Changing Winds

"Good!" said Roger.

4

They walked home to Bloomsbury, where they had easily obtained rooms, for the sudden withdrawal of Germans and Austrians had left Bloomsbury in a state of vacancy. As they went down Haverstock Hill towards Chalk Farm, an old man lurched against them.

"All the young chaps," he mumbled thickly. "Thash wot sticks in my gizzard! All the young chaps! Gawblimey, why don't they tyke the ole ones!..."

"Steady on," Gilbert exclaimed, catching his arm and holding him up.

"You'll fall, if you're not careful!"

"Don't marrer a d.a.m.n wherrer I do or not!" He reeled a little, and Gilbert caught hold of him again. "I woul'n be a young chap," he muttered, "not for... not for nothink. You... you're a young chap, ain't you? Yesh you are! You needn't tell me you ain't! I can see as wellsh anythink! You're a young chap ri' enough. Well... well, Gawd, 'elp you, young feller! Thash all I got to sy... subjec!' Goo-ni', gen'lemen!" He staggered off the pavement, and went half way across the deserted street. Then he turned and looked at them for a few moments.

"Ain't it a b.l.o.o.d.y treat, eih?" he shouted to them. "_Ain't_ it a b.l.o.o.d.y treat?"

"Drunk," said Gilbert.

Henry did not reply, and they walked on through Chalk Farm, through Camden Town, into the tangle of mean streets by Euston, and then across the Euston Road to Bloomsbury. They did not speak to each other until they were almost at their destination.

"It's awfully quiet," said Henry, turning and looking about him.

"I don't see any one," Gilbert answered, "except that old fellow ahead of us!..."

"No!"

They walked on, and when they came up to the old man, who walked slowly, and heavily in the same direction, they called "Good-night!" to him. He looked round at them, an old, tired, bewildered man, and he made a gesture with his hands, a gesture of despair. "Ach, mein freund!" he said brokenly, and again he made the suppliant motion with his hands.

"Poor old devil!" Gilbert muttered almost to himself.

5

They went to their rooms at once, too tired to talk to each other, and Henry, hurriedly undressing, got into bed. But he could not sleep. "I suppose I ought to join, too!" he said to himself, as he lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. "Gilbert and I could go together!..."

But what would be the good of that? The war would be over quite soon.

Even Roger thought it would be over in a couple of months, and if that were so, there would be no need for him to throw up his work and take to soldiering. "It'll be over before Gilbert's got through his training.

Long before!..."

"Anyhow, I can wait until the rush is over. I might as well go on working as stand outside Scotland Yard all day, waiting to be taken on.... Or I could apply for a commission!..."

He lay very still, hoping that he would fall asleep soon, but sleep would not come to him. He sat up in bed, and

"I suppose," he said aloud, "they're fighting now!"

He lay down again quickly, thrusting himself well under the bedclothes and shut his eyes tightly. "Oh, my G.o.d, isn't it horrible!" he groaned.

He saw again that crowd of hurried soldiers detraining at Holyhead, thinking that perhaps they were going to Ireland, but not quite sure...

and he could see them stumbling up the gangways of the transport, each man heavily accoutred; and sometimes a man would laugh, and sometimes a man would swear... and then the s.h.i.+p sailed out of the harbour, rounding the pier and the breakwater, churning the sea into a long white trail of foam as she set her course past the South Stack.... They could see the lights on her masthead diminis.h.i.+ng as she went further away, and then, as the cold sea wind blew about them, they s.h.i.+vered and went home.... Now, lying here in this stillness, warm and snug, Henry could see those soldiers, huddled together on the s.h.i.+p. He could imagine them, murmuring to one another, "I say, d'ye think we _are_ goin' to Ireland?"

and hear one answering, "You'll know in three hours. We'll be there _then_, if we are!" and slowly there would come to each man the knowledge that their journey was not to Ireland, but to France, and there would be a tightening of the lips, an involuntary movement here and there and then.... "Well, o' course, we're goin' to France! 'Oo the 'ell thought we was goin' anywhere else?" The s.h.i.+p would carry them swiftly down the Irish Sea and across the English Channel... and after that!...

"Some of them may be dead already," he murmured to himself.

Torn up suddenly from their accustomed life, hurried through the darkness along the length of England, and then, after long, cold nights on the sea, landed in France and set to slaying....

"And they won't know what's it for?"

But did that matter? Would it be any better if they were aware of the cause of the fight? One lived in a land and loved it. Surely, that was sufficient?

In his mind, he could still see the soldiers, but always they were moving in the dark. He could see very vividly the man who had asked Perkins to write to his wife... and it seemed to him that he was still demanding of pa.s.sers-by that they should write to her. "Tell 'er I'm all right," he kept on saying. "So far, any'ow!..."

He turned over on his side, dragging the clothes about his head, and tried to shut out the vision of the soldiers marching through the fields of France, but he could not shut it out. They still marched, endlessly, ceaselessly marched....

6

When they got to Scotland Yard, there was a great crowd of men waiting to be enlisted.

"You'd better come again, Gilbert," Henry said. "You'll have to hang about here all day, and then perhaps you won't be reached!"

"I think I'll hang about anyhow," Gilbert answered.

He had become queerly quiet since the beginning of the War. The old, light-hearted, exaggerated speech had gone from him, and when he spoke, his words were abrupt and colourless. He took his place at the end of the file of men, and as he did so, the man in front of him, a fringe-haired, quick-eyed youth with a m.u.f.fler round his neck, turned and greeted him. "'Illoa, myte!" he said with the cheery friendliness of the East End. "You come too, eih?"

Gilbert answered, "Yes, I thought I might as well!"

"Well 'ave to wyte a 'ell of a time," the c.o.c.kney went on. "Some of 'em's bin 'ere since six this mornin'. Gawblimey, you'd think they was givin' awy prizes. I dunno wot the 'ell I come for. I jus' did, sort of!..."

Some one standing by, turned to a recruiting sergeant and whispered something to him, pointing to the guttersnipes in the queue.

"Fight!" said the recruiting sergeant. "Gawd love you, guv'nor, they'd fight 'ell's blazes, them chaps would!"

Henry tried again to induce Gilbert to fall out of the queue and wait until there was more likelihood of being enlisted quickly, but Gilbert would not be persuaded.

"You'll have to get something to eat," Henry urged. "They'll never get near you until this evening, and if you've got to fall out to get food, you might as well fall out now!"

"I think I'll wait," Gilbert repeated. "Perhaps," he went on, "you'll get me some sandwiches. Get a lot, will you. This chap in front of me doesn't look as if he'd brought anything!"

"You could get a commission, Gilbert, easily," Henry said.

"I don't think I should be much good as an officer, Quinny.... Go and get the sandwiches like a decent chap!"

Henry went away to do as Gilbert had bidden him, and after a while, he returned with a big packet of sandwiches and apples.

"I shan't wait, Gilbert," he said. "I can't stand about all day. I'll come back when the rush is over...."

"But why, Quinny?"

"I'm going to join, too, with you!..."