CHAPTER XII
"THE BEST OF LUCK"
"A week later Ralph Setley was given his commission and appointed to the Tank Service. He shrewdly suspected that the colonel of the Wheatshires had put in a strong recommendation on his behalf, and in this surmise he was not mistaken.
With the commission ten days' leave was granted to enable the newly fledged subaltern to obtain his kit, and in high spirits Ralph set out for England.
He parted with his former comrades with genuine regret. Despite danger, discomforts, and the rough life he had had a rattling good time in the ranks. Looking back he dwelt only on the bright side of a Tommy's existence. The men of his late platoon were equally hearty and embarrassingly outspoken in their appreciation of Ralph's good luck, because he deserved it. It was not a case of promotion through favouritism: individual merit and devotion to duty had earned a fitting reward.
At Boulogne he alighted in company with hundreds of officers and men, the former clad in "warms," the latter in goatskin coats with the trench mud adhering to their uniforms and boots. All were in high good humour, for were they not bound back to Blighty. A long hospital train had come in, and hale and wounded were cheek by jowl until they set out on the sea-journey—the former by returning transports, the latter in the distinctively painted hospital ships that are occasionally marked down as victims by the recreant and despicable U-boat pirates.
"Hullo, Setley!"
Ralph stopped and turned his head, unable at first to locate the direction from which the hail proceeded.
A man lying on a stretcher resting on the platform had attracted his attention. Ralph failed to recognize the voice, nor could he recognize the speaker. The latter was partly covered with a blanket. His left arm was bandaged, while his head was swathed with dressings to such an extent that only the nose and one eye were visible.
"Hullo, yourself!" replied Setley. "Sorry, but I can't recognize you."
"What, forgotten your old platoon sergeant?" rejoined the wounded man.
"Sergeant Ferris!" exclaimed Ralph. "Why, we were told that you had been done in—blown to bits."
"Not so very far wrong," replied Ferris, as Ralph placed a cigarette between the sergeant's lips and lighted it. "I copped it properly. Lifted off my feet by a shell, then a machine-gun played the deuce. I got in the next night and here I am."
Ferris's brief statement hardly did justice to the man's grit. The calf of the right leg had been pulverized by half a dozen machine-guns bullets, although the shin bone had escaped injury. Two bullets had completely pierced the left ankle. These wounds, combined with shell-shock, rendered the sergeant unconscious. When he came to, the Wheatshires had retired to the captured second line trench and he found himself in the open. Indomitably he started to crawl back. Every inch of the way was fraught with agony. At length he approached a sunken road, but just as he was about to drag himself over the edge a sniper shot him through the chest. At the time he was almost unaware of the fact, except that he felt a sharp twinge, which he put down to a scratch from part of his equipment, but when he gained the sunken lane he again swooned from loss of blood.
Upon regaining consciousness he found that it was night. A burning thirst gripped his throat, and increased his physical torments. Doggedly he began to crawl again, although he could hardly hold his head up clear of the mud. The contents of a water-bottle that had belonged to a dead German revived him considerably, and in spite of frequent rests his progress along the sunken lane was slowly and steadily maintained, until through sheer exhaustion he fell into a fitful sleep.
With daybreak his troubles increased. The Huns begun shelling the sunken road, while the British guns also began to pound the same spot. Crawling into a crater Ferris hugged the muddy earth, expecting every minute to be blown to atoms by the bursting high explosives. It was then that he received a scalp wound and a fragment of shell in his wrist. Throughout the long-drawn day he lay in his frail shelter while the mutual "strafe" continued. At night he resumed his pilgrimage of agony and finally reached the British lines to find that his regiment had been relieved by the Downshires.
"Yes," he continued, puffing contentedly at the cigarette Ralph had given him. "I'm just off to Blighty for a rest cure, then I guess I'll be back in time for the Final Push. Wouldn't miss that for worlds, and the boys are doing great things, I hear. Where are you off to, Setley? Blighty, too. You're mighty lucky to get away. Some chaps have been months out here without having a sniff of home. Got a commission, eh? Well, sir, the best of luck."
Two bearers raised the stretcher and Sergeant Ferris was borne off on another stage of the journey of pain, yet happy at the thought that a guerdon awaited him—the sight of his native land.
The Cross-Channel passage was accomplished in safety, thanks to the efficient escort provided by the Senior Service, and just as it was getting dark Ralph landed at Folkestone. The train from Charing Cross conveying leave-expired men had just arrived, and the double stream of troops, some with their faces Francewards, others with their backs to the Front for a few brief days, jostled on the landing-stage.
"Blimey, if it ain't young Setley!" exclaimed a well-known voice. "'Ere, Aldy, where are yer?"
And Ginger Anderson gripped Ralph's hand and jerked it like a pump-handle.
"So they let yer off? Lucky blighter! you've got your leave to come. We've 'ad ours, worse luck."
"Cheer-o!" was Alderhame's greeting. "How are things?"
Briefly Ralph explained the nature of his hurried visit home.
"Told you so," said Alderhame. "I knew it meant a pip on your collar. Well, the best of luck."
"Judging by the number of times I've been wished that I ought to have it," rejoined Ralph. "And I believe I was born on a Friday."
"Suppose we ought to salute?" said Ginger.
"I believe the idea is that one salutes the King's uniform, and I haven't got it yet," replied Ralph.
"You salute the uniform not the man," agreed Alderhame.
"Don't know so much abart that," added Ginger reminiscently. "I got seven days C.B. for not saluting my company officer, an' e was in plain clothes; so 'ow abart it? If it's the bloomin' uniform you salutes then why the dooce don't a Tommy kow-tow to every blessed uniform he sees in a tailor's shop?"
"Give it up," declared Sergeant Alderhame. "Well, Ralph, we'll be sorry to lose you, but jolly glad you've pulled off a commission. With the Tanks, too. That's good business. If there's a chance and you're want of a sergeant then you might bear in mind your old pal."
"I won't forget," replied Setley. "So long."
"Shan't be sorry to get across ter France," declared Ginger. "Not that I want ter find myself in those blinkin' trenches: the chap wot swears 'e likes that sort o' life is a bloomin' prevaricator. When we get a move on it's different. But wot I wants ter get across for is a good square bust-out: bully beef an' spuds. Honest, I ain't 'ad me teeth inside a tater the whole time I've bin 'ere. Fed up with Blighty, that's wot I am."
"You're not the only one who had to go without potatoes," added Alderhame. "There's an artificial shortage everywhere; those rascally profiteers have been at it again. Just fancy, our little town was quite without spuds, and yet a neighbouring landowner had thirty tons of potatoes under straw—to feed his brothers later on."
"His brothers?" queried Ralph.
"Ay," continued Alderhame, with a laugh. "In other words, his pigs."
The order to "Fall in" ended the interview. The heavily laden Tommies, bent under the weight of their packs and equipment, prepared to embark while Setley made his way to the train.
The next few days passed only too quickly. Hurried visits to the Stores, receiving the congratulations of his numerous acquaintances, modestly relating his adventures to his admiring relatives and going into dozens of personal matters that claimed his attention—these were but a few of the things that occupied the young second-lieutenant's time. The while he was consumed with impatience to take up his new duties. Reports from the Front hinted of important events in the immediate future. Something big was in the air. A "push," long-promised and compared with which the previous operations, magnificent though they were, would be entirely dwarfed, was imminent. At last the British Empire, ever backward in preparation, had more than caught up with her Germanic rival, and with quiet confidence millions of the subjects of King George awaited the news that at last the Huns were being thrown back towards the banks of the Rhine.