No Man's Land Part 2

"But if it's really authentic?" Draycott turned to him doubtfully.

"And there must be something in it if it's in all the Spanish papers."

"On the contrary," returned the graceless one. "It is precisely that fact that makes me believe there is nothing in it."

The remark seemed conclusive; and yet so detailed was the information all over Gib, so definite the lists of vessels sunk on each side, that even intelligent Scorps--as the inhabitants of the place are known--were impressed. Strangely enough, exactly the same detailed lists, with just sufficient difference to make them credible, were in all the Italian papers at the same time--though this only transpired later.

At the moment nothing much mattered but the time of the next boat going East: it was their own little personal future that counted. A naval battle--yes, perhaps; nineteen ships down--the German fleet as well; fifty or sixty thousand men--gone, finished, wiped out. And yet it was the next boat they wanted to know about.

Callous--I think not; merely a total incapability to realise a thing so stupendous. It has been the same all through the war: the tragedies have been too big for human minds to grasp. It is the little things that tell; the isolated thumb-nail impressions that live in one's mind, and will go with us to the grave. The one huddled form lying motionless in the sh.e.l.l-hole, with its staring, sightless eyes; the one small, but supreme sacrifice: that is the thing which hits--hits harder than the _Lusitania_, or any other of the gigantic panels of the war.

The pin-p.r.i.c.ks we feel; the sledge hammer merely stuns. And the danger is that those who have felt the pin-p.r.i.c.ks may confuse them with the sledge hammer; may lose the right road in the bypaths of personal emotion. War means so infinitely much to the individual; the individual means so infinitely little to war. Only it is sometimes hard to remember that simple fact. . . .

VIII

It was from the top of the Rock that they watched their evil-smelling boat depart, to plug on northward up the home trail, unperturbed by naval battles or rumours thereof. And it was from the top of the Rock they first saw the smoke of the P. and O., outward bound, on which they were destined to complete the journey. Below lay the bay, dotted with German and Austrian ships caught on the high seas at the outbreak of war; a destroyer was going half-speed towards the Atlantic; a cruiser lay in dock, her funnels smoking placidly. Out towards Algeciras an American battleship, with her peculiar steel trellis turrets, was weighing anchor; and in the distance, across the Straits, Africa, rugged and inhospitable, shimmered in the heat haze of an August day.

"So long." The gunner subaltern waved a weary hand from his point of vantage, where he was inspecting life with a telescope. "There's your barge, but she won't leave till to-morrow. If this goes on for much longer, my nerves will give way under the strain. The excitement is too great."

It appears that Draycott had forebodings even before he got on board that P. and O. Since then she has become almost historic amongst those of the Regular Army whose abode at the beginning of the war was overseas. Save for the fact that no one was playing the harmonium, or any other musical instrument, the appearance of her decks as they came alongside was reminiscent of one of those delightful pleasure steamers on which one may journey, at comparatively small cost, up and down the Thames. A seething mob of people, almost exclusively composed of the male s.e.x, glared furiously at them and one another--but princ.i.p.ally at them--as they came up the gangway, and departed in search of the purser. All the stairs down to the dining saloon were occupied by morose pa.s.sengers, and an enlivening altercation was in progress between two elderly gentlemen of ferocious aspect anent the remnants of what had once been a cushion. A mild-looking being, closely clutching a tired deck-chair, was descending to the dining saloon, where infuriated men were loudly thumping the tables.

"Good heavens, gentlemen! what do you want?" A haggard purser peered at them from his office. "Berths!" He broke into a shout of maniacal laughter, and then pulled himself together. "The fourteenth stair leading to the engine-room is not taken, but there's an exhaust pipe pa.s.ses under it, and it becomes too hot to sit on. There is room for two in a coal bunker which should be empty by to-night; otherwise, the hold, if you can find room."

"But what's all the trouble," they queried peevishly. "Surely----"

"Trouble!" The purser swallowed hard. "We have on board eighty-four generals, two hundred and twenty colonels, and one thousand eight hundred and ninety-one what-nots of junior rank. They have all been recalled from leave; they have all come by this boat. The eighteenth breakfast is now being served--perhaps." With a dreadful cry he seized the brandy bottle, while they faded slowly and sadly away. There are things too terrible for contemplation. . . .

