Читать книгу No Man's Land - Herman Cyril McNeile - Страница 11

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It was from the top of the Rock that they watched their evil-smelling boat depart, to plug on northward up the home trail, unperturbed by naval battles or rumours thereof. And it was from the top of the Rock they first saw the smoke of the P. and O., outward bound, on which they were destined to complete the journey. Below lay the bay, dotted with German and Austrian ships caught on the high seas at the outbreak of war; a destroyer was going half-speed towards the Atlantic; a cruiser lay in dock, her funnels smoking placidly. Out towards Algeciras an American battleship, with her peculiar steel trellis turrets, was weighing anchor; and in the distance, across the Straits, Africa, rugged and inhospitable, shimmered in the heat haze of an August day.

“So long.” The gunner subaltern waved a weary hand from his point of vantage, where he was inspecting life with a telescope. “There’s your barge, but she won’t leave till to-morrow. If this goes on for much longer, my nerves will give way under the strain. The excitement is too great.”

It appears that Draycott had forebodings even before he got on board that P. and O. Since then she has become almost historic amongst those of the Regular Army whose abode at the beginning of the war was overseas. Save for the fact that no one was playing the harmonium, or any other musical instrument, the appearance of her decks as they came alongside was reminiscent of one of those delightful pleasure steamers on which one may journey, at comparatively small cost, up and down the Thames. A seething mob of people, almost exclusively composed of the male sex, glared furiously at them and one another—but principally at them—as they came up the gangway, and departed in search of the purser. All the stairs down to the dining saloon were occupied by morose passengers, and an enlivening altercation was in progress between two elderly gentlemen of ferocious aspect anent the remnants of what had once been a cushion. A mild-looking being, closely clutching a tired deck-chair, was descending to the dining saloon, where infuriated men were loudly thumping the tables.

“Good heavens, gentlemen! what do you want?” A haggard purser peered at them from his office. “Berths!” He broke into a shout of maniacal laughter, and then pulled himself together. “The fourteenth stair leading to the engine-room is not taken, but there’s an exhaust pipe passes under it, and it becomes too hot to sit on. There is room for two in a coal bunker which should be empty by to-night; otherwise, the hold, if you can find room.”

“But what’s all the trouble,” they queried peevishly. “Surely——”

“Trouble!” The purser swallowed hard. “We have on board eighty-four generals, two hundred and twenty colonels, and one thousand eight hundred and ninety-one what-nots of junior rank. They have all been recalled from leave; they have all come by this boat. The eighteenth breakfast is now being served—perhaps.” With a dreadful cry he seized the brandy bottle, while they faded slowly and sadly away. There are things too terrible for contemplation....

It was a wonderful trip—that final stage to the Half Way House of Malta. There was the dreadful incident of the short-sighted subaltern who got into a full Colonel’s bed by mistake, when that worthy officer had just gone down on four no trumps redoubled. In vain to point out the similarity of engine-room gratings—in vain to plead short sight. The subsequent scene lingered in the memory for days.

There was the case of the sleep walker, who got loose in the hold, and ambled heavily over four hundred infuriated human sardines, till he finally fell prostrate into what was apparently the abode of spare china.

Last but not least there was the dreadful Case of the Major-General’s Bath. Of this Draycott speaks first hand; he, personally, was an awe-struck spectator. Now the question of baths on that boat was not one to be trifled with. The queue for the pit of a popular play was as nothing to the procession that advanced to the bath in the morning. And the least penalty for sharp practice with regard to one’s turn was death.

Into the bathroom, then, prepared for him by a perspiring Lascar, the Major-General stepped. At the time Draycott did not know he was a Major-General: he was just a supreme being resplendent in a green silk dressing-gown. The door closed, only to open again at once.

“I have forgotten my sponge,” he announced. “I shall not be a moment.” He gazed directly at Draycott, who bowed, choking slightly. It was inconceivable to imagine that the resplendent one thought he might—to put it in the vulgar tongue—pinch his bath. By nature he was a timorous individual, and that green dressing-gown—ye gods! perish the thought.

It was while he waited humbly that the catastrophe occurred. Advancing magnificently came a second being, still more resplendent, in a purple dressing-gown; and he was complete, with towel, sponge, and soap. His eye would have impaled a London taxi-driver, and, scenting trouble, the Lascar made himself scarce.

“It is preposterous to keep people waiting in this manner,” he boomed; “perfectly monstrous.” The next moment the door was shut and bolted, and Draycott followed the Lascar’s example—just in time: green dressing-gown was returning with his sponge. In official parlance, a general action seemed imminent....

It opened with the crash of heavy artillery in the shape of strange and loud expletives of an Indian nature, to be followed immediately by an attack in force on the hostile position. This resulted in a sanguinary repulse, and the attacking party hopped round, apparently in pain, nursing a stubbed toe. The temporary set-back, however, seemed only to raise the morale of the force; and after a further heavy bombardment of a similar nature to the one before, a succession of blows were delivered in rapid succession at all points along the front, which suddenly gave way and the victor was precipitated in some confusion, but triumphant, upon the floor of the captured position.

How true it is, that great utterance of our hand-books on war! “Every leader must bear in mind the necessity of immediately consolidating a newly won position, in order to resist the counter-attack of the enemy, which sooner or later is bound to be launched.”

In this case it was distinctly sooner. With a loud shout the defending troops arose from a recumbent position—to wit, the bath—and with deadly accuracy launched the contents of a large bucket of hot water upon the still prostrate foe.

“What is the meaning of this monstrous intrusion?” The battle cry of the purples rang through the quivering air.

“You s’scoundrel! you impudent s’scoundrel!”

With a loud spluttering noise the greens got up and assumed a belligerent attitude. “You m’miserable villain! that is my bath. How d’dare you—how d’dare you—throw w’water over me. D’do you know what I am, sir? I am a Major-General, sir, and I shall report your infamous c’conduct to the captain.”

“And I, sir,” howled his opponent, “will have you put in irons; I will have you chained to the crow’s-nest, if they have one on board. Keel-hauled, sir, amongst the barnacles and things. I, sir, I am a Lieutenant-General.”

Draycott was still slightly dazed when he landed in Malta.