Bretherton

by Morris, W. F. ;

  “No, I am afraid I am a bachelor for life,” he answered with mock sadness. “I could never bring myself to ask any woman; and certainly no woman will ever ask me.”

  “You poor helpless man!” she jested. “You look so pathetic I am almost tempted to ask you myself!”

  Leaning on his stick, he bowed in the stiff Prussian fashion. “As your very dear friend, Duchess, I could not allow you to place yourself in a position of such danger,” he answered solemnly.

  Von Wahnheim was to look back upon this period as a very pleasant interlude in the serious business of war. The tide had now turned. Attack after attack was delivered by the enemy, and the German armies, exhausted and disheartened by the failure of their supreme effort when victory seemed sure, fell back sullenly before the onslaught. Now in the north, now in the south, now in the centre, the attacks were continued by the enemy whom they had believed to be exhausted and all but beaten. And fresh blood, too, was flowing to their aid. The Unterzee boats had failed before the convoy system, and American troops were pouring into France and taking their part in the great offensive. Men and guns were captured in enormous numbers; the recently won ground was recovered, and in places the old trench line re-crossed. The whole Allied line from the Alps to the sea was advancing.

  Already many foresaw the end. And when the great Wotan or Hindenburg Line with its concrete machine-gun emplacements, its dug-outs, and its wire was stormed, the most optimistic knew that victory was impossible. Cases of insubordination and mutiny, such as had been hitherto unheard of in the German Armies, became alarmingly numerous. The rot that turns retreating armies into defenceless rabbles was abroad.

  Amid the horde of disheartened, disillusioned, angry humanity von Wahnheim’s division of storm troops stood out like an acre of firm ground in a swamp. They had that finely tempered spirit that is possessed by only the best troops. The slackening in the moral of the troops around them served only to increase their own military pride. They deployed upon the field of battle with the precision of a parade-ground manœuvre. With perfect rhythm and church-parade swagger they marched disdainfully through retreating troops to check for a moment the oncoming enemy. They knew that the best divisions may be defeated but never disgraced.

  Von Wahnheim saw that the end was near. Armistice negotiations were afoot, and he fought only to ward off the threatened débâcle till they should be concluded. His one desire was to get the battered remnants of his division across the Rhine in safety. And yet he had offered to make a stand in order to facilitate the retreat of the army corps behind him, an offer which, if accepted, meant annihilation for himself and his men. He cared not for himself, but he did care for his faithful veterans. He himself had little to look forward to. His whole life was in the army; and in the civilian post-war period of national eclipse that loomed ahead there could be no niche for such as he, maimed in mind as he was.

  And yet at times his thoughts turned wistfully to that interlude during which he had been a patient of the Duchess Sonia. Her brother, Leo von Arnberg, had written begging to be appointed to his staff, and was with him now. Through him he heard occasionally of the Duchess and even received messages from her. She was more kind to him in defeat than in victory. He thought of her often, now that his world was dissolving around him in blood and smoke.

  The situation grew more critical as the days went by. Luden-dorff, Chief of the General Staff, had resigned, and there were rumours of revolution at home. The German armies were streaming back towards the Dutch bottle-neck with serious losses in men and material. The rearguards, of which von Wahnheim’s division formed one, were blowing up cross-roads, bridges, and railways to delay the pursuing enemy, and delivering a check upon them whenever possible. But unless an Armistice were agreed to shortly, the retreating armies would dissolve into a rabble, and any peace terms, however shameful, would have to be accepted.

  On von Wahnheim’s immediate front, however, the situation was for the moment easier. A momentary check inflicted upon the enemy’s advanced troops had enabled the retreating main body to get off the heels of their rearguard and given the much needed elbow room for manœuvre. But it was evident that another check would have to be inflicted in a day or two if the main body were to escape.

