Alf nodded rather shamefacedly. Rawley made no comment. “You was right,” said Alf at last. “It’s full of clothes.”
Rawley allowed himself a little smile. “Well, what did you expect it to be full of—gold and jewels? But never mind that. I’ve found the well. And it seems O.K. as far as I can see. It will save us a hell of a lot of trouble—and danger. It’s only a few yards off.” Alf brightened up. “That’s good work, mate,” he said.
Rawley nodded. “Yes, I’m rather pleased with that effort. All we want is a bucket and a rope.”
Alf rubbed the back of his neck. “The bucket’s easy,” he said. “Ought to be plenty of cans lying round ’ere. But the rope—is it a long one?”
“Um—I dropped a stone down, and it sounded pretty deep.”
Alf looked gloomy. “We won’t find a rope, mate. An’ if we do it’ll be rotten after being out ’ere all this time.”
“Shut up, grouser,” retorted Rawley. “How about telephone cable! There ought to be plenty of that in some of these old trenches.”
“I s’pose so,” agreed Alf reluctantly.
“Of course there will. And we’ll go out and find some presently. You’ve got that wretched suit-case on your chest. Cheer up. After all, you know, clothes will be useful.” Then he began to laugh as a thought struck him. “I say, they weren’t women’s clothes, were they?”
Alf indignantly denied the suggestion. “They’re orficers’ clo’es,” he said. “Proper square pushin’ togs. You ’ave a look.” And he lifted the lid.
Rawley took out the garments one by one. There was a service tunic with the black maltese cross of the Army Chaplain’s Corps on the lapels, a pair of breeches, puttees, a soft cap, and shirt —everything in fact except boots and Sam Browne. There was a waterproof sponge-bag, containing a sponge, shaving soap, a small housewife, containing buttons, needles, thread, and a small pair of scissors; a safety razor in a leather case, a small mirror, and a brush and comb. A note-book, half filled with a pencilled scrawl that was almost illegible, a field cheque-book for drawing from the Field Cashier, and a book of Common Prayer completed the list.
Rawley lighted his pipe and regarded the pile of garments thoughtfully. Alf was trying on the tunic. Suddenly Rawley looked up. “Don’t mess up that tunic,” he said. “I’ve got an idea.”
“Why, you ’ad one only last week!” said Alf.
Rawley ignored the sarcasm. “I’ve got some money,” he went on.
“An’ so ’ave I,” retorted Alf proudly. “Five francs I’ve ’ad for the last couple o’ months and a ten-franc note Kelly’s bright lads overlooked in that canteen.”
“Well, I have some, too,” said Rawley. “When Kelly and you so neatly knocked me on the head that night and took my wallet I had just changed fifty francs, and I stuck the change in my waistband pocket. Kelly didn’t find it.”
Alf grinned. “Good egg! That’s one up agin Kelly. But it ain’t no use ’cause we can’t spend it.”
“But that’s just it, we can,” retorted Rawley. “If I put on that uniform—”
“An’ a fine sight you’d look,” retorted Alf contemptuously. “’Ave a look at your dial in that lookin’ glars.”
“Oh, I dare say. But there’s scissors and shaving-tackle there, and I’d soon have this off.” He fingered his beard.
“Bit risky, ain’t it?” asked Alf dubiously.
“Of course, but then I’m not likely to meet anyone I know. And besides, I’ve changed a lot since I’ve lived out here. I always had a moustache; I’ll take that off. Damn it all, clean shaven and dressed up in a padre’s kit, I don’t believe I’d be recognized if I did meet someone I knew. And think how useful it would be. I could buy any stuff we wanted and find out what is going on.”
Alf nodded. “Ay, it’d be useful—that it would. Still, a bit risky.”
“I don’t believe it would be a bit more risky than just sitting here,” asserted Rawley. “After all, odd officers are always blowing in and out of the mess, and no one ever thinks of asking a lot of questions about them. And padre’s kit is just the thing for the job. Nobody ever bothers what a padre does or where he comes from. He’s just the padre. By jove, it’s a great scheme! You’ll see.”
