Ballads of a Bohemian Part 25

Says Bauldy MacGreegor frae Gleska tae Hecky MacCrimmon frae Skye: "That's whit I hate maist aboot fechtin'--it makes ye sae deevilish dry; Noo jist hae a keek at yon ferm-hoose them Gairmans are poundin' sae fine, Weel, think o' it, doon in the dunnie there's bottles and bottles o' wine.

A' h.e.l.l's fairly belchin' oot yonner, but oh, lad, I'm ettlin' tae try. . . ."

_"If it's poose she'll be with ye whateffer,"

says Hecky MacCrimmon frae Skye._

Says Bauldy MacGreegor frae Gleska: "Whit price fur a funeral wreath?

We're dodgin' a' kinds o' destruction, an' jist by the skin o' oor teeth.

Here, spread yersel oot on yer belly, and slither along in the glaur; Confoond ye, ye big Hielan' deevil! Ye don't realize there's a war.

Ye think that ye're back in Dunvegan, and herdin' the wee bits o' kye."

_"She'll neffer trink wine in Dunfegan," says Hecky MacCrimmon frae Skye._

Says Bauldy MacGreegor frae Gleska: "Thank goodness! the ferm-hoose at last; There's no muckle left but the cellar, an' even that's vanis.h.i.+n' fast.

Look oot, there's the corpse o' a wumman, sair mangelt and deid by her lane.

Quick! Strike a match. . . . Whit did I tell ye!

A hale bonny box o' shampane; Jist knock the heid aff o' a bottle. . . .

Haud on, mon, I'm hearing a cry. . . ."

_"She'll think it's a wean that wa.s.s greetin',"

says Hecky MacCrimmon frae Skye._

Says Bauldy MacGreegor frae Gleska: "Ma conscience! I'm hanged but yer richt.

It's yin o' thae waifs of the war-field, a' sobbin' and shakin' wi' fricht.

Wheesht noo, dear, we're no gaun tae hurt ye.

We're takin' ye hame, my wee doo!

We've got tae get back wi' her, Hecky. Whit mercy we didna get fou!

We'll no touch a drap o' that likker-- that's hard, man, ye canna deny. . . ."

_"It's the last thing she'll think o' denyin',"

says Hecky MacCrimmon frae Skye._

Says Bauldy MacGreegor frae Gleska: "If I should get struck frae the rear, Ye'll tak' and ye'll s.h.i.+eld the wee la.s.sie, and rin for the lines like a deer.

G.o.d! Wis that the breenge o' a bullet? I'm thinkin' it's cracket ma spine.

I'm doon on ma knees in the glabber; I'm fearin', auld man, I've got mine.

Here, quick! Pit yer erms roon the la.s.sie.

Noo, rin, lad! good luck and good-by. . . .

_"Hoots, mon! it's ye baith she'll be takin',"

says Hecky MacCrimmon frae Skye._

Says Corporal Muckle frae Rannoch: "Is that no' a picture tae frame?

Twa sair woundit Jocks wi' a la.s.sie jist like ma wee Jeannie at hame.

We're prood o' ye baith, ma brave heroes. We'll gie ye a medal, I think."

Says Bauldy MacGreegor frae Gleska: "I'd raither ye gied me a drink.

I'll no speak for Private MacCrimmon, but oh, mon, I'm peris.h.i.+n' dry. . . ."

_"She'll wush that Loch Lefen wa.s.s whuskey," says Hecky MacCrimmon frae Skye._

III

Near Albert,

February 1915.

Over the spine of the ridge a horned moon of reddish hue peers through the splintered, hag-like trees. Where the trenches are, rockets are rising, green and red. I hear the coughing of the Maxims, the peevish nagging of the rifles, the boom of a "heavy" and the hollow sound of its exploding sh.e.l.l.

Running the car into the shadow of a ruined house, I try to sleep. But a battery starts to blaze away close by, and the flame lights up my shelter. Near me some soldiers are in deep slumber; one stirs in his sleep as a big rat runs over him, and I know by experience that when one is sleeping a rat feels as heavy as a sheep.

But how _can_ one possibly sleep? Out there in the dark there is the wild tattoo of a thousand rifles; and hark! that dull roar is the explosion of a mine. There! the purring of the rapid firers. Desperate things are doing. There will be lots of work for me before this night is over. What a cursed place!

As I cannot sleep, I think of a story I heard to-day. It is of a Canadian Colonel, and in my mind I shape it like this:

His Boys

"I'm going, Billy, old fellow. Hist, lad! Don't make any noise.

There's Boches to beat all creation, the pitch of a bomb away.

I've fixed the note to your collar, you've got to get back to my Boys, You've got to get back to warn 'em before it's the break of day."

The order came to go forward to a trench-line traced on the map; I knew the bra.s.s-hats had blundered, I knew and I told 'em so; I knew if I did as they ordered I would tumble into a trap, And I tried to explain, but the answer came like a pistol: "Go."

Then I thought of the Boys I commanded--I always called them "my Boys"-- The men of my own recruiting, the lads of my countryside; Tested in many a battle, I knew their sorrows and joys, And I loved them all like a father, with more than a father's pride.

To march my Boys to a shambles as soon as the dawn of day; To see them helplessly slaughtered, if all that I guessed was true; My Boys that trusted me blindly, I thought and I tried to pray, And then I arose and I muttered: "It's either them or it's you."

I rose and I donned my rain-coat; I buckled my helmet tight.

I remember you watched me, Billy, as I took my cane in my hand; I vaulted over the sandbags into the pitchy night, Into the pitted valley that served us as No Man's Land.

I strode out over the hollow of hate and havoc and death, From the heights the guns were angry, with a vengeful snarling of steel; And once in a moment of stillness I heard hard panting breath, And I turned . . . it was you, old rascal, following hard on my heel.

I fancy I cursed you, Billy; but not so much as I ought!

And so we went forward together, till we came to the valley rim, And then a star-sh.e.l.l sputtered . . . it was even worse than I thought, For the trench they told me to move in was packed with Boche to the brim.

They saw me too, and they got me; they peppered me till I fell; And there I scribbled my message with my life-blood ebbing away; "Now, Billy, you fat old duffer, you've got to get back like h.e.l.l; And get them to cancel that order before it's the dawn of day.

"Billy, old boy, I love you, I kiss your s.h.i.+ny black nose; Now, home there. . . . Hurry, you devil, or I'll cut you to ribands. . . . See . . ."

Poor brute! he's off! and I'm dying. . . . I go as a soldier goes.

I'm happy. My Boys, G.o.d bless 'em! . . . It had to be them or me.

Ah! I never was intended for a job like this. I realize it more and more every day, but I will stick it out till I break down. To be nervous, over-imaginative, terribly sensitive to suffering, is a poor equipment for the man who starts out to drive wounded on the battlefield. I am haunted by the thought that my car may break down when I have a load of wounded. Once indeed it did, and a man died while I waited for help. Now I never look at what is given me. It might unnerve me.