wondered if they might have been improved upon. And speculating on these things, Peter began to feel—for the first time—the real pang of parting from Nirvana. It was as though he had cut the main interest out of life; as if the entity of his creating had died. Symbolically, he seemed to see his two flashing signs, as they had been before the new lighting restrictions; “NIRVANA OR NOTHING,” they had blazed. Now, they blazed no more. Nothing!

He pulled his “Infantry Training” from his pocket; began to study Battalion Drill. “A battalion in mass. . . .”

But the subconscious mind would not visualize battalions either in mass or other formations. The mind returned to its old love, refused to be comforted. The mind did not recall the morning’s partings—with Patricia, careful to display no emotion,—with the children, excited at their first vision of “Daddy in khaki.” Instead, it called up figures from balance-sheets, the factory working at full pressure, that dim-lit back-office in the City: till gradually, came recollection of Mr. “Raymond P. Sellers.” . . .

Peter had already posted two of the letters to Prout, visited the Bloomsbury flat as promised, found everything in order. Only a photograph, a girl’s photograph, was missing. And that, Peter had not noticed. But from Francis Gordon himself had come no word. The War seemed to have swallowed him up, utterly, mysteriously.

So Peter sped on, through the bright countryside, thinking of his cousin. . . . And at that very moment thousands of miles away, in a great hotel at Los Angeles, California, a girl said to herself: “Even if he has gone to the war, it’s mean of him not to write and tell me so.” She stood at the window for a moment, looking out onto the sunlit lawn. Till suddenly, the lawn seemed to grow dark. “He can’t have been killed,” she whispered. “He can’t have been killed.”

It is not easy for “agents in enemy countries” to keep up a regular correspondence with the young women whose photographs they carry in their pocket-books!

§ 2

To get from London to Shoreham, you must change trains at Brighton. Peter used the opportunity to lunch at the Royal York Hotel. Seeing him alone at a table by the window, Harry Preston, most vigilant of proprietors, came over; proffered an old brandy in celebration of the new uniform.

“That’s the Chalkshire badge you’re wearing, isn’t it?” asked Harry Preston.

“Yes, I’m joining them at Shoreham this afternoon.”

The little man whistled.

“What’s the joke?” queried Peter.

“Not for me to say, of course. But I’ve been doing business with your firm for some years; and if you’ll take my advice—don’t play cards with a gentleman named Locksley-Jones.”

“Who’s he?”

“You’ll find out when you get there.”

“Thanks for the hint,” smiled Peter. “Have a cigar, won’t you?”

§ 3

Colonel Andrews, a diffident, not unkindly man of the pre-Boer-War school, expressionless of face, and stocky of figure, stood talking to his Adjutant in the recently-occupied camp on the flat fields near Shoreham Railway Station. Rattled a taxi down the road; stopped at the gate.

“Another officer, I suppose,” said the Colonel. “Might be a ‘regular’ by his old valise. You’d better go and look after him. I’m off home for tea. Send up to the house if you want me for anything.” He strode back across the parade-ground, through the lines of tents; and disappeared.

Peter acknowledged the salute of a sentry, still in civilian clothes except for a swagger-cane; paid his taxi; gave instructions for his kit to be dumped at the guard-tent till further orders.

“That’s the Adjutant, Sir,” said the sentry, pointing to a bow-legged figure in khaki making his way across the parade-ground towards them. Peter—saluting although the newcomer only wore the two stars of a full lieutenant,—saw a pair of puffy eyes under a thatch of sandy hair, two ears rather full in the lobe, a goodish nose, and a set of bad teeth between thin lips. “And what can I do for you?” said the other, carelessly acknowledging the compliment.

“Are you the Adjutant of the 10th Chalkshires?”

“I’m Lieutenant Locksley-Jones, at present acting in that capacity.”

“The deuce you are,” thought Peter; then aloud, “My name’s Jameson. I’ve been ordered by the War Office to join this battalion.”

“_I_ don’t know anything about you. The W.O. haven’t sent _us_ any instructions.” Locksley-Jones fingered scraggy moustache doubtfully; scrutinized the telegram Peter produced.

