No Man's Land Part 4

"Did ye no hear the story of him and the lady way back by Hazebrook?"

"That'll do," said the Doctor, rising hurriedly. "She had very bad rheumatism--that poor girl."

"I know she had, Doc," put in the C.O. heartily. "And when I think of the way you eased her sufferings I became lost in admiration over the n.o.ble nature of your calling. In the meantime I'd be glad if you'd see one of the men in the Head-quarters Section. From the strange explosive noises he made when I spoke to him before breakfast I gathered by the aid of an interpreter that he had somewhat foolishly placed his complete set of uppers and lowers on a truss of compressed hay, and one of the mules has eaten them."

He strolled to the door on his way to the kitchen in the next house that served as his office.

"You'd better be careful with that rum jar, Jacko. Unless you're pretty certain there's no danger, I'd put a slab of gun-cotton against it where it is, and pop her off. No sense in running any risks carrying it back."

"Right-ho! I'll have a look as soon as I go up. Are you coming, Mac?"

He turned to the Scotchman.

"In five minutes, my boy. I have to perform a few blasting operations on my pipe before I start, and then I'm with you." He pulled a battered veteran out of his pocket, and peered into its noisome bowl.

"Not indoors, man, for heaven's sake!" The Doctor backed hurriedly out of the room. "The last billet you cleaned your pipe in they complained to the Mayor of the village."

"Go away, Doctor, go away. Go and put chloride of lime round the cook-house," Mac was shouting through the window at the receding medico.

"And ask yon woman if she has a hairpin. My pipe. . . ." But the Doctor was out of sight.

Ten minutes later the room was empty save for a batman clearing the breakfast table.

Now as a general rule the Sappers do not live in the trenches, but go up there each day and most nights, the remainder of the time being spent in dwellings of dubious sanitation and indubitable draughtiness a mile or so in rear. To each company a certain front is allotted, and it is their joy and pride to maintain this front and the network of trenches behind it spotless and untarnished, what time they minister ceaselessly to the lightest whim of its heroic defenders--usually known by the generic term of P.B.I., or poor bally Infantry. Which, of course, is not what really happens, but one likes to think thus beautifully.

In addition to the Infantry, other people thrust themselves forward in a manner which requires firmness and tact to deal with: gunners require O.P.'s, or observation posts; other gunners require trench mortar emplacements; dangerous men with machine guns sit up and take notice, and demand concrete and other abominations; while last, but not least, the medical profession demand secret and secure places in which to practise their nefarious trade. Finally, the Ordnance Department is with one always. It was that branch of the great Machine which caused the frown on the face of the Sapper Captain, hitherto alluded to as the O.C., while next door the batman cleared the breakfast table.

"We're six bicycles short, you say, Quartermaster-Sergeant?" he exclaimed irritably, gazing at some papers in front of him, while he filled his pipe.

"Yes, sir; and two more with wheels buckled, and three that free-wheel both ways."

"What d'you mean--free-wheel both ways?"

"The pedals rotate, sir, with great speed, but the bicycle remains motionless." When a man habitually calls an armchair, A chair, arm--Officers, for the use of, one--his conversation is apt to become stilted.

"How were the wheels buckled?" demanded the Captain when he had digested this great thought.

"Two of the officers, sir--playing what I believe they called bicycle polo with a brick and two pick-helves--had--er--a slight mishap."

"When did it happen?"

"Er--after dinner, sir, one night." The N.C.O. looked tactfully out of the window.

The officer did not pursue the topic. "Well, what about these six that have been lost?"

"Completely destroyed by sh.e.l.l-fire," said the C.Q.M.S. firmly. "I have prepared a statement of what happened for your perusal and signature."

He handed the officer a written paper and respectfully withdrew a few paces to avoid any semblance of coercion.

"'The six bicycles were placed on the morning of the 10th ult. against the entrance to the R.E. Dump at A.21, C.2.4. It would appear that during the absence of the riders a hostile sh.e.l.l of large calibre fell on the six said bicycles, completely demolishing them, for when the riders returned after the day's work merely a few fragments remained scattered round the sh.e.l.l crater.'"

The Captain read it over slowly, and then, in tones of awe, a murmured "Wonderful" wafted through the office.

"I beg your pardon, sir?" The N.C.O. was again at his side.

"I said wonderful, Quartermaster-Sergeant--quite wonderful. Do you think they'll swallow it?"

"It has been done before, sir." The tone was non-committal. "And one of the six was undoubtedly badly punctured by a stray rifle bullet before we lost it--er--that is, before it was finally destroyed by sh.e.l.l-fire."

"Right." With the air of a man who communes with great destinies, the Captain signed his name. "Anything more?"

"Nothing at present, sir. The question of the consumption of Candles, Tallow dip, Pounds Twenty-four, stolen from our yard by the 940th Tunnelling Company has come back again with remarks from the Chief Ordnance Officer at the Base--but it will wait until you come back from the trenches."

