Bretherton

by Morris, W. F. ;

  “I suppose you are right,” I sighed. “But all the same, I don’t love brother Bosche.”

  “Neither do I, but give him his due,” insisted G. B.

  “Anyway, I hope Number Six Platoon isn’t getting in for this fracas,” I said. “Gurney had bad luck in clicking for the line at Christmas. I suppose his mail has gone up?”

  “Went up with the rations to-night,” answered G. B.

  “I’ll send him a bit of Christmas cake to-morrow,” I said. “His sister made it; so he ought to have a slice.”

  G. B. grunted approvingly. “I will take it up if you like,” he suggested. “I thought of going up some time to-morrow just to say Happy Christmas and all that.”

  “Damned good of you, G. B.,” I remarked.

  And so it was. Not every man with the luck to spend Christmas in billets would go floundering up to the line just to be friendly.

  CHAPTER V

  I

  A few mornings later we were assembled in the little brick-floored cottage-room that did duty for the company office. With the exception of Gurney, who was still in the line, and G. B., who was drawing the company’s pay from the field cashier, we were all present—Melford, Groucher, Pagan, Hubbard, Dodd, and myself. Melford sat at the blanket-covered table, his cap cocked slightly over one eye, wearing his uniform in that to-the-manner-born fashion that we civilian soldiers of the New Armies had never quite acquired. Above the left breast pocket was the white and purple ribbon of the Military Cross which he had won at Ypres. He was a regular soldier and keen on his job, one of those unimaginative, good-humoured sportsmen that come by the dozen from the mould of Sandhurst. To him a civilian was only half a man, and many were the friendly arguments he had with Pagan respecting the merits and demerits of the Regular and New Army officer. And though Pagan’s nimbler wit was usually victorious in these verbal encounters, the victory always left old Melford undisturbed and absolutely unchanged in his opinion.

  Groucher, the Second-in-Command, was a ranker, a big red-faced fellow with a heavy moustache and the two South African ribbons on his chest. He wore yellow, bilious-looking collars till Melford ticked him off about it, and field-boots of a curious pattern that reached only half-way up his fat calves. He had the old army N.C.O.’s vice of drink, and consumed more whisky than any man I have ever met; though it is only fair to say that I never saw him drunk. Also he had a disgusting habit, when there were no early parades, of not shaving till after breakfast. He had all the old soldier’s proficiency in eye-wash and was a master of the art of dodging any job that he regarded as a “fatigue.” In the Melford and Pagan discussions he always supported the C.O., but whereas Melford, when verbally defeated, was always good-humoured though unconvinced, Groucher became loud-voiced and aggressive and dropped back into the coarse personal invective of the barrack-room.

  Melford was talking about maps. In our rôle of a Divisional Cyclist Company we were expected to know the divisional front and area perfectly, and to have in addition a good knowledge of the two areas adjoining. Each officer had an ordnance map on which the topographical features were marked, and we had a few trench maps showing the German trench system, but not our own. Since, however, we were expected to know the location of all units in our area, Divisional Headquarters had given Melford a map on which were marked our own trench system, the area and names of all units, and the position of dumps, refilling points, headquarters, and batteries.

  Melford was showing us this map and explaining to Dodd, the reinforcement, the elaborate system by which some thirty-odd thousand men, horses, and guns were supplied with food and ammunition.

  “If ever it comes to open warfare again—about which I have my doubts,” Melford was saying—“to be of any use as a cyclist you must know, in addition to your presumed knowledge of Infantry and Cavalry Training and Field Service Regs., the commanding officer of every unit in the division. You must make yourself personally acquainted with every member of the Divisional Staff and the Brigadiers and their staffs; and you must get to know the sappers and the gunners and the way in which they do their jobs. You will never be able to give a man the particular brand of information he wants unless you know his methods and have had a chat with him beforehand.”

