by W. F. Morris
“Some of these German doctors are much cleverer than ours, I think; anyway, this fellow pulled me through. It was a million to one chance apparently, and he brought it off. But there were limits even to his skill; and the construction of a human face was one of them.”
He struck a match and held it to his pipe. “I lay in bed for weeks covered in dressings. And most of that time I cursed that fellow’s skill that kept me alive when I ought to have been dead. I knew he had no interest in me personally: it was just his damned professional pride. He wanted to be able to exhibit me as a trophy of his skill.
“He was kind enough though, you know. He offered to try to get into touch with my people for me. I knew they thought I was dead, and as it was still very much touch and go whether I lived, I said no. And besides, I knew he would never make a job of my face. It was all covered in dressings and I had not seen a glass, but I knew. I asked him about it once; but he hedged. Then I asked Kleber, and he told me the truth.”
“Kleber!” exclaimed Pagan.
The other nodded. “Yes; that was where I first met Kleber. He was a hospital orderly; and he was very good to me. The Germans did not treat their enemy wounded badly, you know, but they were short of things themselves at that time, and when there was not enough to go round, it was only natural that their own wounded came first. Kleber got me lots of little comforts that I should have missed otherwise.”
“Stout fellow,” murmured Pagan.
“He was an Alsatian, conscripted of course into the German army; but he hated war, and he had no great love either for French or German. His one idea was to get it over and get back to his farm here in the Vosges. He often used to talk to me about it. He didn’t get on too well with the other orderlies; as an Alsatian he was rather suspect, and he was glad to talk to me. He used to sneak in at odd times with any little delicacy he could get hold of and then talk about his home and his wife and daughter. They were on the German side of the line, living down at Turkheim and making a living by selling stuff to the troops back in rest. His little farm and estaminet were of course on the French side, just over the ridge here. His wife became ill and died during the time that I was in that hospital, and he never forgave the authorities for refusing him leave to go to see her.”
“Rotten trick,” commented Pagan. “We always gave our fellows leave.”
The other nodded. “Well, after a bit I began to sit up and take notice. I was still all swathed in bandages, but I used to sit in a chair outside in the sun and take little walks occasionally. Kleber nearly always went with me. By this time he looked upon me as a friend, and I knew all his personal history. He told me all the news that came from the official communiqués and that drifted back from the line, and we discussed it together, more like a couple of retired chess players watching a tournament than two enemies in the middle of a war. The allies were just beginning their last series of offensives then, and our one subject of discussion was whether they would be able to break through and win the war that year. Kleber thought they would; Germany was on its last legs, he believed. I was not so sanguine. Next year perhaps when the Americans really got going, I said.”
He tapped his pipe out into the lid of a tin. “Well, you know what happened. You were in it yourself, I expect. We were in a little backwater away among the woods, but day by day the news came rolling in—Bapaume retaken, the Hindenburg Line crossed; we knew then we were getting near the end.
“Then Kleber came in one morning with a serious face and whispered to me to meet him in a quiet spot in the grounds. I did so, and we sat down beneath the trees and he told me the news. There had been a revolution in Germany it was rumoured, the Kaiser had abdicated and an armistice was being asked for. Anyway, the hospital was to pack up and go back. Then Kleber unfolded his plan and asked my opinion of it.
“If he went back with the hospital to Germany it would mean weeks of delay before army red tape could demobilize him, quite apart from any complications that might arise if, as was said, a revolution really had broken out. He had no interest in a German revolution; he wanted only to get back to his home. The war was over; therefore he proposed to demobilize himself. He was nearer home there than he would be in Leipzig or Munich. He proposed to leave that night and tramp southwards to Alsace; he had only to follow the trench line which would bring him within a mile of his home.
“We discussed the idea, and it seemed to me to be a good scheme. Then I put forward my own idea. ‘Look here,’ I said, ‘take me with you. I have no more use for Germany and revolutions than you have. My people think I’m dead, and with a face like mine I had much better remain dead as far as they are concerned. You can find me a job of work on your farm.’
“We argued a bit, but he agreed in the end, for he was glad to have my company. We agreed that night was the best time to clear out; but the patients were always shut in after dusk, and so it was arranged that I should pretend to go for a stroll in the grounds during the afternoon and make for a hiding place he knew of about a mile away. It was unlikely that any great fuss would be made over my disappearance, as discipline had largely gone to pot during the few previous days. Anyway, I was to lie close, and he would join me after dark with as much food and kit as he could collect.
“It all worked well. I strolled out in the afternoon, and as soon as I was out of view from the window of the hospital, made straight for the hiding place, which I found without difficulty. I had on the old trench coat in which I had been captured, and the pockets were stuffed with my few belongings and what little money I had. Soon after dark Kleber arrived. He carried a pack full of food and a couple of blankets. Apparently in the general disorganization my disappearance had not even been noticed.
