H.C. McNeile

No Man’s Land

Warsaw 2018

Contents

PART I

THE WAY TO THE LAND

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

PART II

THE LAND

I. A DAY OF PEACE

II. OVER THE TOP

III. THE MAN-TRAP

IV. A POINT OF DETAIL

V. MY LADY OF THE JASMINE

VI. MORPHIA

VII. BENDIGO JONES—HIS TREE

VIII. THE SONG OF THE BAYONET

PART III

SEED TIME

I. THE SEED

II. THE FIRST LESSON

III. AN IMPERSONAL DEMONSTRATION

IV. SOMEWHAT MORE PERSONAL

V. A PROJECT AND SOME SIDE-ISSUES

VI. THE SECOND LESSON, AND SOME FURTHER SIDE-ISSUES

VII. THE THIRD LESSON, AND A DIGRESSION

VIII. THE THIRD LESSON IS LEARNED

IX. AND OTHER FELL ON GOOD GROUND

PART IV

HARVEST

PART I

THE WAY TO THE LAND

CHAPTER I

It came suddenly when it did come, it may be remembered. Every one knew it was coming, and yet–it was all so impossible, so incredible. I remember Clive Draycott looking foolishly at his recall telegram in the club–he had just come home on leave from Egypt–and then brandishing it in front of my nose.

My dear old boy, he remarked peevishly, it’s out of the question. I’m shooting on the 12th.

But he crossed the next day to Boulogne.

It was a Sunday morning, and Folkestone looked just the same as it always did look. Down by the Pavilion Hotel the usual crowd of Knuts in very tight trousers and very yellow shoes, with suits most obviously bought off the peg, wandered about with ladies of striking aspect. Occasional snatches of conversation, stray gems of wit, scintillated through the tranquil August air, and came familiarly to the ears of a party of some half-dozen men who stood by a pile of baggage at the entrance to the hotel.

Go hon, Bill; you hare a caution, not ‘arf. A shrill girlish giggle, a playful jerk of the caution’s arm, a deprecating noise from his manly lips, which may have been caused by bashfulness at the compliment, or more probably by the unconsumed portion of the morning Woodbine, and the couple moved out of hearing.

I wonder, said a voice from the group, if we are looking on the passing of the breed.

He was a tall, thin, spare fellow, the man who spoke; and amongst other labels on his baggage was one marked Khartoum. His hands were sinewy and his face was bronzed, while his eyes, brown and deep-set, held in them the glint of the desert places of the earth: the mark of the jungle where birds flit through the shadows like bars of glorious colour; the mark of the swamp where the ague mists lie dank and stagnant in the rays of the morning sun.

No one answered his remark; it seemed unnecessary, and each was busy with his own thoughts. What did the next few days hold in store for the world, for England, for him? The ghastly, haunting fear that possibly they held nothing for England gnawed at men’s hearts. It would be incredible, inconceivable; but impossible things had happened before. Many must have felt that fear, but to none can it have been quite so personal, so hideously personal, as to the officers of the old Army and the Navy. To them it was as if their own honour were at stake, and I can see now a man opposite me almost sobbing with the fury and the shame of it when for a while we thought–the worst. But that was later.

Time to go on board, gentlemen.

Almost as beings from another world, they passed through the noisy throng, so utterly inconsequent, so absolutely ignorant and careless. One cannot help wondering now just how that throng has answered the great call; how many lie in nameless graves, with the remnants of Ypres standing sentinel to their last sleep; how many have fought and cursed and killed in the mud-holes of the Somme; how many have chosen the other path, and even though they had no skill and aptitude to recommend them, are earning now their three and four pounds a week making munitions. But they have answered the call, that throng and others like them; they have learned out of the book of life and death; and perhaps the tall man with the bronzed face might find the answer to his question could he see England today. Only he lies somewhere between Fletre and Meteren, and beside him are twenty men of his battalion. He took it in the fighting before the first battle of Ypres...

