Part 20 (2/2)

c.o.c.kerell explained When he had finished, he added wistfully--

”I suppose you have not got an odd tin or two of bully to give away, sir? My fellows are about--”

For answer, the Major took the Lieutenant by the arm and led him towards the lorry.

”You have come,” he announced, ”to the very man you want. I am practically Mr. Harrod. In fact, I am a Corps Supply Officer. How would a Maconochie apiece suit your boys?”

c.o.c.kerell, repressing the ecstatic phrases which crowded to his tongue, replied that that was just what the doctor had ordered.

”Where are you bound for?” continued the Major.

”St. Gregoire.”

”Of course. You were pulled out from there, weren't you? I am going to St. Gregoire myself as soon as I have finished my round. Home to bed, in fact. I haven't had any sleep worth writing home about for four nights. It is no joke tearing about a country full of sh.e.l.l-holes, hunting for people who have s.h.i.+fted their ration-dump seven times in four days. However, I suppose things will settle down again, now that you fellows have fired Brother Boche out of the Kidney Bean. Pretty fine work, too! Tell me, what is your strength, here and now?”

”One officer,” said c.o.c.kerell soberly, ”and eighteen other ranks.”

”All that's left of your platoon?”

c.o.c.kerell nodded. The stout Major began to beat upon the tailboard of the lorry with his stick.

”Sergeant Smurthwaite!” he shouted.

There came a m.u.f.fled grunt from the recesses of the lorry. Then a round and ruddy face rose like a harvest moon above the tailboard, and a stertorous voice replied respectfully--

”Sir?”

”Let down this tailboard; load this officer's platoon into the lorry; issue them with a Maconochie and a tot of rum apiece; and don't forget to put Smee under arrest for dangerous driving when we get back to billets.”

”Very good, sir.”

Ten minutes later the survivors of Number Nine Platoon, soaked to the skin, dazed, slightly incredulous, but at peace with all the world, reclined close-packed upon the floor of the swaying lorry. Each man held an open tin of Mr. Maconochie's admirable ration between his knees. Perfect silence reigned: a pleasant aroma of rum mellowed the already vitiated atmosphere.

In front, beside the chastened Mr. Smee, sat the Major and Master c.o.c.kerell. The latter had just partaken of his share of refreshment, and was now endeavouring, with lifeless fingers, to light a cigarette.

The Major scrutinised his guest intently. Then he stripped off his British Warm coat--incidentally revealing the fact that he wore upon his tunic the ribbons of both South African Medals and the Distinguished Service Order--and threw it round c.o.c.kerell's shoulders.

”I'm sorry, boy!” he said. ”I never noticed. You are chilled to the bone. b.u.t.ton this round you.”

c.o.c.kerell made a feeble protest, but was cut short.

”Nonsense! There's no sense in taking risks after you've done your job.”

c.o.c.kerell a.s.sented, a little sleepily. His allowance of rum was bringing its usual vulgar but comforting influence to bear upon an exhausted system.

”I see you have been wounded, sir,” he observed, noting with a little surprise two gold stripes upon his host's left sleeve--the sleeve of a ”non-combatant.”

”Yes,” said the Major. ”I got the first one at Le Gateau. He was only a little fellow; but the second, which arrived at the Second Show at Ypres, gave me such a stiff leg that I am only an old crock now. I was second-in-command of an Infantry Battalion in those days. In these, I am only a peripatetic Lipton. However, I am lucky to be here at all: I've had twenty-seven years' service. How old are you?”

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