Chapter XXXIV (4)

The circumstances were these. When, five weeks ago, the division moved (for the _n_th time!) to a different part of the line, it transpired that three batteries would be ‘out at rest,’ as there would be no room for them in action. It also so chanced that it was our colonel’s turn to be left without a ‘group’[10] to command. This being so, he suggested to higher authorities that the three batteries ‘out’ should be those of his own brigade, in order that he might have a chance ‘to tidy them up a bit,’ as he phrased it. Thus it was that we found ourselves, as I have said, in extremely comfortable billets--places, I mean, where they have sheets on the beds and china jugs and gas and drains--with every prospect of a pleasant loaf. But in this we were somewhat sanguine.

The colonel’s idea in having us ‘out’ for a while was not so much to rest us as to give us a variation of work. Being essentially a thorough man, he started--or rather ordered me to start--at the very beginning. The gunners paraded daily for marching drill, physical exercises, and ‘elementary standing gun drill by numbers.’ N.C.O.s and drivers were taken out and given hours of riding drill under the supervision of subalterns bursting with knowledge crammed up from the book the night before and under the personal direction of a brazen-voiced sergeant who, having passed through the ‘riding troop’ at Woolwich in his youth, knew his business. The strangest sight of all was the class of signallers--men who had spent months in the fœtid atmosphere of cellars and dug-outs, or creeping along telephone wires in ‘unhealthy’ spots--now waving flags at a word of command and going solemnly through the Morse alphabet letter by letter. Of the whole community this was perhaps the most scandalised portion. But in a few days, when everybody (not excluding myself and the other officers) had discovered how much had been forgotten during our long spell in action, a great spirit of emulation began to be displayed. Subsections vied with one another to produce the smartest gun detachment, the sleekest horses, the best turned-out ride, the cleanest harness, guns, and wagons.

The colonel, after the manner of his kind, came at the end of a week or so to inspect things. He is not the sort of man upon whom one can easily impose. A dozen of the shiniest saddles or bits in the battery placed so as to catch the light (and the eye) near the doorway of the harness-room do not necessarily satisfy him: nor is he content with the mere general and symmetrical effect of rows of superficially clean breast-collars, traces, and breechings. On the contrary, he is quite prepared to spend an hour or more over his inspection, examining every set of harness in minute detail, even down to the backs of the buckle tongues, the inside of the double-folded breast collars, and the oft-neglected underside of saddle flaps. It is the same thing with the guns and wagons. Burnished breech-rings and polished brasswork look very nice, and he approves of them, but he does not on that account omit to look closely at every oil-hole or to check the lists of ‘small stores’ and ‘spare parts.’

For the next week or so we were kept very busy on ‘the many small points which required attention,’ to quote the colonel’s phrase. Nevertheless, as a variation from the monotony of siege warfare, the time was regarded by most of us as a holiday. Many things combined to enhance our pleasure. The sun shone and the country became gorgeously green again; the horses began to get their summer coats and to lose their unkempt winter’s appearance; there was a fair-sized town near at hand, and passes to visit it were freely granted to N.C.O.s and men; at the back of the officers’ billet was a garden with real flower-beds in it and a bit of lawn on which one could have tea. Occasionally we could hear the distant muttering of the guns, and at night we could see the ‘flares’ darting up from the black horizon--just to remind us, I suppose, that the war was only in the next parish....

But it was not to be supposed that a man of such energy as our colonel would be content just to ride round daily and watch three of his batteries doing rides and gun drill. It occurred to him at once that this was the time to practise the legitimate business--that is, open, moving warfare. Wherefore he made representations to various quite superior authorities. In three days, by dint of considerable personal exertion, he had secured the following concessions: two large tracts of ground suitable for driving drill and battery manœuvre, good billets, an area of some six square miles (part of the --th Army Training area) for the purpose of tactical schemes, the appointment of himself as commandant of the ‘school,’ a Ford ambulance for his private use, three motor lorries for the supply of the units under training, and a magnificent château for his own headquarters. And all this he accomplished without causing any serious friction between the various ‘offices’ and departments concerned--no mean feat.

