Paid In Full/Chapter 9
CHAPTER IX
NOM DE GUERRE
On April 6, 1917, the United States declared war upon Germany, and the cork was out of the bottle at last. Altogether a fine effervescent moment.
Conscription was passed by acclamation—there was no sentimental time-wasting over the Voluntary System in this case—and within a few weeks some twelve million able-bodied young Americans had registered for service. For the moment they could do no more. They had no arms or equipment; as in England, the peace-at-any-price party had seen to that. Neither was there any machinery in existence for housing, feeding, clothing, or doctoring them. But the mere fact that some of the finest human material in the world was destined to die of exposure and preventable sickness within its own borders during the next twelve months in order to vindicate the glorious doctrine of Unpreparedness and acquit certain virtuous non-combatants of all suspicion of having planned a brutal war of conquest, was, as usual, lost to view in a tumult of popular enthusiasm. Uncle Sam's hat was in the ring at last, and for the moment that was all that mattered.
Khaki fever—or rather olive-drab fever—ran high. The humblest doughboy in the newest of uniforms was, quite rightly, a hero, and was expected to comport himself as such: at any moment he must be ready, held shoulder-high by a street crowd, to make a recruiting speech or expound the military situation ‘over there.’ A person in ‘civvies,’ on the other hand, was an object of just suspicion. Later it became necessary to provide every man engaged upon legitimate civilian work with a certificate of exemption, to be shown to any patriotically disposed persons who might desire to examine his credentials as a preliminary to lynching him for a spy or manhandling him for a shirker.
The sinews of war were not forgotten. A vast Loan was raised, not according to the high and hidden mysteries of banking and underwriting, but by direct appeal to the people. War Bonds were on sale everywhere—by girls in fancy dress, by hotel clerks, by policemen on point duty; across the counters of drugstores, at smoking concerts, and between the acts at theatres, where the principals of the company officiated as auctioneers. The American citizen was charged to buy a Liberty Bond for the baby, and he bought one. He was commanded to give until it hurt, and he gave. Never was there a more spontaneous outpouring of the natural spirit of a generous people.
But behind the tumult and the shouting practical men were getting to work. Great training camps sprang up in every State. Invitations were sent to France and Britain for military instructors who could bring to the American people the latest and grimmest lessons of actual warfare. Political Missions began to arrive from Allied countries, and vast crowds on Fifth Avenue were agreeably occupied for some weeks in cheering to the echo embarrassed foreign statesmen in top hats, accompanied by inarticulate Field-Marshals almost too dazed to speak their own language and quite incapable of understanding any other.
The propaganda battle entered upon a new and exciting phase. The long-drawn, unofficial, under ground struggle between the emissaries of Britain and Germany came to a dramatic conclusion; for the American police authorities, having abandoned their benevolent impartiality, could now with propriety make use of a painfully acquired knowledge of the multifold ramifications of the German spy system supplied by their new colleagues. The principal Teutonic agents were rounded up in a few days, and the law of the land, having dealt faithfully with these, set out with cheery gusto to hunt for more.
Allied officers already in America were invited—nay bidden—to wear uniform at all times, partly for the advertisement of the common cause, partly for their own protection in a land suffering from the first violent convulsions of spy-mania. Consequently a large number of retiring Britons, who feared no foe, but hated being made conspicuous, were compelled to emerge from the comfortable security of mufti and expose themselves in full war-paint to the affectionate plaudits of a public to whom such exhibitions were an entire novelty—an experience fraught with special embarrassment for Brigadier-Generals in brass hats and the representatives of the kilted regiments.
Permission was readily granted to the Allies to seek recruits among their own compatriots settled upon American soil; and, when the inevitable difficulties connected with wives and children and separation allowances had been adjusted to a scale commensurate with American standards of living, some thirty thousand expatriated Britons duly returned to Europe to fight for the flag under which they had been born. All this involved considerable pother, for you cannot conduct recruiting agencies without attestations, and swearing in, and medical examination.
