By Eddie Parry, Tycroes
I
Old Joe Blakely, or as he was known in the village, “Sergeant Blakely,” was an army veteran of 70 or thereabouts, and he shared his pension with his niece, Nora Mayfield, a pretty girl of twenty, who, next to the Sergeant's medals and cutlass, was his dearest treasure.
When the present war was waged old Joe Blakely's heart became sad and joyous in turns; and when he thought that he could no longer obey the call of his country; joyous when he thought of the honour and glory of war, of England's prestige; how it could be increased and how its annals of heroic deeds could be added to.
Linglam village, where the old Sergeant and his niece lived, was in the heart of the country, where the summer sun bathed in its glorious rays the beautiful valley of the river Ling.
So one lovely morning in September Sergeant Blakely set to work, as soon as he was able, to find recruits for the new affray. He had hardly kissed Nora “good-bye” at the garden gate when he saw young Harold Brown approaching towards the house.
“Ah,” thought the Sergeant, “here's a start anyway,” and lighting his pipe he trudged down the road towards the young man.
“Morning, my boy,” said the Sergeant, stopping abruptly in the middle of the road and holding himself in military style – for he was still a soldier.
“Good morning, Sergeant,” replied the young man, saluting; “I was just coming over to wish you and Nora good-bye.”
“So ye are going to enlist like a soldier and a man,” said the old sergeant, bobbing his stick up and down with glee. “I'm very glad, lad; and – (whispering in his ear) – so will she. Ah yes, she'll be glad,” he said, pointing towards the house with his pipe.
The old sergeant had a habit of speaking in a very loud tone of voice; in fact, it was nothing less than shouting. So as he and his companion approached near to the house, Nora heard her uncle's voice, and came out to meet him. As she saw Harold Brown, tall and alert, walking beside her uncle, she at once closed the garden gate and pretended to be busily engaged in watering the climbing roses and the dahlias which grew in the shadow of the old house.
Under the edge of her pretty bonnet she of course stole an occasional sly glance at the approaching young man. When at length they arrived at the gate she looked up, pushed back her bonnet, and gazed wistfully at Harold.
“Good morning, Nora,” he said, bowing gracefully.
“Good morning, Harold,” she answered putting down the watering can and walking towards him along the neat gravel path.
As the morning was bright and warm, they went to the summer house at the other end of the garden, she and Harold arm in arm, and the sergeant following behind.
“I've something to tell you, Nora,” said Harold, selecting a chair for her and himself.
“What, anything very important?”
“Well yes, in a way.”
“What's the matter?” she said as she saw him biting his lip until a little drop of blood appeared.
“Nora,” he said, taking her dainty little hand in his own, “I've come to say good-bye.”
“Good-bye?” she said, suddenly withdrawing her hand.
“Yes; I'm leaving for the front, Nora.”
Silence.
“I am off to-day: I've had a commission in the Life Guards, and will be in Belgium this day week if all is well,” he said at length.
“Harold,” said Nora timidly, “Uncle always used to say before our engagement, ‘Niece, you shall be an old maid or a soldier's wife'; but I got over the difficulty with him with a few hugs and kisses, but to think that, after all, his wish is granted – Oh! Harold.”
“Nora!”
“I'm proud of you, Harold,” and she reached her young face to his to be kissed.
“Alright there,” sounded a voice in the doorway as the lovers were lost in each other's arms.
“Ha! Ha!” laughed old Joe Blakely, “it's alright, my dear; ye needn't blush, he's a soldier now, ain't ye Harold?”
Harold laughed awkwardly.
“All I tell thee, lad, is do th' duty. Fight for th' honour and glory of they country. I know what it is: when thou'lt see a lot of them German boys before thee, spitting fire and shrapnel, thou'lt be thinking of her, lad – ah yes, I know it. Not of th' own soul, but for th' love; not for England, but for Nora – Oh yes, lad!”
Harold did nothing but blow out a thin whiff of smoke between his lips and watch it curl up in shapeless clouds through the doorway.
“Remember, lad, thou'rt a soldier now, fighting and not thinking of love. Don't thou worry lad, I'll take care of th' girl for thee. Shan't I, Nora?” and he planted a kiss on her dainty forehead.
“Stop th' crying, lass,” he went on; “thou'rt prepared for a soldier's wife; Harold's a good lad, and 'll take care of himself I warrant.”
The Sergeant re-lighted his pipe and went on. The other two felt in no mood for talking.
“I expect to hear great things of thee, lad; thou'rt cool and level headed from what I know of thee, and there's a heart in there.” (The Sergeant poked his walking stick on the young man's heart.) “And so I expect some of these on they breast when we'll see thee again,” he said, playing with the medals which adorned his coat.
“Remember what I told thee, lad, about memories,” he went on emphatically. “Memories are a curse and a nuisance when there's duty and death to be faced, and that's what a soldier's life is. Ah! I say d— this old business of not letting me go out. I know I'm in the seventies, but I'll shoot as straight as a die, – and that's what's wanted, and plenty of cold steel, me lad; that's the stuff. I feel as fit as a fiddle myself.”
