Behind the Lines

by Morris, W. F. ;

  They began with a Martini and then broached the Chambertin. The chaplain grew voluble. “I’m awfully glad I ran into you,” he said. “You see, I’m in an awful hole. I have got to go off early tomorrow morning. I got orders not more than an hour ago, and when I met you I had just been to the station to see the R.T.O. My train leaves at six-thirty.”

  “Where are you going?” asked Rawley.

  “Somewhere near Arras, the R.T.O. said. I have to report to the fifty-sixth division.”

  “Oh yes, I know them,” said Rawley. “London Territorial division.”

  “Are they a nice lot?” asked the chaplain. “You see, I’m rather nervous about going up for the first time.”

  “I just happen to know they are London Territorials and that they have quite a good fighting reputation, but beyond that I don’t know anything about them. I’ve never met them. But tell me, what is the trouble? What are you getting all hot and bothered about?”

  The chaplain took a gulp at his glass. “I haven’t packed up yet.”

  Rawley laughed. “Well, that’s easy. If you have a pile of stuff you just dump what you can’t take, that’s all.”

  “But I don’t know what I ought to take, so I am relying on you to come along and show me.”

  “What, after we have finished this meal!” exclaimed Rawley. “What sort of time do you think I shall get back to Albert, pray?”

  “Must you go back tonight?” asked the other coaxingly. “I can put you up if you like. There are two beds in my billet. You must come. There are dozens of other things I want to ask you about.”

  Rawley laughed. “I don’t see why you cannot ask them now, but if you really want me to I will go along to your billet for a little time. I’d be a swab to refuse that after this excellent meal you have given me.”

  They left the Godbert and walked along the quiet Rue des Jacobin. It was a clear cold night, and the stars glittered metallically above the darkened streets. “What a hardy chap you must be!” exclaimed the chaplain, who was muffled in a thick British warm. “Aren’t you perishing without a coat?”

  “Not a bit,” answered Rawley. “I hardly ever wear a coat these days,” he added more truthfully.

  They turned into a dark and narrow street between tall, cliff-like houses. Their footfalls rang out noisily on the ornamental pavement. The street was deserted at that hour, and no ray of light escaped from the rows of long-shuttered windows. The chaplain halted before a brick-arched doorway. “Here we are,” he said.

  The door opened a few inches in response to his knock, and then at the sound of his voice was opened more widely. Rawley mounted two steps and stood in complete darkness. The door closed behind him, a switch clicked, and he found himself in a large ponderously-furnished hall, somewhat dimly lighted by a shaded electrolier. The chaplain led the way up a carpeted stair. He turned down a long corridor dimly lighted by a little oil lamp on a table, and threw open a door. “This is my billet,” he said. “Not too bad—considering.”

  Rawley found himself in a large and lofty room. Facing him were two long French windows, curtained with lace, through which could be seen the white blistered paint of the closed shutters beyond. Heavy plush curtains undrawn hung on either side of each window, and there was a frill of the same thick material along the top. Two beds, with heavy maple panels at head and foot, stood against one wall, with a thick tapestry bell-pull between them. A huge maple press, a marble-topped chest of drawers, and a dark green plush armchair, and a table covered with a plush cloth, completed the furniture.

  Rawley moved slowly across the threshold. “No—not too bad,” he echoed with a smile. “Better than you are likely to get with your new division, anyway.”

  The chaplain dragged a new-looking valise from the bottom of the press and set to work to pack. He would not allow Rawley to help him. He was to direct operations, he said. And so Rawley sat in the armchair, smoking his pipe and giving advice.

  “What do I do about paying for this billet?” asked the chaplain, looking up suddenly.

  “You don’t pay,” answered Rawley. “You fill in a billeting return which goes to some French authority, who pay the money and claim from the British Government. It goes in every week, I believe.”

  “But I haven’t got a billeting return and I’ve never had one?” answered the chaplain.

  “Somebody has been doing it for you, then—Town Major, or whatever they have here, I suppose. Whom do you draw your rations from?”

  “I really don’t know. My man always brings them.”

  “Then I expect he tells the ration people about the billet also. By the by, where is your servant? Are you taking him with you?”