One night in New York, Colonel Winter, who had come from Washington on matters connected with this very business, dined at the Ritz with an old friend and comrade-in-arms, one Jimmy Blackadder, who had landed in New York that morning upon the staff of yet another British Mission.
‘This is a bit of a change from our last meal together, Tom—what?’ remarked Blackadder, sitting down contentedly and unfolding his napkin.
‘Let me see—where was that?’
‘In the Trois Amis, at Ouderdom.’
‘Of course. I remember now—back at rest from Hooge. What an unexpected little haven that pub was, in that ocean of mud! And the meals Madame managed to provide for us!’
‘Yes; and that mysterious little store of Clicquot of hers!’ Jimmy Blackadder smacked his lips, for he loved the flesh-pots. ‘By the way, what are we going to drink to-night?’
‘Sorry, old man, but we are going to drink some nice ice-water.’
‘God preserve us! Why? Have you turned teetotaller in your old age, or has Prohibition come at last?’
‘Neither—as yet. But the powers that be over here—or rather the powers behind the powers that be—have just signified their appreciation of the patriotism and trustworthiness of the men who are going to fight for them by restricting the privilege of alcoholic refreshment to those who are not. No American soldier in uniform is allowed to come within twenty yards of a drink.’
‘Officers included?’
‘Officers included. We British have therefore agreed among ourselves not to add to the sufferings of our esteemed colleagues by drinking in their presence, that's all. I’ll give you a spot of something upstairs later on.’
‘It reminds me,’ remarked Blackadder, ruefully sipping his ice-water, ‘of that time when we came back to Ouderdom from a week's trenches with our tongues hanging right out, to find that the Trois Amis had been closed up tight for a fortnight by the Town Major of Renninghelst, because Madame had been caught selling brandy to the Tommies. She reopened the day after we went back to the Line. Do you remember?’
‘Do I not? How we cursed that same Town Major! Still, I suppose he was doing his duty. I’ve been conscious lately of a distinctly softer feeling towards Town Majors and other censors of military morals.’
‘Why?’
‘I’ve just been made one myself.’
‘Don’t tell me you're Town Major of New York!’
‘No; but I’m Assistant Provost Marshal, for the time being. There are so many odd British Missions and details, not to mention individuals, knocking about all over this big country just now, that it is time they were brought under some kind of supervision. It is to be my pleasant task to sort out the sheep from the goats.’
‘Goats?’
‘Yes—crooks.’
‘You mean, some of our fellows over here are wrong 'uns?’ inquired that simple soldier, Jimmy Blackadder.
‘Out-and-outers—though, mind you, most of them aren’t soldiers at all, but military impersonators—of varying skill. Half the swell mobsmen from the West End of London have been over here for two years, posing as wounded heroes or secret-service men. There are one or two real artists at the job, I will admit. Some of them have had a royal time of it.’
‘Couldn't your Embassy people have put them in clink—on suspicion, or something?’
‘You can't put people in clink, on suspicion, or anything else, when they are living under the protection of somebody else’s flag, my lad. But now, with all our flags pooled, so to speak, we have a legal footing over here, and I intend to get busy with the dragnet.’
‘Well, I suppose it takes all sorts to make a war,’ remarked Jimmy Blackadder tolerantly. ‘An army, too, for that matter. I remember a queer case out in Belgium a year or two ago. I was on a Corps Staff by that time, and chance brought me into official contact with one of the most plausible liars I have ever met.’
‘Not a member of the Staff?’
‘Oh, no; just an afternoon caller. He was a field cashier.’
‘What's that? Something new since my day.’
‘An Army Pay Corps wallah—a capitalist who dashes about in a car between the Base and the Line carrying untold sums of money, chiefly in ten-franc notes, to pay the troops. They used to cash cheques on Cox's, too, and chance it. I tell you, a very present help in trouble!’
‘What about this customer?’
