Behind the Lines

by Morris, W. F. ;

  “Damn good of you, Pete—to look after me—like this. Damn good of you,” he murmured. “Do same for you—one day.”

  Rawley set to work to take off the other garments.

  “I like you, Pete, lad,” the voice went on. “I—like you. Good pals we’ll be . . . good pals. Bloody good . . . pals.” With great earnestness: “War’s hell, Pete . . . flaming hell . . . but not when you’ve got pals.” Tears of emotion stood in his blurred eyes. “We’re pals, Pete . . . b-bloody good pals.”

  Rawley made no contribution to the conversation. He went on steadily with his task, no easy one, of separating the tunic, breeches, and other garments from their close filling of flesh. But at last it was done, and Rumbald was in green pyjamas and lay in bed with a brown army blanket tucked under his chin and his flushed face on the coarse white pillow like a fried egg.

  Rawley went towards the candle, but was recalled to remove the watch from Rumbald’s wrist. Again he approached to blow out the candle and was again recalled to replace the Sam Browne on the chair. A third time he reached the candle and the voice came again from the bed. “Pete, will you—”

  “Oh, God! What do you want now?”

  “You’re . . . not angry, Pete, are you?” plaintively.

  “What is it?”

  “You’re not angry?” This almost tearfully.

  “Oh, no—only fed up; damned fed up.”

  “One little favour, old man. Will you?”

  “Oh, I suppose so. What is it?”

  “My wallet . . . in my tunic.”

  Rawley took the wallet from the pocket of the tunic on the chair and brought it to the bed. Rumbald opened it and fumbled in the pockets. He took out the photograph of his wife and gazed at it with a silly smile.

  “My old missus!” he faltered. “My half-section. Can’t go . . . to sleep without her . . . Pete, lad.”

  Rawley blew out the candle with such force that the curtains stirred and left him mumbling in the darkness.

  CHAPTER VI

  I

  Rawley was awake early. The coarse green curtain had been drawn too brusquely the night before, and between one side of it and the window-frame a narrow shaft of early sunlight penetrated and lay like a shining sword across the red-brick floor. He turned over in his sleeping-bag to avoid the glare and arranged his head more comfortably on the little rubber air-pillow. The village cocks were inquiring after one another’s welfare and the engine hum of a high-flying machine returning from dawn patrol passed over and died away. The cool breeze that stirred the curtain carried a tang of wood smoke from the fire kindling at the cook-house.

  Rawley dozed; and the shining sword of light upon the floor moved slowly and was twisted on the edge of his valise lying in a brown rumpled heap by the bed.

  Shuffling of feet on the road outside announced that the mess orderlies were parading. He turned over drowsily without opening his eyes. That was no concern of his; Rumbald was orderly officer. Rumbald! He sat up quickly as a thought struck him and looked at his watch. Then he disentangled his feet from the flea-bag and slid off the bare box-mattress on which it lay to the floor. He glanced out of the window and saw the orderlies waiting in the road, and then he began pulling on his clothes.

  So that was the sort of fellow Rumbald was, he mused. Drink and women were a man’s own affair. Debauchery was one thing; but letting the battery down was another. If a bombardier neglected his duty he was broken, and yet an officer. . . .

  He pulled on his boots. It was not to save Rumbald he was doing it. The fellow fully deserved the strafing he would get if the Major knew; but the men must not know that an officer was slack. He put on his cap and went out.

  He had taken less than five minutes to dress, but even so he was late; and he had never yet been late on parade. Sergeant Jameson called the men to attention and saluted. He looked strong and capable, standing there rigid in the sunlight. His sunburnt face was expressionless, but his blue grey eyes were very intelligent. “Damn the fellow,” thought Rawley, “he knows I’m not orderly officer.”

  Rumbald did not appear at breakfast, and it was after stables, as he was passing the mess, that Rawley heard the hearty voice calling him insistently by name. He looked in at the open window of the mess-room and saw Rumbald standing alone in the room, a glass of whisky in one hand and a cigarette in the other. His cap and crop lay on the table. “Morning, Pete,” he cried cheerfully. “You’re in a hell of a hurry this morning. Whither away?”

