by Sapper
‘Rising with a hoarse cry,’ ran this effusion, ‘Mr Bendigo Jones hurled himself at his work. With a single blow he removed a protuberance, and then sank back exhausted.
‘“You see the difference,” he cried, “you see how I have altered her expression.”
‘“Whose?” I murmured dazedly.
‘“Why, the face of the woman. Ah! dolt, blockhead, have you no eyes – have you no soul?”
‘“But you told me that was a church at sunset,” I remonstrated feebly.
‘“What has that to do with it?” he shouted. “It is what I like to make it, fool. What is a name? Nothing – a bagatelle. I have changed my mind every day for the last five years, and now my life’s work is done – done.”
‘Mr Bendigo Jones sobbed quietly, and I stole away. It was not for me to gaze on such grief. And as I went through the open window I heard his final whisper.
‘“It shall be none of these things. I will pander to vile utilitarianism. It shall be – ‘A City Magnate at Lunch’.”’
It may be remembered that when it was finally put on view in London, enormous interest was aroused by an enterprising weekly paper offering prizes to the extent of a thousand pounds to anyone who could guess what it was; and though Bendigo Jones’ pocket was helped considerably by his percentage of the gate-money, his pride suffered considerably when the answers were made public. They ranged from ‘Model of the first steam engine when out of control’ to ‘An explosion of a ship at sea’, both of which happy efforts gained a bag of nuts. The answer adjudged most nearly correct was sent in by a Fulham butcher, who banked on ‘Angry gentleman quarrelling with his landlord on quarter day’: which at any rate had the merit of making it human.
But I have digressed enough; I will return to my sad story. How our friend ever did arrive in France is as much of a mystery to me as it was to the colonel; presumably a ruthless government, having decided it required men, roped him in along with the other lesser lights. The fiat went forth, and so did Bendigo – mildly protesting: to adorn in the fullness of time the office of the CRE of whom I have spoken. And he was sitting there exhausted by his labours in helping the sergeant-major rearrange the timber-yard aesthetically, when a message arrived that the colonel wished to speak to him.
“I understand, Jones, that you are a sculptor,” remarked that officer genially, as our hero entered the office. “Now, can you model a tree?”
Bendigo gazed dreamily out of the window. “A tree,” he murmured at length. “A little, beautiful tree. Green with the verdant loveliness of youth…green…green.”
“It isn’t,” snapped the colonel. “It’s brown, and damned hideous, and full of splinters.”
“Only to the eye of unbelief, sir.” The sculptor regarded him compassionately. “To us – to those who can see things as they ought to be – more, as they spiritually are…it is different.”
A door closed somewhat hastily, and the sounds from the next room seemed to indicate that the adjutant’s cough was again troubling him. The colonel, however, remained calm.
“I have no doubt, Jones,” he remarked dispassionately, “that what you have just said has some meaning. It is even remotely possible that you know what it means yourself. I don’t; and I do not propose to try. I propose, on the other hand, to descend to the sordid details of what I wish you to do. You will commence without delay.” He leaned back in his chair, and proceeded to fill his pipe.
“Up the line there is a tree stump standing on rising ground, which I wish you to copy. The model must be sufficiently good to deceive the Germans. It will be hollow, and of such a size as will accommodate an observer. The back will be hinged. When your model is made, the real tree stump will be removed one night and the sham one substituted. Do you follow me?”
It is more than doubtful if he even heard. A slight attack of dyspepsia shook him as the colonel finished speaking, and he passed his hand twice through his hair. “The thought – the future vista – is beautiful,” he murmured. “And think; think of the advertisement. Tomorrow, sir, I will gaze upon it, and fashion it in clay. Then I will return and commence the great work.”
