Pass Guard at Ypres Page 12

  By an odd perversity of genius, Dick Leverett managed to turn many of the best-meant rules and regulations displayed so prominently in the entrance hall to his own fell purposes. Those long mornings of dead monotony, and evenings enlivened only by bridge and the narration of innumerable non-drawing-room stories of an advanced description, gave him his chance, and when Dick Leverett saw his chance he took it. He was a cadaverous individual, not conspicuously military in appearance, who spoke in a rather thick, blurred voice and whose words were accompanied by nervous gestures of his hands. He had returned, it was understood, from a rather hazy career as professor of history in America to “tumble into a commission” and get out to France in the early stages of the war. To be a professor of European history and to assimilate whole-heartedly the statements of the official propagandists upon the causes and nature of the war requires a degree of mental elasticity that Dick Leverett neither possessed nor had any ambition to acquire. It seemed better, as things were, to stick to his views and enjoy himself; there were always one or two who from lack of anything better to do would listen, and Dick Leverett was happy enough when talking. This baby-faced individual in the next bed to him was just the sort of partner that he liked to have for his conversations—green, but not too green; a fellow who would smile in a sour manner when you tried him out with some remark about the privilege of shedding one’s blood for the flag; a fellow who would attend keenly enough when you dropped some chance observations concerning the French policy of encirclement, or the financial relations between Poland and the Allied Powers, the courses of lectures delivered at Staff colleges since 1911 on the advantages of the attack through Belgium or the Vosges, the terms, as disclosed in America, upon which Italy entered the war, or the nature of the Ruritania’s cargo. A good chap, Freddy Mann; a fellow to talk to; not one of these ardent unfledged public school patriots, or these “damn-you-for-a-Hun” Regulars, or these brainless long-suffering middle-aged business men who seemed to be pleased enough to do their bit. Incidentally, it was an advantage that Freddy Mann was near: Dick Leverett did not care to make himself conspicuous by walking about the ward; he preferred to do his work in corners, unobserved. He liked to borrow money, too, for drinks, and Freddy Mann’s pockets were easily opened: he knew a trick or two at bridge, and Freddy Mann never objected to making a fourth at a quiet rubber, or meeting his I.O.U.s at the end of the evening. A good chap; he was sorry he was going; he wished he had come across him before: however, there was still a morning left, and the ways of Millfield suited Dick Leverett very well.

  “But how do you know all this?”

  It was not the first time that Freddy Mann, sitting fully dressed on his bed at 10.30 on a summer morning, had asked the question.

  “My job to know. By the way, about that five bob I borrowed yesterday. I’m awfully sorry, but——”

  “Oh, that’s all right. Damn that. Then do you really mean”—Freddy Mann looked rather intently at Dick Leverett—“that it’s all rot—all we’re fighting for?”

  “Well—hardly put it that way in public, perhaps, but—say it evens out, our side and theirs. War of defence—guard hearth and home inviolate—protect the weak—all that; you know—same for both, that’s all I mean.”

  “Then the Boche and us——?”

  “Two dogs fighting in the street, that’s all. You don’t believe it?” with a sideways glance and smile.

  “I—I’ve wondered sometimes, you know. I remember once when I found a letter upon a dead Boche up at Hooge—a schoolmaster chap, written by his pupils—school somewhere in a little village in Bavaria. I remember I wondered then.”

  “I could have told you if I’d been there.”

  “And all this damned trench warfare—it’s all just waste of time?”

  “Well—good for the Regulars upon the Staff, of course, and the profiteers and people, but as for us——” Dick Leverett shrugged his shoulders.

  “Way of enjoying oneself, I suppose. Some fellows batten on it. Can’t say it ever appealed much to me.”

  “Yes.” Freddy Mann paused. “You know, Leverett, that’s just what puzzles me about you. You knew all this before. Why did you ever cross to join in. You needn’t have done: it wasn’t quite like us.”

  Dick Leverett in his turn looked keenly at Freddy Mann. Yes, he was straight, this fellow. And he wouldn’t in any case see him after tomorrow. And he seemed to want an answer. What did it matter whether he knew or no?

  “Got another five bob on you?”

  “Let’s see—don’t think so. No.”

  “Glad of that. Because otherwise I’d have drunk it before the day was out. That’s why.”

  A smile came over the loose flabby lips. Freddy Mann noticed, not for the first time, how bloodshot were his eyes.

  “Follow?”

  “No.”

  “Well, then—because it seemed the only thing to do. You see—it isn’t as if I’d got a job.”

  “But, damn it, you’re a professor.”

  “Was—Harvard, Yale and Lord knows where else. I repeat it, was. Still don’t follow?”

  “No.”

  “D.K.O., old boy—because of this, the drink, and—other things. They found out. That’s why I thought I’d better come. Wife left me, you know—don’t blame her—took the kids. Easy enough to do it there. Tried again, but in our job once you’re done you’re done. Tried scribbling, and odd jobs—then the war came, and so I came across to fight—for—the—dear—old flag.”

  “But if you don’t believe any of this—what people say in England—why aren’t you a conscientious objector?”

