by Sapper
“Now, you–” The words died away in his mouth. “Great heavens! The General!” And as the frozen eye of the speaker, who had been the other occupant of the hole, wandered round the stricken onlookers, even Percy’s nerve broke. It was the Colonel.
I will draw the veil of reticence over the remainder of this harrowing narrative. The procession back to Brigade Head-quarters has become historic. The attempt to remove the soup tureen on the spot caused its unhappy possessor such agony, and gave rise to so much unseemly and ill-repressed mirth on the part of the audience, that it was hastily abandoned, and the wretched man was led gently back to his dug-out.
The Brigade-Major, who had been notified over the tele-phone, met him at the entrance with a handkerchief suspiciously near his mouth.
“How dreadful, sir!” he murmured, in a voice that shook a little. “I have – er – sent for a tin-opener.”
The General was led to a chair, into which he sank wearily, while in hushed tones the Colonel explained what had happened to his shaking Staff.
“I was told that the General had been seen going down to the front line alone,” he remarked in a low tone, “and so I at once followed him. Just as I got to the craters there was a small Hun raid. I let drive at one of them with my revolver, and the next instant I fell through a hole, full on top of someone’s back. He let out a roar of pain and scrambled up. Of course I thought it was a Hun, and proceeded to beat him over the head with my stick. Great Scott, what a show!”
The Colonel mopped his brow, and the Staff shook still more.
“I’d dropped my revolver, or I’d probably have shot him. Then suddenly there was a clang, and the hole was closed up, while at the same moment something charged past me, head down, and hit the wall. There was a roar of pain, and the tin became a fixture. The poor old boy had rammed the wall with the soup tureen.”
A gurgling noise from the chair interrupted him.
“What is it, sir?” cried the Staff Captain solicitously.
The General hooted mournfully.
“Yes, sir. He’ll be here very soon, sir. Not much longer now. We’ve sent for a tinsmith from one of the Engineer companies.”
But the booming cantata continued.
“What does he want?” whispered the Staff Captain. “A drink?”
The Brigade-Major looked hopeful.
“Yes; get a whisky and soda and a straw, if there’s one left.”
The booming died away.
A few minutes later the Staff, ably assisted by the General’s batman, got one end of the straw into the worthy Brigadier’s mouth. The Colonel closed those holes he could see with his fingers, and the signalling officer held the drink.
“Now, are we ready?” cried the Brigade-Major anxiously. “All right, sir – suck.”
The experiment was not a success. Jets of liquid spurted in all directions, an explosion like a geyser shook the tin, and the Staff recoiled a pace. In fact, I am given to understand that the chief clerk, an intensely interested spectator, so far forgot himself as to counsel the Staff Captain to “sit on ’is ’ead.”
“Do you think we could do anything with one of those instruments for opening tongues?” hazarded the Staff Captain, when the silence had become oppressive and the outbursts of fire extinguished.
“We might try.” The signalling officer was doubtful, but sallied forth, and after some delay returned with one. “Where shall we start?”
“Any old place.” The Staff Captain gripped the implement and stepped manfully forward. “We’re going to try something else, sir – a tongue opener.”
The General hooted apathetically; the onlookers looked anxious, and the Staff Captain got his first grip on the tin.
“Hold the General’s head, Bill,” he cried to the Brigade-Major, “so that I can get a purchase. Now, then – one – two–”
A howl of agony rent the air, and even the chief clerk looked pensive.
“It’s his ear, you fool!” The Colonel dodged rapidly out of the door to evade the human tornado within, and the situation became crucial. Even the tinsmith, who arrived at that moment, a man of phlegmatic disposition, was moved out of his habitual calm and applauded loudly.
“Thank heavens you’ve come!” gasped the Brigade-Major, keeping a wary eye fixed on his frenzied senior, who, surrounded with debris and red ink, was now endeavouring to pull the tin off with his hands. “The General has had a slight mishap. Can you remove that tin from his head?”
The expert contemplated his victim in silence for a few moments.
“Yus,” he remarked at length, “I can, sir, if ’e keeps quite still. But I won’t be answerable for the consequences if ’e don’t.”