Each course was to last eight days, and there were to be four batteries, taken from different divisions, undergoing it simultaneously. It fell to us to go with the second batch, and we spent a strenuous week of preparation: it was four months since we had done any work ‘in the open,’ and we knew, inwardly, that we were distinctly rusty. We packed up, and at full war strength, transport, spare horses and all, we marched our sixteen miles to the selected area. At the half-way halt we met the commander of a battery of our own brigade returning. He stopped to pass the time of day and volunteered the information that he was going on leave that night. ‘And, by Jove!’ he added significantly, ‘I deserve a bit of rest. Réveillé at 4 A.M. every morning, out all day wet or fine, gun drill at every odd moment, schemes, tactical exercises, everybody at high pressure all the time. The colonel’s fairly in his element, revels in it, and “strafes” everybody indiscriminately. But it’s done us all a world of good though. Cheeriho! wish you luck.’ And he rode on, leaving us rather flabbergasted.

We discovered quite early (on the following morning about dawn, to be precise) that there had been no exaggeration. We began with elementary driving drill, and we did four and a half hours of it straight on end, except for occasional ten-minute halts to rest the astonished teams. It was wonderful how much we had forgotten and yet how much came back to us after the first hour or so.

‘I want all your officers to drill the battery in turn,’ said the colonel. ‘I shall just ride round and correct mistakes.’

He did--with an energy, a power of observation, and a command of language which I have seldom seen or heard surpassed. But the ultimate result by mid-day, when all the officers and N.C.O.s were hoarse, the teams sweating and the carriages caked in oily dust--the ultimate result was, as the Child politely says, ‘not too stinkin’ awful.’ And it had been good to hear once again the rattle and bump of the guns and wagons over hard ground, the jingle of harness and the thud of many hoofs; good to see the teams swing round together as they wheeled into line or column at a spanking trot; good above all to remember that _this_ was our job and that the months spent in concrete gun-pits and double-bricked O.P.s were but a lengthy prelude to our resumption of it--some day.

In the evening, when the day’s work was over and ‘stables’ finished, we left the tired horses picking over the remains of their hay and walked down the _pavé_ village street, Angelo and I, to look at the church. Angelo is my eldest but not, as it so happens, my senior subaltern. Before the war he was a budding architect, with a taste for painting: hence the nickname, coined by the Child in one of his more erudite moods.

The church at L---- is very fine. Its square tower is thirteenth century, its interior is pure Gothic, and its vaulted roof a marvel. For its size the building is well-nigh perfect. We spent some time examining the nave and chancel--Angelo, his professional as well as his artistic enthusiasm aroused, explaining technicalities to me and making me envious of his knowledge. It was with regret that we turned away at last, for in spite of the tattered colours of some French regiment which hung on the north side of the chancel, we had forgotten the war in the quiet peacefulness of that exquisite interior. But we were quickly reminded. At the end of the church, kneeling on one of the rough chairs, was an old peasant woman: her head was bowed, and the beads dropped slowly through her twisted fingers. As we crept down the aisle she raised her eyes--not to look at us, for I think she was unconscious of our presence--but to gaze earnestly at the altar. Her lips moved in prayer, but no tear damped her yellow cheek. And, passing out into the sunlight again, I wondered for whom she was praying--husband, brother, sons?--whether, still hoping, she prayed for the living, or, faithfully, for the souls of those lost to her. They are brave, the peasant women of France....

Madame our hostess, besides being one of the fattest, was also one of the most agreeable ladies it has ever been our lot to be billeted upon. Before we had been in her house ten minutes she had given us (at an amazing speed) the following information:

Her only remaining son had been wounded and was now a prisoner in Germany.

She had played hostess continuously since August 1914 to every kind of soldier, including French motor-bus drivers, Indian chiefs (_sic_), and generals.

English officers arriving after the battle of Loos slept in her hall for twenty-four hours, woke to have a bath and to eat an omelette, and then slept the clock round again.

She remembered 1870, in which war her husband had fought.

The Boches were barbarians, but they would never advance now, though at one time they had been within a few kilometres of her house.

The lettuce and cabbages in her garden were at our disposal.

She took an enormous interest in the Infant, who is even younger than the Child and is our latest acquisition.

‘Regardez donc le petit, comme il est fatigué!’ she exclaimed to me in the tones of an anxious mother--and then added in an excited whisper, ‘A-t-il vu les Boches, ce petit sous-lieutenant?’

When I assured her not only that he had seen them, but had fired his guns at them, she was delighted and declared that he could not be more than sixteen. But here the Infant, considering that the conversation was becoming personal, intervened, and the old lady left us to our dinner.

