Introductory material (continued 4)

"Thank you," Bowdy replied, taking the half rasher which Bubb handed to him. "I'm damned hungry.... Here, did you see Captain Thorley this morning. He was giving cigarettes away. Turkish they were; must have cost a penny apiece. Fat ones, like a cigar almost."

"'E's a good bloke, old Thorley," said Bubb.

"I wonder if the tanks are in sight yet," said Flanagan. "They're goin' to make a clean sweep of all the High Wood.... What's the time now?"

"A quarter to seven," Bowdy replied, looking at his wrist watch. "It'll all be over at ten o'clock one way or the other The Guards and Northumberland Fusiliers are round one side of the wood and it's almost closed in."

Having finished their breakfast, the men went outside into the trench. The shells could be heard bursting on the German lines, and the enemy were replying. The machine guns were going pit-pit, and bullets were ripping the English sandbags.

"There, look!" shouted Bowdy Benners, pointing at the sky overhead. His two mates looked up to see an aeroplane making its way across to the enemy's lines. It was followed by two, three, half-a-dozen, flying low.

"There, the tanks!" somebody shouted, and a line of faces peeped over the sandbags. One man in Benners' bay got hit through the head and fell to the floor of the trench. The remainder drew back discreetly and kept their heads under cover. Sergeant Snogger appeared suddenly, smoking a cigarette and paring his nails with a clasp-knife. He leant his back against the parados and looked at the trio.

"Cheero, sarg," said Bubb. "Fancy yer chance?"

"Not 'arf," said Snogger. "It'll be a walk-over."

"Pass the word along for Sergeant Snogger," came the message up the trench.

The sergeant closed his knife, put it in his pocket and rushed round the traverse.

"I didn't see the tanks," said Bubb. "There are none 's far as I could see."

"I saw one," Bowdy said. "Over on the right."

"There were two," said Flanagan. "Crawlin' along as if they were pickin' up worms. Big, ugly lookin' brutes they were. God! they'll make the Germans sit up.... You have yer helmet twisted round, Bubb."

Bubb adjusted his helmet, lit a cigarette, pulled his rifle towards him, cleaned a speck of dirt from his bayonet, then put his rifle back to its original place. Bowdy and Flanagan followed the movement with intent eyes. From their look it might seem as if their very existence depended on the job which Bubb had done.

"Yes, it's some strafing," said Bowdy. "The Germans are getting enough to go on with, anyway. Phew!"

The three men crouched to avoid the fragments from a shell which burst on the parapet to the left. Somebody called out for stretcher-bearers and the message sped along the trench.

"It'll be quite easy getting across here," said Bowdy. "One whistle and up you go and the best of luck. Here, I haven't got a cigarette.... Oh, yes, I have, here they are, I put them into the wrong pocket. Have one, Flanagan—one Bubb?"

Bubb took the cigarette, placed it behind his ear and continued smoking the one which he had in his mouth. "I'll keep this'n to smoke when we get across there," he said.

"It's about time to move now," said Bowdy, and he raised his head cautiously and looked over.

"There!" he said. "They're making head-way. No damned stopping them. Bravo! the tanks! Good old tanks!"

"Bravo!" said Bubb, sticking his head over. But he pulled it back quickly, for a bullet ripped a sandbag beside him, and a handful of clay and chalk was slapped into his face.

"Gawd, that's a bloomin' poultice," he muttered, ducking down and wiping the grit from his eyes. "It 'asn't knocked my 'ead off, but I feels as if it 'as.... I'm not goin' to look over again till the whistle's blown."

Bowdy Benners placed a mirror on a bayonet and held it over the trench. Looking in it he could see the field in front, the barbed wire entanglements, the shell-holes, the German trench on which the shells were falling, gouging out the occupants. And the tanks. Yes, he could see them crossing, mammoths moving forward with irrevocable decision, serious minded leviathans which knew their business and went about it in a deliberate manner. Bullets rattled on their hides, struck sparks out of their scaly armour, but had no effect on the air of detachment with which the great monsters in steel pursued their inexorable way. Nosing complacently forward, they crawled down into shell-craters, hiccoughed up again, straightened themselves out, and stealthily pursued their way towards the enemy trench.

"They're getting on," said Bowdy. "We'll soon be over, too." He detached the mirror from its rest and placed it in his pocket. "I never knew a better one for shaving; it's so handy."

Sergeant Snogger came into the bay again frantic with anger.

"I would like to know oo sent that bloody message up," he thundered. "Gawd, I'll find out, and then someone will be damned unlucky."

