CHAPTER III_Preparations_
That night Bertram could not sleep. The excitement of that wonderful dayhad been too much for his nerves, and he lay alternating between thedepths of utter black despair, fear, self-distrust and anxiety on the onehand, and the heights of exultation, hope, pride, and joy on the other.
At one moment he saw himself the butt of his colleagues, the contempt ofhis men, the _bête noir_ of his Colonel, the shame of his Service, andthe disgrace of his family.
At another, he saw himself winning the approval of his brother officersby his modesty and sporting spirit, the affection and admiration of hismen by his kindness and firmness, the good-will of his Colonel by hisobvious desire to learn and his keen enthusiasm in his duty, the respectof his Service for winning a decoration, and the loving regard of thewhole clan of Greene for his general success as a soldier.
But these latter moments were, alas, far less realistic and convincingthan the others. In them he merely hoped and imagined—while in the blackones he felt and _knew_. He could not do otherwise than realise that hewas utterly inexperienced, ignorant, untried and incompetent, for it wasthe simple fact. If _he_ could be of much use, then what is the good oftraining men for years in colleges, in regiments, and in the field, toprepare them to take their part in war?
He knew nothing of either the art or the science of that great andterrible business. He had neither the officer’s trained brain nor theprivate soldier’s trained body; neither the theory of the one nor thepractice of the other. Even if, instead of going to the Front to-morrowas an officer, he had been going in a British regiment as a private, hewould have been equally useless. He had never been drilled, and he hadnever used a weapon of any kind. All he had got was a burning desire tobe of use, a fair amount of intelligence, and, he hoped, the averageendowment of courage. Even as to this last, he could not be reallycertain, as he had never yet been tried—but he was very strongly ofopinion that the dread of showing himself a coward would always be farstronger than the dread of anything that the enemy could do to his vilebody. His real fear was that he should prove incompetent, be unequal toemergency, and fail those who relied upon him or trusted in him. When hethought of that, he knew Fear, the cold terror that causes a flutteringof the heart, a dryness of the mouth, a weakness of the knees, and asinking of the stomach.
That was the real dread, that and the fear of illness which would furtherdecrease capacity and usefulness. What were mere bullets and bayonets,wounds and death, beside revealed incompetence and failure in duty?
Oh, that he might have luck in his job, and also keep in sufficienthealth to be capable of his best—such as it was.
When Hope was in the ascendant, he assured himself that the greatest workand highest duty of a British officer in a Native regiment was toencourage and enhearten his men; to set them a splendid example ofcourage and coolness; to hearten them up when getting depressed; to wintheir confidence, affection and respect, so that they would cheerfullyfollow him anywhere and “stick it” as long as he did, no matter what thehardship, danger, or misery. These things were obviously a thousandtimes more important than parade-ground knowledge and such details ascorrect alignment, keeping step, polishing buttons, and soforth—important as these might be in their proper place and season. Andone did not learn those greater things from books, nor on parade, nor atcolleges. A man as ignorant as even he of drill, internal economy,tactics and strategy, might yet be worth his rations in the trenches, onthe march, yes, or in the wild, fierce bayonet-charge itself, if he hadthe attributes that enable him to encourage, uplift, enhearten and giveconfidence.
And then his soaring spirit would swiftly stoop again, as he askedhimself: “And have _I_ those qualities and attributes?” and sadlyreplied: “Probably not—but what is, at any rate, certain, is the factthat I have no knowledge, no experience, no understanding of the veryalphabet of military lore, no slightest grasp of the routine details ofregimental life, discipline, drill, regulations, internal economy,customs, and so forth—the things that are the elementary essentials ofsuccess to a body of armed men proceeding to fight.” . . . And in blackmisery and blank despair he would groan aloud: “_I cannot go_. _I cannotdo it_.” . . . He was very young, very much a product of moderncivilisation, and a highly specialised victim of a system and ageneration that had taken too little account of naked fact and elementalbasic tendency—a system and a generation that pretended to believe thathuman nature had changed with human conditions. As he realised, he had,like a few million others, been educated not for Life and theWorld-As-It-Is, but for examinations and the world as it is not, andnever will be. . . .
He tossed and turned through the long hot night on the little hardcamp-bed, listening to Murray’s regular breathing and the scampering ofthe rats as they disported themselves on the other side of the canvasceiling cloth and went about their unlawful occasions. . . .