I call it a bit steep. A man in the Indian Cavalry broke the silence of the group who were leaning over the side watching the coast fade away. In England two days after three years of it, and now here we are again. But the sun being over the yard-arm–what say you?

With one last final look at the blue line astern, with one last involuntary thought–"Is it au revoir, or is it good- bye?"–they went below. The sun was indeed over the yard-arm, and the steward was a hospitable lad of cosmopolitan instincts...

CHAPTER II

"It is impossible to guarantee a ticket to Marseilles." So the ticket vendor at Folkestone had informed them, and his pessimism was justified by future events.

The fun began at the Gare du Nord. From what I have since learned, I have often wished since that my mission in life had been to drive a fiacre in Paris during the early days of August ‘14. A taxi conjures up visions too wonderful to contemplate; but even with the humble horse-bus I feel that I should now be able to afford a piano, or whatever it is the multi-millionaire munition-man buys without a quiver. I might even get the missus a fur coat.

Every living soul in Paris seemed obsessed with the idea of going somewhere else; and the chances of the stranger within their gates approached those of an icicle in Hades, as our friends across the water would say. Finally, in despair, Draycott rushed into the road and seized a venerable flea-bitten grey that was ambling along with Monsieur, Madame, and all the little olive-branches sitting solemnly inside the cab. He embraced Madame, he embraced the olive-branches; finally–in despair–I believe he embraced Monsieur. He wept, he entreated, he implored them to take him to the Gare de Lyon. It was imperative. He would continue to kiss them without cessation and in turn, if only they would take him and his belongings to the Gare de Lyon. He murmured: Anglais–officier anglais; he wailed the mystic word, Mobilisation. Several people who were watching thought he was acting for the cinematograph, and applauded loudly; others were convinced he was mad, and called for the police.

But Monsieur–God bless him!–and Madame–God bless her!–and all the little olive-branches–God bless them!–decided in his favour; and having piled two suit-cases and a portmanteau upon that creaking cab, he plunged into the family circle.

It was very hot; he was very hot; they were very hot; and though Draycott confesses that he has done that familiar journey between the two stations in greater comfort, he affirms that never has he done it with a greater sense of elation and triumph. The boat train to Marseilles, he reflected complacently; if possible a bath first; anyway, a sleeper, a comfortable dinner, and––

Parbleu, M’sieur; la Gare de Lyon c’est fermÚe. Madame’s voice cut into his reflections.

As in a dream he extricated himself from tonight’s supper and three sticky children, and gazed at the station. They were standing six deep around the steps–a gesticulating, excited mob; while at the top, by the iron railings, a cordon of soldiers kept them back. Inside, between the railings and the station, there was no one save an odd officer or two who strolled about, smoking and talking.

Mechanically he removed his baggage and dumped it in the road; mechanically he re-kissed the entire party; he says he even kissed the flea- bitten grey. Then he sat down on a suit-case and thought.

It was perfectly true: the Gare de Lyon was shut to all civilians; the first shadow of war had come. As if drawn by a magnet the old men were there, the men who remembered the last time when the Prussian swine had stamped their way across the fields of France. Their eyes were bright, their shoulders thrown back as they glanced appraisingly at the next generation–their sons who would wipe out Sedan for ever from the pages of history. There was something grimly pathetic and grimly inspiring in the presence of those old soldiers: the men who had failed through no fault of their own.

Not again, they seemed to say; for God’s sake, not a second time. This time–Victory. Wipe it out–that stain.

They had failed, true; but there were others who would succeed; and it was their presence that made one feel the unconquerable spirit of France.

CHAPTER III

The French officer in charge was polite, but firmly non- committal.

There is a train which will leave here about midnight, we hope. If you can get a seat on it–well and good. If not– he shrugged his shoulders superbly, and the conversation closed.

It was a troop train apparently, and in the course of time it would arrive at Marseilles–perhaps. It would not be comfortable. Mais, que voulez-vous, M’sieur? c’est la guerre.

At first he had not been genial; but when he had grasped the fact that mufti invariably cloaked the British officer, en permission, he had become more friendly.