"I'm glad of that," remarked the Captain, rising. "I'm not feeling very strong this morning, and candles, tallow dip--especially lbs. 24 of them--would cause a relapse. Orderly"--he strolled to the door--"my bicycle, please."

A few minutes later he was riding slowly down the road towards the place where there was "a war on." A cool mist hung over the fields on each side of him, and in the early morning stray cobwebs glistening with moisture brushed lightly across his face.

"_B'jour, monsieur._" A woman standing in the door of a roadside _estaminet_ greeted him as he pa.s.sed--a woman undisturbed by the guns that at times roared close by; a woman whose house was one concentrated draught, which whistled through what had once been walls and now were holes held together by odd bricks.

He returned the greeting and rode on, while once again the comparison--never far absent from those who live "within range"--came into his mind: the comparison between England and France--between the country which has only learned of war through its soldiers, and the country whose women and children have learned of it first hand, even unto death. All was absolutely silent--the peace and glory of a summer's morning hung over everything, while the smell of the wet clover came faintly to his nostrils. A military policeman at the corner saluted smartly, while a small boy in a little cart drawn by three straining dogs raced him blithely up the village street. At the end of the battered houses still occupied by their owners, and the temporary abode of half a battalion of infantry resting from a spell in the trenches, progression by bicycle became a little harder. Great branches lay across the road, and pits torn out of the pave by bursting sh.e.l.ls made steering a trifle intricate; while occasionally one of the many signal wires which had slipped during the night and was hanging low above his head, sc.r.a.ped the top of his steel helmet.

Once more the familiar "_B'jour, monsieur_"--this time from an old dame who sat day in day out in a corner under a wall selling chocolate. Just above her head, so that by raising her arm she could have touched it, the nose of a "dud" German sh.e.l.l poked out from the brickwork.

Ruin, desolation--and shrouding it all the cool damp mist of seven o'clock in July.

"The very man!" A voice hailed him from behind, and a gunner subaltern materialised. "Are you going up the line?"

"I am--at once." The Sapper placed his bicycle against a heap of sandbags. "What does my dear one desire?

"The accursed Hun placed two large obuses into the Ritz yesterday afternoon. What do you propose to do about it?" They were strolling slowly through the sopping gra.s.s.

"Nothing--if I can possibly avoid it," answered the Sapper firmly. "You select for an O.P. the most prominent house in the locality--put a signaller on the top of it with a large flag--wait till midday, when the sun is at its brightest, and then send a message back that the bully beef is bad. You----"

"Laddie," interrupted the gunner, "desist. All that you say is true and more--but we must stick to the Ritz, if we can. It commands a soul-inspiring view of the trenches behind that new crater in a way we can't get from anywhere else. What I want you to do is to cover the cellar with boards. Yesterday the second sh.e.l.l knocked two men insensible, and they fell backwards into it. As they nearly drowned, it will be obvious, even to your intelligence, that it contains--amongst other things--water. Moreover, the water is deep, and stinketh. If, therefore, my brainy _confrere_, you will authorise me to draw planks twelve, I myself will cover yon hole with my own fair hands. The cadaverous gentleman at your store, whose face has been pa.s.sed over by some heavy body, proved both unsympathetic and suspicious this morning when I asked him for them. Wherefore, if you will sign----" He held out a book to the Sapper.

"'Please issue bearer with twelve planks 9 inch by 2 inch; length, 6 feet.'" The Sapper glanced at the page and signed. "There you are, James. Tell him to get them cut for you."

"I was going to, dearie. How marvellously your brain grasps the importance of these trifling details! Are you pa.s.sing the Ritz by any chance? If so, tell my warriors to come down to the Store."

"Aren't you coming up?"

"No--it's too light. I have to be careful whom I'm seen with." He turned back and was quickly lost in the white mist--though for some time afterwards the faint strains of musical items selected from _The Bing Boys_ followed the Sapper as he walked on.

Occasional voices came mysteriously from apparently nowhere, as a party of men went up one of the deep communication trenches close by him--a trench invisible in summer until you actually stood over it, for the long rank gra.s.s hid everything: gra.s.s splashed with the red of great ma.s.ses of poppies, and the white of the daisies, with odd little patches of blue cornflowers and borage, and b.u.t.tercups glinting yellow. Just rank luxuriant vegetation, run wild--untouched for more than a year.

Suddenly out of the mist there loomed the Ritz--the name of the broken-down, sh.e.l.l-battered house which served his late companion as an O.P. The Sapper gave the message as requested, and stepped down three stairs into the communication trench, which pa.s.sed close under one of the crumbling walls. There was no necessity, as far as safety was concerned, to get into the trench for several hundred yards--the mist effectually prevented any chance of being seen from the German lines half a mile farther on.

But he was mindful to see the condition of the trench--whether the sides were crumbling, and whether the floor was suitably provided with trench-boards and bricks. Twisting, winding with the poppies and the weeds meeting over his head, and the water brushing off them against his face and coat, he walked slowly on. Seven feet deep, perhaps three feet wide, it might have been a sunken Devonshire lane in model, and a faint red tinge in the soil helped the illusion.