Part 3

"Now mind the word. Ride--ri'--tur-r-rn. Walk march. Tr-a-a-at. Helbows slightly brushing the ribs--_your_ ribs, not the 'orse's, Number Three.

"Shorten yer reins, 'eels down, 'eads up, 'ollow yer backs, four feet from nose to croup.

"Get off that mare's neck, Number Seven, and try ridin' in the saddle for a change; it'll be more comfortable for everybody.

"You oughter do cowboy stunts for the movin' pictures, Number Six, you ought really. People would pay money to see you ride a norse upside down like that. Got a strain of wild Cossack blood in you, eh?

"There you are, now you've been and fell off. Nice way to repay me for all the patience an' learning I've given you!

"What are you lyin' there for? Day dreaming? I s'pose you're goin' to tell me you're 'urted now? Be writing 'ome to Mother about it next: 'Dear Ma,--A mad mustang 'as trod on me stummick. Please send me a gold stripe. Your loving child, Algy.'

"Now mind the word. Ride--can--ter!"

He cracks his whip; the horses throw up their heads and break into a canter; the cavaliers turn pea-green about the chops, let go the reins and clutch saddle-pommels.

The leading horse, a rakish chestnut, finding his head free at last and being heartily fed-up with the whole business, suddenly bolts out of the _manège_ and legs it across the meadow, _en route_ for stables and tea. His eleven mates stream in his wake, emptying saddles as they go.

The ten little gamins dance ecstatically upon the bank, waving their shirts and shrilling "_A Berlin! A Berlin!_"

The ancient Gaul props himself up against the piebald cow and shakes his ancient head. "_C'est la guerre_," he croaks.

The deserted Riding-Master damns his eyes and blesses his soul for a few moments; then sighs resignedly, takes a cigarette from his cap lining, lights it and waddles off towards the village and his favourite _estaminet_.

VIII

NATIONAL ANTHEM

Out here the telephone exists largely as a vehicle for the _jeux d'esprit_ of the Brass Lids. It is a one-way affair, working only from the inside out, for if you have a trifle of repartee to impart to the Brazen Ones, the apparatus is either indefinitely engaged, or _Na poo_ (as the French say). If you are one of these bulldog lads and are determined to make the thing talk from the outside in, you had better migrate _chez_ Signals, taking your bed, blankets, beer, tobacco and the unexpired portion of next week's ration, and camp at the telephone orderly's elbow. After a day or two it will percolate through to the varlet's intelligence that you are a desperate dog in urgent need of something, and he will bestir himself, and mayhap in a further two or three days' time he will wind a crank, pull some strings, and announce that you are "on," and you will find yourself in animated conversation with an inspector of cemeteries, a jam expert at the Base, or the Dalai Lama. If you want to give back-chat to the Staff you had best take it there by hand.

A friend of mine by name of Patrick once got the job of Temporary Assistant Deputy Lance Staff Captain (unpaid), and before he tumbled to the one-way idea, his telephone worked both ways and gave him a lot of trouble. People were always calling him up and asking him questions, which of course wasn't playing the game at all. Sometimes he never got to bed before 10 p.m., answering questions; often he was up again at 9 a.m., answering more questions--and such questions!

A sample. On one occasion he rang up his old battalion. One Jimmy was then Acting Assistant Vice-Adjutant. "Hello, wazzermatter?" said Jimmy. "Staff Captain speaking," said Patrick sternly. "Please furnish a return of all cooks, smoke-helmets, bombs, mules, Yukon packs, tin bowlers, grease-traps and Plymouth Brothers you have in the field!"

"Easy--beg pardon, yes, Sir," said Jimmy and hung up.

Presently the 'phone buzzed and there was Jimmy again.

"Excuse me, Sir, but you wanted a return of various commodities we have in the field. What field?"

"Oh, the field of Mars, fat-head!" Patrick snapped and rang off. A quarter of an hour later he was called to the 'phone once more and the familiar bleat of Jimmy tickled his ear. "Excuse me, Sir--whose mother?"

On the other hand the great Brass Hat is human and makes a slip, a clerical error, now and again, sufficient to expose his flank. And then the humble fighting man can draw his drop of blood if he is quick about it. To this same long-suffering Jimmy was vouchsafed the heaven-sent opportunity, and he leapt at it. He got a chit from H.Q., dated 6/7/17, which ran thus:--

"In reference to 17326 Pte. Hogan we note that his date of birth is 10/7/17. Please place him in his proper category."

