PART SEVEN

ALARUMS AND EXCURSIONS

§ 1

“Take it from me, P.J.,” said Bromley, as he dumped himself down on the untidy camp-bedstead and began re-winding his puttees, “this is a damn good battalion—to get out of.”

It had rained during the night, making early parade impossible, postponing the morning’s route-march for an hour so as to enable the men to get some breakfast.

“Oh, I don’t think it’s quite as bad as that, old man. The Company’s getting on all right,” said Peter, picking up the letters which Private Priestley had deposited—according to custom—on his canvas pillow.

“I wasn’t talking about the Company. Nothing wrong there. Considering the circumstances, the way they’ve come on is a miracle. I was talking about the Battalion in general, its Adjutant in particular. You see this isn’t a new game to me, P.J. I’ve seen bad fellows ruin the finest shows before now.”

“Why can’t you leave Locksley-Jones alone? He’s not doing us any harm. Besides the Colonel’s all right—although he did tell me at last night’s lecture that ‘the machine-gun is not a weapon of precision.’”

“He wouldn’t say that if he’d been shot in the stomach by one, like I was,” commented Bromley. “Not that he’s a bad chap, all the same. But he leaves too much to Locksley. Locksley’s playing for his own hand all the time. I don’t mind his rooking the youngsters at Bridge, or running them over to Brighton in his car every night. If they’re fools enough to go with him, that’s their hunt. But when it comes to his interfering with Company Commanders in their recommendations for promotion. . . .”

“But he hasn’t done that, surely?”

“Yes, he has. I didn’t mean to tell you, but the Major put both of us in for our second star”—(the Major had actually put Bromley’s name down for a Captaincy and Bromley knew it)—“and Locksley blocked it with the Colonel.”

“Well, I don’t care about promotion anyway,” said Peter, starting to open his letters.

“Don’t be a fool, P.J. Everybody who’s any good wants to go _up_. And can’t you follow what Locksley’s game is? _I_ can. He’s keeping the Captaincies for his pals. Especially these new blighters who keep on coming down to see him in mufti. You mark my words, they’ll all be turning up as officers in a week or two. Honestly, if it wasn’t for the men and the old Major, I’d apply for a transfer tomorrow.”

Such conversations were not unusual between them. Locksley-Jones, confirmed in his Adjutancy, was all (and more) than Bromley had hinted. But for the moment Peter had forgotten the Chalkshires.

He was reading, very carefully, a long letter written by his brother Arthur—a letter from Java, which had been two months under way. Arthur put his case very clearly. The tobacco-farm, newly established, carried a mortgage of £2000. Arthur’s capital had gone in farm-implements, in seedlings, in the cheese-cloth with which he was experimenting. He couldn’t realize, owing to the drop in land values. The mortgage-money had been lent by a Hun trading-house. Under the Dutch laws, they could prevent his leaving the country. “I can’t even get to Singapore, unless you’ll lend me the money,” wrote Arthur. “I’ve asked them to foreclose, but they won’t. The interest is 8% and they say I can make it for them as long as I stop here. Damn them!”

Peter knew enough about the tobacco-farming industry to realize that the “mortgage” Arthur spoke of must include a lien on the growing crop; enough about Hun methods of peaceful penetration to understand the seriousness of the position: decided, after railing inwardly at the untimeliness of the demand, that he would have to find the cash somehow.

“Fall in, ‘C’ Company,” boomed Sergeant-Major Gladeney’s voice. Peter shuffled the remainder of his correspondence into his tunic-pocket; pulled on his cap and gloves; switched stick under arm; and stalked out.

“Something’s upset P.J.,” thought Bromley, following at leisure.

§ 2

In those early days of “Kitchener’s Army” week-end leave for officers was more of a habit than a privilege; and though Locksley-Jones demurred slightly at the irregularity, Friday evening found Peter, haversack at side, waiting for the 4:30 upon the bleak, dirty station of Shoreham-on-Sea.

The human animal is amazingly adaptable, amazingly restricted. Peter had been scarcely four weeks a soldier; but all the way up to town the old life seemed almost a thing of the past. Only arrival at Victoria, bright under its arc-lamps against the darkness outside, brought it back.

His mind, now concentrated on the question of whether to borrow the two thousand from his own bank or overdraw it from Jameson’s, did not allow of careless merrymaking. So that Patricia, although he fell in readily enough with her suggestion of two stalls at the Palace Vaudeville, found him curiously unaltered. He kissed her, but no more warmly than if he had just returned from a business-trip. She had expected nothing else: nevertheless she felt unreasonably disappointed. Physically, fresh air and exercise had tanned his cheeks, hardened his muscles: mentally, she could detect no change. And as they sat in the theatre, she could not but envy the obvious good spirits, the excited affection of the other couples about them.

He told her about Arthur; talked of “B” Company; answered questions about his new life readily. Nirvana, she heard, went as well as could be expected; Jameson’s sales had been rather disappointing. It was nice of her to offer to drive him back on Sunday in the car; but he thought the journey home, in the dark and without a chauffeur, might be too much for her.

Simpson too, asked by wire to be in the office on Saturday, could not see much difference in our Mr. Jameson. His grip of things did not seem to have suffered. He enquired about customers by name; about Hartopp (_geborener_ Hagenburg) in particular. He mentioned the partnership deed; suggested a tentative renewal—say for two years or the “duration”—on the old terms. The older man, warning him vaguely about taking two thousand pounds out of the business at such a time, met with a curt, “I don’t like it any more than you do, but a fellow must stand by his own.” Mention of Beckmanns evoked another flash of temper.