“No more will I.” The Brigade-Major mopped his brow. “For heaven’s sake get on with it.”
Thus ended the episode of Percy FitzPercy – his man-trap.
It might have happened to anyone, but only FitzPercy would have searched carefully amongst the crockery, and having found what he was looking for made a point of bringing it to headquarters just as the tin was finally removed.
To emerge into the light of two candles and an electric torch with a bit of one ear and half a face deficient, and realise that the man responsible for it is offering you your uppers in three parts and some fragments, is a situation too dreadful to contemplate.
As I said before, Percy gave up trying after about ten seconds.
Chapter 5
Ebeneezer the Goat
Driver Robert Brown, as I have already remarked, was an admirable man in many ways. And I have frequently observed to other members of the mess, that one of the things that most endeared him to me was his love of animals.
Brown was not a beauty, I admit: his face was of the general-utility order, and he had a partiality for singing a dreadful song of which he only knew one line – at least that is all we ever heard, thank Heaven! At cockcrow, ’neath the midday sun, at eventide, did he foist upon a long-suffering world, with a powerful and somewhat flat voice, the following despairing wail: “What a faice, what a faice, what a norrible faice, lumme, what a faice she ’ad.” Occasional streams of invective issued from neighbouring dug-outs. The result was immaterial; he merely appraised other portions of the lady’s anatomy. Once I remember the cook was ill; Brown did his work. He was a good lad – he always did everyone else’s work. We were hungry – very hungry – and he, stout fellow, was preparing our repast.
“Homlette, sir,” he had murmured confidentially, “peas and taters, and fresh meat!” and with his honest face shining with eagerness to prepare this Epicurean banquet he had gone about his business. The shadows lengthened – an appetising smell greeted our nostrils; we forgave him his untoward references to his adored one’s “faice.” Then it happened.
“What a neye, what a neye, what a norrible neye, lumme” – there was a fearful pause and a sizzling noise – “lumme, the whole perishing homlette’s in the fire.” It was; and in a gallant attempt at rescue he upset the meat in an adjacent stagnant pool. The only thing we got were the peas, and they rattled on the tin plates like shrapnel bullets.
However, as I’ve said several times, he was an admirable lad, and a love of animals atoned for a multitude of sins. At least everyone thought so, until he adopted a goat. It was an animal of unprepossessing aspect and powerful smell – very powerful. I speak with some authority on the subject of goats, for in the course of my service I have lived for a space on an abominable island “set in a sapphire sea.” Ninety per cent of its population are goats, the remainder priests; and without intermission, in a ceaseless stream, the savour of that island flows upwards and outwards. I therefore claim to speak with authority, and Brown’s goat would have held its own with ease in any community.
He accommodated it in a special dug-out, from which it habitually escaped; generally at full speed just as the Major was passing. When the Major had been knocked down twice, Brown was accorded an interview. It was a breezy little affair, that interview, and Brown for some h
ours seemed a trifle dazed. For some time after he was busy in the goat’s dug-out, and when I passed on my way out to a job of work that evening, I found him contemplating his handiwork with pride. Not content with doubling its head-rope, he had shackled the goat fore and aft to pegs in the ground – one fore-leg and one hind-leg being secured by rope to two pegs firmly driven into the floor of the dug-out.
“That’s done you, my beauty,” I heard him murmuring; and then he relapsed into his song, while the goat watched him pensively out of one eye.
