Читать книгу Out of the Blue - Sapper - Страница 6

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Billy was right—in spirit, at any rate. And but for my promise to Beryl I think I'd have gone back the first day. It would have been different if I'd had somebody with me, somebody who didn't know, save by hearsay, what it had been. Then, perhaps, one could have exerted oneself, and striven for their sake to paint the picture for their benefit—the picture that is stamped so indelibly on one's brain. And it's different for those who come out in parties, and wander over historic spots with guides to tell them briefly of the men who fought and died there. For them there is the glamour that comes to all of to when we stand by the cairn on Culloden Moor or wander aimlessly over the fields of Waterloo. Imagination peoples those empty places: a totally erroneous picture probably—but what matter? Our mental picture satisfies us when we do not know the truth....

But when one does know it, there is only disappointment and emptiness in trying to refresh that knowledge. Let it be—for even the ghosts of those who played the game and passed over find it hard to keep on playing it to- day. Only the stunted, gaunt trees remain to remind them of what it used to look like when Mankind felt the great Madness, and even there the undergrowth grows thick where once no blade of grass could live. And so the ghosts are leaving, though, at times, they still whisper through the Woods, of Death. But upon the roads and in the open man has become sane again. You can obtain coffee where once it was death to show your head.... Which is quite as it should be: it's tiring and thirsty work wandering over battlefields.

And, as I say, but for my promise to Molly I should have gone home the first day. Instead of which I stopped three weeks.... And now that I am back again I ask myself in wondering amazement what it all means whether I am mad or dreaming, or whether, indeed, I have looked upon one of those mysteries of life and death which man has discussed half mockingly, half fearfully, for countless centuries. Only this afternoon at the club I put a similar case—as far as I could see it—to a man who dabbled in ancient lore. He spoke learnedly on the doctrine of metempsychosis, and since I didn't know what he meant, I left him as soon as possible. I left him to go into a secluded corner by myself, and once more study the few words written on a sheet of paper which I had carried for a week in my pocket book. When I first read them in the Coq de Paille, near Meteren, I had felt dazed and stupefied: now, with the roar of London coming through the open window, things were different somehow.

It was in Sanctuary Wood that it started—on the day of my arrival. I had motored slowly up the great road through Vlamertinghe—the road that is peculiarly Our Road—I had crossed the square towards the Menin gap. At the top of the rise beyond, I halted: should it be Zonnebeeke or Hooge? A spin of a coin, and the car turned to the right, past the big school at the bend, and on towards Hell Fire Corner where the railway crosses the road. At the end of the long straight stretch in front lay Hooge, with its blood-stained woods, and its chateau, through the site of which the front line trenches had run. I left the car standing on the spot where once our wire had been—as far as I could tell, that is, for the futility of trying to remember in the face of the utter change had already damped my enthusiasm—and disregarding the curious glances of the group of tourists on the spot, I turned off the road and plunged into the woods. Already it was getting dusk, but I had a fancy to ramble through the old haunts towards Hill 60—to ramble, and live it over again. At any rate I should be more or less alone: the personally conducted groups adhered, so to speak, to the roads.

It was bad going—it always had been bad going round about Zouave and Sanctuary Woods—and after a while I sat down on a fallen tree trunk and started to fill my pipe. Just about the front line, I decided just about the spot where Ginger Lawrence bad been sniped through the head as he stood beside me in what was known for purposes of reference as a trench. I rather imagined the present brook meandering slowly past my feet had been that trench....

The Boche who did it must have been somewhere over there—I stared thoughtfully, trying to pick up old landmarks in my new surroundings. Then I laughed: the impossibility made the endeavour fatuous. And after a while I closed my eyes and leaned back: it was easier to remember when I couldn't see. I could hear them again—the strange night sounds: I could catch the muffled clang of a carelessly used shovel, the pinging spit of a rifle close by—the phut of the bullet striking mud... I could see the toothpick trees—gaunt and eerie in the light of the green flares....