  Von Wahnheim was summoned to Army Headquarters, and as his car sped across the stretch of undevastated and now almost deserted country that separated his rearguard from the retreating army, he saw on every side the jettison of the vast host that had passed this way. The road was littered with abandoned waggons, stores, and equipment; and at one point lay the shattered remnants of a battery that had been caught on the march by enemy aircraft. Horses in the last stage of exhaustion lay where they had fallen and been cut from the traces. Here and there a man lay on the roadside too exhausted to move; and occasionally little parties of stragglers were seen plodding painfully along with faces chalky white and eyes dazed with fatigue.

  From doors and windows the French civilians looked on, their faces mask-like from the sufferings they had undergone, but in their eyes was a fierce light as they noted the signs that told them that this was no pre-arranged strategical retreat. And often they turned their heads towards the west whence must come that deliverance that they knew to be close at hand. One incident showed the change that the last few weeks had wrought. As half a dozen stragglers in tattered uniforms and grimy faces trudged by a cottage, a bent and gnarled old peasant raised his voice and hoarsely croaked: “Vive la France!” and “Vivent les Anglais!” But the Germans did not even turn their heads; they tottered onward with set faces and staring eyes.

  Von Wahnheim found Army Headquaretrs in a state of activity that bordered upon chaos. The conduct of the retreat of such vast numbers of men was becoming increasingly difficult, and already it had almost passed out of the control of Army Headquarters. The situation could not have been more serious. The remnant of von Wahnheim’s division was to make a stand. The Armistice terms were very severe, but would be accepted in a day or two, the General thought. Meanwhile a stand had to be made if absolute collapse were to be avoided. The General was very busy; he had to go off somewhere at that moment, but if von Wahnheim would come with him in his car, they could finish their discussion of the projected operations as they went along.

  The two Generals were borne along the troop-crowded roads of that wooded Ardenne country; and when the Army Commander had finished giving his instructions, he allowed himself to relax. He spoke enthusiastically of some good stalking he had had in the Tyrol two years previously, and then, glancing out of the window, remarked, “There is a very charming friend of yours near here, von Wahnheim—the Duchess Sonia.” He dug his subordinate playfully in the ribs. “You are a sly fellow, von Wahnheim. Most of us old dogs would give a lot for a smile from the fair Sonia, but you with your solemn old face have got the better of us. She has a soft corner in her heart for you; there is no doubt about that. She often speaks of you. She calls you ‘that nasty destructive boy!’” And the General laughed.

  “I did not know that she was hereabouts,” answered von Wahnheim. “I have not seen her for some weeks.”

  “Then call on her now,” replied the General. “She will not be here long; they ought to be packing up now. I will pick you up on the way back.”

  III

  The Duchess was busy when von Wahnheim arrived, and he had to wait in one of those quaint, stuffily furnished little chambers that lie grouped around the principal rooms of many old French châteaux. He had glimpses of her outside in the courtyard where a convoy of ambulances was being loaded with stretcher cases. She came at last, and they exchanged courtesies. He felt unaccountably ill at ease, and there was constraint in her manner also. They talked banalities, and that was a preposterous thing for the Duchess Sonia to do. He was aware of the gloom of the little room and of her sitting stiffly in a high-backed chair. The voices of the orderlies loading the ambulances outside came to him distantly as from another world. It occurred to him that he was waiting for s
omething to happen, though what he did not know. And Sonia also was abstracted, half listening for something, talking woodenly as though her mind were on other matters.

  At last he said, “Your brother—Leo. I have just received orders for an operation to delay the enemy as long as possible, and if we perform that duty satisfactorily, few, if any, of us will be taken prisoners even. I should like to have taken my fellows back in safety, now that it is so nearly all over. They deserve it, Heaven knows. But there…” He finished with a shrug.

  The Duchess had risen to her feet, and her face was pale.

  Von Wahnheim hastened to reassure her. “But your brother… There really is no reason why he should remain with us during this coming engagement. I will send him back.”

