CHAPTER VIII

BACK TO HIS OWN

We're out't for duration now and do not care a cuss, There's beer to spare at dinner time and afters now for us, But if our buttys still were out in Flanders raising Cain, We'd weather through with those we knew on bully beef again-- The Old Sweats! The grub it was skimp with the Ole Sweats, But if rations was small, 'Twas the same for us all, Same for the 'ole of the Ole Sweats.

(_From "Soldier Songs."_)

The dark night clung close to the wet levels of No Man's Land, and a breeze whimpered across the grasses, crooning wearily. The whole world seemed tired; the star-shells rose lazily over the German trenches, burned drowsily for a space, and fell sluggishly to earth. The light failing, the circle of horizon grew less, and objects quite close at hand became hidden from view. The hour was about ten, and Bowdy Benners felt tired and sleepy. He was sick of it all--the night raids, the attacks, and bombing encounters. His mind turned to home--quiet London--the peaceful houses, the easy nights of untroubled sleep, afternoon teas, and the hundred-and-one comforts of civil life which were so far removed from him at the moment.

"It must be ten now," he muttered. "I suppose I'll get relieved presently."

The door of a near dug-out opened, and the ray of a candle shone out into the trench. One of his mates came out, his rifle in his hand, his waterproof ground-sheet over his shoulders.

"Is that you, Bubb?" he asked. "Taking a turn as sentry?"

"All right," Bubb answered. "Thought I wasn't coming out, eh? Are you fed up?" he asked.

"A bit sick of it," said Bowdy. "I'm tired of looking across the parapet day and night. How do you like it?"

"Rotten," said Spudhole. "The weather is so damned rotten! Everything's rotten."

He got upon the firestep, placed his rifle against the wall, and tied his waterproof across his shoulders.

"Old Flanagan is back," said Bubb, as Bowdy made his way towards the dug-out. "'E 'as come wiv a fresh draft o' men."

"Who? Flanagan? Where is he?" Bowdy asked in one mouthful.

"He's in the dug-out," said Bubb.

Bowdy rushed in, almost trampling on the face of a man who was asleep near the door. Yes, Flanagan was there--handsome Flanagan, the gallant youngster with a college education.

He was an Irish boy and belonged to the section at St. Alban's in the old days. He was a fine-looking youth of medium height, with heavy dark hair, an intelligent forehead, impassioned nostrils and an air of aloofness which became him well. He had a frank and open expression, pensive grey eyes and high cheekbones. He came from the West of Ireland and had studied for the priesthood. But feeling that this was not his vocation he entered the Civil Service. His people belonged to an old Irish family full of pride and poverty. Flanagan, though well educated, was a bit of a rake and loved the bottle. When excited he spoke with a delicious brogue and paid little heed to his grammar, but he was an omnivorous reader and carried a number of books about with him in his haversack. Montaigne was a great favourite of his. He had gone home badly wounded seven months earlier and his mates never expected to see him out in France again.

He was now sitting in a corner of the dug-out, his handsome face radiant with joy and eagerness, betraying a certain boyish innocence which in no way detracted from the dignity of his features.

"You've come back again, Flan?" Bowdy said, and gripped him by the hand.

"Yes, I'm back again," he answered.

"Glad to be with us?" Bowdy queried. "Glad to leave London and come out here?"

"Of course I am," he answered, handing Benners a cigarette.

The confession staggered Benners, but in a way he was not surprised. Flanagan was a youngster who took eagerly to the life of war, its romance and roving. He wanted to attempt everything; nothing was too big for him. With him it was no sooner see than try, and his store of enthusiasm was so unbounded that he generally succeeded in most projects. But to come back again when his wound must surely have been a permanent Blighty one!

"Why have you come back?" Bowdy asked. "Tell me all about it while I rouse the brazier and make a mess-tin of tea."

"A mess-tin of tea!" he exclaimed, as Bowdy bent over the brazier. "God, it's good to hear that, old man! The cups are so small at home. Little things. But a mess-tin full! Heavens, things are done on such a big scale in the trenches! One gets long hours of fighting, of working, of watching. Everything is taken in big mouthfuls here; there's nothing petty in the job. But at home--the soft beds--but I could not sleep; the little tea-cups--but I had no appetite; the politeness, the swank, the fine dresses--but the whole thing made me ill. We've been looking on the gods here, and I went back to live with ordinary mortals--I couldn't stick it!"

