Eric spoke to us for perhaps five minutes, sitting his horse like a graven image, with the last rays of the setting sun glinting upon his burnished equipment. ("Protective dinginess" was anathema in Eric's battalion.) Around him, steel-helmeted, perfectly aligned, motionless, stood his men. It was characteristic of their commander that he did not preface his address with the order that they should stand at ease. All ranks remained rigidly at attention while he spoke.
I need not repeat his words. It is enough to say that, having heard them, I, for one, would willingly have followed the speaker anywhere he chose to lead me, without a thought (for all my fundamental convictions on the subject) of limited objectives, or artillery time-tables, or other mechanical hindrances to free fighting. He moved his men, too—representatives of the dourest and most undemonstrative element of the dourest and most undemonstrative nation in the world. I could see the effect of his words, in the glow of tanned faces, in the setting of square jaws, in the further stiffening of sturdy, rigid bodies. It was hard to decide which to be most proud of—the leader, or the men. I glowed inwardly as my eye ran down the motionless ranks. Great hearts! Great stuff! And, above all, representative stuff—truly representative, at last! They were not of the Regular Army type, nor the Territorial type, nor Kitchener's Army type. They were of the National Army—Britain in Arms—voluntary Arms—The Willing Horse, reinforced and multiplied to his most superlative degree.
Five minutes later A Company were streaming down the road in fours, Eric striding at their head with the company commander and adjutant. He had sent his horse back to the transport lines, and was "foot-slogging" exultantly with his men. I returned to the farm kitchen. I entered rather suddenly. Our newly-appointed assistant adjutant was sitting at the table, with his head buried in his arms. His back was to the door.
I tripped heavily upon the door-sill. Roy sat up hurriedly, and busied himself with the papers before him.
"Everything cleared up now?" I asked briskly, slipping off my heavy marching equipment.
"Yes, sir," replied a muffled voice—"very nearly."
"In that case," I continued, with great heartiness, "we can get away almost immediately. I am expecting our relief here in five minutes."
I babbled on a little longer, to give him time to recover. Presently he turned upon me, and spoke. His face was flushed—absurdly like his mother's when something had roused her chivalrous indignation.
"Uncle Alan, it's a rotten shame! I had a wonderful scheme all mapped out! It was in Orders, too! We had marked down all sorts of cushy spots for sniping Boche machine guns from. I had an aeroplane map of our sector, with Thiepval, and Beaumont Hamel, and everything! Now, my poor chaps are all sent back to their companies, where they will be treated like dirt; and—I am given a job as assistant office boy!"
It is impossible to furnish adequate comfort to a man who has been deprived unexpectedly of his first independent command. I merely patted Roy's shoulder, and said gruffly—
"Discipline, Discipline, Discipline, lad! That's the only thing that matters!"
Roy sat up at once. He was a soldier, through and through.
"I beg your pardon, sir," he said. "I am afraid I was mixing up Major Laing with Uncle Alan! That wasn't the game, was it? My error! It shan't occur again." He smiled resolutely. "I think everything is in order now. Shall I hand these files over to the Orderly-room sergeant?"
"Righto!" I said. "Was that a despatch rider I saw at the door just now?"
"Yes—from Brigade Headquarters. He left two messages."
"Did you give him a receipt for them?"
"No. He slung them in and bolted off. I expect Brigade Headquarters are on the move, and he didn't want to lose touch with them."
"Never mind! See what they are about."
Roy opened the first envelope, and extracted a field despatch-form. He glanced at it, and grinned.
"It's lucky we got this before going up into the line!" he observed; and read aloud:
The expression "Dud" must no longer be employed in Official Correspondence.
"It's a memo from Olympus," I explained: "They mean well, but their sense of proportion is not what it might be. And the next article?"
Roy did not reply. I looked up. His face was as white as chalk. He was breathing heavily through his nose, staring in a stupefied fashion at the flimsy pink slip in his hand.
"My God!" he muttered; "My God! It'll break his heart."
"What on earth's the matter, old man?" I leaned across the table. Roy thrust the despatch towards me.
"From Divisional Headquarters," he said, mechanically. "The Brigade Major has sent it on."
The message was quite brief:
Lt.-Col. E. F. B. Bethune, D.S.O., commanding Second Battalion, Royal Covenanters, will return home forthwith and report to War Office.
Pinned to the despatch was a hastily scrawled covering slip from the Brigade Major:
Passed to you, for immediate compliance, please.
The next thing that I remember was Roy's voice:
"They've done it on him! The dirty dogs! They're sending him home! Did you—know?"
"No! Yes! Well, I was half afraid of it. I knew the people higher up were getting a bit restive: in fact, I tried to warn him only this afternoon. But I never dreamed they would strike back at a moment like this. You are right, Roy—it will break his heart." (It was the second occasion upon which I had employed that phrase within the last hour.)
Another thought struck Roy.
"You are in command now!" he said.
"I suppose so; but not until this despatch is actually delivered to the Colonel."
We were silent again. We were both picturing the same scene, I fancy. Presently Roy said:
"If only it had been delayed in some way!"
I nodded.
"Even for a day!—"
"Even for an hour!—"
"Even for ten minutes! We should have been gone out of this place, and they would not have got us until the show was over!"
Our eyes met, then dropped hurriedly. We had read one another's thoughts. Discipline, Discipline, Discipline!
Roy picked up the two despatches, folded them, and put them mechanically into the pocket of his field despatch-book. Then he cleared his throat huskily. I found myself doing the same.
"Look here!—" we began both at once.
A cheery voice interrupted us:
"Good evening, sir. Is this Caterpillar Farm?"
We both jumped, like detected conspirators.
In the doorway stood a subaltern, saluting, with the totem of the Royal Mid-Mudshire Regiment stencilled upon his tin bowler.
"Come in," I said. "This is the place you want. I presume you have come to take over?"
About midnight, the Orderly-room Staff filed through the ghostly streets of Albert, to the music of innumerable big guns working up to their final spasm. At their head marched a silent major and a preoccupied assistant adjutant.
Next morning, just after dawn, the Second Royal Covenanters went raging to the opening attack of the greatest battle yet fought in the history of warfare. We were led into action by our Commanding Officer, Eric Bethune.