Towards the end of our week we packed up essentials and marched out to bivouac two nights and fight a two days’ running battle--directed, of course, by our indefatigable colonel. After the dead flat ugliness where we had been in action all the winter and early spring it was a delight to find ourselves in this spacious undulating country, with its trees and church spires and red-tiled villages. We fought all day against an imaginary foe, made innumerable mistakes, all forcibly pointed out by the colonel (who rode both his horses to a standstill in endeavouring to direct operations and at the same time watch the procedure of four widely separated batteries); our imaginary infantry captured ridge after ridge, and we advanced from position to position ‘in close support,’ until finally, the rout of the foe being complete, we moved to our appointed bivouacs.

In peace time it would have been regarded as a quite ordinary day, boring because of its resemblance to so many others. Now it was different. True, it was make-believe from start to finish, without even blank cartridge to give the vaguest hint of reality. But there was this: at the back of all our minds was the knowledge that this was a preparation--possibly our last preparation--not for something in the indefinite future (as in peace time), but for an occasion that assuredly _is_ coming, perhaps in a few months, perhaps even in a few weeks. The colonel spoke truly when, at his first conference, he said:

‘During these schemes you must all of you force yourselves to imagine that there is a real enemy opposed to you. The Boche is no fool: he’s got guns, and he knows how to use them. If you show up on crest lines with a whole battery staff at your heels, he’ll have the place “registered,” and he’ll smash your show to bits before you ever get your guns into action at all. _Think_ where he is likely to be, _think_ what he’s likely to be doing, don’t expose yourselves unless you must, and above all, _get a move on_.’

It was a delightful bivouac. We were on the sheltered side of a little hill, looking south into a wooded valley. Nightingales sang to us as we lay smoking on our valises after a picnic dinner and stared dreamily at the stars above us.

‘Jolly, isn’t it?’ said the Child, ‘but I s’pose we wouldn’t be feeling quite so comfy if it was the real business.’

‘Don’t,’ said Angelo quietly. ‘I was pretending to myself that we were just a merry camping party, here for pleasure only. I’d forgotten the war.’

But I had not. I was thinking of the last time I had bivouacked--amongst the corn sheaves of a harvest that was never gathered, side by side with friends who were soon to fall, on the night before the first day of Mons, nearly two years ago.

The following day was more or less a repetition of the first, except that we made fewer mistakes and ‘dropped into action’ with more style and finish. We were now becoming fully aware of the almost-forgotten fact that a field battery is designed to be a mobile unit, and we were just beginning to take shape as such when our time was over. A day’s rest for the horses and then we returned to our comfortable rest billets. It had been a strenuous week, but I think everyone had thoroughly enjoyed it....

We have had two days in which to ‘clean up,’ and now to-morrow we are to relieve another battery and take our place in the line again. Our holiday is definitely over. It will take a little time to settle down to the old conditions: our week’s practice of open warfare has spoilt us for this other kind. We who have climbed hills and looked over miles of rolling country will find an increased ugliness in our old flat surroundings. It will seem ludicrous to put our guns into pits again--the guns that we have seen bounding over rough ground behind the straining teams. To be cooped up in a brick O.P. staring at a strip of desolation will be odious after our bivouacs under the stars and our dashes into action under a blazing sun. Worst of all, perhaps, is the thought that the battery will be split up again into ‘gun line’ and ‘wagon line,’ with three miles or more separating its two halves, instead of its being, as it has been all these weeks, one complete cohesive unit. But what must be, must be; and it is absurd to grumble. Moreover--the end is not yet.

* * * * *

‘Let’s toss up for who takes first turn at the O.P. when the relief is completed,’ suggested the Child.

‘Wait a minute,’ I said, remembering something suddenly. ‘Do you know what to-day is?’

‘Friday,’ he volunteered, ‘and to-morrow ought to be a half-holiday, but it won’t be, ’cos we’re going into action.’

I passed the port round again. ‘It’s only a fortnight since we celebrated the battery’s first birthday,’ I said, ‘but to-day the Royal Regiment of Artillery is two hundred years old. Let’s drink its health.’

And we did.

FOOTNOTES:

[10] A certain number of batteries.

_THE REHABILITATION OF PRIVATE HAGAN._

BY ‘MAJOR, R.A.M.C.’

Private Timothy Hagan, of ‘D’ Company, extracted a box of matches from his pocket, mechanically lighted a seasoned briar pipe, and sought inspiration from the log roof of the dugout.

The last of the enemy’s usual evening salvo of shells screamed above the tree-tops and burst harmlessly in a stubble field. Hagan did not move. The announcement that the evening meal was ready equally failed to interest him.

