title: The fighting Starkleys;
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Presently he opened his eyes. “It’s in the ribs, by the feel of it — but it doesn’t hurt much,” he said. “Felt like a kick from a horse at first. Remem- ber not to say anything about Jim Ham- mond.” They put him to bed at the first farm- house they reached. All his clothing on the right side was stiff with blood. Dick bandaged the wound; and a doctor arrived two hours later. The bullet had nipped in and out, splintering a rib, and lay just beneath the skin. Peter had bled a good deal, but not to a dangerous extent. Before sunrise the next morning Dick and Frank Sacobie set out on their return journey, taking with them a brief telegram and a letter for Capt. Long. Peter had dictated the message, but had written the 51 THE FIGHTING STARKLEYS letter with great effort, one wavery word after another. Mr. Hammond and John Starkley reached Pike Settlement late at night. The storekeeper seemed broken in spirit, but some color came back to his face when he saw Peter lying there in the bed at the farm- house with as cheerful an air as if he had only strained his ankle. must see you a few minutes alone be- fore I leave,” he whispered, stooping over the bed. ^^Don’t worry,” answered Peter. John Starkley was vastly relieved to find his son doing so well. His bewilderment that any one in that country should pull a trigger on Peter almost swamped his indig- nation. The more he thought it over the more bewildered he became. ‘‘You haven’t an enemy in the world, 52 JIM HAMMOND Peter — except the Germans/’ he said. “But that was no -chance shot. If it had been an accident, the fellow with the rifle would have come out to lend a hand.” “I guess that’s so,” replied Peter. “Maybe it was a German. It means a lot to the Kaiser to keep me out of this war.” His father smiled. “Joking aside, lad,” he said, “who do you suppose it was? What was the bullet? Many a murderer has been traced before now on a less likely clue than a bullet.” “Isn’t the bullet on the table there, Mr. Hammond? The doctor gave it to me, and I chucked it somewhere — over there or somewhere.” They looked in vain for the bullet. Later, when the guests and the household were at supper, Mr. Hammond excused himself from table and ran up to Peter’s room. 53 THE FIGHTING STARKLEYS He closed the door behind him, leaned over the bed and grasped Peter’s left hand in both of his. did my best,” he whispered. “I found him and told him you had been sent because the officer wanted to give him a chance. But he had been drinking heavy. He wasn’t himself, Peter — he was like a madman. I begged him to come back with me, but he wouldn’t hear reason or kind- ness. He knocked me down — me, his own father — and got away from that house. What are you going to do, Peter? You are a man, Starkley — a big man — big enough to be merciful. What d’you mean to do?” “Nothing,” said Peter. “I came to find Jim, and I haven’t found him. I got shot instead by some one I haven’t seen hair, hide or track of. It’s up to the army to 54 JIM HAMMOND find Jim, if they still want him; but as far as I am concerned he may be back with the battalion this minute for all I know. I hope he is. As for the fellow who made a target of me, well, he didn’t kill me, and I don’t hold a grudge against him.” Mr. Hammond went home the first thing in the morning. John Starkley waited un- til the doctor called again and dressed the wound and said he had never seen any one take a splintered rib and a hole in the side so well as Peter. “If he keeps on like this, you’ll be able to take him home in ten days or so,” said the doctor. So John Starkley returned to Beaver Dam, delivered the good news to his family and heard in return that young Frank Sacobie had gone to St. John and joined the 26th. 55 CHAPTER III THE VETERANS OF OTHER DAYS W HEN Peter was able to travel, he was taken home to Beaver Dam, and there a medical officer, a major in spurs, examined him and congratulated him on being alive. Peter was given six months’ sick leave ; and that,, he knew, killed his chance of crossing the ocean with his battalion. He protested, but the officer told him that, whether in bed in his father’s house or with his platoon, he was still in the army and would have to do as he was told. The officer said it kindly and added that as soon as he was fit he should return to his battalion, whether it was in Canada, England or Flanders. Jim Hammond vanished. The army marked him as a deserter, and even his own 56 VETERANS OF OTHER DAYS battalion forgot him. Confused rumors circulated round his home village for a little while and then faded and expired. As Jim Hammond vanished from the knowledge and thought of men, so vanished the mysterious rifleman who had splintered Peter’s rib. Spring brought the great news of the stand of the First Canadian Division at Ypres — the stand of the few against the many, of the Canadian