No Hero-This

by Warwick Deeping

  She beams upon me, and says that she will shortly be going home to Quéant. I meet the daughter’s tragic eyes. There can be no home for them at Quéant for many a long day, and our silence is a compassionate conspiracy against blurting the obvious. But madame is not to be discouraged by silence. She says, “When they put up our new house, Madeline, I will have white tiles round the stove in the kitchen.”

  Sanguine and valiant old soul. May she live to see her white tiles.

  There is a little wood beyond the farm at the end of a grass field. Misty sunlight is shining upon it, and I am moved to stroll to this wood and explore. A narrow ride traverses it from north to south, and is crossed by a second ride in the wood’s centre. Most of the trees have been felled and used by the Germans, but a few are standing, and the undergrowth has bushed up. The foliage is a soft, limpid gold; not a leaf is moving on the trees, for the autumn day is windless. A few leaves are falling like yellow scales straight from the branches. Some twirl as they fall. The silence is utter and complete.

  A profound feeling of peace descends upon me. I am happy. In spite of my fear I have endured. I am man and master of my manhood. I am going home.

  * * *

  We move to Le Cateau. No shells are falling in the town now, and the French share its streets with our troops. They seem to take pleasure in the possession of their own streets, and to delight in parading up and down them. On Sunday the town dresses itself in such finery as it can command and the girls coquette with our men.

  Carless is quite happy. He has found a mademoiselle who is eager for un peu d’amour.

  It is raining, but no one minds. Grey skies do not matter. Our sodden troops are cheerfully clearing the German rearguards out of the Forest of Mormal. Even the Boche prisoners appear to be sullenly satisfied with the strange autumnal passing of the war.

  The 81st Division is to attack again and perhaps for the last time. We are to be the forward ambulance, but Gibbs wrote that the show will be hardly more dangerous than a paper-chase.

  I wonder!

  I light a candle in my billet and sit down at a rickety table and write to Mary.

  I feel that I can say to her, “Beloved, it is nearly over. In a little while I may be coming home.”

  THE END

  TRANSCRIBER NOTES

  Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where multiple spellings occur, majority use has been employed.

  Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer errors occur. Mixed hyphenation has been left as per the original printing.

  [The end of No Hero—This by Warwick Deeping]