  “Oh, no. I don’t think so. He belongs here. He’s a permanent base, or whatever they call it. But I don’t know where he sleeps. He comes in every morning and gets my breakfast, and again for lunch at midday.”

  Rawley filled his pipe. “Don’t you mess with anyone then?”

  “No. Bull brings my rations and cooks them for breakfast and lunch, and I usually get an evening meal somewhere in the town. He looks after the canteen for me, too. And I want to talk to you about that. You see, I haven’t seen Bull since midday and he doesn’t know I’m going. And I shall be gone tomorrow when he comes again. You see, I give him the money and he borrows a limber from somewhere and buys the stuff for the canteen, and he bought a new lot yesterday. And that was what was bothering me when I met you. I can’t take all that stuff with me, and I thought I should just have to leave it and not be able to tell Bull about it either. That’s why I wanted you to come back here. I thought that if you stayed here for the night you could see Bull tomorrow morning after I have gone, and you could tell him about the rations and the billet and all that. And I thought perhaps you would do something about the canteen stuff for me—either take it up to your people or get Bull to sell it out and then collect the money. In either case, you’re welcome to it. I have made a good few hundred francs out of it which I am taking up to this division to start something there. But I can’t take the stock, and you would be doing me a good turn if you would take it off my hands.”

  Rawley blew a cloud of smoke towards the ceiling. “That’s jolly good of you. All right then, I will see your bloke, Bull, tomorrow and fix it up.” He eyed the comfortable looking box-mattresses on the beds. It was months since he had slept in a real bed, and these had clean sheets and pillows. “And if you insist on my staying the night,” he added with a smile, “I suppose I must. Lying in that bed will certainly be more comfortable than bumping back to Albert on a lorry.”

  The chaplain produced a clean pair of mauve pyjamas. “I brought out four pairs,” he said rather shamefacedly. “So I was going to leave these behind, anyway. My kit is bulging as it is. And now I think we ought to turn in. I have got to be up jolly early tomorrow.”

  II

  It was some time before Rawley got to sleep. He had been used to lying closely rolled in two or three blankets with the ends tucked tightly under his shoulders and neck to keep out the draught, and now the very comfort of being able to stretch his legs in loose clean pyjamas in a broad, soft bed kept him awake. He lay with widespread legs, relaxed in the darkness, and though he could see nothing except two faint glimmers of light from the heart-shaped holes in the window-shutters, he was acutely aware of the peace and comfort of the room. Gradually, however, his thoughts became confused and disconnected, and he dropped into a deep sleep.

  He was awakened by someone moving near him, and as he turned over and drowsily opened his eyes the two faint bars of light from the shutters recalled to him his whereabouts. A dim form was bending by the other bed. “Hullo, are you awake?” came the voice of the chaplain. “Don’t you get out, but I have got to look slippy; it’s nearly a quarter-to-six.”

  Rawley jumped out of bed, and the chaplain switched on the electric light. “Now what can I do?” asked Rawley. “What about breakfast?”

  “I shall not have time for that,” answered
the chaplain, who was pulling on his clothes. “I’ll pick up something at the station.”

  “That’s absurd,” protested Rawley. “You won’t get much at the station at this hour, and if I know anything of army trains it will probably take you all day to crawl up to Arras. Haven’t you got anything here?”

  “A few biscuits. I don’t know where Bull keeps my rations. He will bring them along later and cook my breakfast. You will eat that, of course. I will pick up something on the way all right.”

  “You don’t know these French trains as I do,” said Rawley doubtfully. “You ought to have brought something back from the Godbert last night. Eat the biscuits, anyway. How are you getting your kit down to the station?”

  “I’ll have to carry it, I suppose.”

  Rawley laughed. “You are a hopeless fellow. Look here, as soon as I’m dressed I will run out and see if I can find somebody or something to take your valise along.” He put on his collar and tunic. “You get along quietly. I’m off, and in any case I will be back in time to give you a hand down to the station.”