“We had no map, but that didn’t worry Kleber. The trench line, he said, led to his house; and we started off then and there.
“Have you seen much of the line—up and down, I mean?”
“A good bit,” answered Pagan. “The Salient, La Bassée, Vimy Ridge, and most of the Somme.”
The other nodded. “But only bits, I expect; not continuously. Did you ever think of that great deserted highway of no-man’s-land running from the Channel to the Alps?”
Pagan nodded. “Yes—often.”
“Well, Kleber and I marched down most of it—every inch of it from St. Quentin to the Vosges. The Chemin des Dames, the Argonne, Verdun—we saw it all—by night. It was one of the queerest experiences I ever had, tramping along night after night through no-man’s-land. And not a sound. And we came across some queer things too.
“We marched always at night and lay up during the day in some old dug-out. Kleber managed to exchange his uniform for civilian clothes, and sometimes he went to cottages and bought or begged food to eke our scanty supplies. We had a little paraffin stove and we cooked on that. I don’t know how long it took us to get here, for I lost count of the days. I was not yet properly fit, and we had to move by easy stages.
“I shall never forget Kleber’s joy when at last we reached the hills. He didn’t say much, but he kept striding ahead and then pulling up short when he remembered my weak condition. Anyway, it was several days after that before we arrived. I remember that night particularly. It was moonlight and we came along the top of the ridge here from the north. Kleber had not told me we were so close, but I had noticed that he seemed more impatient than usual. He kept on stopping and peering down to the right, and then he would grunt and move on again. Suddenly he turned off half right and led the way down the grassy slope on the other side of the ridge—you probably know it, though there wasn’t much grass there then. He said the going would be easier than on top. I was pretty tired and did not pay much attention. I know we crossed a hollow and then climbed another steepish slope. On top he seized me by the arm and pointed.
“As I said, it was moonlight, and below us was a shallow hollow that seemed to run straight off the mountain to a deep valley south of us. I could see a line of high hills beyond. But at the bottom of the hollow, where it
ran off the mountain so to speak, was a dark building with the moonlight shining through the skeleton rafters of its smashed roof. It was towards this that Kleber was pointing.
“‘That’s my home,’ he said in a quiet voice. I didn’t know what to say, for I knew he was thinking of that smashed roof, and for all I knew the whole building was just a gutted shell like all the others in the forward area. You know what their sticks and houses are to these peasants; you’ve seen them farther north, I expect, risking their lives to bring out a mattress or a broken chair. It’s their very life blood. He must have known that a building as close to the line as that could hardly escape damage, but I suppose he had always pictured his home in its peaceful setting as he had known it, so that he never connected it with the gaping ruins he had seen in other parts of the line.
“But he didn’t rave and curse. ‘That’s my home,’ he said quite quietly and then led the way down towards it.
“When we got close to it I was glad to see that the damage seemed to be confined to the roof: the walls looked sound enough. He climbed in through a broken window and told me to wait while he got a light. I heard him moving across the floor inside, and then I heard another sound which seemed to come from another room. Someone else was there too, and I started to climb through the window, for I knew that Kleber was in the mood for murder just then. I heard him growl angrily and swing open a door, and I saw a dull patch of light appear at the end of the room. Then there followed an ominous silence broken only by a sort of panting, shuffling noise.
“I scrambled through the window as quickly as I could, but before I was half way across the room, I heard Kleber’s voice again and it didn’t sound a bit angry. And then I heard a woman’s voice. Kleber called me, and I just had time to pull the collar of my trench coat across my face before the door opened and Kleber came out with his arm round a girl. Of course it was Bertha, his daughter.
“You know what these peasant women are for grit, you’ve seen ’em farther north. Directly the last shot was fired, she’d packed her traps in a sack, flung it over her shoulder and tramped straight back to her home. She had been there about four days then and she had already started repairing the roof with odds and ends of stuff that was lying about. And … well, that’s how I came to be here.”
Pagan relighted his pipe. “You didn’t work on the farm then, as you suggested.”
The other shook his head. “At first I helped Kleber to get things going—house watertight and all that. At that time, of course, the place was deserted. Munster was flat and the people were only just beginning to come back. Nobody ever came up here, and I could wander about much as I liked. Both Kleber and Bertha wanted me to remain in the house, but it wasn’t playing the game. I don’t belong to the family. And besides I’m an independent sort of fellow. I found this dug-out and rigged it up; and then I hit upon the idea of making these gadgets for the shops. So now I have my own house, such as it is, and earn my own living such as it is. That is much more satisfactory. And no one could want better or more loyal friends than Kleber and Bertha.”
“I am sure of that,” agreed Pagan. “And you are content?”
The other tapped out his pipe. “Yes—why not? I will not pretend that I’m not bored at times. But I have no worries and I am my own master.” He indicated the dug-out with a wave of his hand. “I have my home—such as it is, my books, my simple work. And I have enough to live upon in my own little way. Yes, I am content—even happy.”
