Read Online Behind the Lines by W. F.; Morris - Free Book Online Page B

to Rawley, kneeling on the clean, red-brick floor, his head was out of sight below the horizon of his prostrate body.
    â€œDamn good of you, Pete—to look after me—like this. Damn good of you,” he murmured. “Do same for you—one day.”
    Rawley set to work to take off the other garments.
    â€œI like you, Pete, lad,” the voice went on. “I—like you. Good pals we’ll be . . . good pals. Bloody good . . . pals.” With great earnestness: “War’s hell, Pete . . . flaming hell . . . but not when you’ve got pals.” Tears of emotion stood in his blurred eyes. “We’re pals, Pete . . . b-bloody good pals.”
    Rawley made no contribution to the conversation. He went on steadily with his task, no easy one, of separatingthe tunic, breeches, and other garments from their close filling of flesh. But at last it was done, and Rumbald was in green pyjamas and lay in bed with a brown army blanket tucked under his chin and his flushed face on the coarse white pillow like a fried egg.
    Rawley went towards the candle, but was recalled to remove the watch from Rumbald’s wrist. Again he approached to blow out the candle and was again recalled to replace the Sam Browne on the chair. A third time he reached the candle and the voice came again from the bed. “Pete, will you—”
    â€œOh, God! What do you want now?”
    â€œYou’re . . . not angry, Pete, are you?” plaintively.
    â€œWhat is it?”
    â€œYou’re not angry?” This almost tearfully.
    â€œOh, no—only fed up; damned fed up.”
    â€œOne little favour, old man. Will you?”
    â€œOh, I suppose so. What is it?”
    â€œMy wallet . . . in my tunic.”
    Rawley took the wallet from the pocket of the tunic on the chair and brought it to the bed. Rumbald opened it and fumbled in the pockets. He took out the photograph of his wife and gazed at it with a silly smile.
    â€œMy old missus!” he faltered. “My half-section. Can’t go . . . to sleep without her . . . Pete, lad.”
    Rawley blew out the candle with such force that the curtains stirred and left him mumbling in the darkness.

CHAPTER VI
    I
    Rawley was awake early. The coarse green curtain had been drawn too brusquely the night before, and between one side of it and the window-frame a narrow shaft of early sunlight penetrated and lay like a shining sword across the red-brick floor. He turned over in his sleeping-bag to avoid the glare and arranged his head more comfortably on the little rubber air-pillow. The village cocks were inquiring after one another’s welfare and the engine hum of a high-flying machine returning from dawn patrol passed over and died away. The cool breeze that stirred the curtain carried a tang of wood smoke from the fire kindling at the cook-house.
    Rawley dozed; and the shining sword of light upon the floor moved slowly and was twisted on the edge of his valise lying in a brown rumpled heap by the bed.
    Shuffling of feet on the road outside announced that the mess orderlies were parading. He turned over drowsily without opening his eyes. That was no concern of his; Rumbald was orderly officer. Rumbald! He sat up quickly as a thought struck him and looked at his watch. Then he disentangled his feet from the flea-bag and slid off the bare box-mattress on which it lay to the floor. He glanced out of the window and saw the orderlies waiting in the road, and then he began pulling on his clothes.
    So that was the sort of fellow Rumbald was, he mused. Drink and women were a man’s own affair. Debauchery was one thing; but letting the battery down was another. If a bombardier neglected his duty he was broken, and yet an officer. . . .
    He pulled on his boots. It was not to save Rumbald he was doing it. The fellow fully deserved the strafing he would get if the Major knew; but the men must not know that an officer was slack. He put on his cap and went