militia against the greatest and most ruthless fighting machine of the whole world. The German army was big and ready, but it was not great as we know greatness now. The little Bel- gians had already checked it and pierced the joints of its armor; the French had beaten it against odds; the little old army of England, with its monocles and its tea and its pouter-chested sergeant majors, had 5f THE FIGHTING STARKLEYS outshot it and outfought it at every meeting; and now three brigades of Canadian in- fantry and a few batteries of Canadian ar- tillery had stood undaunted before its del- uge of metal and strangling gas and held it back from the open road to Calais and Paris. Lieut. Pat Hammond wrote home about the battle. He had been in the edge of it and had escaped unhurt. Henry Stark- ley, of the First Field Company, was there, too. He received a slight wound. Pri- vate letters and the great stories of the newspapers thrilled the hearts of thousands of peaceful, unheroic folk. Volunteers flowed in from lumber camps and farms. In May Dick Starkley made the great move of his young life. He was now seven- teen years old and sound and strong. He saw that Peter could not get away with his 58 VETERANS OF OTHER DAYS battalion — that, unless something unex- pected happened, the Second Canadian Di- vision would get away without a Starkley of Beaver Dam. So he did the unexpected thing: he went away to St. John without a word, introduced* himself to Sgt. Dave Hammer as Peter’s brother, added a year to his age and became a member of the 26th Battalion. He found Frank Sacobie there, already possessed of all the airs of an old soldier. Dick sent a telegram to his father and a long, affectionate, confused letter to his mother. His parents understood and for- gave and went to St. John and told him so — and Peter sent word that he, too, under- stood ; and Dick was happy. Then with all his thought and energy and ambition he set to work to make himself a good soldier. Peter did not grumble again about his 59 THE FIGHTING STARKLEYS sick leave. His wound healed; and as the warm days advanced he grew stronger with every day. He had been wounded in the performance of his duty as surely as if a German had fired the shot across the mud of No Man’s Land; so he accepted those extra months in the place and life he loved with a gratitude that was none the less deep for being silent. In June the Battalion embarked for Eng- land, in strength eleven hundred noncom- missioned officers and men and forty-two officers. Afte'r an uneventful voyage of eleven days they reached Devenport, in England, on the twenty-fourth day of the month. The three other battalions of the brigade had reached England a month be- fore; the 26th joined them at the training camps in Kent and immediately set to work to learn the science of modern warfare. 60 ' VETERANS OF OTHER DAYS They toiled day and night with vigor and constancy; and before fall the battalion was declared efficient for service at the front. Both Dick Starkley and Frank Sacobie throve on the hard work. The musketry tests proved Sacobie to be one of the best five marksmen in the battalion. Dick was a good shot, too, but fell far below his friend at the longer ranges. In drill, bombing and physical training, Dick showed himself a more apt pupil than the Malecite. At trench digging and route marching there was nothing to choose between them, in spite of the fact that Sacobie had the ad- vantage of a few inches in length of leg. Both were good soldiers, popular with their comrades and trusted by their officers. Both were in Dave Hammer’s section and Mr. Scammell’s platoon. One afternoon in August Henry Stark- 61 THE FIGHTING STARKLEYS ley turned up at Westenhanger, on seven days’ leave from France. He looked years older than when Dick had last seen him and thinner of face, and on his left breast was stitched the ribbon of the military cross. He obtained a pass for Dick and took him up to London. They put up at a quiet hotel off the Strand, at which Henry had stopped on his frequent week-end visits to town from Salisbury Plain. As they were engaged in filling in the complicated and exhaustive registration form the hall porter gave Henry three letters and told him that a gentle- man had called several times to see him. “What name?” asked Henry. “That he didn’t tell me, sir,” replied the porter, “but as it was him wrote the letters you have in your hand you’ll soon know, sir.” Henry opened one of the envelopes and 62 VETERANS OF OTHER DAYS turned the inclosure over in quest of the writer’s signature. There it was — A. Starkley-Davenport. All three letters were from the same hand, penned at dates several weeks apart. They said that be- fore her marriage the writer’s mother had been a Miss Mary Starkley, daughter of a London merchant by the name of Richard Starkley. Richard Starkley, a colonial by birth with trade connections with the West Indies, had come from