My dear Charles,—You didn't catch sight of any mention of me in despatches, did you? I have been rather too busy myself to read the list properly, but I did just have time to cast a casual eye over the "H's," and I didn't notice the name of "Henry" standing out in heavy-leaded capitals. It must be an inadvertence, of course. They must have said something about me, as, for instance: "Especially to be remarked is the noble altruism of Lieut. Henry, who on more than one march has been observed to take his pack, containing all his worldly goods, off his back and to hand it without ostentation to some lucky driver of a limber, saying, 'Take it, my lad; your need is greater than mine.'" Or again, referring to my later career: "The pen is mightier than the sword, but Lieut. Henry's indelible pencil, when engaged on official correspondence, is mightier than both." Or at least, at the very beginning of things, I'm quite sure the Mentioner devoted a passing phrase to me: "By the way, I have just received a consignment described on the Movement Order as 'Officer, one, Henry, Lieut.' Speaking frankly as between ourselves, what is it exactly? In any case I would gladly exchange for a dozen tins of bully beef."
Talking of despatches, I see that our old friend the Regimental Anarchist has not escaped notice. I never thought he would, for a less unnoticeable man I don't remember meeting. He is one of those big untidy fellows, very nice for purposes of war and all that, whom not the cleverest adjutant could manage to conceal on a ceremonial parade. His service equipment alone was notorious in the division. While we were still in England he and I used to share a billet. Every night the last thing I saw before going to sleep was the Anarchist trying on a new piece of personal furniture. He had at least a hundred aunts, and each of them had at least a hundred bright ideas; besides which few days went by but he paid a generous visit to the military outfitter. Never in my life shall I forget the sight of him during our last moments at home. While others were stuffing into themselves the last good meal they expected to taste for three years or the duration, he was putting on patent waterproof after patent waterproof. He stepped forth at last, sweating at every pore, and it wasn't raining at the time and didn't look like raining till next winter. The 38-lb. limit prevented his putting more than four coats into his valise, and his method of packing didn't economise space. If there had been any limit, however generous, to the amount of room an officer may occupy in the column of route we'd have had to go abroad without our Anarchist, and a much quieter and more respectable life we'd have had that way.
Even in our earliest days in B.E.F., when we were well behind the firing line, he started playing with fire. Thinking that we shared his low tastes he would gather us round him and lecture us on the black arts.—"This little fellow," he would say, fetching an infernal machine out of his pocket—"this little fellow is as safe as houses provided he has no detonator in his little head. But we will just make sure." A flutter of excitement would pass round the audience as he started unscrewing the top to make sure. "Of course," he'd continue, finding the screw a bit stiff and getting absorbed in his toy—"of course, if there should happen to be a detonator inside, you have only to tickle it and almost anything may happen." While he'd be struggling with the screw, the front row of the audience would be shifting its ground to give the back rows a better view. "You can't be too careful," he'd say, passing it lightly from one hand to the other in order to search for his well-known clasp-knife, "for if you're not careful," he'd explain, tucking the bomb under his arm so as to have both hands free to open the knife—"if you're not careful," he'd say, suddenly letting go the knife in order to catch the bomb as it slid from his precarious hold—"if you're not very careful" (getting to real business with the murderous blade), "very—very—careful...." But none of us were ever near enough by that time to hear what would happen if we weren't (or even if he wasn't).
And then those strange nights in the trenches, when he and I used to be on duty together! I would be waiting in our luxurious, brightly-lit gin-palace of a dug-out for him to join me at our midnight lunch. He'd come in at last, clad in his fleece lining, the only survivor of his extensive collection of overcoats, its absence of collar giving him a peculiarly clerical look. He'd sit down to his cocoa, but hardly be started on the day before yesterday's newspaper (just arrived with the rations) before the private bombardment would begin. I would spring to attention; he would go on reading. "Hush!" I'd say. (Why "Hush!" I don't know.) "What's all that for?" "Me," he'd say, turning to the personal column. And then I'd know that, seizing the opportunity of being unobserved, he'd been out for nocturnal stroll with a handful of bombs, seeking a little innocent pleasure. The gentlemen opposite, not being cricketers themselves or knowing anything about the slow bowler, had, as usual, mistaken him for a trench mortar and were making a belated reply.
Only his servant accompanied him on these jaunts. He was a nice quiet villain, whose lust for adventure had, I always imagine, been long ago satisfied by a dozen or so gentle burglaries in his civilian past. He didn't want to kill people; his job in life was to keep his master alive and well fed. So when the latter went out bombing he thought he might as well go out with him, and occupy himself picking turnips for to-morrow's stew.
When the Anarchist wasn't distributing bombs he was collecting bullets. Being untidy by nature, he didn't particularly care where they hit him, provided they didn't damage his pipe. That was all he cared about, his lyddite and his tobacco. I often wonder how it was he didn't get the two habits of his life mixed up—fill a pipe with H.E., light it and finish off that way. But he didn't; he has just gone on collecting lead, letting it accumulate about his person until it got too heavy to be convenient and then resorting to the nearest hospital to have it removed. I hear he's there now, the result, I gather, of a bit of a show. It was his servant who was walking about that unhealthy field at that imprudent time and found him. One would like to paint a romantic picture of the meeting, but I doubt if there was much romance about it. I am quite sure all the Anarchist cared about was his tobacco pouch and all the servant was interested in was the further collection of vegetables, just in case.
I can see our Anarchist, lying in his little white bed in the hospital, surrounded by his sevenpenny racing novels (with or without covers), his tins of navy-cut (some empty, some full), his fleece lining, his compass, his socks, his field-glasses, his ties, his revolver and his last month's letters (some opened, some not), all jumbled happily together, with his ragged old shaving-brush reigning proudly in the midst. I doubt if he knows he's been "mentioned," for one could never get him to take interest in any news which wasn't "sporting"; possibly he is made suspicious by the uncomfortable presence of unopened telegrams in all corners of his bed. But one thing I do hope, and that is that this bed is, at any rate, not strewn, inside and out, with unexploded hand-grenades.
Yours ever, Henry.