You have all pictured him, the beau-ideal of muscular Christian3, the Fighting Parson, eighteen hands high, terrific in wind and limb, with a golden mane and a Greek profile; a Pekinese in the drawing-room, a bulldog in the arena4; a soup?on of Saint Francis with a dash of John L. Sullivan—and all that.
But we who have met heroes know that they are very seldom of the type which achieves the immortality5 of the picture post card.
The stalwart with pearly teeth, lilac eyes and curly lashes6 is C3 at Lloyd's (Sir Francis), and may be heard twice daily at the Frivolity7 singing, "My Goo-goo Girl from Honolulu" to entranced flappers; while the lad who has Fritzie D. Hun backed on the ropes, clinching8 for time, is usually gifted with bow legs, freckles9, a dented10 proboscis11 and a coiffure after the manner of a wire-haired terrier.
The Reverend Paul Grayne, v.c., sometime curate of Thorpington Parva, in the county of Hampshire, was no exception to this rule. ?sthetically he was a blot12 on the landscape; among all the heroes I have met I never saw anything less heroically moulded.
He stood about five feet nought13 and tipped the beam at seven stone nothing. He had a mild chinless face, and his long beaky nose, round large spectacles, and trick of cocking his head sideways when conversing14, gave him the appearance of an intelligent little dicky-bird.
I remember very well the occasion of our first meeting. I was in my troop lines one afternoon, blackguarding a farrier, when a loud nicker sounded on the road and a black cob, bearing a feebly protesting Padre upon his fat back, trotted15 through the gate, up to the lines and began to swop How d'y' do's with my hairies. The little Padre cocked his head on one side and oozed17 apologies from every pore.
He hadn't meant to intrude18, he twittered; Peter had brought him; it was Peter's fault; Peter was very eccentric.
Peter, I gathered, was the fat cob, who by this time had butted19 into the lines and was tearing at a hay net as if he hadn't had a meal for years.
His alleged21 master looked at me hopeless, helpless. What was he to do? "Well, since Peter is evidently stopping to tea with my horses," said I, "the only thing you can do is to come to tea with us." So I lifted him down and bore him off to the cowshed inhabited by our mess at the time and regaled him on chlorinated Mazawattee, marmalade and dog biscuit. An hour later, Peter willing, he left us.
We saw a lot of the Padre after that. Peter, it appeared, had taken quite a fancy to us and frequently brought him round to meals. The Padre had no word of say in the matter. He confessed that, when he embarked22 upon Peter in the morning, he had not the vaguest idea where mid-day would find him. Nothing but the black cob's fortunate rule of going home to supper saved the Padre from being posted as a deserter.
He had an uneasy feeling that Peter would one day suddenly sicken of the War and that he would find himself in Paris or on the Riviera. We had an uneasy feeling that Peter would one day develop a curiosity as to the Boche horse rations23, and stroll across the line, and we should lose the Padre, a thing we could ill afford to do, for by this time he had taken us under his wing spiritually and bodily. On Sundays he would appear in our midst dragging a folding harmonium and hold Church Parade, leading the hymns25 in his twittering bird-like voice.
Then the spinster ladies of his old parish of Thorpington Parva gave him a Ford24 car, and with this he scoured26 back areas for provisions and threaded his tin buggy in and out of columns of dusty infantry27 and clattering28 ammunition29 limbers, spectacles gleaming, cap slightly awry30, while his batman (a wag) perched precariously31 atop of a rocking pile of biscuit tins, cigarette cases and boxes of tinned fruit, and shouted after the fashion of railway porters, "By your leave! Fags for the firin' line. Way for the Woodbine Express."
But if we saw a lot of the Padre it was the Antrims who looked upon him as their special property. They were line infantry, of the type which gets most of the work and none of the Press notices, a hard-bitten, unregenerate crowd, who cared not a whit32 whether Belgium bled or not, but loved fighting for its own sake and put their faith in bayonet and butt20. And wherever these Antrims went, thither33 went the Padre also, harmonium and his Woodbines. I have a story that, when they were in a certain part of the line where the trenches34 were only thirty yards apart (so close indeed that the opposing forces greeted each other by their first names and borrowed one another's wiring tools), the Padre dragged the harmonium into the front line and held service there, and the Germans over the way joined lustily in the hymns. He kept the men of the Antrims going on canteen delicacies35 and their officers in a constant bubble of joy. He swallowed their tall stories without a gulp36; they pulled one leg and he offered the other; he fell headlong into every silly trap they set for him. Also they achieved merit in other messes by peddling37 yarns38 of his wonderful innocence39 and his incredible absent-mindedness.
"Came to me yesterday, the Dicky Bird did," one of them would relate; "wanted advice about that fat fraud of his, Peter. 'He's got an abrasion40 on the knob of his right-hand front paw,' says he. 'Dicky Bird,' says I, 'that is no way to describe the anatomy41 of a horse after all the teaching I've given you.' 'I am so forgetful and horsy terms are so confusing,' he moans. 'Oh, I recollect42 now—his starboard ankle!' The dear babe!"