  Dodd was rather staggered by the amount of knowledge he was expected to acquire and was visibly thankful for the interruption caused by the entrance of G. B., who unslung his haversack and handed it to the orderly-room corporal. Corporal Catchside took out the wads of notes that had been drawn from the field cashier and placed them on the table at Melford’s elbow.

  “And if you don’t speak French,” continued Melford to the unfortunate Dodd, “you must learn it at once. That will do for to-day. We will have another look at this map tomorrow.”

  I had been conscious of the intermittent hum of aeroplanes during Melford’s lecture, and now Corporal Catchside, who was leaving the cottage, turned in the doorway and said: “There are a lot of Fritzes coming over, sir.”

  We all went to the door and looked up. Four little white planes, glittering like dragon-flies against the blue sky, snored far overhead. Groucher went back into the orderly-room and returned with his glasses, and through them he could make out the black cross of Germany upon the underwings.

  A number of the men were standing in the village street staring upwards, and Melford bellowed to them to get under cover. “They could see your ugly upturned faces ten miles away,” he cried. He turned to the orderly-room corporal. “Tell the sergeant-major to keep the men inside till they have gone.” Corporal Catchside saluted and doubled down the street.

  Then we heard a sharp, distant, whistling sound, followed a second later by a long whu… ump! whu… ump! whu… ump! And the cottage windows rattled noisily in their frames.

  “That’s in Sericourt,” said Melford, “They are after the R.E. dump and the railway. Headquarters will want to know about this.” He turned suddenly to G. B. and myself. “Quick! Get on a motor-bike and cut along into Sericourt and report.”

  Sericourt was a village less than a mile away on the opposite side of the stream; and several more explosions sounded in rapid succession as G. B. and I shot down the long avenue to the river, bumped over the narrow, high-pitched bridge, and turned into the street of the village. There were a number of bricks lying in the roadway, and on the left we passed a barn with a bulging wall and collapsed roof. Nearly all the glass in the village was broken, and the civilians with frightened faces stood huddled in their doorways. Near the church we met two casualties being carried away on stretchers.

  The four planes had turned away southwards, and the hum of their high-powered engines was now no more than a distant murmur; but the throbbing drone of an engine still sounded overhead, and glancing upwards, I saw far above me a fifth plane like a silver moth forging swiftly across the wide expanse of sky.

  G. B. and I were riding slowly across the little square, on the far side of which some women and a couple of Tommies were standing under the stone-arched entrance of a brasserie, when suddenly I heard again that sharp whistling sound, automatically I closed the throttle and rammed on the brakes, and the sudden stopping of the engine threw me forward on to the handle-bars.

  A few yards ahead there came a blinding flash, followed by an ear-shattering roar, and I heard the deep-toned hum of flying metal passing over me. A hole yawned in the roadway ahead, and under the arch the women were huddled against the wall, supporting an ashen-faced girl who for a second I really thought was wrapped in a dark red cloak. One of the Tommies was bending over the other who was stretched on the ground.

  “Fritz ’as got ’im, sir,” said the man, rising from his knees. “An’ he was goin’ on leaf on Friday… an’ ’er too—cut off ’er breast clean as a whistle, it ’as.” He pointed with his foot at a flat, jagged fragment of one of the fins of the bomb that lay on the ground.

  “Bloody swine!” I exclaimed hotly to G. B. “Bombing civilians. This isn’t civilized warfare.”

 
“I don’t know,” said G. B. in that detached, matter-of-fact way of his. “They are quite logical. War isn’t a civilized operation, so why try to make it one? They are simply doing their damnedest and—well, that’s war, isn’t it?”

  I was about to retort when I noticed some blood on the sleeve of his tunic.

  “Hullo! Stopped a bit?” I cried.

  “Yes—only a scratch, though,” he answered. “I didn’t notice it till this moment.”

  “Better have some anti-tetanus juice pumped into you,” I said. “You cut along to the C.C.S., and I will get back and report.”

  I turned the motor-cycle, and as I shot back along the avenue out of the village, I heard the distant drone of engines, and there like wild duck against the pale sky were the four planes and the fifth some distance behind heading back towards the line.