The dugout, efficiently constructed of sand-bags, logs, and earth, was just large enough for the accommodation of two improvised beds and blankets. Private Sawyer, the normal occupant of the other half, was at the moment busy in the kitchen outside beneath the trees. It was seclusion that Hagan courted, not protection.

Presently, Sawyer, his face smoke-begrimed and heated, thrust his head over a sand-bag parapet.

‘Tea ready, cooky,’ he cried.

‘Phwat’s the good ov thay?’ grunted Hagan, dropping his pipe listlessly. ‘Fed up!’

Sawyer’s eyes dilated in speechless surprise. His rapid scrutiny of his pal’s downcast features failed to help.

‘’Ullo, what’s wrong, hey?’ he asked, wiping his face with the back of his hand and dropping into the trench. ‘Can’t yer high-class stomach relish bully-beef no more? What’s wrong with it?’

Without answering in words Timothy slipped his hand into the breast pocket of his tunic, produced a much-thumbed envelope, and slowly unfolded a letter. The sight of the irregular writing seemed to have an immediate tonic effect upon his demeanour. His eyes suddenly became suffused with red-blood anger. (He had learned the habit in more than one barbed-wire scrimmage against the enemy.) Clenching his fists, he cursed beneath his breath, thoughtfully, with intent.

‘H’m!’ grunted Sawyer sympathetically.

‘There’s a blighter at home,’ stammered Hagan, ‘phwat is afeared to do his bit out here’--he hesitated as if to swallow pent-up gorge--‘of the name of O’Shea--a damned thaivin’ grocer. The letter says as how he’s afther walking out wid Kitty Murphy, as is promised to mesilf.’

‘Ugh, a woman is it?’ breathed Sawyer.

‘And me not able to get me hands on him,’ groaned Hagan. ‘’Tis perishin’ hard.’

The sharp explosions of anti-aircraft shells in rapid succession overhead caused Sawyer to glance upwards. Shading his eyes with his hand, he shook his head in disappointment at the marksmanship displayed, and slipped back again into a sitting posture.

‘What abhart leave ’ome?’ he inquired. ‘The captain says as ’ow each of us is to ’ave a turn--in doo course.’

‘Bah!’ ejaculated Hagan contemptuously. ‘We all knows phwat in doo course mains.’ Meditatively refolding his letter, he consigned it again to its inner pocket. ‘There ain’t no proper foighting now naither--nothin’ but scrappin’ phwat doesn’t even kape the blood wharm in yez veins.’ Striking a match on the heel of his boot, he stared into space and forgot to use it. ‘I be afther thinkin’, Jock, it is now that I could be sphared, or not at all.’

‘Wot’s wimmin to you now, anyway? ’Tis different with the married blokes,’ murmured Sawyer. ‘Won’t we both be killed in doo course?’

‘We will that,’ agreed Hagan. ‘But, all the same, I could not lie happy loike widout I be afther settlin’ first wid the grocer.’

For some seconds Sawyer did not speak. In the cool calm of the autumn evening there arose before him the memory of a dozen little wayside cemeteries marked by stereotyped plain wooden crosses--the British soldier’s humble badge of honour won. With a whimsical smile upon his lips he wondered vaguely where his own resting-place would lie.

‘Ye see, Jock,’ persisted Hagan, ‘’tisn’t as if I was much wanted here just now.’

Sawyer, turning suddenly, stared hard at his friend’s bronzed countenance, noted the stern-set jaw, and ceased sucking his pipe. He had learned to read Tim Hagan’s moods with the accuracy of much practice in the course of many devious wanderings.

‘Humph! Wot’s the bloomin’ plan of campaign?’ he demanded. ‘Sneakin’ be’ind mud’eaps, or fightin’ in the open?’

Hagan mechanically refilled his pipe and rammed down the tobacco with mature deliberation. An indefinite hum of voices near the company cooking-pots and the sharp bark of a French 75-gun in the near distance accentuated the seclusion of the dugout. A dull crimson glow of sunset irradiated a cloudless skyline. To the rear of the wood the lowing of a cow sounded strangely out of place. On the left, cutting the winding line of trenches, lay the long, straight, deserted, _pavé_ road leading to the German lines. The scene, through many days of comparative stagnation, had grown contemptuously familiar.

‘I’m sick,’ said Hagan, ‘to-morrow morning as iver is.’

Sawyer, gurgling in a characteristic manner meant to denote mirth, shook his head.