Beaver Dam in the province of New Brunswick. The letters said further that their writer had read in the casualty lists the name of Lieut. Henry Starkley of the Canadian Engineers, and that after diligent inquiry he had learned that this same officer had registered at the Canadian High Commissioner’s office in October, 1914, and given his London address as the Tudor Hotel. Failing to obtain any 63 THE FIGHTING STARKLEYS further information concerning Henry Starkley, the writer had kept a constant eye on the Tudor Hotel. He begged Mr. Henry Starkley to ring up Mayfair 2607, without loss of time, should any one of these letters ever come to his hand. ‘What’s his hurry, I wonder?” remarked Henry. “After three generations without a word I guess he’ll have to wait until to-mor- row morning to hear from the Starkleys of Beaver Dam.” “Why not let him wait for three more generations?” suggested Dick. “His grand- father, that London merchant, soon forgot about the people back in the woods at Beaver Dam. Since the second battle of Ypres, this lad with the hitched-up-double name wants to be seen round with you, Henry.” “If that’s all, he does not want much,” 64 VETERANS OF OTHER DAYS said Henry. ^ We’ll take a look at him, anyway. Don’t forget that the first Stark- ley of Beaver Dam was once an English soldier and that there was a first battle of Ypres before there was a second.” The brothers, the lieutenant of engineers and the infantry private, had dinner at a restaurant where there were shaded candles and music; then they went to a theater. Although the war was now only a year old, London had already grown accustomed to the “gentleman ranker.” Brothers, cousins and even sons of officers in the little old army were now private soldiers and non- commissioned officers in the big new army. The uniform was the great thing. Rank badges denoted differences of degree, not of kind. So Lieut. Henry Starkley and Private Dick Starkley, together at their little luxurious table for two and later el- 65 THE FIGHTING STARKLEYS bow to elbow at the theater, did not cause comment. Immediately after breakfast the next morning Henry rang up the Mayfair number. A voice of inquiring deference, a voice that suggested great circumspection and extreme polish, answered him. Henry asked for Mr. Starkley-Davenport. ‘‘You want the captain, sir,” corrected the voice. “Mr. David was killed at Ypres in ’14. What name, sir?” “Starkley,” replied Henry. “Of Canada, sir? Of Beaver Dam? Here is the captain, sir.” Another voice sounded in Henry’s ear, asking whether it was Henry Starkley of the sappers on the other end of the line. Henry replied in the affirmative. “It is Jack Davenport speaking — Stark- ley-Davenport,” continued the voice. “Glad you have my letters at last. Are 66 VETERANS OF OTHER DAYS you at the same hotel? Can you wait there half an hour for me?” “I’ll wait,” said Henry. He and Dick awaited the arrival of the grandson of Richard Starkley with lively curiosity. That he was a captain, and that some one connected with him, perhaps a brother, had been killed at Ypres in 1914, added considerable interest to him in their eyes. “Size him up before trying any of your old-soldier airs on him, young fellow,” warned Henry. They sat in the lounge of the hotel and kept a sharp watch on everyone who entered by the revolving doors. It was a quiet place, as hotels go in London, but during the half hour of their watching more people than the entire population of Beaver Dam were presented to their scrutiny. At last 67 THE FIGHTING STARKLEYS a pale young fellow in a Panama hat and a gray-flannel suit entered. Under his left shoulder was a crutch and in his right hand a big, rubber-shod stick. His left knee was bent, and his left foot swung clear of the ground. His hands were gloved in gray, and he wore a smoke-blue flower in his buttonhole. Only his necktie was out of tone with the rest of his equipment: it was in stripes of blue and red and yellow. Behind him, close to his elbow, came a thin, elderly man who was dressed in black. ‘‘Lieut. Starkley?” he inquired of the hall porter. At that Henry and Dick both sprang to their feet and went across to the man in gray. Before they could introduce them- selves the young stranger edged himself against his elderly companion, thus mak- ing a prop of him, hooked the crook of his 68 VETERANS OF OTHER DAYS stick into a side pocket of his coat, and ex- tended his right hand to Henry. He did it all so swiftly and smoothly that it almost escaped notice; and, pitiful as it was, it almost escaped pity. “Will you lunch with me — if you have nothing better to do?” he asked. “You’re on leave, I know, and it sounds cheek to ask — ^but I want to talk to you about some- thing rather important.” “Of course — and here is my young brother,” said Henry. The captain shook hands with Dick and then stared at him. “You are only a boy,” he said; and then, seeing the blood mount to