A LITTLE LOOT.
It was at the time when men still imagined that to be a pivotal man in some way enhanced their chances of being demobilised that an abnormal wave of acquisitiveness passed over us. Before it passed, I regret to say, it hovered, chiefly on account of the prospect of a speedy return home and the desire to take back some kind of trophy to satisfy the still small voice of inquiry concerning papa and the Great War.
The very first day after we had arrived in the most unimportant village imaginable (our usual luck), Roley, the fattest subaltern on record, lurched into the room and told us of the discovery of a wonderful trainload of abandoned Bosch material, Being a Regular soldier, acquisitiveness runs through his whole being, of course, and he gave us a most glowing account of the wonders to be found. "Full of things," he cried, "coal, Bosch beds, field-guns and souvenirs—hundreds of 'em."
I know no rabbit that could have pricked up his ears quicker than did the pivotal men at the sound of that magic word. "Hail, Roley!" we cried; "we who are about to be demobilised salute you!"
That evening a select conclave of super-scroungers met with great solemnity. Beds for the men and coal for all—certainly, and then we would start collecting. By the morrow each man slept in luxury, while subalterns from other companies came in to warm themselves by our roaring fires. Not till then did we feel justified in turning our thoughts to the furnishing of the baronial hall at home.
Some day, we pivotal men are still ready to believe, when demobilisation is nearly complete we shall return to our bowler hats and civic respectability, but meantime, let me tell you, respectable elderly subalterns enjoy things like clambering over a forbidden Bosch train in search of loot. When we had climbed to the end of the trucks and were thoroughly dirty, we found we had done very badly. The souvenirs were there all right, but no matter how interesting and desirable it may be, you simply cannot pack up a field-gun and send it home—the tail part does stick out so.
Chardenal and I had picked up the best thing we could find, brass cartridge cases (about three feet high) of a 5·9 gun, and some shorter eight-inch affairs. It was hard work. I carried four of the former and Chardenal carried two of each, and we looked as if we had come to mend a main drain. Not having been in the Army long enough to have lost all sense of shame, Chardenal began by trying to hide his cases under his British warm. His biggest effort at concealment was made when passing the sentry of the Brigade Headquarters' guard, and the noise he made doing it brought the whole guard out. However, being sentries, they took very little notice of what we did, except that the N.C.O. in charge certainly did pick up one of the dropped cases and hand it to Chardenal. This was after I had tried to help him and we had dropped the whole lot.
After this Chardenal gave up all idea of concealment and tried to express by his carriage that he accepted no responsibility whatever for the souvenirs. He didn't want the things, not he! They were there, certainly, and—well, yes, he was carrying them, but why he was carrying them (here he would have shrugged his shoulders if he could) he really couldn't tell you; it was a matter of absolute indifference to him, anyway. Histrionically I have no doubt it was a great piece of work, but the only possible inference anybody could have drawn was that he might have been carrying them to oblige me—which I resented.
Heavens, how our arms ached, for it was over two miles to the billet! A collision of milk-trains could hardly have made more noise than we did as we clashed and clanged down the main street. Of course we met everybody we knew. People we hadn't seen for years, people we didn't like, people who didn't like us—all seemed to have been paraded especially for the occasion.
We got home in the end, and it was a great triumph. The only unenthusiastic person was Mr. Brown, my batman, who surveyed the things in silence, betokening that he knew quite well he would be called upon to sew them up in sacking and label them "Officer's Spare Kit, c/o Cox and Co." Then he looked sadly at my soiled tunic and my British warm and asked if I had carried them far.
"Over two miles," I replied proudly. "Pity," he said; "there's a whole dump of them at the bottom of the garden here."
There the matter might have ended if the fat Roley had not lurched up again the next day with a steel box containing a dial-sight off a field-gun. The dial-sight was a complicated affair of prisms and lenses which probably cost the Bosch about sixty pounds, and we felt a little sick at having overlooked such a find.
"Awful job I had too," he went on. "Some fellows were seen yesterday taking stuff away and they've put a sentry on the train."
"Serve them right," we said.
Next day we returned to the trucks to try again. The sentry was engaged in a little conversation, and whilst Chardenal took his photograph (ostensibly for The Daily Snap as "Sentry Guarding a Train") I slipped behind the trucks, opened a couple of lids in the tails of some field-guns, picked out two cases of sights and hurried off. Chardenal joined me later and, concealing our swag under our British warms, we walked as quickly as we could until the Brigadier stopped and had a little chat with us about things in general. And there we had to stand for a quarter of an hour on a freezing afternoon with two fingers holding the box and the other fingers holding the coat down to effect better concealment. Chardenal was in so much pain and wore such an expression of agonized innocence that the Brigadier wanted him to come into headquarters until he felt better.
"Well, what have you got?" asked Carfax, another candidate for demobilisation, when we finally got back and showed him the cases.
"Only two?" he cried, "and you promised me one!" We said things.
"What lenses are they?" he asked.
"I don't know," said Chardenal, "but, whatever's the heaviest kind, that's the kind we've brought."
And we opened the boxes and they were empty.
The baronial hall will remain unfurnished. I'm fed up with the whole business.
L.
Farmer (to land-girl, who has been sent to feed the pigs). "WHY HAVE YOU BROUGHT THE SWILL BACK?"
Land Girl. "WELL, THEY WERE ASLEEP AND LOOKED SO COMFY—I SIMPLY HADN'T THE HEART TO DISTURB THEM."