He stopped, then gave an inarticulate cry and collapsed in a heap. Bubb's jaw dropped and he stared at Snogger with dilated eyes. The sergeant lay silent and motionless, death was instantaneous for a shrapnel bullet had smashed his spine.

Bowdy and Flanagan lifted the dead man in their arms and placed him on the firestep.

"I never seed anybody knocked out so sudden," said Bubb in a nervous voice. "One minute speakin' and then...."

"Don't think of it," said Flanagan. "The tanks are well on now. What a funny thing—tanks. They are as old as the hills. Montaigne speaks about them. He calls them coaches. Listen."

He fumbled in his haversack, brought out a dilapidated volume—Florio's translation of Montaigne and read:—

"Were my memory sufficiently informed of them I would not think my time lost, heere to set down the infinite variety which histories present to us of the use of coaches in the service of warre: divers according to the nations and different according to the ages: to my seeming of great effect and necessity.... Even lately in our fathers' time, the Hungarians did very availefully bring them into fashion and profitably set them a work against the Turks; every one of them containing a Targattier and a Muskettier, with a certain number of harquebuses or calivers, ready charged; and so ranged that they might make good use of them: and all over covered with a pavesado, after the manner of a Galliotte. They made the front of their battaile with three thousand such coaches: and after the Canon had playd, caused them to discharge and shoote of a volie of small shott upon their enemies, before they should know or feel, what the rest of the forces could doe: which was no small advancement; or if not this, they mainely drove those coaches amidde the thickest of their enemies' squadrons, with purpose to breake, disroute and make waie through them. Besides the benefit and helpe they might make of them, in any suspicious or dangerous place to flanke their troupe marching from place to place: or in hast to encompasse, to embarricade, to cover or fortifie any lodgment or quarter."

Captain Thorley appeared round the corner, his hand bandaged. A splinter of shell had caught him a few minutes before.

"Getting ready, boys?" he asked. "You'll have no difficulty in crossing here.... Another two minutes.... Snogger dead?... What a pity!"

He disappeared.

"I wish we did get across," said Bubb. "I'm fed up wiv this waitin': I want to get at 'em."

Then a whistle was blown; another. The men scrambled up the parapet and tumbled out on to the levels.

The bombardment seemed to increase; the German trenches were hidden by smoke, flying dirt and logs. Their dug-outs were going sky-high. Over it all, two aeroplanes glided gracefully through the air. The tanks were still going forward. A platoon on the right had started too soon and the men were half-way across. Bowdy Benners and Bubb walked abreast, chatting leisurely. Flanagan had disappeared.

The air was alive with bullets, men were falling all round, groaning and screaming. In front the tanks had both stopped, one in a shell-crater, the other in a sap. The artillery lengthened its range and the shells were falling behind the first line and the High Wood. But the enemy machine guns had not been silenced, the High Wood was yet as venomous as a wasps' nest.

"Forward!" The men advanced at a steady pace, their bayonets in air. One man had his entrenching tool fastened over his stomach as a bullet shield. Bowdy saw him get hit in the head.... The machine gun fire was deadly; dozens fell and lay writhing. A tall youngster with a long neck came to a dead stop, dropped his bayonet to the ground, put his hand inside the waist of his trousers and groped around as if trying to catch a flea. "I've copped a packet this time," he said and lay down.

The flanks of the marching line converged on the centre despite the orders of the officers to the men. "Keep your distance!" "Spread out a bit there!" etc. But the men felt inclined to huddle together, like frightened children.... The machine guns seemed to intensify their fire, the bullets struck the earth in a steady and incessant stream. On the left a party of men advanced steadily. A shell dropped in the middle of them....

Captain Thorley, who was leading his platoon, turned round.

"Under cover," he shouted. "It's no good going ahead yet. It's murder."

The men disappeared into adjacent shell-holes, others brought in the wounded. The machine-guns swept the field with insistent vehemence.

Bowdy and Bubb joined themselves together in a deep crater.

"Couldn't 'ave a more swagger shell-'ole than this'n," said Spudhole. "We're in luck's way. Flanagan got 'it," he continued. "I saw 'im cop it. Right froo the 'ead. 'E didn't say nuffin', just fell and stiffened."

He placed his back against the sloping wall of the swagger shell-hole and drawing his cigarette from his mouth with a graceful swan-like motion of the arm, he turned to Bowdy Benners.

"Blimey, I don't feel 'arf a swell 'ere," he said. "Wouldn't mind stickin' it in this 'ere place for duration.... Eh, wot's that, Bowdy?"