To which Jimmy replied:--

"As according to your showing 17326 Pte. Hogan will not be born for another four days we are placed in a position of some difficulty.

Signed --------

"P.S.--What if, when the interesting event occurs 17326 Pte. Hogan should be a girl?

"P.S.S.--Or twins?"

Our Albert Edward is just back from one of those Army finishing schools where the young subaltern's knowledge of Shakespeare and the use of the globes is given a final shampoo before he is pushed over the top. Albert Edward's academy was situated in a small town where schools are maintained by all our brave Allies; it is an educational centre. The French school does the honours of the place and keeps a tame band, which gives tongue every Sunday evening in the Grand Place. Thither repair all the young ladies of the town to hear the music. Thither also repair all the young subalterns, also for the purpose of hearing the music.

At the end of every performance the national anthems of all our brave Allies are played, each brave Ally standing rigidly to attention the while, in compliment to the others. As we have a lot of brave Allies these days, all with long national war-whoops, this becomes somewhat of a strain.

One morning the French bandmaster called on the Commandant of the English school.

"Some Americans have arrived," said he. "They are naturally as welcome as the sunshine, but" (he sighed) "it means yet another national anthem."

The Commandant sighed and said he supposed so.

"By the way," said the _chef d'orchestre_, "what is the American national anthem?"

"'Yankee Doodle,'" replied the Commandant.

The Chief Instructor said he'd always understood it was "Hail, Columbia."

The Adjutant was of the opinion that "The Star-Spangled Banner" filled the bill, while the Quartermaster cast his vote for "My Country, 'tis of thee."

The _chef d'orchestre_ thrashed his bosom and rent his coiffure. "Dieu!" he wailed, "I can't play all of them--_figurez-vous_!"

Without stopping to do any figuring they heartily agreed that he couldn't. "Tell you what," said the Commandant at length, "write to your music merchant in Paris and leave it to him."

The _chef d'orchestre_ said he would, and did so.

Next Sunday evening, as the concert drew to a close, the band flung into the _Marseillaise_, and the subalterns of all nations leapt to attention. They stood to attention through "God Save the King," through the national anthems of Russia, Italy, Portugal, Rumania, Serbia, Belgium, Montenegro and Monte Carlo, all our brave Allies. Then the _chef d'orchestre_ suddenly sprang upon a stool and waved above his head the stripes and stars of our newest brave Ally, while the band crashed into the opening strains of "When the midnight choo-choo starts for Alabam." It speaks volumes for the discipline of the Allied armies that their young subalterns stood to attention even through that.

IX

HORSE SENSE

Time--NIGHT

SCENE.--_A shell-pitted plain and a cavalry regiment under canvas thereon. It is not yet "Lights out," and on the right hand the semi-transparent tents and bivouacs glow like giant Chinese lanterns inhabited by shadow figures. From an Officers' mess tent comes the twinkle of a gramophone, rendering classics from "Keep Smiling." In a bivouac an opposition mouth-organ saws at "The Rosary." On the left hand is a dark mass of horses, picketed in parallel lines. They lounge, hips drooping, heads low, in a pleasant after-dinner doze. The Guard lolls against a post, lantern at his feet, droning a fitful accompaniment to the distant mouth-organ. "The hours I spent wiv thee, dear 'eart, are.--Stan' still, Ginger--like a string of pearls ter me--ee ... Grrr, Nellie, stop kickin!" The range of desolate hills in the background is flickering with gun-flashes and grumbling with drum-fire--the Boche evensong._

_A bay horse_ (_shifting his weight from one leg to the other_). Somebody's catching it in the neck to-night.

_A chestnut_. Yep. Now if this was 1914, with that racket loose, we'd be standing to.

_A gun-pack horse_. Why?

_Chestnut_. Wind up, sonny. Why in 1914 our saddles grew into our backs like the ivy and the oak. In 1914----

_A black horse_. Oh, dry up about 1914, old soldier; tell us about the Battle of Hastings and how you came to let William's own Mounted Blunderbusses run all over you.

_A bay horse_. Yes, and how you gave the field ten stone and a beating in the retreat to Corunna. What are your personal recollections of Napoleon, Rufus?

_Chestnut_. You blinkin' conscripts, you!

_Black_. Shiss! no bad language, Rufus--ladies present.

