Part 9 (1/2)
”Yes, sir,” said Angus respectfully.
”Right-o! You are to march them to 'A' Company billets. I'll show you the way. My name's c.o.c.kerell. Your train is late. What time did you leave the Base?”
”Indeed,” replied Angus meekly, ”I am not quite sure. We had barely landed when they told me the train would start at seventeen-forty.
What time would that be--sir?”
”About a quarter to ten: more likely about midnight! Well, get your bunch on to the road, and--Hallo, what's the matter? Let go!”
The new officer was gripping him excitedly by the arm, and as the new officer stood six-foot-four and was brawny in proportion, Master c.o.c.kerell's appeal was uttered in a tone of unusual sincerity.
”Look!” cried Angus excitedly. ”The dogs, the dogs!”
A small cart was pa.s.sing swiftly by, towed by two st.u.r.dy hounds of unknown degree. They were pulling with the feverish enthusiasm which distinguishes the Dog in the service of Man, and were being urged to further efforts by a small hatless girl carrying the inevitable large umbrella.
”All right!” explained c.o.c.kerell curtly. ”Custom of the country, and all that.”
The impulsive Angus apologised; and the draft, having been safely manoeuvred on to the road, formed fours and set out upon its march.
”Are the Battalion in the trenches at present, sir?” inquired Angus.
”No. Rest-billets two miles from here. About time, too! You'll get lots of work to do, though.”
”I shall welcome that,” said Angus simply. ”In the depot at home we were terribly idle. There is a windmill!”
”Yes; one sees them occasionally out here,” replied c.o.c.kerell drily.
”Everything is so strange!” confessed the open-hearted Angus. ”Those dogs we saw just now--the people with their sabots--the country carts, like wheelbarrows with three wheels--the little shrines at the cross-roads--the very children talking French so glibly--”
”Wonderful how they pick it up!” agreed c.o.c.kerell. But the sarcasm was lost on his companion, whose attention was now riveted upon an approaching body of infantry, about fifty strong.
”What troops are those, please?”
c.o.c.kerell knitted his brows sardonically.
”It's rather hard to tell at this distance,” he said; ”but I rather think they are the Grenadier Guards.”
Two minutes later the procession had been met and pa.s.sed. It consisted entirely of elderly gentlemen in ill-fitting khaki, clumping along upon their flat feet and smoking clay pipes. They carried shovels on their shoulders, and made not the slightest response when called upon by the soldierly old corporal who led them to give Mr. c.o.c.kerell ”eyes left!” On the contrary, engaged as they were in heated controversy or amiable conversation with one another, they cut him dead.
Angus M'Lachlan said nothing for quite five minutes. Then--
”I suppose,” he said almost timidly, ”that those were members of a _Reserve_ Regiment of the Guards?”
c.o.c.kerell, who had never outgrown certain characteristics which most of us shed upon emerging from the Lower Fourth, laughed long and loud.
”That crowd? They belong to one of the Labour Battalions. They make roads, and dig support trenches, and sling mud about generally.
Wonderful old sportsmen! Pleased as Punch when a sh.e.l.l falls within half a mile of them. Something to write home about. What? I say, I pulled your leg that time! Here we are at Headquarters. Come and report to the C.O. Grenadier Guards! My aunt!”
Angus, although his Celtic enthusiasm sometimes led him into traps, was no fool. He soon settled down in his new surroundings, and found favour with Colonel Kemp, which was no light achievement.