  “The section. Some people try to do their job—even in war time,” retorted Rawley cuttingly.

  Rumbald seemed to be unaware of the thrust. He smiled a comfortable, at-peace-with-all-the-world smile and held his glass to the light. “Let them get on with it then,” he answered cheerfully. “Nobody’s stopping them. Come and have a drink.”

  Rawley shook his head. “Had enough of that last night—and more.”

  Rumbald sauntered towards the window. “So did I,” he admitted disarmingly. “But hair of the dog that bit you, you know.” He leaned his elbows on the sill. “You won’t? Wise man, Pete,” he murmured paternally. “Drink has been the ruin of many better men than you and me.”

  “Why not chuck it then?”

  Rumbald drained his glass and dragged a cigarette case from his pocket. “Why not!” he exclaimed as he selected a cigarette with leisurely care. “Alcoholic remorse is all very well if it isn’t carried too far. Make good resolutions by all means, Pete, lad: they purify the soul. But, Lord! what a dull world it would be if we kept to ’em! Take it from me, it’s a mistake to take life too seriously; you’ll find that out for yourself when you are my age.”

  “Perhaps,” retorted Rawley sceptically and turned away.

  “The worst of you fellows is that you don’t enjoy life,” went on Rumbald imperturbably. “You get comfortably tight, but afterwards little conscience comes along and spoils it all. Why in hell be ashamed of a glorious binge?”

  “It’s not that,” retorted Rawley hotly. He found Rumbald’s diagnosis of his feelings irritating.

  Rumbald blew a smoke ring. “And it’s the same with a woman. I bet you got sentimental and overpaid that tart last night—probably wanted to pi-jaw her afterwards. Why the hell can’t you take what comes to you without being ruddy virtuous about it?”

  “All the same,” he continued as Rawley turned angrily away. “Thanks very much for taking breakfast for me this morning—and bedding me down last night.”

  “Oh, that’s all right,” called back Rawley, somewhat mollified at this recognition of his services.

  “Only, Pete!” bellowed Rumbald after him, “for the Lord’s sake don’t be virtuous about it.”

  Rawley went off to the section in an ill temper. Rumbald had a knack of making one feel young and putting one in the wrong; and the irritating part of it was there was a grain of truth in what he had said.

  II

  Whedbee and the Major rode off for Doullens soon after lunch. Penhurst turned up shortly afterwards and suggested poker. Rawley declined, and Piddock said he did not know the game; but Penhurst and Rumbald offered to teach him, and Rawley left them hard at it round the mess table.

  He strolled out through the village and came to the fork roads by the A.S.C. billet. A long convoy of lorries was passing along the main road, and in order to get away from the choking exhaust fumes and the clouds of white dust which rolled like smoke around the clattering shadowy shapes, he crossed it and followed the short cut he had taken on his ride to Doullens. He tramped across fields along the margin of copses and came at last down the sunken track to the main Doullens road where his mare had been startled by the ambulance.

  He looked up and down the road, half hoping to see the ambulance with Berney at the wheel, but there was only a Maltese cart jogging along and a despatch rider phutting by on a motor-cycle. He climbed a bank overlooking the road and sat down on the grass at the top beneath some trees. He took out his pipe and lighted it. She might be going into Doull
ens that afternoon, and if she were she would pass along the road below him. Anyway, it was very pleasant lying there in the shade.

  He smoked several pipes and allowed his thoughts to drift idly as he watched the traffic that passed intermittently below him—a G.S. wagon with driver perched high above the horses’ tails, a swiftly moving green staff car with a little red flag fluttering above the nickel radiator, a heavy French farm wagon with two long-maned horses harnessed tandem-wise, motor lorries singly and in convoys, a mule-drawn limber wagon, two French gendarmes in glittering horse-tailed helmets, a noisy caterpillar tractor dragging the massive mounting of a nine-point-two, and a light ambulance. This last caused him to sit up, and when he saw that the driver was a man he experienced a sharp pang of disappointment.