  II

  I wrote my report and gave it to Melford, whom I found searching through a pile of papers in the orderly-room. He glanced at it abstractedly and passed it to Corporal Catchside, saying, “Just type this out and send it by motor-cyclist to Headquarters.” He tilted his cap forward over his eyes and looked at me with a frown on his face. “You didn’t pick up that map by any chance, did you?” he asked.

  “Which map?” I inquired.

  “The one of the area I was showing you this morning.”

  “No,” I said. “You laid it on top of the pay when we went out to look at those planes.”

  “Yes, that’s what I thought I did,” he growled. “But I can’t find the damned thing anywhere now. It was not there when I put the pay in the dispatch-box, and I have looked since to see if it had got mixed up with the notes.” He rubbed his jaw irritably. “Perhaps G. B. picked it up.”

  I told him what had happened to G. B.

  “Well, he will be along presently, I suppose. I hope to goodness he has it; it’s a damned nuisance anyway.”

  Just as I was leaving the company office, the post corporal came in with the mail and emptied the bags upon the floor as was his custom, and began sorting the letters into piles according to platoons. I stayed to see if I was mentioned in dispatches, as we used to call it.

  This was before the days of ration-cards and meat-queues, and civilians in England still delighted to send parcels of food to their friends at the front. The arrival of the mail, therefore, was always something of an event. Pagan had come in, and now stood beside me watching the post corporal on his knees sorting letters.

  “Private Christmas of Number Three seems to be a popular person, sir,” said the corporal, as he tossed a letter on to one of the piles. “There are more than a dozen for him already; he had more than that yesterday, and nearly a bag of parcels to himself.”

  “Must be a ladies’ man,” I suggested.

  “No accounting for tastes, sir,” was the corporal’s comment.

  As the minutes passed, Private Christmas’s pile of correspondence grew in size till it must have contained over thirty letters, and two of the four bags of parcels proved to be his.

  “He must be a popular movie star in disguise,” murmured Pagan.

  “I don’t know about that, sir, but the A.S.C. complained about the size of our mail this morning,” replied the post corporal as he tied the letters for the mess into a neat little packet.

  “What’s that?” asked Melford, looking up from his table.

  “The A.S.C. have been complaining about the size of our mail sir,” said Pagan. “Most of it seems to be for Private Christmas of Number Three.”

  Melford left his seat at the table and came to look at the pile of letters and parcels addressed to Private Christmas. He pulled the lobe of his ear thoughtfully and then turned suddenly to Hubbard, who at that moment was clicking his heels in the doorway.

  “What sort of man is Private Christmas of your platoon, Hubbard?” he asked.

  “Not bad, sir. But not one of my best men by any means. Bit of a grouser.”

  “He’s that weedy little pale-faced chap, isn’t he? I know him. Sergeant-Major, send Private Christmas of Number Three here.”

  A few moments later Private Christmas entered the office, left-turned, halted, and saluted. Melford pointed to the pile of letters and parcels. “All that is your mail, Christmas. What about it?”

  The only reply from Private Christmas was the flush that spread slowly over his ferrety little face.

  “What does it all mean, man?” continued Melford. “What have you been up to? Where do they come from?”

  Private Christmas stammered something about having a lot of brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts, and friends.

  “Yes, there are a lot of Christmases about, no doubt,” said Melford dryly. “Open one of those letters and hand it to me.”

  Private Christmas hesitated, glanced at Melford, caught his eye, and then quickly took a letter from the pile and tore it open. Melford just glanced at the heading and the signature, and then put the letter on the table before him.

  “D. M. Brandon,” he said. “Who is he and where does he live?”

  “Friend of mine,” stammered the unfortunate Christmas.

  “Where does he live?” demanded the remorseless Melford.

  Private Christmas looked helplessly to right and left. “London.” he murmured at a venture.