A German shell came out from the unknown humming like a gigantic beetle. Nearer it came and nearer.

"It's going to fall wide," said Bowdy, although he instinctively guessed that it would fall very near.

It swept over the two men's heads with a vicious swish and dived into the opposite wall of the shell-hole. Bowdy went red in the face, Bubb's jaw dropped, his eyes protruded as if they were going to spring out of his head. The shock paralysed the two boys for a second; they were so unnerved that the feeling of fear was momentarily denied them. They stared blankly at the shell which had only entered about a foot into the ground. The base of the projectile was showing, it might explode at any moment. They were in a position similar to that of a patient to whose body a local anæsthetic is applied and who sees the surgeon at work but does not feel the knife. Bowdy was the first to recover his composure.

"Clear out of it, Spudhole!" he yelled, and both clambered across the rim of the crater into the open.

They lay out there for a few minutes and as the shell did not go off they went back again. Outside the machine-gun bullets were ripping up the ground. The two men lay down quietly without speaking a word. Bubb put the stump of his cigarette back in his mouth and relit it.

"There! See the aeroplanes?" said Bowdy. "They're flying damned low over the enemy trench. Hear their horns going? Signalling to the artillery, I suppose."

"S'pose so," said Bubb, flattening out in the bottom of the shell-crater and drawing his cigarette from behind his ear. He put it in his mouth and lit it. "I knew it would be wanted," he said.

Ten minutes passed. The tanks were still stuck and showed no sign of movement. The English artillery opened on the High Wood again. All guns within range had apparently chosen it for their objective now. The oft-lacerated tree-stumps were broken like glass, they were dragged out by the roots and hurled broadcast; the wood was disgorging its entrails. The unfortunate wretches who held it were in a ghastly situation. To remain in their dug-outs was death. Their manner of dying was left to their choice. They could come out into the hurricane and be blown to bits, they could stay in their lairs and be buried alive. They were confronted by two evils, one as bad as the other. The machine-guns were silent now; probably they were all out of action.

Bowdy put up his head and looked across towards the German lines.

"God, they're getting it!" he said. "And the tanks are still stuck.... There! There're hundreds of the Germans coming across with their hands up.... One batch is unlucky; a shell has dropped in the middle of them."

"Far as I can see, we'll 'ave nuffink to do when this strafin' is over, bar go over an' take the trenches," said Bubb, who was looking at the nerve-shaken Germans as they came rushing towards the craters. "I 'ope we get relieved to-night after we've finished."

"'Course we'll get relieved," said Bowdy. "We've been in four days now.... Here, what the devil's wrong with you?"

A wild-eyed German, armed with a rifle and bayonet, came to the rim of the crater and lunged at Bubb. The Cockney, elusive as an eel, slipped out of reach, seized his own rifle and fired at the man. The German fell forward, dead, the bullet had gone through his neck and pierced the jugular vein.

"Funny bloke, that feller," said Bubb.

"I think he had gone mad," said Bowdy, changing his position and getting clear of the prostrate form which had fallen into the crater.

At this moment the artillery fire ceased ravaging the German front line, the range was lengthened and the guns devoted their attention to the enemy's support trenches.

A whistle was blown....

The men went forward, Captain Thorley leading. The bandage on his hand was very dirty now.... The enemy trenches were very quiet, not a rifle spoke. Parties of Germans came out with their hands in air, muttering "Kamerad! Kamerad!" They were taken prisoners.

"It's a damned tame endin'," said Bubb. "After all that strafing."

"It's like a grand overture without a performance following," said Captain Thorley who overheard Bubb's remark.

"Yes, sir," Bubb replied. "'Ave yer a match to spare, sir. I forgot mine. Left them in the last dug-out, sir."

Every move augmented the number of prisoners, they rose from the ground and from shell-holes and gave themselves up. Now and again an apparently dead German was tickled with the point of a bayonet and he came to life with startling suddenness. Bubb discovered a helmet, put it on and put up his hands in imitation of the Germans who were surrendering.... Bowdy discovered a box of cigars somewhere and lit up, then he handed the box round.

"Have a smoke, boys," said Captain Thorley. "Just to celebrate the taking of the High Wood...."

At that moment a shrapnel shell burst over the captain's head and he fell to the ground mortally wounded. A bullet had hit him on the temple. A few men rushed in to his assistance, Bubb leading. But nothing could be done. His brains were oozing out.... Consciousness was lost, death would come in a few moments. A stretcher-bearer appeared, then another, and they carried the captain away. He died before reaching the dressing-station.

