‘Almost,’ he said critically, holding his head to one side.
‘Not with an Army. You could with a Safety, though,’ said Anthony. And, indeed, as Brother Burges had foretold, one might have shaved in it with comfort.
‘Did you ever run across any of ’em afterwards, any time?’ Anthony asked presently.
‘Not so many of ’em left to run after, now. With the ’Eavies it’s mostly neck or nothin’. We copped it. In the neck. In due time.’
‘Well, you come out of it all right.’ Anthony spoke both stoutly and soothingly; but Humberstall would not be comforted.
‘That’s right; but I almost wish I ’adn’t,’ he sighed. ‘I was ’appier there than ever before or since. Jerry’s March push in ’Eighteen did us in; an’ yet, ’ow could we ’ave expected it? ’Ow could we ’ave expected it? We’d been sent back for rest an’ runnin’-repairs, back pretty near our base; an’ our old loco’20 that used to shift us about o’ nights, she’d gone down the line for repairs. But for ’Ammick we wouldn’t even ’ave ’ad our camouflage-screens up. He told our Brigadier that, whatever ’e might be in the Gunnery line, as a leadin’ Divorce lawyer he never threw away a point in argument. So ’e ’ad us all screened in over in a cuttin’ on a little spur-line near a wood, an’ ’e saw to the screens ’imself. The leaves weren’t more than comin’ out then, an’ the sun used to make our glue-paint stink. Just like actin’ in a theatre, it was! But ’appy. But ’appy! I expect if we’d been caterpillars, like the new big six-inch hows, they’d ha’ remembered us. But we was the old La Bassee ’15 Mark o’ Heavies that ran on rails – not much more good than scrap-iron that late in the War. An’, believe me, gents – or Brethren, as I should say – we copped it cruel. Look ’ere! It was in the afternoon, an’ I was watchin’ Gander instructin’ a class in new sights at Lady Catherine. All of a sudden I ’eard our screens rip overhead, an’ a runner on a motor-bike come sailin’, sailin’ through the air – like that bloke that used to bicycle off Brighton Pier – and landed one awful wop almost atop o’ the class. “’Old ’ard,” says Gander. “That’s no way to report. What’s the fuss?” “Your screens ’ave broke my back, for one thing,” says the bloke on the ground; “an’ for another, the ’ole Front’s gone.” “Nonsense,” says Gander. ’E ’adn’t more than passed the remark when the man was vi’lently sick an’ conked out. ’E ’ad plenty papers on ’im from Brigadiers and CO’s reporting ’emselves cut off an’ askin’ for orders. ’E was right both ways – his back an’ our Front. The ’ole Somme Front washed out as clean as kiss-me-’and!’ His huge hand smashed down open on his knee.
‘We ’eard about it at the time in the ’Oly Land. Was it reelly as quick as all that?’ said Anthony.
‘Quicker! Look ’ere! The motor-bike dropped in on us about four pip-emma. After that, we tried to get orders o’ some kind or other, but nothin’ came through excep’ that all available transport was in use an’ not likely to be released. That didn’t ’elp us any. About nine o’clock comes along a young Brass ’At in brown gloves. We was quite a surprise to ’im. ’E said they were evacuating the area and we’d better shift. “Where to?” says ’Ammick, rather short.
‘ “Oh, somewhere Amiens way,” he says. “Not that I’d guarantee Amiens for any length o’ time; but Amiens might do to begin with.” I’m giving you the very words. Then ’e goes off swingin’ ’is brown gloves, and ’Ammick sends for Gander an’ orders ’im to march the men through Amiens to Dieppe; book thence to New’aven, take up positions be’ind Seaford, an’ carry on the War. Gander said he’d see ’im damned first. ’Ammick says ’e’d see ’im court-martialled after. Gander says what ’e meant to say was that the men ’ud see all an’ sundry damned before they went into Amiens with their gun-sights wrapped up in their puttees. ’Ammick says ’e ’adn’t said a word about puttees, an’ carryin’ off the gun-sights was purely optional. “Well, anyhow,” says Gander, “puttees or drawers, they ain’t goin’ to shift a step unless you lead the procession.”
‘ “Mutinous ’ounds,” says ’Ammick. “But we live in a democratic age. D’you suppose they’d object to kindly diggin’ ’emselves in a bit?” “Not at all,” says Gander. “The BSM’s kept ’em at it like terriers for the last three hours.” “That bein’ so,” says ’Ammick, “Macklin’ll now fetch us small glasses o’ port.” Then Mosse comes in – he could smell port a mile off – an’ he submits we’d only add to the congestion in Amiens if we took our crowd there, whereas, if we lay doggo where we was, Jerry might miss us, though he didn’t seem to be missin’ much that evenin’.