It was a wonderful trip--that final stage to the Half Way House of Malta. There was the dreadful incident of the short-sighted subaltern who got into a full Colonel's bed by mistake, when that worthy officer had just gone down on four no trumps redoubled. In vain to point out the similarity of engine-room gratings--in vain to plead short sight.

The subsequent scene lingered in the memory for days.

There was the case of the sleep walker, who got loose in the hold, and ambled heavily over four hundred infuriated human sardines, till he finally fell prostrate into what was apparently the abode of spare china.

Last but not least there was the dreadful Case of the Major-General's Bath. Of this Draycott speaks first hand; he, personally, was an awe-struck spectator. Now the question of baths on that boat was not one to be trifled with. The queue for the pit of a popular play was as nothing to the procession that advanced to the bath in the morning.

And the least penalty for sharp practice with regard to one's turn was death.

Into the bathroom, then, prepared for him by a perspiring Lascar, the Major-General stepped. At the time Draycott did not know he was a Major-General: he was just a supreme being resplendent in a green silk dressing-gown. The door closed, only to open again at once.

"I have forgotten my sponge," he announced. "I shall not be a moment."

He gazed directly at Draycott, who bowed, choking slightly. It was inconceivable to imagine that the resplendent one thought he might--to put it in the vulgar tongue--pinch his bath. By nature he was a timorous individual, and that green dressing-gown--ye G.o.ds! perish the thought.

It was while he waited humbly that the catastrophe occurred. Advancing magnificently came a second being, still more resplendent, in a purple dressing-gown; and he was complete, with towel, sponge, and soap. His eye would have impaled a London taxi-driver, and, scenting trouble, the Lascar made himself scarce.

"It is preposterous to keep people waiting in this manner," he boomed; "perfectly monstrous." The next moment the door was shut and bolted, and Draycott followed the Lascar's example--just in time: green dressing-gown was returning with his sponge. In official parlance, a general action seemed imminent. . . .

It opened with the crash of heavy artillery in the shape of strange and loud expletives of an Indian nature, to be followed immediately by an attack in force on the hostile position. This resulted in a sanguinary repulse, and the attacking party hopped round, apparently in pain, nursing a stubbed toe. The temporary set-back, however, seemed only to raise the _morale_ of the force; and after a further heavy bombardment of a similar nature to the one before, a succession of blows were delivered in rapid succession at all points along the front, which suddenly gave way and the victor was precipitated in some confusion, but triumphant, upon the floor of the captured position.

How true it is, that great utterance of our hand-books on war! "Every leader must bear in mind the necessity of immediately consolidating a newly won position, in order to resist the counter-attack of the enemy, which sooner or later is bound to be launched."

In this case it was distinctly sooner. With a loud shout the defending troops arose from a rec.u.mbent position--to wit, the bath--and with deadly accuracy launched the contents of a large bucket of hot water upon the still prostrate foe.

"What is the meaning of this monstrous intrusion?" The battle cry of the purples rang through the quivering air.

"You s'scoundrel! you impudent s'scoundrel!"

With a loud spluttering noise the greens got up and a.s.sumed a belligerent att.i.tude. "You m'miserable villain! that is _my_ bath.

How d'dare you--how d'dare you--throw w'water over me. D'do you know what I am, sir? I am a Major-General, sir, and I shall report your infamous c'conduct to the captain."

"And I, sir," howled his opponent, "will have you put in irons; I will have you chained to the crow's-nest, if they have one on board.

Keel-hauled, sir, amongst the barnacles and things. I, sir, I am a Lieutenant-General."

Draycott was still slightly dazed when he landed in Malta.

IX

Thus did he reach the Half Way House on his journey to the Land; and at that Half Way House he was destined to remain for a short s.p.a.ce. It may be that there is a harder school than forced inaction; if so, I have no desire to become a pupil. "Those are your orders; there is nothing more to be said." Only too true; there _is_ nothing more to be said--but thinking is a different matter. . . .