  He sat a long time, longer than he had intended, giving himself another five minutes, and then another, in the hope that she might be on her way back from Doullens; but no ambulance sped along the road below him. Finally he bound himself to go when seven more vehicles of any kind had passed, and when they passed one by one, and the seventh had disappeared round a bend, he threw one last hopeful look up and down the road and rose reluctantly.

  III

  The Major and Whedbee had returned when he got back, and Rumbald was entertaining them and Piddock with an account of his adventures in Amiens on the previous evening. Rumbald was a good talker and artist enough not to adhere too strictly to the truth if the story could be improved upon by the exercise of some imagination. His breezy narrative style, accompanied by pantomimic gestures in the comic parts, kept the Major highly amused; Piddock was giggling in his irrepressible way, and even Whedbee’s eyes twinkled behind his glasses and his lean face broke periodically into an amused smile.

  Rawley dropped into a chair and listened with mixed admiration and disgust; for, as told by Rumbald, the sordid events of the previous evening assumed the lustre of comedy and romance. Amiens became a comic opera city in which the most ludicrous incidents were to be encountered at every street corner, and the little back-street restaurant became the scene of such gaiety, beauty, wit, and romance, as is to be found only in the imagination of young novelists. And in this brilliant scene, Penhurst and Rumbald played their parts gallantly and worthily; and Rawley was astonished to learn how witty and amusing he himself had been.

  Rumbald’s powers of imagination and description appeared to be inexhaustible. Each laugh that he drew spurred him to further efforts. He addressed himself principally to the Major, with an occasional glance at the others, and he dominated the room. General conversation was impossible. The Major and Piddock were his willing listeners, and Whedbee sat silently drawing at his pipe with that non-committal expression on his face that made it so difficult to guess what he was thinking.

  Rawley found the persistent voice and the loud vulgar laugh maddeningly irritating. The man was shamelessly showing off, sucking up to the Major. He dominated the place; nobody else could say a word. They all sat and listened like sheep to his blatterings, and laughed obediently when he looked at them. They had been a contented peaceful mess till this fellow had butted in. Why should one man be allowed to annoy the rest? Surely the Major must see that the fellow was just sucking up to him. He couldn’t really be amused at that rot.

  Rawley sat in a corner and scowled. He at least would not encourage the fellow; and every time Rumbald’s eye went round the faces asking silently for a laugh, Rawley’s face alone was set like wood and did not respond.

  At last he could stand it no longer. He went to the gramophone and put on a record. And so for a few minutes the hearty voice and the syncopated tune contended for mastery; and then the Major, with an exclamation of annoyance, lifted the needle from the record and shut off the motor.

  Rawley picked up his cap and went for a walk in the moonlight.

  On his way back up the little village street to his billet he met Piddock.

  “Bon soir, my old war horse!” cried Piddock cheerfully, and fell into step beside him. “Comrade Rumbald was in good form tonight.”

  Rawley grunted.

  “Dashed amusing bloke,” went on Piddock. “Livened the place up no end. I must hie me to Armeens. I’d no idea you’d had such a topping time there. Why didn’t you tell us about it, you lugubrious old warrior?”

  Rawley stopped at his billet. “Rumbald’s idea of a good time and mine don’t agree,” he said.

  “You’re too hard to please, Rawley. It seemed a dashed good time to me.”

  “Oh yes, he made it sound all right,” retorted Rawley.

  “Well, wasn’t it?”

  “Oh yes, if you think it amusing to muck about with foul women and get disgustingly tight,” retorted Rawley savagely, and opened the door of his billet.

  IV

  The following afternoon found Rawley seated again on the bank overlooking the Doullens road. He no longer hid from himself his reason for being there. He wanted to see Berney again, and if she did not pass that day he would come tomorrow—and the next day, till she did. He sat and smoked his pipe and watched the traffic pass. He had decided what he would do if she came, and he was content to wait.

