SCENE.—A shell-pitted plain and a cavalry regiment under canvas thereon. It is not yet "Lights out," and on the right hand the semi-transparent tents and bivouacs glow like giant Chinese lanterns inhabited by shadow figures. From an Officers' mess tent comes the twinkle of a gramophone, rendering classics from "Keep Smiling." In a bivouac an opposition mouth-organ saws at "The Rosary." On the left hand is a dark mass of horses, picketed in parallel lines. They lounge, hips drooping, heads low, in a pleasant after-dinner doze. The Guard lolls against a post, lantern at his feet, droning a fitful accompaniment to the distant mouth-organ. "The hours I spent wiv thee, dear 'eart, are.—Stan' still, Ginger—like a string of pearls ter me—ee ... Grrr, Nellie, stop kickin!" The range of desolate hills in the background is flickering with gun-flashes and grumbling with drum-fire—the Boche evensong.
A bay horse (shifting his weight from one leg to the other). Somebody's catching it in the neck to-night.
A chestnut. Yep. Now if this was 1914, with that racket loose, we'd be standing to.
A gun-pack horse. Why?
Chestnut. Wind up, sonny. Why in 1914 our saddles grew into our backs like the ivy and the oak. In 1914——
A black horse. Oh, dry up about 1914, old soldier; tell us about the Battle of Hastings and how you came to let William's own Mounted Blunderbusses run all over you.
A bay horse. Yes, and how you gave the field ten stone and a beating in the retreat to Corunna. What are your personal recollections of Napoleon, Rufus?
Chestnut. You blinkin' conscripts, you!
Black. Shiss! no bad language, Rufus—ladies present.
Chestnut. Ladies, huh. Behave nice and ladylike when they catch sight of the nosebags, don't they?
A skewbald mare. Well, we gotta stand up for our rights.
Chestnut. 'Struth you do, tooth and hoof. What were you in civil life, Baby? A Suffragette?
Skewbald. No, I wasn't, so there.
Bay. No, she was a footlights favourite; wore her mane in plaits and a star-spangled bearing-rein and surcingle to improve her fig-u-are; did pretty parlour tricks to the strains of the banjo and psaltery. N'est-ce pas, cherie?
Skewbald. Well, what if I did? There's scores of circus gals is puffect lydies. I don't require none of your familiarity any'ow, Mister.
Bay. Beg pardon. Excuse my bluff soldierly ways; but nevertheless take your nose out of my hay net, please.
A Canadian dun. Gee! quit weavin' about like that, Tubby. Can't you let a guy get some sleep. I'll hand you a cold rebuff in the ribs in a minute. Wazzer matter with you, anyhow?
Tubby. Had a bad dream.
Black. Don't wonder, the way you over-eat yourself.
Bay. Ever know a Quartermaster's horse that didn't? He's the only one that gets the chance.
Skewbald. And the Officers' chargers.
Voice from over the way. Well, we need it, don't we? We do all the bally headwork.
Bay. Hearken even unto the Honourable Montmorency. Hello, Monty there! Never mind about the bally headwork, but next time you're out troop-leading try to steer a course somewhat approaching the straight. You had the line opening and shutting like a concertina this morning.
An iron-grey. Begob, and that's the holy truth! I thought my ribs was goin' ivery minnut, an' me man was cursin' undher his breath the way you'd hear him a mile away. Ye've no more idea of a straight line, Monty avic, than a crab wid dhrink taken.
Monty. Sorry, but the flies were giving me gyp.
Canadian dun. Flies? Say, but you greenhorns make me smile. Why, out West we got flies that——
Iron grey. Och sure we've heard all about thim. 'Tis as big as bulldogs they are; ivery time they bite you you lose a limb. Many a time the traveller has observed thim flyin' away wid a foal in their jaws, the rapparees! F' all that I do be remarkin' that whin one of the effete European variety is afther ticklin' you in the short hairs you step very free an' flippant, Johnny, acushla.
A brown horse. Say, Monty, old top, any news? You've got a pal at G.H.Q., haven't you?
Monty. Oh, yes, my young brother. He's got a job on Haig's personal Staff now, wears a red brow-band and all that—ahem! Of course he tells me a thing or two when we meet, but in the strictest confidence, you understand.
Brown. Quite; but did he say anything about the end of the War?
Monty. Well, not precisely, that is not exactly, excepting that he says that it's pretty certain now that it—er—well, that it will end.
Brown. That's good news. Thanks, Monty.
Monty. Not a bit, old thing. Don't mention it.
Iron-grey. 'Tis a great comfort to us to know that the War will ind, if not in our day, annyway sometime.
Canadian dun. You bet. Gee, I wish it was all over an' I was home in the foothills with the brown wool and pink prairie roses underfoot, and the Chinook layin' my mane over.
Iron-grey. Faith, but the County Cork would suit me completely; a roomy loose-box wid straw litter an' a leak-proof roof.
Tubby. Yes, with full meals coming regularly.
A bay mare. I've got a two-year-old in Devon I'd like to see again.
Monty. I've no quarrel with Leicestershire myself.
Gunpack horse. Garn! Wot abaht good old London?
Chestnut. Steady, Alf, what are you grousing about? You never had a full meal in your life until Lord Derby pulled you out of that coster barrow and pushed you into the Army.
Tubby. A full meal in the Army—help!
Brown. Listen to our living skeleton. Do you chaps remember that afternoon he had to himself in an oat field up Plug Street way? When the grooms found him he was lying on his back, legs in the air, blown up like a poisoned pup. "Blimy," says one lad to t'other, "'ere's one of our observation bladders the 'Un 'as brought down."
Chestnut. I heard the Officer boy telling the Troop Sergeant that he'd buy a haystack some day and try to burst you, Tubby. The Sergeant bet him a month's pay it couldn't be done.
Tubby. Just because I've got a healthy appetite——
Brown. Healthy appetites aren't being worn this season, Sir—bad form. How are the politicians' park hacks to be kept sleek if the troop-horse don't tighten his girth a bit? Be patriotic, old dear; eat less oats.
Chestnut. That mess gramophone must be redhot by now. It's been running continuous since First Post. I suppose somebody's mamma has sent him a bottle of ginger-pop, and they're seeing life while the bubbles last.
Monty. Yes, and I suppose my young gentleman will be parading to-morrow morning with a camouflage tunic over his pyjamas, looking to me to pull him through squadron drill.
Iron-grey. God save us, thin!
A Mexican roan. Buenas noches!
Gunpack horse. Hish! Orderly Officer. 'E's in the Fourth Troop lines nah; you can 'ear 'im cursin' as he trips over the heel shackles.
Monty. Hush, you fellows. Orderly Officer. Bong swar.
* * * * * * * *
Once more heads and hips droop. They pose in attitudes of sleep like a dormitory of small boys on the approach of a prefect. The line Guard comes to life, seizes his lantern and commences to march up and down as if salvation depended on his getting in so many laps to the hour. From the guard-tent a trumpet wails, "Lights out."