Part 8 (1/2)
Sitting rigidly erect was the body of a staff officer, decapitated.
”Great heavens!” exclaimed Dennis, bending over with eyes of horror as he recognised the officer who less than half an hour before had shown him his own route at Divisional Headquarters. ”It's Captain Thompson!”
”It was Captain Thompson, and one of the nicest gentlemen I've ever driven,” said the man. ”I don't know what to do. He told me he was taking a message to the French general on the other side of Hardecourt, and that it was of the very greatest importance. We were doing sixty miles an hour, even on this road, when that sh.e.l.l copped us.”
There were sobs in the man's voice as he pointed to the leather dispatch-case still clutched tightly in the dead hand.
”Look here,” said Dennis. ”My machine's smashed up. How long would it take you to reach the French lines?”
”A quarter of an hour--twenty minutes at the outside. But what's the good of that, sir? I can't speak a word of their blooming language.”
”I can,” said Dennis, gently disengaging the wallet. ”I'll carry the dispatch, and I'll drive if you like, if your nerve's gone.”
”My nerve's all right, sir. Haven't any left after eighteen months of this job,” and as Dennis climbed into the front seat, the chauffeur turned the handle over and the engine began to whir.
It was good to turn one's back on that hideous thing, and when they heard the headless trunk topple over on to the floor of the car behind them, both s.h.i.+vered, and the chauffeur's knuckles stood out white as he gripped the steering-wheel.
”I've seen two officers, one a brigadier-general, treated the same way, and their shover huddled forward against the screen dead as a door nail,” said the man. ”That was up near St. Julien, when Princess Pat's got wiped out; but it sort of hits you when you know the man, and this was his own car too. You'd better have your papers ready now, sir; they'll stop us at yonder white house.”
The examining post at the little cabaret detained them, but did not hold them up more than a moment or so.
”A dispatch for Monsieur le General,” said Dennis to the sergeant in charge, who recoiled as he saw the tragedy that had taken place.
”_Decapite, mon Dieu!_” he exclaimed. ”Pa.s.s, mon lieutenant,” and they proceeded, leaving a red pool on the road where the car had halted.
While Dennis was inside the farmhouse a crowd of commiserating officers surrounded the car, and they would have rid it of its grim burden and interred poor Thompson among the little harvest of rude crosses that marked where their own dead were laid, but when one of them, who spoke English, suggested so doing, the chauffeur said ”No.”
”Beg your pardon, sir, but he'll be better buried in our own lines, where they'll give him the Last Post and all that.” He was protesting when Dennis came out again quickly.
”It's a very good thing we took the bull by the horns,” he said. ”That message was tremendously important, and the general has been good enough to say all kinds of nice things about our bringing it along. We've got to go back top speed to Divisional Headquarters,” and he stepped in.
All the officers saluted the dead man as the motor started on its return journey, and already the darkness was giving place before a ghostly grey feeling in the east, which was not light as yet, but heralded the near approach of dawn.
The chauffeur turned up his coat collar, for it had grown very cold, and he could not get rid of the oppression of that dread something which they were carrying--that something which a short hour before had been so full of life and vigour and kindly thought for all with whom it had come in contact.
”I shall put in for a rest after this,” said the man as they repa.s.sed the post at the cabaret, and he opened out the engines. ”They tell me there's going to be a week of this firing, and upon my sam, I don't think I can stand it now!”
”I suppose one gets used to the guns,” said Dennis. ”But what an infernal row they make!”
”Been out here long, sir?” said the chauffeur, whose quick eye had detected the newness of his companion's uniform, notwithstanding the chalk stains which were the result of his adventure earlier in the evening.
”As a matter of fact, I haven't been up at the front three days yet, but, of course, I've done a lot of training at Romford with the Artists',” replied Dennis.
”Lord! you don't know you're born yet, in a manner of speaking, sir,”
said the driver with a little toss of his head. ”You've got a lot to go through before you've seen as much as I have. Blow 'em! Those Boches are still at it,” and he craned his head forward over his wheel. ”They've got the range of this blooming road to a T. I don't funk risks, but it's madness to shove ahead through that!” And he slowed the car down as a rain of sh.e.l.ls crashed among the trees in front of them, bringing half a dozen tall poplars down on to the road itself, while the whole _terrain_ to their left hand was alive with bursts of high explosives.
”Well, what's to be done? I must reach the general at once. Isn't there another way round?”
”There's only this turning on the right, sir,” replied the man. ”It seems to be pretty clear, and it will run us close behind our own line.
I've been there before, and we can double back past General Dashwood's headquarters.”