He faded slowly through the door; and after a long pause the colonel spoke. “I wonder,” he remarked thoughtfully to the adjutant who had returned – “I wonder why such things are…”
I am given to understand that the arrival of Bendigo Jones at the scene of his labours the next morning caused such a sensation amongst those privileged to witness the spectacle that the entire trench was blocked for two hours. To only a chosen band was vouchsafed the actual sight of the genius at work; the remainder had to be content with absorbing his remarks as they were passed down the expectant line. And it was doubtless unfortunate that the Divisional General should have chosen the particular moment when the divine fire of genius was at its brightest to visit the support line in company with his GSOI and a galaxy of other bright and shining luminaries of the military world.
“What is the meaning of this extraordinary crush in the trench this morning?” he remarked irritably to his staff officer, as the procession was again held up by a knot of interested men.
“I really don’t know, sir,” murmured that worthy. “It’s most unusual; it’s…”
His words were drowned by howls of delighted laughter from round the traverse in front, and the next moment a perspiring soldier forced his way into the bay where the great ones were temporarily wedged. It was the special runner who was carrying the latest gem from the lips of Bendigo – at work a little farther up – to the expectant and breathless audience.
“Hay! little sandbag! Ho! Little sandbag! ’Ow beautiful hart thou in textchah.”
“Go on, Bill. Did the perisher say that?” An incredulous member of the group looked doubtful.
“Did ’e say it?” The carrier of news looked scornfully at the doubter. “Did ’e say it? Lumme! ’E said it twice, and then he buried ’is mug in its loverly fragrant surface, and pricked his nose on Ginger’s bayonet. ’E’s mad boys; ’e’s as mad as a plurry ’atter; ’e’s got bats in ’is belfry.”
Now, in spite of what I know of Bendigo Jones, I must admit that this reputed remark taxes even my credulity. Mad he undoubtedly was when viewed by the sordid standards of the vandals around him, but this inspiring ode to a sandbag grew somewhat, I cannot but help thinking, in the transmission. The regrettable thing was that it should have reached this stage when it was unwittingly presented to the divisional general.
“Gangway!” he roared as the hilarity remained unabated; “gangway!” He elbowed his way through the suddenly silent throng and confronted the special runner. “Now, my man, tell me – what is all this tommy rot about?”
“Bloke farther up the trenches, sir, wot don’t seem quite right in the ’ead.” Somewhat confused at the sudden appearance of the powers that be, the perspiring harbinger of bons mots relapsed into an uncomfortable and depressing silence.
“Not right in the head,” barked the general. “God bless my soul! It must be the heat. Dreadful. What shall we do, Curtis?” He appealed for support to his staff officer.
“I think, sir, the doctor might precede us,” answered the other resourcefully, “and see if the man is dangerous. If so, no doubt he will arrange for his removal before he does any harm.”
The ADMS, or Assistant Director of Medical Services – the official title of the principal bolus booster in a division – emerged with a sickly smile from behind a corner, and advanced unwillingly to the head of the procession.
“Excellent idea,” remarked the general affably. “You can prescribe for him when you see the symptoms, old boy. Probably a most interesting case – provided he doesn’t stab you on sight.”
“Sit on his head, doc, if he comes for you,” remarked the staff officer, gracefully handing over the position of leader, “and, above all, dear old thing, don’t let him bite you. Give him a Number Nine to chew, and we’ll bind him when he becomes unconscious.”
“It’s all jolly
fine for you to laugh,” said the doctor peevishly. “I’m fat and you’re thin, and you can hid behind me.”
They reached the bay of the trench next to Bendigo, just as a further great utterance was starting on its way. In the excitement of the moment, caused by the general’s sudden appearance, much of this gem was lost.
What was heard, however, did not diminish the doctor’s alarm.
“Howls in the leafy verdure,” he remarked anxiously. “Good heavens, General, he must be up the tree stump!”
“That’s all right, sir!” remarked a sergeant reassuringly. “’E’s quite ’armless. It’s his spirit mind, ’e says. He thinks the tree is full of leaves.”
“Yes – but who is howling in it,” asked the general irritably. “I don’t hear a sound.”
