Behind the Lines (10 page)

“Good evening!” put in Rawley dryly.

Piddock gazed at him reproachfully. “A lie never passed her cherry lips,” he went on imperturbably. “She spoke the truth. It is a good evening, a damn good evening.”

“I suggest we ride into the twin village and reconnoitre the concert hut,” said Rawley. “We have nearly a couple of hours before zero, and we don't want to be seen hanging about here.”

They mounted and rode down a shady, tree-bordered road out of the village, crossed an old stone bridge, and found themselves in the twin village on the other side of the stream. It was a narrow, winding cobbled street up which Rawley went with Piddock pedalling dangerously in the rear. A high stone wall ran along one side, and where it curved inwards to a pair of tall iron gates a flagpole was planted. A small red flag with a white St. George's Cross hung limply from the halliards.

“Some bloomin' corps headquarters,” growled Piddock.

Beyond the open iron gates was a grey, flat-fronted château with the usual rows of windows and blistered
white shutters. A sentry with fixed bayonet stood properly at ease at the foot of the steps leading to the door, and the broad, dusty space between him and the iron gates was occupied on one side by a couple of green-painted staff cars, a lorry, and a field-pigeon loft, and on the other by one Nissen hut labelled “Camp Commandant,” and another nearer the gate with the blue and white board of the signals D.R.L.S.

“We are on the right track,” said Rawley, pointing to a notice painted on the wall above him. It ran: To the Corps Concert Party: To-night at 8. A little farther on another notice ran: To the Officers' Club.

“We are in luck,” exclaimed Piddock. “A club means a drink—and, by gad, yes, a decent meal.”

Presently a large, home-made poster depicting a flashy young lady having her shoe lace tied by an immaculate and tight-waisted Tommy, announced that the ‘Iron Rations' would be ‘issued' that night at 8 pip emma.

“Well, we've found the concert hut,” said Piddock. “And there's the club,” he added, pointing to a curious collection of huts in a field, bordering the road.

The nucleus of the club proved to be a sixty foot hut that was used as a dining-room, and radiating from it were four Nissen huts, two on each side. These respectively did duty as a bar, a writing-room, a smoking lounge, and a lavatory. This last was a triumph of field plumbing. Two lengths of timber some two feet apart supported the half-dozen wash-basins which consisted of petrol tins cut in half lengthways and neatly hinged to one of the supporting
timbers, so that each tin could be tipped up and the water emptied into the zinc-lined trough below. A water pipe with a tap above each tin completed the equipment. Another hut placed across the end of the large main hut served as the entrance and foyer of the club. This was furnished with a carpet and armchairs. A brick fireplace and ingle nook had been built at one end.

Piddock dropped into a comfortable armchair, and looked about him appreciatively. “It makes my heart bleed,” he said, as he sipped his gin and bitters, “to think of all these staff merchants nobly carrying on amid these horrors of war. Think of having to stretch out one of your arms every time you want a drink. Thank God we have such men in England today!”

Rawley, who was wandering round, came to rest at a writing-table. “There is actually notepaper and envelopes here,” he exclaimed.

“Good egg!” murmured Piddock, from the depths of his chair. “There is a real ash-tray here too. Positively, I must use it. Give me a cigarette, Rawley.” Rawley threw across his case. “You know,” went on Piddock dreamily, “it's astonishing how much fun one can get out of simple things that one just took for granted in peace time. After that dirty work on the Somme I went on Paris leave, and I had a gorgeous room at the Edward VII—silk-hung bed, tiled bathroom and lavatory all to myself. I was just like a kid, switching on lights and things—I spent half the first night pulling the plug. It seemed so bally civilized, if
you know what I mean. I must have wasted half the water supply of Paris.”

Rawley grunted. “Who are you writing to?” asked Piddock. “Haig? Dear Douglas, I hope I shall not spoil your war, but I shall be unable to fight this afternoon. I am going to the pictures with a lady friend. Perhaps at some future battle you will let me bring my cannon, and we will have a jolly time firing them together. Yours affectionately, Peter Rawley.”

