Jim Brent Read online

  All of which his major – who was a man of no little understanding – knew quite well. And the knowledge increased his irritation, for he realised the futility of trying to adjust things. That adjusting business is ticklish work even between two close pals; but when the would-be adjuster is very little more than a mere acquaintance, the chances of success might be put in a small-sized pillbox. To feel morally certain that your best officer is trying his hardest to get himself killed, and to be unable to prevent it, is an annoying state of affairs. Small wonder, then, that at intervals throughout the days that followed did the major reiterate with solemnity and emphasis his remark to the staff-captain anent women. It eased his feelings, if it did nothing else.

  The wild scheme Brent had half suggested did not trouble him greatly. He regarded it merely as a temporary aberration of the brain. In the South African war small parties of mounted sappers and cavalry had undoubtedly ridden far into hostile country, and, getting behind the enemy, had blown up bridges, and generally damaged their lines of communication. But in the South African war a line of trenches did not stretch from sea to sea.

  And so, seated one evening at the door of his commodious residence talking things over with his colonel, he did not lay any great stress on the bridge idea. Brent had not referred to it again; and in the cold light of reason it seemed too foolish to mention.

  “Of course,” remarked the CRE, “he’s bound to take it soon. No man can go on running the fool risks you say he does without stopping one. It’s a pity; but, if he won’t see by himself that he’s a fool, I don’t see what we can do to make it clear. If only that confounded girl–” He granted and got up to go. “Halloa! What the devil is this fellow doing?”

  Shambling down the road towards them was a particularly decrepit and filthy specimen of the Belgian labourer. In normal circumstances, and in any other place, his appearance would have called for no special comment; the brand is not a rare one. But for many months the salient of Ypres had been cleared of its civilian population and this sudden appearance was not likely to pass unnoticed.

  “Venez ici, monsieur, tout de suite.” At the major’s words the old man stopped, and paused in hesitation; then he shuffled towards the two men.

  “Will you talk to him, Colonel?” The major glanced at his senior officer.

  “Er – I think not; my – er – French, don’t you know – er – not what it was.” The worthy officer retired in good order, only to be overwhelmed by a perfect deluge of words from the Belgian.

  “What’s he say?” he queried peevishly. “That damn Flemish sounds like a dogfight.”

  “Parlez-vous Francais, monsieur?” The major attempted to stem the tide of the old man’s verbosity, but he evidently had a grievance, and a Belgian with a grievance is not a thing to be regarded with a light heart.

  “Thank heavens, here’s the interpreter!” The colonel heaved a sigh of relief. “Ask this man what he’s doing here, please.”

  For a space the distant rattle of a machine-gun was drowned, and then the interpreter turned to the officers.

  “’E say, sare, that ’e has ten thousand franc behind the German line, buried in a ’ole, and ’e wants to know vat ’e shall do.”

  “Do,” laughed the major. “What does he imagine he’s likely to do? Go and dig it up? Tell him that he’s got no business here at all.”

  Again the interpreter spoke.

  “Shall I take ’im to Yper and ‘and ’im to the gendarmes, sare?”

  “Not a bad idea,” said the colonel, “and have him–”

  What further order he was going to give is immaterial, for at that moment he looked at the Belgian and from that villainous old ruffian he received the most obvious and unmistakable wink.

  “Er – thank you, interpreter; I will send him later under a guard.”

  The interpreter saluted and retired, the major looked surprised, the colonel regarded the Belgian with an amazed frown.

  Then suddenly the old villain spoke.

  “Thank you, Colonel. Those Ypres gendarmes would have been a nuisance.”

  “Great Scott!” gasped the major. “What the–”

  “What the devil is the meaning of this masquerade, sir?” The colonel was distinctly angry.

  “I wanted to see if I’d pass muster as a Belgian, sir. The interpreter was an invaluable proof.”

  “You run a deuced good chance of being shot, Brent, in that rig. Anyway, I wish for an explanation as to why you’re walking about in that get-up. Haven’t you enough work to do?”

  “Shall we go inside, sir? I’ve got a favour to ask you.”

  We are not very much concerned with the conversation that took place downstairs in that same cellar, when two senior officers of the corps of Royal Engineers listened for nearly an hour to an apparently disreputable old farmer. It might have been interesting to note how the sceptical grunts of those two officers gradually gave place to silence, and at length to a profound, breathless interest, as they pored over maps and plans. And the maps were all of that country which lies behind the German trenches.

  But at the end the old farmer straightened himself smartly.

  “That is the rough outline of my plan, sir. I think I can claim that I have reduced the risk of not getting to my objective to a minimum. When I get there I am sure that my knowledge of the patois renders the chance of detection small. As for the actual demolition itself, an enormous amount will depend on luck; but I can afford to wait. I shall have to be guided by local conditions. And so I ask you to let me go. It’s a long odds chance, but if it comes off it’s worth it.”

  “And if it does, what then? What about you?” The colonel’s eyes and Jim Brent’s met.

  “I shall have paid for my keep, Colonel, at any rate.”

  Everything was very silent in the cellar; outside on the road a man was singing.

  “In other words, Jim, you’re asking me to allow you to commit suicide.”

  He cleared his throat; his voice seemed a little husky.

  “Good Lord! sir – it’s not as bad as that. Call it a forlorn hope, if you like, but…” The eyes of the two men met, and Brent fell silent.

  “Gad, my lad, you’re a fool, but you’re a brave fool! For heaven’s sake, give me a drink.”

  “I may go, Colonel?”

