Leave is the be-all and end-all of anyone who has been at the front for any great time. It is supposed to come every three months. It never does, but you know that if you stay long enough it will come, for Army Headquarters, Corps1 H.Q., Divisional H.Q. and finally Brigade H.Q. (I don't dare mention Battalion2 H.Q.!) "may use all of the leave some of the time, and some of the leave all of the time, but they cannot go on using all of the leave all of the time," to paraphrase3 Mr. P. T. Barnum in regard to fooling the people.
So all you must do is to possess your soul in patience, avoid getting directly in front of a shell or bullet, and some day in the dim and distant future leave will come for you to expose yourself once again to the temptations of the World, the Flesh and the Devil in London; that is, if any of them remain when the Bishop4 of London, the Food Controller, the Anti-Treating Laws, and the Provost Marshal have done their work.
One day a fellow officer (in this connection I nearly said sufferer) informs you that his batman was told by the O.C.'s batman that he had heard that the Brigadier General was taking leave the end of the month. After that you go on hearing by devious5 routes that the Brigade Majors, Captains, and Lieutenants6 are going soon, and suddenly you realize that shortly your own Battalion Headquarters will find leave filtering through on them. And perchance, toward the end of the list, you know you come somewhere.
It is then you look up your bank account, if you happen to have any, and you take no extra chances either with shells or superstitions7, for soldiers are almost as superstitious8 as sailors.
You could barely find in the British Armies ten men who would light three cigarettes with one match, and that despite the fact that the match ration9 is sometimes as absent as the rum ration. We none of us are superstitious, but we adhere to the same platform as did a very charming Canterbury lady. Her two sons, as fine chaps as England produces, were at the front, and as she and I, walking down St. George's Place, came to a ladder leaning against the wall of a building, she carefully walked round the other side of it, saying:
"You know, Doctor, I am not the faintest bit superstitious, but I am not taking any chances these days." And that is the position of the Army in the field. They are not taking any chances.
Your leave comes one day after many months beyond the three required of you. You start to a railhead where you put up for a night at an Officers' Club and mingle10 with the other happy beings who are leaving for the same purpose on the nine-mile-per-hour French train in the morning. As you sit about after a dinner that makes your ration meals for the past six months look literally11 like "thirty cents," you light a cigarette, cock up your heels, and look at the world through a beaming face, made ruddy by an extra portion of the grape juice of France, and wearing a smile that won't come off.
"You going on leave, too?" you ask genially12 of your neighbor, a young officer of that Suicide Club, the Royal Flying Corps. He is about twenty-one, and you feel old enough to almost patronize him. But before you do it you glance carefully at his left breast to see if it is, or is not, covered with D.S.O., M.C., and perhaps, V.C., ribbons. To your relief you find it isn't. However, on second thought, you decide you will keep your patronizing for the Army Service Corps and not for these smiling, gay, life-risking, dare-devil boys about you.
"Y-yes in a w-w-way," the young chap answers with a charming boyish smile, "sick leave. My old b-bus hit the earth s-s-suddenly, and I'm g-going for a rest. I d-d-didn't always talk l-l-like this." And in an engaging way he stammers13 out an invitation for you to take a Crême de Menthe with him. Of course, courtesy compels you, much against your desire, to accept. He has with him two others of the R.F.C., all young like himself, and for a couple of hours you listen to their modest tales of their really wonderful exploits, undreamed of except by the far-seeing few twenty-five years ago. One of the others has a scraped nose, blackened eye and swollen14 lip, which he says he received when his "waggon," in landing, struck a rough bit of ground which, "he tried to plow15 up and he must have hit the bally gravel16 underneath17."
"W-were you t-t-tight?" asks the first with that boyish smile.
"Certainly not," indignantly replied the other, and he laughed. "Of course, I had had a couple in the morning, but I had a sleep afterwards, and anyway, the O.C. smelt18 my breath, and he wouldn't have allowed me up if he had smelt anything."
And you listen with fascination19 to their comparisons of their machines and their methods of diving; and "stalling," in which they drive up against the wind in such a way that they can keep stationary20 in relation to a certain bit of earth; and "corkscrewing," or nose-diving, towards the earth with a circular turning of the whole aeroplane, out of the midst of enemies, and righting the machine thousands of feet lower down out of danger.
