“C’EST LA GUERRE"

Taranaki Daily News, 16 December 1921, Page 2 (Supplement)

“C’EST LA GUERRE"

AN INCIDENT IN FRANCE. (By W. B. Hosking, Westown, New Plymouth.) Lieutenant Orville Rhodes sat in a ehair qjitside his billet, and idly tapped a cigarette on his case preliminary to lighting it. The little French town nestled snugly in the midst of the trees that had served to give it part of its name. The warm afternoon sunshine glinted on leaf and foliage and on the fruit just beginning to mellow in the orchards. High in the blue, cloudless cky, unsullied by droning plane or shrapnel smoke, a skylark sang blithely undisturbed. Two soldiers in slacks, and without belt or equipment, strolled along the road, the blue smoke from their cigarettes mingling with the white dust stirred by their careless feet.

Absent-mindedly, cigarette between lips,, the lieutenant felt with both hands in pockets for his matches. Right han<l located matches, left hand encountered a slip of paper. Rhodes drew forth the. paper, unfolded it. and read the .contents. “C’est la guerre,” murmured the 'lieutenant, an ironical smile twisting his lips. What he read was an order to. the pioneer sergeant for a set of wickets, made out a week ago, but never de-, livered, because in the very midst of f»he plans of which that order was a derail, a messenger of destiny had arrived with news which necessitated other arrange?, ments.

As he lit his cigarette the lieutenant musingly recalled that scene in the wood —the line of bell tents smeared, and banded in a manner resembling some Cubist or Futurist design, their pegs and ropes buried beneath a ■ ring of heaped earth from the excavated interior —a precautionary measure against possible attack by aircraft. Some of the occupants, hampered by rdots, still labored to reach the necessary depth Others, more fortunate, were engaged in covering the floor of their circular pit with grass and leaves; others, again, less providently inclined, were playing two-up, or indulging in horse play. But every one was happy. He and some brother officers were making plans for the company sports to be held the following day. “This little spot will do me for a while,” one of the officers had remarked, a young fellow hamed Hazlitt, who had just rejoined them after obtaining a commission in an O.T.C. “Only had tour days of my leave, you know. Was about to run up to'Scotland when I received word to report. Stiff luck, what?”

And then some one else exclaimed, “Hullo, here comes a battalion runner. Wonder what’s doing?” And somehow, they all felt a premonition of trouble. Half an hour later the scene had changed. The troops were busy repacking their valises and stacking them in heaps, getting ready their equipment, in battle order, and lining up with their mess utensils in readiness for the tea and stew the swearing cooks were preparing. , _• Back in a fine old chateau a man with several rows of ribbons on his breast had put forth his hand to the chess > board whereon the pieces were divisions and brigades, and men who the night before had rendered up a brief prayer of thanksgiving for the respite from the hazardous game with death, now, perforce, prepared for another bout with that grim old gamester. Hazlitt, who a few months before had been a platoon sergeant and knew what war was, had remarked, “Just my damned luck,” Rhodes had laughed and said, “C’est la guerre, Hazlitt.*’ Although he himself had not cursed at the question to take over the line again, there was sullen resentment in his heart, all the same. But he had early formed the habit of masking his real feelings, effecting a cynical insouciance that at times he was far from feeling. It got one the reputation of being a good soldier ; not that he set much store on that, though. He had got used to being considered a good soldier, had been in and out of the line so many times, and the two faded stars on hfe tunic sleeve looked alike now. He supposed he would be doing the same thing time after time until a bullet or a whizz-bang or something got him. It was a whizz-bang that had got Hazlitt, hardly an hour after he had been in the trenches. Stuck his head above the parapet—very rash of an old soldier like Hazlitt—and the thing had exploded almost in his face. He had seen him just before they filled the grave, looking queerly incongruous there on the damp clay itt his flash new uniform —smart tan boots, neat puttees, and the latest thing in riding breeches. “Wouldn’t mind beatino- 'Hazlitt for his flash Piccadilly, strides.” a brother officer had remarked when he first made his appearance in their midst. It. had been hard to believe that tlazlitt was dead, and it gave one a bit of a shock when one’s gaze came to where his face should have been. “C’est la guerre,” reflected Orville Rhodes blowing smoke rings, and watching them widen and dissipate in the dancing air. Nice little village this. The chances were in favor of their getting a decent rest here, the more so after their last hurried return to the line. With luck they ought to get seven clear days if the unit which had relieved them didn’t get pushed out like the other “Be prepared for the worst but take advantage of the present,” was a good working axiom for the soldier. Verv wood news this about the big English mail that had just arrived that morning, most of which the postal corporal hoped to have sorted by the afternoon. He hoped Kelly, his batman, would return a regular budget. It woulu be nice to get letters when one could read them with the delicious consciousness that one had plenty of leisure in which to reply to them. To be able to write “We are now back in billets” would please the home folks, but, hang it all, a man couldn’t say very much. Queer how a certain reticence grew on on e—war weariness, he supposed, and lack of the fresh point of view. Very different from the first days out. those (lavs in the troop train after they had landed at Marseilles, when the soutji of Franco seemed like the Promised Land after those weeks on the i sands of Egypt. . i Glamorous days as the troop tram slpwlv jolted northward, and he-thrilled to the thought of the adventures ahead, las a knight that rides forth at the he- ' host of his mwtress; fragments of Kitchener’s message to the troops bubbling {deliciously through the quixotic. and I priggish compartment of his mind. Yes, •he was a bit of a prig then. aU right; liis first pip fresh from the hands of the regimental tailor, and his mind full of high notions concerning the conduct befitting an officer and a gentleman. A n im’s nobilities of war and things had L . u modified since then. 1 “C’ftgt la guerre,” muttered the lieu-