  “Not me—no damned fear, not me. Bit of pluck that wants. Not in my line. Besides, had an idea I might make good, you know. Not that I have; they’ve caught me at it, tight on parade, playing the dirty at poker and things. No, Second Lieutenant Leverett hasn’t brought it off. Bullet through the guts, and this.” He looked round the bare polished friendless ward. “So now——”

  “But can’t you get out and make good again?”

  “Not in me, old son. Tried it once, and all for nothing. Stay here now, if I can, till it’s over, then slip away. Amuses me, now, to see those other warriors and fire-eaters, but it’s not for me. As for being a conchy—why—they don’t even have drinks at Dartmoor: so long as I get out a little every now and then——”

  The hatchet-like face with its unsteady eyes and loose mouth turned again to Freddy Mann.

  “See? Doesn’t matter as far as I’m concerned. All a game. But just sometimes—when I see a chap like you—you’re damned young, you know, and a damned good chap. It’s the truth I’m telling you, God’s truth, and they don’t know here, or won’t tell, and it’s chaps like you that have to pay.”

  His voice sounded clearer and steadier than Freddy Mann had ever known it to be before.

  “Some day other fellows will tell you—good chaps, not rotters that scrounge for drinks. But whether it’s they or I that tell you, it’s the truth. Got you, this merry-go-round that Europe’s started—won’t even let you get out of here to get a breath of fresh air on a summer morning. Got you. Thank God, it lets a man out sometimes. Gives you a chance to get a drink. No, it hasn’t come off with Dick Leverett. Hardly ever does, though, if you act a lie. That’s what I was doing, when I got a bullet through my guts.”

  CHAPTER XXVI

  Lieutenant-Colonel James Wingate, Commanding Officer of the Southshires Depôt, Carchester, was fortunate in that at a time when there was much unsettlement and looseness of thought abroad his beliefs were fixed and steady. Colonel Wingate believed implicitly and with almost equal fervour in the four cardinal objects of his faith—God, his country’s cause, his regiment and the British soldier. He believed in God for the simple reason that it had never occurred to him to do anything else. The God to whom he had been taught to pray had brought blessings innumerable to the British arms: without Him, neither now nor at any previous time could anything that he or his countrymen had sought to
do prevail. Some, he knew, spurned such faith or, as they called it, such superstition as this. But he knew well enough what it was that had supported the great soldiers of the past, and he was content to follow where Wolseley, Roberts, and Gordon of Khartoum had led. Nor, if belief in their country’s cause was good enough for such men as these, did he see why it should not be good enough for him. And, however great his devotion to his country had been in the past, in the Soudan, in India or South Africa, it had never been so passionate as now. Was there ever a war in which the British flag had stood more visibly for the cause of righteousness. Martyred Belgium, tortured France—was ever the issue of good and evil more clearly manifest?

  So much for the faith of every man, but Colonel Wingate swore allegiance in addition to the soldier’s creed. Might Heaven but grant that the Southshires, whose history, as blazoned on banners stored in regimental messes or hung in cathedrals, had been so glorious, not be wanting now, when the greatest of all calls was made upon them. His responsibilities in this respect were heavy, for it was his duty to take those inexperienced and untrained civilians who poured into his depôt and imbue them within a few short weeks with that blind devotion to their regiment and reverence for its tradition which went so far to make the British soldier. Thank God that those with whom he had to deal were Englishmen: that granted, the rest would follow. The Englishman and the British soldier, in him in the last resort Colonel Wingate was content to pin his faith. How well he knew the British soldier! Hard swearing, perhaps, and hard living at times, but true as steel and unshakeable as rock in hours of stress—what heed did the British soldier pay to life or safety when King and country called him? Was there any limit to his heroism, to his blind obedience to the call of duty? All honour to the British soldier, and praise be that some at least of the grand old breed had survived those first few awful weeks, which might easily have spelt annihilation. So long as he had some to help him, and infuse their spirit into others—so long as there were still left men like Sergeant-Major Sugger, who, in a hurricane of shell-fire, had stuck to his post at Hooge till he became unconscious. With men like that by his side, and his God and country to sustain him—yes, the Colonel recognised it with thankfulness, he was fortunate indeed in that he possessed the soldier’s fourfold faith. Would that he could impart it to others even more widely than he had. It was of that, more than any training or experience that those with whom he had to deal stood in need—those boys especially, those young rankers and subalterns, they needed it most of all. This young officer, for example, this Lieutenant Munn, or Mann, or whatever he called himself, whom Gregory, his second-in-command, had complained about—probably that was all he needed. Possibly Gregory was right in making a disciplinary matter of it—nobody could be allowed to misbehave, or sit grinning openly through a lecture on “The Soul of the War” by a visiting General, but from what he’d seen of him he didn’t seem to be a bad chap; he’d seen some service, and he’d got a nasty wound. Probably that nine months hanging about in hospitals and in convalescent homes had soured him a bit—now that he was here, and getting down to the war again, it would probably be all right. Why not send for him, and have a chat? It was rather important, after all, that the officers who had seen active service should set a good example to the others. He’d have a chat. Gregory wouldn’t know, and he didn’t suppose he’d mind if he did. He’d just get him tomorrow evening, and have it out: help him to see things as they were, and give him a touch perhaps of the soldier’s faith.