Dick’s tanned cheeks, he continued, “and all the better for that, perhaps. The nippiest man in my platoon was only nineteen.” “Of course you remember, sir, Mr. David 69 THE FIGHTING STARKLEYS had not attained his twentieth birthday,” the elderly man in black reminded him. ^‘You are right, Wilson,” said the cap- tain. ‘^Hit in October, ’14. He was my young brother. There were just the two of us. Shall we toddle along? I kept my taxi.” Capt. J. A. Starkley-Davenport occupied three rooms and a bath in his own house, which was a big one in a desirable part of town. The remaining rooms were occu- pied by his servants. And such servants! The cook was so poor a performer that whenever the captain had guests for lunch- eon or dinner she sent out to a big hotel near by for the more important dishes — but her husband had been killed in Flanders, and her three sons were still in the field. Wilson, who had been Jack’s father’s color sergeant in South Africa, was the valet. 70 VETERANS OF OTHER DAYS The butler was a one-armed man of forty- five years who had served as a company sergeant major in the early days of the war; in rallying half a dozen survivors of his company he had got his arm in the way of a chunk of high-explosive shell and had decorated his chest with the Distinguished Conduct Medal. He had only the vaguest notions what his duties as butler required of him but occupied his time in arguing the delicate question of seniority with Wilson and the coachman and making frequent reports to the captain. The coachman, who had served forty years in the navy, most of the time as chief petty officer, claimed seniority of the butler and Wilson on the grounds of belonging to the senior service. But the ex-sergeants argued that the captain’s house was as much a bit of the army as brigade headquarters 71 THE FIGHTING STARKLEYS in France, and that the polite thing for any sailorman to do who found a home there was to forget all about seniority; and that for their part they did not believe the Brit- ish navy was older than the British army. Captain Starkley-Davenport introduced into this household his cousins from Beaver Dam, without apologies and with only a few words of explanation. In spite of the butler’s protests, the valet and the coach- man intruded themselves on the luncheon party, pretending to wait on table, but in reality satisfying their curiosity concern- ing the military gentlemen from Canada whose name was the front half of the cap- tain’s name. They paused frequently in their light duties round the table and frankly gave ear to the conversation. Their glances went from face to face with childish eagerness, intent on each speaker in turn. 72 VETERANS OF OTHER DAYS The captain did not mind, for he was ac- customed to their ways and their devour- ing interest in him; Henry was puzzled at first and then amused; and Dick was highly flattered. “There isn’t anyone of our blood in our regiment now, and that is what I particu- larly want to talk to you chaps about,” said the captain, after a little talk on gen- eral subjects. “My father and young brother are gone, and the chances are that I won’t get back. But the interests of the regiment are still mine — and I want the family to continue to have a stake in it. No use asking you to transfer, Henry, I can see that; you are a sapper and already proved in the field, and I know how sap- pers feel about their job; but Dick’s an infantryman. What d’you say to transfer and promotion, Dick? You can get your 73 THE FIGHTING STARKLEYS commission in one of our new battalions as easy as kiss. It will help you and the old regiment.’’ ^‘But perhaps I shouldn’t make a good officer,” replied Dick. “I’ve never been in action, you know.” “Don’t worry about that. I’ll answer for your quality. You wouldn’t have enlisted if the right stuff wasn’t in you.” “But I’d like to prove it, first — although I’d like to be an officer mighty well. That’s what I intend to be some day. I think I’ll stick to the 26th a while. That would be fairer — and I’d feel better satisfied, if ever I won a commission, to have it in my own outfit. Frank Sacobie would feel sore if I left him, before we’d ever been in France together, to be an officer in another outfit. But there is Peter. He is a corporal al- ready and a mighty good soldier.” 74 VETERANS OF OTHER DAYS He told all about Peter and the queer way he was wounded back in Canada and then all about his friend, Frank Sacobie. The captain and the three attendants listened with interest. The captain asked many questions; and the butler, the valet and the coachman were on the point of do- ing the same many times. After luncheon Wilson, the elderly valet, took command gently but firmly and led the captain off to bed. The brothers left the addresses of themselves and Peter with the captain and promised to call at every opportunity and to bring Sacobie to see him at the first chance. Dick and Frank Sacobie continued their training, and in July Dick got his first stripe. A few members of the battalion went to the hospital, and a few were re- turned to Canada for one reason or another. 