  “Thank you—thank you, General,” she murmured.

  And then von Wahnheim understood that fear for the safety of her brother was not the sole cause of her pallor, and he saw also that fear was not the only emotion that glowed in her dark eyes.

  He stood tongue-tied in the presence of this sudden revelation. But though very conscious of the feeling of delight that surged through him, he was conscious also that neither this feeling nor the situation was new to him; and even in those moments of exaltation he found himself puzzling to account for the odd feeling of familiarity.

  And then the door opened and the Army Commander came in.

  “I am sorry to have to take von Wahnheim away, Duchess,” he said, bending his plump little body in a stiff bow. “And I am even more sorry to have to deny myself the pleasure of your charming society; but this tiresome fellow Mars will not wait even for Venus herself. You shall have all the transport I can spare, dear lady, for your move—though it will be little enough, I am afraid. If there is any difficulty, let me know. I will attend to it personally.” He kissed her hand with another jerky little bow and said, “Come, von Wahnheim.”

  IV

  As von Wahnheim sat beside the Army Commander on the way back to Army Headquarters, he found, oddly enough, that his thoughts were concerned with that unaccountable feeling of familiarity rather than with the great discovery he had just made. Where before had he seen that look in a woman’s eyes? A look that no man could see and easily forget. Where before had he felt that tense, vibrant atmosphere in which without words the hearts of two human beings are laid bare to each other? Never before had he seen that look in Sonia’s face. In the face of some other woman then? No other woman that he could remember; and he had known so few. And yet he was sure: the dark, liquid expression of the eyes, the breathless, tingling atmosphere were familiar—dearly, poignantly familiar. What woman had looked at him like that before? None that he knew. And yet there were those gaps in his memory—his pulses fluttered at the new vistas opened by the thought—some woman in those chapters of his life of which he remembered nothing had looked at him like that. But if that were so, it meant that she… Bewildering vistas opened before him.

  He clung tenaciously to the haunting familiarity of this sensation. With closed eyes he saw quite clearly the unforgettable expression of eyes and face of the Duchess Sonia as she had stood before him in the little room. And then with a startled thrill he saw that Sonia’s beautiful face was changing. He felt himself on the brink of a tremendous discovery. The expression remained the same, but the features were changing. Before his mind’s eye they changed, and—he knew the new face. For a breathless second he hovered on the verge of recognition; and then something seemed to snap in his brain, and in a warm flood remembrance rushed over him. He was back in the little tea-room of Gaudin’s with Helen… Helen standing mutely before him, with love-dark eyes and pale passion-tautened face… he Gerard Bretherton… Le Touquet… Colonel Liddel… England… Everything was whirling round faster and foster, darker and darker. He pressed his hands over his face.

  Presently he became aware of a voice at his ear speaking in German: “Run, man, run; give a hand.” An arm was round his body supporting him, and someone was breathing heavily in his ear. Hands took his feet, and other hands grasped his shoulders and lifted him. And the voice said again in German: “Steady! Carry him gently.”

  Mechanically he answered in the same language, “I am all right,” and struggled feebly to get his feet to the ground.

  “Lord! You gave me a start, going off like that, von Wahnheim. You are as white as a ghost still.”

  Bretherton realized that it was the Army Commander speaking. He saw that he was outside Army Headquarters, and that he was being helped up the château steps by the driver of the car and a sentry whose rifle and fixed bayonet leant against the door-post at the top. They led him into a large room and placed him on a sofa. A stiff cognac was brought to him.

  The raw spirit set his brain working actively, so that although he was still bewildered by the flood of remembrance that continued to crowd upon him, he was in no danger of betraying himself unconsciously as he might have done a few minutes previously. He was aware that he must take heed of what he said and did, but he realized also that any strangeness of his would be imputed to the recent attack of illness. He saw that he was the centre of a little group of respectful staff officers and that the Army Commander was not present. He thanked the officers for their kindness and said that if they would leave him to rest for a short time he would be quite well again.

