She looked down at the ignition lever and rasped it forward and then back. “So did I,” she confessed; “but I thought you would never go.”
“I’m forgiven then?”
She nodded.
“Till Friday evening, then. Goodbye—Berney.”
She let in the clutch and the car began to move.
“Goodbye—Peter.”
He watched the car out of sight and then strode gaily along, slapping his field-boot every other step with his crop.
V
A period of rest in a peaceful back area village within reasonable distance of Doullens was an event which any of the hard-worked batteries in France would have hailed with joy, and B Battery were enjoying their stay at Ervillers. The Major never fussed his command, and apart from the necessary parades of stables and exercise that are inseparable from a mounted unit, he left the battery in peace. The men played football among themselves and matches with the other batteries of the brigade; and several villagers gathered in the dusk outside the billets to listen to the harmonized sentimental songs of the contented men within.
Rawley alone was uneasy. He asked himself irritably why he could not enjoy this spell out of the Line without bothering about Rumbald. But everything the fellow did irritated him, and justifiably surely. They had been playing vingt-et-un one evening, Rawley, Whedbee, Piddock, and Rumbald, in the little farmhouse mess-room. Rumbald sat with his back to the old-fashioned mantelpiece on which stood a mirror overmantel. He had been losing, and Whedbee who sat opposite him had been winning. Suddenly, with an exclamation, Rumbald had jumped up from his chair and covered the mirror behind him with a newspaper. Whedbee had merely lowered his head and peered over his glasses at Rumbald’s fat hands tucking the edges of the newspaper behind the mirror, and Piddock had contented himself with asking Rumbald sarcastically whether he was expecting the sweep, but Rawley refrained only with difficulty from an outburst at this gratuitous insult.
And there had been the incident of Sergeant Cooper’s billet. Sergeant Cooper was a little inclined to be familiar with the men, and in consequence the discipline of his section was a shade below the high standard maintained by the other sections. His billet was a small wood shed, opening off the archway that gave entrance to the farm courtyard on the other side of which the section were billeted. The shed, separated only by a rough wooden partition from the cart-shed beside it, was not more than eight feet long by six feet broad, but a bed composed of a rough wooden frame covered with wire netting had been fitted along one wall and made it a comfortable billet for one man.
As orderly officer Rawley had turned in one night under the archway with Sergeant Jameson to see that lights were out in the men’s billets. A streak of light and the sound of a voice came from Sergeant Cooper’s door which was ajar, and as they passed it Rawley distinguished the concluding words of a story Penhurst had told that evening in Amiens.
He hesitated at the sound of the laugh which followed the words, and Sergeant Jameson halted regimentally beside him. He hesitated a moment longer and then stepped to the door and flung it open. The little shed was lighted by two candles stuck in cigarette tins nailed to the wooden partition, and on the low, brown-blanket covered bunk sat Rumbald and Sergeant Cooper. Rumbald’s cap was on the back of his head, and he was dressed in the khaki slacks and shoes that were worn in the mess back in billets. A half-burnt cigar was in his mouth, and he held an enamel mug in his hand. The collar and top buttons of Sergeant Cooper’s tunic were undone, exposing the greyback army shirt and the brown and green identity disc hanging by a greasy cord round his neck. A chipped enamel mug rested on his knee. At the sight of Rawley with Sergeant Jameson standing rigid and sphinx-like beside him, he rose quickly to attention and fumbled to do up the buttons of his tunic. There was a half-guilty; embarrassed look in his eyes.
Rumbald, lounging on the wire-netting bunk, cried heartily, “Hullo, Pete!”
Rawley nodded. His eyes encountered those of Sergeant Jameson fixed enigmatically on his. He hesitated a moment, and then stepped back and closed the door. Followed by Sergeant Jameson he walked in moody silence round the midden to the men’s billet. “So that was it,” he mused. “Drinking and telling dirty stories with an N.C.O. in his bunk! A little of that sort of thing would play old Harry with the discipline of the battery.”