‘Sick is it?’ he commented. ‘Wot’s the complaint, matey? Some ’as fits; others injures their trigger fingers; some ’as lost their glasses and carn’t see nothink; some breaks their false teeth and gets shockin’ pains from the hard biscuits; some ’as pains in the kidneys; some ’as a narsty corph. ’Tain’t the season for corphs.’ Rubbing his nose with the back of a begrimed finger, he relapsed into thought. ‘Some ’as a buzzin’ in the ’ead wot nothink can cure. Some’--looking serious, he suddenly ended in a grunt--‘’Tain’t good enough, Tim, me lad, even for the pleasure of punchin’ the ’ead of a stinkin’ grocer. You see, if you only get a few days in ’orspital, back you come again. If you’re took serious, ’ome you goes and stays there for a long time and misses everythink ’ere.’ Gripping Hagan’s arm with highly strung fingers, he leaned nearer. ‘You ain’t goin’ to schrimshank at ’ome if a big push comes, old pal, are you?’

Hagan’s jaw clenched and his lips moved speechlessly. Then once more he drew the letter from his pocket and handed it to his friend.

‘Read that!’ he said. ‘I’m goin’ home.’

Sawyer’s face assumed a sphinx-like gravity. He knew the proverbial strength of obstinacy, also the amount of that commodity possessed by Tim Hagan. He smoothed out the paper and sniffed violently. A faint perfume of cheap scent permeated the immediate atmosphere. With a grunt, he proceeded to master the contents of the epistle. So slowly did he progress, however, that presently even Hagan began to show signs of impatience. Sawyer was, in truth, merely gaining time for thought.

‘If you’re caught out malingerin’ on active service, Tim,’ he whispered at length, ‘it won’t be only seven days “confined to barracks” you will be gettin’ off with.’

With eyes bent upon the crimson skyline, Hagan sighed wearily.

‘’Tis goin’ home I be, Jock,’ he repeated. ‘I’ll be afther marryin’ Kitty Murphy, and thin me sickness will all go and back it is I’ll come.’

With a groan of despair Sawyer crawled to his feet and, without another word, walked off in the direction of a ruined château. He knew there was no immediate urgency. For ordinary cases of illness the ambulance wagon would not arrive until the morning. He, therefore, still had all night in which to formulate a plan of operations. It was, of course, open to him to drop a hint to the R.A.M.C. orderly, but that would have to be a _dernier ressort_ indeed.

Left to himself, Hagan brooded more sombrely than before. The regulations regarding reporting sick were perfectly familiar to him. For a serious case the medical officer could be summoned within a few minutes. The Field Ambulance advanced dressing-station, located in a school-house in the nearest village, was not more than a mile away. Weighing the matter in all its visible points, he suddenly decided that the rôle of an emergency case would better fit his purpose than that of the ordinary sick soldier reporting at the sealed-pattern hour.

To determine was to act. Smearing the perspiration of undue thought from his forehead, he buttoned his tunic, looked hastily about the interstices of the sand-bags of the dugout for small valued possessions, and slipped out beneath the shelter of the trees.

The area lying between the wood and the village where the Field Ambulance had located its post was alive with troops. The pavé of the road, upheaved by continuous traffic and an occasional shell, was not a healthy place for evening exercise, but there was no order against it. The danger of being shot during the journey had long become a negligible quantity. A church tower, shell-riddled and tottering, was the landmark. Behind it Hagan knew he should find the red-cross flag hanging limply from its pole.

Women, with a horse and cart gathering the wheat in a field on his left, glanced up with pleasant smile of greeting as he passed. The orderlies filling a regimental water-cart at the village pump took no notice of him whatever. Presently, reaching the shadows of the church, he began to walk slower, then halted. He felt as if he needed a moment in which to pull himself together. So far in his life his histrionic sense had never been tested. It is notorious that even experienced actors occasionally suffer from stage fright.

A couple of R.A.M.C. orderlies, leaning against the door-post beneath the red-cross flag, presently noticed a soldier staggering towards them and blindly clutching at the empty air. In normal times their unanimous diagnosis woud have been ‘beer.’ They knew, however, that in the firing line such could not be.

Hagan, squinting between half-closed eyelashes, staggered another ten yards, embraced one of the orderlies round the neck, slid limply to the ground, and, breathing heavily, lay quite still.

In a moment a stretcher was at hand; within a minute the patient was inside the building. There were only half a dozen other men to share it with him, as the evening evacuation of sick and wounded to the Clearing Hospital had already taken place.

