Bretherton

by Morris, W. F. ;

  His fingers wandered over the keys. He struck a note or two softly. The sound seemed like a protective fence flung around him. His fingers moved more quickly and he found that he was playing her song, “Just a song at twilight.” He played on, the words and her voice as he had heard it in the little inn parlour ringing in his head. He played the last note and turned slowly on the stool. Silence rushed in again, silence tense and audible, charged with tiny sparks that were all but visible.

  She stood facing him. Her hands hung limp and helplessly at her sides, her face passion-pale, and her grey eyes dark with things that are beyond speech. His face was no less pale than hers. His heart seemed too big for his body, and the roots of his hair were a-tingle. He could no longer doubt. He stood stammering and staring.

  “Helen…” he whispered hoarsely. “In Germany… a prisoner… always… I thought of you… you… You…”

  “And I,” she whispered. “Every night… I have dreamed… every day… Oh, Gerard!”

  He took her ice-cold hand as though it had been some fragile bloom and raised it to his lips. And at the contact they both shivered.

  And then the door was flung noisily open, and Marjorie marched into the room. “Come on, Captain Bretherton,” she cried. “Finish anything you have to say to Helen on the way back. If we are late again we shall get a frightful strafing.”

  They went down the stairs and out into the lighted street and along the road through the sombre forest. Marjorie chattered ceaselessly and contentedly. Helen and Bretherton were silent. At a side door of one of the large villas in the woods they halted.

  “Just in time!” exclaimed Marjorie, looking at her watch. “Good night, Captain Bretherton.” And she disappeared through the door.

  Helen halted on the step, turned back towards him and held up her head. The moonlight striking down through the branches upon her pale, upturned face showed him her eyes, pools of unfathomable darkness. He caught her in his arms and pressed his mouth to hers. Her face, he saw, was strange in its pale intensity.

  “God!” she murmured in low, tense tones as he released her.

  “I did not know that love could hurt so much.”

  She disappeared through the doorway, and he was left alone leaning against the wall in the moonlight.

  III

  He reviewed the situation the following morning as he was driven towards G.H.Q., and he found it good. He no longer desired to return to the old battalion. Helen completely filled his horizon. At Montreuil he would be comparatively near her, and should be able to see her frequently. He did not imagine that staff officers found any great difficulty in obtaining the use of a car occasionally. And she would have a minimum of anxiety on his behalf. Such twinges of conscience as he felt in accepting what was undoubtedly a “cushy” job he stifled with the reflection that he had already taken his part as a fighting soldier in the line and was therefore more entitled to the comfort of the staff than were many men who might have been appointed.

  He was received by Colonel Liddel, the staff officer who had visited him during his brief stay in Harding’s C.C.S., and whose parting words had so puzzled him. And now again he found the Colonel’s attitude perplexing. He was pushed into a chair and offered a cigarette, which he refused in favour of his pipe. The Colonel lighted his own pipe and began to talk.

  “I was a foot-slogger, Bretherton,” he said, “before I became a staff wallah, and in those days one of the things that struck me about modem war was the comparative impotence of the individual. His contribution to the termination of the war seemed to be negligible. His greatest efforts—though they brought death—rarely brought him the satisfaction of knowing that he personally had advanced the war one millimetre towards a successful termination. Do you know what I mean?”

  “Quite,” agreed Bretherton, wondering what on earth the Colonel was driving at. “I have had that feeling myself—often.”

  Colonel Liddel nodded. “Yes. The hardships of this dreary business would be more supportable, I think, if one individually could see, as it were, some return for one’s money. Of course it is the united efforts of us individuals that is going to beat Brother Bosche, but precious few of us below the rank of Corps Commander or Chief-of-Staff have the satisfaction of being able to point to some definite step towards success and truthfully say, ‘This is the result of my effort.’ That must be a great satisfaction. Such a man would be lucky, don’t you think?”