Ah! well, it was over and done with: let it rest at such. I was a fool to have come, for no man may recapture a lost emotion. Even as I sat there I felt the artificiality of it all.

I opened my eyes, I would go back to the car. The next moment I stiffened with sudden terror, only to throw myself flat on the ground behind the sheltering trunk. It must have been the inherent connection of the wood that made me do it so promptly—made my body act in a flash as it would have done four years before. Elsewhere I should have hesitated, I feel tolerably sure—should have shouted, cursed—had I seen the muzzle of a rifle, with stealthy eyes peering over the sights, pointing unwaveringly at me from some bushes a few yards away. As it was, the association was too acute, and in a flash I had taken cover. Then very distinctly I heard the click of the bolt going home, followed, not by any bullet, but by a little cackling laugh. And when I realised that some foolish Belgian child had scared me into hurling myself flat on an extremely damp portion of an extremely damp wood, I felt profoundly glad that the tourists did adhere to the roads.... With what dignity I could muster I got up: if I could only catch the little brute, I'd give him the hiding of his life. But to my surprise it was no child who emerged cautiously and came towards me, but a grown man.

"What the devil do you mean?" I shouted, "by playing these damned monkey tricks? Don't you know you oughtn't to have that rifle at all?" In my anger I had spoken in English; and then to my amazement I realised that he was answering me in the same tongue.

"Why not?" he said, standing in front of me. "I do no one any harm with it, and it was what we used in the great days." His eyes were a little vacant, but otherwise he was to all appearances a typical Belgian peasant.

"I dare say you don't do any harm with it," I answered angrily—the water had just got through one knee of my trousers; "but you've no right to have it? Where did you get it? It's a British rifle."

"One of the eight hundred who passed over gave it to me," he said gravely.

"What the devil..." I began, only to break off abruptly. For the man had dropped the rifle, and, coming a few steps nearer, was peering at me earnestly.

"Where have I seen you before, monsieur?"

I stared at him as he spoke: the man's face was vaguely familiar, but I was still too annoyed to try and remember where I might have met him. And then, just as I was on the point of again starting to curse him, the sane look on his face disappeared, and he began to babble vacantly—a mixture of Flemish and French and English, interspersed with little cackles of laughter. Out of the meaningless jumble of words I caught an odd phrase every now and then, but the poor devil was so obviously not responsible for his actions that my anger evaporated and I laid my hand on his shoulder.

"Listen," I said, and at my touch he grew quiet. "What is your name?"

"Pierre, m'sieur," he answered. "Pierre, they call me. But—sometimes—it seems as if there was another name.... Only," he passed his hand across his forehead, "I can't think...."

"Well, try and think now, Pierre," I went on gently, "and remember what I am going to say. You must not come into the woods and play with that rifle. You might hurt yourself and other people, too."

"Oui, m'sieur." He nodded his head gravely once or twice, and I smiled at him. Poor blighter—the fault was not his: his friends ought to look after him better....

"Where did you learn that English, Pierre?" I said after a moment.

He shook his head gravely.

"I have always spoken English, m'sieur," he answered. "At least... I think so.... Only—I can't think; I can't...." He seemed on the point of another outburst and I broke in quickly:

"All right, Pierre; it doesn't matter." What strange tragedy lay behind this poor half-witted loon? "It doesn't matter. But don't play with the gun any more, will you?"

I turned away and commenced to stroll back towards the car. Perhaps some of the inhabitants would know his history, and I felt interested in this crazy peasant who had always spoken English. And it was not till I reached the car and was slipping on an overcoat that I realised that he had followed me. He had left the gun behind, and with his hands in his pockets was leaning against the side of a wooden hut watching me foolishly.