‘The ’ole country was pretty noisy, an’ our dumps we’d lit ourselves flarin’ heavens-high as far as you could see. Lyin’ doggo was our best chance. I believe we might ha’ pulled it off, if we’d been left alone, but along towards midnight – there was some small stuff swishin’ about, but nothin’ particular – a nice little bald-headed old gentleman in uniform pushes into the dug-out wipin’ his glasses an’ sayin’ ’e was thinkin’ o’ formin’ a defensive flank on our left with ’is battalion which ’ad just come up. ’Ammick says ’e wouldn’t form much if ’e was ’im. “Oh, don’t say that,” says the old gentleman, very shocked. “One must support the Guns, mustn’t one?” ’Ammick says we was refittin’ an’ about as effective, just then, as a public lav’tory. “Go into Amiens,” he says, “an’ defend ’em there.” “Oh no,” says the old gentleman, “me an’ my laddies must make a defensive flank for you,” an’ he flips out of the dug-out like a performin’ bullfinch, chirruppin’ for his “laddies”. Gawd in ’Eaven knows what sort o’ push they was – little boys mostly – but they ’ung on to ’is coat-tails like a Sunday-school treat, an’ we ’eard ’em muckin’ about in the open for a bit. Then a pretty tight barrage was slapped down for ten minutes, an’ ’Ammick thought the laddies had copped it already. “It’ll be our turn next,” says Mosse. “There’s been a covey o’ Gothas messin’ about for the last ’alf-hour – lookin’ for the Railway Shops, I expect. They’re just as likely to take us.” “Arisin’ out o’ that,” says ’Ammick, “one of ’em sounds pretty low down now. We’re for it, me learned colleagues!” “Jesus!” says Gander, “I believe you’re right, sir.” And that was the last word I ’eard on the matter.’
‘Did they cop you then?’ said Anthony.
‘They did. I expect Mosse was right, an’ they took us for the Railway Shops. When I come to, I was lyin’ outside the cuttin’, which was pretty well filled up. The Reverend Collins was all right; but Lady Catherine and the General was past prayin’ for. I lay there, takin’ it in, till I felt cold an’ I looked at meself. Otherwise, I ’adn’t much on excep’ me boots. So I got up an’ walked about to keep warm. Then I saw somethin’ like a mushroom in the moonlight. It was the nice old gentleman’s bald ’ead. I patted it. ’Im and ’is laddies ’ad copped it right enough. Some battalion run out in a ’urry from England, I suppose. They ’adn’t even begun to dig in – pore little perishers! I dressed myself off ’em there, an’ topped off with a British warm.21 Then I went back to the cuttin’, an’ someone says to me: “Dig, you ox, dig! Gander’s under.” So I ’elped shift things till I threw up blood an’ bile mixed. Then I dropped, an’ they brought Gander out – dead – an’ laid ’im next me. ’Ammick ’ad gone too – fair tore in ’alf, the BSM said; but the funny thing was, he talked quite a lot before ’e died, an’ nothin’ to ’im below ’is stummick, they told me. Mosse we never found. ’E’d been standing by Lady Catherine. She’d up-ended an’ gone back on ’em, with ’alf the cuttin’ atop of ’er, by the look of things.’
‘And what come to Macklin?’ said Anthony.
‘Dunno … ’E was with ’Ammick. I expect I must ha’ been blown clear of all by the first bomb; for I was the on’y Janeite left. We lost about half our crowd, either under, or after we’d got ’em out. The BSM went off ’is rocker when mornin’ came, an’ he ran about from one to another sayin’: “That was a good push! That w
as a great crowd! Did ye ever know any push to touch ’em?” An’ then ’e’d cry. So what was left of us made off for ourselves, an’ I came across a lorry, pretty full, but they took me in.’
‘Ah!’ said Anthony with pride. ‘ “They all take a taxi when it’s rainin’.” Ever ’eard that song?’