“All right,” he said. “You’ll have to share a tent with the other fellows. Meanwhile you’d better come and have some tea. Those are the officers’ lines,” he pointed to a row of tents by the road, “the men are over there,” his stick switched across the parade-ground, “and we mess in this big marquee.”

“I don’t wonder Harry Preston whistled,” thought Peter, as they picked their way across the tent-ropes to Mess; passed through the deserted “ante-room” where a red stove glowed welcome, into the main part of the marquee.

Scattered about in groups at the trestle-tables under the swinging oil-lamps, little knots of officers sat eating and drinking. Civilian waiters bustled about, serving them.

“Hello, Adjutant,” exclaimed a tall thin Major, twinkling face red-veined with port and the open air. “What’s this? Another budding Napoleon?”

Locksley-Jones introduced Peter deferentially; the Major shook hands; asked the usual “Done any soldiering before?”; was told “Yes, Sir. Eton Volunteers”; apologized for talking shop in Mess; and buried his nose in a large cup of boiling tea.

“Peter Jameson?” he said, emerging. “Let me think. Name sounds familiar somehow. You’re not Tessa Bradley’s son, by any chance, are you? She married a man named Jameson.”

“My father, Sir,” said Peter.

“Good Gad,” said Major Fox-Goodwin, “why I was at their wedding. Thirty-five years ago or I’m a Dutchman. Fancy, little Tessa having a grown-up son. I say, Jones,—beg pardon, Locksley-Jones. . . .”

“Yes, Major.” The Adjutant was visibly irritated; firstly by his superior’s reception of the newcomer, secondly at the mistake (which he knew intentional) in his own name.

“Young Jameson will be posted to my company. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Major.”

“And if he knows his drills, you’re not to put him ‘on the square.’ See?”

“Quite, Major.” The acting adjutant finished his tea hurriedly; went out.

“Between you and me and the gatepost,” whispered Fox-Goodwin, “Andrews will make the mistake of his life if he keeps that young bounder in the Orderly Room much longer.”

Peter nodded comprehension; and the old man—he was, as he informed his new subaltern, “rising sixty-five”—began to reminisce. He had soldiered under “Chips” Bradley in the late seventies, or was it the early eighties? “Damned if he knew, but Chips Bradley had the best eye for a pretty gal . . . and as for his two daughters, Tessa and Dolores: bit Jewish-looking though . . . they got that from their mother of course.” He rambled on for nearly ten minutes; then called across the room. “Here, Bromley, come and be introduced to our latest.”

Harold Bromley lounged over with the unmistakable gait of the ex-Cavalryman. A tall unsmiling fellow, heavy-moustached, light-blue of eye and auburn-haired, who wore the two South African ribbons, yellow-red-black green-white, across his rather crumpled tunic.

“Leave you two youngsters alone,” announced the Major, introductions over; and wiping his gray moustache with a brown bandanna handkerchief, withdrew to the ante-room.

“Marvellous old chap,” commented Bromley. He spoke rather slowly but without any drawl. “Always reminds me of a character in Thackeray. Do you read Thackeray?”

“I’m not much of a bookworm,” said Peter; and waited for more information. He had knocked about the world enough to learn the advantage of listening much and talking little on first acquaintance. But his liking for the grave man—whom in spite of the single star on the shoulders of his high-collared tunic, he judged to be nearly forty—was instinctive.

“I’m glad you’re coming to ‘B’ Company,” went on Bromley. “The Major’s a great sport—but he doesn’t know a word of his drill; and now that he’s acting second-in-command, most of the work falls on myself and the Sergeant-Major. I suppose you know enough to come on parade right away, without bothering about recruit-drill.”

“Oh, I think so,” said Peter; and proffered his inevitable cigar-case.

Bromley accepted a cigar; and the two sat talking for a few minutes. Characteristically, neither spoke of his life before joining the army; their conversation confined itself to generalities.

“Let’s go into the ante-room,” suggested Bromley.