  “You are a liar, man,” snapped Melford. “He lives at Reading, and it isn’t a he, it’s a she.” He took up the letter. “With your permission, Private Christmas, I am going to read this letter aloud.” He looked hard at the now quaking Christmas, cleared his throat, and began to read. “Dear Mr. Christmas,—This is in answer to your advertisement in the Morning Bulletin. I am so glad that I saw it, for it is so comforting to know that there is something, however small, that we can do for you brave fellows who are fighting for us in Flanders. It seems so sad to think of you over there with shells flying all round you every minute…’—Shut the door, Baron; some of them may get in!” interpolated Melford dryly—“‘… and no mother and father, and no friends even to write to you. I shall be delighted to write to you as often as you like, and I am sending you a parcel containing a cake that I made myself and also some warm socks and mittens. As you have no home to go to, perhaps you would care to come and see me when you get leave. I must close now. Tell me if you liked my cake. Yours very sincerely, Dorothy M. Brandon.’”

  During this recital Private Christmas’s face had undergone a change in colour like that of a piece of photographic printing-paper exposed to daylight, and he shifted uneasily on his feet, an offence for which he was sharply reproved by the Sergeant-Major.

  “So you have been advertising in the papers, have you, Christmas?” said Melford, putting the letter down. “Lonely soldier, orphan with no friends, would like to correspond with sympathetic soul! Well?”

  “It was a joke, sir,” murmured the unhappy Christmas at last.

  “Joke!” echoed Melford. “Do you think the A.S.C. have nothing better to do than to bring up bags of letters and parcels for you? If every man in the division got as much as that, the rest of the army would have to stop fighting and turn postman. Do you call it a joke to impose upon the patriotic feelings of the people at home with your lying tales? Orphan indeed! God’s teeth, is this a company of soldiers or a mob of whining, lying beggars?

  “You will answer all those letters—every one of them. You will tell the truth and apologize for what you have done. You, Mr. Hubbard, will see that he does so—that’s the penalty for having a damned fool in your platoon. And the contents of those parcels will be divided among the rest of the company.”

  Hubbard saluted with a comic look of resignation on his face and Private Christmas fled.

  “Old Mother Hubbard has clicked for a good job,” grinned Pagan as we left the orderly-room; “but I wish Melford had put that swine Groucher on the job.”

  III

  Later that afternoon Pagan and I were in the mess making out the billeting return when Groucher came in. He helped himself to a whisky and turned, glass in ha
nd, to G. B., who was playing cards by himself in a corner.

  “How much did you draw from the field cashier this morning?” he asked.

  G. B. looked up from his game of patience. “Two thousand five hundred,” he said.

  “You may have thought you did,” growled Groucher, wiping his heavy moustache with the back of his hand; “but you didn’t. It’s eighty-five francs short. Pretty hopeless even in this rag-time army when an officer can’t draw a few francs without making a mistake!”

  Groucher had a flair for putting one’s back up, and he was always particularly offensive to G. B., possibly because G. B. gave him fewer opportunities for complaint than did most of us.

  “Melford signed the imprest for two thousand five hundred,” answered G. B. with obvious restraint. “And I drew two thousand five hundred—fifteen twenties, forty-five tens, and three hundred and fifty fives. It is down on the paper.”

  “Well, eighty-five in fives is missing now, anyway. Did you count them?”

  “Oh no,” replied G. B. sarcastically. “I just took a handful of notes when the field cashier wasn’t looking and cleared off.”

  “You are damned funny, aren’t you?” snarled Groucher. “But if you think you can chance your arm with me and waste my time and the men’s, you are wrong—bloody wrong!” He thumped the table with his leg-of-mutton fist.

  G. B. resumed his game of patience.

  “You say you drew the right amount—well, it didn’t arrive. You must have lost it; nobody handled it but you.”

  “I gave my haversack to the orderly-room corporal, and he took out the notes,” said G. B.

  “You suggest, then, that Corporal Catchside stole eighty-five francs! That’s a nice gentlemanly statement to make,” bawled Groucher.