CHAPTER VII
I
At exercise one morning as the long column of horses filed back along the road to the village, Piddock clattered up beside Rawley. “I say, Rawley,” he began, “can’t we commandeer a car from somewhere and get into Armeens tonight. This simple life stunt is all right in small doses, but personally, I can’t work up much enthusiasm over watching the local ploughman homeward plod on his beery way. I think a drink at Charley’s Bar, and a dinner at the Godbert, is the right prescription. Are you game?”
“Sorry, but I’ve a previous engagement,” Rawley told him.
“What, here in the wilds of Picardy!” Piddock exclaimed. He shook his head sanctimoniously. “Peterkins! Peterkins! You’re leading a double life, I fear—but couldn’t you lead me astray, too?”
Rawley laughed. “As a matter of fact I’m going into Hocqmaison to see a divisional concert party—but it’s a secret. Come along, too, if you can keep it.”
“Who provides transport?”
“I’m borrowing one of the battery cycles.”
“Holy Hindenburg! What, push-biking all the way!”
Rawley nodded.
Piddock spoke soothingly. “My dear old battle-scarred war horse, I hate to shatter your illusions, but the luscious damsels in divisional concert parties are really only anaemic bombardiers dressed up in camisoles and what-you-may-call-ems.”
Rawley grinned. “You silly ass, I’m not that type of fool. But there will be some real damsels there.”
Piddock nodded uninterestingly. “Oh, I daresay—horny-handed Hebes from the local midden, with black woollen stockings on their fat legs and black-heads on their red faces.”
“You’re coarse,” Rawley told him. “But I don’t mean Picardy farm wives; I mean English girls.”
“What! Oh, shut up, Rawley. You’re delirious.”
“I mean it,” said Rawley.
“What, little darlings with silk fetlocks and powdered noses?”
Rawley nodded emphatically. “Yes—Army nursing sisters and lady ambulance drivers. There’s a C.C.S. in the next village. It’s one of those twin arrangements—one on each side of the stream.”
“You make me go all over alike. But there’s a catch in this somewhere. First of all, how do you know (a) that any of these she-angels of Mons will be at the divisional follies tonight, and (b) supposing they are there, that we shall click?”
“That’s the secret,” said Rawley. “Swear to keep it?”
“Wild whiz-bangs wouldn’t get it out of me, my old Hannibal.”
“Well, the answer to (a) is that I know they are going to be there, because I heard one of them say so, and the answer to (b) is that I’ve already clicked.”
Piddock smote his booted leg with his crop. “Stout feller. Outsize in stout fellers! Go on, my martial Romeo,” he cried lyrically. “Go on, walk march, tell me how you met Whiz-bang Winnie, the battlefield belle.”
“Shut up,” growled Rawley. “She’s too nice for that kind of rot. I met a little ambulance driver when I was in Doullens.”
“And you arranged to go with her to this show tonight?”
Rawley nodded.
“Stout feller! ‘A guardee or sapper may dazzle a flapper, but for women a gunner, what! What!’ ” carolled Piddock gaily. “And will there be any more little drivers there?”
“Probably—but you will have to take your chance of that. Anyway, you keep off mine.”
“Sure thing, my dear old warrior. You registered first. I’ll be as discreet as a blind monk at a grandmother’s meeting.”
II
They left Rumbald in the mess making up to the adjutant from
brigade headquarters, and rode off on two scarred green army bicycles. Piddock had not ridden a bicycle for some years, and his awkwardness was increased by the long field-boots and tight riding-breeches he was wearing. He wobbled erratically all over the road, but it was only when he locked handlebars with Rawley almost under the radiator of a passing staff car that he consented to ride in single file. A long dusty convoy of motor lorries, that drove them to the gutter of the steeply-cambered road, where wobbling meant disaster, completed his discomfiture, but his cheery optimism carried him through, and they reached Hocqmaison in safety.
“The first thing,” said Rawley, “is to find somewhere to park our tin chargers.”
“And the next,” put in Piddock, “is to find some mess where we can get a drink; and then we shall be all ripe and fruity for the sob stuff.”
They walked their bicycles slowly up the village street.
“Look!” cried Piddock suddenly. “What a sight for scarred veterans!”
An army nursing sister in grey and red cape and large white coif was coming up the street towards them.
