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 Another Random Document on
Scribd Without Any Related Topics
 A few days ago the Skipper whistled me into the orderly room. His table
was littered with parade states, horse-registers and slips of cardboard, all
intermingled. The Skipper himself appeared to be undergoing some heavy
mental disturbance. His forehead was furrowed, his toupet rumpled, and he
sucked his fountain-pen, unconsciously imbibing much dark nourishment.

"Identification cards," he explained, indicating the slips. "Got to carry

'em now. Comply with Italian regulations. Been trying to describe you.
Napoo." He prodded the result towards me. I scanned it and decided he had
got it mixed with horse-registers. It read as follows:—

Born . . . . . . . Yes.
Height . . . . . . 17 hands.
Hair . . . . . . . Bay.
Eyes . . . . . . . Two.
Nose . . . . . . . Undulating.
Moustache . . . . Hogged.
Complexion . . . . Natural.
Special Marks . .

The Skipper pointed to the blank space. "That's what I want to know—
special marks. Got any? Snip, blaze, white fetlock, anything?"

"Yessir," said I. "Strawberry patch on off gaskin."

He sucked thoughtfully at his fountain-pen. "Mmph," he said, "shouldn't

mention it if I were you. Don't want to have to undress in the middle of the
street every time you meet an Intelligence, do you?" I agreed that I did not
—not before June, anyhow. The Skipper turned to the card again and
frowned.

"Couldn't call it a speaking likeness exactly, this little pen-picture of you,

could one? If you only had a photograph of yourself now."

"I have, Sir," said I brightly.

 "Good Lord, man, why didn't you say so before? Here, take this and
paste the thing in. Now trot away."

I trotted away and pasted Valpré's objet d'art on to the card.

Yesterday evening Albert Edward and I were riding out of a certain

Italian town (no names, no pack drill). Albert Edward got involved in a
right-of-way argument between five bullock wagons and two lorries, and I
jogged on ahead. On the fringe of the town was a barrier presided over by a
brace of Carabinieri caparisoned with war material, whiskers and cocked
hats of the style popularised by Bonaparte. Also an officer. As I moved to
pass the barrier the officer spied me and, not liking my looks (as I hinted
before, nobody does), signed to me to halt. Had I an identification card,
please? I had and handed it to him. He took the card and ran a keen eye
over the Skipper's little pen-picture and Valpré's "Portrait Study," then over
their alleged original. "Lieutenant," said he grimly, "these don't tally. This is
not you."

I protested that it was. He shook his head with great conviction, "Never!
The nose in this photograph is straight; the ears retiring; the jaw, normal.
While with you—— [Continental politeness restrained him]. Lieutenant,
you must come with me."

He beckoned to a Napoleonic corporal, who approached, clanking his

war material. I saw myself posed for a firing squad at grey dawn and
shivered all over. I detest early rising.

By this time the corporal had outflanked me, clanking more munitions,
and I was on the point of being marched off to the Bastille, or whatever they
call it, when Albert Edward suddenly insinuated himself into the party and
addressed himself to the officer. "Half a minute, Mongsewer [any foreigner
is Mongsewer to Albert Edward]. The photograph is of him all right, but it
was taken before his accident."

"His accident?" queried the officer.

"Yes," said Albert Edward; "sad affair, shell-shock. A crump burst almost
in his face, and shocked it all out of shape. Can't you see?"
 The Italian leaned forward and subjected my flushed features to a
piercing scrutiny; then his dark eyes softened almost to tears, and he handed
me back my card and saluted.

"Sir, you have my apologies—and sympathy. Good evening."

"Albert Edward," said I, as we trotted into the dusk, "you may be a true
friend but you are no gentleman."

XXXIII

LIONEL TRELAWNEY

Lionel Trelawney Molyneux-Molyneux was of the race of the Beaux.

Had he flourished in the elegant days, Nash would have taken snuff with
him, D'Orsay wine—no less. As it was, the high priests of Savile Row made
obeisance before him, the staff of the Tailor and Cutter penned leaders on
his waistcoats, and the lilies of the field whined "Kamerad" and withered
away.