  Rawley opened the door and felt his way along the corridor and down the dark stairs. He fumbled with the heavy front door and opened it. Dawn was breaking, but the light was not yet strong, and the street wore the cold, deserted air peculiar to towns at that hour. He set off briskly through the chill air, his feet echoing loudly on the pavement. He turned into a broad tree-lined road that was deserted except for a workman in a blue blouse at the far end. But the rumble of wheels on cobbles came from a street to his left. He doubled along the pavement and to his joy saw an army limbered wagon rattling towards him. Within five minutes he was back at the house with the limber.

  The chaplain was buckling the last strap of his valise as Rawley burst into the room. “Are you ready?” cried Rawley. “I have got a limber for you outside.”

  The chaplain buckled on his belt and looked round the room. “Yes, I think I have got everything. I’m leaving several odds and ends. Do what you like with them.”

  He put on his British warm. Rawley shouldered the valise and went down the stairs. The driver put the valise in the limber, and the chaplain climbed in after it. He wrung Rawley’s hand. “Thanks awfully,” he said. “Oh, and look here; give this to Bull, will you? It’s his wages. And see that he gives you a good breakfast. Goodbye, and again—thanks awfully.”

  When the limber had rattled out of sight round the corner, Rawley turned back into the house. He went into the lighted room and looked about him with fresh interest. It was his now for the moment. Two or three books and an old pair of slippers lay on the floor. There was a little pile of torn-up letters on the plush tablecloth, and on the marble-topped chest of drawers was a basin half full of water, a bit of soap in a soap dish, and a crumpled towel.

  He took off his coat and collar and washed. Then he switched off the electric light, opened the long French windows and pushed back the shutters. An ornamental railing ran across the lower part of the windows which looked on to the narrow street. Some of the shutters in the houses opposite had already been opened. The air was fresh, but the sun was now up, and he picked up a book and pulled the armchair to the window.

  III

  About an hour later a tap sounded on the door, and a short, thick-set man came in carrying an enamel jug of steaming water. He paused at the sight of Rawley sitting by the window, and looked inquiringly round the room. Rawley put down his book. “Captain Chivers has gone,” he said. “He got orders last night too late to let you know, and he went off early this morning. He asked me to tell you, and he sent you this.”

  The man put down the jug and took the money Rawley held out to him. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Oh, and Bull, I’m eating his breakfast.”

  “Very good, sir. It’s a bit o’ bacon this morning.”

  “Good!” said Rawley. “And I’m ready when you are.”

  “I’ll ’ave to cook it first, sir. But I’ll get on with it right away.” He turned back on his way to the door. “And ’ow do you like the tea, sir? Captain Chivers liked it ’ot and strong.”

  “Hot, Bull, but not too strong,” said Rawley.

  “Right you are, sir. Oh, an’ there ain’t only condensed this morning.”

  “That’s all right,” said Rawley.

  The man paused in the doorway. “I’ve got a tin o’ jam, sir—plum an’ apple.”

  “That’s splendid! Bring that, too,” said Rawley.

  Private Bull returned later with the breakfast. He spread a moderately clean white cloth over the plush tablecloth, and put upon it a knife and fork, a plate containing two rashers of rather fat bacon, half a loaf of bread, a teacup and saucer, a small tea-pot and a cardboard carton of jam. He dusted his hands lightly together as he looked over the table. “There you are, sir,” he said. “I don’t think I’ve forgotten nothin’. Shall I give your belt and buttons a rub while you are eatin’ it?”

  “Yes, please,” said Rawley. “And then I want you to show me the stuff in the canteen. Captain Chivers has turned it over to me.”

  “I see, sir.” He fumbled in his breast pocket and produced a dog-eared note-book. He opened it where it was bulged by a pile of small notes and placed it on the table beside Rawley. “That’s yesterday’s takings, sir, an’ the list. I ’ave added it up, but it come out ’alf a franc short somehow. Captain Chivers always used to give a look at it while he was a-having his breakfast.”

  “Righto,” said Rawley.

  Bull picked up the belt and tunic, but paused in the doorway. “Since you’re taking over from the other captain, I s’pose I’ll drore rations as usual, sir.”