‘They went a long way back. Then I walked a bit, an’ there was a hospital-train fillin’ up, an’ one of the Sisters – a grey-headed one – ran at me wavin’ ’er red ’ands an’ sayin’ there wasn’t room for a louse in it. I was past carin’. But she went on talkin’ an’ talkin’ about the War, an’ her pa in Ladbroke Grove, an’ ’ow strange for ’er at ’er time of life to be doin’ this work with a lot o’ men, an’ next war, ’ow the nurses ’ud ’ave to wear khaki breeches on account o’ the mud, like the Land Girls; an’ that reminded ’er, she’d boil me an egg if she could lay ’ands on one, for she’d run a chicken-farm once. You never ’eard anythin’ like it – outside o’ Jane. It set me off laughin’ again. Then a woman with a nose an’ teeth on ’er marched up. “What’s all this?” she says. “What do you want?” “Nothing,” I says, “only make Miss Bates, there, stop talkin’ or I’ll die.” “Miss Bates?” she says. “What in ’Eaven’s name makes you call ’er that?” “Because she is,” I says. “D’ you know what you’re sayin’?” she says, an’ slings her bony arm round me to get me off the ground. “’Course I do,” I says, “an’ if you knew Jane you’d know too.” “That’s enough,” says she. “You’re comin’ on this train if I have to kill a Brigadier for you,” an’ she an’ an ord’ly fair hove me into the train, on to a stretcher close to the cookers. That beef-tea went down well! Then she shook ’ands with me an’ said I’d hit off Sister Molyneux in one, an’ then she pinched me an extra blanket. It was ’er own ’ospital pretty much. I expect she was the Lady Catherine de Bourgh of the area. Well, an’ so, to cut a long story short, nothing further transpired.’
‘’Adn’t you ’ad enough by then?’ asked Anthony.
‘I expect so. Otherwise, if the old Circus ’ad been carryin’ on, I might ’ave ’ad another turn with ’em before Armistice. Our BSM was right. There never was an ’appier push. ’Ammick an’ Mosse an’ Gander an’ the BSM an’ that pore little Macklin man makin’ an’ passin’ an’ raisin’ me an’ gettin’ me on to the ’ospital train after ’e was dead, all for a couple of Bradburys. I lie awake nights still, reviewing matters. There never was a push to touch ours – never!’
Anthony handed me back the Secretary’s Jewel resplendent.
‘Ah,’ said he. ‘No denyin’ that Jane business was more useful to you than the Roman Eagles or the Star an’ Garter.22 Pity there wasn’t any of you Janeites in the ’Oly Land. I never come across ’em.’
‘Well, as pore Macklin said, it’s a very select Society, an’ you’ve got to be a Janeite in your ’eart, or you won’t have any success. An’ yet he made me a Janeite! I read all her six books now for pleasure ’tween times in the shop; an’ it brings it all back – down to the smell of the glue-paint on the screens. You take it from me, Brethren, there’s no one to touch Jane when you’re in a tight place. Gawd bless ’er, whoever she was.’
Worshipful Brother Burges, from the floor of the Lodge, called us all from Labour to Refreshment. Humberstall hove himself up – so very a cart-horse of a man one almost expected to hear the harness creak on his back – and descended the steps.
He said he could not stay for tea because he had promised his mother to come home for it, and she would most probably be waiting for him now at the Lodge door.
‘One or other of ’em always comes for ’im. He’s apt to miss ’is gears sometimes,’ Anthony explained to me, as we followed.
‘Goes on a bust, d’you mean?’
‘’Im! He’s no more touched liquor than ’e ’as women since ’e was born. No, ’e’s liable to a sort o’ quiet fits, like. They came on after the dump blew up at Eatables. But for them, ’e’d ha’ been Battery Sergeant-Major.’
‘Oh!’ I said. ‘I couldn’t make out why he took on as mess-waiter when he got back to his guns. That explains things a bit.’
‘’Is sister told me the dump goin’ up knocked all ’is Gunnery instruction clean out of ’im. The only thing ’e stuck to was to get back to ’is old crowd. Gawd knows ’ow ’e worked it, but ’e did. He fair deserted out of England to ’em, she says; an’ when they saw the state ’e was in, they ’adn’t the ’eart to send ’im back or into ’ospital. They kep’ ’im for a mascot, as you might say. That’s all dead-true. ’Is sister told me so. But I can’t guarantee that Janeite business, excep’ ’e never told a lie since ’e was six. ’Is sister told me so. What do you think?’
‘He isn’t likely to have made it up out of his own head,’ I replied.
‘But people don’t get so crazy-fond o’ books as all that, do they? ’E’s made ’is sister try to read ’em. She’d do anythin’ to please him. But, as I keep tellin’ ’er, so’d ’is mother. D’you ’appen to know anything about Jane?’
‘I believe Jane was a bit of a match-maker in a quiet way when she was alive, and I know all her books are full of match-making,’ I said. ‘You’d better look out.’