And what brush can paint the indescribable longing of those who were fitted for it, who were trained in its ways, to get to their goal--to get to the Land of Promise. For it was a Land of Promise; it was the land of the regular soldier's dreams. And in those days there was no thought of the dream becoming a nightmare. . . .

So Clive Draycott and those with him, in that little rocky outpost of Empire, carried on as cheerfully as a wet sirocco wind and an ever-present heart-burning to be in France would allow, and waited for deliverance.

Perhaps they suffered more acutely than even those who were in the Great Retreat. Out of it, as they thought, out of it. Would they ever be able to hold up their heads again?

And then the worst thing of all: that awful day when the news came through--the news which England got one Sunday. Fellows kept it from the men as far as they could; they covered up places on the map with their hand, unostentatiously; and when they had found Compiegne they folded the map up, and told the men everything was well. It was that evening that Draycott and a pal watched the sun go down over Gozo from St. Paul's Bay, where the statue stands in the sea, and the shallow blue water ripples against the white sandstone.

"My G.o.d! it can't be true!" His companion turned to him, and his eyes were tired. "It can't be true. We're b----" And his lips would not frame the word.

Only, in their hearts they knew it was true; and in their hearts a dreadful hopelessness wormed its bitter way. But crushing it down there was another feeling--stronger and more powerful. England _could_ not be beaten, _would_ not be beaten; the thing was impossible, unbelievable. Triumphant it arose, that great certainty. It arose then, and has never died since, though at times the sky has been black and the storm clouds ominous. They knew that all would be well; and now--after three years--all is well. Their faith has been justified, the faith of the men who waited their call to the work. Only a small proportion remain to see that justification with their own eyes; the Land has claimed the rest. Ypres, the Marne, Neuve Chapelle, Festubert--names well-nigh forgotten in the greater battles of to-day--in each and all of them the seed of "a contemptible little Army" has been sown. Thus it was ordained in the Book of Fate.

But at the moment there were just two men, sick of heart, watching the sun, in a blaze of golden glory, setting over Gozo. . . .

X

Draycott's deliverance from the Half Way House came in three or four weeks. With the men swarming in the rigging, and the Territorials who had come to replace them cheering from the sh.o.r.e, the transport moved slowly down the Grand Harbour past the French and British warships that lay at anchor. It would indeed be pleasing to record the fact that the departing warriors sang patriotic songs concerning their country's greatness; and that the officers with a few well-chosen words improved the shining hour, and pointed the moral of the great Entente with special reference to the warships around them. But being a truthful--or, shall we say, comparatively truthful--historian, I regret that it cannot be done.

Such songs as did rise above the medley of catcalls and gibes of a dark nature which pa.s.sed in playful badinage between the sister services were of a nature exclusively frivolous; and the conversation of such officers as were not consuming the midday c.o.c.ktail consisted entirely of a great thankfulness that they had seen the last of an abominable island, and a fervent prayer that they would never see it again.

The relief of it--the blessed relief! They would be in time for the end of the show any way, which was something. They were not going to miss it all; they would be able to look their pals in the face after it was over. A few, it is true, shook their heads and communed together in secret places: a paltry few, who looked serious, and spoke of a long war and a b.l.o.o.d.y war such as had never been thought of. Avaunt pessimism! war was war, and a d.a.m.ned good show at the best of times for those who were trained to its ways. The Germans had asked for it for years, and now they had got it--and serve 'em right. A good sporting show, and with any luck they would get the f.a.g end of the hunting at home after peace was declared.

Thus it was, nearly three years ago; thus it has been, with slight modifications, ever since. A nation of sportsmen going merrily forth, with the ideal of sport as their guide, to fight a nation of swine, with the ideal of fouling as theirs. And so the world wags on in its funny old way, while the G.o.ds laugh, and laugh, and laugh. . . .

XI

On the boat Draycott hardly realised. For the first week of the three he spent in England he hardly realised--he was too excited. He was going out; that was all that mattered; until one morning his eyes were opened to his personal case. It is easy to see things where others are concerned; but in one's own case. . . .

He was at home on three days' leave, and the girl was there too.