I subsequently discovered that it was about three o’clock next morning it happened. The goat, having slipped its collar and pulled both pegs, shot from its dug-out with a goat-like cry of joy. Then the pegs alarmed it, dangling from its legs – and it went mad. At least, that’s what the Major said. It appeared that, having conducted an exhaustive survey of a portion of the line with the General and his staff, they had returned to refresh weary nature with a portion of tongue and a bottle of fine old port – the old and bold, full of crustiness. Hardly had they got down to it, when, with a dreadful and ear-splitting noise, the goat bounded through the door of the dug-out. One peg flying round caught the General on the knee, the other wrapped itself round the leg of the table. The old gentleman, under the impression that the Germans had broken through, drew his revolver, and with a great cry of “Death rather than dishonour,” discharged his weapon six times into the blue. Mercifully there were no casualties, as the staff, with great presence of mind, had hurled themselves flat on their faces during this dangerous proceeding. Each shot came to rest in the crate containing the whisky, and the fumes from the liquid which flowed over the floor so excited the goat that with one awful effort it broke loose and disappeared into an adjacent cornfield. I cannot vouch for all this – in fact the mess as a body received the story coldly. The junior subaltern even went so far as to murmur to another graceless youth that it was one way of accounting for eight bottles of whisky and two of port – and that it was very creditable to all concerned that they said it was a goat, and not a spotted megothaurus. All I can vouch for is that when the Major woke up the next day, he issued an ultimatum. The goat must go – alive if possible; dead if necessary – but if he ever again saw the accursed beast, he, personally, would destroy it with gun-cotton. As he really seemed in earnest about the matter, I decided that something must be done. I sent for Brown.
“Brown,” I said when he appeared, “the goat must go.”
“What, Hebeneezer, sir?” he answered in dismay.
“I do not know its name,” I returned firmly, “and I was under the impression that it was a female; but if you call it Ebeneezer, then Ebeneezer must go.” He became pensive. “Dead or alive that accursed mammal must depart, never to return. It has already seriously injured the Major’s constitution.”
“It has, sir?” There was a world of surprise in his tone. “Of course, it don’t do to go playing about with it, or crossing it like, but–”
“The goat has done the crossing. Twice – at full speed.”
“ ’E seems a bit quiet this morning, sir. Off his food like. And ’e’s lost a bit of ’is tail.” Brown scratched his head meditatively.
The fact did not surprise me – but I preserved a discreet silence. “Get rid of it this morning, and see that it never returns!” I ordered, and the incident closed – at least I thought so at the time.
Brown reported his departure that evening, and with a sigh of relief from the Major the odoriferous Ebeneezer was struck off the strength with effect from that day’s date. It is true that I noticed strange and mysterious absences on the part of my servant when he left carrying something in paper and returned empty-handed, and that in the back of my mind I had a vague suspicion that somewhere in the neighbourhood there still remained that evil-smelling animal looked after and fed by Robert Brown. But, as a week passed and we saw and smelt the beast no more, my suspicions were lulled to rest, and I dismissed the untoward incident from my mind. I am always of an optimistic disposition!
I should say it was about ten days after Ebeneezer’s departure that I awoke one morning early to the sound of a violent altercation without.
“I tells you, you can’t see the Major. ’E’s in ’is bath.” Peering out, I saw Brown and the cook warding off two extremely excited Belgians.
“Bath! Bath! Qu’est que c’est – bath!” The stouter Belgian gesticulated freely. “You are – vot you say – du génie, n’est-ce-pas? Eet is important – ver important that I see monsieur le commandant.”
“Look here, cully,” murmured the cook, removing a clay pipe from his mouth and expectorating with great accuracy; “moosoo le commondant is in ’is bath – see. You’ll ’ave to wait. Bath – savez. Eau.” He pointed to a bucket of water.
“Mon Dieu!” shuddered the Belgian. “Eh bien! mon ami, ees zere anozer officer? It is très important.” He was getting excited again. “Les Boches – zere is a bruit under ze earth – comprenez? Zey make a – oh! ze word, ze word – zey make une mine, and zen we all go Pouff!” He waved his hands to Heaven.
“Mean. Mean,” remarked the cook contemplatively. “Wot the deuce does he mean? Anyway, Bob, we might take ’im on as a sparklet machine.”
Then I thought it was about time I came to the rescue. “What’s all the trouble, Brown?” I asked, coming out of the dug-out.
“These ’ere blokes, sir…” he began; but as both Belgians began talking at once, he got no further.
“Ah! monsieur,” they cried, “vous étes du génie?” I assured them I was of the engineers. “Then come vite, s’il vous plait. We are of ze artillery, and ze Germans zey make une mine, n’est-ce-pas? We go up Pouff. Our guns zey go up Pouff – aussi.”