‘He came buzzing into that very place we were talking of just now, Ouderdom, one wet afternoon in October, from the direction of Canada Huts—that was a Rest Camp on a mud-flat just off the Dickebusch Road—and pulled up his car outside the old Trois Amis, all of a doodah, and asked the sentry where Corps Headquarters was. The sentry told him, and he came right in to where we were sitting, and reported to the General direct. He was a new General, just out from home, and he hadn’t quite shaken off the Whitehall manner of doing things. He sent for pens and ink and somebody to take shorthand notes, and made a regular tamasha. Apparently our friend in the car had had a narrow escape. He had been driving up to the Line from Hazebrouck, loaded up to the hatches with money—the pay of a Division, in fact—and had run right into a bombardment which was going on somewhere near Hellblast Corner. (Of course he had no right to be there at all: the place was a recognised danger spot, and the road had been out of bounds for months; but our new General didn’t know that.) Our Field Cashier, considering it his duty to press on with the pay envelopes at all costs, had shoved down his accelerator and made a dash for it. He got through, but in the excitement of the moment omitted to observe that the big leather wallet on the seat beside him, containing his cargo, had flapped open, and that most of the money had blown away. Having at last noted his adverse balance, he had come along to report, with a view to having a search party detailed and his personal honour vindicated. He was terribly gentlemanly about it all; called for a full inquiry, and so on.’
‘What did he look like? A counter-jumper?’
‘No; he looked like a soldier. That was the funny thing about it. He had a South-African ribbon up, too. Still, there was something about him—you know! Something not quite!’
‘I know. What did the Corps Commander do about it?’
‘He asked our sportsman if he had been alone in the car, and, if so, why.’
‘That was rather a facer. What was the answer?’
‘It was all ready. His chauffeur had suddenly reported sick at Hazebrouck; but, rather than fail in his duty and deprive us poor fellows of our pocket money, he had decided to drive the Ford himself.’
‘He seems to have been the slave of duty. What happened next?’
‘None of us really suspected him: we merely regarded him as a bit of a bukh-stick from Threadneedle Street. But the General told him that, in the absence of any corroborative evidence of his statement, and as a matter of form, he had better consider himself under arrest for the time being. Then he rang up some gun-pits near Hellblast Corner, and asked them if they had been shelled that afternoon, and, if so, at what hour. They replied, very respectfully, that Hellblast Corner had been punctually shelled every ten minutes, night and day, for the last eighteen months; and what other dam’ silly question could they have the pleasure of answering?—or words to that effect. That rather flummoxed the General, so he switched off from the Line and rang up Hazebrouck, to ask if they had mislaid a Field Cashier. Unfortunately, the number was engaged: somebody’s Strength Return or Weather Report was going through. So the General told our guest to sit around and wait for further instructions. After that, we forgot all about him for a couple of hours. The next thing we knew was that he was gone.’
‘Bolted?’
‘Yes. It was dark by this time, and as no officer had been detailed to look after him, and none of the men had any authority to stop him, he simply strolled into the street, got his car, and drove off.’
‘To Hazebrouck?’
‘Not so as you’d notice it. He disappeared into the blue. The car was found weeks later at Havre, so presumably he took ship from there. After all, a man with the pay of a Division in his possession, in convenient currency, ought to be able to fix up a little matter like that. Anyhow, he was never heard of again. Personally, I rather liked what I remember of him: he was a cheerful knave.’
‘He sounds like a real artist,’ said Tom Winter. ‘What was his name?’
‘Cranford. No, wait a minute! Canfield—no—Cradock! That was it—Captain Denis Cradock. I remember he was rather particular about the Denis. Made quite a fuss when the note-taking person spelt it with two n’s.’ Jimmy Blackadder pushed back his chair. ‘Now what about that little spot of something upstairs? Are you ready?’
‘Right! Wait till I get the bill. Check, please, waiter!’
An obsequious alien hurried off to the pay-desk, and the two officers sat waiting, surveying the animated scene about them.
‘Fair women and brave men—what?’ remarked Blackadder, in a sudden outburst of sentimentality. ‘They’re a likely looking crowd, Tom.’
‘Who; the men or the women?’
‘The women go without saying: I see I am booked for heart trouble over here. By the way, old chap, have you escaped?’