  Rawley arrested the teacup that was half-way to his mouth, and held it poised in mid air. Then he set it slowly back in the saucer. “Er, yes—yes, for as long as I’m here,” he said.

  “Well, you never know, sir, you may stay here for duration. Captain Chivers thought he’d be here for a couple o’ days an’ he was ’ere over a month. He reckoned they’d forgot all about him, but as I used to tell ’im, there are a lot o’ worse places than this in France he might a’ been forgot in.”

  “That’s very true,” agreed Rawley.

  “Yes, that’s what I tell him. Well, I’ll give these ’ere buttons a rub, sir, and then I’ll tidy up a bit.”

  Left alone in the room, Rawley ate his bacon and drank the hot tea with a thoughtful air. His intention had been to sell out the canteen stock and to come into Amiens in a few days’ time to collect the money from Bull. Now, however, he toyed with other ideas. Bull had evidently interpreted his words to mean that he was taking over from Chivers, not only the canteen stock, but the canteen itself as a going concern and the billet and rations also. He looked round the furnished, civilized room and particularly at the comfortable bed, and asked himself why he should not stay here at least until the stock was sold. The risk was not very great. Once a thing was started it was easy, except in exceptional circumstances, to carry on without suspicion. He knew the way these things were done. Some officer permanently in the town would sign the billeting return as a matter of course, and Bull would draw rations from some quartermaster-sergeant who would probably never know that Chivers had gone, and if he did know he would take it as a matter of course that another padre had taken over. No one had ever bothered about Chivers; why should anyone ever bother about him? The prospect was dazzling: a comfortable billet in Amiens, rations, a servant to cook one’s meals, and the profits of the canteen to play with. He glanced once more round the comfortable room that could be his, and decided to risk it.

  IV

  After breakfast he lighted his pipe, and sat in the comfortable armchair by the window to think matters out. It would be impossible to bring Alf into Amiens. He would have to stay in the cellar and draw rations as usual from Albert. He, Rawley, could go to see him occasionally and take him little comforts. Then there was the question of kit. He would have to have some kit. Bull would think it peculiar for an officer to arrive with no c
hange of underclothes even, and only the few articles from Alf’s looted suit-case. He turned over the money Bull had given him. Together with what remained of his money it amounted to just over a hundred and fifty francs. It was hardly enough for the purpose and he needed a reserve for re-stocking the canteen. At Ordnance, of course, one could get stuff without paying for it. One produced one’s field-cashier’s book and signed a form. He had the field-cashier’s book of Captain Parker, whose uniform he wore. Since the book was lost, Parker might have cancelled it. The field-cashier would know that, but it was hardly likely that Ordnance would, since with them the book was not used as a cheque-book, but only as proof that the holder was an officer. But then, again, if he signed as Captain Parker, A.C.D., Parker would have to pay for his things, which was rather mean, and also when Parker saw the items deducted from his pay he might repudiate them, tell the story of his suit-case lost in that raid in the village, and set the military police on tracing the impostor. That would be highly dangerous.

  He pondered the problem till he had solved it to his satisfaction. Then he went out into the town.

  He bought a set of A.S.C. badges in the Rue des Trois Cailloux, cap badge and collar badges; these with an indelible pencil completed his purchases. He walked down the Boulevard by the station, jumped a lorry going in the right direction, and an hour and a half later walked down the steps of the cellar.

  Alf greeted him with joy. “Coo! I thought they’d got you this time, mate,” he said. “Watcher been on the tiles all night!”

  Rawley told him what had happened and what he intended doing. “But the devil of it is,” he concluded, “I can’t take you with me, there is nowhere where you would fit in, and if you came it would spoil the whole show and they would probably nab us both. My idea is for you to stay here—you will be drawing double rations, by the by—and I will come out to see you now and then and bring anything you want.”

  Alf was awed by the audacity of the plan. “Coo, if that don’t take the perishin’ kitty!” he exclaimed smacking his thigh. “Livin’ in a proper billet! But you’re right about me, mate. O’ course, I’d rather ’ave you with me, but I’ll be all right if you come out an’ see me now and agin. An’ then if things get awkward for yer in Armeens, you can come back ’ere.”