When war broke out Lionel Trelawney issued from his comfortable
chambers in St. James's and took a hand in it. He had no enthusiasm for
blood-letting. War, he maintained from the first, was a vulgar pastime, a
comfortless revolting state of affairs which bored one stiff, forced one to
associate with all sorts of impossible people and ruined one's clothes.
Nevertheless the West-end had to be saved from an invasion of elastic-sided
boots, celluloid dickeys, Tyrolese hats and musical soup-swallowing. That
was his war-aim.

Through the influence of an aunt at the War Office he obtained a

commission at once, and after a month's joining-leave (spent closeted with
his tailor) he appeared, a shining figure, in the Mess of the Loamshire Light
Infantry and with them adventured to Gallipoli. It is related that during the
hell of that first landing, when boats were capsizing, wounded men being
dragged under by tentacles of barbed wire, machine-guns whipping the sea
to bloody froth, Lionel Trelawney was observed standing on a prominent
part of a barge, his eye-glass fixed on his immaculate field boots, petulantly
remarking, "And now, damn it, I suppose I've got to get wet!"

After the evacuation the battalion went to France, but not even the slush
of the salient or the ooze of Festubert could dim his splendour. Whenever he
got a chance he sat down, cat-like, and licked himself. Wherever he went
his batman went also, hauling a sackful of cleaning gear and changes of
raiment. On one occasion, hastening to catch the leave train, he spurred his
charger into La Bassée Canal. He emerged, like some river deity, profusely
decorated in chick-weed, his eyeglass still in his eye ("Came up like a
blinking U-boat," said a spectator, "periscope first"), footed it back to billets
and changed, though it cost him two days of his leave.

He was neither a good nor a keen officer. He was not frightened—he had
too great a contempt for war to admit the terror of it—but he gloomed and
brooded eternally and made no effort to throw the faintest enthusiasm into
his job. Yet for all that the Loamshires suffered him. He had his uses—he
kept the men amused. In that tense time just before an attack, when the
minute hand was jerking nearer and nearer to zero, when nerves were strung
tight and people were sending anxious inquiries after Lewis guns, S.A.A.,
stretchers, bombs, etc., Lionel Trelawney would say to his batman, "Have
you got the boot and brass polish, the Blanco, the brushes? Sure?" (a sigh of
relief). "Very well, now we'll be getting on," and so would send his lads
scrambling over the parapet grinning from east to west.

"Where's ole Collar and Cuffs?" some muddy warrior would shout after
a shrieking tornado of shell had swept over them. "Dahn a shell-hole
cleanin' his teef," would come the answer, and the battered platoon
chuckled merrily. "'E's a card, 'e is," said his Sergeant admiringly. "Marched
four miles back to billets in 'is gas-mask, perishin' 'ot, all because he'd lost
'is razor an' 'adn't shaved for two days. 'E's a nut 'e is and no error."

It happened that the Loamshires were given a job of crossing Mr.

Hindenburg's well-known ditch and taking a village on the other side. A
company of tanks, which came rolling out of the dawn-drizzle, spitting fire
from every crack, put seven sorts of wind up the Landsturmer gentlemen in
possession; and the Loamshires, getting their first objectives with very light
casualties, trotted on for their second in high fettle, sterns up and wagging
proudly. The tanks went through the village knocking chips off the
architecture and pushing over houses that got in the way; and the
Loamshires followed after, distributing bombs among the cellars.

The consolidation was proceeding when Lionel Trelawney sauntered on

the scene, picking his way delicately through the débris of the main street.
He lounged up to a group of Loamshire officers, yawned, told them how
tired he was, cursed the drizzle for dimming his buttons and strolled over to
a dug-out with the object of sheltering there. He got no further than the
entrance, for as he reached it a wide-eyed German came scrambling up the
steps and collided with him, bows on. For a full second the two stood chest
to chest gaping, too surprised to move. Then the Hun turned and bolted. But
this time Lionel Trelawney was not too bored to act. He drew his revolver
and rushed after him like one possessed, firing wildly. Two shots emptied a
puddle, one burst a sandbag, one winged a weather-cock and one went just
anywhere. His empty revolver caught the flying Hun in the small of the
back as he vaulted over a wall; and Lionel Trelawney vaulted after him.

"Molly's gone mad," shouted his amazed brother-officers as they

scrambled up a ruin for a better view of the hunt. The chase was proceeding
full-cry among the small gardens of the main street. It was a stirring
spectacle. The Hun was sprinting for dear life, Lionel Trelawney hard on his
brush, yelping like a frenzied fox-terrier. They plunged across tangled beds,
crashed through crazy fences, fell head over heels, picked themselves up
again and raced on, wheezing like punctured bagpipes.

