"Nothing at present, sir. The question of the consumption of Candles,
Tallow dip, Pounds Twenty-four, stolen from our yard by the 940th
Tunnelling Company has come back again with remarks from the Chief
Ordnance Officer at the Base—but it will wait until you come back from
the trenches."
"I'm glad of that," remarked the Captain, rising. "I'm not feeling very strong this morning, and candles, tallow dip—especially lbs. 24 of them—would cause a relapse. Orderly"—he strolled to the door—"my bicycle, please."
A few minutes later he was riding slowly down the road towards the place where there was "a war on." A cool mist hung over the fields on each side of him, and in the early morning stray cobwebs glistening with moisture brushed lightly across his face.
"B'jour, monsieur." A woman standing in the door of a roadside estaminet greeted him as he passed—a woman undisturbed by the guns that at times roared close by; a woman whose house was one concentrated draught, which whistled through what had once been walls and now were holes held together by odd bricks.
He returned the greeting and rode on, while once again the comparison—never far absent from those who live "within range"—came into his mind: the comparison between England and France—between the country which has only learned of war through its soldiers, and the country whose women and children have learned of it first hand, even unto death. All was absolutely silent—the peace and glory of a summer's morning hung over everything, while the smell of the wet clover came faintly to his nostrils. A military policeman at the corner saluted smartly, while a small boy in a little cart drawn by three straining dogs raced him blithely up the village street. At the end of the battered houses still occupied by their owners, and the temporary abode of half a battalion of infantry resting from a spell in the trenches, progression by bicycle became a little harder. Great branches lay across the road, and pits torn out of the pave by bursting shells made steering a trifle intricate; while occasionally one of the many signal wires which had slipped during the night and was hanging low above his head, scraped the top of his steel helmet.
Once more the familiar "B'jour, monsieur"—this time from an old dame who sat day in day out in a corner under a wall selling chocolate. Just above her head, so that by raising her arm she could have touched it, the nose of a "dud" German shell poked out from the brickwork.
Ruin, desolation—and shrouding it all the cool damp mist of seven o'clock in July.
"The very man!" A voice hailed him from behind, and a gunner subaltern materialised. "Are you going up the line?"
"I am—at once." The Sapper placed his bicycle against a heap of sandbags. "What does my dear one desire?
"The accursed Hun placed two large obuses into the Ritz yesterday afternoon. What do you propose to do about it?" They were strolling slowly through the sopping grass.