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Updated: May 26, 2025
McClane and Sutton were at Melle. They had not been to Berlaere since that day, the first time they had gone out together. That time at least had been perfect; it remained secure; nothing could ever spoil it; she could remember the delight of it, their strange communion of ecstasy, without doubt, without misgiving. You could never forget.
Next afternoon John had orders to go to Berlaere to fetch wounded. At the turn of the road they heard the guns: a solemn Boom Boom coming up out of hushed spaces; they saw white puffs of smoke rising in the blue sky. The French guns somewhere back of them. The German guns in front southwards beyond the river. Charlotte looked at John; he was brilliantly happy.
An instance of the tenacity with which the infantry stuck to their positions was reported from the Berlaere, where the commanding officer and his aid-de-camp were in one of the most exposed positions. Sandbags protected them for some time, but at last the aid-de-camp was struck by shrapnel and had his face virtually blown away.
But if we let him go off and do this he's done for." "He's done for anyhow. Isn't it better to recognize that he's rotten? McClane wouldn't have him. He saw what he was." "He didn't see him at Berlaere. He was splendid there." "My dear child, don't you know why? He didn't see there was any danger. He was too stupid to see it." "I saw it." "You're not stupid." "He did see it at the end."
John was silent, too, absorbed by his steering. But as they ran into Ghent the romance of it, the romance of it, came back to her. It wasn't over yet. They would have to go out again for the wounded they had had to leave behind at Berlaere. "John John It's like nothing else on earth." "I told you it would be." Slowly realization came to her.
"You going?" "Rather. Do you mind?" Sutton didn't answer. All the way out to Berlaere he sat stolid and silent, not looking at anything they passed and taking no more notice of the firing than if he hadn't heard it. As the car swung into Berlaere she was aware of his voice, low under the noise of the engine. "What did you say?" "Conway told me it was you who saved the guns."
They smiled at each other as if they said "Now it's beginning." Outside the village of Berlaere they were held up by two sentries with rifles. Where the road turned on their left into the street they saw a group of soldiers standing at the door of a house. Three of them, a Belgian lieutenant and two non-commissioned officers, advanced hurriedly and stopped the car.
Of course, like John, she would go on remembering what had happened yesterday. She would never get over it any more than he would. Yet, after all, yesterday was only one day out of his life. There might never be another like it. And to set against yesterday there was their first day at Berlaere and the day afterwards at Melle; there was yesterday morning and there was that other day at Melle.
It was so real to him that, however hardly you judged him, you couldn't think of him as a humbug or a hypocrite.... No. He was not that. He was not that. His mind truly lived in a glorious state for which none of his disgraceful deeds were ever done. It created a sort of innocence for him. They were to go to Berlaere. Trixie Rankin had gone on before them with Gurney, McClane's best chauffeur.
Look here, I say I wanted to take you three into my corps. And you'd have been sent home after the Berlaere affair if I hadn't spoken for you. So much for my jealousy." "I only thought you were jealous of John." "Why, it was I who got him sent out that first day." "Was it?" "Yes. I wanted to give him his chance. And," he added meditatively, "I wanted to know whether I was right.
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