THE QUEST OF THE V. C.
By A. Byers Fletcher
There was tumultuous cheering in the ranks of the Irish Guards somewhere in France. Sergeant O’Reilly, V. C., had returned to the trenches. Two months before, Private O’Reilly had, with a scorching-hot machine-gun, held, single-handed, an important trench after all his comrades had fallen. Incidentally, he had also saved the life of an officer, who lay wounded and exposed on the parapet of the trench. His was but one of many such brave deeds which occurred almost daily along that terrible front, but O’Reilly’s deed had the advantage of being conspicuous. Hence his two-months’ leave, his journey to London, and his reception at Buckingham Palace, where the King himself pinned the little bronze cross to his khaki jacket. Hence, his public reception in his native village of Tullameelan, where they hung garlands of flowers about his neck, and his old mother wept tears of joyful pride. Hence, too, his return with the sergeant’s stripes. The story of the honours heaped upon him had been duly chronicled and illustrated in the press, and had preceded his return to the trenches. Hence, his joyful reception by the regiment.
Private Finnessy and Private Moloney had been among the first to grasp the hero’s hand, and had joined heartily in the vociferous cheering, but now that affairs had again resumed their normal round, these two companions sat at the bottom of the trench, smoking thoughtfully.
“O’Reilly’s a brave man,” said Finnessy, then added, after a pause, “the lucky devil!”
“I believe ye,” replied Moloney.
“And he only five feet sivin,” continued Finnessy.
“With one punch,” said Moloney, contemplating his hairy fist, “I could lift him into the inemy’s trenches!”
“Do ye mind how all the girls in Tullameelan kissed him?” said Finnessy.
“I know one girl there that didn’t!” said Moloney hotly.
“And I know another!” as hotly replied Finnessy.
“The papers are nothin’ but lyin’ rags,” said Moloney.
“I believe ye,” said Finnessy.
Viciously whistled the bullets across the top of the trench, and a shell or two whined overhead, unheeded by the comrades, long accustomed to the sound.
“But I’m not denyin’,” said Finnessy, after a pause, “that the little brown cross is a great timptation to anny girl.”
“It is that!” agreed Moloney.
· · · · · · ·
“At five o’clock!” the whisper ran along the trench. Since three o’clock the guns massed on the hills behind them had been sending a shrieking death-storm into the enemy’s trenches in front of the Irish Guards. At five, promptly, the storm of shell would cease. At a given signal the men would clamber out over the parapet, make their way through the openings in the wire entanglements, and rush the trenches before them. There was no outward excitement. The aspect of the men remained unchanged, but one could feel the nervous tension. A young subaltern, near Finnessy and Moloney, glanced occasionally at his wrist watch and smoked his cigarette more rapidly than usual.
“If he falls,” whispered Finnessy to Moloney, “’tis mesilf that will bring him in.”
“You will not,” said Moloney, “I’ve had me eye on him f’r wakes!”
“Ye can have the Major,” said Finnessy.
“I’ll not!” said Moloney, “’twud take a horse to carry him in!”
The batteries ceased firing. A low whistle sounded. The men grasped their rifles with bayonets fixed. Cold steel alone must do the work now. Another whistle. With a hoarse cheer the men climbed out over the front of the trench and the charge was on.
Side by side raced Finnessy and Moloney, with eyes fixed on the young subaltern, who, carrying a rifle, was sprinting on before them. For a few moments it seemed that the batteries had effectually silenced the trenches of the enemy immediately in front. A hundred yards farther and they would be reached. Now, however, from that line of piled earth and barbed wire came the crackling roar of machine-guns. For a moment the men wavered and many fell, but, with a growl, the others rushed on. Fifty yards farther, and then the ground seemed to heave up and hit Finnessy and Moloney. Side by side they lay, with their faces partly rooted in the trampled ground. To their ears came dully the sound of the fierce hand-to-hand fighting beyond them. Slowly they scraped the dirt from their faces and looked at each other.
“Where did they get ye, Finnessy?” asked Moloney.
“In the leg,” groaned Finnessy.
“The same f’r me,” moaned Moloney.
The bullets of the machine-guns still sang over them, and both men began to dig into the soft earth and pile it into a mound in front of their heads.
Now back across the torn ground came the remnant of the charge, for the trenches had not been taken. Some ran, others walked or crawled or were carried, but always over them and among them whirled the leaden death. Soon Moloney and Finnessy were left alone in their little self-made trenches, for none of their retreating comrades had noticed them.
Twilight was fading, when a brilliant idea flashed across the mind of Finnessy. The intensity of the illumination almost dazed him for a moment.
“Moloney,” said Finnessy, “’tis not very sthrong ye’re feelin,’ I’m thinkin’.”
“Ye’er think-tank is overflowin’, shut it off!” growled Moloney.
“Sure, Moloney, ye’er voice is very wake! Ye’ll be faintin’ in a minute!” said Finnessy soothingly.
“I’ll not!” cried Moloney. “What’s eatin’ ye?”
“Poor old boy!” purred Finnessy, “ye’re in a disperate state. Ye must be rescued. I’m goin’ to take ye in!”
“How?” asked Moloney.
“I’m goin’ to take ye on me back and crawl in with ye. It’s me duty to do it, and England expicts every Irishman to do his duty! Me only reward will be ye’er gratitood!” said Finnessy.
Slowly the brilliant idea spread to the mind of Moloney.
“Sure, Finnessy,” said Moloney, “’tis brave and kind of ye, but I can’t accipt ye’er sacrifice. ’Tis ye’ersilf that must be saved. I can hear the trimble in ye’er speech. No one can say that a Moloney iver diserted a friend! I’ll take ye in if I die f’r it!”
“Don’t be a fool, Moloney, ye know ye’re waker than I am!”
“I’m not!” cried Moloney. “I’m as sthrong as a horse, and I am goin’ to save ye or perish in the attempt!”
“Ye silfish baste!” howled Finnessy. “Ye’d spoil me chance for the V. C., would ye!”
“Silfish baste ye’ersilf!” roared Moloney. “’Tis me own chance! And in ye’ll go on me back, dead or alive!”
Moloney and Finnessy reached for each other.
Back in the trenches of the Irish Guards the young subaltern, peering through a loop-hole, saw dimly through the growing dusk the struggles of Moloney and Finnessy.
“Poor devils,” he muttered, “must be in agony. Didn’t know any were left alive out there.”
Even as he spoke a wiry figure beside him sprang to the top of the parapet and started toward the struggling men.
Now the enemy’s trench awoke again, but presently, through the zone of death, the subaltern and all who could secure loop-holes saw that wiry figure slowly crawling, crawling back toward their trench, dragging behind him two reluctant but exhausted men.
As the limp bodies of Finnessy and Moloney slid down into the trench a cheer broke forth from the men which drowned the noise of the firing.
Slowly Finnessy and Moloney opened their eyes. The subaltern was speaking:
“Sergeant O’Reilly,” he said, “if such a thing were possible, you deserve and should have another Victoria Cross!”
Again the cheers broke forth.
Finnessy looked at Moloney.
“For the love of Mike!” said Finnessy.
“I believe ye,” said Moloney.