They found two comfortable basket-chairs near the stove. Locksley-Jones, returned from the Orderly-room, had established himself at one of the baize-covered tables, was tearing the wrapper from a fresh pack of cards. “Care for a game, Jameson?” he called across the room.

Bromley looked sideways at his new friend (the instinctive liking had been mutual); saw his eyelashes just flicker; heard him say, “No, thanks, not tonight.” The ante-room began to fill up; grew loud with talk, hazy with tobacco-smoke. The Adjutant’s rubber soon filled. Bromley, in a discreet undertone, began pointing out various worthies.

There was Captain Mosely, a great ox of a fellow, ex-Regular newly-rejoined, who sat by himself in a far corner, writing letters—the flimsy chair creaking each time he dived for ink (“O. C. ‘D’ Company,” whispered Bromley): and Simcox who commanded “A”—a fat stockbroker of forty, looking curiously out of his element among a group of very junior subalterns. There was Fanshawe (“son of Judge Fanshawe”) beetle-browed, black-locked, long of leg and short of temper, discussing Military Law with Bareton, a tall clean-shaven young lawyer, light-haired, stubborn in temperament, a puritan fanatic with a tendency to dreaming, (“they’re running ‘C’ between ’em, rather efficient fellows,” confided Bromley): and Peabody, a brown-faced kid of eighteen, looking the child in his converted cadet tunic; Arkwright, tall and lank with the unmistakable stoop of the junior master in an English Public School; Mackenzie, a round-faced Scotch boy who had been studying for “the Ministry” when war broke out—and many others. A curious team to be driven by a Colonel of limited outlook, who had made his first mistake when he decided to live out of Mess, his second when he confided the acting-Adjutancy to the astute but unscrupulous Locksley-Jones.

“Care to come round the lines?” asked Bromley. “I usually go about now.”

They found their caps and canes, sauntered out.

§ 4

Already, it was dusk—a chill dry night, moonless. Under the shadows of the trees in front of them, tents glowed—warm orange cones in the darkness. Figures passed them as they walked across the dry grass; touched caps awkwardly; muttered “Good-night, sir.”

Bromley made way towards a light that shone out like an eye from the open doorway of the first tent. Approaching, Peter saw, under it, a head in a khaki cap, bowed over an open book. The head lifted to the sound of their footsteps; the body underneath jerked itself to attention.

“Good-evening, sir,” said Company-Sergeant-Major Gladeney—a fierce little alert-eyed man with the waxed moustaches of the old-time non-com.

“Evening, Colour Sergeant,” Bromley acknowledged the salute. “May we come in?”

“With pleasure, sir.”

They stepped over the tent-fly; and were made welcome on two packing-cases.

“This is Mr. Jameson, one of our new officers, Colour Sergeant”—it must be explained that Bromley had not yet accustomed himself to the new title of “Company-Sergeant-Major”—“do you think you can find him a good servant?”

“I think so, sir. There’s a man here, name of Priestley, who was with us in South Africa. He ought to take a stripe but he won’t. . . .”

“Knows the game too well, I suppose,” suggested Bromley.

“That’s about the size of things, sir. He’s out now; but if your batman could look after Mr. Jameson for tonight, I’ll send him over first thing in the morning.”

“Very well, Colour Sergeant. How are the boys?”

“All right, sir. They’re shaking down pretty well.” He relaxed a little, put a match to his pipe. “Wonderful thing to me, sir, how they put up with things. Those boots you bought in Brighton were a God-send, sir. They may be able to march now. Before, half of them couldn’t do more than hobble. And tomorrow we’ll be serving out the new uniforms.”

“What, khaki?” interrupted Peter.

“No, sir. Workhouse stuff, sir—at least that’s what they look like to me. Blue slops and forage-caps for the most part. And a few of our old militia uniforms.”

“Not the old scarlet-runners.” This from Bromley.

“The identical, sir, with the old white facings. Don’t know what they’ll look like when we get ’em dressed up, sir. But it’ll be better than their civvies anyway.” He patted his own be-ribboned khaki tunic, pulled hard at his pipe.

“Any need for me to go round the lines, Colour Sergeant?”

“I don’t think so, sir. Mr. Fanshawe is Orderly Officer tonight.”