When Pagan rose to go, he asked, “Is there anything I can do for you?”
The tall lonely man shook his head.
“Sure?”
“Sure.”
Pagan produced a small pocket diary from his coat; he pulled out the thin pencil and wrote. Then he tore out the page. “There is my name and the hotel I am staying at in Munster,” he said. “Also my English address. If at any time I can be of any use, don’t hesitate to write. Promise?”
The other glanced at the paper, folded it up and put it in his pocket. “I promise,” he said. “And thanks very, very much.”
He led Pagan back down the old trench, up through the brambles on to the track, and thence down to the road. The moon swam high above the ridge, and the white shivered tree stumps glimmered eerily like watchful ghosts in the cold greenish light.
“Please don’t bother to come any further,” said Pagan.
They shook hands and said good night. Pagan set off at a smart pace down the road. He turned after some twenty paces and waved his hand to the tall figure standing motionless against the rising background of the ridge, and a hand was waved in reply. When next he turned his head the figure was gone and only the white splintered trunks stood forlornly in the moonlight.
III
He expected he would have to walk back, but some half a mile down the road where it swept round the big grassy hummock at the end of the ridge before descending in loops to the valley, he came upon the car. A dark silent figure was distinguishable in the front seat under the cover. It stirred as he came up. “I’m afraid I have been a very long time,” said Pagan. “But I told you not to wait.”
Griffin smothered a yawn and climbed stiffly from the car. “That’s all right, sir. I’ve slept like a top.”
Pagan got in, the headlights blazed out, and the car glided from the grass on to the road. The keen night wind hit them as they slid swiftly round the grassy hummock and began to descend the steep zigzags to the valley.
Griffin lay back with one hand lightly on the wheel. “Well, sir, did you find out what that fellow was up to?”
“Yes,” answered Pagan after a pause. “But he was not up to any harm. I’m sorry now I poked my nose in.” He considered a moment. “As a matter of fact it is nothing more than a relation of his who was terribly smashed up in the war. He is not a pretty sight and does not want people to see him—poor devil.”
“Poor blighter!” murmured Griffin sympathetically.
“I shall have to tell Mr. Baron,” went on Pagan, “or he might come poking round up here himself; but apart from that, I think it would be better, Griffin, if you and I forgot all about to-night.”
Griffin nodded his head understandingly. “That’s right, sir. We’ve just been for a ride round in the moonlight, I’ve been to sleep and that’s all I know.”
“Good man,” said Pagan.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I
PAGAN came down rather late for breakfast in the morning. In the sunny room leading to the terrace he found Clare and Baron having coffee and croissants. Upon their little table was a third cup, empty, and a becrumbed plate.
“That is the remains of Cecil’s feast,” said Clare. “He is off to earn the daily bread.”
“Then I will take his chair if I may,” said Pagan.
Baron put a generously buttered piece of roll into his mouth and mumbled, “Yes, do. All nice and hot from the cow.”
Pagan sat down, and a waiter took away Cecil’s dirty cup and brought some coffee.
“Very solemn this morning!” remarked Clare as she poured out the coffee.
He smiled at her. “I am still an optimist!” he said in a low voice.
“Late hours and a languishing liver,” diagnosed Baron, who had not heard the other remark. “What happened last night, Charles? I hear that you and Griffin went off detecting.”
“Yes,” added Clare. “I was surprised when Cecil said this morning that you had been up there again last night. You are a very persistent person, are you not!” she ended with a smile.
“Too persistent in this case, I’m afraid,” answered Pagan solemnly. “I wish now I had not meddled with the affair at all!”
Baron put down his cup. “Then you did find out something, Charles.”
Pagan nodded.
“Well then, come along, out with it. I’m quite mildly interested, you know, and of course Clare, being a female woman, is simply dying to hear; aren’t you?”
“Simply dying,” agreed Clare.
; “Well then, out with it,” repeated Baron as Pagan hesitated. “Were you right or was I? Does Kleber keep a pre-historic man on his mountain top or is he a dangerous Bolshie from Moskowvitch?”
Pagan stirred his coffee thoughtfully and shook his head. “Kleber is a jolly good fellow,” he answered slowly. He glanced round the little room and went on when he saw that except for themselves it was deserted. “And his activities are quite harmless; but as we suspected there is a connection between him and the apparition.”
“You don’t mean to tell me, Charles,” mumbled Baron with his mouth full of buttered croissant, “that you have seen the apparition.”
Pagan nodded. “Not only seen him but spoken to him.”
Baron put down his cup with a bang and looked round eloquently at Clare; then he looked back at Pagan. “Well, go on, curse you!” he cried. “Can’t you see we’re all agog?”
“He is a friend of Kleber’s,” explained Pagan. “A poor fellow who was frightfully smashed up during the war—no face left at all.”
“Well I’m dashed!” exclaimed Baron. “So that’s it!”
“And he is English,” added Pagan.