Combed Out Part 11

"Next man!"

And we would take the "next man" over and help him to mount one of the tables.

They were all very quiet at first and many sat with bowed heads. Some were dreading the operation, others, who were not badly wounded, looked bright and cheerful, as well they might, for they were going to have a holiday, perhaps in England, but anyhow at the Base, where they would enjoy a respite from danger, hardship, and misery--a respite that might last for weeks. And in the meantime the war might come to an end--one could never tell.

Two infantrymen with packs and rifles pa.s.sed by. They had been discharged from the C.C.S. and were going to rejoin their units. They stopped outside the waiting-room for a few minutes and looked enviously at the wounded sitting round the stove inside, and murmured with deep conviction: "Lucky devils."

A patient came out of the theatre with bandaged arm. He held a large, semi-circular piece of iron in his hand.

"Is that what they took out o' yer arm?" said one of the infantrymen.

"Yes--decent bit, isn't it!"

"Gorblimy, I wish I could 'ave a bit like that, in me knee or somewhere, to lay me up for months."

His comrade added in a voice full of hopeless longing:

"I wish I were in his shoes. Anything to keep out of that h.e.l.l up the line!"

"'E's a sure Blighty, ain't 'e?"

"Sure!"

The man with the injured arm put on his boots and threw his tunic over his shoulders and walked off, smiling happily.

A German, looking weak and pale, came in. He was in great agony and had received permission to enter the theatre with the British wounded, so that his pain might be relieved as soon as possible.

"'Ullo, Fritzie," said someone in a cheerful voice. "Got a Blighty?"

The German did not understand and looked utterly miserable. He sat down timidly with the others. The room was dark except for the glow given out by the stove that lit up the hands and faces of those around it.

Suddenly a man shouted from the background:

"Them b.a.s.t.a.r.d Fritzes--I'd poison the 'ole lot." And that started the argument.

"I reckon one man's as good as another."

"I reckon a Tommy's worth a dozen Fritzes. The bleeders ought ter be wiped orf the face o' the bleed'n' earth. I see 'em do a thing or two, I tell yer--me an' my mate was in the line down Plugstreet way when they crucified a Canadian. I see the tree what they did it on wi' me own eyes--dirty lot o' swine!"

"b.l.o.o.d.y lies! Yer read it in the paper!"

"Wha' if I did?"

"Yer said yer saw it yerself!"

"Well, I read it in the papers and then I see the tree what they did it on arterwards. The nails was still there. An' what _d'you_ know about it? Yer in the artillery, yer don't see no fightin'!"

"Don't see no fightin'! Gorblimy, I reckon the infantry wouldn't be much bleedin' cop wi'out the artillery."

"I'll tell yer what the artillery do--blow up their own mates what's in the front line, there now!"

"If we'd 'ad artillery in August, 1914, the war'd 'a' bin over in three weeks!"

"Don't yer believe it! It's the infantry what 'as all the danger an'

gits all the rotten jobs. The artillery's cushey compared wi' the infantry."

"The artillery 'as a b.l.o.o.d.y sight 'eavier losses!"

"Go on--tell us another! It's no good arguin' wi' yer, yer won't see any side 'cept yer own."

But a third man, bringing the argument back to its original subject, said:

"I reckon it's all b.l.o.o.d.y lies what's in the papers. The Belgies is a d.a.m.n sight worse'n Jerry. [The Germans.] Yer know that there gun what used to sh.e.l.l Poperinge--well, they never knew where the sh.e.l.ls came from till they found it was a Belgian batt'ry 'id in a tunnel. They caught the gunners when they was telephonin' to Jerry. They stood the 'ole bleed'n' lot up aginst a wall an' shot 'em--serve 'em right too."

"Go on--tell us another!"

"I bet yer it's true, now then!"

"How much do you bet?"

"Fifteen b.l.o.o.d.y francs!"

"All right, I'll take yer on!"

"I reckon the Froggies is the worst," said a man who had not spoken before. "I was out 'ere in 1914 an' they didn't 'alf let us down. I was a b.l.o.o.d.y fool ter join up though--I'd like to strangle meself for it.

They won't catch me volunteerin' for the next war, not this child, no b.l.o.o.d.y fear! Look at the way they treat yer--like bleed'n' pigs. There ain't no justice anywhere. There's strong an' 'ealthy fellers at the Base just enjoyin' theirselves. Then there's the 'eads what 'as servants to wait on 'em--d'yer think French or Duggie 'Aig ever 'as sh.e.l.ls burstin' round 'em? Then there's the Conchies what 'as a easy time in clink--if I see a Conchy in civvy life, I'll knock 'is b.l.o.o.d.y 'ead orf, struth I will. And the civvies--gorblimy--when I was 'ome on leave they kep' on arstin' me, 'Ain't yer wounded yet?' an' 'When are yer goin'

back?' But d'yer think they care a d.a.m.n--Not they, you bet yer life on it! _They_ don't want the war to stop--they're earnin' good money an' go to dances an' cinemas. They'd start cryin' if we 'ad peace--I tell yer, I was glad when me leave was over an' I was back wi' me mates. I won't 'alf throw me weight about when I gits out o' the army! I won't 'alf raise 'ell--I'll 'ave a b.l.o.o.d.y revverlution, you see if I don't!..."

