''Contemptible'' by - (best ereader for pc TXT) 📕

little fires, squatting over them, eyeing anxiously the brewing tea or frizzling bacon. It was impossible to feel nervous or discontented. The very atmosphere was benign. It seemed as if "God was in His Heaven," and all was well with the World. CHAPTER XXIV SATURDAY NIGHT

Every picture wakened in the mind of the reader by the preceding chapters should be bathed in the brightest of sunshine, under the bluest of skies, and the horizons should quiver with the blue heat. From now onwards he must imagine grey skies, often streaming rain, and always muddy roads and sodden grass.

That day saw the inauguration of a new kind of misery for our troops. Dust, heat and thirst, their previous tormentors, retired in favour of mud, chill and an unappeasable hunger. Their overstrained nerves and worn bodies rendered them very susceptible even to the first breath of autumn.

The Subaltern had lost all his underwear except his shirt, and part of his socks. His breeches were torn at the knee, and he felt the chill of the wind very acutely. He could feel the damp mud through the flapping toes of his boot.

Then it began to rain—no mere light summer shower, that cooled one's face and clothes, and delightfully wet one's hands, but a real autumnal downpour. Hastily he undid the straps which tied his Burberry, and shuffled into it, as he marched along. It was caked with mud, and smelt of the earth that he had so often grovelled in, but as he fastened the hooks beneath his chin, he felt profoundly glad of it, elated that he had something to keep off the chill and wet. He buttoned it down to his knees and experienced the faint sensation of comfort that one feels when drawing one's blinds to shut out a stormy night.

Then the guns began to rattle by; always an ominous sign, for it meant that battle was imminent. It was a remarkable thing that neither infantry nor artillery took much notice of each other as they met. The guns and carriages would thunder and bump and clatter over the pavé, the thickset horses straining at their harness, the drivers urging them on. But the infantry would plod along just the same, regardless of the noise and bustle. The men would not even raise their eyes from the boots of the preceding four.

Very soon after the last gun-carriage had rattled past, sounds of a bombardment would be heard—the bangs and whizz of shells. The Column would probably be halted, while a reconnaissance was made to ascertain in what force the enemy was holding his position. As a rule, deployments were not necessary, for the artillery generally succeeded in dislodging the enemy off their own bat. Such affairs as this happened no less than three times before it was dark, and in each case the Germans had had to leave their dead and wounded behind them.

One poor fellow lay with his head propped up against a heap of stones by the wayside. His chin and mouth had been torn from his face, and the ragged flesh hung in tatters, red and bleeding, as it had been torn. Almost before their eyes the man was passing away. It was awful.

"Poor devil, all this 'ere wasn't 'is fault, yer know," a man muttered.

As far as the Subaltern could hear, no one answered him. Perhaps some of them were wondering where that dying man's soul was going to. One was a Christian, of course, but one wanted to know more. One wanted, very badly, a little precise, definite knowledge of What Happens—after. At that moment he hated Hamlet. Yet the words kept surging through his brain: "To die ... to sleep ... in that sleep of death, what dreams may come?... puzzles the will ... makes us rather bear the ills we have, than fly to others that we know not of!"

Not that conscience had "made a coward" of him, nor of any other man or boy he had ever seen, a great deal nearer to death and vital, elementary things than Shakespeare had ever been. He felt a little foolish for it, but all the same he was thrilled by a sensation of triumphant superiority to the Bard of Avon.

All the time the rain was streaming down, and all the time their clothes grew wetter and wetter. Just before dusk a halt was made by the roadside, and at last the booming of the guns died down to a silence that was only broken by the incessant patter of the rain upon the sodden earth.

There was not much to eat, only biscuits, whose freshness and crispness had been lost in moist pockets. Nobody was thirsty: there was too much water externally!

It was quite dark when they moved on. Somehow the darkness used to come to them as a tremendous relief, as an armistice. They felt, in a subtle way, more at home in it, for it shut out from their eyes the strange sights and horrors of a land quite foreign to them. After the wearing day, it brought a freshness that was exhilarating, a refreshing coolness to the cheeks and hands that was gratifying and soothing. In spite of everything their spirits rose.

As they passed over a little railway station, innocent, as usual, of any suspicion of a platform, with a box set up as waiting-room, one of the men in the section of fours behind him stumbled heavily over the single lines.

"Nah then, Bill, wotcher doing to New Street Station?" New Street Station, with its smoke, and hurrying crowds, and shrieking steam to be compared to this clean, open, deserted spot! The daring of such a comparison was stupendous. It appealed instantly to the men's sense of the ridiculous. They roared with laughter.

The rain fell with depressing regularity, the wind blew gustily, but the ice had been broken, an example had been set, and they all vied with each other in forgetting their troubles in laughter.