Heads of Atkinses poked up everywhere. "S'welp me if it ain't ole Collar

and Cuffs! Go it, Sir, that's the stuff to give 'em!" A Yorkshireman opened a
book and started to chant the odds, but nobody paid any attention to him.
The Hun, badly blown, dodged inside a shattered hen-house. Lionel
Trelawney tore up handfuls of a ruined wall and bombed him out of it with
showers of brickbats. Away went the chase again, cheered by shrill yoicks
and cat-calls from the spectators.
 Suddenly there was an upheaval of planks and brick-dust, and both
runners disappeared.

"Gone to ground, down a cellar," exclaimed the brother-officers. "Oh,

look! Fritz is crawling out."

The white terrified face of the German appeared on the ground level,
then with a wriggle (accompanied by a loud noise of rending material) he
dragged his body up and was on his way once more. A second later Lionel
Trelawney was up as well, waving a patch of grey cloth in his hand.
"Molly's ripped the seat out of his pants," shouted the grand-stand. "Yow,
tear 'm, Pup!" "Good ole Collar and Cuffs!" chorused the Loamshire
Atkinses.

Lionel Trelawney responded nobly; he gained one yard, two yards, five,
ten. The Hun floundered into a row of raspberry canes, tripped and
wallowed in the mould. Trelawney fell on him like a Scot on a three-penny
bit and they rolled out of sight locked in each other's embrace.

The Loamshires jumped down from their crazy perches and doubled to
see the finish, guided by the growlings, grunts, crashing of raspberry canes
and jets of garden mould flung sky-high. They were too late, however. They
met the victor propelling the remains of the vanquished up a lane towards
them. His fawn breeches were black with mould, his shapely tunic shredded
to ribbons; his sleek hair looked like a bird's-nest; his nose listed to
starboard; one eye bulged like a shuttered bow-window; his eye-glass was
not. But the amazing thing about it was that he didn't seem to mind; he
beamed, in fact, and with a cheery shout to his friends—"Merry little
scamper—eh, what?"—he drop-kicked his souvenir a few yards further on,
exclaiming, "That'll teach you to slop soup over my shirt-front, you rude
fellow!"

"Soup over your shirt-front!" babbled the Loamshires. "What are you
talking about?"

"Talking about?" said Lionel Trelawney. "Why, this arch-ruffian used to

be a waiter at Claritz's, and he shed mulligatawny all over my glad-rags one
night three years ago—aggravated me fearfully."
 XXXIV

THE BOOBY TRAP

A generous foe, the soul of chivalry, I am always ready to admit that the
Boche has many good points. For instance, he is—er—er—oh, well, I can't
think of any particular good point just for the moment. On the other hand, it
must be admitted that he has his bad ones also, and one of these is that he
cannot stand success; he is the world's worst winner.

Never does he pull off one of these "victorious retreats" of his but he
needs must spoil the effect by leaving behind all sorts of puerile booby
traps, butter-slides, etc., for the annoyance of the on-sweeping vanquished,
displaying a state of mind which is usually slippered out of one at a dame
school.

Most of his practical jokes are of the fifth of November order and
detonate by means of a neat arrangement of springs, wire and acid
contained in a small metal cylinder.

You open a door and the attached house blows away all round it, leaving
the door in your damaged hand. You step on a duckboard; something goes
bang! and the duckboard ups and hits you for a boundary to leg—and so on,
all kinds of diversions.

Of course you don't really open doors and prance on duckboards; that's
only what he (Jerry) in his simple faith imagines you will do. In reality you
revive memories of the days when as a small boy you tied trip-strings in
dark passages and balanced water-jugs on door-tops; and all the Boche's
elementary parlour-tricks immediately become revealed unto you.
 Not long ago the Hun, thirsting for yet more imperishable laurels, made
a sudden masterly manoeuvre towards the East. Our amateur Staff instantly
fell into the trap, and when battle joined again we found we had been lured
twenty miles nearer Germany.

The Hun had not left things very comfortable for us; most of the cover
had been blown up, and there was the usual generous provision of booby
traps lying about dumbly pleading to be touched off. However, we sheltered
in odd holes and corners, scrounged about for what we could "souvenir"
and made ourselves as snug as possible.

