I: A DAY OF PEACE

“FOR THE FOURTEENTH MORNING IN succession I rise to a point of order. Why is there no marmalade?” The Doctor glared round the breakfast table. “I perceive a pot of unhealthy-looking damson, and a tin of golden syrup, the greater part of which now adorns the infant’s face. Why is there no marmalade?”

“Could I remind you that there is a war on two miles up the road, my splay-footed bolus-booster?” With a grand rolling of his R’s, the man who had driven a railway through the Rocky Mountains, and who now boasted the badges of a subaltern in His Majesty’s Corps of Royal Engineers, let drive. “Ye come to live with us much against our will, because you’re a poor homeless wanderer——”

“All dressed up and nowhere to go,” broke in the Doctor mournfully.

“You come to live with us, I say,” went on the Scotchman, “and then do nothing but criticise our food and our morals.”

“Heaven knows they both need it. Pass me what’s left of the syrup, little one. Scrape the rest of it off your chin, my cherub, and wrap it up in a handkerchief and take it up to the trenches with you.”

“You’re vewy wude.” The junior subaltern adjusted the balance in the matter of the letter R with the Scotchman. Two months ago he had been at home—in peace time he would still have been at school. But of such mixtures is the present British Army made. “It’s my face.”

As a statement of fact the remark left nothing to be desired; as a statement of expediency, when other infants were present, the same cannot be said. Words, in fact, were trembling on the tongue of a veteran of six months when the C.O. came suddenly into the room.

“Bring me an egg,” he shouted to the mess waiter in the kitchen next door. “Listen to this, my bonnie boys.” He produced a paper from his coat pocket and sat down at the table. “Secret. A large object has fallen beside the sap leading out to Vesuvius crater. It is about the size of a rum jar, and is thought to be filled with explosive. It has been covered with sandbags and its early removal would seem desirable, as the sap is frequently bombarded—Damn it, this egg’s addled. Take it away, it’s got spots on it. Where did I get to? Oh! yes—bombarded with aerial darts and rifle grenades.” He replaced the paper in his pocket and reached for the teapot.

“Thought to be filled with explosive!” The Scotchman looked up sarcastically from the letter he was censoring. “What’s it likely to be filled with?”

“Marmalade, ducky,” remarked the Doctor, still harping on his grievance.

“In addition to that the Pumpkin desires my presence at the Centre Battalion Head-quarters at 10 ak emma.” The C.O. was prodding his second egg suspiciously.

The Pumpkin, it may be explained in parenthesis, was the not unsuitable nickname of the Divisional General.

“Is the old man coming round the trenches?” Jackson, the subaltern in whose tender care reposed the crater of Vesuvius and all that appertained thereto, including rum jars, looked up with mild interest.

The C.O. glanced at the message beside him. “‘The G.O.C. wishes to meet the Engineer Officer in charge of Left Section, at Centre Battalion Headquarters, at 10 a.m., A.A.A. Message ends.’ There in a nutshell you have the glorious news.”

Breakfast is never a loquacious meal, and for a while silence reigned, broken only by a few desultory remarks as to the vileness of the food produced by the officer responsible for the mess catering, and the exorbitant price he demanded for it—statements which had staled with much vain repetition.

“For heaven’s sake dry up,” he remarked peevishly. “You’ve had sardines on toast twenty-one nights running; what more do you want? Listen to the words of Sapper Mackintosh—the pudding-faced marvel. This"—he held up a letter—"is the fifth which he hopes will find the recipient as it leaves him at present—in the pink, and with the dreadful pains in his stummik quite gone.”

“Our Doctor has a wonderful bedside manner,” remarked the Scotchman.

“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 noble 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 shell-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...