The London Irish now set about consolidating their position and spent long hours of spade-work on the job. Next night the men were relieved.

CHAPTER XX BACK FROM BATTLE

A soft rain was falling; a low wind swept across the levels, and the leaves of a near birch copse rustled in the breeze, faltering timidly as they shook the rain from their shining fringes. A soft, bluish haze surrounded the tops of the birches, the trunks were engirt with a pale mist which gave an eerie atmosphere to the whole wood.

The London Irish had just left the trenches and were following a sunken road on their way back to billets and a month's rest. The men were in a gay good humour, "Charlotte the Harlot," the Rabelaisian song was sung with great gusto. The faces of sweet French maidens, almost forgotten, were recalled again. The men's fancies rushed hither and thither, painting rosy pictures of snug farmhouses and good cafés. A month's rest away from the ructions of war; how splendid!

Where the wood grew thinner a brushwood screen had been improvised so as to hide the road. In front lay an unlucky red brick village, one which had suffered much from the guns of war. Every third house had been hit by shell fire and many of the homes were levelled to the ground. A heavy wall of cloud, ragged of front crawled across the sky; the sun was overcast, but far up, shooting through the advancing layers of black, a long, golden ray of sunshine streamed out and lit up the firing line.

Save for the crunch of marching feet there was quiet. The shower went by and the soft rustle of the rain falling on the grass by the roadside had ceased. All around the country lay in ruins, the self-sown crops in the wide meadows drooped abjectly to earth as if in mourning for the reaper who visited the place no more. The men passed a house which stood in the fields, a little red-brick cottage with its chimney thrown down, its doors latchless and its windows broken. Once a home of thrifty, toiling people; now the clear sun, which succeeded the shower, saw no housewife at work, no children playing, no man out in the fields storing up the harvest crops. Nothing there now save the guns which lurked privily and kept for the moment a decorous silence. A big shell was following the men along, bursting at intervals some five hundred yards behind. The Germans were sweeping the road, trusting that the projectile would drop on any troops who might be marching along there. The shell followed steadily, keeping its distance and doing no harm. But the range might be lengthened at any moment and then trouble would ensue. The men marched rapidly, hardly daring to breathe.

"Gawd, I don't like that 'ere coal-box," said Bubb, as he heard an explosion behind. "That blurry one was nearer, I fink."

"Further off, I should say," Bowdy Benners replied. "Light a fag, Spudhole, it will do you all the good in the world."

He burst into song:—

"Come, boys, sing up," he called. "Come on, let go!"

The chorus was repeated and the men joined in singing, roaring at the tops of their voices. Bubb straightened his back, expanded his chest and looked at his mate. Bowdy, with his cigarette in his mouth, was bellowing out the chorus, the cigarette moving up and down as if keeping time with the measure.

Spudhole swept into a fresh song, a well-known favourite. The men joined in the singing:—

The voices died away as a shell burst in the road very close at hand.

"Nearer that time," said Bubb. "I wish we were in the trenches."

They sighted the village to find the shells bursting all through the place and the buildings flying about the streets. The children were in hiding, not a civilian was to be seen save a pale, thin woman of forty who stood at the door of a ruined estaminet. This had no doubt been her home; probably she was still living in the cellar.

The men stared at the woman, saw her bowed head, her ragged clothes, her queer, weedy form. In her eyes was a look such as the men had seldom seen. The poor creature reminded Bowdy of a dog which he once had seen prowling round a pond in which its young had been drowned.

"Wot's she doin' standin' out in the street like that?" said Bubb. "She'll stop a packet if she's not careful."

"Eyes right," came an order from an officer in front, and the men turned their eyes towards the woman at the door.

"Salutin' 'er. I wonder wot for," said Bubb.

"'Er four children were killed yesterday by a shell," said somebody in the ranks.

The woman raised her head and looked stolidly at the soldiers. Her expression did not change; perhaps feeling was dead within her.

At the other end of the village stood a ruined convent from which the nuns had not yet departed. They educated the village children. The little ones went to school daily, their books and respirators under their arms. The classroom was in the cellar of the Convent. As the men passed the Convent, they saw a nun, dressed in blue homespun, white frontlet and black veil, standing at the door throwing crumbs to the doves which fluttered about her feet. In one hand she held a rosary; no doubt she was saying her prayers. There was France personified, France great and fearless, a martyr unsubdued! The sight was a tonic to the men. Unable to resist the impulse, they gave vent to a rousing cheer. A look of perplexity overspread the woman's face, she gazed at the soldiers for a moment, then throwing the remaining crumbs to the birds she retreated hurriedly into the Convent.

