“‘E was some man,” one of the bearers was saying; “but ‘e’s too ‘eavy. They ‘adn’t ought to ‘ave brought ‘im out.” Then I caught sight of Dick’s gray hair Beneath his half-shut lids his eyes still seemed to twinkle, mocking at anything good that might be said about him.
They told how, when within reach of safety, he had gone back to find the missing man. He had been gone two hours, when something was seen moving behind our wire. Just as they challenged, they recognized him by his great height. He was half-carrying, half-dragging the missing chap who had lost his way through being blinded in the encounter with the patrol. They went out to help him in with his burden. When they got to him, he said, “Boys, I’m done.” After he’d spoken he just crumpled up. Blood was trickling from his mouth and, when they unbuttoned his tunic, it was sticky. Before they could bind him he pegged out.
As I gazed down at him in the early morning twilight I could guess exactly what had happened—just as surely as if his lips had moved to tell me: he had been frightened to go back, so he went.
He had wanted to go straight for her. Because he’d feared that his loneliness might trap him into beastliness, he’d come back six days ahead of time to meet his death. I wonder how much she’ll care. Out here one continually wonders that about the women men spend their hearts on, idealizing them into an impossible perfection. Would she have, turned her pretty back on him if he had lived to meet her? No matter, Dick; to have gone straight, even for the sake of a delusion, was worth while.
III
The larks are singing above the melting mists and there’s a sense of peace in the air. One by one the signallers tumble up the dug-out stairs; they stand in the trench yawning, stretching themselves and breathing in the golden coolness. Very lazily they set to work preparing breakfast. They have to be careful lest any smoke escapes and gives away our post to the enemy. If once the Hun suspected we were here, it wouldn’t take him long to knock us out. They’ll be bringing me in some stewed tea presently; I can hear the bacon sizzling. I wish there was some water to wash with; but we gave must of ours to the wounded last night.
I was in England this spring when the big Hun drive against Paris started. I’d just recovered from being wounded and directly I heard the news, commenced moving heaven and earth to get back. Heaven and earth didn’t require much moving—men were too badly needed. I reported back to my reserve depot on a Wednesday and within the hour was told that I could proceed on the next draft leaving for France. I was given a two days’ leave to collect my kit, and permission to join the draft at the London station.
That London leave is curiously blurred in my memory. It was only my body that was in England; my soul was in France. I rushed from tailors to bankers, from bankers to bootmakers, from bootmakers to lunches and theatres; I met people and laughed with people and said “Good-bye” to people, but there was nothing real in anything that I saw or did. In imagination I saw myself on the Amiens road fighting. “Our backs are to the wall,” Sir Douglas Haig had told us. “The Canadians will advance or fall with their faces to the foe”—that was how my Corps Commander’s special order had run. Every moment that I was not there with the chaps seemed shameful. If we were beaten back it seemed that it would be my fault—one more man in the line might make all the difference.