the waiter certainly was rather slow, or perhaps it was that we were hungry and impatient. in any case, i apologised to my guest, a young fellow home on leave, and explained that the waiter was entitled to be a little absent-minded, for he had lost two sons in the war and his only remaining son had been invalided out of the army, a permanent wreck.
"he tells me," i said, "that the boy never talks about the war or his experiences. he just seems silent and numbed. all that they know is that he killed five germans, and that he is sorry for one of them. it happened while he was on patrol. there had been a good deal of indignation at that part of the line because there had been cases reported in which 'hands up' had been a trick for ensnaring some of our men, and the order had been given that the signal was to be ignored and those making it shot at sight. it was twilight and a young german soldier was seen running forward with his hands up. the patrol fired and he fell. he was quite unarmed and alone. on his body they found letters from his sweetheart in england—old letters that he had apparently carried with him all through the war. they showed that he had been at work at some place in london and had been engaged to be married when the war broke out."
"yes," said my companion, as the waiter came up with the fish. "yes, when the enemy turns from an abstraction to an individual you generally find there's something that makes you hate this killing business. i don't know that i have felt more sorry for any man's death in this war than for that of a german.
"you've been to f——, haven't you? you know that bit of line north of the m—— road that you reach by the communication trench that is always up to your knees in mud no matter how dry the weather is. you remember how close the lines are to each other at that point—not forty yards apart? i was there in a dull season."
"you were lucky," i said. "it isn't often dull there."
"no, but it was then. the boche would drop over an occasional whiz-bang as a reminder, and he'd have his usual afternoon cock-shy over our heads at the last pinnacle standing on the ruins of the cathedral in the town behind us. but really there was nothing doing, and we got rather chummy with the fellows over the way. we'd put up a target for them, and they'd do the same for us. they'd got some decent singers among them, and we'd shout for the 'hate' song or 'wacht am rhein' or 'tannenbaum' or something of that sort and they always obliged, and we gave them the best we had back.
"yes, we got quite friendly, and one morning one of their men got up on the parapet over the way, bowed very low, and shouted 'goot morning.' our men answered, 'morgen, fritz. how goes it?' and so on. he was a big fat fellow, with glasses, and a good-humoured face, and to our great joy he began to sing a song in broken english. and after he had finished we called for more. he had a real gift for comedy; seemed one of those fellows who are sent into the world with their happiness ready made. he laughed a great gurgling laugh that made you laugh to hear it. our chaps gave him no end of applause, and called for his name. he beamed and bowed, said 'thank you, genteelmen,' and said that his name was heinrich something or other.
"so we called him 'appy 'einrich,' and whenever our men were bored and things had gone to sleep someone would sing out 'we want 'einrich. send us 'appy 'einrich to give us a song.' and up would come heinrich on to the parapet, red and smiling and bowing like a prima donna. and off he would start with his programme. he always seemed willing and evidently greatly enjoyed his popularity with our fellows.
"this went on for some time, and then one day we got the news that we were to be relieved at once. we were to clear out that night and our place was to be taken by a scotch regiment. you need not be told that we were glad. life in the trenches when there is nothing doing is about as deadly a weariness as man has invented. we got our kit together and when night fell and our relief had come we marched back under the stars through f—— towards b——.
"we had been too much occupied with the prospect of release to give a thought to the fellows over the road or to heinrich. i remembered him afterwards and hoped that someone had told the new men that heinrich was a good sort and would always give them a bit of fun, if he was asked, or even if he wasn't asked.
"some weeks afterwards at b—— i ran across a man in the scotch regiment which had followed us in the trenches on the m—— road, and we talked about things there. 'and how did you get on with heinrich?' i asked. 'heinrich?' he said, 'who is he?' 'why, surely,' said i, 'you know heinrich, the fat fellow across the way, who gets up on the parapet and says "goot morning," and sings comic songs?' 'never heard of him,' he said. 'ah,' i said, 'he would have heard we were relieved and didn't find you so responsive a crowd as we were.' 'never heard of him,' he repeated—then, after a pause, he added, 'there was an incident the morning after we took over the line. some of our fellows saw a bulky boche climbing on to the parapet just across the way and had a little target practice, and he went down in a heap.' 'that was him,' i said, 'that was 'appy 'einrich. what a beastly business war is, and what ungrateful beggars we were to forget him!'
"yes, a beastly business, killing men," he added. "i don't wonder the waiter's son doesn't want to talk about it. we shall all be glad to forget when we come out of hell."