  As soon as he was alone he rose to his feet and paced up and down the room, as was his habit when thinking. With a little tinge of bitterness he realized that he had failed in the all-important mission on which he had been sent—failed, but through no fault of his. He had failed to let British G.H.Q. know the point at which the blow was to be delivered. Yet they had survived the blow; that was the all-important thing. But at what cost, he wondered. He himself had seen the vast preparations for those titanic blows; he himself had taken part in them and knew something of the force that was behind them. And yet the Allies, by a miracle, it seemed, had not only survived those blows but had themselves attacked and broken the German Armies. He was filled with pride in his countrymen and their allies who had wrung victory from defeat.

  What a stupendous moment that must have been when the German Armies began to break and the whole Allied line moved eastward! And he had missed that moment—had seen it only from the other side. And what did G.H.Q. think of him? He had sent no message. And Helen…

  He must cross the lines as soon as possible; he could no longer benefit the Allies by remaining. He must give them such information as he possessed, though it could be of little real importance now—the war was over bar the shouting. He could give them the position of mines and strong-points. At any rate, he could prevent the useless waste of life of his countrymen and his German division. His division! Odd thought!

  He turned at the sound of a door opening behind him, and found the Army Commander crossing the room.

  “How are you now, von Wahnheim?” asked the General.

  “Much better, sir,” answered Bretherton.

  The plump little man halted in front of him and waggled a fat finger in his face. “You have been overdoing it, von Wahnheim. You must have a rest.”

  Bretherton made a movement with his hands.

  “Yes.” repeated the General, “you must have a rest. It is no good going on. The next breakdown might occur at a more awkward moment than this one has done—might be serious for your men and for you. I have ordered Jagenburg to take over your division for the time being. The men may not fight under him as they do under you; that cannot be helped. But they will fight.”

  “Yes, they will fight, sir,” Bretherton assured him.

  “Well, you go off somewhere and rest for a day or two anyway. If an Armistice has not been arranged in the meantime and you feel fit enough to come back, so much the better. If not, well”—he pursed up his lips and waved a fat hand—“no one can accuse you of shirking, anyway. They have sent for your car. Captain Trierforchten will look after you till it arrives.” He waved a short arm in the air and hurried from the room.

&n
bsp; Bretherton gazed out of the window at the leafless trees and the trickle of uniforms that came and went. This few days’ rest would be useful; it would enable him to disappear without inquiries being made. But the problem of how to get through the lines was no easy one; the original arrangements that had been made by G.H.Q. for that purpose were now obsolete. With knit brows he considered the difficulty, and his eyes followed abstractedly the men passing to and fro. He was aware, half-consciously, that the faces of some of them were known to him—German staff officers with whom he had come in contact—and then with a shock that brought his attention back to his surroundings, he realized that one face out there was that of a man he had known on the other side of the battle-line, the face of one who had been with him in the old company in the pre-Somme days and who had later commanded B Company of the old battalion—Hubbard.

  At that moment Captain Trierforchten entered the room, and Bretherton seized him and dragged him to the window.

  “Who is that fellow, Trierforchten?” he demanded. “See him? The fellow in the nondescript uniform just passing the field pigeon loft.”

  Captain Trierforchten craned his neck to catch a glimpse of the retreating figure.

  “Oh yes, sir. I know him,” he answered. “An Englishman. Captured in our push last March, I believe. He had done some small intelligence work for us before that; but he is not to be trusted. You know the breed, sir. Given his own people away and just as likely to give us away if it serves his purpose. We put him in among the prisoners to get what information he can.”

  Bretherton rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Do you know anything more about him?” he asked.

  “I do not personally, sir. But we have his dossier here somewhere, I believe. If you are interested in him, sir…”

  “Yes, I am,” answered Bretherton.

  “Then I will have it sent to your headquarters, sir.”