"Wot a fine woman that one is," said Spudhole. "Gawd, there's somefin' in 'em, you know. An' they don't do it for show, neither. Well, we'll 'ave another song now, one respectable like. Not one that we wouldn't want good people to 'ear. 'Ow about 'Little Grey 'Ome in the West'?"

In the late afternoon the men arrived at the village in which they were to billet. The battalion marched down the main street dog-tired and glad that the march was at an end. The wineshops were open and soldiers could be seen sitting on the wine barrels, smoking and drinking. At the corner of one side street, a cook was washing his face at a pump and half-a-dozen merry little children were flinging pebbles at him. When a pebble hit him, he would bend down, raise a mess-tin of water and fling it at the mischievous rascals. A party of soldiers came out from an alley, bearing between them three dixies of hot, steaming tea. They were indulging in idle banter and seemed very pleased with themselves—their eyes glowed with happiness.

At the door of an estaminet stood the patronne gossiping with a neighbour and laughing heartily over something. Another party of children were hopping over lines marked with chalk on the pavement and chanting in unison a song of which Bowdy could catch a few lines:—

Bowdy's platoon came to a halt in the square, the company cook who came there long in advance of the battalion, was pouring fistfuls of tea in a dixie which stood on a field kitchen. He was red of face as a lobster, and a smile of satisfaction lit up his genial countenance when he saw the men.

"You look pleased with yourself," Bowdy said.

"So will you be pleased," said the man, "when you get your tea after a little. I've made it well, extra strong, and Spudhole has just received a parcel from home."

"The post is up?" Bubb asked.

"There's a letter for you, as well as a parcel," said the cook. "And we are going back for a rest to-morrow night, for a month or six weeks."

"Are we really?" Bowdy enquired.

"Of course we are," was the answer. "And we're going to get paid, too, this evening...."

They were going back for a rest, probably to Cassel, and they knew such a delightful billet there, the Y—— Farm....

Bowdy breathed in the fresh air. Away behind the firing line the sun was sinking and a soft, luminous glow settled on the roofs of the houses near.

"We should have a bit of a spree to-night," said the cook, raising the dixie of the waggon, placing it on the ground, and stirring it with a long ladle. "At the café round the corner. A champagne supper, a song, and an all-round entertainment. Are you game for it?"

"Blimey, of course we're game for it," said Spudhole. "Wot time will it start?"

"'Arf past seven."

"Righto," said Bubb and Bowdy in one voice. "We'll be there."

CHAPTER XXI RESTING

"Gorblimey! This ain't arf a blurry march," said Bubb, changing his rifle from one shoulder to the other and straightening himself up. "I'm feelin' my feet, my 'eels are rubbin' against sandpaper."

"We'll soon be there now," said Bowdy Benners. "Another half hour. I remember the place well. We haven't been here for—how long? Almost a year and a half. Then there were some good fellows with us. Old Fitz and Snogger and Flanagan and Captain Thorley and Billy Hurd. Gone west, the poor devils."

"I wish I 'ad gone west," said Bubb, whose head was sinking forward. "This ain't worth living for, this damned march. If I did go west I wouldn't mind; there's a lot of good men waitin' to welcome us there. We'll never drink beer with better blokes again."

"True for you, Bubb," said Bowdy. "Brave boys, the whole lot of them. Here, Spudhole, I'll carry your rifle for you. You look done up."

Bubb straightened himself.

"Thanks, Bowdy, but I'd rather carry me 'ipe myself. Wot would these draft men think if they see me gettin' 'elped along? I'm not a rooky, Bowdy."

"Righto," said Bowdy, with a laugh. "Your independence will be the death of you one day."

A halt was called at this juncture and the men threw themselves down by the roadside. The dusk of an October evening was settling on the poplar-lined roadway. The spinneys on either side were wrapped in shadow and a cold wind swept across the fields. In a farm somewhere near a dog barked and a cart rumbled along a lane. The chiming of a church bell could be heard calling the faithful to prayer.

Bowdy took off his pack, lit a cigarette, and sat on a milestone which bore the inscription: "A Cassel 5 kilo." The milestone, which indicated the wrong direction, had been reversed by the peasantry when war broke out in hopes of turning the German Army in a wrong direction. Bubb lay flat on his back, his feet cocked up, his tunic open.

