by J. J. Bell
X
THE ALARM
It came, as Christina would have expressed it in her early days,like a 'blot from the blue.' On a certain fine morning, whilebattalion drill was in progress, a mounted officer dashed upon thescene and was forthwith engaged in earnest conversation with thecolonel. The news was evidently urgent, and it was received withan obvious gravity. A thrill ran through the ranks; you would havefancied you heard breaths of anticipation.
A minute later the companies were making for camp at the double.Arrived there they were instructed to repair to billets and, withall speed, pack up. And presently ammunition was being served out,a hundred rounds to each man; and, later, 'iron' rations.
'We're awa' noo!' gasped Macgregor, recovering forcibly fromWillie's greedy clutch a pair of socks knitted by Christina.
'Ay, we're awa'; an' I'll bet ye we're for Flanders,' said Willie,no less excited.
'Dardanelles!' shouted Macgregor, above the din that filled thebillet.
'Flanders!' yelled Willie, wildly, and started todance--unfortunately upon a thin piece of soap.
'Dardanelles!' Macgregor repeated as he gave his friend a hand up.
'Oh ----!' groaned Willie, rubbing the back of his head. 'Butwhat'll ye bet?'
'What ha'e ye got?'
'I'll bet ye thruppence--the thruppence ye lent me the day aforeyesterday.'
'Done! If ye win, we'll be quits; if ye loss----'
'Na, na! If I win, ye'll ha'e to pay me----'
'Ach, I've nae time to listen to ye. I've twa letters to write.'
'Letters! What aboot the bet?'
'Awa' an' chase yersel'! Are ye no gaun to drap a line to yer aunt?'
'No dashed likely! She's never sent the postal order I asked herfor. If I had got it, I wud ha'e payed what I'm owin' ye,Macgreegor. By heavens, I wud! I'll tak' ma oath I----'
'Aweel, never heed aboot that,' Macgregor said, soothingly. 'Sendher a post caird an' let me get peace for three meenutes.'
'Ye canna get peace in this,' said Willie, with a glance round thetumultuous billet.
'I can--if ye haud yer silly tongue.' Macgregor thereupon got hispad and envelopes (a gift from Miss Tod), squatted on his bed, andproceeded to gnaw his pencil. The voice of the sergeant was heardordering the men to hurry up.
'I'll tell ye what I'll dae,' said Willie, sitting down at hisfriend's elbow. 'I'll bet ye a' I owe ye to a bob it's Flanders.Ye see, I'll maybe get shot, an' I dinna want to dee in debt. An'I'll send the auld cat a caird wi' something nice on it, to pleaseye . . . . Eh?'
'Aw, onything ye like, but for ony sake clay up! Shift!' cried thedistracted Macgregor.
'Weel gi'e's a fag . . . . an' a match,' said Willie.
He received them in his face, but merely grinned as he languidlyremoved himself.
The two scrawls so hastily and under such difficulties produced byMacgregor are sacred. He would never write anything more boyishand loving, nor yet more manly and brave, than those 'few lines' tohis mother and sweetheart. There was no time left for posting themwhen the order came to fall in, but he anticipated an opportunityat one of the stations on the journey south.
Out in the sunshine stood the hundreds of lads whose training hadbeen so brief that some carried ammunition for the first time.There were few grave faces, though possibly some of the many grinswere more reflected than original. Yet there was a fine generalair of eagerness, and at the word 'attention' the variedexpressions gave place to one of determination.
Boom! boom! boom! . . . Boom! boom! boom! Dirl and skirl; skirland dirl! So to the heart-lifting, hell-raising music of pipes anddrums they marched down to the railway.
At the station it seemed as though they had been expected to breakall records in military entraining. There was terrific haste andoccasional confusion, the latter at the loading of the vans. Theenthusiasm was equalled only by the perspiration. But at lasteverything and nearly everybody was aboard, and the rumour wentalong that they had actually broken such and such a battalion'srecord.
Private William Thomson, however, had already started hisinevitable grumbling. There were eight in the compartment, and hehad stupidly omitted to secure a corner seat.
'I'll bet ye I'm a corp afore we get to Dover,' he bleated.
'That's as near as ever ye'll be to bein' a corporal,' remarked thecheerful Jake. 'But hoo d'ye ken it'll be Dover?'
'I'll bet ye ---- Na! I'll no tak' on ony mair wagers. I've atremenjous bet on wi' this yin'--indicating Macgregor--'everydashed penny I possess--that we're boun' for Flanders. He says theDardanelles.'
All excepting Macgregor fell to debating the question. He had justremembered something he had forgotten to say to Christina; also, hewas going away without the ring she was to have given him. He wasnot sorry he was going, but he felt sad. . . .
The debate waxed furious.
'I tell ye,' bawled Willie, 'we're for Flanders! The Ninth's beenthere since the----'
A sudden silence! What the ---- was that? Surely not--ay, itwas!--an order to detrain!
And soon the whisper went round that they were not bound foranywhere--unless the ---- old camp. The morning's alarm and allthat followed had been merely by way of practice.
At such a time different men have different feelings, or, at least,different ways of expressing them. Jake laughed philosophicallyand appeared to dismiss the whole affair. Willie swore with acurious and seemingly unnecessary bitterness, at frequentintervals, for the next hour or so. Macgregor remained in asemi-stunned condition of mind until the opportunity came formaking a little private bonfire of the two letters; after whichmelancholy operation he straightway recovered his usual goodspirits.
'Never heed, Wullie,' he said, later; 'we'll get oor chance yet.'
Willie exploded. 'What for did ye get me to mak' sic a ---- cod o'masel'?'
'Cod o' yersel'? Me?'
'Ay, you!--gettin' me to send a caird to ma ---- aunt! What fordid ye dae it?'
Macgregor stared. 'But ye didna post it,' he began.
'Ay, but I did. I gi'ed it to a man at the station.'
'Oh! . . . Weel, ye'll just ha'e to send her anither.'
'That'll no mak' me less o' a cod.'
'What way? What did ye write on the caird?'
Willie hesitated, muttered a few curses, and said slowly yetsavagely:--
'"Off to Flanders, wi'--wi' kind love"--_oh, dammit_!'
