All for a Scrap of Paper Part 41

As Bob thought of it all, even in the midst of the fever of war which possessed him, he became almost mad. Those Germans in whose camp he had been, were, many of them, brave, patient, kindly men. They had their homes and their loved ones just as the English and the French had. They had left behind them sweethearts, wives, children, just as our men had; but because they were overruled by a vast military system, which had at its head the German Emperor, all this had taken place.

To this man, his own ambition was everything. What cared he for the lives of a million men, as long as his power could be extended and his ambitions, satisfied?

France was in the way of his advancement, therefore France must be crushed.

England was his great rival, and therefore England must be swept aside.

Germany must be a World Power, and nothing must stop her in fulfilling her destiny. To this end he had made the country a great war-camp, and for this the gospel of war had been preached. Mercy--love--brotherly kindness--peace, must all be sacrificed for the overwhelming ambitions and vain-glory of this man and his followers; this caused h.e.l.l to be let loose upon earth.

That was why he and millions of others were fighting; that was why tens of thousands of the flower of young English manhood; as well as the best life of France, were being crushed in the dust. That was why homes were being made desolate--hearts broken.

Still the carnage went on; still fire and flame; still the boom of cannon; the groanings of dying men. Fight, fight; slay, slay, and no quarter.

Towards the evening of the fourth day after Bob's escape from the German lines, came a cry which had become almost familiar to him, and he found himself with his company making a bayonet charge on the enemy.

To a distant spectator, not knowing the meaning of the war, this charge must have seemed like some mad Bedlam let loose. Strong men lunging, stabbing, fighting, with only death in their hearts--and this was war!

All around was the crack of rifle shots, the boom of cannon, and still they pressed on, fighting their way inch by inch.

Suddenly Bob found himself bereft of his sword; his revolver was in his left hand, but in the mad struggle his sword had been stricken from the right.

Words of command could scarcely be heard amidst the din and clamour; on his right hand a soldier fell with the bayonet in his chest of a German, who at the same time fell from a wound which the Englishman had inflicted on him. Scarcely had the Englishman fallen, when he saw the bayonets of the enemy directed towards himself.

Seizing the Englishman's rifle--the bayonet fixed at the end of which was red with blood--he sought to defend himself. Directing his attention to the man who rushed upon him, he fought with all the strength he possessed: "I have mastered him," was the thought which came into his mind, as the German staggered back, but before he could make his victory sure, a blow, whence he did not know, struck him on the collar-bone; a hot, burning pain pa.s.sed through his side, as he felt himself falling; a moment later there was a stampede over his body.

"It's all over with me," he said, and then he felt himself becoming unconscious.

In a hazy kind of fashion he thought our men were pressing forward, and that the Germans were falling back from them; but this was an impression rather than a thought. Presently it seemed to him that silence reigned. He felt very weary, but suffered no pain. He thought he heard the sound of distant guns; but they were no longer guns, they were the waves which beat upon the great rocks around Gurnard's Head, while he and Nancy sat in the shade, under the cliff, while he told her the story of his love. He was repeating to her the resolves which had been so suddenly born in his mind.

"Yes, Nancy," he said aloud, "I've found my mission; I am going in for war--war against war; that is the n.o.blest work a man can do."

It was all very unreal; all far, far away. "The night is falling fast; how can Nancy and I get home?" he reflected. Then he heard some one singing close by him; it was the song popular amongst the soldiers--a song in which he himself had joined a hundred times:

"It's a long way to Tipperary, It's a long, long way to go."

He turned his head, and saw a soldier at his side. He too, had been stricken down in the battle; he, too was unconscious of what he was doing.

"Yes, it's a long, long way to Tipperary," he murmured, and that was all, . . . a great darkness fell upon him.

CHAPTER XXI

When Bob awoke to consciousness again, the scene was altogether unfamiliar to him; he was lying in a big barn-like building, while around him were scores of beds, on each of which lay a wounded man.

He felt weak and languid; but this he would not have minded, it was the awful pain just below his neck that troubled him--a gnawing, maddening pain.

He lifted his hand to try and touch the spot; but this he could not do--it seemed to him as though he caused a fire inside it as he moved.

"I'm not dead, anyhow," he reflected. "What is this, I wonder?"

There were cheerful voices all round him, and he saw forms moving around the beds; but they were very dim--in fact, nothing seemed real at all: "Still I'm not dead, anyhow," he repeated; "as soon as I can, I must tell mother that; as for Nancy, she'll not want to know." That was all; it was like a scene in a play, and it pa.s.sed away suddenly.

When he awoke again, his mind was clearer. It was the same scene he saw, just a number of beds on which men were lying.

What he took to be a soldier, wearing an officer's uniform, came and stood by him. This man felt his pulse; then he did something to his chest, which gave him a great deal of pain. He didn't trouble much about it, it didn't matter, nothing mattered.

"You'll do all right," said the man; "you'll get better now."

"I'm very tired," said Bob; "I should like to sleep, if I can."

"Then sleep, my dear fellow."

Again he awoke to consciousness; the clouds had altogether gone, and the scene was absolutely clear.

He was lying in an improvised hospital; those men lying on the beds all round were wounded like himself; the man who had spoken to him was the doctor; those figures moving around the beds were nurses--each wore a red cross.

Although everything was clear, he was strangely indifferent to what was taking place. What did it matter to him? He supposed that he would never fight again; his arm was useless. He felt sure of that--his right arm. Still, he had done his work, and at least he had done his best. Then a thought flashed through his mind.

"Oh, but the war is not over yet, and they need me; I must get well."

He threw off the kind of lethargy that possessed him, and presently, when a nurse came to bring him some food, he looked up into her kindly face. She was a Frenchwoman, who was doing all that a woman could, to help; she was not there to kill, but to save.

"Mademoiselle, you're very kind."

"I'm not mademoiselle," was the woman's reply in French; "I am madame."

Her voice trembled as she spoke: "I was married just before the war, and my husband was called away to fight."

"Where is he now?"

"I don't know; I have not heard for weeks, but I live in hope. I pray that he will come back; meanwhile, I am doing what I can."

"I wish I could fight again," said Bob.

"Ah, but you will; the doctor told me. Ah, here is the doctor!"

"I'm not done for, doctor?" asked Bob.

"Done for? My dear chap, no; you've had a bad time--collar-bone broken, two ribs broken, nasty wound in your side--but in a few weeks you'll be all right again. Is there any one to whom I could write, so that their minds may be relieved about you?"

"Yes," said Bob, "write to my mother," and he told the doctor his mother's name and address.

"Can friends come to see me?" asked Bob.

"To-morrow or the next day, yes, certainly; in a few days you'll be convalescent."