  An hour and a half went by, broken by two false alarms caused by two ambulances coming from the direction of Doullens. He saw Rumbald and Piddock emerge from the sunken track on his left, cross the road, and canter along the edge of the pasture beyond. He himself on top of the bank among the trees was invisible from below. And then an ambulance sped swiftly along the road in the direction of Doullens, an ambulance in which he recognized the figure of Berney Travers. When it had passed he scrambled quickly down to the road, and waited with what patience he could muster till a lorry came along in the right direction.

  He left the lorry in the main street of Doullens and began his search. He went first to the little square and was overjoyed to find that the ambulance was parked there. “My luck is in,” he murmured, and set off down the main street. He looked in at the paper shop where he had met her, and at the tea shop, without finding her. He visited the canteen by the station without success. Half an hour had passed, and he returned anxiously to the little square to assure himself that the car was still there. Then he made short excursions into the streets, returning periodically to the square to make sure that she had not left.

  Time was passing and he was becoming desperate. She would be leaving soon and he would have but a few minutes with her at the most. He began to regret not having shouted to her from the bank. He walked the street rapidly, scanning both pavements for the neat uniformed figure. For the tenth time he looked into the paper shop and the tea shop. He dared not try the station again: that was too far from the square.

  Then back again he came to the square, striding fast and answering salutes impatiently, to find the ambulance gone. And he had not said one word to her.

  Regardless of military dignity he raced towards the Arras road, but dropped precipitately into a walk as he saw the ambulance emerge from a side street a few yards from him.

  He raised his hand to the salute as it turned slowly into the main road. She saw him and smiled. He put a hand on the wing of the car gliding slowly past him.

  “Are you going along the Arras road?” he asked breathlessly, with scarlet face. She nodded. “Be an angel and give me a lift,” he panted desperately.

  For answer she brought the car to rest, and he climbed in beside her. She let in the clutch and they glided down the street and out along the tree-shaded road without speaking.

  “Get back all right last time?” he inquired at last, inanely.

  She nodded. “Did you?”

  “Yes, rather.”

  He was supremely happy sitting there beside her, but for the life of him he could think of nothing to say. And he wanted to talk. He had wasted so much time already hunting for her in Doullens. Soon they would reach the sunken track which was his way back to the village. Suddenly he remembered the concert party she had said she was going to see.

  “I say, did y
ou enjoy that concert party?” he asked, knowing well that she had not yet been.

  “I haven’t seen it yet,” she answered. “It is coming on Friday.”

  “I am going to try to borrow a motor-bike or else lorry-jump in to see it,” he announced.

  They had reached the sunken track and passed it. She had given it a glance, but had made no comment.

  “Do you think we could go together?” he asked quickly. “I would like to awfully, if you wouldn’t mind very much—would you?”

  “I should love it,” she said.

  “That’s splendid. It will be great fun.”

  He found he could talk more easily now, and he was elated at the prospect of spending over two hours in her society. She had pointed out that they had nearly reached the village in which was her C.C.S., but he had replied, “Yes—if you go the nearest way, but is there any hurry?” And she had taken the next turning and driven off into a maze of side roads.

  She fell silent at length, and presently she stopped the car and turned to him. Her little face was troubled.

  “This isn’t fair,” she said. “You know you ought to go. We passed your turning hours ago. I ought to be back, and I’ve taken you all over the place. It isn’t fair to make me go on.”

  He jumped out quickly on to the road and stood with his hands on the wheel looking appealingly at her. He was terribly afraid that he had angered her by his selfishness.

  “I say, I’m awfully sorry,” he said. “You are absolutely right. Jolly caddish of me. You’re not frightfully angry with me, are you? Serve me right if you were. But you are not, are you?” he pleaded.

  She shook her head with a wistful smile at his earnestness.

  “Beastly selfish of me, but I enjoyed it so much,” he said.