In the course of time the Antrims went into the Push, but on this occasion they refused to take the Padre with them, explaining that Pushes were noisy affairs, with messy accidents happening in even the best regulated battalions44.
The Padre was up at midnight to see them go, his spectacles misty45. They went over the bags at dawn, reached their objective in twenty minutes and scratched themselves in. The Padre rejoined them ten minutes later, very badly winded, but bringing a case of Woodbines along with him.
My friend Patrick grabbed him by the leg and dragged him into a shell-hole. Nothing but an inherent respect for his cloth restrained Patrick from giving the Dicky Bird the spanking46 of his life. At 8 a.m. the Hun countered heavily and hove the Antrims out. Patrick retreated in good order, leading the Padre by an ear. The Antrims sat down, licked their cuts, puffed47 some of the Woodbines, then went back and pitchforked the Boche in his tender spots. The Boche collected fresh help and bobbed up again. Business continued brisk all day, and when night fell the Antrims were left masters of the position.
At 1 a.m. they were relieved by the Rutland Rifles, and a dog-weary battered48 remnant of the battalion43 crawled back to camp in a sunken road a mile in the rear. One or two found bivouacs left by the Rutlands, but the majority dropped where they halted. My friend Patrick found a bivouac, wormed into it and went to sleep. The next thing he remembers was the roof of his abode49 caving in with the weight of two men struggling violently. Patrick extricated50 himself somehow and rolled out into the grey dawn to find the sunken road filled with grey figures, in among the bivouacs and shell-holes, stabbing at the sleeping Antrims. Here and there men were locked together, struggling tooth and claw; the air was vibrant51 with a ghastly pandemonium52 of grunts53 and shrieks54; the sunken road ran like a slaughter-house gutter55. There was only one thing to do, and that was to get out, so Patrick did so, driving before him what men he could collect.
A man staggered past him, blowing like a walrus56. It was the Padre's batman, and he had his master tucked under one arm, in his underclothes, kicking feebly.
Patrick halted his men beyond the hill crest57, and there the Colonel joined him, trotting58 on his stockinged feet. Other officers arrived, herding59 men. "They must have rushed the Ruts., Sir," Patrick panted; "must be after those guns just behind us." "They'll get 'em too," said the Colonel grimly. "We can't stop 'em," said the Senior Captain. "If we counter at once we might give the Loamshires time to come up—they're in support, Sir—but—but, if they attack us, they'll get those guns—run right over us."
The Colonel nodded. "Man, I know, I know; but look at 'em"—he pointed60 to the pathetic remnant of his battalion lying out behind the crest—"they're dropping asleep where they lie—they're beat to a finish—not another kick left in 'em."
He sat down and buried his face in his hands. The redoubtable61 Antrims had come to the end.
Suddenly came a shout from the Senior Captain, "Good Lord, what's that fellow after? Who the devil is it?"
They all turned and saw a tiny figure, clad only in underclothes, marching deliberately62 over the ridge63 towards the Germans.
"Who is it?" the Colonel repeated. "Beggin' your pardon, the Reverend, Sir," said the Padre's batman as he strode past the group of officers. "'E give me the slip, Sir. Gawd knows wot 'e's up to now." He lifted up his voice and wailed64 after his master, "'Ere, you come back this minute, Sir. You'll get yourself in trouble again. Do you 'ear me, Sir?" But the Padre apparently65 did not hear him, for he plodded66 steadily67 on his way. The batman gave a sob68 of despair and broke into a double.
The Colonel sprang to his feet. "Hey, stop him, somebody! Those swine'll shoot him in a second—child murder!"
Two subalterns ran forward, followed by a trio of N.C.O.'s. All along the line men lifted their weary heads from the ground and saw the tiny figure on the ridge silhouetted69 against the red east.
"Oo's that blinkin' fool?"
"The Padre."
"Wot's 'e doin' of?"
"Gawd knows."
A man rose to his knees, from his knees to his feet, and stumbled forward, mumbling70, "'E give me a packet of fags when I was broke." "Me too," growled71 another, and followed his chum. "They'll shoot 'im in a minute," a voice shouted, suddenly frightened. "'Ere, this ain't war, this is blasted baby-killin'."
In another five seconds the whole line was up and jogging forward at a lurching double. "And a little child shall lead them," murmured the Colonel happily, as he put his best sock forwards; a miracle had happened, and his dear ruffians would go down in glory.
But as they topped the hill crest, came the shrill72 of a whistle from the opposite ridge, and there was half a battalion of the Rutlands back casting for the enemy that had broken through their posts. With wild yells both parties charged downwards73 into the sunken road.
