CHAPTER XV
PRISONERS AND CAPTIVES
The church was half in ruins. Great portions of the roof had beentorn away by shell-fire, and there were gaping holes in the wallsthrough which could be caught glimpses of sentries going backwards andforwards. Sometimes a grey battalion swung by; sometimes a Germanofficer peered in curiously, with a sneer on his lips. The drone ofaircraft came from above, through the holes where the rafters showedblack against the sky. Ever the guns boomed savagely from beyond.
There were no longer any seats in the church. They had all beenbroken up for camp-fires--even the oaken pulpit had gone. The greatempty space had been roughly cleared of fallen masonry, which had beenflung in heaps against the wall; on the stone floor filthy straw wasthinly spread. On the straw lay row upon row of wounded men--veryquiet for the most part; they had found that it did not pay to makenoise enough to annoy the guards who smoked and played cards in acorner.
The long day--how long only the men on the straw knew--was drawing toa close. The sun sank behind the western window, which the guns hadspared; and the stained glass turned to a glory of scarlet and goldand blue. The shafts of colour lay across the broken altar, whenceeverything had been stripped; they bathed the shattered walls in abeauty that was like a cloak over the nakedness of their ruin. Slowlythey crept over the floor, as the sun sank lower, touching the strawwith rosy fingers, falling gently on broken bodies and pain-drawnfaces; and weary eyes looked gratefully up to the window where afigure of Christ with a child in His arms stood glorious in the light,and blessed them with the infinite pity of His smile.
A little Cockney lad with a dirty bandage round his head, who hadtossed in pain all day on the chancel steps, turned to the window togreet the daily miracle of the sunset.
"Worf waiting for, all the day, that is!" he muttered. Therestlessness left him, and his eyes closed, presently, in sleep.
Slowly the glory died away, and as it passed a little figure in arusty black cassock came in, making his way among the men on thestraw. It was the French priest, who had refused to leave his brokenchurch: a little, fat man, not in the least like a hero, but with asknightly a soul as was ever found in armour and with lance in rest.He passed from man to man, speaking in quaint English, occasionallydropping gladly into French when he found some one able to answer himin his own language. He had nothing to give them but water; but thathe carried tirelessly many times a day. His little store of bandagesand ointment had gone long ago, but he bathed wounds, helped crampedmen to change their position, and did the best he could to make theevil straw into the semblance of a comfortable bed. To the helplessmen on the floor of the church his coming meant something akin toParadise.
He paused near a little Irishman with a broken leg, a man of theDublin Fusiliers, whose pain had not been able to destroy his goodtemper.
"How are you to-night, _mon garcon?_"
"Yerra, not too bad, Father," said the Irishman. "If I could havejust a taste of water, now?" He drank deeply as the priest lifted hishead, and sank back with a word of thanks.
"This feather pillow of mine is apt to slip if I don't watch it," hesaid, wriggling the back of his head against the cold stone of thefloor, from which the straw had worked away. "I dunno could yougather it up a bit, Father." He grinned. "I'd ask you to put meboots under me for a pillow, but if them thieving guards found themloose, they'd shweep them from me."
"Ss-h, my son!" the priest whispered warningly. He shook up a handfulof straw and made it as firm as he could under the man's head. "It isnot prudent to speak so loud. Remember you cannot see who may bebehind you."
"Indeed and I cannot," returned Denny Callaghan. "I'll remember,Father. That's great!" He settled his head thankfully on the strawpillow. "I'll sleep aisier to-night for that."
"And _Monsieur le Capitaine_--has he moved yet?" The priest glancedat a motionless form near them.
"Well, indeed he did, Father, this afternoon. He gev a turn, an' hesaid something like 'Tired People.' I thought there was great sensein that, if he was talkin' to us, so I was cheered up about him--butnot a word have I got out of him since. But it's something that hespoke at all."
The _cure_ bent over the quiet figure. Two dark eyes opened, as ifwith difficulty, and met his.
"Norah," said Jim Linton. "Are you there, Norah?"
"I am a friend, my son," said the _cure_. "Are you in pain?"
The dark eyes looked at him uncomprehendingly. Then he murmured,"Water!"
"It is here." The little priest held the heavy head, and Jim managedto drink a little. Something like a shadow of a smile came into hiseyes as the priest wiped his lips. Then they closed again.
"If they would send us a doctor!" muttered the _cure_, in his ownlanguage, longingly. "_Ma joi_, what a lad!" He looked down inadmiration at the splendid helpless body.