"You're a big fool, Flan," said Benners, as he fanned the brazier with a week-old copy of an English paper. "I would like to get home. I'd be in no hurry...."

"You think so," said Flanagan, "but you'd soon change your mind. I spent two months in hospital, then I was sent to a convalescent camp. But my shoulder wouldn't mend; you know I got it in the shoulder. I couldn't raise my arm; something was dislocated. But that didn't matter.... The convalescent camp was a damned nice place, near Brighton and beside the sea. There was an old sergeant-major, a rheumaticky old fellow who talked through his nose. But a good fellow all the same. We called him Nick Nock. He had no end of trouble with us, the Old Sweats, and he was always on the look-out for me. Got my name into his head somehow, and maybe I was not easy-going enough for a rheumaticky old man. He must have been about sixty-five.

"We slept in huts. Nick Nock would come to the door of our hut in the early morning. 'Are yer all in bed yet?' he would shout. (Flanagan gave an imitation of a man speaking through his nose). 'Are yer never goin' to get up? Where's Flanagan?'

"'Close the door, Nick Nock,' someone would say. 'It's too blurry cold. Close the door, will yer?"

"'I'll not close the door,' the old man would answer. 'I'll get every man of you out o' bed 'fore I leave 'ere. They're up in all the huts bar this'n.'

"'Oh! Close the door,' one would say, rising up in bed and lighting a cigarette.

"'I'll not close the door,' the sergeant would answer. 'Wot I want to know is this: where's Flanagan?'

"'Dead,' one would say. 'Gassed in the knees.'

"''E's 'angin' on the wires,' from another.

"''Is bed wasn't slept on last night,' from Nick Nock. 'When I see 'im, 'e'll be for it. And you'll all be for it if ye're not out o' kip when I come back 'ere in ten minutes from now. Mind that.'

"'Close the door, Nick Nock,' the hut would shout, as the sergeant turned to go out.

"'I'll not shut the door.'

"'Leavin' it like that and it so cold,' all would expostulate. 'Please shut the door.'

"'I'll not shut the door,' from Nick Nock. 'One would fink that the whole damn caboosh is out on a Sunday School treat.'

"Then the old man would go out, closing the door behind him. Time for me to appear then. I would come out from under the table where I had hidden. I had been out all night and just got into the hut before Nick Nock."

"Was Nick Nock ever out here?" asked Bowdy.

"Sixty-five and rheumaticky, what could he do?" said Flanagan. "But he felt it. Once he said to us, 'You know, boys, I feel out o' place 'ere. You fellows 'ave been out an' fightin', and 'ere when you come 'ome, I'm bossin' ye. It's not fair.'

"Ah! but another time he gave us a lecture, and this was how he began:--

"'Boys, there 'as been great changes in the harmy of late years. When I joined, it twasn't as good as it is now, but after I came things improved, and at the present day a man cannot do better than roll up an' become a soldier.'"

"Damn Nick Nock," said Bowdy Benners. "Tell me something about yourself. What did you do after you left the convalescent camp?"

"Well, I went off on leave from the convalescent camp, lost my pass, and forgot when I had to return. I came back seven days late. Things took a turn; Nick Nock reported me and I was taken before a medical board. The board had to determine whether I was in a fit state to survive seven days in jankers or not. Three or four old and wise men pummelled me, sounded me, and did a lot of other things. Finally they discharged me from the army. God! I could jump over the moon with joy. I bought a suit of civvies, brown tweeds, patent leather boots, and a nice white collar, a dainty little tie, a velours hat. I was quite a swell. Some of my friends live in London and I stopped with them. They were going to help me, get me a bomb-proof job with good pay and lazy hours. I had been a bit of a rake before the war, but they did not mind that. A boy must have his fling. I had proved myself a man when the country called. You know the things they would say, stock phrases that are worthy of an auctioneer. I liked it for a little, Bowdy; but then, the small teacups, the small talk, the little tit-bits of scandal...."

Flanagan got to his feet, stuck his hands in his pockets, and looked at Bowdy.

"I used to lie awake at night--the beds were so damned soft and uncomfortable--and think of the nights spent out in the trenches, sitting in a snug dug-out with the rain pattering on the roof, or through it," Flanagan went on, fixing his gaze at the candle. "Again my thoughts would run on the long night marches up the road, with the moonlight on the cobbles, and the big poplars standing upright like pompous sergeant-majors, away up to the star-shells, the big guns and the trenches. I thought of these things night after night, and I began to feel afraid. I knew that it was coming, I knew that I would leave England and come out to France again. I felt stifled at home; everything was so small and little. God, the tea is beginning to bubble already!