“On the command ‘Glad eyes right!’ ” said Piddock, “we salute smartly with the Mark V smile.”
“We do nothing of the sort,” protested Rawley.
“Army sisters rank as officers,” persisted Piddock. “And I think this one is our senior; therefore we salute.”
“It isn’t done,” said Rawley.
“It is,” affirmed Piddock cheerfully. “But the only thing is, how does one salute when wheeling ironmongery? Does one extend the arm at an angle of forty-five degrees across the saddle, turning the head and eyes to the right, or does one cant the cycle smartly upwards with the right hand, revolve the pedals with the left, bringing the bell in line with the right ear and left toe?” He saluted cheerfully as the sister went by, and she gave him a little smile and murmured, “Good evening.”
“There you are!” he cried enthusiastically, when she had passed. “She recognized in us two strong silent men from the wide open spaces, men who have never lost a trench, men who have faced the hairy Hun without flinching, men who have played laughing hazard with their young manhood to save her from worse than death! What wonder, then, that her little heart fluttered, that a delicate blush suffused her creamy cheek, that she faltered shyly—the magic words—”
“Good evening!” put in Rawley dryly.
Piddock gazed at him reproachfully. “A lie never passed her cherry lips,” he went on imperturbably. “She spoke the truth. It is a good evening, a damn good evening.”
“I suggest we ride into the twin village and reconnoitre the concert hut,” said Rawley. “We have nearly a couple of hours before zero, and we don’t want to be seen hanging about here.”
They mounted and rode down a shady, tree-bordered road out of the village, crossed an old stone bridge, and found themselves in the twin village on the other side of the stream. It was a narrow, winding cobbled street up which Rawley went with Piddock pedalling dangerously in the rear. A high stone wall ran along one side, and where it curved inwards to a pair of tall iron gates a flagpole was planted. A small red flag with a white St. George’s Cross hung limply from the halliards.
“Some bloomin’ corps headquarters,” growled Piddock.
Beyond the open iron gates was a grey, flat-fronted château with the usual rows of windows and blistered white shutters. A sentry with fixed bayonet stood properly at ease at the foot of the steps leading to the door, and the broad, dusty space between him and the iron gates was occupied on one side by a couple of green-painted staff cars, a lorry, and a field-pigeon loft, and on the other by one Nissen hut labelled “Camp Commandant,” and another nearer the gate with the blue and white board of the signals D.R.L.S.
“We are on the right track,” said Rawley, pointing to a notice painted on the wall above him. It ran: To the Corps Concert Party: To-night at 8. A little farther on another notice ran: To the Officers’ Club.
“We are in luck,” exclaimed Piddock. “A club means a drink—and, by gad, yes, a decent meal.”
Presently a large, home-made poster depicting a flashy young lady having her shoe lace tied by an immaculate and tight-waisted Tommy, announced that the ‘Iron Rations’ would be ‘issued’ that night at 8 pip emma.
“Well, we’ve found the concert hut,” said Piddock. “And there’s the club,” he added, pointing to a curious collection of huts in a field, bordering the road.
The nucleus of the club proved to be a sixty foot hut that was used as a dining-room, and radiating from it were four Nissen huts, two on each side. These respectively did duty as a bar, a writing-room, a smoking lounge, and a lavatory. This last was a triumph of field plumbing. Two lengths of timber some two feet apart supported the half-dozen wash-basins which consisted of petrol tins cut in half lengthways and neatly hinged to one of the supporting timbers, so that each tin could be tipped up and the water emptied into the zinc-lined trough below. A water pipe with a tap above each tin completed the equipment. Another hut placed across the end of the large main hut served as the entrance and foyer of the club. This was furnished with a carpet and armchairs. A brick fireplace and ingle nook had been built at one end.
Piddock dropped into a comfortable armchair, and looked about him appreciatively. “It makes my heart bleed,” he said, as he sipped his gin and bitters, “to think of all these staff merchants nobly carrying on amid these horrors of war. Think of having to stretch out one of your arms every time you want a drink. Thank God we have such men in England today!”
Rawley, who was wandering round, came to rest at a writing-table. “There is actually notepaper and envelopes here,” he exclaimed.
