to

ellary warden

{135}

le grand couronné was the last of the mountain peaks to disappear in the darkness that so quickly follows twilight in greece. to valentine latimer, excited by malaria, it seemed to curtesy as it went. he raised himself on to the fire-step, took off the gauze mask that protected his face from mosquitoes, and handed it to his orderly.

“won’t you keep it on, sir?” asked his orderly; “the mosquitoes are out in their millions to-night.”

“it’ll make no difference,” said latimer, “and i can’t breathe with that damned thing smothering me.... how heavy the air is!”

his servant stood behind him leaning with his back against the rock trench-wall, his head—so tall was he—almost touching the parados.

“we’d better visit the sentry-groups, morgan,” said latimer.

the man had slung his rifle, but latimer did not move. he was listening to the fitful rustle of the trees immediately overhead. the sound reminded him of his father’s garden at home—the garden in which he had spent the happiest hours of his life. the little breeze went its way, and almost immediately a sour smell stole up from the trench. into his fevered brain came the word “decay ... decay,” and stayed there like a drop of poison.

“everything is strangely quiet,” he observed.

“yes, sir,” said morgan.

and, indeed, the silence was as heavy as the heavy air. latimer had the curious feeling that he and his orderly were the only people in that country-side, and when a cough broke upon the stillness, he started.{136}

“that’s number two group,” said he, mechanically; “corporal davies is in charge there, eh, morgan?”

some sickly lines of edgar allen poe started up in his brain and began to race along it, repeating themselves again and again. though he was a little worried by their repetition, they gave him a sense of romance, of power.

“we’ll start from the ravine and work upwards,” he said, stepping onto the duck-boards.

though both officer and servant were well acquainted with those steep and winding trenches, they had to feel their way along, so black was the night, so ineffective the light of the glinting and eager stars. they came upon a group of men in a fire-bay; two of them, stretched on the fire-step, were asleep. the sentry on duty stood looking over the top of the trench; by his side was the n.c.o. in charge of the group.

“everything all right, corporal?” asked latimer, in a low voice.

“everything, sir,” whispered the corporal.

a few yards further on, latimer stopped. he wanted to cry out. he longed to scream wildly and break this conspiracy of silence. suddenly, it seemed to him as though the entire country-side were for a brief second illuminated by a magnificent burst of light: le grand couronné was revealed from top to toe; in the slits crinkling the breasts and flanks of the mountain he saw dark, bearded bulgars, bullet-headed and yellow-toothed. they were all gazing at him with cruel, malignant eyes.... the hallu{137}cination passed.

“i feel ill, morgan,” he said.

morgan, a man twice latimer’s age—for latimer was still in his teens—took from his pocket a bottle of tabloids.

“you ought to have gone sick this morning, sir,” said morgan; “or, better still, let me take you to the telephone dug-out.... have a drink from my water-bottle, sir.... ask captain mitchell to send another officer out to relieve you.”

“oh, no; i’ll stick it out. but let me have a drink.”

but the water had none of the virtue of water: it was tepid and sickly, and it tasted slightly of grease....

the sound of a single rifle-shot from the enemy’s lines ripped the silence. it meant nothing: it was nothing. yet latimer cursed beneath his breath.

“let’s get on,” he said, and proceeded to feel his way towards the ravine.

in a few minutes they reached it. here was another sentry-group. assuring himself that all was in order, he began to retrace his steps. he was conscious of nothing except the procession of fantasies and memories within his brain: verses he had written last year beneath the young flowering laburnum in his father’s garden; a girl’s hand in which his heart seemed to be inevitably cupped; a flannelled figure, with a rapid, crushing serve, on the other side of the tennis-net; barbaric music from “boris godounov,” which he had{138} heard in that wonderful summer of 1914; a great day on the river with his friend. at first these memories came singly; then they clustered together horribly and seemed to menace him.

“fever: just fever,” he assured himself.

“yes—just fever,” echoed his orderly.

latimer turned upon him with his arms outstretched.

“did i talk aloud?” he asked, in dread.

“why, yes, sir. weren’t you speaking to me?”

soon their way became very steep, for the system of trenches took the side of a hill: here and there they were compelled to climb with hands as well as feet. when near the top of the hill, latimer took off his heavy metal helmet and wiped his wet forehead with the back of his hand.

“only one more sentry post, thank god!” he said.

then, suddenly, an enemy battery opened fire on that sector of which latimer had temporary charge. most of the shells dropped in the little wood down below. a machine-gun from la tortue, on their right flank, chattered incessantly, and two trench-mortars from the same place shook the air and shattered it.

latimer hurried down the hill with his orderly behind him. in five minutes they were in the little wood. all the shells were dropping short. this sort of thing was likely to continue at intervals all night: it was the enemy’s usual procedure.{139}

in the little wood, which smelt so stalely, latimer sat down and suddenly began to vomit. his orderly stood by regarding him compassionately; he took a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to his master. in a few minutes latimer, trembling and cold, rose and started to creep down the trench to the ravine....

a few hours later dawn began to paint the sky yellow, and the mountains moved out of the dark and assumed their daily places. in half-an-hour latimer would be relieved.

“report yourself to sergeant black, morgan: i shan’t want you any more.”

he turned for a second to give his orderly a ghost of a smile, and then, placing his arms on the parapet, watched what was happening to the mountains and the sky. his large eyes glistened.

“oh, how beautiful! how very beautiful!” he exclaimed aloud, as he gazed at the violet mist at the feet of the belashitza mountains. “i do wish father was here.... i do wish father....”

“hello, latimer! how goes it?”

the boy turned round: his company commander was standing behind him, looking at him curiously.

“you see how it is, sir,” said latimer, gravely, “when night goes....”

his eyes quickly became dilated, and he swayed a little.

“you’re ill, laddie. come back to headquarters with me.”{140}

“fever—just fever. people have been playing tennis in my head all night. and morgan’s killed. i wish i was dead myself.”

his lips trembled and a dry sob shook his shoulders.

“i do wish father was here,” he said.