Behind the Lines (31 page)

“Well, it's not often we have a padre in the mess,” said the A.S.C. captain. “It must be months since we had one here. I'm afraid you will find us rather a Godless lot, padre. But if you want to arrange a church parade, go ahead by all means.”

Rawley was glad to learn that there were no real chaplains in the neighbourhood. “Thank you,” he said. “But I haven't called professionally, so to speak—and besides, as you are not in my parish, I'm afraid I'm cadging a lunch under false pretences. I—I feel rather guilty, eating up others' rations.”

The captain laughed. “That's all right, padre. Don't you worry about that. We always have several rations in hand. We feed all the odds and ends in the neighbourhood. Our ration strength bobs up and down like a temperature chart, and when in doubt, we bung on a couple.”

Rawley suddenly determined on a bold stroke. He sighed. “Rations always worry me,” he said. “I cannot cope with all these forms. When I was first on my own I was attached to one unit after another, and every time they changed I went without rations. The new lot said I could not draw them for two days, and I ought to have let them know earlier, or drawn from the other lot.” He sighed again, rather pathetically. “Of course, you people always know when troops are moving and all that, but nobody ever tells
a padre anything, and I never knew they were moving till they were actually gone.”

“Bad luck, padre,” said the captain. “Have some more beer; it's French, but wet. So you went without rations?”

Rawley nodded. “But I got tired of that,” he continued, with an air of gentle pride in his own astuteness. “And so I went to the senior chaplain about it, and he arranged for me to draw rations from Bapaume.”

“Bapaume! That's a goodish step!”

“Yes, that's it,” said Rawley. “But I had to get them from there; it was something to do with Corps and Division and Army. I didn't understand it, but there it is.”

“Good old red tape!” commented the captain.

“Of course, it would be much more convenient to draw them from someone in Albert.”

“Why not?” said the captain. “I should, if it's nearer. No good tramping miles for nothing.”

“I might ask,” said Rawley, doubtfully. “But I expect I should not be allowed to—Army instead of Corps, or something.”

“Why ask?” said the captain. “I should just attach myself to somebody, and leave it at that.”

“But wouldn't there be some regulations or something?”

“You're too conscientious, padre,” grinned the captain. “Take my advice and never ask anybody in the army for anything that you can get yourself. When you've tried and can't, then it's time enough to chase the brass hats. What the deuce does it matter to anyone where you draw
rations from! You are entitled to rations, and common sense says draw them from the most convenient place—whether it's Army, G.H.Q., or the bloomin' War Office itself. I would just fix it up on your own and say nothing to nobody.”

Rawley assumed an expression of worried indecision.

“How many rations do you want?” asked the captain.

“Two—only two. Myself and my man.”

“Can your man come in here for them?”

“Oh, yes!”

The captain lit a cigarette. “Well, send him along. I'll draw them for you.”

“That is very good of you,” said Rawley. “But, well—really. Supposing when they go through these indents, or whatever you call them, they found my name and—well, wouldn't there be a dreadful fuss?”

The captain laughed. “We don't put your name down, you know, padre. But don't you worry. They can't check my indent. It's never the same two days together. We get so many odds and ends passing through—and between ourselves we don't go short. Of course, it ought to go in forty-eight hours in advance, but you send your fellow along tomorrow, and it will be all right.”

“That's awfully good of you,” said Rawley with real gratitude.

“Not a bit. But, let me see, two rations are pretty small. Your chap had better draw for three days at a time, and come every third day. If you come with me presently, I
will show you where our quarter-bloke hangs out, and I will tell him your fellow will be coming along tomorrow.”

II

It was a very elated young padre who, later that afternoon, swung out of Albert up the Bapaume Road. He marched along confidently and whistled as he walked, but the tunes were not hymn tunes, and some half-hour later, as he approached a pile of debris in a little wood, it was not by accident that the tune was “Old Soldiers Never Die.”

Alf's face, in the light of one candle end, wore a relieved look. “Got back all right then, chum!” he said. “I've been as nervous as a blinkin' cat the 'ole time you been away.”

