Part 12 (1/2)

Something rich and cold! A _meringue glacee_ was not good enough for the occasion. A cream _bombe glacee_, or, better still, a _Peche Melba_. He saw the red syrup stuff in the little gla.s.s plate that it would be served on. And the peach--like the cheeks of a lovely child! At last, if he could manage it--which he did not at the moment doubt--something in the savoury omelette line. And to finish up with, the Egyptian should bring him some coffee. He saw the Egyptian very clearly, with his little red cap and his dusky cheeks. Then, last of all, the man with the cigars and liqueurs wheeled his tray. A good cigar from the top tray, clipped and lit by the man's lamp. Then to choose from the half score of bottles on the lower tray. Chartreuse, Benedictine, better still, Grand Marmier.

That really was all. Nothing to do now but lean back in his chair, and between his sips gaze contentedly through his cigar smoke at the lights, the mirrors, the palms, and whirring electric fans and the happy, flushed diners, with that curious, strained, puzzled and amused look that creeps into the backs of people's eyes at such times.

Then he pictured himself leaving the restaurant, climbing the stairs.

The gla.s.s door was thrown open for him to pa.s.s through, with a gesture that was positively grandiloquent.

The cold air of the street was fanning his heated cheek. People were sweeping by him as he walked down Coventry Street. s.h.i.+ps that pa.s.sed in the night! Pa.s.sionate eyes stabbed him. Strange scents momentarily swept over him....

There was a completeness of detail in all these pictures that wrung from him a very grim smile. Would he remember the war as vividly as he then remembered all that?

He saw himself pause in the gutter of Wardour Street while a taxi slid by. He saw himself survive the lure of the Empire, saw himself deciding not to cross the road, and go down to the Alhambra.

Eventually he reached a music hall. He was going in now. He was taking his place that moment in the plush stall. On the stage a little pseudo n.i.g.g.e.r was joking privately with the conductor. He laughed at one of the jokes he remembered. Then a woman came on. She was tragic, stately. He was thrilled by her slimness, her weirdness, her vitality. The whole atmosphere of the theatre was electrified by her personality. She was singing a song in a way that he had never heard before. He remembered it still. It was a Tango song. ”His Tango girl!” His thoughts flew off at a tangent....

CHAPTER XXV

THE CROSSING OF THE AISNE

They spent a delectable night, with their boots off, between real blankets, after a real wash. Very early, before it was really light, they joined on to the Battalion, and slid down the hill.

The Subaltern had a few moments' talk with a friend who had commanded the ”Divisional Guard” during the night.

”Scarcely got any sleep,” he said. ”But I took a peep at their room. It was laid out for a pucca breakfast. Jove, I could have done with some!”

At the door of the house he had been guarding, quite alone, and leaning heavily on his thick stick, stood the Divisional Commander. No doubt he knew of the struggle that lay before them, and was taking the opportunity of reviewing his battalions as they went in to battle. His face was red, his hair was iron grey, and rather long. He was a fine big man, there was a presence to him, a rugged and determined look.

A few minutes later they had plunged into the depths of a thick morning mist, that rolled like a lake between the heights. The steep road led them at length to the banks of the Aisne. The Germans had naturally blown up the bridge behind them, but the Sappers had erected a temporary structure by the side of the ruined one. It quivered under their weight, and as the Subaltern looked at the water swirling so swiftly beneath, he wondered what would happen if one of those huge sh.e.l.ls were to blow it sky high....

Running parallel to the river, and about thirty yards away, was a ca.n.a.l.

This was likewise successfully pa.s.sed, and so the Aisne was crossed without a shot being fired.

The Battalion was concentrated while the rest of the Brigade crossed the river. And all the time the sun was chasing away the light clouds of river vapour. Soon the enemy would see them, and they would be caught in this difficult and dangerous movement, and the results would be disastrous.

But the minutes pa.s.sed, and the mist melted almost entirely away, and still the guns were silent. At last they moved off, and began to ascend the slope. They were only just clear of the place when there was a whistle, a shriek, a bang and a roar. The explosion was two or three times greater than anything they had heard before. The very noise was intimidating, paralysing, and before they had had time to rally their nerves and collect themselves, before the awakened echoes had died away in the woods above, a second sh.e.l.l, as mighty as the first, sailed over their heads and exploded as t.i.tanically as it had done. This was the first occasion on which the British Armies had been brought face to face with the German super-heavy artillery. Naturally the result was a little disconcerting.

Tons of death-dealing metal and explosive were being hurled through the air as if Atlas were hurling stars about. There was something elemental, and superhuman about such colossal force. One felt like a pygmy in a Battle of the G.o.ds.

They were profoundly ignorant of anything that was happening. Everything was normal, except the roar of guns. There was not even a sign of the cavalry being driven in. The only thing to do was to keep on until an order came, or something definite happened.

The road had turned into a village called Moussy, and was now running parallel to the river, along the side of the slope. An order was pa.s.sed along to ”keep down under cover of the right bank,” so they advanced, half crouching, about half a mile.

Then, with a suddenness that amazed him, the Subaltern saw the Platoon in front begin to scramble hastily over the bank, and run off directly up the hill. No order was given, he could see no explanation for such a move. He hesitated for a second, wondering whether it would not be better to find out what was happening before he moved his Platoon. But battles are sometimes lost by just such pauses, so he waved his arm, signalling to deploy and extend to the right. A second or so later his men were in line with the other Platoon, advancing over a green field towards a bank. Their rifles were loaded, bayonets fixed, bodies bent forward--ready for anything.

They did not have long to wait.

Another ”Jack Johnson” landed in front of them. They could see the earth as it flew upwards the other side of the hedge. Was it a chance shot, or would the Germans land a direct ”hit” next time? That was the question that worried the Subaltern as he advanced to the hedge. He was also puzzled as to what was really happening, or what he was expected to do.

Not another Officer was in sight.