“It’s his spirit mind again, sir,” answered the sergeant respectfully. “There ain’t no one ’owling really; ’e means howls wot ’oot.”
The procession paused awhile to digest this momentous fact, and the staff officer seized the opportunity to again comfort the doctor.
“Get him at once, old sport, before he becomes homicidal. You never know when the phase will change. He may fish in his tin hat with a bent pin first, or he may shoot you on sight, but I’d go at once if I were you. You stand more chance.”
Undoubtedly the sight which confronted them rounding the traverse justified their worst fears. The doctor recoiled with a choking noise and endeavoured to wave the staff officer forward.
“Not on your life, doc,” remarked that worthy grimly – “not on your life. Go right in; and with your bulk you oughtn’t to feel it much, wherever he kicks you.”
Personally, I maintain the whole thing was rather hard on Bendigo. Before sending him up the line he should have been labelled; some warning as to his habits should have been noised abroad by the town crier. Then the unfortunate episode with the general would never have occurred. He would have made allowances and withdrawn early for light refreshment.
But when a man whose face is of the type peculiar – the sort that you give the baby to play with – practises the habits of fourteen years’ unsuccessful dyspeptic futurism in a support line trench on a hot day, the result is likely to be full of incident. True – the wretched Bendigo knew no better; but no more did the general. And life is made of these trifling misunderstandings…
The entranced spectators stiffened to attention as the procession of great ones – partially hidden behind the doctor – advanced with due military precautions. Even the phlegmatic and weary sapper who was assisting the genius, with base utilitarian details, such as the size of the trapdoor at the back of the proposed model, showed signs of animation. Not so Bendigo. With an expression on his face suggestive of great internal pain, he remained seated on the fire-step muttering softly to himself and clasping to his bosom a large lump of what appeared to be mud.
Suddenly he placed it on the step beside him and rose with an air of determination. The staff performed two or three nimble steps of the foxtrot variety to the rear, and as they did so Bendigo sprang to the assault. With a sweeping half-arm blow he struck the mud and the mud retaliated. While it lasted the action was brisk, but the issue was never in doubt. After two minutes in fighting, Bendigo withdrew exhausted, and most of the mud went with him. What was left looked tired.
“A clear case of shell-shock,” muttered the staff officer nervously in the doctor’s ear. “For heaven’s sake do something!”
“Yes, but what the deuce am I to do?” Perspiring freely the gallant officer advanced slowly in the direction of Bendigo, who suddenly perceived him.
The sculptor smiled wearily and pointed a languid hand at the result of his labours. “A great work, my friend,” he murmured. “One of my most wonderful studies.”
“Doubtless,” remarked the doctor cautiously. “Don’t you think – er – you’d better lie down?”
“The leafy foliage; the wonderful green effect; the tree – as I see it. Fresh, fragrant, superb.” Bendigo burbled on, heedless of his mundane surroundings.
“What is the fool talkin’ about?” howled the general, who was standing on tiptoe trying to see what was happening.
“Hush, sir, I beg of you!” The doctor looked round nervously. “A most peculiar–”
“I won’t hush,” roared his irascible senior. “Why should I hush? Some idiot is standing on my feet; and I’m wedged in here like a sardine. Let me speak to him.” The general forced his way forward. “Now, you – my man, what the devil are you doing? And what’s that damned lump of mud on the fire-step?”
“I am Bendigo Jones,” returned the other dreamily. “Sculptah – artist – genius.”
“I didn’t ask who you were,” barked the now infuriated general. “I asked you what that thing that looks like an inebriated blancmange is meant to be.”
“That model?” Bendigo bent forward and gazed at it lovingly. “That is yonder tree as I see it. The base materialist with the foot-rule will inform you of the mundane details.”
The sapper alluded to scowled heavily at the unconscious Bendigo. Somewhat uncertain as to what a base materialist might be, he felt dimly that it was a term to be resented.