“I'm trying to fix you up with a companion for this evening,” answered Rawley. He had written: “Dear Berney, I am writing this at the Officers' Club in the next village. What swell neighbours you have! There is another fellow from the battery with me—an awfully good chap—and I am rather hoping that you may have a friend who would be kind to a lonely gunner. Anyway, I shall be outside the church punctually.—Yours, Peter.”

“I am going to give some fellow five francs and lend him my bicycle to take it down to the C.C.S.”

“That's a very sound scheme, my old Napoleon,” agreed Piddock. “You ought to be on the gaudy staff.”

Rawley sent off the note, and then they had dinner; and a very good dinner it seemed to them, with tablecloths and crockery and wine, and liqueurs and cigars to follow.

“All we want now is a taxi,” said Piddock as they left the club. “And of course we ought to call in at the florists on the way.”

“Well, we might lorry-hop,” answered Rawley practically. “And there are some poppies in that field over there.”

III

“Do I hover daintily in the middle distance?” asked Piddock, as they walked towards the church which was the rendezvous.

“When she appears,” answered Rawley, “you fall back a dozen paces and become interested in that Maltese cart, or any damn thing till I say walk march.”

Punctually to the hour Berney emerged from one of those lanes that in every French village squeeze between the cottages bordering the main street. Piddock, in one rapid glance, took in the neat figure in khaki coat and skirt and broad-brimmed hat. “If only she has a twin sister I am going to enjoy myself,” he murmured, as he fell back.

Rawley went forward to meet her. “You are a sportsman to come,” he said, feasting his eyes upon her. Little wavy wisps of hair showed beneath her hat, and she wore a broad-ended tie loosely knotted at her low collar; it was khaki, but very different from the narrow, knitted ties that encircled the brick-red necks in the mess. She seemed unbelievably feminine from the brim of the hat that nestled on the little curls at the back of her neck to the well-polished and serviceable-looking brogue shoes.

“They brought me your note,” she said.

“Well?” he asked.

“And I have a friend,” she answered, with a smile.

Piddock was called up and introduced. “I'm afraid I'm the skeleton at the feast,” he grinned. “But just say the word and I will sit in that lorry and read King's Regulations till it's time to take Rawley home.”

“It's a shame to keep you from your work,” answered Berney, with a twinkle, “but Mary Hamilton promised to come to make a foursome. But I am sure she is frightfully ignorant of King's Regulations.”

“Splendid! Then I will read them to her in a low voice during the show,” grinned Piddock. “They are awfully entertaining—‘when on active service dropping an H: maximum penalty—death.' ”

They halted outside a cottage, and Berney called, “Mary! Are you ready?” A feminine voice inside answered, “Coming,” and a moment later a pretty girl with a freckled face, dressed in the same manner as Berney, joined them.

The long recreation hut with a stage at one end was nearly full when they entered. A Tommy with freshly scrubbed face and plastered hair conducted them to their seats among the first three rows of chairs. The body of the hut was fitted with benches that were closely packed with men in khaki, though here and there a man was escorting the madame or mademoiselle from his billet.

Just below the stage a lance-corporal, seated at a piano, was playing selections to pass the time till the curtain should rise, while the audience lustily joined in the choruses of the more popular airs. At the moment they were expressing
with the full power of some three hundred pairs of lungs their desire to leave France:

Take me back to dear old Blighty,

Put me on the train for London Town.

Dump me over there; any bloomin' where,

Liverpool or Halifax, oh I don't care.

I should like to see my best girl;

Cuddling up again we soon should be.

I-tidly-ity take me back to Blighty.

B
LIGHTY IS THE PLACE FOR ME
.

The chairs were placed very close together, and Rawley was glad of it. He leaned slightly to one side so that Berney's arm and shoulder were perforce pressed closely against his. The intimacy of it was intoxicating, and the throng and noise around isolated them as though they were alone together.

A loud stamping of feet greeted the turning-up of the footlights. The lights in the hall went out, leaving them in pleasant semi-darkness, and the curtain went up.