•tenant throwing his cigarette away and reaching for his case again. The girl in the house watched him as he lit his cigarette. What a nice looking boy this officier Anglaise was—a boy and yet a man. He reminded her of a war poster she had seen in a magazine, of a young officer leading an attack against the Boche entanglements—so reckless, so distinguished looking. He had a pleasant voice and spoke French so well—so different from his servant, a freckly faced, cheeky boy, with his “bong joor,” and “parlez vous, mamselle.” Very reserved though, did not attempt any •familiarities. She would step outside just to pass the time of day. “It makes fine weather this afternoon, Monsieur.” “Ah certainly, Mademoiselle, a beautiful day,” said Orville Rhodes smiling. A fine loking girl, he reflected, watching the swing of her figure as she passed into the house again. No common bonne this; not only was she disturbingly pretty, but there was something thoughtful' and distinctive about her. How these French girls looked after their hair! There ought to be a letter from Her in this mail. Perhaps it would be just as well.t It was not well for a man to feel too independent. Some men now would not have .. the conscientious scruples that he had. Forbes now, whom he knew was married and had one child, was a bit of a Don Juan. He would certainly not have confined his conversation with Nestoria to remarks concerning meteorological conditions. After all fellows like Forbes had the best of it. Forbes had a rough and ready philosophy concerning war conditions. “Mars the Destroyer and Venus the Reproducer work hand in hand,” he was wont to say. “Not a bad combination either, boys.” A licentious fellow Forbes, as little concerned with morality as he was troubled kvith fear. Of course he had noticed the girl. “You sly. old dog, Rhodes,” he had said clapping him on the back, “wish 1 was as good cobbers with the billeting crowd as you!”

Ah, there was Kelly back with the mail—seemed to have a fairish swag too. Dash it all, he needed that letter from Her. “All the mail sorted?” Orville asked lightly, as he ran quickly through the letters. “Just about soor; the mail corporal’s •down to the VV’s.” “Sure?” Rhodes snapped. There was no letter from her.

“Quite, sorr.” Kelly’s voice held an aggrieved note. The lieutenant did not reply. He sat back, a frown puckering his brow. No letter from the girl who had promised to be his wife. In his moment of need She had failed him. And he would be back in the trenches before another mail arrived. If the women only knew what the men had to face they would never begrudge them letters. Perhaps, the next time the battalion went in he would be like Hazlitt. A qualm of self pity mingled with his anger, but he shook the feeling off. “C’est la guerre,” the lieutenant muttered lighting another cigarette. He turned at the sound of footsteps and beheld Nestoria, basket on arm, making for the orchard. The glance she threw him over her shoulder was alluring provocative, and the male in him leaped to meet the challenge. Gad, she was a beauty, and a bit of a cocotte at that. She mde a mistake though, if she took him to be slow. After all a girl like that had a right to demand a little attention from a man, and surely a soldier deserved some fun.

“C’est la guerre,” said Orville Rhodes rising to his feet and following the girl. It was not until nearly dawn that he entered his room and his state of mind prefering darkness to light he tumbled into bed without seeing the letter that had been placed on his table. He discovered it as he was preparing for a belated shave, and at the sight of the dainty familiar handwriting, he knew the meaning of remorse. A knock sounded at the door. “Come in.” said Orville Rhodes heavily, and a battalion runner entered the room. . , “Message from Battalion for you, sir. ’ Rhodes seized the note with a wild hope that it might mean a return to the lines. With fingers that shook eagerness he unfolded the note and read its contents. To Lieutenant Rhodes, A. Coy., This is to notify you that you have been chosen as one of a draft to proceed to the United Kingdom on special duty. Please report to Battalion Jlea.dquarters immediately for the necessary instructions. 0. Fosdick, Adjutant. With a passionate gesture Orville Rhodes flung the note from him. “Curse the war!” he.cried wildly.