“Good egg!” murmured Piddock, from the depths of his chair. “There is a real ash-tray here too. Positively, I must use it. Give me a cigarette, Rawley.” Rawley threw across his case. “You know,” went on Piddock dreamily, “it’s astonishing how much fun one can get out of simple things that one just took for granted in peace time. After that dirty work on the Somme I went on Paris leave, and I had a gorgeous room at the Edward VII—silk-hung bed, tiled bathroom and lavatory all to myself. I was just like a kid, switching on lights and things—I spent half the first night pulling the plug. It seemed so bally civilized, if you know what I mean. I must have wasted half the water supply of Paris.”
Rawley grunted. “Who are you writing to?” asked Piddock. “Haig? Dear Douglas, I hope I shall not spoil your war, but I shall be unable to fight this afternoon. I am going to the pictures with a lady friend. Perhaps at some future battle you will let me bring my cannon, and we will have a jolly time firing them together. Yours affectionately, Peter Rawley.”
“I’m trying to fix you up with a companion for this evening,” answered Rawley. He had written: “Dear Berney, I am writing this at the Officers’ Club in the next village. What swell neighbours you have! There is another fellow from the battery with me—an awfully good chap—and I am rather hoping that you may have a friend who would be kind to a lonely gunner. Anyway, I shall be outside the church punctually.—Yours, Peter.”
“I am going to give some fellow five francs and lend him my bicycle to take it down to the C.C.S.”
“That’s a very sound scheme, my old Napoleon,” agreed Piddock. “You ought to be on the gaudy staff.”
Rawley sent off the note, and then they had dinner; and a very good dinner it seemed to them, with tablecloths and crockery and wine, and liqueurs and cigars to follow.
“All we want now is a taxi,” said Piddock as they left the club. “And of course we ought to call in at the florists on the way.”
“Well, we might lorry-hop,” answered Rawley practically. “And there are some poppies in that field over there.”
III
“Do I hover daintily in the middle distance?” asked Piddock, as they walked towards the church which was the rendezvous.
“When she appears,” answered Rawley, “you fall back a dozen paces and become interested in tha
t Maltese cart, or any damn thing till I say walk march.”
Punctually to the hour Berney emerged from one of those lanes that in every French village squeeze between the cottages bordering the main street. Piddock, in one rapid glance, took in the neat figure in khaki coat and skirt and broad-brimmed hat. “If only she has a twin sister I am going to enjoy myself,” he murmured, as he fell back.
Rawley went forward to meet her. “You are a sportsman to come,” he said, feasting his eyes upon her. Little wavy wisps of hair showed beneath her hat, and she wore a broad-ended tie loosely knotted at her low collar; it was khaki, but very different from the narrow, knitted ties that encircled the brick-red necks in the mess. She seemed unbelievably feminine from the brim of the hat that nestled on the little curls at the back of her neck to the well-polished and serviceable-looking brogue shoes.
“They brought me your note,” she said.
“Well?” he asked.
“And I have a friend,” she answered, with a smile.
Piddock was called up and introduced. “I’m afraid I’m the skeleton at the feast,” he grinned. “But just say the word and I will sit in that lorry and read King’s Regulations till it’s time to take Rawley home.”
“It’s a shame to keep you from your work,” answered Berney, with a twinkle, “but Mary Hamilton promised to come to make a foursome. But I am sure she is frightfully ignorant of King’s Regulations.”
“Splendid! Then I will read them to her in a low voice during the show,” grinned Piddock. “They are awfully entertaining—‘when on active service dropping an H: maximum penalty—death.’ ”
They halted outside a cottage, and Berney called, “Mary! Are you ready?” A feminine voice inside answered, “Coming,” and a moment later a pretty girl with a freckled face, dressed in the same manner as Berney, joined them.
The long recreation hut with a stage at one end was nearly full when they entered. A Tommy with freshly scrubbed face and plastered hair conducted them to their seats among the first three rows of chairs. The body of the hut was fitted with benches that were closely packed with men in khaki, though here and there a man was escorting the madame or mademoiselle from his billet.
Behind the Lines Page 7