It was while riding out alone on one of these souveniring expeditions

that our William came upon a chaff-cutter standing in what had once been
the stable yard of what had once been a château. Now to a mounted unit a
chaff-cutter is a thing of incredible value. It is to us what a mincing-
machine is to the frugal housewife.

Our own cutter was with the baggage, miles away in the rear, and likely
to remain there.

William slipped off his horse and approached the thing gingerly. It was a
Boche engine, evidently quite new and in excellent trim. This was
altogether too good to be true; there must be a catch somewhere. William
withdrew twenty yards and hurled a brick at it—two, three, four bricks.
Nothing happened. He approached again and tying one end of a wrecked
telephone wire to it, retired behind a heap of rubble and tugged.

The chaff-cutter rocked to and fro and finally fell over on its side
without anything untoward occurring. William, wiping beads from his
brow, came out of cover. There was no catch in it after all. It was a perfectly
genuine bit of treasure-trove. The Skipper would pat his curly head, say
"Good boy," and exalt him above all the other subalterns. Bon—very bon!

But how to get it home? For you cannot carry full-grown chaff-cutters
about in your breeches pockets. For one thing it spoils the set of your pants.
He must get a limber. Yes, but how?
 The country was quick with other cavalrymen all in the souvenir
business. If he left the chaff-cutter in order to fetch a limber, one of them
would be sure to snap it up. On the other hand, if he waited for a limber to
come trotting up of its own sweet will he might conceivably wait for the
rest of the War. Limbers (G.S. Mule) are not fairy coaches.

Our William was up against it. He plunged his hands into his tunic-
pockets and commenced to stride up and down, thinking to the best of his
ability.

In pocketing his right hand he encountered some hard object. On

drawing the object forth he discovered it to be his mother's gift. William's
mother, under the impression that her son spends most of his time lying
wounded and starving out in No-man's land, keeps him liberally supplied
with tabloid meals to sustain him on these occasions—herds of bison
corralled into one lozenge, the juice of myriad kine concentrated in a single
capsule. This particular gift was of peppermints (warranted to assuage thirst
for weeks on end). But it was not the peppermints that engaged William's
young fancy; it was the container, small, metal, cylindrical.

His inspiration took fire. He set the tin under the chaff-cutter, chopped
off a yard of telephone wire, buried one end in peppermints, twisted the
other about the leg of the cutter, mounted his horse and rode for dear life.

When he returned with the limber an hour later, he found three

cavalrymen, two horse-gunners and a transporteer grouped at a respectful
radius round the chaff-cutter, daring each other to jerk the wire.

When William stepped boldly forward and jerked the wire they all flung
themselves to earth and covered their heads. When nothing happened and
he coolly proceeded to load the cutter on the limber they all sat up again
and took notice.

When he picked up the tin and offered them some peppermints they
mounted their horses and rode away.
 XXXV

THE PHANTOM ARMY

I can readily believe that war as performed by Messieurs our ancestors

was quite good fun. You dressed up in feathers and hardware—like
something between an Indian game-cock and a tank—and caracoled about
the country on a cart-horse, kissing your hand to balconies and making very
liberal expenses out of any fat (and unarmed) burgesses that happened
along.

With the first frost you went into winter quarters—i.e. you turned into
the most convenient castle and whiled away the dark months roasting
chestnuts at a log fire, entertaining the ladies with quips, conundrums and
selections on the harpsichord and vying with the jester in the composition
of Limericks.

The profession of arms in those spacious days was both pleasant and
profitable. Nowadays it is neither; it is a dreary mélange of mud, blood,
boredom and blue-funk (I speak for myself).

Yet even it, miserable calamity that it is (or was), has produced its
piquant situations, its high moments; and one manages to squeeze a sly
smile out of it all, here and there, now and again.

I have heard the skirl of the Argyll and Sutherland battle-pipes in the
Borghese Gardens and seen a Highlander dance the sword-dance before
applauding Rome. I have seen the love-locks of a matinée idol being
trimmed with horse-clippers (weep, O ye flappers of Suburbia!) and a
Royal Academician set to whitewash a pig-sty. I have seen American
aviators in spurs, Royal Marines a-horse, and a free-born Australian eating
rabbit. All these things have I seen.
 And of high moments I have experienced plenty of late, for it has been
my happy lot to be in the front of the hunt that has swept the unspeakable
Boche back off a broad strip of France and Belgium, and the memory of the
welcome accorded to us, the first British, by the liberated inhabitants will
remain with us until the last "Lights Out." The procedure was practically
the same throughout.