"Do you remember, old man, that night when we lay in the orchard, waiting to go up to the trenches to attack?" he suddenly asked, thrusting his face almost into Bowdy's. "Do you mind the buses, crowded with soldiers carrying rifles at all angles, going by on the road, the star-shells flaring up in the sky, and the bayonets glittering? The buses--going, going like hell, and the stars above shining through the apple trees--the trees were in blossom then, if you mind.... Don't you remember it?" he asked.

"I shall never forget it," Bowdy answered.

"And the raids?" he questioned, in a slow voice. "Crawling out through the long grasses with the poppies flicking you in the face, your nerves tense, not knowing what the next moment would bring. I thought of these things day after day, and in the end I succumbed to the old lure.

"'Twas a difficult job getting back again. There was I, dismissed from the army, and no more good as a fighter; my shoulder stiff and sore; my discharge papers showing that I was medically unfit, and in fact a thorough wash-out. But something had to be done. 'Twas then that I met old Nick Nock again. He was discharged, too--time-expired. I met him, I grieve to state, in a pub. I stood him a drink and told him my predicament. He thought for a moment, then he said: 'Why not come back from the back o' beyond, a sailor, go up to the recruiting station an' call yerself Bill Jackson an' get taken on again. Don't mention a word about yer shoulder, an' maybe the M.O. won't notice it. Gawd! I'd go wiv yer meself, Flanagan, if it wasn't fer those damned rheumatics.'

"I tried the dodge, got taken on as Bill Jackson, who was at one time A.B. before the mast, and now Flanagan is dead to the British Army henceforward, evermore."

"The tea is about ready, Bill Jackson," Bowdy said, as his mate sat down on the floor between the legs of a man who was sound asleep and breathing heavily. "If you care to wait a little, I'll fry a rasher of bacon. Rations are pretty plump to-night."

"And is there any rum going?" Flanagan asked, springing to his feet again. He was too excited to remain still. "How strange that I had forgotten to ask about the rum rations until now," he muttered. "I suppose there'll be a tot after a little?"

"It's within the bounds of possibility," Bowdy remarked, as he put two rashers of bacon in the mess-tin lid and placed the lid on the brazier. "But we'll see to that later. Necessities before luxuries out here, Bill Jackson," he added.

The bacon was ready and they sat down, Flanagan and Bowdy, and commenced to eat. Meals have no season in the trenches, but they are always welcome.

"God, it's good to be back here!" said Flanagan. "I've never been so happy in all my life! I hope the war won't end until this happiness is worn out."

He was sincere in his expressions, and his mood almost became Bowdy's before the meal was at an end. They lay back when they had eaten and lit cigarettes. The smoke wreathed upwards to the roof, where the mice was scurrying amidst the rafters under the sandbags. The soldiers were still asleep on the floor, their bodies curled up in queer attitudes.

"They sleep sound," said Flanagan. "Who is that snoring? Is it old Snogger?"

"Snogger it is," said Bowdy.

"I thought so," said Flanagan. "I knew his snore. I couldn't sleep like that at home--I'm very glad to be out here again. It's a great life, and I like it more than ever before. I suppose I'll get tired of it again, after a while. The novelty will wear out in due time, I've no doubt. By the way, have you Fitzgerald with you yet?" he asked.

"He's here," Bowdy made answer. "He's in love with a French girl named Fifi. He's very fond of her."

"He's in love, is he?" said Flanagan. "I mind him at St. Albans; he was in love so often. But none would take him seriously," he said. "Why, I don't know."

Bubb, the sentry, came to the door.

"'Oo's next on?" he yelled. "Sleepin' there like 'ogs, you is. Get up out't!"

"Leave him alone," said Flanagan, alluding to the soldier whom Bubb was endeavouring to rouse up. "I'll do his turn."

"Well, blimey, that's a strange caper," said Bubb, as Flanagan disappeared through the door. "One would fink 'e was in love wiv this 'ere caboosh. I know o' one squadder that ain't, that's this 'ere kid. Well, any'ow, I'm goin' to 'ave a kip."

Bubb and Bowdy lay down together and dropped off to sleep, listening to the patter of the rain on the roof, while outside on the firestep Flanagan was standing on guard, humming an old Irish song, his heart filled with the joy of a wanderer who has returned to his kind.