  “Very lucky indeed,” answered Bretherton. “I should think there is hardly an infanteer that would not cheerfully face the music in those circumstances. It is the interminable messing about that never seems to lead anywhere that takes the verve out of a fellow.”

  The Colonel nodded and took his pipe from his mouth and gazed reflectively at the glowing bowl. And then he went off at a tangent.

  “What do you make of this Russian business?” he asked.

  “The revolution and the withdrawal of Russia from the war.” queried Bretherton.

  The Colonel nodded. “Yes. What do you make of it?”

  “Well, it is rather a bad business, sir, isn’t it?” he answered. He was puzzled by the Colonel’s question, for he laboured under no delusion that his opinion on these events could be of any interest to G.H.Q. “It means, does it not, that the German troops on the Russian front will be thrown in here on the west?”

  The Colonel nodded. “Yes,” he said. “That is what it means. By the collapse of Russia, Germany has something like three-quarters of a million more troops to play with. Thirty-four comparatively fresh divisions to fling against a thin line of tired and war-worn troops. And we have no general reserve worth speaking of to draw upon. Our reserve is the Yanks, but they will not be here in time for the crash. Mr. Jerry will see to that. He will fling his thirty-four fresh divisions in on a carefully prepared scheme, as nearly perfect as his excellent staff can make it—fling them in reckless of casualties, in one great final effort to force a decision.” The Colonel paused to apply a match to his pipe. “And,” he continued—“and he has every chance of succeeding. As I have said, we have practically no reserve to draw upon, and the people at home don’t or won’t realize the situation. It will be Germany’s final effort, and if it is successful France will be out of the war and so shall we, from a military point of view. But if it is unsuccessful, he will collapse. The war will be over. We have a chance of holding him if we know where and when this big push is coming. The man who could find that out—the man who could tell us that—would be very fortunate indeed. He would have in plenty that satisfaction of achievement of which you and I have just been deploring the absence. He would be able to point to this coming great battle an truly say, ‘I have decided its result; it was my effort that lost Germany her last throw of the dice.’ And that man is——” The Colonel paused and looked solemnly at Bretherton. “That man is—you.”

  In one vivid flash of illumination Bretherton saw all that the Colonel’s words implied. He went very white. “I!” he stammered.

  “Yes—you, Bretherton,” said the Colonel slowly, and he laid aside his pipe on the table. “You had the misfortune to suffer temporarily from loss of memory and hallucination. Through that misfortune you may now render inestimable service to your country.”

  “You mean——?” queried Bretherton, and his heart was like ice.

  “I mean,” said the Colonel, “that Colonel von Wahnheim of the Prussian Staff will have unlimited opportunities of learning when and where this great push is to take place.”

  Bretherton stared at the floor in silence. At length he said, “But Colonel von Wahnheim was taken prisoner.”

  “True,” agreed the Colonel. And then he added slowly, “But he might escape.”

  Bretherton stared with knit brows at the floor. “You want me to become a spy then,” he said bitterly.

  The Colonel nodded. “Yes, that is what it comes to. I know the word ‘spy’ has an unpleasant sound to us soldiers, but one must remember that a spy needs to be a very galla
nt fellow and he often renders his country more valuable service than even the most successful general or admiral.”

  “Have you no secret agents with the enemy, that you must ask me to do this?” complained Bretherton.

  “Oh, yes, a great number, but none that could get such information as Colonel von Wahnheim could get.”

  Bretherton flung out his hand helplessly. “Is this an order?” he questioned.

  The Colonel took his pipe again and tapped it over an ashtray. “No,” he said. “You are a soldier, Bretherton, and this is not a duty for which you are liable. We are not ordering you to do this. But you have it in your power to render your country a great service, and the Commander-in-Chief asks you to do it.”

  “And if I refuse?” asked Bretherton after a pause.