75 THE FIGHTING STARKLEYS In August a little draft of men fresh from Canada came to the battalion. One of the new men kept inquiring so persistently for Corp. Peter Starkley that in the course of time he was passed along to Dick, who told him about Peter. “I’m downright sorry to hear that,” said the new arrival. “I saw him in Mr. Ham- mond’s store one day and took a shine to him, but as you’re his own brother I guess I’m in the right outfit. Hiram Sill is my name.” They shook hands cordially. “I’m an American citizen and not so young as I used to be,” continued Sill, “but the minute this war started I knew I’d be into it before long. Soldiering is a busi- ness now, and I am a business man. So it looked to me as if I were needed — as if the energy I was expending in selling boots 76 VETERANS OF OTHER DAYS and shoes for Maddock & Co. would count some if turned against the Kaiser. So I swore an oath to fight King George’s ene- mies, and I guess I’ve made no mistake in that. King George and Hiram Sill see eye to eye and tooth to tooth in this war like two coons at a watermelon.” In spite of the fact that Mr. Scammell’s platoon was already up to strength, Sill worked his way into it. He had a very good reason for wanting to be in that particular platoon, and there were men already in it who had no particu- lar reason for remaining in it instead of going to some other platoon; so — as Sill very justly remarked to Dick, to Sacobie, to Sergt. Hammer, to Lieut. Scammell and to Capt. Long — he did not see why he could not be where he wanted to be. Friendship for Frank Sacobie and Dick Starkley and 77 THE FIGHTING STARKLEYS admiration for Sergt. Hammer and Lieut. Scammell were the reasons he gave for wanting to be in that platoon. “He seems a friendly chap,’^ said the adjutant to Mr. Scammell. “Will you take him? If so, you can let the Smith with the red head go over to Number Three, where he will be with a whole grist of lads from his own part of the country. What d’ye say? He looks smart and will- ing to me.” “Sure ril take him,” said Mr. Scammell. “He says he admires me.” So Hiram Sill became a member of Number Two Platoon. He worked with the energy of a tiger and with the good nature of a lamb. He talked a great deal, but always with a view to acquiring or im- parting knowledge. When he found that his military duties and the cultivation of 78 VETERANS OF OTHER DAYS friendships did not use up all his time and energy, he set himself to the task of ascer- taining how many Americans were enrolled in the First and Second Canadian divisions. Then indeed he became a busy man; and still his cry continued to be that soldiering was a business. 79 CHAPTER IV PRIVATE SILL ACTS O N the night of September 15, 1915, the brigade of which the 26th Bat- talion was a unit crossed from Folkstone to Boulogne without accident. All the ranks were in the highest spirits, fondly imagining that the dull routine of training w^as dead forever and that the prac- tice of actual warfare was as entertaining as dangerous. The brigade moved up by way of the fine old city of Saint Omer and the big Flemish town of Hazebrouck. By the fourth day after landing in France the whole brigade was established in the for- ward area of operations, along with the other brigades of the new division. On the night of the 19th the battalion marched 80 PRIVATE SILL ACTS up and went into hutments and billets close behind the Kemmel front. That night, from the hill above their huts, the men from New Brunswick beheld for the first time that fixed, fire-pulsing line beyond which lay the menace of Germany. The battalion went in under cover of darkness, and by midnight had taken over from the former defenders the headquarters of companies, the dugouts in the support trenches and the sentry posts in the fire trench. There were Dick Starkley and his comrades holding back the Huns from the throat of civilization. It was an amazing and inspiring position to be in for the first time. In front of them, just beneath and behind the soaring and falling star shells and Very lights, crouched the most ruthless and powerful armies of the world. To the right and left, every now and 81 THE FIGHTING STARKLEYS then, machine guns broke forth in swift, rapping fire. When the fire was from the positions opposite, the bullets snapped in the air like the crackings of a whip. The white stars went up and down- Great guns thumped occasionally; now and then a high shell whined overhead; now and then the burst of an exploding shell sounded before or behind. It was a quiet night; but to the new battalion it was full of thrills. The sentries never took their eyes from the mys- terious region beyond their wire. Every blob of blackness beyond their defenses set their pulses racing and sent