Rawley put his few purchases on the rickety table. “Yes, here I am again—all present and correct.”

Alf was turning over the tin of polish, soldier's friend, brilliantine and toothpaste. “Is this all you got?” he asked gloomily. “Didn't yer git no grub?”

“We don't want any,” answered Rawley, as he took off his belt.

“P'raps not now, but we bloomin' well shall afore long.”

Rawley shook his head. “No. We are going to draw rations,” he said, with a mysterious smile.

“Rations! Here—get out! What d'yer mean rations?”

“What I say. The padre has arranged to draw rations for himself and servant from an M.T. unit in Albert. We draw three days' rations every third day.”

“Garn!” exclaimed Alf derisively. “What, an' rum ration as well, I reckon,” he added sarcastically.

“And rum ration as well,” repeated Rawley. “When there is one.” And he told Alf what had happened.

Alf sat on his bunk and rubbed the back of his neck in a characteristic manner. “Well, that's a proper knock-out. Drorin' rations!” Suddenly he looked up with a serious face. “Who's going to drore 'em?” he demanded.

“You are,” said Rawley. “And you start tomorrow.”

Alf shook his head. “No, I ain't. Not me. I'd never get away with it. An orficer might, but not a ruddy gunner. No, chum, you'll 'ave to draw 'em.”

Rawley pointed out that it would excite comment for an officer to draw rations, even though he were a padre, that the risk was small, and that since he himself had taken the greater risk in asking for them, Alf might do his bit, and take the lesser.

Alf was only half convinced. “And besides, I can't go like this,” he added triumphantly.

“No—you aren't fit for C.O.'s parade at the moment,” Rawley conceded. “But we will soon alter that. Hair cut, shave—by the by, did you have a moustache or were you clean shaven? Before you took French leave, I mean.”

“I 'adn't no moustache,” said Alf sulkily.

“Well, we will give you one now, then. A good, walrusy, Old Bill moustache. You can wear my old breeches; your cap will just pass muster—for a padre's servant, that is. The difficulty is your tunic; I'm afraid that's beyond repair. I suppose the only thing to do is to try to steal one.”

Alf rubbed the back of his neck. “Look 'ere, chum, do you really mean I've got to go?”

Rawley nodded. “I am afraid so, Alf. We can't afford to chuck away a chance like this.”

Alf nodded gloomily. “You don't think they'll cop me?”

“When we've rigged you up with that moustache I honestly think that the chances of anyone recognizing you are about one in a million. I tell you, I found it as easy as pie—and so will you. Don't talk more than is necessary, that's all.”

“All right, chum, I'll go.” And then he suddenly brightened and smacked his thigh delightedly. “Blimy! Drorin' rations—ain't that a scream!”

“And now we have to think out about that tunic,” said Rawley.

“You leave that to me, mate. As soon as it's dark we'll go out. You show me where there's some troops, an' if I don't come back wiv a tunic or somethin', I'll eat my hat.”

Alf kept his word, and later that night he returned to the cellar, wearing a soldier's greatcoat that effectively concealed his disreputable tunic. Then Rawley set to work with scissors and comb, and before they turned in for the night their preparations were complete for drawing rations on the morrow.

They walked into Albert together. Rawley had decided that this was best. It would enable him to point out the position of the M.T. unit and thus avoid the necessity of Alf asking questions of other troops; and it would give Alf confidence. And Alf gained confidence rapidly. No
one gave them a second glance as they crossed the square beneath the shattered tower of the cathedral. Rawley with his slightly hunched shoulders, rather ill-fitting tunic, and clean-shaven face looked a typical padre, and Alf with his shaggy moustache, shabby cap and greatcoat with a sandbag rolled up under one arm looked the typical old soldier who, by reason of bad feet or wounds, has been given a light job as batman to a town major or padre.

Rawley walked back and waited for Alf on the Bapaume Road. Half an hour later Alf reappeared with a broad grin and a well-filled sandbag. “Everything in the garden's luvely,” he said as he came up. “I jes said I've come for Capting Parker's rations and the quarter dished 'em out like a bleedin' lamb.”