  The Colonel slowly filled his pipe. “Well, it will not count against you theoretically. But—well, you will have refused such an opportunity as few men have had in the war. And there is a black mark against your name already, Bretherton. Some business of a newspaper picture on the Somme early in ’16.”

  “That damned photograph again!” exploded Bretherton.

  The Colonel smiled. “Personally I know nothing about it,” he said. “And I do not wish to dwell on that Hide of the question. And I would not think about it either, if I were you. What you have to decideis whether at some inconvenience and risk to yourself you will do your country and the Allies a great service. You are perfectly at liberty to refuse—but I don’t think you will. And there is no hurry for the moment. Go out and think it over. And tell me to-night, to-morrow, or the day after if you like, what you decide.”

  It was late in the afternoon when Bretherton returned. He had spent the intervening hours wandering through the country lanes, tormented by the choice he had to make. He was asked voluntarily to fling away the cup of happiness that was newly raised to his lips and subsitute a poison from which he recoiled with fear and horror.

  Colonel Liddel looked up as he entered the room. “Well, Bretherton?” he said.

  “I have decided.”

  The Colonel looked at him for a moment or two in silence, and then said again, “Well?”

  “I will do what you ask,” answered Bretherton in a low voice.

  The Colonel nodded slowly and said, “Good man.”

  “But I hate the job. I hate it, and—funk it.”

  The Colonel nodded and pursed up his lips. “I know.” His voice was sympathetic. “But you accept?”

  Bretherton nodded. “I am superstitious enough to believe that if one avoids a thing simply because it is unpleasant, one will not get away with it. Something else will turn up later, more unpleasant—and unavoidable.”

  The Colonel nodded in agreement. “That is very true.”

  “And when do I begin?” asked Bretherton.

  “The sooner the better. But we will give you a little holiday first.”

  Bretherton asked a question that had been worrying him. “How am I to get across the lines?”

  The Colonel pushed him into a chair. “Don’t worry about that. We have that all cut and dried. There will be no difficulty or danger about that. Your job begins on the other side. And in one way it is easier, since you have no relations to worry about.”

  “No—no relations,” agreed Bretherton bitterly.

  The Colonel shot a swift glance at his face and then looked down at his desk. “Is there a—girl?”

  Bretherton nodded. “Yes.” And he added with a wry smile, “Yesterday I asked her to marry me.”

  The Colonel nodded his head slowly; he was drawing invisible patterns on the table with his pencil. “War is the very devil!” he muttered.

  Then he rose briskly from his chair and laid a hand on Bretherton’s shoulder. “Well, if I were you I would try to banish this job from your mind for the time being. Bring your kit along here to-morrow and then go off for a week. Go where you like; do what you like. And—oh—of course, all this must be kept strictly secret. You must tell no one; not even the—little lady. Officially you are at G.H.Q. You might tell her that a special job will prevent you from writing to her for a month or two; it ought to be through by then.” He turned in his pacing. “Well, I think that’s all. Now come along and have some tea.”

  Just before they reached the door the Colonel paused, and staring awkwardly at his boots, said: “If you care to give me the little lady’s address, I will write to her periodically while you are away—set her mind at rest, you know. And I will go to see her if she gets worried.”

  “You are very good, sir,” said Bretherton gratefully.

  “I have a wife and kiddies at home,” said the Colonel abstractedly. “I wouldn’t be a woman for anything these days, Bretherton.” Then he added in a cheery voice, “Now for some tea.”

  IV

  Two figures sat on the dunes to the southward of Paris Plage. On their left the red December sun was no more than a hand’s breadth above the pines. Behind them beneath the trees a thin mist was rising, and the air held the half-smoky smell of frost. Below them the cold, foam-edged water ebbed and flowed restlessly on the white, crisp beach.

