NO MAN'S LAND (A WW1 Saga). H. C. McNeile / Sapper

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 gods! 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 recumbent 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 assumed a belligerent attitude. "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

       Table of Content

      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 space. 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 Compiègne 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 God! 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 СКАЧАТЬ