He reviewed the events of that epoch-making day from the arrival of thetelegram to his getting into bed. . . . A memorable morning, a busyafternoon and evening, a rotten night—with a beastly climax—oranti-climax. . . . Would he never get to sleep on this hard, narrow bed?. . . What would he be fit for on the dreadful morrow if he slept not atall? . . . What a day it had been! Rather amusing about thosecooking-pots. It wouldn’t be very amusing for _him_ if the situationdeveloped as Murray had prophesied. . . . Rather a good bit of work thathe had put in between lunch and dinner with the drill-book and a box ofmatches. Matches made good sections, companies, and battalions forpractising drill-manœuvres on a desk—but it would he a different thing togive the orders correctly and audibly to hundreds of men who watched onewith inscrutable eyes. . . . How he wished he had declined theinvitation of Bludyer to accompany him and Macteith to the theatre. . . .They had proceeded in a car to the Club and there picked up some otherfellows. The play was _The Girl in the Taxi_, and Bertram sat ashamed,humiliated and angry, as a third-rate company of English actors andactresses performed their sorry parts in a travesty of European life andmanners, before the avid eyes of hundreds of natives. There they sat,with faces contemptuous, sensual, blank, eager, gleeful or disgusted,according to their respective conditions and temperaments—the while theygathered from the play that English life is a medley of infidelity,dissipation, intrigue and vulgarity.
And, after the play, Macteith had said: “Let’s go to the Home-from-Homefor a ‘drink-and-a-little-music—what—what’?”
Bertram had thought it a somewhat strange proceeding to go to a Home, ateleven o’clock at night, for music, and he would greatly have preferredto go to bed. However, he could not very well say that they must takehim back to bed first, nor announce his intention of leaving the partyand walking home. . . .
. . . Macteith having given instructions to the Eurasian chauffeur, thetaxi sped away and, skirting the sea-shore, turned off into a quietavenue of giant palms, in which stood detached bungalows of retiring andunobtrusive mien. Into the compound of one of these the taxi turned, anda bell rang loudly, apparently of its own volition. As they got out ofthe car, a lady came out to the brilliantly lighted verandah from thedrawing-room which opened on to it. Bertram did not like the look ofthis lady at all. Her face reminded him of that of a predatory animal orbird, with its fierce eyes, thin, hard lips and aquiline nose. Nor, inhis estimation, did the obvious paint and powder, the extreme-fashionedsatin gown, and the profusion of jewellery which she wore, do anything tomitigate the unfavourable impression received at first sight of her face.. . . Really the last person one would have expected to find in chargeof a Home. . . . Nor was Macteith’s greeting of “Hullo, Fifi, my dear!Brought some of the Boys along,” calculated to allay a growing suspicionthat this was not really a Home at all.
Entering the drawing-room with the rest, Bertram beheld a bevy of ladiessitting in an almost perfect circle, each with a vacant chair beside her.Some of them were young, and some of them presumably had been. All werein evening dress and in the exaggerated extreme
of fashion. All seemedto be painted and powdered, and all looked tired and haggard. Anotherattribute common to the whole party was that they all seemed to beforeigners—judging by their accents as they welcomed Macteith and some ofthe others as old acquaintances.
Bertram liked the look of these ladies as little as he did that of theperson addressed as “Fifi,” and he hoped that the party would not remainat the house long. He was tired, and he felt thoroughly uncomfortable,as noisy horse-play and badinage began, and waxed in volume and pungency.A servant, unbidden, entered with a tray on which stood three bottles ofchampagne and a number of glasses. He noticed that the bottles had beenopened, that the corks and gold-foil looked weary and experienced, andthat the wine, when poured out, was singularly devoid of bubbles andfroth. He wished he had not come. . . . He did not want to drinkalleged champagne at midnight. . . . There was no music, and the peoplewere of more than doubtful breeding, taste and manners. . . . Macteithhad actually got his arm round the waist of one woman, and she waspatting his cheek as she gazed into his eyes. Another pair exchanged akiss before his astonished gaze. He decided to walk out of the house,and was about to do so when the girl nearest to him seized his hand andsaid: “You seet daown ’ere an’ spik to me, sare,” as she pulled himtowards the chair that stood vacant beside her. In an agony ofembarrassment born of a great desire to refuse to stay another minute,and a somewhat unnecessary horror of hurting the young lady’s feelings bya refusal, he seated himself with the remark: “Merci, mam’selle—mais ilse fait tard. Il est sur les une heure . . .” as she appeared to be aFrench woman.
“Laissez donc!” was the reply. “Il est l’heure du berger,” a remark thepoint of which he missed entirely. Finding that he knew French, sherattled on gaily in that tongue, until Bertram asked her from what partof France she came. On learning that she was from Alais in Provence, hetalked of Arles, Nismes, Beaucaire, Tarascon, Avignon and theneighbourhood, thinking to please her, until, to his utter amazement andhorror, she turned upon him with a vile, spitting oath, bade him besilent, and then burst into tears. Feeling more shocked, unhappy andmiserable than he had ever felt before, he begged the girl to accept hisregrets and apologies—as well as his farewell—and to tell him if he couldin any way compensate her for the unintentional hurt he had somehowinflicted.
On her sullen reply of “Argent comptant porte médecine,” Bertram droppeda fifty rupee note into her lap and literally fled from the house. . . .
. . . Yes—a rotten night with a beastly anti-climax to the wonderful dayon which he had received . . . _he_, of all people in the world! . . .had received orders to proceed to the Front. . . . Bertram Greene onActive Service! How could he have the impudence—and it all began againand was revolved once more in his weary mind. . . .
Dawn brought something of hope and a little peace to the perturbed soulof the over-anxious boy.
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