CHAPTER XV
ROUTINE
Day and night, night and day; they came and went again like the pendulum of an eternal clock. They brought us varying fortunes such as a soldier learns to receive in meekness: they grew into weeks and brought the first awful breaths of summer.
Much had happened since the first wonderful rush. Our footing was secure, trenches were deep and safe and numerous, and communicated with support galleries where reinforcements rested. Our guns were in position, every man boasted his own funk-hole. The army was much increased; the wilderness was peopled.
Our field artillery brigade had moved headquarters from the beach to a hillock near the head of Shrapnel Valley. The change left us near the firing line, but, even so, few shells came our way. Several more of our fellows were landed now, and the staff was nearly complete again. But Death had interested himself in us, his eye had looked this way, his fingers had felt among us. First Oxbridge went, then old Bill Eaves followed him; then went Lewis, with the face of a girl. I have told you of Oxbridge; I shall tell you of the others in good time.
That officer of parts, Mr. Sands, was ashore the first day, ahead of anyone, I believe. He was forward observer for the artillery. We saw nothing of him for two or three days, and then he appeared out of the wilderness in most piteous condition. He was painted all over with dust, he was unshaven and unwashed; his clothes had never been off and were crumpled and torn, and a boot had lost its heel. He ran at the nose and seemed worn out, having the look of a man far gone with hunger and thirst. No scabby and dinnerless pariah prowling the streets of Constantinople was in more awful case.
I was doing nothing when he turned up, and I must perforce keep an eye on him. Always I had a liking for the fellow. For whatever his iniquities, Sands was no coward. And if a man be game, he atones for much; when death arrives, can he but take up his hat and say firmly, “I am ready,” will not many items be wiped from the slate? And so I doubt not Sands’s Valkyrie waits him in Valhalla.
But down below here he found sorry welcome. The colonel spoke a few sentences and dismissed him with abrupt nod, leaving me sure he had messed our shooting. The other officers said nothing at all. So he emptied somebody’s water-bottle, and next sat down without a word, as though no more fight remained in him.
But after midday tucker he perked up, for was he not Sands the irrepressible? He found a handkerchief somewhere and then came over in my direction, and sat down affably enough to smile his Sandslike smile.
“You’re still alive?” he said, looking on to the ground, and picking a leaf from a bush to crumple in his hand.