“So far as I can see,” he said, at last, “one man.”
“What’s he doing?” asked the war correspondent.
“Field-glass at us,” said the young lieutenant
“And this is war!”
“No,” said the young lieutenant; “it’s Bloch.”
“The game’s a draw.”
“No! They’ve got to win or else they lose. A draw’s a win for our side.”
They had discussed the political situation fifty times or so, and the war correspondent was weary of it. He stretched out his limbs. “Aaai s’pose it is!” he yawned.
“What was that?”
“Shot at us.”
The war correspondent shifted to a slightly lower position.
“No one shot at him,” he complained.
“I wonder if they think we shall get so bored we shall go home?”
The war correspondent made no reply.
“There’s the harvest, of course . . . ”
They had been there a month. Since the first brisk movements after the declaration of war things had gone slower and slower, until it seemed as though the whole machine of events must have run down. To begin with, they had had almost a scampering time; the Invader had come across the frontier on the very dawn of the war in half-a-dozen parallel columns behind a cloud of cyclists and cavalry, with a general air of coming straight on the capital, and the defender-horsemen had held him up, and peppered him and forced him to open out to outflank, and had then bolted to the next position in the most approved style, for a couple of days, until in the afternoon, bump! they had the invader against their prepared lines of defense. He did not suffer so much as had been hoped and expected: he was coming on it seemed with his eyes open, his scouts winded the guns, and down he sat at once without the shadow of an attack and began grubbing trenches for himself, as though he meant to sit down there to the very end of time. He was slow but much more wary than the world had been led to expect, and he kept convoys tucked in and shielded his slow marching infantry sufficiently well, to prevent any heavy adverse scoring.
“But he ought to attack,” the young lieutenant had insisted.
“He’ll attack us at dawn, somewhere along the lines. You’ll get the bayonets coming into the trenches just about when you can see,” the war correspondent had held until a week ago.
The young lieutenant winked when he said that.
When one early morning the men the defenders sent to lie out five hundred yards before the trenches, with a view to the unexpected emptying of magazines into any night attack, gave way to causeless panic and blazed away at nothing for ten minutes, the war correspondent understood the meaning of that wink.
“What would you do if you were the enemy?” said the war correspondent, suddenly.
“If I had men like I’ve got now?”
“Take these trenches.”
“Oh—dodges! Crawl out half-way at night before moonrise and get into touch with the chaps we send out. Blaze at ’em if they tried to shift, and so bag some of ’em in the daylight. Learn that patch of ground by heart, lie all day in squatty holes, and come on nearer next night. There’s a bit over there, lumpy ground, where they could get across to rushing distance—easy. In a night or so. It would be a mere game for our fellows; it’s what they’re made for . . . . Guns? Shrapnel and stuff wouldn’t stop good men who meant business.”
“Why don’t they do that?”
“Their men aren’t brutes enough; that’s the trouble. They’re a crowd of devitalized townsmen, and that’s the truth of the matter. They’re clerks, they’re factory hands, they’re students, they’re civilized men. They can write, they can talk, they can make and do all sorts of things, but they’re poor amateurs at war. They’ve got no physical staying power, and that’s the whole thing. They’ve never slept in the open one night in their lives; they’ve never drunk anything but the purest water-company water; they’ve never gone short of three meals a day since they left their devitalizing feeding-bottles. Half their cavalry never cocked leg over horse till it enlisted six months ago. They ride their horses as though they were bicycles - you watch ‘em! They’re fools at the game, and they know it. Our boys of fourteen can give their grown men points . . . . Very well——”
The war correspondent mused on his face with his nose between his knuckles.
“If a decent civilization,” he said, “cannot produce better men for war than——”
He stopped with belated politeness.
“Than our open air life,” said the young lieutenant, politely.
“Exactly,” said the war correspondent. “Then civilization has to stop.”
“It looks like it,” the young lieutenant admitted.
“Civilization has science, you know,” said the war correspondent. “It invented and it makes the rifles and guns and things you use.”
“Which our nice healthy hunters and stockmen and so on, rowdy-dowdy cowpunchers and horse-whackers, can use ten times better than——What’s that?”
“What?” said the war correspondent, and then seeing his companion busy with his field- glass he produced his own. “Where?” said the war correspondent, sweeping the enemy’s lines.
“It’s nothing” said the young lieutenant, still looking.
The young lieutenant put down his glass and pointed. “I thought I saw something there, behind the stems of those trees. Something black. What it was I don’t know.”
The war correspondent tried to get even by intense scrutiny.
“It wasn’t anything” said the young lieutenant, rolling over to regard the darkling evening sky, and generalized: “There never will be anything any more for ever. Unless——- “
The war correspondent looked inquiry.
“They may get their stomachs wrong, or something—-living without proper drains.”
A sound of bugles came from the tents behind. The war correspondent slid backward down the sand and stood up, “Boom!” came from somewhere far away to the left.
“Halloa!” he said, hesitated, and crawled back to peer again. “Firing at this time is jolly bad manners.”
The young lieutenant was incommunicative again for a space.
Then he pointed to the distant clump of trees again. “One of our big guns. They were firing at that,” he said,
“The thing that wasn’t anything?”
“Something over there, anyhow.”
Both men were silent, peering through their glasses for a space. “Just when It’s twilight,” the lieutenant complained. He stood up.
“I might stay here a bit,” said the war correspondent.
The lieutenant shook his head. “There is nothing to see,” he apologized, and then, went down to where his little squad of sun-brown, loose-limbed men had been yarning in the trench. The war correspondent stood up also, glanced for a moment at the: business-like bustle below him, gave perhaps twenty seconds to those enigmatical trees again, then turned his face toward the camp,
He found himself wondering whether his editor would consider the story of how somebody thought he saw something black behind a clump of trees, and how a gun was fired at this “illusion” by somebody else, too trivial for public consultation?
“It’s the only gleam of a shadow of interest,” said the war correspondent; “for ten whole days.”
“No,” he said, presently; “I’ll write that other article, ‘Is War Played Out?’”
He surveyed the darkling lines in perspective, the tangle of trenches one behind another, one commanding another, which the defender had made ready. The shadows and mists swallowed up their receding contours, and here and there a lantern gleamed, and here and there knots of men were busy about small fires. “No troops on earth could do it,” he said . . . .
He was depressed. He believed that there were other things in life better worth having than proficiency in war; he believed that in the heart of civilization, for all its stresses, its crushing concentrations of forces, its injustice and suffering, there lay something that might be the hope of the world, and the idea that any people by living in the open air, hunting perpetually, losing touch with books and art and all the things that intensify life, might hope to resist and break that great development to the end of time, jarred on his civilized soul.
Apt to his thought came a file of defender soldiers and passed him in the gleam of a swinging lamp that marked the way.
He glanced at their red-lit faces, and one shone out for a moment, a common type of face in the defender’s ranks: ill-shaped nose, sensuous lips, bright clear eyes full of alert cunning, slouch hat cocked on one side and adorned with the peacock’s plume of the rustic Don Juan turned soldier, a hard brown skin, a sinewy frame, an open, tireless stride, and a master’s grip on the rifle.
The war correspondent returned their salutations and went on his way.
“Louts,” he whispered. “Cunning, elementary louts. And they are going to beat the townsmen at the game of war!”
From the red glow among the nearer tents came first one and then half-a-dozen hearty voices, bawling in a drawling unison the words of a particularly slab and sentimental patriotic song.
“Oh, go it!” muttered the war correspondent, bitterly.