_Chestnut_. Ladies, huh. Behave nice and ladylike when they catch sight of the nosebags, don't they?

_A skewbald mare_. Well, we gotta stand up for our rights.

_Chestnut_. 'Struth you do, tooth and hoof. What were you in civil life, Baby? A Suffragette?

_Skewbald_. No, I wasn't, so there.

_Bay_. No, she was a footlights favourite; wore her mane in plaits and a star-spangled bearing-rein and surcingle to improve her fig-u-are; did pretty parlour tricks to the strains of the banjo and psaltery. _N'est-ce pas, cherie_?

Skewbald. Well, what if I did? There's scores of circus gals is puffect lydies. I don't require none of your familiarity any'ow, Mister.

_Bay_. Beg pardon. Excuse my bluff soldierly ways; but nevertheless take your nose out of my hay net, please.

_A Canadian dun_. Gee! quit weavin' about like that, Tubby. Can't you let a guy get some sleep. I'll hand you a cold rebuff in the ribs in a minute. Wazzer matter with you, anyhow?

_Tubby_. Had a bad dream.

_Black_. Don't wonder, the way you over-eat yourself.

_Bay_. Ever know a Quartermaster's horse that didn't? He's the only one that gets the chance.

_Skewbald_. And the Officers' chargers.

_Voice from over the way_. Well, we need it, don't we? We do all the bally headwork.

_Bay_. Hearken even unto the Honourable Montmorency. Hello, Monty there! Never mind about the bally headwork, but next time you're out troop-leading try to steer a course somewhat approaching the straight. You had the line opening and shutting like a concertina this morning.

_An iron-grey_. Begob, and that's the holy truth! I thought my ribs was goin' ivery minnut, an' me man was cursin' undher his breath the way you'd hear him a mile away. Ye've no more idea of a straight line, Monty avic, than a crab wid dhrink taken.

_Monty_. Sorry, but the flies were giving me gyp.

_Canadian dun_. Flies? Say, but you greenhorns make me smile. Why, out West we got flies that----

_Iron grey_. Och sure we've heard all about thim. 'Tis as big as bulldogs they are; ivery time they bite you you lose a limb. Many a time the traveller has observed thim flyin' away wid a foal in their jaws, the rapparees! F' all that I do be remarkin' that whin one of the effete European variety is afther ticklin' you in the short hairs you step very free an' flippant, Johnny, acushla.

_A brown horse_. Say, Monty, old top, any news? You've got a pal at G.H.Q., haven't you?

_Monty_. Oh, yes, my young brother. He's got a job on Haig's personal Staff now, wears a red brow-band and all that--ahem! Of course he tells me a thing or two when we meet, but in the strictest confidence, you understand.

_Brown_. Quite; but did he say anything about the end of the War?

_Monty_. Well, not precisely, that is not exactly, excepting that he says that it's pretty certain now that it--er--well, that it will end.

_Brown_. That's good news. Thanks, Monty.

_Monty_. Not a bit, old thing. Don't mention it.

_Iron-grey_. 'Tis a great comfort to us to know that the War will ind, if not in our day, annyway sometime.

_Canadian dun_. You bet. Gee, I wish it was all over an' I was home in the foothills with the brown wool and pink prairie roses underfoot, and the Chinook layin' my mane over.

_Iron-grey_. Faith, but the County Cork would suit me completely; a roomy loose-box wid straw litter an' a leak-proof roof.

_Tubby_. Yes, with full meals coming regularly.

_A bay mare_. I've got a two-year-old in Devon I'd like to see again.

_Monty_. I've no quarrel with Leicestershire myself.

_Gunpack horse_. Garn! Wot abaht good old London?

_Chestnut_. Steady, Alf, what are you grousing about? You never had a full meal in your life until Lord Derby pulled you out of that coster barrow and pushed you into the Army.

_Tubby_. A full meal in the Army--help!

_Brown_. Listen to our living skeleton. Do you chaps remember that afternoon he had to himself in an oat field up Plug Street way? When the grooms found him he was lying on his back, legs in the air, blown up like a poisoned pup. "Blimy," says one lad to t'other, "'ere's one of our observation bladders the 'Un 'as brought down."

_Chestnut_. I heard the Officer boy telling the Troop Sergeant that he'd buy a haystack some day and try to burst you, Tubby. The Sergeant bet him a month's pay it couldn't be done.