"He won't die, Father, will he?"
"I do not know, my son. I can find no wound, except the one on hishead--nothing seems broken. Perhaps he will be better to-morrow." Hegave the little Irishman his blessing and moved away. There were manyeager eyes awaiting him.
Jim was restless during the night; Denny Callaghan, himself unable tosleep, watched him muttering and trying to turn, but unable to move.
"I doubt but his back's broken," said the little man ruefully."Yerra, what a pity!" He tried to soothe the boy with kind words; andtowards the dawn Jim slept heavily.
He woke when the sun was shining upon him through a rift in the wall.The church was full of smothered sounds--stifled groans from helplessmen, stiffened by lying still, and trying to move. Jim managed toraise himself a little, at which Denny Callaghan gave an exclamationof relief.
"Hurroo! Are you better, sir?"
"Where am I?" Jim asked thickly.
"'Tis in a church you are, sir, though it's not much like it," saidthe little man. "The Germans call it a hospital. 'Tis all I wishthey may have the like themselves, and they wounded. Are you better,sir?"
"I . . . think I'm all right," Jim said. He was trying to regain hisscattered faculties. "So they've got me!" He tried to look atCallaghan. "What's your regiment?"
"The Dubs, sir. 'Tis hard luck; I kem back wounded from Suvla Bay andthey sent me out to the battalion here; and I'd not been with them aweek before I got landed again. Now 'tis a German prison ahead--andby all one hears they're not rest-camps."
"No," said Jim. He tried to move, but failed, sinking back with astifled groan. "I wish I knew if I was damaged much. Are there anydoctors here?"
"There was two, a while back. They fixed us up somehow, and wehaven't seen a hair of them since. The guards throw rations--of asort--at us twice a day. 'Tis badly off we'd be, if it weren't forthe priest."
"Is he French?"
"He is--and a saint, if there ever was one. There he comes now."Callaghan crossed himself reverently.
A hush had come over the church. The _cure_, in his vestments, hadentered, going slowly to the altar.
Jim struggled up on his elbow. There was perfect silence in thechurch; men who had been talking ceased suddenly, men who moaned intheir pain bit back their cries. So they lay while the little priestcelebrated Mass, as he had done every morning since the Germans sweptover his village: at first alone, and, since the first few days to asilent congregation of helpless men. They were of all creeds and someof no creed at all: but they prayed after him as men learn to praywhen they are at grips with things too big for them. He blessed them,at the end, with uplifted hand; and dim eyes followed him as he wentslowly from the church.
He was back among them, presently, in the rusty black cassock. Theguards had brought in the men's breakfast--great cans of soup andloaves of hard, dark bread. They put them down near the door,tramping out with complete disregard of the helpless prisoners. Thepriest would see to them, aided by the few prisoners who could moveabout, wounded though they were. In any case the guard had no orderto feed prisoners; they were not nurse-maids, they said.
"Ah, my son! You are awake!"
Jim smiled up at the _cure_.
"Have I been asleep long, sir?"
"Three days. They brought you in last Friday night. Do you notremember?"
"No," said Jim. "I don't remember coming here." He drank some soupeagerly, but shook his head at the horrible bread. The food clearedhis head, and when the little _cure_ had gone away, promising toreturn as soon as possible, he lay quietly piecing matters together inhis mind. Callaghan helped him: the Dublins had been in the line nexthis own regiment when they had gone "over the top" on that lastmorning.
"Oh, I remember all that well enough," Jim said. "We took two linesof trench, and then they came at us like a wall; the ground was greywith them. And I was up on a smashed traverse, trying to keep the mentogether, when it went up too."
"A shell was it?"
Jim shook his head.
"A shell did burst near us, but it wasn't that. No, the trench wasmined, and the mine went off a shade too late. They delayed, somehow;it should have gone off if we took the trench, before theycounter-attacked. As it was, it must have killed as many of their menas ours. They told me about it afterwards."
"Afterwards?" said Callaghan, curiously. He looked at Jim, a littledoubtful as to whether he really knew what he was talking about."Did ye not come straight here then, sir?"
"I did not; I was buried," said Jim grimly. "The old mine went upright under me, and I went up too. I came down with what seemed liketons of earth on top of me; I was covered right in, I tell you, only Imanaged to get some of the earth away in front of my nose and mouth.I was lying on my side, near the edge of a big heap of dirt, with myhands near my face. If I'd been six inches further back therewouldn't have been the ghost of a chance for me. I got some of theearth and mud away, and found I could breathe, just as I was choking.But I was buried for all that. All our chaps were fighting on top ofme!"