"Wunner if Fifi is kickin' about now," he said. "She wasn't 'arf a bird. Ole Snogger was fair gone on 'er, so was pore Fitz. Bet yer, she'll be lookin' for a new Tommy this time. Why don't ye go in an' say things to 'er, Bowdy? Ye're a devil for fightin', a devil for drinkin', and ye're no damned good at all when a wench is about. If I 'adn't me own bird back off Walworth Road wiv 'er barrer, I'd lead Fifi a dance."

"Wot about the girl at Gorre," said Bowdy Benners. "You forgot all about Walworth Road when you went to see her on a stretcher with a ground-sheet for a uniform."

Bubb never wanted to be reminded of this incident, but at the present time he was too tired to pay any heed to Bowdy's remarks.

At seven o'clock the platoon arrived at Y—— Farm and the men were conducted to the old barn in which a few of them had billeted before. Bowdy and Bubb sat down on the straw and took off their puttees, lit their cigarettes and fumbled in their pockets for money. Fifi, of course, would give them soup and coffee free; but they felt it becoming to them to offer money, even though it was not accepted.

"Come along," said Bowdy, lighting a fresh cigarette. "Fifi will be waiting for us."

They went down the crazy stairs and across the farmyard towards the house. Everything about the place was the same as of old, the midden, the sloughy pools, the up-ended waggons, the grunting of the pigs in the stye, the restless movement of cattle in the byre and the noisy growling of the dog. Bubb recalled the night of his return from the café of Jean Lacroix.

"The same blurry dawg," he said to Bowdy.

"The same."

"Look!" whispered Bubb, as the two got near the door. "There's Fifi. Gawd! She 'asn't 'arf changed.... Stout.... She must be married."

They entered. Fifi rushed forward to meet them, and clasping Bubb with both arms she kissed him on the lips. Then she kissed Bowdy, who blushed as red as a beetroot.

"Well, I'm damned," said Bubb. "Ye're not 'arf a giddy one, Fifi."

She must have been working hard during the day, for her hair was all untidy, her linen soiled and stained, her skirts in the same condition.

"Back from the trenches?" she asked.

"Back again," said Bubb who could follow the remark, though spoken in French. "Trenches no bong," he said. "Ploosier mon camerads mort, more blissée. Guerre never fini."

"The sergen, is zee dead?" asked Fifi, speaking in English. "The bon sergen."

"'E's dead," said Bubb. "Also Flanagan; also Captain Thorley...."

"Mon père mort," said the girl, and her eyes filled with tears. "Mort à Verdun."

There was a long silence. The two soldiers sat down near the stove. Fifi put a basin of soup over the fire. Madame Babette came in from the byre, her heavy shoes covered with cow-dung, and placed a pail of milk on the dresser. She shook hands with Bubb and Bowdy.

"Back from the trenches?" she enquired.

"Back for a month's rest," Bowdy replied.

"I s'pose you're married now, Fifi?" Bubb remarked, fixing his eyes on the girl. She did indeed look like a married woman; the old sprightly manner was gone; her face was pale and quiet now, and a tinge of sadness had crept into her voice. The old Fifi, the full-throated coquette of eighteen months ago, had given place to a prudent housewife whose interests did not extend beyond the marches of the farm.

"I am married," she replied.

"A good husband?" asked Bubb.

"Très bon," said Fifi. "He will be in from his work directly."

"Ye've forgotten Fitzgerald, the Irishman," said Bubb. "'E was a good man. 'E's dead now; killed by an oboo grand."

Fifi chuckled. Bubb looked at Bowdy and could not resist giving expression to the thoughts which came into his mind.

"It's just like these 'ere French birds," he muttered. "They'll 'ave their bit of fun wiv a bloke an' then when 'e goes away it's 'Goodbye and be damned t'yer, and we don't care wot 'appens t'yer.'"

Fifi, who seemed to have made great progress in her knowledge of English, laughly loudly at Bubb's remarks. Then she raised a warning finger. Somebody had come to the door and this somebody was rubbing heavy boots on the cobbles in an endeavour to get the dirt from the soles.

"My husband," said Fifi.

He came in, stood for a moment, and gazed awkwardly at the two soldiers. Bubb stared open-mouthed at the man, Bowdy contracted his eyebrows and rubbed one eye with a miry finger, then the other.

"Bon soir, m'soo," said Bubb. "Ye're damned like a mate as we 'ad, old Fitz."

"I'm not surprised at that, Spudhole," said the man, coming forward and gripping both the men's hands and shaking them as if they were pump handles. "Not a bit surprised, for I am ole Fitz."

"But ye're dead," said Bubb.