III
Just before dusk they explored some of the old German trenches in the neighbourhood and collected several hundred feet of old telephone cable. From a number of battered petrol tins, buckets, and old cans of all descriptions, they selected two petrol tins and a small oil drum. Using the oil drum as a bucket, they filled the petrol cans from the well and returned to the cellar.
While Alf busied himself with making a fire, Rawley took the nail-scissors and mirror from the suit-case. He hung the mirror on a rusty nail, but, at the first glimpse of himself in the glass, he paused, scissors in hand, and regarded his reflection with horror. He had been disgusted by the appearance of Alf and the other outcasts, and though he had known that he himself must look much the same, he was shocked, nevertheless, now that for the first time he was confronted with his own image. He saw the face of a stranger—an unsavoury, dangerous-looking character, with dirty, lined face and bright furtive eyes, whose furrowed brow and ears were draped by tangled, uncut locks, whose chin and collarless throat were hidden by a ragged, unkempt beard. He peered curiously at the revolting spectacle, nodding his head slowly as one by one he recognized latent points of resemblance with the reflection he had known. Then, as though rousing himself from an evil dream, he raised the scissors purposefully and clipped off the unkempt beard close to the skin. He nodded with satisfaction at the improvement he had made in his appearance, and attacked the ragged moustache. “Alf, my lad,” he cried boyishly, “heat some water; I’m going to have a shave presently.”
Shaving was a painful process, but he completed it at last, and surveyed the result with satisfaction. “That’s not so bad for the first go off,” he said. “If I have another tomorrow morning, I ought to get it pretty smooth. And now for a hair-cut. Come on, you must be barber. Fetch the comb. I’ll sit on the bunk.”
Alf snipped away with the nail-scissors while Rawley held the mirror, and gave directions from time to time. At the end of it he stood up and turned his head that way and this in the glass. “Well, you will never make your fortune as a barber, Alf,” he commented. “But it’s certainly an improvement.”
Alf, with arms akimbo, was critically surveying the result of his handiwork. Suddenly he strode to the corner in which their stores were piled, rummaged there for a moment, and then, with an air of triumph, banged a small tin down on the table.
“What’s that?” demanded Rawley.
“Dubbin,” announced Alf proudly. “I brought one tin along ’cause I knew it’d come in handy.”
“What’s the idea?”
Alf did not reply at first. He opened the tin, pushed back his frayed and threadbare cuffs, smeared his fingers with dubbing, and approached Rawley with hands raised. “’Air oil,” he explained, with a grin.
Rawley backed. “Here, wait a minute!”
“Make you look a proper toff!” said Alf ingratiatingly.
“That really isn’t a bad idea,” agreed Rawley, after a moment’s consideration. “But I tell you what I will do; I will put it on tomorrow after I’ve had a bath.”
They had their evening meal, and after it Rawley spent the time before turning in for the night in making ready for his adventure on the morrow. He still had his Sam Browne, which he wore as a belt under his French peasant jacket, and the cross-strap he had used as a rifle sling; but the difficulty was to make them presentable since he had no polish or brass cleaner. Pipe in mouth he set to work with a rag, and after laborious rubbing restored some semblance of polish to the belt. The brass parts he cleaned with brick dust, and polished with a rag. “Well, anyway, no one expects a padre to glitter like a brass hat,” he sighed as he inspected the result of his labour, and he made a mental note that his first purchases at a canteen must include cleaning kit an
d a tin of brilliantine.
IV
Alf was facetious the following morning as Rawley made his toilet. “Sorry I ain’t got no fice powder, Gertie,” he grinned, as he watched Rawley vigorously towelling himself with the padre’s towel. “But I can hoffer you a pinch o’ brick-dust to put a rosy blush in them cheeks o’ yours.” Rawley’s reply caused Alf to hide his face coquettishly, and cry, “’Ush, ’Ush, Gertie. Wot languidge!”
“Well,” said Rawley, when he was dressed, “what’s the verdict?”
Alf inspected him carefully from head to foot. “You’ll do, mate,” he said solemnly. “You’ll do. But you oughter stoop a bit; most parsons ’ave a ’ump. An’ you wanter stick yer chin out as though you’d been usedter shovin’ it over the top o’ one of them dorg collars. You’ve got it in too much like a bloomin’ soldier.”