‘What’s wrong, matey?’ questioned one of the orderlies, holding a pannikin of soup to the patient’s lips. ‘Here, drink this. Wake up! Can you hear me?’

With a shudder Hagan opened his eyes, and, half-rising to his feet, glared about him. Rolls of wool and bandages, trays of surgical instruments, splints, buckets, and basins surrounded him upon all sides.

‘Ah--the hospital!’ he muttered. ‘I remimber now. It is afther faintin’ I be.’

‘H’m--lie down!’ advised the orderly, pushing him back on the stretcher. ‘I will call the medical officer. Perhaps he’ll give you a tot of brandy.’

‘Begob, and I’m all roight, me bhoy,’ asserted Hagan, with well-assumed eagerness to depart. ‘Give me only foive--or maybe tin--minutes’ rest and a sip av whater.’

The orderly gave the water, but, none the less, called his officer. Meanwhile Hagan, with shut eyes, summoned to his aid all medical knowledge, real and spurious, that had ever crossed his path of life. The rôle he had assigned to himself was extremely difficult. Whatever else might be imaginary, the beads of perspiration bedewing his forehead were certainly genuine enough. In order to fool a man successfully one requires to know something of his mental attitude towards the subject in hand. What a medico’s mind might contain, or what pitfalls it was necessary to beware of in dealing with him, were points that suddenly assailed the wretched Tim with terrifying force. In fact, had the R.A.M.C. officer not arrived within a few moments, it is probable that fear of superior wisdom would have driven the schemer forth from the building.

‘Well, my man, what is the matter?’ asked the officer, feeling his patient’s pulse. ‘Fainted, hey?’

‘Yes, sir,’ asserted the orderly. ‘Fell into my arms.’

Hagan, opening his eyes slowly, shook his head from side to side, noisily blew out his cheeks, and ‘marked time.’ Adjusting a stethoscope, the officer examined his chest, grunted, and ordered his temperature to be taken. That the result would be negative Hagan knew only too well. Consequently, it seemed obvious that it behoved him to make the next move.

‘Terrible buzzin’ in me head, sor,’ he breathed.

‘Ah--quite so. Rest and light diet. Overstrain. Perhaps you will be all right again by morning.’

Emboldened by an initiatory success, Hagan ventured upon driving the nail still deeper.

‘Lost all feelin’s in me legs, sor,’ he added, with a groan. ‘It--er--has been comin’ on, sor, for a week; but it wasn’t loikin’ to go sick I was.’

The medico, with newly awakened interest, bent his eyes upon the man’s face and silently observed the movements of his rolling head and eyes. Hagan, gradually ceasing his gyrations, at length opened his eyes and met the doctor’s absorbed gaze. It was at that moment--had he but known it--that he sorely needed all the knowledge available regarding his interrogator. The latter was by nature a silent man, but that did not interfere with his power of absorbing details and piecing them together with uncanny accuracy.

‘A pin, sir?’ suggested the orderly.

‘What for?’ asked the officer blandly.

‘Thought, perhaps, you wanted to test his feelings, sir,’ explained the zealot.

‘No--er--that is, not to-night,’ answered the officer, suppressing a half-smile beneath his moustache. ‘We will see what a night’s rest can do.’

As he watched the tall figure of the doctor sauntering out of the room, Hagan experienced a sensation of acute alarm. In the presence of the calm assurance of this man of few words he felt that he had slipped up somewhere. But where? Loss of all feeling in the legs was surely a good effort! Glancing at the orderly, he noticed the man smiling in a peculiar manner as his officer disappeared from sight. An orderly’s knowledge has its limitations, even if a doctor’s has not. The more thought he gave to it the more suspicious did he feel, and a guilty conscience did not assist matters.

Soup and biscuits were served out for supper. Tim Hagan could have absorbed both with relish. He felt, however, that such diet might not be good for buzzing in the head--and said so. The night orderly, indifferent to arguments, deposited the food on a box by his side and departed. The fact, however, that all the articles of diet had disappeared by morning was by no means lost upon the day orderly when he returned to duty at the hour of breakfast.

During the silent watches of the night Hagan had time to think of many things. He decided that he did not like the look of the medical officer, nor, indeed, did he know what to make of the orderly. Could he have fought them hand to hand, he would have known exactly where he was. In this subtle, silent contest of brains he was beginning to writhe against an invisible foe which seemed to be closing in upon him more surely with every tick of his watch. A change of diagnosis seemed advisable. But, with his scanty repertoire of diseases, the point was none too easy. In fact, when the officer unexpectedly stood by his side, he was still so undecided, that closed eyes and immobility seemed the path of least resistance.