“You're too old uncle,” ventured Nora through her tears.
“Yes, I know it; but I dream of it; I live in it, d— I—“
He went out waving his arms frantically in the air and puffing away at his pipe. The lovers were again alone. A smile crossed Harold's lips as he watched the old soldier march past the corner of the house shouting at the top of his voice, “I'm as fit as a fiddle,” and of course a few curses to add to the effect.
“Well, Nora,” he said at length, “I shall not forget that final outbreak of his; that's done me more good than all his talking.” “He's wonderfully young in spirit, you know.”
“He is, and I must follow his example if I can; anyway, I'll have a good shot at it. I promise you, Nora, not as a lover, but as a soldier, that I shall do my duty, come what may – my duty to England and my King.”
Nora was again crying.
“Now stop that, little one; that will never do for a soldier's wife,” he said, placing his arm around her tenderly.
“I must go,” he said, rising, “and God bless you, dearest.”
He took her hand and pressed it gently.
“Take this,” she said, pulling off a pendant from her neck. He took it and placed it in his pocket book, and, kissing her a last good-bye, he went out.
She followed him to the gate, where they could see the Sergeant a few yards up the road waiting for Harold. When he held her hand over the little wicket gate he heard her murmur, “I'll pray for you, Harold,” and with these words ringing in his ears he left her, wiping a hot tear which was rolling down his cheek.
She watched him disappear out of sight, walking with the Sergeant, who was patting his back and trying to walk at the same time, and as she saw his black cap disappear over the hedge side, she walked back to the summer house whispering to herself, “I'll pray for him.”
II
It had been a terribly hard day's fighting for both the Allies and the German soldiers. Losses were heavy, especially among the British regiments, for they had time after time made repeated attacks on the German guns, only to be overpowered by superior numbers. Now the sun was quickly sinking over the wooded slope behind our trenches, and cast long shadows over the ground, all along the line. Still the enemy kept on the attack, bringing reinforcements to replace their lost troops.
It was now growing bitterly cold, and the trenches were filled with water up to the men's knees. Our infantry had fought like men who were inspired with the spirit of the cause of this terrible struggle. The wounded and dying were lying at the bottom of the trenches groaning and praying. The dead were trampled upon, and comrades tried in vain to dig a grave for a friend or a brother.
“Keep them off, boys,” shouted the officer, ”help is coming.”
This gave our men a new heart, and the enemy's van line was broken entirely. But this aroused the spirit of the German enemy also, and they retaliated, literally spitting fire upon the British lines. A little stream ran between their lines and ours, yet it was too deep to be crossed. A bridge lay about a mile down the river, but it would be madness for us to have attempted to cross it with our little force – 5,000 strong – against the open lines of the enemy, about 20,000 strong.
First Lieutenant Henderson had sent a dispatch rider to the camp at Fleurville, 10 miles off, asking for aid, for the enemy were seen to be slowly making their way to the bridge. Once they crossed, our force would be compelled to make flight. Once darkness set in, it would be pity us.
Presently, a horseman was seen to be approaching through the dusk.
“The Life Guards are coming,” he shouted,” and will be here within the hour.” every heart prayed fervently that that would be the case.
The young horseman approached the officer and saluted.
“Your messenger,” he said, “arrived at Fleurville wounded; three shots were fired at him he said. Colonel Bailey wishes you to report the matter to headquarters, sir.”
“Alright, who are you?”
“Lieutenant Brown of the Life Guards, sir.”
“Oh, I see—“
Officer Henderson stopped short as he heard a tumult of voices from the enemy's lines; he took up his binoculars and peered through the thick gloom. “By God,” he cried, “they are going for the bridge.”
He could see a mass of infantry on the other side of the river marching steadily towards the bridge. The air was keen and sharp, and the ground was freezing hard.
“Take charge, Summers,” shouted Lieutenant Henderson to his inferior officer, “and follow me towards the bridge; it's a fight for the bridge now.”
He turned his horse around and, calling for some battery powder. He pulled Harold's sleeve, “Gallop for it, lad,” he said.
They spurred their horses and off they went. They could see two Prussian Guards galloping on the other side also: it was a race in which the Prussians had had a good start. Looking ahead as they flew through the gathering gloom, Harold shouted, “I have a faster horse than you. Give me the battery, and you keep those two devils off.”
Lieutenant Henderson handed him the powder bag and off Harold went, slinging the strap of the bag across his shoulder as he went. He had now outpaced the two German horsemen, and was about 200 yards from the bridge.
The thought of Nora, then of old Sergeant Blakely, whose words rang in his ears— “when thou'lt see a lot of them German devils spitting fire at thee, thou'lt be thinking of Nora; not for England, but of they love. But memories are a curse when there's duty to be done and death to be faced. . . . . ” Harold remembered no more, for from under the span of the bridge two helmeted figures were seen and a bullet whizzed past his ear.
He did not hear the Lieutenant's voice shouting behind him, “Go on, lad.” It was Nora's voice that he heard sighing softly, “I'll pray for you.” Twice his rifle rang out “Crack, crack,” but once only with effect, for he saw one of the helmeted figures fall with a groan. Down he dashed and was on the bridge in a moment, leaving his horse near by. He could see the Prussian Guards within a hundred yards of him, and the other sentry approaching from behind.