“I was sent up ’ere, sir, with ’im to help ’im make a model of that there stump,” he remarked morosely. “That’s the fifteenth mess ’e’s made this morning; and ’e’s carried on ’orrible over the ’ole lot. If I might say so, sir, ’e don’t seem quite right in his ’ead.”
“I am inclined to agree with you,” answered the general grimly. “He must be swept up and…”
Exactly what fate was in store for Bendigo will never be known. One of those visitations of fate which occur periodically in the trenches interrupted the general’s words, and ended the situation in more ways than one.
“Look out, sir,” cried a sergeant, with a sudden shout. “Rum jar coming.”
It came: wobbling, turning, and twisting, the little black object descended from the skies towards them, and the crouching occupants of the trench heard it hit the ground a few yards away. Then it burst with a deafening roar: a roar which was followed by an ominous creaking.
It was the phlegmatic sapper – the base materialist – who broke the news first.
With an expression of great relief on his face he gazed over the top of the trench. “Thank ’eavens! you can’t make a sixteenth, mate. The whole plurry tree’s nah poo.”
“Nah poo,” murmured Bendigo Jones. “Nah poo. What is nah poo?” He stood up and peered over the top also. “I see no change. To some eyes it might seem that the tree has fallen; to mine it lives for ever – fragrant and cool.” He descended and trod heavily on the general’s toe. “To you, sir, as a man of understanding, I give my morning’s labours. I have rechristened it. It symbolises ‘Children at play in Epping Forest’.”
Magnificently he thrust the lump of disintegrating dirt into the arms of his outraged superior. “It is yours, sir; I, Bendigo Jones, have given you my masterpiece.”
Then he departed.
The only man who really suffered was the base materialist. Two hours later he rolled up for his dinner, in a mood even more uncommunicative than usual.
“’Ullo, Nobby,” remarked the cook affably, “you don’t seem yer usual chatty self this morning. An’ wot ’ave you got on your neck?”
“Less of it,” returned the other morosely. “It’s Hepping Forest. And that” – he plucked a fragment from his hair – “that is the bally twins playin’ ‘’Unt the slipper’.”
Even the cook was stirred out of his usual air of superiority by this assertion, and contemplated the speaker with interest. “You don’t say.” He inspected the phenomenon more closely. “I thought as ’ow it was mud.”
“It is.” Nobby was even more morose. “It belonged to that ’orror Bendigo Jones, and ’e went and give it to the general.” The speaker swallowed once or twice. “Then the general, ’e gives it back, in a manner of speaking. Only Bendy had gone by the time it come, and �
� I ’adn’t. Lumme! wot a life.”
Endnote
[1] Special note to Lovers of Etymology.
Il n’y en a plus. There is no more. French phrase signifying complete absence of. Largely heard in estaminets near closing time.
Naploo – Original pure English phrase signifying the perisher has run out of beer.
Napoo – Vulgar and bastardised shortening of original pure English phrase. Has now been added to BEF dictionary, and is used to imply that a man, thing, person, animal, or what not, is ‘finished’.
Series Information
Dates given are for year of first publication.
‘Bulldog Drummond’ Series
These Titles can be read as a series, or randomly as standalone novels
1. Bulldog Drummond 1920
2. The Black Gang 1922
3. The Third Round 1924
4. The Final Count 1926
5. The Female of the Species 1928
6. Temple Tower 1929
7. The Return of Bulldog Drummond 1932
8. Knock Out 1933
9. Bulldog Drummond At Bay 1935
10. Challenge 1937
‘Ronald Standish’ Series
These Titles can be read as a series, or randomly as standalone novels
1. Knock Out 1933
2. Ask For Ronald Standish 1936
3. Challenge 1937
‘Jim Maitland’
These Titles can be read as a series, or randomly as standalone novels
1. Jim Maitland 1933
2. The Island of Terror 1937
Synopses - All Titles
Published by House of Stratus
Ask for Ronald Standish
