With Haig on the Somme Part 19

Dennis gasped, to find himself once more in front of the headquarters of the General Commanding in Chief, and turned scarlet.

"I took the liberty of abstracting General Joffre's reply from your pocket without disturbing you," continued Sir Douglas. "And I have had the story of your extraordinary exploit from Martique here. Take my advice, Dashwood, and be chary in future about embarking on such adventures; they hardly come within the scope of your day's duty."

And then, seeing the shamefaced look that came over the lad, he added quickly: "Do not read any censure into my words; they were only intended to convey a little fatherly advice. And now the question arises, what is to be done with you? You have shown a most remarkable apt.i.tude, and General Joffre has given such an account of your nerve that I am in two minds whether or not to transfer you to my personal staff--or would you prefer a spell of duty with your regiment?"

"Do you mean for the Great Push?" said Dennis, in an eager voice.

"Confound your great push!" said the General, with a faint flash of sternness in his expressive eyes. "There's too much talk knocking around about our future movements."

For the life of him Dennis could not help smiling all over his face.

"Well, I see where your heart lies," said the G.O.C. in Chief; "and Martique, who is going your way, shall give you a lift. I wish you the best of good luck, Mr. Dashwood, and I am very much obliged to you for the way you have carried out your mission."

"By Jove!" whispered Dennis, as the car started for the firing-line. "He did not deny it. There _is_ to be a push, and I'm going to be in it!"

The guns still thundered, and the sh.e.l.ls had never ceased to rend and pulverise the enemy position day and night. Otherwise, everything was quiet on our front. The raids had ceased, and the wind was unfavourable to any German gas attack.

"Come on, Dennis," said his brother; "there's nothing doing, and I'm fed up. Let's drop in to that sing-song for an hour. They've got an awfully good chap I'm told, who plays the piano like a blooming Paderewski."

"I'm with you," said Dennis. And they made their way into the subterranean dug-out which had so nearly proved his tomb on the night we had carried the front-line trench.

It seemed odd to plunge suddenly into an atmosphere of merriment within a few yards of the men posted at the periscopes along the sandbagged parapet. The electric lights were burning, and a blue haze of tobacco smoke obscured the air from a semicircle of listeners, sitting on packing-cases and forms round the piano on the platform, and the chorus of "Gilbert the Filbert," sung with a will, greeted them as they descended the stairs.

All sorts and conditions of men were gathered there--officers and privates in mutual good fellowship. The Second-in-Command of the Reedshires had just given them a ballad, and sung it jolly well too; and the armourer sergeant and one of their own lieutenants were fooling about as they waited to appear in a comic turn.

The lieutenant was dressed as a French peasant girl, and really looked quite pretty; and the armourer sergeant was supposed to resemble George Robey!

"Oh, there's the chap I was speaking to you about," said Captain Bob, pointing to a wounded Highlander, whose head was enveloped in a bandage.

"He's a regular genius on the keyboard; that is why there are such a lot of chaps here to-night. He only blew in a couple of days ago from the brigade on our right when he heard we were lucky enough to have a piano."

They made room for the two new-comers; and as the closing lines of the chorus died away, there were great cries of "Jock, Jock! We want Jock!"

from the audience.

The Highland private's face expanded into a sheepish grin, and as he stepped up on to the platform you could have heard the proverbial pin drop. Not a sound but that dull burst and boom that they had all got used to and scarcely heard now, and then the keys of the piano broke in upon the tense hush, touched by a master hand.

"Isn't that fine!" whispered the Second-in-Command, who was sitting next to Dennis. "When this beastly war has finished that man would fill Queen's Hall to the roof. And to think he's just one of Kitchener's privates, and the first pip-squeak that comes his way may still that marvellous gift for ever!"

Dennis nodded, for the improvised melody which had just ceased had touched him, as it had touched every man in the room.

But there is no time for sentiment in the trenches; it is out of place there, and after a roar of "Bravo!" and a great clapping of hands had succeeded a momentary pause, voices cried clamorously: "Give us that thing you sang last night, Jock--that song with the whistling chorus!"

