The Chaplain
The moon looks down upon a ghost-like figure,
Delving a furrow in the cold, damp sod,
The grave is ready, and the lonely digger
Leaves the departed to their rest and God.
I shape a little cross and plant it deep
To mark the dug-out where my comrades sleep.
"I wish I was in the Ladies' Volunteer Corps," said Bill Teake next day, as he sat on the fire-step of the trench and looked at the illustrated daily which had been used in packing a parcel from home.
"Why?" I asked.
"They were in bathing last week," said Teake. "Their picture is here; fine girls they are, too! Oh, blimey!" Bill exclaimed as he glanced at the date on the paper. "This 'ere photo was took last June."
"And this is the 28th of September," said Pryor.
We needed a rest now, but we still were in the trenches by the village, holding on and hoping that fresh troops would come up and relieve us.
[179]
"Anything about the war in that paper, Bill?" someone asked.
"Nuthin' much," Bill answered. "The Bishop of —— says this is a 'oly war.... Blimey, 'e's talkin' through 'is 'at. 'Oly, indeed, it's 'oly 'ell. D'ye mind when 'e came out 'ere, this 'ere Bishop, an' told us 'e carried messages from our wives, our fathers an' mothers. If I was a married bloke I'd 'ave arst 'im wot did 'e mean by takin' messages from my old woman."
"You interpreted the good man's remarks literally," said Pryor, lighting a cigarette. "That was wrong. His remarks were bristling with metaphors. He spoke as a man of God so that none could understand him. He said, as far as I can remember, that we could face death without fear if we were forgiven men; that it was wise to get straight with God, and the blood of Christ would wash our sins away, and all the rest of it."
"Stow it, yer bloomin' fool," said Bill Teake. "Yer don't know what yer jawin' about. S'pose a bishop 'as got ter make a livin' like ev'ryone else; an' 'e's got ter work for it. 'Ere's somethin' about parsons in this paper. One is askin' if a man in 'oly Orders should take up arms or not."
"Of course not," said Pryor. "If the parsons take up arms, who'll comfort the women at home when we're gone?"
[180]
"The slackers will comfort them," some one remarked. "I've a great respect for slackers. They'll marry our sweethearts when we're dead."
"We hear nothing of a curates' regiment," I said. "In a Holy War young curates should lead the way."
"They'd make damned good bomb throwers," said Bill.
"Would they swear when making a charge?" I inquired.
"They wouldn't beat us at that," said Bill.
"The holy line would go praying down to die," parodied Pryor, and added: "A chaplain may be a good fellow, you know."
"It's a woman's job," said Bill Teake. "Blimey! s'pose women did come out 'ere to comfort us, I wouldn't 'arf go mad with joy. I'd give my last fag, I'd give—oh! anything to see the face of an English girl now.... They say in the papers that hactresses come out 'ere. We've never seen one, 'ave we?"
"Actresses never come out here," said Pryor. "They give a performance miles back to the R.A.M.C., Army Service Corps, and Mechanical Transport men, but for us poor devils in the trenches there is nothing at all, not even decent pay."
"Wot's the reason that the more danger men go into the less their pay?" asked[181] Teake. "The further a man's back from the trenches the more 'e gets."
"Mechanical Transport drivers have a trade that takes a long apprenticeship," said Pryor. "Years perhaps——"
"'Aven't we a trade, too?" asked Bill. "A damned dangerous trade, the most dangerous in the world?"
"What's this?" I asked, peeping over the parados to the road in our rear. "My God! there's a transport wagon going along the road!"
"Blimey! you're sprucing," said Bill, peeping over; then his eye fell on a wagon drawn by two mules going along the highway. "Oh, the damned fools, goin' up that way. They'll not get far."
The enemy occupied a rise on our right, and a machine gun hidden somewhere near the trench swept that road all night. The gun was quiet all day long; no one ventured along there before dusk. A driver sat ............