“Have I?” said Rawley, with a pleased laugh. “God, it’s good to feel like a soldier again! But I won’t forget.” He put on the cap. “Well, I’m off. When I come back, I will whistle ‘Old soldiers never die,’ and you will know it’s me. Cheer’o!”
“Good luck, mate. ’Ere, an’ I say, you’d better take this.” Alf produced his revolver.
Rawley turned on the steps. “No—I shan’t want that. You lie low here till I come back. Cheer’o.”
CHAPTER XX
I
The night had been clear and frosty, and rime still furred the debris and dead branches that carpeted the little wood. But the sun shone from a cloudless sky, giving shadows to the shivered trees and colouring pale orange their dead, barkless trunks. Rawley interpreted the sunlight as a good omen. He paused for a moment by the grass-grown track that bordered the wood, and then, taking his courage in both hands, crossed it boldly and followed a half-obliterated footpath that would bring him to the Bapaume Road.
He experienced a pleasurable feeling of excitement and exhilaration that was fostered by the keen air and bright sunlight, and he strode rapidly up the gentle slope. At the top he came in sight of the road. It was less than three hundred yards from him, running straight in either direction till it topped a slope and disappeared. Half-right on the rising ground lay the ragged brick heaps of a shattered village and, glowing redly in the sunlight, the rusty upturned nose of the tank they had passed on their night march. Half-left, in a hollow, lay another ruined village, beyond which the road rose over a trench-scarred slope and disappeared.
He reached the road and turned left down it towards the village in the hollow. A G.S. wagon was ambling towards him, and as it passed, the driver dropped his hand and jerked his head like a mechanical doll. Rawley returned the salute and strode jauntily on. The incident had given him confidence. It was good to move above ground again in daylight, and he revelled in this new-found sense of freedom. He reached the village in the hollow, which his map told him must be La Boiselle, and looked about him with interest. Huge mine craters lay on both sides of the road, mighty pits in the chalk, forty, fifty, and sixty feet deep. This must be the old no-man’s-land of 1915 and pre-July ’16, he thought; and those crumbling trenches on the slope he was ascending were the old British Line. He trudged on up the slope, and on the crest paused as a new world came into view.
Below him lay a town, a battered little town, but beautiful in the clear air and sunlight. The red-brick walls and chimneys glowed warmly in the morning light, and the surrounding country was green with that green of grass and leaves that was so restful after the ash-grey growth, pounded chalk, and bare clay of the devastated area. A tree-bordered road ran like a taut white tape up the green slope beyond, and the trees at the top stood out clear-cut and toy-like against the clear pale sky. A tall, brick church tower, rosy in the morning light, rose proudly from the clustering roofs and chimneys, and the bent and gilded figure at the top glittered like a heliograph above the countryside. He had no need to consult the map; this could only be the famous Hanging Virgin of Albert.
He walked on and reached the first houses. Most of them were shuttered and deserted, and many were tileless. He turned up a narrow street and found himself in the shell-pocked square at the foot of the gashed church tower, with the flashing figure with outstretched arms poised like a diver above him. A green staff car and a flying corps tender stood on the broken pavé. He stopped a Tommy and asked him if there were a canteen thereabouts, and the man directed him up a street to the right.
A young A.S.C officer came in as he was making his few purchases. He nodded and said, “’Morning, padre. Glad to see you are patronising our canteen.” Rawley offered a cigarette, and they left the canteen together. “You are not teetotal, I hope, padre,” said the young officer, as they stood in the street. “Come along to the mess and have a drink.” They went a few yards up the street and entered a café that had been abandoned by its owners. “Well, what is it to be, padre—whisky, vermouth, or mother’s ruin?”
Rawley chose whisky. A Tommy brought in a bottle and a tantalus. “Well, happy days!” said the A.S.C. officer, raising his glass. “You in the town?” he added conversationally, a few moments later.
“I just came to buy a few things,” answered Rawley, guardedly.