The next moment a stout Belgian woman emerged, and seized him not unkindly by the arm. A torrent of Flemish poured from her lips, which is possibly the most dreadful noise a man may listen to, and then she proceeded to drag him indoors. But be hung back, staring fascinated at the car, and, moved by a sudden impulse, I spoke to the woman in French. Mercifully she understood me, and I asked her about Pierre.

He was mad, of course; Monsieur could see that for himself. And he had repeatedly been told not to go into the wood with her husband's gun... How her husband became possessed of the gun was unknown to her: a mystery—due to la guerre, doubtless. Madame waxed volubly apologetic: then, seeing that the subject of how her husband got a British rifle did not interest me, she returned to Pierre.

For a year—more—he had been with them. What could they do—was he not imbecile? And he was useful at odd jobs: cutting wood and things like that. No, she could not say where he had come from.... Once, during the winter, a cousin of her late brother-in-law had visited them, and she had come from near Bailleul.... Monsieur knew Bailleul, beyond Kemmel and the hills? But, of course, Monsieur had fought: tous les Anglais had fought the sacré Boche.... And this cousin had thought that Pierre had lived near Fletre or maybe Meteren....

Meteren! I turned away, listening half consciously to the woman's voluble chatter. And half consciously my eyes rested on the crazy Pierre, who was wandering round the car, occasionally touching it gently with one of his fingers. At length he stood still gazing at it, and for one brief second my heart stood still. For the lunatic was rolling his clenched fist round and round in the palm of his hand.... Then he came shambling towards us, and I laughed out loud at my foolishness.

"It is long since I have been in a car," he announced.

"Is it, Pierre," I said, smiling. "Would you like a ride in mine?" I spoke without thinking on the spur of the moment.

"A ride, monsieur" The vacant eyes lit up; he seemed almost stunned at the mere suggestion. "Why, yes... and Monsieur will take me—take me to the estaminet—where—where..." The gleam faded, and he stared at me dully.

And once again it struck me that the man's face was vaguely familiar.

"Shall we go to Bailleul, Pierre," I said slowly, "and Meteren?"

"Meteren!" His face lit up. "Yes, to Meteren, m'sieur. To the estaminet where the music is."

"Music!" I said slowly. "What sort of music?"

"A piano, m'sieur. Deux sous must be put in, and the piano plays. And sometimes it stops in the middle of the tune..." He grinned cheerfully. "And then it goes on again...."

But I was not listening; I was thinking furiously. An automatic piano: Meteren: that trick of John Manley's! Could it be possible that this half-witted creature could tell me something new about John—something about his death? Civilians had been there right up to the last, and a lunatic would somewhat naturally have been forgotten in the panic of flight.... Why, perhaps he had been actually in the estaminet when John was killed.... And I laughed again: it struck me I was travelling rather fast....

"Tell me, Pierre," I said; "have you ever met a British officer who did this?"

I rolled my right fist in my left hand, and he stared at me. Once I thought I saw a gleam of remembrance in his eyes: then it faded.

"I can't think," he muttered. "I can't think, m'sieur."

With a smile I patted him on the shoulder. "All right, Pierre; don't worry. To-morrow morning I will come and fetch you in the car, and we'll go for a ride to the estaminet where the music is."

My intention, when interpreted to madame, was merely another proof of the complete insanity of all Englishmen; but as long as they came out in large quantities and bought her vin rouge— ça ne fait rien. Monsieur would bring him back, sans doute; he was useful drawing water and doing odd jobs like that... and monsieur would understand that both she and her husband were fond of Pierre. An imbecile, true, but affectionate.... Monsieur would have a glass of wine—mais, certainement, toute de suite....

She bustled into the house, and returned with an opened bottle. One glass was a necessity, and I accepted it with a bow.

"A votre santé, madame," I murmured.

"A votre santé, monsieur," she returned, beaming. Truly mad—but they paid well—les Anglais....

And over the top of my glass I was watching an imbecile peasant whose face was vaguely familiar, slouching round and round my car, and rubbing one fist into the palm of his other hand as he walked.

That was three weeks ago...