But Lieutenant Henderson's rifle was ready for him, and just as he was coming up from the pebble bank and was climbing over the railings to the bridge with his rifle covering Harold's crouching form, it spoke, and the second sentry was silenced.
But danger was not yet over, for while Harold was running under cover of the wall he was caught by an unseen antagonist from behind, and he fell with a charge of lead in his right leg. But severe as the pain was, he struggled on to the end of the bridge, with Henderson's rifle covering him, and painfully lowered himself over the bank until he came right under the span.
Quickly he took the charge form his bag, placed it on a dry stone, and lighted the fuse. He knew now that the two guards were on the bridge and could overhear him, for he could hear them shouting above him. But Henderson was again true in his aim, for both were wounded, and hung helplessly over their horses. Henderson at once came to Harold's aid. The young officer was lying near the fused powder charge, weak and covered with blood. He was lying with his wounded leg in the water, unconscious of the extreme peril in which he was.
Tenderly Henderson lifted him and carried him slowly to the bank. The fuse was now about expended, and in another minute the whole bridge and its dead and wounded would be blown to a thousand fragments.
Henderson realised this, and with that spirit and valour which has made the British soldier the idol of warfare he, although his own wrist pained him terribly, lifted his comrade across his shoulder and ran up the bank. He lay exhausted there, and a moment later the bridge was blown to atoms, and the little regiment was saved.
The deafening report brought Harold to himself.
“What has happened?” he murmured faintly.
“Keep quiet,” replied Henderson, pushing him farther behind the little bush which sheltered them. They saw the unknown third man, whose bullet had wounded Harold, shooting towards the bridge, trying in vain to find his whereabouts.
Suddenly Harold and his companion heard a shout behind them, and with a cry of delight Henderson saw the Life Guards gallop to the scene. But Harold had swooned again at the thought of Nora.
(to be concluded next week.)
(21/1/1915 concluded.)
I I I
It was a few weeks after when Harold Brown was reported fit to travel homewards. Sergeant Blakely and Nora had read previously of Harold's exploit, and both were proud, so indeed they could be. Old Blakely of course, had told everybody in the neighbourhood of Lingham, of Harold's bravery and daring deed, and great festivities were prepared for his home-coming.
The day arrived, and the whole of the village folk were assembled at the station to give the hero a warm reception. The express steamed in majestically, and the disappointed villagers returned homewards.
Old Sergeant Blakely and Nora Mayfield were the keenest in their disappointment. They tried conjecture after conjecture to try and think what had befallen him, but of no avail. They sat gloomily over their ---W---, neither speaking a word. It was growing dark, so Nora lit the lamp and went towards the window to draw the blind. As she peered towards the road, through the twilight, she saw a face looking at her over the garden gate. She looked again, and saw a soldier's cap.
“Harold,” she cried suddenly, running towards the door.
“What is that?” said old Joe Blakely, turning around sharply in his chair.
Nora did not hear him, but flew out to the gate. Yes, sure enough there was Harold Brown, leaning on his crutches, waiting for her with open arms. She drew back as she saw his pale face and stooping figure leaning on two crutches.
“Nora,” he said simply. “Harold,” she replied, as she took hold of his arm gently and led him towards the house.
Standing in the doorway was the old Sergeant Blakely, as alert and straight as ever. As soon as he saw the young soldier, he jumped with delight, and seizing Harold's hand in both of his own, he wrung it firmly. “I'm glad to see you again, lad,” he cried, “come on let's talk it over at the fireside.”
Harold followed him, saying, “Well, Sergeant, I've brought you no V. C., I've brought home a broken leg.”
“More to thy credit,” replied the old Sergeant, bringing forward a chair. “But why didn't th' come with 3.40 as thee told us?”
“I knew, Sergeant; that there would be a crowd at the station, so I got out at Woodsfoot and drove here.”
“Harold,” said the old veteran, placing his hand on the young hero's head, “thou'rt a soldier in a thousand.”
Nora walked in with a little frame in her hand. “Read that,” she said, giving it to Harold. He took the little frame and it was a newspaper cutting with the heading:
“DARING ACT BY TWO BRITISH OFFICERS: HOW THE REGIMENT WAS SAVED.”
“I had no idea,” said Harold, smiling, “that I had done all this”
“And thou had no recognition for it,” said the Sergeant.
“Ah,” replied Harold, taking Nora's hand, “I had a greater prize, which I believe I have fairly won.”
“Of course, taker her with pleasure, m'lad, and may she be worthy of such as thee.”
“She will, won't you, Nora?” Nora replied by putting her arms around his neck and kissing him.
Old Joe Blakely left the room to answer a knock at the door. “A telegram for thee, lad,” he cried, holding an orange-coloured envelope in his hand. Harold opened it, and Nora and he read: “Congrats! Both of us have been awarded the V. C.” — Henderson.
THE END.
Copyright © Eddie Parry, Tycroes.