"Almost had been ... but luck was with me," said Fitzgerald, still pump-handling. "And you. I heard you two were killed, Bowdy and Bubb ... I never expected.... It's damned strange what does happen.... We've no end of things to talk about.... Fifi, get a meal ready, the best bottle of wine ... we have much to say.... It's all gushing out.... God! it's good to see you two here."

Fitzgerald sat down, crossed his legs, felt in his pockets and brought out a packet of English cigarettes.

"Have a fag, Bubb—Bowdy," he said, laughing boyishly. "I've left England, but I can't resist these.... Oh! damn it!... Isn't it good to see you two here.... Old Snogger.... I know, I saw it in the press. Thorley, too, and Flanagan.... We'll go into the corner and have a talk.... We won't be disturbed and rations will be ready in no time. I'm excited, Bowdy. Bubb, I'm off my head. I'm so glad, so damned glad that I could give you a punch right on the tip of your nose.... But you'll not understand the feelings which give rise to a manifestation of gladness such as that, Spudhole."

Bubb laughed.

"Blimey! Ye're just the same ole Fitz, same as ever," he said.

CHAPTER XXII THE MARRIED MAN

"Where can I begin and tell everything?" said Fitzgerald, breaking a piece of bread and bringing it up to within an inch of his mouth. "I suppose that night when I was buried in the dug-out will do to start with. 'Twas the devil's own night. I got lost first of all, and me going up with a message to Captain Thorley. 'Twas very important, a mine going up in the morning. So the young German prisoner whom we had taken said. Therefore, our men holding the front line had to retire for safety to the support trenches. So up I goes from Headquarters, running like hell (I'm getting ungrammatically excited, Spudhole) and gets lost. Took the wrong turning, flops into a trench that was full of muck. I stuck there for goodness knows how long, holding on to the piece of paper on which the message was scrawled. I thought I was a permanent fixture, stuck in that trench for duration. But somehow I did get free and eventually found myself in our front line. How I got there I don't know. I mind seeing you, Spudhole."

"There was some dirt coming along our way at that time," said Bubb.

"'Twas that shell that did it," said Fitzgerald, gazing absently at his piece of bread, which he still held between finger and thumb. "Someone said 'Whoo! There she comes!' and there was a rush for the dug-out. I got mixed up in the scramble and was carried in with the rest. But I still clung on to my message. Then the shell came down on the dug-out and I was out of the doings, just like a gutted sprat.

"As far as I can judge I was underground that night, the next day, the night after, and got pulled out the day following at twelve o'clock. Some men of the regiment that relieved us saw a bayonet that stuck up through the roof of the fallen dug-out move as if someone was shaking it."

"I saw that 'ere bay'net," said Bubb. "Stickin' up over the roof."

"Well, these fellows, when they saw the bayonet wobbling, guessed that someone was alive under the ground, and they began to dig like hell," said Fitzgerald.

"Eventually they reached me, still alive, with a wound on the back of my head, and they pulled me out. The air had got in somehow, I suppose.... Well, I came to my senses in hospital in Versailles, and I got up, so I was told, and rushed along the ward like hell, with a nurse or two clinging to my shirt tail. 'Where are you running?' they asked me. 'I'm going on a message to Captain Thorley,' I told them. 'There's a mine going up at dawn.' 'Oh, that's all right,' said the nurses. 'Captain Thorley has got the message and everything's all right.' And they wheedled me and coaxed me until I went back to bed.

"So I was told; but I didn't remember anything about it. Even now my mind gets mazed at times when I'm excited, and queer ideas come into my head."

"You haven't eaten one bite yet," said Bowdy Benners. "That bit of bread hasn't gone into your mouth, and we've been sitting here for the last ten minutes."

"Well, I'm not hungry," said Fitzgerald. "I'm feeding on the pleasure of seeing you two here. Fifi, the wine!" he called to his wife.

The woman brought a large bottle, placed it on the table, and patted her husband on the head with an affectionate hand.

"She's a divine creature," said Fitzgerald, when Fifi went. "How did it happen that the gods were so good to me? I don't know.... But to get on with my story," he continued. "After a while I found myself in England. I don't even remember crossing the Channel. I was in a muddle all the while. Sometimes I would think I was in the trenches and I would wake up from my sleep, jump out on the floor and stand against the wall, thinking that I was on the firestep on guard. I must have been a troublesome patient.... And then one night when I was in a big bed in a big house in England I thought that somebody put a cold hand over my forehead. I shouted out 'Who's there?' I opened my eyes, looked up and saw a man with a black beard standing at my bed.

"'Who are you ?' I asked.