Bramson, on the other hand, summoned peremptorily to give up the better part of his Saturday afternoon off, found Peter rather overbearing: confided the fact to his cousin Marcus with whom he dined that evening.

Said Marcus, “My boy, you forget that you’re a civilian to him now.”

Whereafter, the two settled down to piquet—with occasional references to the stationary condition of Nirvana trade as compared with the leaping canteen business of “Pullman Virginias.”

“Pretty” Bramson was perfectly straight: but after all “a fellow must stand by his own!”

§ 3

In the crowded Pullman car of the last Sunday night train back to Shoreham, Peter fell in with his Colonel. The diffident, kindly man—usually shy with his subalterns—offered a whisky-and-soda; grew a little talkative.

“I wish I were out in France,” he confided. “I’d rather be a Major out there than a Colonel in England any day. But the powers-that-be won’t hear of it. It looks like a long war, Jameson—a really long war. But of course it might end tomorrow—and then one would never have had one’s chance.”

“Do you think we shall be going out soon, sir?” Peter asked the stock-question from pure habit.

Colonel Andrews began to talk the other side of war, the difficulties of finding seasoned wood for rifle-stocks, the lack of dyes for khaki. His outlook, if limited, was—except on the question of machine-guns—extraordinarily sound: and Peter, when their homeward way separated in the rain at the cross-roads by the cycle-shop, found difficulty in realizing how so decent a chap could have let himself be misled into taking Locksley-Jones for Adjutant. . . .

Turning into the Camp, Peter could see immediately that something must be wrong. Although it was nearly one o’clock in the morning, lights glowed in most of the officers’ tents. Across the blurr and rain drizzle of the parade-ground, under the acetylene flares by the latrine-buckets, figures moved, lanterns swayed. He heard voices calling.

“What’s up?” he asked the sentry.

“Trouble over in the lines, I’m afraid, sir. They do say as ’ow ‘D’ Company’s flooded out altogether.”

Peter stumbled across the darkness towards his own lines; nearly collided with a dripping figure in gum-boots. A torch flashed in his face.

“That you, P.J.?” said Bromley’s voice. “Been out on the tiles, and come to have a look round at the picnic?”

“What’s wrong?”

“Oh, nothing much. Only most of the Camp flooded; about twenty tents blown down; and half the men soaked to the skin. ‘A’ and ‘D’ have got it worst. Hark at Mosely’s voice.”

They heard it, raised like a foghorn above the din: “Now, then, you chaps, form up, will you? Never mind your blasted blankets.”

“Come and have a look-see. It’s worth while. Reminds me of a stampede in South Africa.” Peter had never known Bromley speak so crisply.

They pashed back to the lines; found confusion indescribable. Mosely had by now got his company into some sort of order; they stood there, dripping and shivering, faces white under the big flare, unlaced boots flopping as they stamped on the lime-washed slime: but Simcox’s lines looked as if a tornado had struck them. Tents lay in writhing coils; from under them, men crawled, mud-soaked and cursing; the stockbroker, in gum-boots and pyjamas, a “British Warm” coat to complete the costume, alternately damned their eyes and adjured them to “buck up”; his subalterns scuttered about, still half asleep, laughing and quite useless. “C” were already away, making for the railway-station. Peter heard Bareton’s high voice shepherding them, “Don’t straggle there. Keep together,” and a man in the rear four grousing, “Bloomin’ fine weather for ducks. . . .”

“But what’s happened to _us_?” he asked Bromley—for “B” Company’s tents stood dark and deserted.

Bromley chuckled: “Oh, they don’t catch _me_ that way, P.J. _Our_ men are all tucked up comfy round a big stove in the Schoolhouse. _I_ saw this coming at about half-past eight: so I sent Gladeney to find a good billet; routed the chaps out; posted a sentry to tell the leave-men where to make for. . . . And _we_ slacked our tent-ropes when the rain started.”

“Why didn’t you warn the others?”

“I did; but they wouldn’t listen. I’m a quiet old stick, I am.” He chuckled again, with all the “old soldier’s” delight at having scored off his colleagues.

Far away, on the high road, they heard the roar of a car; saw the glare of a single headlight; watched it nosing for the Camp gates.

“That’s our friend the Adjutant,” commented Bromley, “back from one of his little jaunts to Brighton.”

The engine stopped; the headlight was cut off. A minute or two later, Locksley-Jones’ bow-legged figure came waddling towards them. Bromley flashed the torch in his face; and they saw his puffy eyes flinch as the light struck them.

“Who are you?” he called.

“Friend.” Bromley, a little above his usual grave self, had gone clean back to South African days. The amenities of home service were, for the moment, completely in eclipse.

“Oh, it’s you, Bromley, is it? What’s all this skylarking?” blustered Locksley.

The situation was curtly explained to him; and he turned for advice—as weak men will in a crisis—to the stronger character.

“What do you think I ought to do?”

“_Do!_” said Bromley contemptuously. “_Do?_ Well, if I were you, I should go to bed. This is a _man’s_ job.”

“He’ll never forgive you for that,” said Peter, snuggling gratefully between his Jaeger blankets.

“My part!” chuckled Bromley across the darkness of the tent.