CHAPTER XIV

"I was afraid--that is, I thought you might be at the front," Bob stammered at length. "You told me, the day I enlisted, that you expected to go in a week."

"Yes, I know, but fresh orders came from headquarters. However, it can't be long now, thank Heaven! You were surprised at not seeing or hearing from me, I expect."

"I was a bit."

"Yes--well, that was by order."

Bob looked up inquiringly.

"You don't know Colonel Sapsworth," went on Captain Pringle. "He's what some of us call a holy terror. A fine officer, but has methods of his own. He's jolly good to us all, but he's determined to have no mugs about him. When I first brought you to him, I thought he didn't like you, but I found I was mistaken. All the same, he wanted to see the stuff you were made of. The truth is, he hasn't much of an opinion of O.T.C. men. He says that a lot of whipper-snappers from the public schools pa.s.s their exams, in the O.T.C., who are no more fit for officers than girls from a boarding-school. So, seeing you were willing to enlist as a private, he took you at your word. In fact, if Sapsworth had his way, he would have every officer in the Army rise from the ranks. No man, he maintains, can be a good officer unless he knows what it is to be a private. That was why you were sent here. He gave special instructions about you, however, and told the drill sergeant to keep his eye on you. He wanted to see what sort of stuff you were made of."

"I satisfied him, I hope?"

"You've got your Lieutenancy. That's the answer. Here we are."

Bob felt very uncomfortable during the next half-hour. As Pringle said, the Colonel was not a man who would stand any nonsense. He gave Bob some wholesome advice in no honeyed terms; he asked him many searching questions, after which he shook hands with him, and wished him good luck.

If Bob had worked hard as a private, he worked still harder as an officer. The work was, of course, different, yet it was essentially the same. Every day he expected orders to go to the front, but day followed day without the order being given. Meanwhile it seemed as though he were doing three days' work in one.

Of course the circ.u.mstances were somewhat more pleasant than they had been, the society was more congenial, and, instead of sleeping twelve in a tent, there were only two. Still the life was rough and hard.

"I wonder when we shall be off!" thought Bob, after what seemed to him an interminable number of days. "Pringle said we were to start immediately, and yet we are still hanging around here."

At length the orders arrived, and one night Bob found himself in a closely packed train bound for the South Coast. He wondered at what he called his good fortune in being allowed to start so soon, but reflected that he owed it to Captain Pringle's good offices and to what were called the Colonel's eccentricities. He rejoiced now, although he had been very reluctant at the time, that he had joined the O.T.C.

This, of course, had made it possible for him to get to the front so soon.

Eager as he was to be in action, he could not help being saddened as he watched the men making their way to the trains. Splendid young fellows most of them were. The cream of England's manhood. They were almost without exception ruddy with health, and as hard as nails: straight, muscular men, who laughed at hardships, and who seemed to look at the whole business as a joke. They might have been going to a picnic, so merry were they. And yet, as Bob looked more closely, it was easy to see by the compressed lips, and the steely looks in their eyes, that they realised what they were doing.

"Good-bye, Piccadilly, Farewell Leicester Square, It's a long, long way to Tipperary, But my heart's right there."

They sang, and perhaps as they sang they pictured the homes to which they would never again return; they saw, as in a vision, the girls to whom they had said "Good-bye," perhaps for ever.

In a few days, perhaps, many of those light-hearted boys would be lying in the trenches, or in some ditch, stark and dead, or in some hospital maimed and crippled for life.

Yes, war was a ghastly, h.e.l.lish business, and it should never be possible in Christian countries. This war, Bob felt, was one of the greatest crimes ever known, and all through which he had been pa.s.sing ought only to be able to exist in troublous dreams.

Still he had no doubts about his duty. England's hands were clean, and England's path was clearly marked out. We were not fighting for gain or territory. With us it was a war of sacrifice, a war of duty. We were going in order to keep our word with a small state, to crush tyranny and slavery. But more, we were going to overthrow the war devil which the Germans had set up as a G.o.d. That was the thought that stirred Bob's heart and hardened his muscles. It was a war against war; he was really taking his part in a great mission on behalf of peace. Yes, it must be a fight to the finish. The sword must never be sheathed until this military G.o.d, which had turned all Europe into an armed camp, and which had made Germany a menace to the world, should never be able to lift its ghastly head again.

