“Poor — old Bird!… He’s booked. Eleven months in the front line, he’s been…. Eleven months!… I was nine, this stretch. With him.”
He added:
“Get back into bed, old bean…. I’ll go and look after the men if it’s necessary….”
Tietjens said:
“You don’t so much as know where their lines are….” And sat listening. Nothing but the long roll of tongues came to him. He said:
“Damn it! The men ought not to be kept standing in the cold like that…” Fury filled him beneath despair. His eyes filled with tears. “God,” he said to himself, “the fellow Levin presumes to interfere in my private affairs…. Damn it,” he said again, “it’s like doing a little impertinence in a world that’s foundering….”
The world was foundering.
“I’d go out,” he said, “but I don’t want to have to put that filthy little Pitkins under arrest. He only drinks because he’s shell-shocked. He’s not man enough else, the unclean little Nonconformist….”
McKechnie said:
“Hold on!… I’m a Presbyterian myself…”
Tietjens answered:
“You would be!…” He said: “I beg your pardon…. There will be no more parades…. The British Army is dishonoured for ever….”
McKechnie said:
“That’s all right, old bean….”
Tietjens exclaimed with sudden violence:
“What the hell are you doing in the officers’ lines?… Don’t you know it’s a court-martial offence?”
He was confronted with the broad, mealy face of his regimental quartermaster-sergeant, the sort of fellow who wore an officer’s cap against the regulations, with a Tommie’s silver-plated badge. A man determined to get Sergeant-Major Cowley’s job. The man had come in unheard under the role of voices outside. He said:
“Excuse me, sir, I took the liberty of knocking…. The sergeant-major is in an epileptic fit. I wanted your directions before putting the draft into the tents with the other men….” Having said that tentatively he hazarded cautiously: “The sergeant-major throws these fits, sir, if he is suddenly woke up…. And Second-Lieutenant Pitkins woke him very suddenly….”
Tietjens said:
“So you took on you the job of a beastly informer against both of them…. I shan’t forget it.” He said to himself:
“I’ll get this fellow one day…” and he seemed to hear with pleasure the clicking and tearing of the scissors as, inside three parts of a hollow square, they cut off his stripes and badges.
McKechnie exclaimed:
“Good God, man, you aren’t going out in nothing but your pyjamas. Put your slacks on under your British warm….”
Tietjens said:
“Send the Canadian sergeant-major to me at the double….” to the quarter. “My slacks arc at the tailor’s, being pressed.” His slacks were being pressed for the ceremony of the signing of the marriage contract of Levin, the fellow who had interfered in his private affairs. He continued into the mealy broad face and vague eyes of the quartermaster: “You know as well as I do that it was the Canadian sergeant-major’s job to report to me…. I’ll let you off this time, but, by God, if I catch you spying round the officers’ lines again you are for a D.C.M….”
He wrapped a coarse, Red Cross, grey-wool muffler under the turned-up collar of his British warm.
“That swine,” he said to McKechnie, “spies on the officers’ lines in the hope of getting a commission by catching out —— little squits like Pitkins, when they’re drunk…. I’m seven hundred braces down. Morgan does not know that I know that I’m that much down. But you can bet he knows where they have gone….”
McKechnie said:
“I wish you would not go out like that…. I’ll make you some cocoa….”
Tietjens said:
“I can’t keep the men waiting while I dress…. I’m as strong as a horse.”
He was out amongst the bitterness, the mist, and the moongleams on three thousand rifle barrels, and the voices…. He was seeing the Germans pour through a thin line, and his heart was leaden…. A tall, graceful man swam up against him and said, through his nose, like any American:
“There has been a railway accident, due to the French strikers. The draft is put back till three pip emma the day after to-morrow, sir.”
Tietjens exclaimed:
“It isn’t countermanded?” breathlessly.
The Canadian sergeant-major said:
“No, sir…. A railway accident… Sabotage by the French, they say…. Four Glamorganshire sergeants, all nineteen-fourteen men, killed, sir, going home on leave. But the draft is not cancelled….” Tietjens said:
“Thank God!”
The slim Canadian with his educated voice said:
“You’re thanking God, sir, for what’s very much to our detriment. Our draft was ordered for Salonika till this morning. The sergeant in charge of draft returns showed me the name Salonika scored off in his draft roster. Sergeant-Major Cowley had got hold of the wrong story. Now it’s going up the line. The other would have been a full two months’ more life for us.”
The man’s rather slow voice seemed to continue for a long time. As it went on Tietjens felt the sunlight dwelling on his nearly coverless limbs, and the tide of youth returning to his veins. It was like champagne. He said:
“You sergeants get a great deal too much information. The sergeant in charge of returns had no business to show you his roster. It’s not your fault, of course. But you are an intelligent man. You can see how useful that news might be to certain people, people that it’s not to your own interest should know these things….” He said to himself: “A landmark in history…” And then: “Where the devil did my mind get hold of that expression at this moment?”
They were walking in mist, down an immense lane, one hedge of which was topped by the serrated heads and irregularly held rifles that showed here and there. He said to the sergeant-major: “Call ’em to attention. Never mind their dressing, we’ve got to get ’em into bed. Roll-call will be at nine to-morrow.”
His mind said:
“If this means the single command…. And it’s bound to mean the single command, it’s the turning point…. Why the hell am I so extraordinarily glad? What’s it to me?”
He was shouting in a round voice:
“Now then, men, you’ve got to go six extra in a tent. See if you can fall out six at a time at each tent. It’s not in the drill book, but see if you can do it for yourselves. You’re smart men: use your intelligences. The sooner you get to bed the sooner you’ll be warm. I wish I was. Don’t disturb the men who’re already in the tents. They’ve got to be up for fatigues to-morrow at five, poor devils. You can lie soft till three hours after that…. The draft will move to the left in fours…. Form fours… Left…” Whilst the voices of the sergeants in charge of companies yelped varyingly to a distance in the quick march order he said to himself:
“Extraordinarily glad… A strong passion… How damn well these fellows move!… Cannon fodder… Cannon fodder… That’s what their steps say….” His whole body shook in the grip of the cold that beneath his loose overcoat gnawed his pyjamaed limbs. He could not leave the men, but cantered beside them with the sergeant-major till he came to the head of the column in the open in time to wheel the first double company into a line of ghosts that were tents, silent and austere in the moon’s very shadowy light… It appeared to him a magic spectacle. He said to the sergeant-major: “Move the second company to B line, and so on,” and stood at the side of the men as they wheeled, stamping, like a wall in motion. He thrust his stick half-way down between the second and third files. “Now then, a four and half a four to the right; remaining half-four and next four to the left. Fall out into first tents to right and left….” He continued saying “First four and half, this four to the right…. Damn you, by the left! How can you tell which beastly four you belong to if you don’t march by the left…. Remember you’re soldiers, not new-chum lumbermen….”