a traveller threw his cloak over his shoulder and came down slopes of gold in el dorado. from incredible heights he came. he came from where the peaks of the pure gold mountain shone a little red with the sunset; from crag to crag of gold he stepped down slowly. sheer out of romance he came through the golden evening.
it was only an incident of every day; the sun had set or was setting, the air turned chill, and a battalion’s bugles were playing “retreat” when this knightly stranger, a british aëroplane, dipped, and went homeward over the infantry. that beautiful evening call, and the golden cloud bank towering, and that adventurer coming home in the cold, happening all together, revealed in a flash the fact (which hours of thinking sometimes will not bring) that we live in such a period of romance as the troubadours would have envied.
he came, that british airman, over the border, sheer over no man’s land and the heads of the enemy and the mysterious land behind, snatching the secrets that the enemy would conceal. either he had defeated the german airmen who would have stopped his going, or they had not dared to try. who knows what he had done? he had been abroad and was coming home in the evening, as he did every day.
even when all its romance has been sifted from an age (as the centuries sift) and set apart from the trivial, and when all has been stored by the poets; even then what has any of them more romantic than these adventurers in the evening air, coming home in the twilight with the black shells bursting below?
the infantry look up with the same vague wonder with which children look at dragon flies; sometimes they do not look at all, for all that comes in france has its part with the wonder of a terrible story as well as with the incidents of the day, incidents that recur year in and year out, too often for us to notice them. if a part of the moon were to fall off in the sky and come tumbling to earth, the comment on the lips of the imperturbable british watchers that have seen so much would be, “hullo, what is jerry up to now?”
and so the british aëroplane glides home in the evening, and the light fades from the air, and what is left of the poplars grows dark against the sky, and what is left of the houses grows more mournful in the gloaming, and night comes, and with it the sounds of thunder, for the airman has given his message to the artillery. it is as though hermes had gone abroad sailing upon his sandals, and had found some bad land below those winged feet wherein men did evil and kept not the laws of gods or men; and he had brought this message back and the gods were angry.
for the wars we fight to-day are not like other wars, and the wonders of them are unlike other wonders. if we do not see in them the saga and epic, how shall we tell of them?
england
“and then we used to have sausages,” said the sergeant.
“and mashed?” said the private.
“yes,” said the sergeant, “and beer. and then we used to go home. it was grand in the evenings. we used to go along a lane that was full of them wild roses. and then we come to the road where the houses were. they all had their bit of a garden, every house.”
“nice, i calls it, a garden,” the private said.
“yes,” said the sergeant, “they all had their garden. it came right down to the road. wooden palings: none of that there wire.”
“i hates wire,” said the private.
“they didn’t have none of it,” the n. c. o. went on. “the gardens came right down to the road, looking lovely. old billy weeks he had them tall pale-blue flowers in his garden nearly as high as a man.”
“hollyhocks?” said the private.
“no, they wasn’t hollyhocks. lovely they were. we used to stop and look at them, going by every evening. he had a path up the middle of his garden paved with red tiles, billy weeks had; and these tall blue flowers growing the whole way along it, both sides like. they was a wonder. twenty gardens there must have been, counting them all; but none to touch billy weeks with his pale-blue flowers. there was an old windmill away to the left. then there were the swifts sailing by overhead and screeching: just about as high again as the houses. lord, how them birds did fly. and there was the other young fellows, what were not out walking, standing about by the roadside, just doing nothing at all. one of them had a flute: jim booker, he was. those were great days. the bats used to come out, flutter, flutter, flutter; and then there’d be a star or two; and the smoke from the chimneys going all grey; and a little cold wind going up and down like the bats; and all the colour going out of things; and the woods looking all strange, and a wonderful quiet in them, and a mist coming up from the stream. it’s a queer time that. it’s always about that time, the way i see it: the end of the evening in the long days, and a star or two, and me and my girl going home.
“wouldn’t you like to talk about things for a bit the way you remember them?”
“oh, no, sergeant,” said the other, “you go on. you do bring it all back so.”
“i used to bring her home,” the sergeant said, “to her father’s house. her father was keeper there, and they had a house in the wood. a fine house with queer old tiles on it, and a lot of large friendly dogs. i knew them all by name, same as they knew me. i used to walk home then along the side of the wood. the owls would be about; you could hear them yelling. they’d float out of the wood like, sometimes: all large and white.”
“i knows them,” said the private.
“i saw a fox once so close i could nearly touch him, walking like he was on velvet. he just slipped out of the wood.”
“cunning old brute,” said the private.
“that’s the time to be out,” said the sergeant. “ten o’clock on a summer’s night, and the night full of noises, not many of them, but what there is, strange, and coming from a great way off, through the quiet, with nothing to stop them. dogs barking, owls hooting, an old cart; and then just once a sound that you couldn’t account for at all, not anyhow. i’ve heard sounds on nights like that that nobody ‘ud think you’d heard, nothing like the flute that young booker had, nothing like anything on earth.”
“i know,” said the private.
“i never told any one before, because they wouldn’t believe you. but it doesn’t matter now. there’d be a light in the window to guide me when i got home. i’d walk up through the flowers of our garden. we had a lovely garden. wonderful white and strange the flowers looked of a nighttime.”
“you bring it all back wonderful,” said the private.
“it’s a great thing to have lived,” said the sergeant.
“yes, sergeant,” said the other, “i wouldn’t have missed it, not for anything.”
for five days the barrage had rained down behind them: they were utterly cut off and had no hope of rescue: their food was done, and they did not know where they were.