‘Quite, thanks.’ Tom Winter was strangely emphatic.
‘Good! But I was speaking of the men for the moment. I wouldn’t mind commanding a brigade of them. It’s rum to see so many privates feeding in a place like this, though—and a couple of naval ratings, too. What pay do they get, for goodness' sake?’
‘They don’t need to worry about their pay. These lads mostly live in marble mansions on Fifth Avenue, and they go into the ranks just to show that there is no social side about them. Remember you are in a democratic country. Some of their ideas of duty are exactly opposed to ours. We take commissions, to show our sense of responsibility: they refuse them, to show their sense of sportsmanship. We’re both right.’
‘I see the idea,’ said Blackadder approvingly—‘so long as they don’t all do it, of course.’ He continued to scrutinise the company. ‘What a lot of different uniforms. All the fifty-seven varieties of Allies—eh? See that bloke over there, with silver dummy cartridges all over his chest. A Serbian lieutenant, isn’t he?’
‘Yes, or a Roumanian. I’m not sure. One can’t distinguish them all, these days. Here's our change. Come along.’
The pair rose from their seats and made their way through the closely packed tables towards the door way. They were large men, and they attracted some attention. Winter heard his name called, and turned.
He found himself facing Geraldine Tilford, dining at a small table with Dale Conway. She looked prettier than ever, and radiantly happy.
‘I believe you were going to cut me, Colonel Winter,’ she cried gaily. ‘Who is that officer with you? He looks too lovely.’
‘He’s an old friend of mine,’ replied Winter, with a glance at the hurriedly retreating back of the officer designated. ‘He’s not usually shy, but I do believe you’ve frightened him away, Mrs. Tilford. We are a self-conscious race, you know, and he heard what you said.’
‘If it will soothe him any, you can say I was only referring to his uniform. Don’t they look fine, all around the restaurant? I was scolding Captain Conway here for not wearing his.’ She gave her dinner companion a reproving frown, immediately discounted by a ravishing smile.
‘All in good time, dear lady,’ said Conway. ‘When I was sent out here,’ he explained to Winter, ‘I was particularly warned not to bring uniform with me, or I would risk internment—if not interment!’
‘Quite right,’ said Winter. ‘But that’s all over now. Uniform is going to be compulsory. Well, I must go and look after my retiring friend. He has just arrived, and is feeling thirsty.’ He offered his hand, awkwardly, hating himself for not being able to say something graceful.
‘Are you coming to Captain Conway's lecture?’ asked Geraldine, with an eager pressure from her slim fingers. ‘Carnegie Hall, next Thursday, for Allied War Charities. I have a box right next the stage. Will you be very sweet, and join my party?’
‘Take a friend's advice, and stay away, Colonel!’ said Conway, laughing. ‘It’s the same old discourse as at Palm Beach, only longer.’
‘I will try to be there—but I’m working twenty-three hours a day just now,’ replied Winter. He had no particular desire to walk behind Conway's chariot again. ‘Au revoir, Mrs. Tilford, and thank you!’
‘There,’ observed Conway, surveying Tom Winter's retreating form, ‘goes a man who would give his best boots to be standing in my shoes! Who wouldn’t, for that matter?’
He squeezed Geraldine's fingers exultantly.
‘Now don’t be silly,’ she replied, highly flattered.
‘Sorry to keep you waiting, old man,’ said Winter to his guest as he joined him in the lounge a moment later, ‘but you shouldn’t be so coy. There was a pretty lady asking to be introduced to you.’
For once Jimmy Blackadder was not interested in pretty ladies.
‘Do you know that fellow dining with her?’ he asked abruptly.
‘Yes: he's a British War Lecturer. Some orator, I can tell you.’
‘Do you know his name?’
‘I do. I met him at Palm Beach. His name is Conway—Dale Conway.’
Jimmy Blackadder shook his grizzled head.
‘Nothing of the kind,’ he said. ‘I recognised him the moment I set eyes upon him—even without his uniform. His name is Denis Cradock.’