‘Well, Private Hagan, how are you this morning?’ inquired the officer, shaking him by the shoulder.

What the answer to the question was Timothy did not know. He conceded a point, however, by opening his eyes.

The question being repeated with emphasis, an inspiration gripped him. In a flash his line of country seemed to open out before him. The dizziness in the head had led to complications.

‘Carn’t hear,’ he blurted.

‘Ah!’ commented the persecutor, raising his eyebrows. ‘Deaf, are you? That’s bad.’ Perceptibly dropping his voice, he studied his victim’s face. ‘H’m--I wonder what degree of deafness. Which is the worst ear?’

With praiseworthy presence of mind, Hagan resisted the impulse to answer. Staring blankly at the ceiling, he made no sign.

Stepping a pace nearer, the officer spoke louder. Hagan still made no voluntary response, but the perspiration upon his face attested to the physical effort.

From the psychological standpoint the doctor was intensely amused. That Private Timothy Hagan was a clumsy malingerer, pure and simple, he had no doubt. To prove such a negative condition however is quite another matter. If proved, the offence meant a court-martial. As an officer it was his duty to conceal no crime which could be proved. He was interested, but had little time just then for fancy cases. Hagan’s facial expression of struggling conjecture condemned him, morally, beyond a doubt, but the production of the self-same expression before the members of a court-martial could hardly be guaranteed.

It was a six-inch German shell that solved the situation for the moment. Dropping three hundred yards from the dressing-station in the middle of the village street it exploded with a roar which smashed every pane of glass in the building. A second quickly followed. The R.A.M.C. staff, expectant of they knew not what, stood listening. Hagan, feeling the eyes of the medical officer upon him, did not move a muscle.

‘One to you,’ murmured the officer to himself. ‘I don’t believe a word of it all the same.’ Turning on his heel, he winked to the orderly and with well-assumed indifference strode to the far end of the room.

The orderly, quickly stepping round to the head of Hagan’s stretcher, needed no further instructions. With book and pencil in hand, he appeared to be engaged upon his ordinary duty of taking names for the Clearing Hospital.

‘What’s your number, matey?’ he asked quickly.

The wretched competitor, breathing heavily after his recent mental tension, had dropped his guard.

‘4179,’ he answered promptly.

‘_Thank you!_’ remarked a bland voice from the doorway.

To state that Hagan could have kicked himself for his stupidity, is to put the case mildly. Conscious that no words of his could possibly regain lost ground, he stared blankly at the accusing face of the officer.

‘It’s all UP, matey,’ whispered the orderly, indulging in an open guffaw.

‘Thin I may as well be afther gettin’ on me bhoots,’ remarked the culprit quietly, rising to his feet. ‘You’ve bin done down, Tim, me bhoy, and there ain’t no manner av use in kickin’.’

What happened next in that little school-house, as regards points of detail, has never been actually recorded. That a deafening explosion resembling the noise of the end of all things earthly, accompanied by the caving in of the brickwork of the side of the room, and followed by the collapse of most of the roof, took place at that moment are facts of history.

‘It has come at last,’ groaned the doctor. ‘Thank God, there are only a few men in the building.’

A second later, a tottering rafter, swaying beneath its weight of tiles, fell with a sickening crash and buried him beneath its ruins.

In an instant all had become chaos.

Whatever the damage done, it was probably at an end. Hagan appreciated that much immediately. That he himself remained unhurt was a miracle. The orderly, holding both hands to his head, lay like a log on the floor. Several stretchers, with their occupants, lay buried beneath the débris of brick and plaster.

‘A fifteen-inch, begob!’ exclaimed Hagan, seizing the orderly by the shoulders and dragging him into the open air.

The atmosphere outside was still reeking with heavy black smoke and dust. A cavern in the road, large enough to conceal a motor-bus, yawned in his path. The heat of action was upon him. Handing over the orderly to other hands, he did not hesitate. There were wounded men to be rescued. At any moment a second shell might follow the first, or more walls might fall. A feeble, muffled call for help, emanating from the very centre of the wreckage, arrested his attention. He knew that bland, cool voice only too well. The available orderlies were already struggling to remove the wounded and unearth their officer.