"D'ye tell me!" gasped Callaghan incredulously.
"I could feel the boots," Jim said. "I'm bruised with them yet. Whattime did we go over that morning?--nine o'clock, wasn't it?"
"It was, sir."
"Well, it was twelve or one o'clock when they dug me out. Theyre-took the trench, and started to dig themselves in, and they foundme; I've a spade-cut on my hand. My Aunt, that was a long threehours!"
"Did they treat you decent, sir?"
"They weren't too bad," Jim said. "I couldn't move; I suppose it wasthe weight on me, and the bruising--at least, I hope so. They felt meall over--there was a rather decent lieutenant there, who gave me somebrandy. He told me he didn't think there was anything broken. But Icouldn't stir, and it hurt like fury when they touched me."
"And how long were you there, sir?"
"They had to keep me until night--there was no way of sending backprisoners. So I lay on a mud-heap, and the officer-boy talked tome--he had been to school in England."
"That's where they larned him any decency he had," said Callaghan.
"It might be. But he wasn't a bad sort. He looked after me wellenough. Then, after nightfall, they sent a stretcher party over withme. The German boy shook hands with me when we were starting, andsaid he was afraid he wouldn't see me again, as we were pretty sure tobe shelled by the British."
"And were you, sir?"
"Rather. The first thing I knew was a bit of shrapnel through thesleeve of my coat; I looked for the hole this morning, to see if I wasremembering rightly, and sure enough, here it is." He held up hisarm, and showed a jagged tear in his tunic. "But that's where I stopremembering anything. I suppose I must have caught something elsethen. Why is my head tied up? It was all right when they began tocarry me over."
"Ye have a lump the size of an egg low down on the back of your head,sir," said Callaghan. "And a nasty little cut near your temple."
"H'm!" said Jim. "I wondered why it ached! Well I must have gotthose from our side on the way across. I hope they got a Boche or twoas well."
"I dunno," Callaghan said. "The fellas that dumped you down saidsomething in their own haythin tongue. I didn't understand it, but itsounded as if they were glad to be rid of you."
"Well, I wouldn't blame them," Jim said. "I'm not exactly afeatherweight, and it can't be much fun to be killed carrying theenemy about, whether you're a Boche or not."
He lay for a while silently, thinking. Did they know at home yet? hewondered anxiously. And then he suddenly realized that his fall musthave looked like certain death: that if they had heard anything itwould be that he had been killed. He turned cold at the thought._What_ had they heard--his father, Norah? And Wally--what did hethink? Was Wally himself alive? He might even be a prisoner. Heturned at that thought to Callaghan, his sudden move bringing astifled cry to his lips.
"Did they--are there any other officers of my regiment here?"
"There are not," said Callaghan. "I got the priest to look at yourbadges, sir, the way he could find out if there was anny more of ye.But there is not. Them that's here is mostly Dublins and Munsters,with a sprinkling of Canadians. There's not an officer or man of theBlankshires here at all, barring yourself."
"Will the Germans let us communicate with our people?"
"Communicate, is it?" said the Irishman. "Yerra, they'll not letanyone send so much as a scratch on a post-card." He dropped hisvoice. "Whisht now, sir: the priest's taking all our addresses, andhe'll do his best to send word to every one at home."
"But can he depend on getting through?"
"Faith, he cannot. But 'tis the only chance we've got. The poorman's nothing but a prisoner himself; he's watched if he goes tinyards from the church. So I dunno, at all, will he ever manage it,with the suspicions they have of him."
Jim sighed impatiently. He could do nothing, then, nothing to keepthe blow from falling on the two dear ones at home. He thought oftrying to bribe the German guards, and felt for his pocket-book, butit was gone; some careful Boche had managed to relieve him of it whilehe had been unconscious. And he was helpless, a log--while over inEngland Norah and his father were, perhaps, already mourning him asdead. His thoughts travelled to Billabong, where Brownie and MurtyO'Toole and the others kept the home ready for them all, working withthe love that makes nothing a toil, and planning always for the greatday that should bring them all back. He pictured the newsarriving--saw Brownie's dismayed old face, and heard her cry ofincredulous pain. And there was nothing he could do. It seemedunbelievable that such things could be, in a sane world. But then,the world was no longer sane; it had gone mad nearly two years before,and he was only one of the myriad atoms caught into the swirl of itsmadness.