  It wasn’t quite so easy after all. Colonel Wingate was very glad that he had sent for the erring subaltern. Gregory had a habit of boxing up little affairs like this: he didn’t really understand non-Regulars, who had been pitchforked straight from school into the war. He was always making mountains out of mole-hills: he probably would have done so this time if he himself hadn’t stepped in in time. There was nothing after all against this fellow: he knew his job, and had carried out his routine depôt duties well enough. But it was a bit tricky. He liked the chap, but it was difficult to get at what was in his mind: and those rather hard lines round his mouth were in unpleasant contrast with his fresh face and frank eyes. He had apologised handsomely enough for that business Gregory had made all the fuss about: but it was more than that he wanted. Well, damn it, he’d gone some way in asking him to have a private talk at all: he wasn’t going to be beaten.

  “Well now, look here—I say, sit down”—in tones of genial imitability. “Never mind all that. We aren’t on parade now. Look here.” He prodded his writing pad with his pencil. “What would you do if somebody attacked your sister?”

  Good Lord, the attack on the sister again. In spite of the unfortunate events of the preceding day Freddy Mann felt tempted to laugh aloud. It was always his sister. They started with that in 1914.

  “Well——” He stopped.

  “Go on.”

  “They haven’t.”

  “Don’t be a fool.” Colonel Wingate had sat on committees dealing with conscientious objectors, and this gambit rarely failed to work.

  “They’ve done the same thing. They fell on Belgium.”

  “Belgium! Why——”

  But again Freddy Mann stopped. Why argue? He wasn’t Dick Leverett. He stopped.

  “There you are,” the Colonel had scored his first point. “Worth fighting for them, isn’t it? Your sister’s honour is worth fighting for? Or perhaps there’s a young woman you’re interested in: no offence, you know.” The Colonel spoke in a kindly voice, and he was a kind man. There was no suggestion of offence.

  “Perhaps.”

  “Well, her honour. Isn’t it worth defending?”

  Freddy Mann had a shrewd suspicion that in any case his pretty little Irene’s honour would look after itself in its own way, whether British or German were abroad: this also it was difficult to say.

  “That’s it—see what I mean? That’s all it is, this war. That’s what the British are defending, as they’ve always done—the weak and helpless.”

  Freddy Mann looked at the Colonel, his marks of rank, the ribbons on his breast. For thirty years he’d been defending the weak and helpless: roughly, he’d drawn in pay and allowances £20,000 for defending the weak and helpless. He’d earned the K.C.B., the D.S.O. and Lord knows what else for defending the weak and helpless. He’d—he’d made a damned good thing out of defending the weak and helpless. He was a good chap, but it had paid him well.

  “Don’t you see, my boy?” The Colonel rose and put his hand on Freddy Mann’s shoulder. (He would, thought Freddy Mann.) “That’s all it is: you’re tired, that’s all—natural enough after Ypres and a nasty shaking-up like that. But just see it as it is. Think of the cause, and the regiment—that’s something worth fighting for, too, the regiment.”

  More to fight for. There was always something new to fight for. There was humanity to fight for, Belgium, England, home and beauty, the putting an end to war, the liberation of Europe, and now the regiment. One tended to get confused. As for the cause of the regiment, he couldn’t say that it appealed to him particularly. His own old crowd was one thing, but the regiment another. The Regulars had never seemed particularly anxious to see him. “Got to have these fellows in the mess, I suppose,” they had remarked when the battalion had first arrived at Aldershot. “Oh well, it’s only for the war.”

  “Damned hard on the Tightshirts to have these fellows round.” Yes, the regiment. . . .

  “Men like Sergeant-Major Sugger, you know. He’s only one N.C.O. I know. But think of him, and all it has meant to him.”

  Yes, Freddy Mann was perfectly prepared to think of all it had meant to Sergeant-Major Sugger, but he preferred once again to do this in silence.

  “And he’s not the only one.”

  Freddy Mann was hardly surprised to know that he was not the only one.

  “Think how many times those splendid fellows have stared death in the face.”

  Yes, when they couldn’t bring off a Blighty.

  “
It’s just the regiment, you know, the Cause, and—there’s one thing more,” in rather deeper accents. “There’s God above, you know.”

  Was there then a God above?

  “ ‘There is none that fighteth for us, but only thou, O Lord’—we mustn’t forget, my boy.”

  “Gott mit uns.” Freddy Mann thought of the metal clasp upon the belt of the first dead German he had buried, in those early days—that little schoolmaster chap with the letter in his pocket.

  “And you still say you don’t believe?”

  It wasn’t fair. Suddenly Freddy Mann’s indifference changed to something approaching what he had felt on that night when poor Bill had cracked at Ypres. This was altogether so damned like an interview in the Headmaster’s study two years ago; he was past this now.

  “I’m sorry, sir—I haven’t——”

  “Never mind that, my boy; never mind. Nothing, that. Just a touch of the shell-shock. Never mind.”

  “No, it’s not that. But—may I go, sir? I’ll carry on as long as I’m here.”