"Now you'll hear the reverse of the medal, and upon my soul, it's equally good!" explained the Second-in-Command. "He's like poor old Barclay Gammon and Corney Grain and half a dozen of those musical-sketch men rolled into one. It's his own composition too."

There was a great chord on the piano, the performer laid his cigarette on the music rest, and made an amazing face by way of introduction.

"Gentlemen, I call this song 'All Boche'--because it is," he remarked.

And then he sang a string of purely topical verses, brilliantly clever in their allusions to the everyday events in which they all bore their part, and he did not spare the failings of various officers and N.C.O.'s, who were supposed to be imaginary, but whom everybody recognised; and when he had done he resumed his seat quietly on the edge of the platform as though it had been nothing, and Dennis went over to him.

"I say, you know, that's the best thing I've heard for years," said the lad enthusiastically. "Would it be possible to have a copy of the words, or is it asking too much?"

"I'll write them down with pleasure, sir," said the wounded Highlander; "but I've got no paper."

Dennis whipped out his pocket-book and tore out some leaves, withdrawing to his packing-case to leave the obliging soldier undisturbed.

But man proposes--you know the old proverb, and before Dennis could seat himself, the voice of the Company Sergeant-Major rang out from the head of the staircase: "Fall in, everybody, and as sharp as you like!"

There was an instant stampede up and out into the thunder of the guns; and as men scurried along the trench the wounded Highlander handed one of the folded leaves to a sergeant of Dennis's platoon.

"Give that to your Second Lieutenant," he said, "and guid necht." And the sergeant, spying Dennis in front of him, delivered his message.

"By Jingo, he's written them quickly! I hope they're all here," said the boy, diving into his new dug-out in search of his trench helmet. And opening the paper in the candlelight, he read to his utter astonishment and rage:

"If you want the words of my song you must come and fetch them, little beastly Dashwood! What a lot of fools you English are!

And so your Great Push will begin at 7.30 in the morning. Very well, we shall be ready for you!"

CHAPTER XV

"Reedshires!--Get Over!"

Dennis sprang from his dug-out into the trench, and the first person he encountered was Harry Hawke.

"Where's that wounded Highlander?" he cried, so fiercely that Hawke stared at him open-mouthed.

"If you mean the singing bloke, sir--last I seed of 'im he was doin' a bunk for his own battalion," replied the c.o.c.kney private. And Dennis Dashwood's teeth closed with a snap, realising the utter futility of any search for von Drissel just then.

"If you clap eyes on that man again, Hawke!" he exclaimed, "shoot him on sight. He is a German spy!" And, leaving the astonished private to make what he might of the information, he pa.s.sed along the trench to find his brother.

He came across him in whispered conversation with the Reedshires'

colonel in one of the trench bays on the right, and before he could speak Captain Bob took him by the arm.

"It has come at last, old chap," he said, with the mysterious air of one imparting an item of precious information.

"Yes," said Dennis grimly, "I know; we make the great attack at half-past seven, and the Germans know it too. Look at this!"

Captain Bob and the C.O. read von Drissel's words by the light of a star-sh.e.l.l, and the trio exchanged glances.

"Well, it can't be helped," said the C.O. "And I don't think the information will do the enemy much good. Do you notice how dull the sound of our guns is? It strikes one as odd."

It had not occurred to them before, but they realised it now as they stood there in the trench bay, and others remarked the fact and wrote of it afterwards. A hurricane of sh.e.l.ls of every calibre, from the whiz-bang of the field-guns to the enormous projectile of "Mother,"

pa.s.sed continuously overhead in the darkness, to burst in the enemy trenches, and yet the sound was less loud than many a purely local bombardment had been.

It was a trying wait, and the dawn came with provoking slowness, a grey mist veiling the ground until the sun gained power and the sky showed pale-blue flecked with fleecy clouds. Men blew on their fingers, for the morning was cold.