There would come a crackle of wild rifle-fire from the front of a village;
then, as we worked round to the flank, a dozen or so blue-cloaked Uhlans
would scamper out of the rear and disappear at a non-stop gallop for home.
In a second the street would be full of people, emptying out of houses and
cellars, pressing about us, shaking hands, kissing us and our horses even,
smothering us with flowers, cheering "Vivent les Anglais!", "Vive la
France!" clamouring, laughing, crying, mad with joy.

Grandmères would appear at attic windows waving calico tricolours

(hidden for four long years) while others plastered up tricolour hand-bills
—"Hommage à nos Liberateurs," "God's blessing unto Tommy."

However, touching and delightful though it all might be, it was not
getting on with the war; this embarras des amis was saving the Uhlans'
hide.

Furthermore, though I can bring myself to bear with a certain amount of

embracing from attractive young things, I do not enjoy the salutations of
unshorn old men; and when Mayors and Corporations got busy my native
modesty rebelled, and I would tear myself loose and, with my steed
decorated from ears to croup with flowers, so that I looked more like a
perambulating hot-house than a poor soldier-man, take up the pursuit once
more.

In due course we came to the considerable town of X. All happened as

before. As we popped in at one flank the bold Uhlan popped out at the
other, and the townsfolk flooded the streets. I was dragged out of the saddle,
kissed, pump-handled and cheered while my bewildered charger was led
aside and festooned with pink roses. Tricolours appeared at every window;
handbills of welcome were distributed broadcast. The Mayor and
Corporation arrived at the double, and we struggled together for some
moments while they rasped me with their stubbly beards. When the first
ecstasies had somewhat abated I gathered my troop and prepared to move
again.

"Whither away?" the Mayor enquired, a fine old veteran he, wearing two
1870 medals and the ribbon of the Legion.

"To Z.," said I.

"Ecoutez, donc," he warned. "They are waiting for you there in force,
machine-guns and cannon."

I intimated that nevertheless I must go and have a look-see, at any rate,

and so rode out of town, the vast crowd accompanying us to the outskirts,
cheering, shouting advice, warnings and blessings. In sight of Z. we shed
our floral tributes and, debouching off the highway into the open, worked
forwards on the look-out for trouble.

It came. A dozen pip-squeaks shrilled overhead to cause considerable

casualties among some neighbouring cabbages, and shortly afterwards rifle-
fire opened from outlying cottages. I swung round and tried for an opening
to the north, but a couple of machine-guns promptly gave tongue on that
flank. Another flock of pip-squeaks kicked up the mould in front of us and
some fresh rifles and machine-guns joined in. Too hot altogether.

I was just deciding to give it best and cut for cover when all hostile fire
suddenly switched off, and a few minutes later I beheld light guns on
lorries, machine-guns in motor-cars and Uhlans on horses stampeding out
of the village by all roads east.

The day was mine. Yip, Yip! Bonza! Skoo-kum! Hurroosh! Nevertheless
I was properly bewildered, for it was absurd to suppose that an
overwhelming force of heavily-armed Huns could have been bluffed out of
a strong position by the merest handful of unsupported cavalry. Manifestly
absurd!

I turned about, and in so doing my eye lit on the poplar-lined highway

from X., and I understood. Along the road poured the hordes of an
advancing army, advancing in somewhat irregular column of route, with
banners flying. The head of the column was not a mile distant. The Infantry
must be on my heels, thought I. Stout marching! I grabbed up my glasses,
took a long look and bellowed with laughter. It was not the Infantry at all; it
was the liberated population of X., headed by the Mayor and Corporation,
come out to see the fun, the grandmères and grandpères, the girls and boys,
the dogs and babies, marching, hobbling, skipping, toddling down the pave,
waving their calico tricolours and singing the Marseillaise. I thought of the
Boche fleeing eastward with the fear of God in his soul, and rolled about in
my saddle drunk with joy.
 *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MUD LARKS
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