their hands to their weapons. Dick Starkley and Frank Sacobie stood shoulder to shoulder on the fire step for hours, staring with all their eyes and listen- ing with all their ears. Hiram Sill sat at their feet and talked about how he felt on 82 PRIVATE SILL ACTS this very particular occasion. His friends paid no attention to him. ^‘This is the proudest moment of my life,” he said. ‘We are historic figures, boys — and that’s a thing I never hoped to be. In my humble way, I stand for more than George Washington did. This is a bigger war than George ever dreamed of, and I have a bigger and better reason for fight- ing the Huns than Gen. Washington ever had for fighting the fool Britishers.” “Did you see that?” asked Dick of Sac- obie. “Over in the edge of their wire. There! Look quick now! Is it a man?” “Looks like a man, but it’s been there right along and ain’t moved yet,” said Frank. “Maybe it’s a stump.” Just then Lieut. Scammell came along. He got up on the fire step and, directed by Dick, trained his glass on the black thing 83 THE FIGHTING STARKLEYS in the edge of the enemy’s wire. A German ^ star shell gave him light. “That’s a German — a dead one,” he said. “I’ve been told about him. There was a bit of a scrap over there three nights ago, and that is one of the scrappers.” Hiram forgot about Gen. Washington and mounted the fire step to have a look. He bprrowed the officer’s glass for the pur- pose. “Do his friends intend to leave him out there much longer, sir?” he asked. “If they do, it’s a sure sign of weakness. They’re scart.” “They are scart, right enpugh — but I bet they wouldn’t be if they knew this bit of trench was being held now by a green battalion,” replied Mr. Scammell. “They’d be over for identifications if they knew.” “Let them come!” exclaimed Private 84 PRIVATE SILL ACTS Sill. bet a dollar they wouldn’t stay to breakfast — except a few who wouldn’t want any.” At that moment a rifle cracked to the right of them, evidently from their own trench and not more than one hundred yards away. It was followed close by a spatter of shots, then the smashing bursts of gre- nades, more musketry and the rat-tat-tat of several machine guns. Bullets snapped in the air. Lights trailed up from both lines. Dull thumps sounded far away, and then came the whining songs of high-flying shells. Flashes of fire astonished the eye, and crashing reports stunned the ear. “They’re at us!” exclaimed the lieutenant. “Open fire on the parapet opposite, unless you see a better target, and don’t leave your posts. Keep low. Better use the loopholes.” 85 THE FIGHTING STARKLEYS He left the fire step and ran along the duck boards toward the heart of the row. Dick and Frank Sacobie and Hiram Sill, firing rapidly through the loopholes, added what they could to the disturbance. Now and again a bullet rang against the steel plate of a loophole. One or another of them took frequent observations through a periscope, for at that time the Canadian troops were not yet supplied with shrapnel helmets. Dave Hammer, breathless with excitement, joined them for a few seconds. “They tried to jump us, — must have learned we’re a green relief, — but we’ve chewed them up for fair!” he gasped. “Must have been near a hundred of ’em — but not one got through our wire. Keep yer heads down for a while, boys; they’re traversing our top with emmagees.” At last the enemy’s artillery fire slack- 86 PRIVATE SILL ACTS ened and died. Ours drubbed away cheer- ily for another fifteen minutes, then ceased as quick and clean as the snap of a finger. The rifle fire and machine-gun fire dwin- dled and ceased. Even the up-spurting of the white and watchful stars diminished by half ; but now and again one of them from the hostile lines, curving far forward in its downward flight, illuminated a dozen or more motionless black shapes in and in front of our rusty wire. Except for those motion- less figures No Man’s Land was again de- serted. The big rats ran there undisturbed. Sacobie looked over the parapet; Hiram Sill and Dick sat on the fire step at the Malecite’s feet. They felt as tired as if they had been wrestling with strong men for half an hour. Dave Hammer came along the trench and halted before them. ‘Those Huns or Fritzes or whatever you 87 THE FIGHTING STARKLEYS call them are crazy,’’ he said. “Did you ever hear of such a fool thing as that? They’ve left a dozen dead out in front, be- sides what they carried home along with their wounded — and all they did to us was wound three of our fellows with that first bomb they threw, and two more with machine-gun fire.” “Their officers must be boneheads, for ^ sure,” said Hiram. “War’s a business, — and a mighty swift one, — and you can’t suc- ceed in business without knowing some- thing about psychology. Yes, gentlemen, psychology, queer as it may sound.” “Sounds mighty queer to me!” muttered Sacobie, glancing down. “You must study men,” continued Priv- ate Sill, not at all abashed, “their souls and hearts and minds — if you want to make a success at anything except bee farming. 