by Sapper
“Give us a lift, mate, will you?” he asked casually.
“Right ho! hop in. They’ve stopped shelling.” The ambulance was off – the driver unsuspicious. Many isolated men walk about behind the trenches at night, and anyway, it was none of his business.
Thus it came about that No. 1234 Private James Dawlish, of the second battalion of the Loamshires, when on active service, deserted His Majesty’s Forces.
Now Thomas Atkins alone in a strange country, despite all rumours to the contrary, is a somewhat helpless individual. He will generally contrive to feed himself, and he has an infallible instinct for spotting those estaminets that contain the unpleasing liquid which passes as beer in Flanders. But when it comes to getting from one place to another, he gives up the unequal contest, and throws himself on the mercy of the nearest officer. And this was precisely what James Dawlish could not do. In the first place, he didn’t know where he did want to go; he didn’t much care so long as he kept out of the trenches; and in the second place, he was quite an old enough soldier to realise what he had done and, what was far more to the point, to realise the penalty. “Death or such less punishment as is in this Act mentioned.”
Detection, he knew, would not come from the regiment. Too many men are reported missing for his absence to evoke any awkward questions. It was the people behind he had to fear, military police, assistant provost-marshals, and such-like abominations to the evil-doer. If only he could lie hid for a time, and finally borrow someone else’s clothes and disappear – that was his half-formed play. Hazy and nebulous, true – but anything, anything on God’s earth rather than go back.
It was while he was turning it over in his mind, with no clear idea of where he was going, that, rounding a bend in the road, he saw a few miles off the monastery that is set on a hill, and which forms one of the few noticeable landmarks in Flanders. The monastery where the cavalry had a skirmish in October last, and the monks in their brown cowls and cassocks buried the result. There were English troopers, and German Uhlans, and also there was a German Prince. And this monastery, set on the Mont des Cats, came back to James Dawlish as an old friend. Had he not billeted in the village at the foot of it with the unpronounceable name when he first came to the front?
No need now to ask his way – he would go back to the village – where there was a girl he knew of, and she would help him. And so with a comparatively light heart he started, and in the course of a few hours he found himself at the farm which had been his first resting-place in France.
Now, it is quite possible that, were it not for the extraordinary paucity of girls whom one may look at without smoked glasses in this delectable country, James Dawlish might have staved off the inevitable for quite a time. When he left the ambulance, he had carefully buried in a pond his rifle and equipment, and anyone meeting him strolling down the road would have taken him to be merely a man from a unit resting. To make things more sure, he had removed his cap badge, and the titles on his shoulder straps. There was nothing whatever to show what he belonged to; he was merely a disreputable atom of the big machine in much-damaged khaki. But, as I have said, there was a girl in the case, and moreover, she was a girl who had been very kind to James Dawlish earlier in the proceedings. She really had been quite fond of him, but when he went away and the place knew him no more, being a girl of common sense she transferred her attentions to his successor. As a matter of fact, there had been several successors, as regiments came and went, the intervals being filled with the semi-permanent sheet-anchor who stood for several hours each day at the crossroads by the church in the village with the unpronounceable name. And this sheet-anchor, who watched men come and watched men go, was a corporal in the Military Police.
It was during one of his innings with the fair maiden that James Dawlish tactlessly arrived on the scene; and when the corporal made his appearance in the evening, having successfully carried out his arduous duties regulating the traffic during the afternoon he found the object of his affections planted firmly in the arms of an extremely untidy and travel-stained private. It is perhaps unnecessary to state that, annoyed as the corporal was at this untoward intrusion on his preserves, his feelings were harmonious compared to those of Private Dawlish. To run full tilt into a Red Cap – as Tommy calls them – was the last thing he had intended doing; and a glance at the corporal’s face told him that the corporal was out for blood.
“Who the ’ell are you, and what’s your regiment?” he remarked tersely, looking at his badgeless cap.
And James Dawlish knew the game was up. He didn’t even know what regiments were in the neighbourhood; if he had he might have lied and tried a bluff. So he said who he was, and named his regiment.
“The Loamshires?” said the corporal. “Second battalion? But they’re in the trenches, for my brother’s in that there battalion.” The Military Policeman looked at him mercilessly. “What are you doing ’ere, my lad?”
And this time James Dawlish was silent: there was nothing to say. To an officer he’d have lied, uselessly, perhaps, but lied on principle: to a corporal he knew the futility. Two minutes later the door closed behind them, and they passed down the street.
Thus it came about that No. 1234 Private James Dawlish, of the second battalion of the Loamshires, was apprehended by the Military Police, and placed in the guard-room of the village with the unpronounceable name, to await the investigation of his case by the APM or assistant provost-marshal of the district.
And now the inevitable end must be written. There is not much to tell; the whole thing was plain. The APM investigated the case, and it stood revealed in its hideous bareness. There was not a single redeeming feature. It was no case of a man’s nerve temporarily breaking under some fearful strain: where now, in the wisdom of those in high places, a man may work off his slur, by returning and trying again. It was just a simple case of cowardice and desertion in the presence of the enemy, and for it there was no excuse. That James Dawlish was made that way may have been his misfortune, but if that were taken as an excuse a good many men might find themselves sitting quietly in villages with unpronounceable names, while their pals lost their lives farther east.