_Tubby_. Just because I've got a healthy appetite----

_Brown_. Healthy appetites aren't being worn this season, Sir--bad form. How are the politicians' park hacks to be kept sleek if the troop-horse don't tighten his girth a bit? Be patriotic, old dear; eat less oats.

_Chestnut_. That mess gramophone must be redhot by now. It's been running continuous since First Post. I suppose somebody's mamma has sent him a bottle of ginger-pop, and they're seeing life while the bubbles last.

_Monty_. Yes, and I suppose my young gentleman will be parading to-morrow morning with a _camouflage_ tunic over his pyjamas, looking to me to pull him through squadron drill.

_Iron-grey_. God save us, thin!

_A Mexican roan_. _Buenas noches!_

_Gunpack horse_. Hish! Orderly Officer. 'E's in the Fourth Troop lines nah; you can 'ear 'im cursin' as he trips over the heel shackles.

_Monty_. Hush, you fellows. Orderly Officer. _Bong swar_.

* * * * * * * *

_Once more heads and hips droop. They pose in attitudes of sleep like a dormitory of small boys on the approach of a prefect. The line Guard comes to life, seizes his lantern and commences to march up and down as if salvation depended on his getting in so many laps to the hour. From the guard-tent a trumpet wails, "Lights out."_

X

"CONVEY," THE WISE IT CALL

I am living at present in one of those villages in which the retreating Hun has left no stone unturned. With characteristic thoroughness he fired it first, then blew it up, and has been shelling it ever since. What with one thing and another, it is in an advanced state of dilapidation; in fact, if it were not that one has the map's word for it, and a notice perched on a heap of brick-dust saying that the Town Major may be found within, the casual wayfarer might imagine himself in the Sahara, Kalahari, or the south end of Kingsway.

Some of these French towns are very difficult to recognise as such; only the trained detective can do it. A certain Irish regiment was presented with the job of capturing one. The scheme was roughly this. They were to climb the parapet at 5.25 a.m. and rush a quarry some one hundred yards distant. After half an hour's breather they were to go on to some machine-gun emplacements, dispose of these, wait a further twenty minutes, and then take the town. Distance barely one thousand yards in all. Promptly at zero the whole field spilled over the bags, as the field spills over the big double at Punchestown, paused at the quarry only long enough to change feet on the top, and charged yelling at the machine-guns. Then being still full of fun and _joie de vivre_, and having no officers left to hamper their fine flowing style, they ducked through their own barrage and raced all out for the final objective. Twenty minutes later, two miles further on, one perspiring private turned to his panting chum, "For the love of God, Mike, aren't we getting in the near of this damn town yet?"

I have a vast respect for Hindenburg (a man who can drink the mixtures he does, and still sit up and smile sunnily into the jaws of a camera ten times a day, is worthy of anybody's veneration), but if he thought that by blowing these poor little French villages into small smithereens he would deprive the B.E.F. of head-cover and cause it to catch cold and trot home to mother, he will have to sit up late and do some more thinking. For Atkins of to-day is a knowing bird; he can make a little go the whole distance and conjure plenty out of nothingness. As for cover, two bricks and his shrapnel hat make a very passable pavilion. Goodness knows it would puzzle a guinea-pig to render itself inconspicuous in our village, yet I have watched battalion after battalion march into it and be halted and dismissed. Half an hour later there is not a soul to be seen. They have all gone to ground. My groom and countryman went in search of wherewithal to build a shelter for the horses. He saw a respectable plank sticking out of a heap of débris, laid hold on it and pulled. Then--to quote him verbatim--"there came a great roarin' from in undernath of it, Sor, an' a black divil of an infantryman shoved his head up through the bricks an' drew down sivin curses on me for pullin' the roof off his house. Then he's afther throwin' a bomb at me, Sor, so I came away. Ye wouldn't be knowin' where to put your fut down in this place, Sor, for the dhread of treadin' in the belly of an officer an' him aslape."

Some people have the bungalow mania and build them bijoux maisonettes out of biscuit tins, sacking and whatnot, but the majority go to ground. I am one of the majority; I go to ground like a badger, for experience has taught me that a dug-out--cramped, damp, dark though it may be--cannot be stolen from you while you sleep; that is to say, thieves cannot come along in the middle of the night, dig it up bodily by the roots and cart it away in a G.S. waggon without you, the occupant, being aware that some irregularity is occurring to the home. On the other hand, in this country, where the warrior, when he falls on sleep suffers a sort of temporary death, bungalows can be easily purloined from round about him without his knowledge; and what is more, frequently are.

