HOW TO BECOME A TOWN-MAJOR.
Through large and luminous glasses Second-Lieut. St. John regards this War and its problems. He is a man of infinite jobs. There are few villages in France of which he has not been Town Major. Between times he has been Intelligence Officer, Divisional Burial Officer, Divisional Disbursing Officer, Salvage Officer, Claims, Baths, Soda-water and Canteens Officer.
He was once appointed Town-Major of some brick-dust, a rafter and two empty bully-beef tins—all of which in combination bore the name of a village. He assumed his duties with a bland Pickwickian zest, which did good to the heart. He had boards painted.
| THIS IS BLANK VILLAGE ↓ |
said one aggressively, and
| TO THE TOWN-MAJOR OF BLANK → |
said another. A third read,
| TO THE INCINERATOR ← |
though there was nothing there to incinerate and (incidentally) no incinerator. "HORSES," shouted another didactically, "MUST NOT TROT THROUGH THE MAIN STREET." That there was no street there at all did not detract from the splendour of his notices, on which he spent much paint and happiness.
With the slightest encouragement he would have placarded that arid wilderness with "NO SMOKING IN THE LIFTS," and "BEWARE OF PICKPOCKETS," but he had small encouragement, and so he contented himself with a final placard which warned the troops against riding through standing crops and occupying the houses of civilians without permission from the Town-Major.
Still, no one becomes a Town-Major without some sort of claim to the post.
Second-Lieut. St. John's first appearance in Armageddon took place during "peace-time warfare." An unpleasant and quite unnecessary little bulge in the trench-line, known as the Toadstool, was manned by the platoon of which he found himself second-in-command. It is rumoured that a Hun patrol, crawling to the edge of our parapet, saw in the ghastly glare of a Verey light the benign and spectacled countenance of Second-Lieut. St. John staring amiably across No Man's Land, and came to the hasty conclusion that they had made a mistake as to direction, since here was obviously one of their own officers of the Herr Professor type. Rumour adds that they retired to their own lines and were promptly shot for cowardice.
Certain it is that on that particular night Second-Lieut. St. John did a thing the full details of which are now revealed to the Intelligence Corps for the first time. He fired a Verey light. It pleased him enormously. The sense that he, and he alone, was the cause of all those sliding shadows and that flood of greenish light in No Man's Land went to his head like strong drink. He fired another and another and another.... The Hun was puzzled at this departure from routine, and opened a morose machine-gun fire which skimmed the top of the parapet and covered Second-Lieut. St. John with earth from shattered sandbags. He went on firing Verey lights in a sort of bland ecstasy till his supply ran out, when he went to his Company Commander's dug-out for more. He filled his pockets with fresh ammunition, went back to his post, and began firing again. The first light was mauve. He almost clapped his hands at it, and fired the second. It was pink. The third was yellow, the fourth scarlet, and the fifth emerald green.
"The Crystal Palace," said Second-Lieut. St. John, "isn't in it." And then, because his watch had ended, he handed over to another yawning subaltern and went to bed.
Over miles and miles of country wild-eyed gunners were glaring into the night and asking each other blasphemous questions. What did it mean?
"It must be Huns," said the British gunners; "they're coming over."
"That is without doubt an English signal," said the enemy. "We will prepare for an attack."
Then the Hun gunners suddenly made up their minds to be on the safe side, and they put down a tremendous barrage on to No Man's Land.
"Told you so; they're on to our front line," said we, and put down a tremendous barrage on to No Man's Land.
A Hun sentry, waking with a start, sounded the gas alarm. It was taken up all along the German line and overheard by a vigilant British sentry, who promptly set himself to make all possible noise with every possible means.
Old French ladies in villages twenty miles back from the line lay all that night hideous in respirators. Anxious Staffs rang up other anxious Staffs. Gunners questioned the infantry. The infantry desired information from the gunners. All along the line the private soldier was jolted from that kind of trance which he calls "getting down to it," and was bidden to stand to till morning.
And our Mr. St. John, who was a new and superfluous officer and liable to be overlooked, slept through it all with a fat smile.
It was after that that they made him a Town-Major.