‘Oh, that’s as good as settled,’ Anthony replied, blushing.
HIS GIFT
His Scoutmaster and his comrades, who disagreed on several points, were united in one conviction – that William Glasse Sawyer was, without exception, the most unprofitable person, not merely in the Pelican Troop, who lived in the wilderness of the 47th Postal District, London, SE, but in the whole body of Boy Scouts throughout the world.
No one, except a ferocious uncle who was also a French-polisher,1 seemed responsible for his beginnings. There was a legend that he had been entered as a Wolf-Cub2 at the age of eight, under Miss Doughty, whom the uncle had either bribed or terrorised to accept him; and that after six months Miss Doughty confessed that she could make nothing of him and retired to teach school in the Yorkshire moors. There is also a red-headed ex-cub of that Troop (he is now in a shipping-office) who asserts proudly that he used to bite William Glasse Sawyer on the leg in the hope of waking him up, and takes most of the credit for William’s present success. But when William moved into the larger life of the Pelicans, who were gay birds, he was not what you might call alert. In shape he resembled the ace of diamonds; in colour he was an oily sallow.
He could accomplish nothing that required one glimmer of reason, thought, or common sense. He cleaned himself only under bitter compulsion. He lost his bearings equally in town or country after a five-minutes’ stroll. He could track nothing smaller than a tram-car on a single line, and that only if there were no traffic. He could neither hammer a nail, carry an order, tie a knot, light a fire, notice any natural object, except food, nor use any edged tool except a table-knife. To crown all, his innumerable errors and omissions were not even funny.
But it is an old law of human nature that if you hold to one known course of conduct – good or evil – you end by becoming an institution; and when he was fifteen or thereabouts William achieved that position. The Pelicans gradually took pride in the notorious fact that they possessed the only Sealed Pattern, Mark A, Ass – an unique jewel, so to speak, of Absolute, Unalterable Incapacity. The poet of a neighbouring Troop used to write verses about him, and recite them from public places, such as the tops of passing trams. William made no comment, but wrapped himself up in long silences that he seldom broke till the juniors of the Troop (the elders had given it up long before) tried to do him good turns with their Scout-staves.
In private life he assisted his uncle at the mystery of French-polishing, which, he said, was ‘boiling up things in pots and rubbing down bits of wood’. The boiling-up, he said, he did not mind so much. The rubbing-down he hated. Once, too, he volunteered that his uncle and only relative had been in the Navy, and ‘did not like to be played with’; and the vision of William playing with any human being upset even his Scoutmaster.
Now it happened, upon a certain summer that was really a summer with heat to it, the Pelicans had been lent a dream of a summer camp in a dream of a park, which offered opportunities for every form of diversion, including bridging muddy-banked streams and unlimited cutting into young alders and undergrowth at large. A convenient village lay just outside the Park wall, and the ferny slopes round the camp were rich in rabbits, not to mention hedgehogs and other fascinating vermin. It was reached – Mr Hale their Scoutmaster saw to that – after two days’ hard labour, with the Troop trek-cart, along sunny roads.
William’s share in the affair was – what it had always been. First he lost most of his kit; next his uncle talked to him after the fashion of the Navy of ’96 before refitting him; thirdly he went lame behind the trek-cart by reason of a stone in his shoe, and on arrival in camp dropped – not for the first, second, or third time – into his unhonoured office as Camp Orderly, and was placed at the disposal of The Prawn, whose light blue eyes stuck out from his freckled face, and whose long skinny arm was covered with badges. From that point on, the procedure was as usual. Once again did The Prawn assure his Scoutmaster that he would take enormous care of William and give him work suited to his capacity and intelligence. Once again did William grunt and wriggle at the news, and once again in the silence of the deserted camp next morning, while the rest of the Pelicans were joyously mucking themselves up to their young bills at bridging brooks, did he bow his neck to The Prawn’s many orders. For The Prawn was a born organiser. He set William to unpack the trek-cart and then to neatly and exactly replace all parcels, bags, tins, and boxes. He despatched him thrice in the forenoon across the hot Park to fetch water from a distant well equipped with a stiff-necked windlass and a split handle that pinched William’s fat palms. He bade him collect sticks, thorny for choice, out of the flanks of a hedge full of ripe nettles against which Scout uniforms offer small protection.3 He then made him lay them in the camp cooking-place, carefully rejecting the green ones, for most sticks were alike to William; and when everything else failed, he set him to pick up stray papers and rubbish the length and breadth of the camp. All that while, he not only chased him with comments but expected that William would show gratitude to him for forming his young mind.
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