The performance was not of a very high order, but the audience was not critical. Every item was loudly applauded, and particularly the provoking and coquettish damsel, whose auburn curls hid the red hair of a sapper lance-corporal. Her beautiful frocks, rich falsetto voice, and twinkling silken-clad legs, stirred the other ranks to enthusiasm. The hut rang alternately to loud laughter and hearty rendering of choruses or was bathed in audible
silent sadness as the concert party rang the changes on topical jokes—not always in the best taste—popular songs and sentimental airs.

Berney joined softly in the choruses, and Rawley, with his head slightly sideways so that unobserved he could see her profile in the radiance from the stage, listened greedily to the unfamiliar music of a woman's voice.

“Why are you watching me?” she asked suddenly, in a low voice without removing her eyes from the stage.

He laughed guiltily at being caught. “Because—you are too good to be true,” he said at last.

She turned her head slightly, and he saw her eyes for a moment bright in the shadow of her hat. Then she looked back at the stage without replying; but he could have sworn that the arm that rested against his had pressed a fraction of a millimetre closer.

The success of the evening was undoubtedly “Roses in Picardy.” It was sung by a man with a really good voice, and the leading lady sang the second verse and chorus off stage. The plaintive, haunting air stirred the starved feelings of that audience of exiles, and after the last verse and chorus which were sung by both characters on the stage, the girl's falsetto blending harmoniously with the rich baritone, the applause was deafening.

The concert ended with the singing of the national anthem; the doors were thrown open, and the crowd of men pushed slowly through into the darkness and cool air outside.

The road back across the stream was stippled with bars of light from the moon that played hide and seek among
the bordering trees. The pulsating drone of German 'planes came faintly from a distance, and a pale pencil of light, distinguishable only by its movement, was searching the luminous haze above the dark silhouettes of the trees.

“Jerry up!” cried Piddock cheerfully. He paused in a patch of moonlight, and with upturned face began to chant: “Moon, moon, serenely shining, don't go in too soon. . . .”

The two girls joined in softly, and they moved along the deserted road four abreast singing. Rawley tucked Berney's arm into his, and she did not withdraw it. Piddock began ‘Roses in Picardy,' and they sang it through very earnestly and feelingly, the two girls singing the second verses and chorus as had been done by the concert party. At the end of it there was an embarrassed silence which lasted till, all too soon, they reached the other village.

Piddock and Mary Hamilton were left to say goodbye to each other outside her cottage billet, and Rawley and Berney went on alone. They walked in silence with steps that became slower and slower as they approached her billet. Rawley was acutely conscious that the few minutes left to him with her were running out second by second in the silence of the moonlit village street.

“Good fellow, Piddock,” he said at last.

Berney nodded agreement. “Mary is an awfully good sort, too,” she said.

Rawley agreed. “A good pair,” he added, with an embarrassed laugh.

They had turned up the dark, narrow lane that led to her billet. She stopped in the shadow of a small house and
patted the plaster wall. “Home—somewhere in France,” she said.

He was silent. Time was up, and in deep shadow her face was but a vague blur. Behind him the apex of a cottage gable end, projecting into the moonlight, gleamed like a Chinese lantern above the dark trench of the lane.

Her voice seemed to break the silence reluctantly. “Goodbye, and thanks awfully.”

He did not reply, and she moved slowly towards the door.

“Berney!” His tone arrested her slow movement. She waited for him to speak, and when he remained silent she asked, “What is it?”

He prodded the ground with his short stick. “I've had a topping time, and—dash it, I wish you had not to go.”

She was leaning against the wall with her palms flat against the plaster behind her. “But I must. It's getting so late.”

“Yes, I suppose you must,” he answered miserably, prodding fiercely at the ground.

She nodded in the darkness. “I'm afraid so.” Her dark form was moving away again.

“Berney!” She stopped again. “Berney!”

She turned and faced him, and he saw her eyes dimly fixed appealingly on his. “I must go, Peter dear—really,” she answered gently. “I don't want to, but I must.”

He came close to her. “I know, but—but can't we say goodnight properly?”

She fiddled with a button on her coat. “Haven't we said goodnight?” she asked, in a low voice.