Bromley got up; said “Thank you, Colour Sergeant. I think that will be all then”; acknowledged Gladeney’s salute, and stepped back into the darkness. Peter followed.

Walking back, Bromley linked arms; said, “Look here, old chap, you’d better come into my tent tonight. I’m a quiet old stick—but you’ll find the kids a bit trying.”

§ 5

So began a real friendship.

Began too, for Peter Jameson, a new life—the life which every untrained gentleman of the Empire who could spoof a recruiting doctor into passing him young enough or fit enough for service, was then living. A life neither of comfort nor—as many wrote and made much money by their writing—of good humour. A life of adults gone back to the irritation of school: save that for school-house they had sodden camps; for dining-hall, a draughty tent where fleecing contractors served half-cold meals; for schoolmasters, the incompetence of brave fellows wrongly employed.

But neither Peter nor Bromley concerned themselves over much, in those first weeks, with generalities. They realized, none better, that all was not well with the “Voluntary System,” with the Chalkshires; that Locksley-Jones’ influence with their Colonel continued to grow, that his pernicious example had already affected the junior officers. They realized—and went on with their work. For them, as for Fanshawe and Bareton in “C” Company, nothing save their men existed. And for every minute they lavished on their men, their men repaid them a hundredfold.

Those _men_! For, of the officers, one does not write. The well-educated, the well-off, the comfortable classes, must needs defend the country from which they draw their riches and their education: and he who did not do so—voluntarily, without compulsion or fear of compulsion—whatever his fancied responsibilities to his profession, to his businesses, to his housen, to his women or his children, is surely anathema maran atha, the moral leper, the pariah among his kind.

But those _men_! men of the People: uneducated, unwashed, foul-mouthed, drinkers and womanizers if you will; the “proletariat,” product of shop and Board School, of mill and mine, of farm and factory; those _men_ who came voluntarily from all the earth, waving no flags, moved only by that dumb blind Anglo-Saxon spirit which has made and unmade Kings since the beginning of time! how shall one write of these?

They had, in those early days, neither leaders nor equipment. They trained, grotesquely, with blocks of rough wood—hewn to the semblance of a rifle. They were herded fourteen, sixteen and twenty together, in leaking tents, with never a floor-board between their one blanket and the mud below. They were flung out into our towns in suits of sloppy blue, in overcoats cobbled together by sweated aliens—a mockery on the public streets. They had scarcely any leave. Their wives and children starved because their separation-allowances were not paid. Their own food was cooked, weather permitting, in shallow trenches on the bare ground—with civilian houses fifty yards away.

And when the sodden camps chosen for them stood two feet deep in greasy slime, when neither their single blankets nor their single suits could be dried, when the fires would not burn and the sick-parade marched double-company-strong to the doctor’s tent half-a-mile away—then, they were _vaccinated_, willy-nilly, and left to cure their swollen arms as best they might, jostling against each other in their crowded styes!

Till gradually that first fine enthusiasm, which made them trainable even by the untrained, oozed from their souls—even as the mud oozed up through the ground on which they slept: till all the keenness, and all the joy, and all the glory of the finest profession in the world evaporated; leaving nothing save the dour stark spirit of Anglo-Saxondom to carry them on.

And as, in mud and muddle and incompetence, these early volunteers began their soldiering; so, in blood and incompetence and disaster, most of them ended it. Yet though they grumbled, they never weakened; though the song died on their lips and the jest from their eyes, neither their hearts nor their limbs flinched from the tasks appointed.

Let library-historians give the palm to this Field-Marshal or that Statesman if they will, we who did our best for him know that it was the “common man,” “poor bloody Tommy”—on his lorry or his ration-cart, at his telephone-station or his observation-post, in his trench or his gun-pit—“poor bloody Tommy,” hungry sometimes, tired mostly, frightened to the depths of his unimaginative soul, but _enduring always_, who staved off every British defeat and won every British victory all the way back from Mons to Compiègne and all the way forward from Compiègne back to Mons again.

Pray God that he find honest leaders—for leaders he must have—in this future he has won for us!