Leaves from a Field Note-Book | Page 2

VII. THE TWO RICHEBOURGS 59 VIII. IDOLS OF THE CAVE 65
IX. STOKES'S ACT 73 X. THE FRONT 92 XI. AT G.H.Q. 103 XII.
MORT POUR LA PATRIE 119 XIII. MEAUX AND SOME
BRIGANDS 128 XIV. THE CONCIERGE AT SENLIS 134
III

UNOFFICIAL INTERLUDES
XV. A "CONSEIL DE LA GUERRE" 143 XVI. PETER 154 XVII.
THREE TRAVELLERS 166 XVIII. BARBARA 173 XIX. AN ARMY
COUNCIL 178 XX. THE FUGITIVES 189 XXI. A "DUG-OUT" 195
XXII. CHRISTMAS EVE, 1914 202
IV
THE FRONT AGAIN
XXIII. THE COMING OF THE HUN 209 XXIV. THE HILL 226
XXV. THE DAY'S WORK 232 XXVI. FIAT JUSTITIA 244 XXVII.
HIGHER EDUCATION 252 XXVIII. THE LITTLE TOWNS OF
FLANDERS AND ARTOIS 259 XXIX. THE "FRONT" ONCE
MORE 270 XXX. HOME AGAIN 288

I
THE BASE

I
BOBS BAHADUR
It had gone eight bells on the S.S. G----. The decks had been washed
down with the hosepipe and the men paraded for the morning's
inspection. The O.C. had scanned them with a roving eye, till catching
sight of an orderly two files from the left he had begged him, almost as
a personal favour, to get his hair cut. To an untutored mind the orderly's
hair was about one-eighth of an inch in length, but the O.C. was
inflexible. He was a colonel in that smartest of all medical services, the
I.M.S., whose members combine the extensive knowledge of the
general practitioner with the peculiar secrets of the Army surgeon, and
he was fastidious. Then he said "Dismiss," and they went their

appointed ways. The Indian cooks were boiling dhal and rice in the
galley; the bakers were squatting on their haunches on the lower deck,
making chupattis--they were screened against the inclemency of the
weather by a tarpaulin--and they patted the leathery cakes with
persuasive slaps as a dairymaid pats butter. Low-caste sweepers glided
like shadows to and fro. Suddenly some one crossed the gangway and
the sentry stiffened and presented arms. The O.C. looked down from
the upper deck and saw a lithe, sinewy little figure with white
moustaches and "imperial"; the eyes were of a piercing steel-blue. The
figure was clad in a general's field-service uniform, and on his
shoulder-straps were the insignia of a field-marshal. The colonel stared
for a moment, then ran hastily down the ladder and saluted.
* * * * *
Together they passed down the companion-ladder. At the foot of it they
encountered a Bengali orderly, who made a profound obeisance.
"Shiva Lal," said the O.C., "I ordered the portholes to be kept
unfastened and the doors in the bulkheads left open. This morning I
found them shut. Why was this?"
"Sahib, at eight o'clock I found them open."
"It was at eight o'clock," said the colonel sternly, "that I found them
shut."
The Bengali spread out his hands in deprecation. "If the sahib says so it
must be so," he pleaded, adding with truly Oriental irrelevancy, "I am a
poor man and have many children." It is as useless to argue with an
Indian orderly as it is to try conclusions with a woman.
"Let it not occur again," said the colonel shortly, and with an apology
to his guest they passed on.
They paused in front of a cabin. Over the door was the legend "Pathans,
No. 1." The door was shut fast. The colonel was annoyed. He opened
the door, and four tall figures, with strongly Semitic features and

bearded like the pard, stood up and saluted. The colonel made a mental
note of the closed door; he looked at the porthole--it was also closed.
The Pathan loves a good "fug," especially in a European winter, and the
colonel had had trouble with his patients about ventilation. A kind of
guerilla warfare, conducted with much plausibility and perfect
politeness, had been going on for some days between him and the
Pathans. The Pathans complained of the cold, the colonel of the
atmosphere. At last he had met them halfway, or, to be precise, he had
met them with a concession of three inches. He had ordered the ship's
carpenter to fix a three-inch hook to the jamb and a staple to the door,
the terms of the truce being that the door should be kept three inches
ajar. And now it was shut. "Why is this?" he expostulated. For answer
they pointed to the hook. "Sahib, the hook will not fasten!"
The colonel examined it; it was upside down. The contumacious
Pathans had quietly reversed the work of the ship's carpenter, and the
hook was now useless without being ornamental. With bland ingenuous
faces they stared sadly at the hook, as if deprecating such unintelligent
craftsmanship. The Field-Marshal smiled--he knew the Pathan of old;
the colonel mentally registered a black mark against the delinquents.
"Whence come you?"