The shout of "Next man" sounded across from the theatre, and the would-be destroyer of the social order got up and walked across.

"Where were you wounded?" asked one of the soldiers of his neighbour who was drawing his breath in sharply between his lips, evidently being in great pain.

"Near Eeps, [Ypres] by the Ca.n.a.l. A sh.e.l.l busted in front o' me an' a bit copped me in the shoulder. Fritz was sending 'em over by the 'undreds, whizz-bangs an' 'eavy stuff all mixed up--gorblimy, 'e don't 'alf give yer what for!"

There was a temporary lull in the conversation and then a small, wiry, spiteful looking c.o.c.kney spoke. He had reddish hair and big round spectacles of the army pattern.

"I didn' 'alf do it on a Fritz afore I was wounded! 'E give 'isself up an' I takes 'im along--I makes 'im walk in front o' me--yer can't take no risks wi' them b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. 'E turns rahnd an' says ter me in English--'e must 'a' bin a clurk or a scholard--'e says, sarcastic like, 'I s'pose yer think yer goin' ter win the war!' I gets me rag out an'

tells 'im ter mind 'is own bleed'n' business. I tells 'im if I catch 'im lookin' rahnd agin I'll kill 'im! We walks on a bit an' suddenly I throws a Mills at 'im--gorblimy, it wasn't 'alf a fine shot, it busted right on 'is shoulder. It didn' 'alf make a mess of 'im--I bet 'is own mother wouldn't 'a' rekkernized 'im as 'e lay there wi' 'is clock all smashed up!"

"I think it's a d.a.m.ned shame to kill a man after he's surrendered," said a tall Corporal.

"I wasn't goin' ter stand no bleed'n' sarcasm! An' Fritz does the same to our blokes! It's 'e what started it! We learnt it orf of 'im!"

"Yes, that's what they all say. It's always the other man who's done it first. There's been many a fellow who's quite decent at heart who's murdered a helpless prisoner thinking to avenge some abominable outrage that was never committed, but only dished up by some skunk of a pen-pusher who's never seen any fighting in his life. I don't know much about Fritz, he may be worse than us or he may be better, but I've seen our fellows do some b.l.o.o.d.y awful things. Anyhow, I know the German soldier's doing his bit just as we are. He thinks he's in the right and we think we're in the right, and he's just as much ent.i.tled to his opinion as we are to ours. And I tell you straight, if I had the choice between killing a German soldier and killing Lord Northcliffe, I'd shake hands with the German and ask him to help me kill Lord Northcliffe and a few others like him. And I'm not the only one who's that way of thinking, I can tell you. We call ourselves sportsmen, but have we ever recognized that we got a brave enemy? Say what you like about Fritz, he may be a brute, but he's got some pluck--he's up against the world, he is. He'll be beaten in the end, that's a cert, but he's putting up a b.l.o.o.d.y hard fight. I didn't think much of him before I came out, but it's hats off to him now! But d'you think the civvies or the papers admit it? No b.l.o.o.d.y fear! The other day I saw a picture of the grenades we use--I think it was in the _Graphic_ or one of these ill.u.s.trated rags. It was headed, 'Ferreting Fritz out of his Funk Holes.' I know the man who wrote that hasn't been in the trenches himself! He's never seen a lot of Germans lying dead round their machine-gun after fighting to the last, as I have! He hasn't even seen a sh.e.l.l burst, not he! I bet he slipped into _his_ funk hole, though, when there was an air-raid on!

Dirty, filthy swine! When I was home on leave I got so wild at the way the civvies talked that I gave them a piece of my mind and told them a thing or two. And one of them called me a pro-German! He, of course, was a patriot. He was making money out of the war and wanted a fight to a finish. Well, I got my rag out properly and I caught him by the throat and shook him till he was blue in the face. It was in the street too, and a lot of people standing about. They didn't say anything more after that, though! I felt I'd done a good deed. I was really glad to feel I'd clutched his windpipe with all my strength. I expect he still wears the marks of my finger-nails, although it happened months ago...."

"'Ere, 'ere! That's the stuff to give 'em! I reckon Fritz is a b.l.o.o.d.y good sport. We ought ter shake 'ands an' make peace now. Peace at any price, that's what I say.... I tell yer a thing what 'appened when I was in the line. We 'ad a little dog wi' us an' one night she must 'a'

strayed inter Fritz's trenches. The next mornin' she came back wi' a card tied round 'er neck an' on the card it 'ad: 'To our comrades in misfortune--What about Peace.' I reckon that was a jolly decent thing ter say. Jerry wants ter get 'ome to 'is missis an' kiddies just as much as what we do!"

"Next three men," shouted the theatre orderly.