“Mining,” I cried, “the Germans mining here! Impossible, messieurs. Why, we’re a mile and a half behind the firing-line.” I regret to say I was a little peevish.
Nevertheless they assured me it was so – not once, but many times. Strange noises, they affirmed, were heard in the bowels of the earth near their battery – mysterious rumblings occurred; they continually assured me they were going Pouff!
I went to the Major. He was not in a good temper – he rarely is in the early morning – and the last blade of his safety razor was blunt.
“Mining here!” he barked. “What the deuce are they talking about? It’s probably nesting time for woodpeckers or something. Oh! yes – go away and see,” in reply to my question. “Anything to get those two embryo volcanoes off the premises: and don’t let ’em come back, for Heaven’s sake!”
So I went. Undoubtedly there were noises – very strange subterranean noises, in front of that battery. Moreover, the sounds seemed to come from different places. At times they were very loud; at others they ceased. The excitement soon became intense. Stout officers lay all over the ground with their ears pressed in the mud. The commandant of the battery ran round in small circles saying Pouff! distractedly. In fact everyone said Pouff! to everyone else. It became the password of the morning. Then at last the crucial moment arrived. The centre of the storm, so to speak, had been located – the place where, so far as we could tell, the noise seemed consistently loudest. At that point the Belgians started to dig; and instantly a triumphant shout rent the air. The place was an old disused shaft, boarded over and covered with a thin layer of earth. At last it was open, and from it there issued loud and clear a dreadful tapping.
“A network of galleries,” cried an interpreter excitedly. “Probably old shafts reaching the German lines. We are lost.” He and the commandant had a pouffing match in their despair. But now the noise became greater, and we heard distinctly a human voice. It was at that moment the dread suspicion first dawned on me. An army of men hung over the edge, armed to the teeth with pistols and bowie knives, tin cans and bits of brick. Tap, tap, louder and louder, came the noise. The Pouffers were silent – every one breathed hard.
Then suddenly I heard it echoing along the hollow gallery: “What a faice, what a faice, what a
norrible faice – Hebeneezer, you perisher; where the ’ell are you? – lumme, what a faice she ’ad.”
“ ‘The Watch on the Rhine.’ They sing their accursed song,” howled the commandant. “Belgium for ever, mes braves!”
It was at that moment that a stout spectator, moved to frenzy by this appeal, or else owing to a rush of blood to the head, hurled his tin can. Every one fired – a ghastly noise rent the gloom of the well; there was the sound of something departing at a great rate; a heavy fall; and then silence.
I walked thoughtfully back to my dug-out, refusing the offer of making further explorations. As I passed inside I met Brown. He was limping, and the skin was off his nose.
“What have you been doing?” I demanded.
“I fell down, sir,” he answered.
“Brown,” I said sternly, “where is the goat, Ebeneezer?”
Brown rubbed his nose and looked thoughtfully at me. “Well, sir, I can’t say as ’ow I rightly know. ’E was–” Further disclosures were nipped in the bud by the sudden appearance of the Major. He was inarticulate with rage.
“Get me my revolver,” he spluttered. “Get me my revolver. That damn’ goat’s come back and knocked me down again!”
But Brown had discreetly vanished.
Chapter 6
The Pepnotised Milk
Aunt Araminta is one of the dearest souls that ever breathed. I may say at once that she is not my aunt – rather does she belong to a subaltern of the unit. But we all feel a sort of proprietary right to Aunt Araminta. In the past she has supplied us all with many things. During the winter we received frequent consignments of cholera belts and socks, gloves and khaki handkerchiefs. Most of them had moth balls sewn in. I have never seen her, but I unhesitatingly state that she is of the moth-ball type – she is a martyr to them. This conclusion is confirmed by her nephew – a graceless youth. Now I regret to say that much of our affection for the elderly Araminta has gone. It may return in time – but she has been directly responsible for our being sent to the front-line trenches when we were enjoying a comparative rest on a somewhat safer line. No doubt she was actuated by the best intentions in the world, but just at present we don’t mention her if the Major is about.