Hagan dashed forward. He was a strong man, and in the best of condition. Without argument, he took command.

To remove the smaller masses of mortared brick was the work of but a few moments. The men worked at fever heat. The cries from beneath grew feebler, almost ceased. It was the weight of long rafters which formed the main obstruction. Without axes or saws, its removal might be a matter of hours.

Wiping the sweat from his face, Hagan set his teeth and urged on his party to final effort. But their combined strength was without avail to clear the rafters. The victim beneath seemed nearing suffocation with every breath he drew.

Hagan could see only one way, and he took it.

Throwing himself on his face, he insinuated his head beneath the rafters, and by herculean efforts forced his shoulders to follow. Tearing away the loose stuff with his hands, whilst the orderlies endeavoured to ease the weight above him, he at length was able to gauge the situation accurately. A great beam lay across the chest of the officer, whose body supported it.

Tim Hagan sweated in an agony as he looked. He had seen hundreds of men killed in action, but to see his late persecutor being slowly crushed to death before his eyes was more than he could bear.

From outside the cries of men with axes reached him. Immediate action, however, was what was wanted. An instant’s thought, a whispered, guttural prayer, and he proceeded with his task.

Rolling with difficulty upon his back, he wriggled himself, inch by inch, close up beside his now silent antagonist, and with all the strength in his body pressed upwards until he managed to relieve the pressure on the other’s chest. Inch by inch he shoved the unconscious man aside and replaced the latter’s body by his own. Then, with ears at acutest tension, he listened to the crash of the axes and wondered how long he could last--how long it would take him to die.

* * * * *

Two weeks later, Private Timothy Hagan, propped up in bed, lay in a hospital at the base. Presently an R.A.M.C. officer, obviously also more or less convalescent, entered the ward by means of a wheeled chair and looked about him. Hagan, catching the visitor’s eye, flushed deeply, laboriously drew a long breath, and turned away his head. The next minute, the officer, having given an order to the orderly pushing his chair, was at Hagan’s side. A word to the orderly, and the two wounded men were alone.

‘I have come, Hagan, to thank you for my life,’ said the officer.

Hagan nervously rubbed his forehead with his hand, moved his lips as if framing unspoken words, and drew a deep inspiration.

‘’Twasn’t cowardice, sor,’ he breathed at last. ‘’Twas nought but a litle gurl at home phwat drew me.’

‘Cowardice! You! You’re one of the pluckiest men I have ever seen. What do you mean?’

‘I main, sor, whin I was schrimshankin’.’

‘Sh--sh, my man! That little matter is all forgotten.’

‘Yez did have me beat, sor,’ persisted Hagan, with a flash of humour in his eyes. ‘’Twas too cliver for me you was, sor. ’Twas the orderly hit me below the belt. He took me unbeknownst, sor.’

With a light laugh, the medical officer placed his hand upon the brawny fist of the man beside him.

‘You will get home to see your girl after all, Hagan--in your own way--and I am glad,’ he said.

‘Is it to be quits then, sor?’

‘Yes--we will call it that,’ agreed the officer. ‘For the time being, we are quits. Later, I will repay you what is over--if I ever can.’

_DURING MUSIC: FANTASY AND FUGUE._

BY J. B. TREND.

I.

That low-breathed air and inwoven melody,
Twined marvellously together, swift to run
To the farthest bound of song, or knit in one
To melt and glow in o’erwhelming harmony,
You played. And I, startled to fantasy,
Beheld a land of dishevelled wood and stream,
A desperate rally of men, a flash, a scream--
And a friend riven beyond all agony.

Yet did you play. Each delicate, rival thread
Of sound was knotted at last and the music ended.
Forest, colour, and mountain, earth held none
But stunted woods with no companion tread,
Greyness, and little hills, in a life unfriended;
For all joy in things and love of them were gone.

II.

I heard those echoing tones your touch unpenned,
Now hammer-notes that rivetted life with love,
Now light as sou’west wind blown softly above;
But all you played only to him could tend.
So let it be, I said, until life’s end;
In the tinkling wash at the bows, or water lapping
All night upon the dinghy’s side, or tapping
Of light wind in the halyards; there is my friend.

So did your unrelenting notes flit by,
While death and music in my thought were welded
To swing me lonely down to the loveless night.
I am a sail that wind takes wantonly
Because the sheet has carried away that held it--
Then let your fugue pursue its scornful flight!

_LADY CONNIE._[11]

BY MRS. HUMPHRY WARD.