“Better stay then, and have a spot of lunch with us.”
“Well, that’s awfully good of you,” agreed Rawley.
The other officers came in for lunch, and Rawley was very guarded during the meal. He kept carefully to the role of a conscientious chaplain, ignorant of military matters, and rather worried and anxious about the keeping of army regulations. He learned among other things that this was a Mechanical Transport mess, that they were Army troops, and that there were several Labour Corps units in the neighbourhood engaged in clearing up the old battlefield.
“Well, it’s not often we have a padre in the mess,” said the A.S.C. captain. “It must be months since we had one here. I’m afraid you will find us rather a Godless lot, padre. But if you want to arrange a church parade, go ahead by all means.”
Rawley was glad to learn that there were no real chaplains in the neighbourhood. “Thank you,” he said. “But I haven’t called professionally, so to speak—and besides, as you are not in my parish, I’m afraid I’m cadging a lunch under false pretences. I—I feel rather guilty, eating up others’ rations.”
The captain laughed. “That’s all right, padre. Don’t you worry about that. We always have several rations in hand. We feed all the odds and ends in the neighbourhood. Our ration strength bobs up and down like a temperature chart, and when in doubt, we bung on a couple.”
Rawley suddenly determined on a bold stroke. He sighed. “Rations always worry me,” he said. “I cannot cope with all these forms. When I was first on my own I was attached to one unit after another, and every time they changed I went without rations. The new lot said I could not draw them for two days, and I ought to have let them know earlier, or drawn from the other lot.” He sighed again, rather pathetically. “Of course, you people always know when troops are moving and all that, but nobody ever tells a padre anything, and I never knew they were moving till they were actually gone.”
“Bad luck, padre,” said the captain. “Have some more beer; it’s French, but wet. So you went without rations?”
Rawley nodded. “But I got tired of that,” he continued, with an air of gentle pride in his own astuteness. “And so I went to the senior chaplain about it, and he arranged for me to draw rations from Bapaume.”
“Bapaume! That’s a goodish step!”
“Yes, that’s it,” said Rawley. “But I had to get them from there; it was something to do with Corps and Division and Army. I didn’t understand it, but there it is.”
“Good old red tape!” commented the captain.
“Of course, it would be much more convenient to draw them from someone in Albert.”
“Why not?” said the captain. “I should, if it’s nearer. No good tramping miles for nothing.”
“I might ask,” said Rawley, doubtfully. “But I expect I should not be allowed to—Army i
nstead of Corps, or something.”
“Why ask?” said the captain. “I should just attach myself to somebody, and leave it at that.”
“But wouldn’t there be some regulations or something?”
“You’re too conscientious, padre,” grinned the captain. “Take my advice and never ask anybody in the army for anything that you can get yourself. When you’ve tried and can’t, then it’s time enough to chase the brass hats. What the deuce does it matter to anyone where you draw rations from! You are entitled to rations, and common sense says draw them from the most convenient place—whether it’s Army, G.H.Q., or the bloomin’ War Office itself. I would just fix it up on your own and say nothing to nobody.”
Rawley assumed an expression of worried indecision.
“How many rations do you want?” asked the captain.
“Two—only two. Myself and my man.”
“Can your man come in here for them?”
“Oh, yes!”
The captain lit a cigarette. “Well, send him along. I’ll draw them for you.”
“That is very good of you,” said Rawley. “But, well—really. Supposing when they go through these indents, or whatever you call them, they found my name and—well, wouldn’t there be a dreadful fuss?”
The captain laughed. “We don’t put your name down, you know, padre. But don’t you worry. They can’t check my indent. It’s never the same two days together. We get so many odds and ends passing through—and between ourselves we don’t go short. Of course, it ought to go in forty-eight hours in advance, but you send your fellow along tomorrow, and it will be all right.”
“That’s awfully good of you,” said Rawley with real gratitude.
“Not a bit. But, let me see, two rations are pretty small. Your chap had better draw for three days at a time, and come every third day. If you come with me presently, I will show you where our quarter-bloke hangs out, and I will tell him your fellow will be coming along tomorrow.”
Behind the Lines Page 23