"I say, Nancarrow, you look mighty grim."

"I'm in for grim work, Pringle."

"By gad, yes. How many of these chaps will be singing 'It's a long way to Tipperary' in a month from now? How many aching hearts are there because of this business? Yes, Nancarrow, you were right, war was born in h.e.l.l, but we must see it through."

When they landed on French soil, they were received with great jubilation.

"_Vive les anglais!_" was the cry on every hand. Old men with tears in their eyes welcomed them; old women vied with each other in showering blessings upon them; young girls followed them with shouts of laughter, yet with sobs in their laughter, and wished them every blessing.

"Yes, monsieur," cried an old dame to Bob, as he entered a fruit-shop, "take what you will. You English are our friends, our saviours. We French did not want to fight, but the Germans forced us. And then, voila! You came forward like the friends you are, and you say, 'Down with the German eagle. France shall have fair play.' No, no, I will take no payment. Take what you will."

"But you are, perhaps, poor, madame!" urged Bob. "This war has made it hard for you."

"Hard! Ah, you say the truth. We have a garden near by. My husband and sons worked in it--now they are all gone. My husband and four sons went, but two of my sons are dead--killed."

"Perhaps they are only taken prisoners."

"And is not that death? What is life in a German prison but death?

But, never mind, I have my husband and two sons still alive--but no, I will not take your money. Perhaps you have a mother, young monsieur?"

"Yes," replied Bob, and the picture of his mother sitting alone in the old home at St. Ia flashed before his eyes.

"Ah, yes, I see," said the old woman. "I see. But perhaps you have brothers, sisters?"

"No, I am her only son."

"And she grieves to part with you?"

"Yes, but she wanted me to go. She was angry with me for keeping back so long."

"Ah, that is the true woman. She hates the Germans?"

"No, we have friends there. But she wanted me to be here for duty's sake, and for England's honour."

"Ah, yes--England's honour. You promised Belgium, didn't you? And then there is the _Entente Cordiale_. _Vive l'Entente Cordiale_, monsieur! Ah, must you go? There is nothing else you will take?"

"Nothing, madame. Good-bye. G.o.d be with you."

"If you meet my husband, Alphonse Renaud is his name, or my two sons, Jean and Albert, you will tell them you saw me, spoke to me."

"But certainly, madame."

"And when the war is over, and if you return this way, you will call and see me, won't you? Adieu, monsieur, and the good G.o.d be with you."

Bob felt all the better for the old woman's simple talk. She was only a commonplace old dame, but a kindly heart beat in her bosom. After all, this war, ghastly as it was, was bringing a thousand n.o.ble qualities to light, and it was certainly bringing the French and the English more closely together. There was a bond of sympathy, of brotherhood, existing, which was never felt before.

When they left the town, they were followed by shouts of thanks and good fellowship. Laughter and merry words were heard too. France was being baptized with molten iron and blood, but she was still light of heart. She was still true to her characteristics.

"Here, Nancarrow," said Captain Pringle, as they watched the men board a train. "You can talk this blessed lingo like a native. I can't get my tongue around the words, and they talk so fast that I can't understand them. Here's an old chap wants to say something," and he turned towards an old military-looking man, who saluted Bob, and then bowed profoundly.

"Monsieur," said the old man, "I only wanted to bid you G.o.d speed.

Yes, yes, you English have saved us. But for you they, the German pigs, bah! would have been in Paris before now. They would have repeated 1870. I was in that _debacle_, monsieur, and I know what I felt. If we had been willing to violate our treaty and had fallen back on Belgian territory, we might have saved ourselves. But no, a treaty was a treaty, and our word was given. Death rather than dishonour, monsieur! But they haven't had another Sedan this time. And why? It was because you English turned the scales. Ah, but you English can fight, and you are good comrades. Monsieur, I salute you! We shall win, _mon capitaine_."