Part 10 (1/2)

CHAPTER V

JIM BRENT'S V.C.

If you pa.s.s through the Menin-Gate at Ypres, and walk up the slight rise that lies on the other side of the moat, you will come to the parting of the ways. You will at the same time come to a spot of unprepossessing aspect, whose chief claim to notoriety lies in its sh.e.l.l-holes and broken-down houses. If you keep straight on you will in time come to the little village of Potige; if you turn to the right you will eventually arrive at Hooge. In either case you will wish you hadn't.

Before the war these two roads--which join about two hundred yards east of the rampart walls of Ypres--were adorned with a fair number of houses. They were of that stucco type which one frequently sees in England spreading out along the roads that lead to a largish town.

Generally there is one of unusually revolting aspect that stands proudly by itself a hundred yards or so from the common herd and enclosed in a stuccoesque wall. And there my knowledge of the type in England ends.

In Belgium, however, my acquaintance with this sort of abode is extensive. In taking over a house in Flanders that stands unpleasantly near the Hun, the advertis.e.m.e.nt that there are three sitting, two bed, h. and c. laid on, with excellent onion patch, near railway and good golf-links, leaves one cold. The end-all and be-all of a house is its cellar. The more gloomy, and dark, and generally horrible the cellar, the higher that house ranks socially, and the more likely are you to find in it a general consuming his last hamper from Fortnum & Mason by the light of a tallow dip. And this applies more especially to the Hooge road.

Arrived at the fork, let us turn right-handed and proceed along the deserted road. A motor-car is not to be advised, as at this stage of the promenade one is in full sight of the German trenches. For about two or three hundred yards no houses screen you, and then comes a row of the stucco residences I have mentioned. Also at this point the road bends to the left. Here, out of sight, occasional men sun themselves in the heavily-scented air, what time they exchange a little playful badinage in a way common to Thomas Atkins. At least, that is what happened some time ago; now, of course, things may have changed in the garden city.

And at this point really our journey is ended, though for interest we might continue for another quarter of a mile. The row of houses stops abruptly, and away in front stretches a long straight road. A few detached mansions of sorts, in their own grounds, flank it on each side.

At length they cease, and in front lies the open country. The poplar-lined road disappears out of sight a mile ahead, where it tops a gentle slope. And half on this side of the rise, and half on the other, there are the remnants of the t.i.t-bit of the whole b.l.o.o.d.y charnel-house of the Ypres salient--the remnants of the village of Hooge. A closer examination is not to be recommended. The place where you stand is known in the vernacular as h.e.l.l Fire Corner, and the Hun--who knows the range of that corner to the fraction of an inch--will quite possibly resent your presence even there. And shrapnel gives a nasty wound.

Let us return and seek safety in a cellar. It is not what one would call a good-looking cellar; no priceless prints adorn the walls, no Turkey carpet receives your jaded feet. In one corner a portable gramophone with several records much the worse for wear reposes on an upturned biscuit-box, and lying on the floor, with due regard to s.p.a.ce economy, are three or four of those excellent box-mattresses which form the all-in-all of the average small Belgian house. On top of them are laid some valises and blankets, and from the one in the corner the sweet music of the sleeper strikes softly on the ear. It is the senior subaltern, who has been rambling all the preceding night in Sanctuary Wood--the proud authors of our nomenclature in Flanders quite rightly possess the humour necessary for the production of official communiques.

In two chairs, smoking, are a couple of officers. One is a major of the Royal Engineers, and another, also a sapper, belongs to the gilded staff. The cellar is the temporary headquarters of a field company--office, mess, and bedroom rolled into one.

”I'm devilish short-handed for the moment, Bill.” The Major thoughtfully filled his pipe. ”That last boy I got a week ago--a nice boy he was, too--was killed in Zouave Wood the day before yesterday, poor devil.

Seymour was wounded three days ago, and there's only Brent, Johnson, and him”--he indicated the sleeper. ”Johnson is useless, and Brent----” He paused, and looked full at the Staff-captain. ”Do you know Brent well, by any chance?”

”I should jolly well think I did. Jim Brent is one of my greatest pals, Major.”

”Then perhaps you can tell me something I very much want to know. I have knocked about the place for a good many years, and I have rubbed shoulders, officially and unofficially, with more men than I care to remember. As a result, I think I may claim a fair knowledge of my fellow-beings. And Brent--well, he rather beats me.”

He paused as if at a loss for words, and looked in the direction of the sleeping subaltern. Rea.s.sured by the alarming noise proceeding from the corner, he seemed to make up his mind.

”Has Brent had some very nasty knock lately--money, or a woman, or something?”

The Staff-captain took his pipe from his mouth, and for some seconds stared at the floor. Then he asked quietly, ”Why? What are you getting at?”

”This is why, Bill. Brent is one of the most capable officers I have ever had. He's a man whose judgment, tact, and driving power are perfectly invaluable in a show of this sort--so invaluable, in fact”--he looked straight at his listener--”that his death would be a very real loss to the corps and the Service. He's one of those we can't replace, and--he's going all out to make us have to.”

”What do you mean?” The question expressed no surprise; the speaker seemed merely to be demanding confirmation of what he already knew.

”Brent is deliberately trying to get killed. There is not a shadow of doubt about it in my mind. Do you know why?”

The Staff-officer got up and strolled to a table on which were lying some ill.u.s.trated weekly papers. ”Have you last week's _Tatler_?” He turned over the leaves. ”Yes--here it is.” He handed the newspaper to the Major. ”That is why.”

”_A charming portrait of Lady Kathleen Goring; who was last week married to that well-known sportsman and soldier Sir Richard Goring. She was, it will be remembered, very popular in London society as the beautiful Miss Kathleen Tubbs--the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Silas P. Tubbs, of Pittsburg, Pa._”

The Major put down the paper and looked at the Staff-captain; then suddenly he rose and hurled it into the corner. ”Oh, d.a.m.n these women,”

he exploded.

”Amen,” murmured the other, as, with a loud snort, the sleeper awoke.

”Is anything th' matter?” he murmured, drowsily, only to relapse at once into unconsciousness.