"'Your Sergeant-major,' said the man. 'I want you to present arms,' he said. 'At the word "one" you give the rifle a sharp cant up to the right side, gripping it at the small of the butt with the right hand and at the outer band with the left....' I stared at the fellow and this seemed to annoy him. 'Dumb contempt!' he yelled. 'You'll be for it!' and he raised his fist and made one smash at my face. I dodged the blow and then a man in a warder's uniform rushed in and pulled the sergeant-major away.

"Good God, Bowdy, where was I? Guess. I was in a lunatic asylum.... 'Twas enough to turn my brain. And it's a difficult job to prove that you're sane when you're in a madhouse. They won't believe you, for some damned reason or another. I used to go up to the warder and say: 'Look here, matey, I'm as right as rain,' and he would nod his head and say: 'Oh, yes, of course you are.' But 'twas easy enough to see that he didn't believe you. God! I often felt like strangling the man.... It wouldn't do me any good, I knew, to kick up a ruction; so I kept very quiet and well-behaved.

"At the end of six weeks I was discharged and sent to a convalescent camp; not as good as the one that Flanagan had been in when he got wounded. Impossible to swing the lead there. I got sick of it in no time, so I applied for a transfer to the B.E.F., somewhere in France.

"'Do you really want to go out there again?' my mates asked me.

"'Of course I do,' I told them.

"'Then you must be mad,' they said.

"But I had no luck with my application. 'Out to the trenches again,' said the M.O. Tut, tut, man! I'll bring you before a Board and see what it says.'

"The Board said 'Discharge' and I was discharged with a pension. So there I was out on my own, a wash-out. Patrick Fitzgerald, pensioner, non bon, one that had done his bit, who had been through the thick of it, in the doings, a brave boy, lion-hearted, and so on. My friends took me into their arms and made no end of a fuss of me. England had reason to be proud of her sons, they said, and took me about to swell dinners."

"Just like ole Flan when 'e was at 'ome," said Bubb.

"I hobnobbed with big bugs," Fitzgerald continued, "grand old men who were in the know and who knew everything, having inside information; well-dressed women who preached economy to the masses, who denied themselves luxuries which they were healthier without, who rode on common buses and advertised the fact, and who travelled by tube as an example to those who always travel by tube. Nobody paid much heed to them as far as I could see. The people with whom I stopped denied themselves the services of a butler and took in his place an extra female servant. They were very rich, and self-denial was their greatest craze. In furthering their country's cause they displayed as much ingenuity as a cautious billiard player who just misses the balls. I grew tired of it all, wearied to death," said Fitzgerald, placing his bread on the table and pulling the wine bottle towards him. He pulled out the cork, filled his mates' glasses, but took no notice of his own.

"It doesn't do for me to take any now," he said, in an apologetic voice. "It goes to here." He tapped his head with his fingers.

"There was once," said Bubb....

"Yes, but that's a thing of the past," said Fitzgerald. "I did go into a pub when I was in London. I wanted to have a yarn with the Old Sweats who frequented the taproom. I made them merry and they carried me home. 'Twasn't honey after that. Old Fitz, the boy who had been through the thick of it and who had done his bit, was rather a burden to his friends. He had wild ways; his manners were unbecoming, he had said dreadful things when under the influence of alcohol. My friends took me aside, lectured me and suggested that if I was placed in a little cottage somewhere out of sight, given a few pounds in addition to my pension, I would be much happier....

"I left them; the brave boy who had done his bit and who went through the thick of it vamoosed. I didn't even wait for the additional few pounds.... Then an uncle of mine died and left me six hundred pounds. I collared this, wrote to Fifi, whom I had not forgotten.... She remembered me.... Her father was killed at Verdun. What could I do but come over and see her? 'Twas an easy matter then. I had some money, I loved her; so we got married. She's a grand woman, Bowdy. I didn't understand her when we were billeted here; I don't even understand her yet.... Oh, how she misses her father, but she bears it as a Frenchwoman can. I tried to console her at first, but I say nothing about her loss now. First she used to say, when we spoke about her father's death: 'C'est la guerre,' but now it's different. It's now: 'He died for France and it's an honour to die for one's country.'"

Bubb filled his glass, Bowdy did the same. The two soldiers looked at one another, then at Fitzgerald. Fifi came up to the table.

Bowdy raised his glass in the air, Bubb followed suit.

"Here's to Fitzgerald," said Bowdy.

"And to Fifi," said Spudhole.

"Long life and happiness——"

"And no end of 'appy children——"

"Victory for the Allies!"

"And 'ell for the Boche!" said Spudhole, bringing the glass of wine to his lips.

THE END