You become quite an expert as you listen. They tell you that earlier in the war the German aviators21 were very chivalrous23 foes24, returning courtesy for courtesy, never shooting a fallen enemy, and dropping notes as to the fate of some of our missing airmen. On one occasion the great German aviator22, Immelman, who remained chivalrous till his death, dropped a box of cigars on the aerodrome of a great British pilot, "with the compliments of the German Air Service." The following night the Briton returned the compliment in the same manner. But now the Germans in the air, as on the sea and on land, are much less sportsmanlike and take mean advantages of a fallen foe25.
You listen to stories of the great exploits of Baron26 Richtofen's "circus," and still greater of the "circus" of our own Captain Ball—unhappily since killed—who at times went up in his pyjamas27. He had a trick of shooting straight up through the roof of his plane at an enemy overhead and, fearing that the enemy might some day try the same trick on him, he had a machine gun so placed that he could also shoot through the floor directly downwards28. Oh, what entrancing, picturesque29 stories, beyond the wildest dreams of imagination two generations ago!
"I always take up with me a goodly supply of cigarettes in case I have to land where I can't get any. Do you?" asks one.
"N-no, I d-d-don't. That's looking for t-t-trouble. I order b-b-breakfast of p-porridge and cream and b-b-bacon and eggs," smiles our young stammering30 friend. "And then it's all ready when I c-c-come in."
You listen for hours to these gallant31 boys who have all the fine natural courtesy and modesty32 of the well-bred English, and the gayety of a Charles O'Malley. Unconsciously they make you feel that you really have seen such a prosaic33 side of the war in comparison with them. Then, like all good Britons, they for some time curse the Government, and you aid and abet34 them. The night wears on, the liqueur bottle runs low, and at last you must say good-night to these rollicking boys who insist that you must not fail when you come back to visit their mess, "for you C-C-Canadians, you know, are such d-damned fine chaps, and we l-love to meet you."
The little sin of flattery is so easily forgiven when it is accompanied by that frank, fascinating smile, and when you have all been tasting a drop of good French liqueur.
You wend your way up creaky old stairs to No. 13, or is it 31, and, luxury of luxuries, you find a tub of hot water—or it was hot at the hour for which you ordered it—awaiting you. Divesting35 yourself of your clothes you double your body this way and that in a vain endeavor to dip more than half of yourself at once.
At last you feel clean, and you struggle into pyjamas, and crawl into bed between real, white, clean linen36 sheets for the first time in six months, and you sleep as no emperor can sleep on the most silken of divans37, while you dream of the morrow when you really begin your leave.
Leave! Ah, we were speaking of leave! Well, let us, you and I, take it together. Let us enjoy to the full the flesh-pots of London. For our leave lasts only ten days, and the war must go on till we have shown the Hun that he cannot autocratically put his Prussian militaristic crown of thorns on the fair brow of Civilization.
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1
corps
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| n.(通信等兵种的)部队；(同类作的)一组 | |
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battalion
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| n.营；部队；大队(的人) | |
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paraphrase
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| vt.将…释义，改写；n.释义，意义 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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devious
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| adj.不坦率的，狡猾的；迂回的，曲折的 | |
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lieutenants
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| n.陆军中尉( lieutenant的名词复数 )；副职官员；空军；仅低于…官阶的官员 | |
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7
superstitions
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| 迷信，迷信行为( superstition的名词复数 ) | |
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8
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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9
ration
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| n.定量(pl.)给养，口粮；vt.定量供应 | |
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10
mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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11
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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12
genially
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| adv.亲切地，和蔼地；快活地 | |
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13
stammers
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| n.口吃，结巴( stammer的名词复数 )v.结巴地说出( stammer的第三人称单数 ) | |
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14
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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15
plow
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| n.犁，耕地，犁过的地；v.犁，费力地前进[英]plough | |
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16
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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17
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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18
smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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19
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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stationary
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| adj.固定的，静止不动的 | |
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aviators
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| 飞机驾驶员，飞行员( aviator的名词复数 ) | |
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22
aviator
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| n.飞行家，飞行员 | |
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chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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24
foes
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| 敌人，仇敌( foe的名词复数 ) | |
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foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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pyjamas
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| n.（宽大的）睡衣裤 | |
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28
downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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29
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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stammering
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的现在分词 ) | |
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31
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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32
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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33
prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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34
abet
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| v.教唆，鼓励帮助 | |
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35
divesting
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| v.剥夺( divest的现在分词 )；脱去（衣服）；2。从…取去…；1。（给某人）脱衣服 | |
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36
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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37
divans
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| n.（可作床用的）矮沙发( divan的名词复数 )；（波斯或其他东方诗人的）诗集 | |
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