  Helen sat muffled in her blue uniform greatcoat, the collar turned up about her pink, wind-stung ears and cheeks, her gloved hands clasped about her knees. Her shoulders fitted exactly the firm curve of Bretherton’s right arm. The peak of his service cap came low down over his left eye by reason of the pressure of Helen’s close-fitting blue cap against the other side. His chin was buried within the high warm collar of his British-warm. The northern sea-breeze was bitingly cold, with a tang of salt and sting of sand in it, but warm blood coursed through his veins. The firm pressure of her small shoulders against his side, the soft touch of her head against his, the warm caress of her cheek, held the breathless magic of fairyland. The solitude of the shining sea and beach, the restless murmur of the waves, fitted his mood. Thus they sat, silent, with no need of words. Once he had murmured the magic name “Helen” and pressed more closely the dear diminutive form in the crook of his arm, to be answered by a smooth cheek gently rubbing his and a little whispered “Gerard.”

  At length she spoke. Her voice was low. “One month, you say—one whole month… perhaps two, without seeing you. It is too long, Gerard. How can I let you go now?”

  He pressed the shoulder that snuggled against his coat and murmured inarticulately.

  “But you will write… dear letters, Gerard,” she half-whispered.

  His eyes roved helplessly across the deserted seas; his brows were knit.

  “I… it may not be possible.” His voice sounded far away.

  The cheek that gently rubbed his own ceased its movement, and she was silent for a moment.

  “But… but why not?” Consternation was in her low tone.

  He laughed unconvincingly. “G.H.Q., you know,” he parried. “Special work… red tape… and all that.”

  “Gerard!” The pressure against his side relaxed; she sat up. “Gerard, what is this special work of yours?” Her eyes betrayed fear, the fear of every woman who feels the unknown dragging her man from her.

  He held her gloved hand between his own and forced a smile.

  “You know I cannot tell you that, little girl… red tape; but there it is.”

  “Gerard! Will you be in danger?”

  He laughed, more convincingly this time, he told himself. “There is always the possibility of danger for a soldier,” he countered. “Even at G.H.… or here. Planes and”—he pressed her close—“and little thieves that steal a fellow’s soul. Anyway, I am not going to the trenches, if that is what you mean.”

  “Thank God!” she whispered fervently. “Thank God!”

  She snuggled close to him again.

  “And in any case,” he said with his cheek against hers, “you would not have me shirk my bit.”

  She nuzzled the hand that caressed her cheek. “No… no,” she murmured. “My man must do his bit. But so soon, Gerard!—so soon!”

  She
clung to him and gazed with unseeing eyes across the darkening waste of water.

  CHAPTER XX

  I

  Bretherton sat on his bed in his little room in the prisoner-of-war camp at Ashwick. He stared moodily at the floor as he crumpled in his fingers the tiny scrap of paper that had come to him five minutes before. It contained only two words: “Brixham, S.S. Dordrecht”; but he understood.

  Three weeks had passed since he crossed the Channel, donned again the battle-stained uniform of Colonel von Wahnheim, and entered the prison-camp at Ashwick. Officially he had been discharged from hospital and been admitted to a prisoner-of-war camp; and east of the Rhine, the German staff that dealt with such matters made one more entry against his name. The dossier was complete. He had been reported a prisoner soon after the abortive trench raid near Arras; he had been reported as wounded and in a British hospital; and now he was reported as discharged from hospital and admitted to the prison-camp at Ashwick. And if corroboration were needed, there were the letters of his fellow-prisoners, who wrote to their relatives in Germany that Colonel von Wahnheim, who had already once escaped from a British prison-camp, was now among them.

  Those three weeks had been a time of purgatory to Bretherton. The lot of a prisoner-of-war is never a pleasant one, and in his case it was peculiarly unpleasant. To be a prisoner in one’s own country, to be herded day and night with one’s enemies, to be exposed to the gaze of one’s fellow countrymen and countrywomen as they passed the camp and to read hostility in their eyes, was a bitter ordeal for a returned fighting man. And he had had to keep a strict watch upon himself lest by word or deed he should betray his true nationality to his fellow-prisoners.