The _cure_ came again, presently, and saw his troubled face. "You arein pain, my son?"
"No--I'm all right if I keep quiet," Jim answered. "But it's mypeople. Callaghan says you will try to let them know, Father."
"I am learning you all," said the priest, "names, regiments, andnumbers is it not? I dare not put them on paper: I have been searchedthree times already, even to my shoes. But I hope that my chance willcome before long. Then I will send them to your War Office." Hebeamed down on Jim so hopefully that it seemed rather likely that hewould find a private telegraph office of his own, suddenly. "Now Iwill learn your name and regiment." He repeated them several times,nodding his head.
"Yes, that is an easy one," he said. "Some of them are very terrible,to a Frenchman; our friend here"--he looked quaintly atCallaghan--"has a name which it twists the tongue to say. And now, myson, I would like to examine you, since you are conscious. I am theonly doctor--a poor one, I fear. But perhaps we will find outtogether that there is nothing to be uneasy about."
That, indeed, was what they did find out, after a rather agonizinghalf-hour. Jim was quite unable to move his legs, being so bruisedthat there was scarcely a square inch of him that was not green andblue and purple. One hip bore the complete impress of a foot, lividand angry.
"Yes, that chap jumped on me from a
good height," Jim said when the_cure_ exclaimed at it. "I thought he had smashed my leg."
"He went near it," said the _cure_. "Indeed, my son, you are beatento a jelly. But that will recover itself. You can breathe withoutpain? That is well. Now we will look at the head." He unwrapped thebandages and felt the lump tenderly. "Ah, that is better; a littleconcussion, I think, _mon brave_; it is that which kept you so quietwhen you stayed with us at first. And the cut heals well; that comesof being young and strong, with clean, healthy blood." He bathed thehead, and replaced the bandages, sighing that he had no clean ones."But with you it matters little; you will not need them in a few days.Then perhaps we will wash these and they will be ready for the nextpoor boy." He smiled at Jim. "Move those legs as much as you can, myson, and rub them." He trotted away.
"And that same is good advice," said Callaghan. "It will hurt tomove, sir, and you beaten to a pulp first and then stiffening for thethree days you're after lying here; 'tis all I wish I could rub you,with a good bottle of Elliman's to do it with. But if them Huns moveyou 'twill hurt a mighty lot more than if you move yourself.Themselves is the boys for that; they think they've got a feather intheir caps if they get an extra yelp out of annywan. So do the bestyou can, sir."
"I will," said Jim--and did his best, for long hours every day. Itwas weary work, with each movement torture, and for a time very littleencouragement came in the shape of improvement: then, slowly, withrubbing and exercise, the stiffened muscles began to relax. Callaghancheered him on, forgetting his own aching leg in his sympathy for theboy in his silent torment. In the intervals of "physical jerks," Jimtalked to his little neighbour, whose delight knew no bounds when heheard that Jim knew and cared for his country. He himself was a Corkman, with a wife and two sons; Jim gathered that their equal was notto be found in any town in Ireland. Callaghan occasionally lamentedthe "foolishness" that had kept him in the Army, when he had a rightto be home looking after Hughie and Larry. "'Tis not much the Armygives you, and you giving it the best years of your life," he said."I'd be better out of it, and home with me boys."
"Then you wouldn't let them go to the war, if they were old enough?"Jim asked.
"If they were old enough 'twould not be asking my liberty they'd be,"rejoined Mr. Callaghan proudly. "Is it _my_ sons that 'ud shtand outof a fight like this?" He glared at Jim, loftily unconscious of anyinconsistency in his remarks.
"Well, there's plenty of your fellow-countrymen that won't go andfight, Cally!" said the man beyond him--a big Yorkshireman.
"There's that in all countries," said Callaghan calmly. "They didn'tall go in your part of the country, did they, till they were made?Faith, I'm towld there's a few there yet in odd corners--and likely tobe till after the war." The men round roared joyfully, at theexpense of the Yorkshireman.
"And 'tis not in Ireland we have that quare baste the con-sci-en-tiousobjector," went on Callaghan, rolling the syllables lovingly on histongue. "That's an animal a man wouldn't like to meet, now! Whateverour objectors are in Ireland, they're surely never con-sci-en-tious!"
Jim gave a crack of laughter that brought the roving grey eye squarelyupon him.
"Even in Australia, that's the Captain's country," said the soft Irishvoice, "I've heard tell there's a boy or two there out of khaki--maybethey're holding back for conscription too. But wherever the boys arethat don't go, none of them have a song and dance made about them,barring only the Irish."