So in due course James Dawlish stood before a court-martial. The evidence was heard, and then the accused was marched out, ignorant of his fate.
“The Court is closed to consider its finding.” Thus spoke the President, a Major in the infantry. And when the door had closed, he turned to the junior member – a subaltern of gunners – and his face was grave. It is the law of courts-martial that the junior member gives his idea of the adequate sentence first, in order that he may not be influenced by what his seniors have said.
“What is your opinion?” asked the Major.
The subaltern drummed on the table with his fingers, and stared in front of him. Death, or such less penalty. The words seemed stamped on the wall. For a space he was silent; then he swallowed twice and spoke.
The Major glanced at the Captain, and the Captain, who was gazing fixedly out of the window, turned slowly round, and nodded. “I agree,” he remarked incisively.
The Major looked at the papers in front of him, and mechanically produced his cigarette case. Then he wrote, and his hand shook a little.
And though the Major and the Captain and the subaltern had one and all looked on death many times unmoved, yet that night they were strangely silent.
To those who insist on the hundred and first chapter I can but quote the following bald announcement that appeared in a document of surprising dullness known as General Routine Orders. It had a number which I forget, and it was sandwiched between an interesting statement about exchanging French money into English, and a still more entrancing one on the subject of the Regimental Debts Act. Moreover, it was labelled Courts-Martial, and ran as follows:
No. 1234 Private James Dawlish, 2nd Battalion, The Loamshires, was tried by a Field General Courts-Martial on the following charge:
“When on active service deserting His Majesty
’s Service.”
The sentence of the Court was “To suffer death by being shot.”
The sentence was duly carried out at 4 a.m. on August 3rd.
And the only thing which gives a man to think is that about six hours after they laid that poor dishonoured clay in the ground, the manager of a large emporium at home was pleased to promote one of his shopwalkers from the glove department to a sphere of activity which concerned itself principally with stockings. I don’t know why stockings were more highly paid than gloves in that emporium, but no matter.
The point of the thing is the shopwalker. His name is Dawlish – Augustus Dawlish. He used to look down on his brother James. Soldiering is not a genteel occupation compared to selling stockings. I suppose he’ll do so still more if he ever learns the truth.
Chapter 12
Will You Take Over His Horse, Sir?
In the sky overhead the sun struggled through the drifting clouds, throwing a watery gleam on the sea of mud which called itself the picket line. Just for a moment it seemed as if it would triumph, and, as I looked up, the old bay horse with the batman standing at his head was bathed in sunshine. Behind him the troop horses steadily munching hay; the men in little scattered groups squatting round camp fires watching their dinners cook. Just the same as it was yesterday, just the same as it was the day before, but – “Will you take over his horse, sir?”
In the distance a black speck seemed to be hanging in the air. All round it little sharp flashes of fire and fleecy puffs of smoke showed that the Germans had also seen that speck and hoped it was within range. There was one complete set of six smoke balls, so close together that one could almost cover them with a soup plate. Another set had only five. Ah! there was the sixth, a little wide. There had been three perfect groups of six when he and I had been looking at the same thing a few mornings before. Listlessly I watched the black speck. Gradually it grew larger and larger until the big biplane passed overhead. And underneath the Union Jack – painted on the plane. Just the same, thank Heaven, just the same. The flag untouched, each unit which represents that flag carrying on the inexorable work. There is no cessation; there are others; it is war, but – “Will you take over his horse?”
The old bay horse! I wonder if you, too, remember that day at Tattersall’s. Do you remember the hand running over your legs and stopping at that big splint on your off fore? Can you hear again that voice you’ve got to know so well? “Look at those hocks, man; look at that shoulder; that splint may just bring him down to my price.” And do you remember the hunts? Do you remember that point-to-point when you both came such a crumpler at that big stake and biner? Perhaps you remember, old horse, perhaps you do; for who shall say just where an animal’s knowledge begins and ends? There’s no good your looking round like that. You haven’t seen him this morning, have you? – and you know something’s wrong, but you don’t know what. How should you? You don’t understand, and I do, Heaven knows – which is worse. In time perhaps the sugar will taste just as good out of my hand as far as you’re concerned. I hope it will, because – well, you heard the question, too – “Will you take over his horse?”
Yes, I must take you over until someone else can take you from me, if you come through this show alive. You don’t know much about that someone, do you, old chap? Do you remember that day when you made such a fool of yourself because a side saddle had been put on you for the first time, and your master with a sack round his waist was sitting on your back all askew, as you thought. And then about a week after, when you were quite accustomed to it, someone else got upon you who was so light that you scarcely felt any weight at all. And when you lifted your heels a bit, just for fun, because you hardly knew there was anyone there at all, do you remember how he rubbed your muzzle, and talked to you until you became quiet? But there are so many things that you can’t know, aren’t there, old horse? You weren’t in my room when he came round to it that night to tell me before anyone else of his wonderful luck. You couldn’t know that the little light load you carried so often was the most precious thing in the whole world to the man who never missed coming round to your box after dinner on a hunting day, to make sure you were rugged up and bedded down for the night all right. That’s where I get the pull of you, old man. You see, I was going to be his best man when he could afford to get married. He insisted on that when he told me first. But – things have happened since that night, and I’m going to take you over, because I want to give you back to her. I don’t expect you’ll carry her hunting again; women aren’t made that way – at least not this one. Though he’d like it, I know.
