Colonel Childs was writing opposite the adjutant-general, who was working silently. Presently Childs looked up, listened, and said:
“It’s rather quiet, sir, outside.”
“So much the better,” growled General Macready. “Get on with your job.”
A quarter of an hour passed. No rumble of traffic passed by the windows. No gun-wagons were jolting over French pavé.
Colonel Childs looked up again and listened.
“It’s damned quiet outside, sir.”
“Well, don’t go making a noise,” said the general, “Can’t you see I’m busy?”
“I think I’ll just take a turn round,” said Colonel Childs.
He felt uneasy. Something in the silence of the village scared him. He went out into the roadway and walked toward Sir John French’s quarters. There was no challenge from a sentry. The British Expeditionary Force seemed to be sleeping. They needed sleep—poor beggars!—but the Germans did not let them take much.
Colonel Childs went into the Commander-in-Chief’s château and found a soldier in the front hall, licking out a jam-pot.
“Where’s the Commander-in-Chief?” asked the officer.
“Gone hours ago, sir,” said the soldier. “I was left behind for lack of transport. From what I hear the Germans ought to be here by now. I rather fancy I heard some shots pretty close awhile ago.”
Colonel Childs walked back to his own quarters quickly. He made no apology for interrupting the work of the adjutant-general.
“General, the whole box of tricks has gone. We’ve been left behind. Forgotten!”
“The dirty dogs!” said General Macready.
There was not much time for packing up, and only one motorcar, and only one rifle. The general said he would look after the rifle, but Colonel Childs said if that were so he would rather stay behind and take his chance of being captured. It would be safer for him. So the adjutant-general, the judge advocate, the deputy assistant judge advocate (Colonel Childs), and an orderly or two packed into the car and set out to find G.H.Q. Before they found it they had to run the gauntlet of Germans, and were sniped all the way through a wood, and took flying shots at moving figures. Then, miles away, they found G.H.Q.
“And weren’t they sorry to see me again!” said General Macready, who told me the tale. “They thought they had lost me forever.”
The day’s casualty list was brought into the adjutant-general one evening when I was dining in his mess. The orderly put it down by the side of his plate, and he interrupted a funny story to glance down the columns of names.
“Du Maurier has been killed … I’m sorry.”
He put down the paper beside his plate again and continued his story, and we all laughed heartily at the end of the anecdote. It was the only way, and the soldier’s way. There was no hugging of grief when our best friend fell. A sigh, another ghost in one’s life, and then, “Carry on!”
XVIII
Scores of times, hundreds of times, during the battles of the Somme, I passed the headquarters of Gen. Sir Henry Rawlinson, commanding the Fourth Army, and several times I met the army commander there and elsewhere. One of my first meetings with him was extraordinarily embarrassing to me for a moment or two. While he was organizing his army, which was to be called, with unconscious irony, “The Army of Pursuit”—the battles of the Somme were a siege rather than a pursuit—he desired to take over the château at Tilques, in which the war correspondents were then quartered. As we were paying for it and liked it, we put up an opposition which was most annoying to his A.D.C.’s, especially to one young gentleman of enormous wealth, haughty manners, and a boyish intolerance of other people’s interests, who had looked over our rooms without troubling to knock at the doors, and then said, “This will suit us down to the ground.” On my way back from the salient one evening I walked up the drive in the flickering light of summer eve, and saw two officers coming in my direction, one of whom I thought I recognized as an old friend.
“Hullo!” I said, cheerily. “You here again?”
Then I saw that I was face to face with Sir Henry Rawlinson. He must have been surprised, but dug me in the ribs in a genial way, and said, “Hullo, young feller!”
He made no further attempt to “pinch” our quarters, but my familiar method of address could not have produced that result.
His headquarters at Querrieux were in another old château on the Amiens–Albert road, surrounded by pleasant fields through which a stream wound its way. Everywhere the signboards were red, and a military policeman, authorized to secure obedience to the rules thereon, slowed down every motorcar on its way through the village, as though Sir Henry Rawlinson lay sick of a fever, so anxious were his gestures and his expression of “Hush! do be careful!”
The army commander seemed to me to have a roguish eye. He seemed to be thinking to himself, “This war is a rare old joke!” He spoke habitually of the enemy as “the old Hun” or “old Fritz,” in an affectionate, contemptuous way, as a fellow who was trying his best but getting the worst of it every time. Before the battles of the Somme I had a talk with him among his maps, and found that I had been to many places in his line which he did not seem to know. He could not find them very quickly on his large-sized maps, or pretended not to, though I concluded that this was “camouflage,” in case I might tell “old Fritz” that such places existed. Like most of our generals, he had amazing, overweening optimism. He had always got the enemy “nearly beat,” and he arranged attacks during the Somme fighting with the jovial sense of striking another blow which would lead this time to stupendous results.