"What about your Sinn Feiners?" some one sang out. Callaghan's facefell.
"Yerra, they have the country destroyed," he admitted. "And nine outof every ten don't know annything about politics or annything else atall, only they get talked over, and towld that they're patriots ifthey'll get howld of a gun and do a little drilling at night--an'where's the country boy that wouldn't give his ears for a gun! An'the English Gov'mint, that could stop it all with the stroke of a pen,hasn't the pluck to bring in conscription in Ireland."
"You're right there, Cally," said some one.
"I know well I'm right. But the thousands and tens of thousands ofIrish boys that went to the war and fought till they died--they'll beforgotten, and the Sinn Fein scum'll be remembered. If the Gov'minthad the pluck of a mouse they'd be all right. I tell you, boys,'twill be the Gov'mint's own fault if we see the haythin Turksparading the fair fields of Ireland, with their long tails held up bythe Sinn Feiners!" Callaghan relapsed into gloomy contemplation ofthis awful possibility, and refused to be drawn further. Even whenJim, desiring to be tactful, mentioned a famous Irish V.C. who had,single-handed, slain eight Germans, he declined to show anyenthusiasm.
"Ah, what V.C.!" he said sourly. "Sure, his owld father wouldn't makea fuss of him. 'Why didn't he do more?' says he. 'I often laid outtwenty men myself with a stick, and I coming from Macroom Fair. It isa bad trial of Mick that he could kill only eight, and he having arifle and bayonet!' he says. Cock him up with a V.C.!" After whichJim ceased to be consoling and began to exercise his worstleg--knowing well that the sight of his torments would speedily meltDenny's heart and make him forget the sorrows of Ireland.
The guards did not trouble them much; they kept a strict watch, whichwas not difficult, as all the prisoners were partially disabled; andthen considered their duty discharged by bringing twice a day theinvariable meal of soup and bread. No one liked to speculate on whathad gone to the making of the soup; it was a pale, greasy liquid, withstrange lumps in it, and tasted as dish-water may be supposed totaste. Jim learned to eat the sour bread by soaking it in the soup.He had no inclination to eat, but he forced himself to swallow thedisgusting meals, so that he might keep up his strength, just as heworked his stiff limbs and rubbed them most of the day. For there wasbut one idea in Jim Linton's mind--escape.
Gradually he became able to sit up, and then to move a little,hobbling painfully on a stick which had been part of a broken pew, andendeavouring to take part in looking after the helpless prisoners, andin keeping the church clean, since the guards laughed at the idea ofhelping at either. Jim had seen something of the treatment given towounded German soldiers in England, and he writhed to think of them,tended as though they were our own sick, while British prisoners layand starved in filthy holes. But the little _cure_ rebuked him.
"But what would you, my son? They are _canaille_--without breeding,without decency, without hearts. Are we to put ourselves on thatlevel?"
"I suppose not--but it's a big difference, Father," Jim muttered.
"The bigger the difference, the more honour on our side," said thelittle priest. "And things pass. Long after you and I and all thesepoor lads are forgotten it will be remembered that we came out of thiswar with our heads up. But they----!" Suddenly fierce scorn filledhis quiet eyes. "They will be the outcasts of the world!"
Wherefore Jim worked on, and tried to take comfort by the _cure's_philosophy; although there were many times when he found it hard todigest. It was all very well to be cheerful about the verdict of thefuture, but difficult to forget the insistent present, with the heelof the Hun on his neck. It was sometimes easier to be philosophic bydreaming of days when the positions should be reversed.
He was able to walk a little when the order came to move. The guardsbecame suddenly busy; officers whom the prisoners had not seen beforecame in and out, and one evening the helpless were put roughly intofarm carts and taken to the station, while those able to move bythemselves were marched after them--marched quickly, with bayonetpoints ready behind them to prod stragglers. It was nearly dark whenthey were thrust roughly into closed trucks, looking back for the lasttime on the little _cure_, who had marched beside them, with an armfor two sick men, and now stood on the platform, looking wistfully atthem. He put up his hand solemnly.
"God keep you, my sons!"
A German soldier elbowed him roughly aside. The doors of the truckswere clashed together, leaving them in darkness; and presently, withstraining and rattling and clanging, the train moved out of thestation.
"Next stop, Germany!" said Denny Callaghan from the corner where hehad been put down. "And not a ticket between the lot of us!"
Captain Jim Page 15