But then, he won’t be able to tell her. That’s the rub. I know it was only yesterday afternoon you heard him say that it was a grand day for a hunt. I know it was only last night that you were saddled up suddenly with all the other troop horses and trotted for two hours along muddy roads in the darkness. Then he dismounted – didn’t he? – and went on on foot with his men, while you and his other horse stopped behind. And you couldn’t understand why a few hours later, when the other men mounted, no one got on your back, and you were led back here. Just a casual German sniper, sitting in a tree, taking pot shots into the darkness. Just a small round hole right in the centre of his forehead and the back of his head – but we won’t think of that. That’s what happened, old man. Nothing very glorious, nothing at all heroic. It’s so ordinary, isn’t it? It has already happened hundreds of times. It’s going to happen hundreds more. Everything is going on just the same. It hasn’t made any difference. The guns are in action just as they were yesterday, and there’s that Maxim going again. But you’ve lost your master, old horse; and I’ve lost a friend: and the girl? – Not a bad bag, for half an ounce of lead!
They’ve left him up there, with a cross over his shallow grave, and his name scrawled on it with an indelible pencil. One can’t get up there in the daylight – it’s not safe. I’d like to have gone tonight to see if it was all right: but there’s a job of work to be done elsewhere. So I’ll have to lie to her. I’m writing her this afternoon. I can’t let her open the paper one morning, and suddenly see his name standing out in letters of fire from all the others. Just a pawn in the game – another officer killed – a bare, hard fact, brutal, uncompromising. No more letters to look forward to: no more socks and smokes to send out. True, the socks never fitted, but she didn’t know. No: I can’t let her find it out that way. I must write: though what on earth can I say to her? I never could write a letter like that. If you’re going to have your head smashed with a sledgehammer, one can’t do much to deaden the blow. But I’ll tell her I’ve seen his grave, and that it’s all right. Just a pawn in the game. Only he was her king.
“Will you take over his horse, sir? Your chestnut is very lame in front.”
Teddy, old man, I’ve hunted with you: I’ve shot with you: I’ve played cricket with you: I’ve made love with you. You were one of Nature’s sportsmen: one of the salt of the earth. May the earth lie lightly on you, old pal. There’s a motor-cyclist coming with orders now: the same fellow with spectacles who has been to us for the last fortnight. There’s a Taube overhead, and the infantry are loosing off at it. It’s out of range, just the same as usual. Everything is just the same, Teddy, except that someone’s heart has got to be broken, and that I – well, I’ve taken over your horse.
Chapter 13
Morphia
The man stirred uneasily, and a faint moan came from his lips. A numbness seemed to envelop his body from the waist downwards, and in the intervals of a stabbing pain in his head, he seemed to hear people whispering near by. A figure passed close to him, the figure of a girl with fair hair, in a grey dress – the figure of a girl like Molly. A red-hot iron stabbed his brain; his teeth clenched on his lips; he fought with all his will, but once again he moaned; he couldn’t help it – it was involuntary. The girl stopped and came towards him, for he heard her voice. But what was she saying? Why did she speak so indistinctly? Why – ah, but her hand on his forehea
d was cool. It seemed to quiet those raging devils in his head; it helped him, as Molly always helped him. It seemed to – why, surely, it must be Molly herself, with her dear, soft touch, and her lips ready to kiss, and the sweet smell of her hair mounting to his brain like wine. Something pricked his arm: something that felt like the needle of a syringe; something that… But anyway, what the deuce was she doing? Then suddenly he recalled that pin at the back of her dress, where he’d pricked his wrist so badly the first time he’d kissed her.
He laughed gently at the remembrance; and the hand on his forehead trembled. For laughter to be a pleasant thing to hear it is essential that the person who laughs should be in full possession of – well, it is better, at any rate, that his head should not have been hit by a bomb, especially if it was his lower jaw that bore the brunt.
“What are you trembling for, Molly?” The voice was tender. “The pain has quite gone – I must have had a touch of the sun.”
But for a question to be answered it must be audible; and the girl whose hand was on his forehead heard no words. Merely was there a great and wonderful pity in her eyes, for the remnant – the torn-up remnant – who had fought and suffered for her. And the remnant, well, he was way back in the Land of Has-been. Did I not say that the pin was at the back of Molly’s waist?
The woods were just at their best, with the glorious yellow and brown of early autumn, touched with the gold of the setting sun. In a clearing a boy was sitting on a fallen tree trunk, puffing furiously at a cigarette. Twice had the smoke gone the wrong way, and once had it got into his eyes; but when one is aged sixteen such trifles are merely there to be overcome. The annoying thing was that he was still engaged in absorbing the overflowing moisture from his eyes, with a handkerchief of doubtful cleanliness, when a girl came into the glade and started to laugh.