“Good,” said Rawley. “But don't you forget to salute me in public. We have got to be careful about details.”

III

Fresh meat and vegetables were such luxuries that for the two days following that first drawing of rations food filled the entire horizon. They vied with each other in thinking out new methods of cooking, and the hours between meals were devoted to the preparation of the next. It was the one topic of conversation and of thought. But soon the novelty wore off, and Rawley found the time hang heavy on his hands. In the old dug-out in the centre of the devastated area he had had to get his supplies by craft or by stealth, and although he had bitterly cursed the necessity it
had provided an object in an otherwise objectless life. The necessities of living had occupied the mind and the body. But now there was nothing to occupy either. The bare means of living were provided, and apart from the duties of cooking, eating, and drawing water from the well, body and mind lay fallow.

After his long sojourn as an outcast in the deserted battlefields, that first walk into Albert, decently clean and clothed, had seemed a heaven of delight; but after three or four visits, on those alternate days that he was not cook, the delight faded. It was dull walking about aimlessly, with nothing to do and with nothing constructive to occupy one's thoughts. He envied the men he saw about him. No doubt they were cursing the war and wishing themselves back in civilian life, but they were doing something; they had some object to which they were striving—if it were only to get the job done and go home. He realized bitterly that it is better to have an unpleasant job than no job at all. And at first the risk he ran of arrest as a spy or deserter had given a zest to his walks abroad, but now he was so familiar with his surroundings and moved about so freely and without question that the danger seemed almost negligible, the more so since he had learned that his old division had moved northwards from the area.

He had borrowed a magazine from the M.T. Mess and had read it from cover to cover. He had no books. Quite suddenly it occurred to him that there was nothing to prevent him from going into Amiens to buy some, and he asked himself why he had not thought of it before. It was a
splendid idea; and he grew as excited as a schoolboy at the prospect of being in an undamaged, civilized town, and of looking at the windows of real civilian shops. And Alf's suggestion that it might be a bit risky only added zest to the adventure.

IV

He set out on the following morning, leaving Alf shaking his head dolefully in the cellar. His intention was to walk to Albert and try to pick up a lorry or car, but he had barely set foot upon the Albert road before a lorry rumbled up behind him coming from the direction of Bapaume. He asked the driver if he were going anywhere near Amiens. The driver was: he was going through Amiens to Flixecourt. Rawley climbed up into the broad front seat, and the lorry rumbled on its way.

It was one of those bright, mild days that come sometimes early in the year and give a foretaste of spring. Even the rubble heaps of the old battlefield looked almost friendly in the cheerful light, and as the lorry topped the rise by the old British front line, Rawley saw again as he had seen on that first morning walk the Hanging Virgin of Albert flashing golden in the sunlight.

The lorry rumbled on through the narrow
pavé
streets of the town, across the square that, by reason of the levelled buildings surrounding it, was twice as large as its pre-war self; swung left-handed into the narrow street where the tangle of twisted metal in the shattered Schneider factory
resembled a gigantic bramble bush, crossed the bridge over the grass-grown railway and climbed the hill beyond. The shattered roofs and splinter-pocked walls of the houses had been left behind. Trees bordered the road. Real trees: not splintered stumps of dead barkless wood, but trees with branches overhead already budding with the promise of spring. The road switchbacked undeviatingly across the low hills, and occasionally to his left, when the hedgeless plough-land dipped in widening curves to a transverse valley, he saw across the countless furrows some peaceful tree-embowered village in the Ancre valley below. Rawley, on the front seat of the moving lorry, enjoyed it all as a schoolboy enjoys his first homecoming.

The country became more wooded, villages more frequent. Woods, red with young shoots, nestled in the folds of the ground, and at times bordered the road. One fleeting glimpse he had of Amiens cathedral, grey and sunlit in the distance.

The driver slowed at last, where a broad road diverged to the left. “I'll have to drop you here, sir. I go straight on, and lorries aren't allowed in the streets of the town anyway.”