No Man's Land Part 7

The Sapper, with a suppressed chuckle, went down some steps into a s.p.a.cious dug-out. The darkness made him temporarily blind, so he saluted and stood still just inside the doorway.

"d.a.m.n you, don't blow at me! What's that fool blowin' down the thing for? I _have_ pressed a b.u.t.ton--confound you!--and rung the bell twice.

No--I didn't ring off; somebody blew at me, and the machine fell on the floor."

"The General is trying to get through to his chateau." A voice full of unholy joy whispered in the Sapper's ear, and that worthy, whose eyes had got accustomed to the gloom, recognised the Adjutant.

"I gathered that something of the sort was occurring," he whispered back.

But the General was at it again. "Who are you--the R.T.O.? Well, ring off. Exchange. Exchange. It is the Divisional General speaking. I want my head-quarters. I say, I want my--oh, don't twitter, and the bally thing's singin' now! First it blows and then it sings. Good G.o.d!

what's that?"

A deafening explosion shook the dug-out, and a shower of earth and stones rained down in the trench outside.

"They're very active this morning, sir," said the Sapper, stepping forward. "Lot of rum jars and things coming over."

"Are you the Sapper officer? Good morning. I wish you'd get this accursed instrument to work."

"There may be a line broken," he remarked tactfully.

"Well--I shall have to go back; I can't hear a word. The thing does nothin' but squeak. Now it's purring like a cat. I hate cats. Most annoyin'. I wanted to come round the front line this morning."

"In very good condition, sir; I've just been all round it. Mighty hot up there, General--and swarms of flies."

"And they're puttin' over some stuff, you say?"

"Yes, sir--quite a lot."

"Hum! Well, of course, I fully intended to come round--but, dash it all, I must get back. Can't hear a word the fellow says. Does nothing but play tunes." The Pumpkin rose and stalked to the door. "Well, I'll come round another morning, my boy. I wonder, by Jove! if that last one was meant for this head-quarters? Devilish near, you know." He walked up the stairs, followed by his staff officer. "Good mornin'--mind you see about that telephone. Cursed thing blows."

"Dear old Pumpkin," murmured the Adjutant as his steps died away. "He's a topper. His figure's against him, but he's got the heart of a lion."

"He has," answered the Sapper, preparing to follow his footsteps. "And the men would do anything for him."

"What price that rum jar I sent in a bird about?"

"That was the last explosion you heard," laughed the Sapper. "I wasn't leaving anything to chance. I am going to go and drink beer--iced beer, in long gla.s.ses. _Toujours a toi_."

He was gone, leaving the Adjutant staring. A few moments later he clambered out of the trench, and struck out for the crumbling church that betokened a road and the near presence of his bicycle.

A day of peace--yes, as things go, a day of perfect peace. Away down South things were moving; this was stagnation. And yet--well, it was at dinner that night . . .

"For the fourteenth night in succession I rise to a point of order." The Doctor was speaking. "Why is the lady with the b.u.t.terfly on her back pushed away into one corner, and that horrible woman with the green wig accorded the place of honour?"

I would hurriedly state that the Doctor's remarks were anent two pictures which are, I believe, occasionally to be found in officers' messes in the B.E.F.--pictures of a Parisian flavour as befits the Entente--pictures which--at any rate they are well known to many, and I will not specify further.

"Yes, the lady with the gween wig is dweadful." The boy sipped his port.

"Infant, I'm shocked at you. The depravity of these children nowadays . . ."

An orderly came into the room with an envelope, which he handed to the Captain.

The C.O. spread out the flimsy paper and frowned slightly as he read the message.

"T.M. Emp. No. 7, completely wrecked by a direct hit 9.30 a.m. this morning, A.A.A. Please inspect and report, A.A.A., C.R.E., 140th Division."

"Delayed as usual," grunted the Scotchman. "I was there just after it happened, and reported it to the O.C. Trench Mortars. Did you not hear, sir, for it's useless repairing it? That position is too well known."

"Were there any casualties?" The Sapper Captain's voice was quiet.

"Aye. The poor lad that was crooning over his gun when I saw him this morning, like a cat over her undrowned kitten, just disappeared."

"What d'you mean, Mac?"

"It was one of the big ones, and it came right through the wire on top of him." The gruff voice was soft. "Poor bairn!"

[1] _Special Note to Lovers of Etymology_.

_Il n'y en a plus_. There is no more. French phrase signifying complete absence of. Largely heard in estaminets near closing time.

_Naploo_.--Original pure English phrase signifying the perisher has run out of beer.

_Napoo_.--Vulgar and b.a.s.t.a.r.dised shortening of original pure English phrase. Has now been added to B.E.F. dictionary, and is used to imply that a man, thing, person, animal, or what not, is "finished."

II

OVER THE TOP

"On the afternoon of the 21st we gained a small local success. Our line was advanced on a front of six hundred yards, over an average depth of a quarter of a mile. All the ground gained was successfully consolidated. Up to date eighty-six unwounded prisoners have pa.s.sed through the corps cage, of whom three are officers."

Thus ran the brief official notice so tersely given in the "Intelligence Summary," known to the ribald as "Comic Cuts"; later it will appear even more tersely in the daily communique which delights the matutinal kipper and twin eggs of England. It's all so simple; it all sounds such a ridiculously easy matter to those who read. Map maniacs stab inaccurate maps with pins; a few amateur strategists discourse at length, and with incredible ignorance, on the bearing it--and countless other similar operations--will have on the main issue. And the vast majority remark gloomily to the other members of the breakfast table that there is nothing in the paper as usual.

Nothing, my friend! I wonder. . . .

This is not a story; there is no plot; it is just what happens every day somewhere or other in the land of glutinous, stinking mud, where the soles are pulled off a man's boots when he walks and horses go in up to their bellies; where one steers a precarious and slippery course on the narrow necks of earth that separate sh.e.l.l holes, and huddled things stare up at the sky with unseeing eyes. They went "over the top" themselves--ten days ago--in just such another local success.

Nothing, my friend! Perhaps you're right; it's mainly a sense of proportion that is needed in war, as in other things. . . .

"Good morning, dear old soul." The machine-gun officer emerged from a watery hole of doubtful aspect, covered with a dented sheet of corrugated iron and a flattened-out biscuit tin--the hole that is, not the officer. "We have slept well, thank you; and the wife and family are flouris.h.i.+ng. Moreover--you're late."

The Sapper regarded him pessimistically through the chilly mist of an October dawn. "Entirely owing to my new and expensive waders being plucked from my feet with a sucking noise. A section of haggard men are now engaged in salvage operations. Shall we process?"

"We shall--in one sweet moment, not before. Sweet, brave heart, because----" He put his head round the corner. "Jones--the raspberry wine--_toute suite_. Just a hollow tooth full, and we will gambol like young lambs the whole long weary way."