88 PRIVATE SILL ACTS Now, take this fool raid of the Huns. They were smart enough to find out that a bunch of greenhorns took over this trench to-night. So they thought they’d surprise us. Now, if they’d known anything about psychology, they’d have known that just because we were new and green we’d all be on our toes to-night, with our eyes sticking out a yard and our ears buttoned right back. Sure! Every man of us was on sentry duty to-night!” “I guess you’ve got the right idea. Old Psychology,” said the sergeant. The 26th spent five days in the line on that tour. With the exception of one day and night of rain they had fine weather. They mended their wire and did a fair amount of business in No Man’s Land. The enemy attempted no further raids; his last effort had evidently given him more in- 89 THE FIGHTING STARKLEYS formation concerning the quality of the new battalion than he could digest in a week. At any rate he kept very quiet. At the end of the tour the battalion went back a little way to huts on the bushy flanks of Scherpenberg, where they “rested’’ by performing squad, platoon and company drill and innumerable fatigues. The time remaining at their disposal was devoted to football and base-ball and investigations of villages and farmsteads in the neighbor- hood. Their second tour in was more lively and less comfortable than the first. Under the drench of rain and the gnawing of dank and chilly mists their trenches and all the surrounding landscape were changed from dry earth to mud. Everything in the front line, including their persons, became caked 90 PRIVATE SILL ACTS with mud. The duck boards became a chain of slippery traps; and in low trenches they floated like rafts. The parapets slid in and required constant attention ; and what the water left undone in the way of destruc- tion the guns across the way tried to fin- ish. It was hard on the spirit of new troops; they were toughened to severe work and rough living, but not to the deadening mud of a front-line trench in low ground. So their officers planned excitement for them, to keep the fire of interest alive in their hearts. That excitement was obtained in several ways, but always by a move of some sort against the enemy or his defenses. Patrol work was the most popular form of relief from muddy inaction. Lieut. Scam- mell quickly developed a skill in that and an appetite for it that soon drew the colo- 91 THE FIGHTING STARKLEYS nel’s attention to himself and his followers. By the end of September, even the med- ical officers of New Brunswick had to ad- mit that Corp. Peter Starkley was fully re- covered from his wound. As for Peter him- self, he affirmed that he had not felt any- thing of it for the past two months. He had worked at the haying and the harvesting on Beaver Dam and his own place without so much as a twinge of pain. Peter returned to his military duties eagerly, but inspired only by his sense of duty. His heart was more than ever in his own countryside; but despite his natural modesty he knew that he was useful to his king and country as a noncommissioned officer, and with that knowledge he fortified his heart. He tried to tell Vivia Hammond something of what he felt. His words 92 PRIVATE SILL ACTS were stumbling and inadequate, but she understood him. And at the last he said: ‘‘Vivia, don’t forget me, for I shall be thinking of you always — ^more than of any- one or anything in the world.” And then, not trusting his voice for more, he kissed her hastily Vivia wept and made no attempt to hide her tears or the reason for them. Shortly before Peter’s return to the army he had received a letter from Capt. Stark- ley-Davenport, telling of the reunion of the cousins in London and virtually offer- ing him a commission in the writer’s old regiment. Peter had also heard some- thing of the plan from Dick a few days be- fore. He answered the captain’s letter promptly and frankly, to the effect that he had no military ambition beyond that of doing his duty to the full extent of his 93 THE FIGHTING STARKLEYS power against Germany, and that a com- mission in an English regiment was an honor he could accept only if it should come to him unavoidably, in the day’s work. Peter reached England in the third week of October and with three hundred com- panions fresh from Canada was attached to a reserve battalion on St. Martin’s Plain for duty and instruction. Peter was given the acting rank of sergeant. Early in December he crossed to France and reached his battalion without accident. He found that the 26th had experienced its full share of the fortunes and misfortunes of war. Scores of familiar faces were gone. His old platoon had suffered many changes since he had left it in St. John a year ago. Its commander, a Lieut. Smith, was an en- tire stranger to him, and he had known the 