For instance, a certain bungalow in our village was stolen as frequently as three times in one night. This was the way of it. One Todd, a foot-slogging lieutenant, foot-slogged into our midst one day, borrowed a hole from a local rabbit, and took up his residence therein. Now this mud-pushing Todd had a cousin in the same division, one of those highly trained specialists who trickle about the country shedding coils of barbed wire and calling them "dumps"--a sapper, in short. One afternoon the sapping Todd, finding some old sheets of corrugated iron that he had neglected to dump, sent them over to his gravel-grinding cousin with his love and the request of a loan of a dozen of soda. The earth-pounding Todd came out of his hole, gazed on the corrugated iron and saw visions, dreamed dreams. He handed the hole back to the rabbit and set to work to evolve a bungalow. By evening it was complete. He crawled within and went to sleep, slept like a drugged dormouse. At 10 p.m. a squadron of the Shetland ponies (for the purpose of deceiving the enemy all names in this article are entirely fictitious) made our village. It was drizzling at the time, and the Field Officer in charge was getting most of it in the neck. He howled for his batman, and told the varlet that if there wasn't a drizzle-proof bivouac ready to enfold him by the time he had put the ponies to bye-byes, there would be no leave for ten years. The batman scratched his head, then slid softly away into the night. By the time the ponies were tilting the last drops out of their nosebags the faithful servant had scratched together a few sheets of corrugated, and piled them into a rough shelter. The Major wriggled beneath it and was presently putting up a barrage of snores terrible to hear. At midnight a battalion of the Loamshire Light Infantry trudged into the village. It was raining in solid chunks, and the Colonel Commanding looked like Victoria Falls and felt like a submarine. He gave expression to his sentiments in a series of spluttering bellows. His batman trembled and faded into the darkness _à pas de loup_. By the time the old gentleman had halted his command and cursed them "good night" his resourceful retainer had found a sheet or two of corrugated iron somewhere and assembled them into some sort of bivouac for the reception of his lord. His lord fell inside, kicked off his boots and slept instantly, slept like a wintering bear.

At 2 a.m. three Canadian privates blundered against our village and tripped over it. They had lost their way, were mud from hoofs to horns, dead beat, soaked to the skin, chilled to the bone, fed up to the back teeth. They were not going any further, neither were they going to be deluged to death if there was any cover to be had anywhere. They nosed about, and soon discovered a few sheets of corrugated iron, bore them privily hence and weathered the night out under some logs further down the valley. My batman trod me underfoot at seven next morning. "Goin' to be blinkin' murder done in this camp presently, Sir," he announced cheerfully. "Three officers went to sleep in bivvies larst night, but somebody's souvenired 'em since, an' they're all lyin' hout in the hopen now, Sir. Their blokes daresent wake 'em an' break the noos. All very 'asty-tempered gents, so I'm told. The Colonel is pertickler mustard. There'll be some fresh faces on the Roll of Honour when 'e comes to."

I turned out and took a look at the scene of impending tragedy. The three unconscious officers on three camp beds were lying out in the middle of a sea of mud like three lone islets. Their shuddering subordinates were taking cover at long range, whispering among themselves and crouching in attitudes of dreadful expectancy like men awaiting the explosion of a mine or the cracking of Doom. As explosions of those dimensions are liable to be impartial in their attentions I took horse and rode afield. But according to my batman, who braved it out, the Lieutenant woke up first, exploded noisily and detonated the Field Officer who in turn detonated the Colonel. In the words of my batman--"They went orf one, two, three, Sir, for orl the world like a machine-gun, an eighteen-pounder and an How-pop-pop! Whizz-bang! Boom!--very 'eavy casu-alities, Sir."

XI

OUR MESS PRESIDENT

Nobody out here seems exactly infatuated with the politicians nowadays. The Front Trenches have about as much use for the Front Benches as a big-game hunter for mosquitoes. The bayonet professor indicates his row of dummies and says to his lads, "Just imagine they are Cabinet Ministers--go!" and in a clock-tick the heavens are raining shreds of sacking and particles of straw. The demon bomber fancies some prominent Parliamentarian is lurking in the opposite sap, grits his teeth, and gets an extra five yards into his bowling.