Our Casualty, and Other Stories Part 3

Besides, I've had a very pleasant time, pleasant and peaceful."

He strolled round to the far side of the tree and took a look at the men who lay stretched out. One of the officers, a boy of untiring energy, complained that he was bored.

"I say, McMahon, can't I get up and go back to the mess? What's the good of my lying here all the afternoon?"

"You'll lie there," said McMahon severely, "until you get orders to go.

And it may be a long time before you do. In fact, you won't be able to.

stir till the padre comes, and I haven't the least idea where he is, I doubt if he's out with us at all to-day."

"What the d.i.c.kens has the padre got to do with it?" said the officer.

"You'll find that out in time. For the present you've nothing to do but lie still."

"But hang it all---- I say, McMahon, can't you finish off and let me go?"

"I?" said McMahon. "I've finished with you long ago. There's nothing more for me to do. The next man to take you in hand is the padre."

The orderly stood at his elbow while he spoke. He seemed a little nervous and agitated.

"Beg pardon, sir," he said. "The Colonel's just coming, sir. He and the General. He's drove up in the General's car; and I'm afraid they're both coming here, sir."

McMahon turned. What the orderly said was perfectly true. The Colonel, and with him the General, and the two umpires in the fight, were skirting the oats and making for the little grove of trees where the casualties were.

McMahon went to meet them.

"Ah, McMahon," said the Colonel, "I've come to see how you've treated the wounded. I've brought the General with me. Casualties rather heavy, eh? Had a busy afternoon?"

The Colonel grinned. McMahon saluted respectfully.

"Got your list made out?" said the Colonel, "and your report on each case? Just hand them over to me, will you? The General would like to see them."

"I beg your pardon, sir," said McMahon, "but have you given orders for the padre to report here?"

"Padre?" said the Colonel. "What do you want the padre for?"

"The padre and a burying party, sir," said McMahon. "The fact is, sir, that the wounded all died, every one of them, on the way down from the firing line. Arrived here stone dead. I couldn't do anything for them, sir. Dead before they got to me. I've had them laid out, if you'd like to see them, sir. It's all I could do for the poor fellows. It's the padre's job now. I understand that he keeps a register of burials, so there was no need for me to make a list, and of course I didn't attempt any treatment. It wouldn't have been any use, sir, when the men were dead."

III -- A MATTER OF DISCIPLINE

O'Byrne, the Reverend Timothy, is our padre. We call him Tim behind his back because we like him and Padre to his face because some respect is due to his profession. Mackintosh is our medical officer. The Reverend Tim used to take a special delight in teasing Mackintosh. It may have been the natural antipathy, the cat and dog feeling, which exists between parsons and doctors. I do not know.

But the padre never lost a chance of pulling the doctor's leg, and Mackintosh spent hours proving that the things which the padre says he saw could not possibly have happened I should not like to call any padre a liar; but some of the Rev. Tim's stories were rather tall, and the doctor's scepticism always goaded him to fresh flights of imagination.

The mess was a much livelier place after the Rev. Tim joined it. Before he attached himself to us we used to wonder why G.o.d made men like Mackintosh, and what use they are in the world.

Now we know. Mackintosh exists to call out all that is best in our padre.

One night--the battalion was back resting at the time--we had an a.s.sistant Provost Marshal as a guest The conversation turned on the subject of deserters, and our A.P.M. told us some curious stories about the attempts made by these poor devils to escape the net of the military organization.

"The fact is," said the A.P.M., "that a deserter hasn't a dog's chance, not here in France anyway. We are bound to get him every time."

"Not every time," said the padre. "I know one who has been at large for months and you'll never lay hands on him."

The A.P.M., who did not of course know our padre, sat up and frowned.

"I don't think it's his fault that he's a deserter," said the padre. "He was forced into it And anyway, even if I give you his name and tell you exactly where he is, you'll not arrest him."

"If he's a deserter, I will," said the A.P.M.

"No, you won't," said the padre. "Excuse my contradicting you, but when you hear the story you'll see yourself that you can't arrest the man.

Mackintosh here is protecting him."

"Is it me?" said Mackintosh. "I'd like you to be careful what you're saying. In my opinion it's libellous to say that I'm protecting a deserter. I'll have you court-martialled, Mr. O'Byrne, padre or no padre. I'll have you court-martialled if you bring any such accusation against me."

"I don't mean you personally," said O'Byrne. "I am taking you as a representative of your profession. The man I am speaking of"--he turned politely to the A.P.M.--"is under the direct protection of the Army Medical. You can't get at him."

Mackintosh bristled, to the padre's great delight Anything in the way of an attack on the medical profession excites Mackintosh fearfully.

"Binny is the man's name," said the padre. "17932, Private Alfred Binny.

He was in the Wess.e.x, before the hospital people made a deserter of him. I will give you his address if you like, but you'll not be able to arrest him. If you try you'll have every doctor in France down on you.

They back each other up through anything, don't they, Mackintosh?"

"I'd like you to understand," said Mackintosh, "that you can't be saying things like that with impunity."

"Get on with the story, padre," I said, "and don't exasperate Mackintosh."

"It was while I was attached to No. 97 General Hospital," he said. "Know No. 97, Mackintosh? No. That's a pity. It's a place which would just suit you. Patients wakened every morning at five to have their faces washed. Discipline polished till you could see your face in it, and so many rules and regulations that you can't cross a room without tripping over one. The lists and card indexes that are kept going in that place, and the forms that are filled in! You'd glory in it, Mackintosh. But it didn't suit my temperament."

"I believe you," said Mackintosh grimly.

"It was while I was there," said the padre, "that Biimy came down the line and was admitted to the hospital with a cushy wound in the fleshy part of his arm. He'd have been well in three weeks and back with his battalion in a month, if it hadn't been for the doctors. It's entirely owing to them that he's a deserter now."

"Malingered, I suppose," said Mackintosh. "Got back to England by shamming sh.e.l.l shock and was given his discharge. He wouldn't have pulled it off if I'd been there."

"You've guessed wrong," said the padre. "It wasn't a case of malingering. As nearly as possible it was the exact opposite. The doctors tried to make the poor fellow out much worse than he really was.

"I don't believe it," said Mackintosh.

"As a matter of fact," said the padre, "the mistake--you'll hardly deny that it was a mistake when you hear the story--arose through too strict attention to discipline, that and the number of lists and returns that were made out. It doesn't do to rely too much on lists, and there is such a thing as overdoing discipline.

"What happened was this. One evening, when Binny had been in the hospital about a week, two orderlies came to his bed with a stretcher.

They told him they were going to carry him down to the mortuary and put him into his coffin. Binny, of course, thought they were making some new kind of joke, and laughed. But the orderlies were perfectly serious.

They said his name was on the list of those who had died during the day and they had no choice except to obey orders and put him into a coffin.

They showed Binny the list, all nicely typed out, and there was no mistake about it Binny's name, number, regiment, and religion were all there.