94 PRIVATE SILL ACTS platoon sergeant as a private. Mr. Scam- mell was now scout officer and expecting his third star at any moment. Dave Ham- mer, still a sergeant, and Dick, Sacobie and Hiram Sill also were scouts. Dick, was a corporal now and had never been touched by shot, shell or sickness. Sacobie had been slightly wounded and had been away at a field ambulance for a week. Peter rejoined his old platoon and, as it was largely composed at this time of new troops, was permitted to retain his acting rank of sergeant. He performed his du- ties so satisfactorily that he was con- firmed in his rank after his first tour in the trenches. On the third night of Peter’s second tour in the front line, Dave Hammer, Dick and Frank Sacobie took him out to show him about. All carried bombs, and Sergt. 95 THE FIGHTING STARKLEYS Hammer had a pistol as well. They were hoping to surprise a party of Germans at work mending their wire. Hammer slipped over the parapet. Peter followed him. Dick and Sacobie went over together, quick as the wink of an eye. Their faces and hands were black. With Dave Hammer in the lead, Peter at the very soles of his spiked boots and Dick and Sacobie elbow to elbow behind Peter, they crawled out through their own wire by the way of an intricate channel. When a star shell went up in front, near enough to light that particular area, they lay motionless. They went forward during the brief periods of darkness and half light. At last they got near enough to the Ger- man wire to see it plainly, and the leader changed his course to the left. When they lay perfectly still they could hear many 96 PRIVATE SILL ACTS faint, vague sounds in every direction: far, dull thuds before and be*hind them, spatters of rifle fire far off to the right and left, the bang of a Very pistol somewhere behind a parapet and now and then the crash of a bursting shell. A few minutes later Dave twisted about and laid a hand on Peter’s shoulder. He gave it a gentle pull. Peter crawled up abreast of him. Dave put his lips to Peter’s ear and whispered: ^^There they are.” A twisty movement of his right foot had already signaled the same information to the veterans in the rear. Peter stared at the blotches of darkness that Dave had in- dicated. They did not move often or quickly and kept close to the ground. Sometimes, when a light was up, they be- came motionless and instantly melted from 97 THE FIGHTING STARKLEYS view, merging into the shadows of the night and the tangled wire. Now and then Peter heard some faint sound of their labor, as they worked at the wire. ^^Only five of them,” whispered the scout sergeant. ^‘They are scared blue. Bet their skunks of officers had to kick them out of the trench. Let’s sheer off a few yards and give ’em something to be scared about.” Just then Dick and Frank squirmed up beside them. ‘‘Some more straight ahead of us,” breathed the Indian. “Three or four.” Hammer used his glass and saw that Sa- cobie’s eyes had not fooled him. He touched each of his companions to assure himself of their attention, then twisted sharp to the left, back toward their own line, and crawled away. They followed. After he 98 PRIVATE SILL ACTS had covered about ten yards, Dave turned end for end in his muddy trail, and the others came up to him and turned beside him. They saw that the wiring party and the patrol had joined. “Spread a bit,” whispered Dave. “I’ll chuck one at ’em, and when it busts you fellows let fly and then beat it back for the hole in our wire. Take cover if the em- magees get busy. I’ll be right behind you.” They moved a few paces to the right and left. Peter’s lips felt dry, and he wanted to sneeze. He took a plump, cold, heavy little grenade in his muddy right hand. A few breathless, slow seconds passed and then smash! went Dave’s bomb over against the Hun wire. Then Peter stood up and threw — and three bombs exploded like one. Turning, Peter slithered along on all 99 THE FIGHTING STARKLEYS fours after Dick and Sacobie. The startled Huns lighted up their front as if for a national fete ; but Peter chanced it and kept on going. A shrapnel shell exploded over- head with a terrific sound, and the fat bul- lets spattered in the mud all round him. He came to another and larger crater and was about to skirt it when a familiar voice exclaimed : ^‘Come in here, you -idiot!” There was Dick and Frank Sacobie standing hip-deep in the mud and water at the bottom of the hole. Peter joined them with a few bushels of mud. A whiz-bang whizzed and banged red near-by, and the three ducked and knocked their heads together. The water was bitterly cold. ‘^Did you think you were on your way to the barns to milk?” asked Dick. ^^Don’t 100 PRIVATE SILL ACTS you know the machine guns are combing the ground?” “I’ll remember,” said Peter. “New work to me, and I guess I was a bit flus- tered. I wonder where Dave Hammer has got himself to.” “Some hole or other, sure,” said Sacobie. 