Red and Black

by Grace S. Richmond

It was not the last ditch, but the first one, to which they had come this night. The trench was like other trenches, but they had not been in a front-line trench before; somehow it seemed different. The troops whose place they had taken were worn and dog-weary, they had quitted the place with evident satisfaction; they had held it five days after they had expected to be relieved—it was a mighty good place to get out of. And now, it was the new arrivals’ turn to face the music of the shells and the machine-gun fire and the snipers’ bullets—and all the rest that was waiting for them. Their chance had come at last.

Black had been ordered to stay in the rear, but he had courteously disputed the order, had had it out with his superior officer and had been told to go along. This, he understood, was a mere matter of form, to try him out. A chaplain had a perfect right to go where he would with his men, provided he had the nerve. And why shouldn’t Black have the nerve? He had been cultivating it for a good many years now, and having been born in Scotland he had started out with rather more than his share of it in the beginning. Besides, are shot and shell the only things to try what a man is made of?

The men in the trench liked having their chaplain with them; there could be no doubt of that, though they by no manner of means said so. They hadn’t been expecting to have him accompany them to the very Front, and when he came along as a matter of course they were glad of it. His uniform by now was quite as mud-stained and worn as theirs; the only difference was that they were expecting to get bullet holes in theirs, while his, they considered, with any sort of luck would be kept intact. Even so, he was a good sport to stay by until the very last moment, and they appreciated it. He was a comfortable sort to have around. He wasn’t old enough to be the father of any of them, but he was something like an older brother. And there was one thing about him they very definitely enjoyed, and that was his smile. It wasn’t a broad grin, but it was a mighty nice one, and when any man had said something that brought that pleasant laugh to Bob’s lips, that man always felt decidedly warm and happy inside. Because—well—the chaplain didn’t go around grinning conscientiously at everybody all the while, and his smile wasn’t the easiest thing in the world to win. Yes, the secret is out—they called him “Bob” behind his back, and they called him that because they liked him in that capacity of elder brother. To his face they called him “Parson.”

It was very still and dark in the trench; the raid was to start with the opening of the barrage which would cover the advance. Night—and darkness—and quiet—and the hour before dawn at which the courage of the sons of men is at its lowest—no wonder that hearts beat fast and faces slackened colour beneath the tan, and the minutes at once crawled and raced. They were unquestionably nervous, these boys, hard as they tried to keep cool as veterans. How would they acquit themselves?—that was the thing that worried them. For the fact was that in this particular company there was not one who had ever seen actual warfare; they were all yet to be tried.

Black went from one to another, taking whispered messages, hastily scrawled notes, which they gave to him, and making clear his understanding of the various requests. They all wanted to shake hands with him, seeming to feel that this was the proper farewell to take of him who was to stay behind. He wasn’t armed, though he wore a helmet and gas mask, like themselves; his hands were free to take their consignments, as his spirit was free to put courage into them. Not that they realized that he was doing it; all they knew was that somehow after they had had a word with him, and felt that warm handshake of his, they knew that they were stronger. He believed in them—they understood that—and they meant to measure up. That was about what his presence amounted to, which was quite enough.

One boy, a slender fellow, not long out of hospital where he had been sent for a run of an epidemic disease, came to Black at almost the last moment with a diffident question. “Parson,” he whispered, “I want you to do something for me. If I—if I should get scared out there—or anything—and the boys should know about it—and it got around—or anything—I—I—wish you’d see it didn’t get back to my Dad. He—always said I’d get over bein’—shaky—when the time came. But—Parson, would you think it was awful wrong to—lie about it for me a little? You see, it would cut Dad up like everything—and I couldn’t bear——”

Black put his lips close to the young ear. “I won’t have to lie, Joe,” he said. “I haven’t the least doubt of you—not the least. Do you get that? I’m telling you the absolute truth.”

In the darkness Joe smiled. After a moment he whispered back. “Well, I guess I’ll have to buck up,” he said.

“You’ve bucked up now,” came back the whisper, and Black’s hand clasped his arm tight for an instant. “What a muscle you’ve got, Joe!” he declared.

The arm stiffened, the muscle swelled. “You bet,” agreed the boy proudly, and hitched up his cartridge belt. “That’s what trainin’ does to a fellow. Well—good-by, Parson.”