He discovered him sitting on the wreck75 of his bivouac of the night; he was clasping some small article to his bosom76, and the look on his face was that of a man who had found his heart's desire.
Patrick sat himself down on a box of bombs, and looked humbly77 at the Reverend Paul. It is an awful thing for a man suddenly to find he has been entertaining a hero unawares.
"Oh, Dicky Bird, Dicky Bird, why did you do it?" he inquired softly.
"Oh dear—you know how absurdly absent-minded I am; well, I suddenly remembered I had left my teeth behind."
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1
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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arena
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| n.竞技场，运动场所；竞争场所，舞台 | |
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immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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frivolity
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| n.轻松的乐事，兴高采烈；轻浮的举止 | |
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clinching
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| v.（尤指两人）互相紧紧抱[扭]住( clinch的现在分词 )；解决（争端、交易），达成（协议） | |
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freckles
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| n.雀斑，斑点( freckle的名词复数 ) | |
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10
dented
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| v.使产生凹痕( dent的过去式和过去分词 )；损害；伤害；挫伤（信心、名誉等） | |
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proboscis
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| n.（象的）长鼻 | |
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12
blot
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| vt.弄脏（用吸墨纸）吸干；n.污点，污渍 | |
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13
nought
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| n.／adj.无，零 | |
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conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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15
trotted
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| 小跑，急走( trot的过去分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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16
ooze
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| n.软泥，渗出物；vi.渗出，泄漏；vt.慢慢渗出，流露 | |
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17
oozed
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| v.（浓液等）慢慢地冒出，渗出( ooze的过去式和过去分词 )；使（液体）缓缓流出；（浓液）渗出，慢慢流出 | |
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18
intrude
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| vi.闯入；侵入；打扰，侵扰 | |
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19
butted
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| 对接的 | |
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butt
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| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
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21
alleged
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| a.被指控的，嫌疑的 | |
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22
embarked
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| 乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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23
rations
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| 定量( ration的名词复数 )； 配给量； 正常量； 合理的量 | |
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24
Ford
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| n.浅滩，水浅可涉处；v.涉水，涉过 | |
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25
hymns
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌( hymn的名词复数 ) | |
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26
scoured
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| 走遍（某地）搜寻（人或物）( scour的过去式和过去分词 )； （用力）刷； 擦净； 擦亮 | |
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27
infantry
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| n.[总称]步兵(部队) | |
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28
clattering
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的现在分词形式） | |
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29
ammunition
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| n.军火，弹药 | |
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30
awry
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| adj.扭曲的，错的 | |
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31
precariously
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| adv.不安全地；危险地；碰机会地；不稳定地 | |
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32
whit
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| n.一点，丝毫 | |
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33
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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34
trenches
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| 深沟，地沟( trench的名词复数 )； 战壕 | |
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35
delicacies
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| n.棘手( delicacy的名词复数 )；精致；精美的食物；周到 | |
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36
gulp
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| vt.吞咽，大口地吸（气）；vi.哽住；n.吞咽 | |
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37
peddling
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| 忙于琐事的，无关紧要的 | |
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38
yarns
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| n.纱( yarn的名词复数 )；纱线；奇闻漫谈；旅行轶事 | |
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39
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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40
abrasion
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| n.磨（擦）破，表面磨损 | |
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41
anatomy
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| n.解剖学，解剖；功能，结构，组织 | |
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42
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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43
battalion
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| n.营；部队；大队(的人) | |
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44
battalions
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| n.（陆军的）一营（大约有一千兵士）( battalion的名词复数 )；协同作战的部队；军队；（组织在一起工作的）队伍 | |
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45
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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46
spanking
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| adj.强烈的，疾行的；n.打屁股 | |
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47
puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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48
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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49
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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50
extricated
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| v.使摆脱困难，脱身( extricate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
vibrant
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| adj.震颤的，响亮的，充满活力的，精力充沛的，(色彩)鲜明的 | |
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52
pandemonium
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| n.喧嚣，大混乱 | |
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53
grunts
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的第三人称单数 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说； 石鲈 | |
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54
shrieks
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| n.尖叫声( shriek的名词复数 )v.尖叫( shriek的第三人称单数 ) | |
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55
gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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56
walrus
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| n.海象 | |
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57
crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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58
trotting
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| 小跑，急走( trot的现在分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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59
herding
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| 中畜群 | |
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60
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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61
redoubtable
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| adj.可敬的；可怕的 | |
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62
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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64
wailed
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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65
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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66
plodded
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| v.沉重缓慢地走（路）( plod的过去式和过去分词 )；努力从事；沉闷地苦干；缓慢进行（尤指艰难枯燥的工作） | |
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67
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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68
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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69
silhouetted
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| 显出轮廓的，显示影像的 | |
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70
mumbling
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的现在分词 ) | |
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71
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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72
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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73
downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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74
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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75
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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76
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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77
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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