The Red Horizon Part 11

"We miscalculated the enemy's strength, of course," said Mervin.

"That's it," Pryor cut in. "But the trenches we lost were of no strategic importance."

"They never are," said Kore. "I suppose that's why we lose thousands to take 'em, and the enemy lose as many to regain them."

"Soup, gentlemen," Stoner interrupted, bringing a steaming tureen to the table. "Help yourselves."

"Mulligatawny?" said Pryor sipping the stuff which he had emptied into his mess-tin, "I don't like this."

[Ill.u.s.tration: Menu of the dug-out banquet] (p. 123)

"Wot," muttered Bill, "wot's wrong with it?" (p. 124)

"As soup its above reproach, but the name," said Pryor. "It's beastly."

"Wot's wrong with it?"

"Everything," said the artistic youth, "and besides I was fed as a child on mulligatawny, fed on it until I grew up and revolted. To meet it again here in a dug-out. Oh! ye G.o.ds!"

"I'll take it," I said, for I had already finished mine.

"Will you?" exclaimed Pryor, employing his spoon with Gargantuan zeal.

"It's not quite etiquette."

As he spoke a bullet whistled through the door and struck a tin of condensed milk which hung by a string from the rafter. The bullet went right through and the milk oozed out and fell on the table.

"Waiter," said Goliath in a sharp voice, fixing one eye on the cook, and another on the falling milk.

"Sir," answered Stoner, raising his head from his mess-tin.

"What beastly stuff is this trickling down? You shouldn't allow this you know."

"I'm sorry," said Stoner, "you'd better lick it up."

"'Ad 'e," cried Bill. "Wot will we do for tea?" The c.o.c.kney held (p. 125) a spare mess-tin under the milk and caught it as it fell. This was considered very unseemly behaviour for a gentleman, and we suggested that he should go and feed in the servants' kitchen.

A stew, made of beef, carrots, and potatoes came next, and this in turn was followed by an omelette. Then followed a small portion of beef to each man, we called this chicken in our glorious game of make-believe. Kore a.s.serted that he had caught the chicken singing _The Watch on the Rhine_ on the top of a neighbouring chateau and took it as lawful booty of war.

"Chicken, my big toe!" muttered Bill, using his clasp-knife for a tooth-pick. "It's as tough as a rifle sling. Yer must have got hold of the bloomin' weatherc.o.c.k."

The confiture was Stoner's greatest feat. The sweet was made from biscuits ground to powder, boiled and then mixed with jam. Never was anything like it. We lingered over the dish loud in our praise of the energetic Stoner. "By G.o.d, I'll give you a job as head-cook in my establishment at your own salary," said Pryor. "Strike me ginger, pink, and crimson if ever I ate anything like it," exclaimed Bill. (p. 126) "We must 'ave a bit of this at every meal from now till the end of the war."

Coffee, wine, and cigars came in due course, then Section 3 clamoured for an address.

"Ool give it?" asked Bill.

"Pat," said Mervin.

"Come on Pat," chorused Section 3.

I never made a speech in my life, but I felt that this was the moment to do something. I got to my feet.

"Boys," I said, "it is a pleasure to rise and address you, although you haven't shaved for days, and your faces remind me every time I look at them of our rather sooty mess-tins."

(Bill: "Wot of yer own phiz.")

"Be quiet, Bill," I said, and continued. "Of course, none of you are to blame for the adhesive qualities of mud, it must stick somewhere, and doubtless it preferred your faces; but you should have shaved; the two hairs on Pryor's upper lip are becoming very prominent."

"Under a microscope," said Mervin.

"Hold your tongue," I shouted, and Mervin made a mock apology. "To-night's dinner was a grand success," I said, "all did their work (p. 127) admirably."

"All but you," muttered Bill, "yer spent 'arf the time writin' when yer should have been peelin' taters or pullin' onions."

"I resent the imputation of the gentleman at the rear," I said, "if I wasn't peeling potatoes and grinding biscuits I was engaged in chronicling the doings of Section 3. I can't make you fat and famous at the same time, much though I'd like to do both. You are an estimable body of men; Goliath, the big elephant--

(Goliath: "Just a baby elephant, Pat.")

"Mervin, who has travelled far and who loves bully stew; Pryor who dislikes girls with thick ankles, Kore who makes wash-out puns, Bill who has an insatiable desire for fresh eggs, and Stoner--I see a blush on his cheeks and a sparkle in his brown eyes already--I repeat the name Stoner with reverence. I look on the mess-tins which held the confiture and almost weep--because it's all eaten. There's only one thing to be done. Gentlemen, are your gla.s.ses charged?"

"There's nothin' now but water," said Bill.

"Water shame," remarked the punster.

"Hold your tongues," I said, "fill them with water, fill them with (p. 128) anything. Ready? To the Section cook, Stoner, long life and ability to cook our sweets evermore."

We drank. Just as we had finished, our company stretcher-bearers came by the door, a pre-occupied look on their faces and dark clots of blood on their trousers and tunics.

"What has happened?" I asked.

"The cooks have copped it," one of the bearers answered. "They were cooking grub in a shed at the rear near Dead Cow Villa, and a pip-squeak came plunk into the place. The head cook copped it in the legs, both were broken, and Erney, you know Erney?"

"Yes?" we chorused.

"Dead," said the stretcher-bearer. "Poor fellow he was struck unconscious.

We carried him to the dressing station, and he came to at the door.

'Mother!' he said, trying to sit up on the stretcher. That was his last word. He fell back and died."

There was a long silence. The glory of the flowers seemed to have faded away and the lighted cigars went out on the table. Dead! Poor fellow.

He was such a clean, hearty boy, very obliging and kind. How often had he given me hot water, contrary to regulations, to pour on my tea. (p. 129)

"To think of it," said Stoner. "It might have been any of us! We must put these flowers on his grave."

That night we took the little vase with its poppies, cornflowers, pinks, and roses, and placed them on the black, cold earth which covered Erney, the clean-limbed, good-hearted boy. May he rest in peace.

CHAPTER X (p. 130)