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Meanwhile C Battery continued to trot through the gap, and I called Heaven to witness that the whole of our Brigade would be through and away before ten minutes passed. I ran back to urge A and B Batteries to keep up the pace. When our very last water-cart, mess-cart, and G.S. waggon had passed, I thanked the French officer with great sincerity, and felt I had done a proper job of work.
The rain began to fall in torrents, and somehow the memory of crouching under the mess-cart to get shelter has left a far more definite and indelible impression upon the Subaltern's mind than the actual moments of danger and excitement. A large band of prisoners had been captured by our troops that day.
No Officer was in future to draw any rations from the Company Cookers, and the Mess Sergeant had somehow procured and victualed a mess-cart. That night must have been the most fateful night in the history of France. All the world was watching with bated breath, watching to see whether France was really a "back number" whether the Prussian was truly the salt of the earth.
The mess-cart arrived at five o'clock, and as a last resource I scribbled a note to the doctor, who was as fond of the dog as any of us, describing the titled staff captain, and urging him to scour the countryside until he struck a trail that would lead to "Ernest's" recovery.
I learned that our division had been badly cut up, but that the Canadians were given credit for having saved the situation. Our transport and quartermaster stores and baggage had been terribly shelled in their quarters at Ypres. On the way out a shell had exploded in front of our mess-cart occupied by Captain Mabee, the paymaster, and had killed the horse and smashed the rig.
They were no longer things of tragedy, to be passed by with a shudder and averted eyes he was getting used to horror. It was now midday, and the Officers of the two companies that had been deployed gathered round the mess-cart. The remaining companies, who had been kept in local reserve during the fight, were sent out to bury the dead.
The discovery that a currant cake, about as large as London, sent a few days before from England, had disappeared from our Headquarters' mess-cart during the day's march, led to a tirade on the shortcomings of New Army servants.
The Subaltern often used to wonder what the poor wretches thought of troops, which, though in possession of arms and ammunition, still retreated always retreated. They could not understand. The march came to an end about one o'clock. A halt of half-an-hour for dinner was ordered in the shade of some huge trees in a park. The mess-cart and Cookers arrived, and a meal was soon in progress.
He receives his change, and counts it with a great air of wisdom. The épicière breaks into a rapid recital it sounds rather like our curate at home getting to work on When the wicked man of the beauty and succulence of her other wares. Up goes Goffin's hand again. "Na pooh!" he exclaims.. "Bong jooer!" And he stumps out to the mess-cart. "Na pooh!" is a mysterious but invaluable expression.
They narrated a long and somewhat sheepish story that, boiled down, told of a barn that promised a sound afternoon's nap, an awakening to find every one vanished; then a worried and wearied tramp in search of us, with nothing to eat except what they could beg or buy at ruinous prices; one perturbing two hours when they found themselves walking into the arms of the oncoming Hun; and finally, a confirmed resolve never to stray far from the Brigade mess-cart again.
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