"Blessed if it ain't Saturday night!" said one. It was impossible to say offhand what day it was, but after a slight argument they arrived at the astounding discovery that it was indeed Saturday. The discovery was astounding, because it was almost incredible to them that such misery could happen on a Saturday night—the night of the week—the night of marketing, of toothsome dishes, of melodrama and music halls.

"If my missus could see me now," roared a Reservist, "wouldn't her laff!" He was, perhaps, a great deal more amused than she would have been, poor woman.

"I ain't agoing to Church to-morrer," said another, with assumed languor. "I'll lay a'bed, an' smoke me baccy, an' read me Sunday papers" (derisive groans).

"Me and Sam's goin' on 'Midnight Pass' ter-night, ain't we, Sam?" inquired a young "timeserving" fellow. "Who's on at the Hipper-drome?"

"Oh! Mah-rie Lloyd."

"Get urt, you'm too young to see our Mah-rie." Roars of laughter, that almost shut out the wind with their heartiness!

The Subaltern could tell very accurately how their thoughts were flying homewards, and he could see the very same pictures in front of their eyes, because he lived near to where most of them lived, and knew the sights that most of them knew. Their homes on Saturday night! The warm red tiles of their kitchen floors; the "scrap" mats (laboriously hand sewn) in front of the bright fires in their "grates." The walls of their "parlours," bedecked with gorgeous lithographs, calendars and framed texts!

All the things they loved so much to do on Saturday nights. The humming market street, entirely blocked with its double rows of booths. How pleasant it must have seemed to them! At the top of the street the church stared impassively into space; at the bottom, the trams clanged and grinded as they rounded the corner and swung triumphantly into the square. The stalls, brightly lit by flaring gas-jets, laden with meat, fish, fruit, sweets, music, flowers, all that the Soul could long for throughout a restful Sunday day. Their womenfolk, with their heads covered in the ubiquitous shawl of many colours, buzzing busily from booth to booth, with a purse clutched in one hand, and an open "string" bag, filled with bulky newspaper-covered parcels, in the other. The men looking on with hands in pockets, English-wise, indefinably self-conscious in the face of the delicate business of shopping. Then perhaps an hour or two's excitement in a shag-scented picture palace, or a crowded music hall with some big star at the top of the bill, a small one at the bottom, and the between turns lamentable. And, of course, a visit to some busy "saloon bar" redolent of "beer and 'baccy." Then home on the electric tram.

The thought of it all did not, as might be expected, make them sad. In fact, the home memories seemed to warm their hearts, and the humour of this "Saturday night," which might have left more delicately cultured natures untouched, appealed to them irresistibly.

That night the Subaltern, too, had his dreams. They did not fly homewards: he would have hated to have been surrounded and overwhelmed by his family: he shrank at the thought of congratulations: he shuddered at the idea of explanations. To-night he would have wished to be quite alone. And in London!

First of all would come a hot bath at the hotel—a tremendous scrubbing, and a "rub down," with a big towel—haircuttings, and shaving, and nail cleanings! Then he would get into mufti. He chose, after a careful review, a lounge suit of a grey-blue colour that had been fashionable that summer. It was light, and he had always liked the feel of it on his shoulders. He chose the shirt, collar and tie to go with it. He imagined himself completely dressed, and he looked with pleasure down at the straight creases in his trousers, at his neat patent leather boots with their suède tops. It pleased him tremendously to imagine himself once more properly "clothed and in his right mind."

The next thing would be a feed. He reminded himself of his hunger, and argued that he did not want anything "fancy." He would go to a grill and order just what he liked, and a lot of it. The "Trocerdilli" was just the place. First of all would come a "short one"—not that he needed an appetiser! He imagined himself seated at a table, the cloth startlingly white, the cutlery and glasses reflecting a thousand points of light. He could hear the band, above the whirr of conversation, playing something he knew. He was glancing down the menu card, and the waiter was at his side. A soup that was succulent, thick and hot—his mouth watered! Whitebait, perhaps. He saw their round little eyes and stiff tails as he squeezed his slice of lemon over them. He felt the wafer-slice of brown bread and butter in his fingers. A whisky-and-soda, and a double one at that, to drink—he was tired of these French wines. A steak "from the grill"—undoubtedly a steak—tender, juicy, red, with "chipped" potatoes, lying in long gold-and-brown fingers around it. His teeth clashed at the thought of it! What would he have "to follow"? Something rich and cold! A meringue glacée was not good enough for the occasion. A cream bombe glacée, or, better still, a Pêche Melba. He saw the red syrup stuff in the little glass plate that it would be served on. And the peach—like the cheeks of a lovely child! At last, if he could manage it—which he did not at the moment doubt—something in the savoury omelette line. And to finish up with, the Egyptian should bring him some coffee. He saw the Egyptian very clearly, with his little red cap and his dusky cheeks. Then, last of all, the man with the cigars and liqueurs wheeled his tray. A good cigar from the top tray, clipped and lit by the man's lamp. Then to choose from the half score of bottles on the lower tray. Chartreuse, Benedictine, better