  “Yes, you may go – as far, that is, as I am concerned. There is the General Staff to get round first.”

  But though the colonel’s voice was gruff, he seemed to have some difficulty in finding his glass.

  As far as is possible in human nature, Jim Brent, at the period when he gained his VC in a manner which made him the hero of the hour – one might almost say of the war – was, I believe, without fear. The blow he had received at the hands of the girl who meant all the world to him had rendered him utterly callous of his life. And it was no transitory feeling: the mood of an hour or a week. It was deeper than the ordinary misery of a man who has taken the knock from a woman, deeper and much less ostentatious. He seemed to view life with a contemptuous toleration that in any other man would have been the merest affectation. But it was not evinced by his words; it was shown, as his major had said, by his deeds – deeds that could not be called bravado because he never advertised them. He was simply gambling with death, with a cool hand and a steady eye, and sublimely indifferent to whether he won or lost. Up to the time when he played his last great game he had borne a charmed life. According to the book of the words, he should have been killed a score of times, and he told me himself only last week that he went into this final gamble with a taunt on his lips and contempt in his heart. Knowing him as I do, I believe it. I can almost hear him saying to his grim opponent, “Dash it all! I’ve won every time; for heaven’s sake do something to justify your reputation.”

  But – he didn’t; Jim won again. And when he landed in England from a Dutch tramp, having carried out the maddest and most hazardous exploit of the war unscathed, he slipped upon a piece of orange-peel and broke his right l
eg in two places, which made him laugh so immoderately when the contrast struck him that it cured him – not his leg, but his mind. However, all in due course.

  The first part of the story I heard from Petersen, of the Naval Air Service. I ran into him by accident in a grocer’s shop in Hazebrouck – buying stuff for the mess.

  “What news of Jim?” he cried, the instant he saw me.

  “Very sketchy,” I answered. “He’s the worst letter-writer in the world. You know he trod on a bit of orange-peel and broke his leg when he got back to England.”

  “He would.” Petersen smiled. “That’s just the sort of thing Jim would do. Men like him usually die of mumps, or the effects of a bad oyster.”

  “Quite so,” I murmured, catching him gently by the arm. “And now come to the pub over the way and tell me all about it. The beer there is of a less vile brand than usual.”

  “But I can’t tell you anything, my dear chap, that you don’t know already!” he expostulated. “I am quite prepared to gargle with you, but–”

  “Deux bières, ma’m’selle, s’il vous plaît.” I piloted Petersen firmly to a little table. “Tell me all, my son!” I cried. “For the purpose of this meeting I know nix, and you as part hero in the affair have got to get it off your chest.”

  He laughed, and lit a cigarette. “Not much of the heroic in my part of the stunt, I assure you. As you know, the show started from Dunkirk, where in due course Jim arrived, armed with credentials extracted only after great persuasion from sceptical officers of high rank. How he ever got there at all has always been a wonder to me: his colonel was the least of his difficulties in that line. But Jim takes a bit of stopping.

  “My part of the show was to transport that scatterbrained idiot over the trenches and drop him behind the German lines. His idea was novel, I must admit, though at the time I thought he was mad, and for that matter I still think he’s mad. Only a madman could have thought of it, only Jim Brent could have done it and not been killed.

  “From a height of three thousand feet, in the middle of the night, he proposed to bid me and the plane a tender farewell and descend to terra firma by means of a parachute.”

  “Great Scott,” I murmured. “Some idea.”

  “As you say – some idea. The thing was to choose a suitable night. As Jim said, ‘the slow descent of a disreputable Belgian peasant like an angel out of the skies will cause a flutter of excitement in the tender heart of the Hun if it is perceived. Therefore, it must be a dark and overcast night.’

  “At last, after a week, we got an ideal one. Jim arrayed himself in his togs, took his basket on his arm – you know he’d hidden the gun-cotton in a cheese – and we went round to the machine. By Jove! that chap’s a marvel. Think of it, man.” Petersen’s face was full of enthusiastic admiration. “He’d never even been up in an aeroplane before, and yet the first time he does, it is with the full intention of trusting himself to an infernal parachute, a thing the thought of which gives me cold feet; moreover, of, doing it in the dark from a height of three thousand odd feet behind the German lines with his pockets full of detonators and other abominations, and his cheese full of gun-cotton. Lord! he’s a marvel. And I give you my word that of the two of us – though I’ve flown for over two years – I was the shaky one. He was absolutely cool; not the coolness of a man who is keeping himself under control, but just the normal coolness of a man who is doing his everyday job.”

  Petersen finished his beer at a gulp, and we encored the dose.

  “Well, we got off about two. We were not aiming at any specific spot, but I was going to do due east for three-quarters of an hour, which I estimated should bring us somewhere over Courtrai. Then he was going to drop off, and I was coming back. The time was chosen so that I should be able to land again at Dunkirk about dawn.

  “I can’t tell you much more. We escaped detection going over the lines, and about ten minutes to three, at a height of three thousand five hundred, old Jim tapped me on the shoulder. He understood exactly what to do – as far as we could tell him: for the parachute is still almost in its infancy.

  “As he had remarked to our wing-commander before we started: ‘A most valuable experiment, sir; I will report on how it works in due course.’

  “We shook hands. I could see him smiling through the darkness; and then, with his basket under his arm, that filthy old Belgian farmer launched himself into space.

  “I saw him for a second falling like a stone, and then the parachute seemed to open out all right. But of course I couldn’t tell in the dark; and just afterwards I struck an air-pocket, and had a bit of trouble with the bus. After that I turned round and went home again. I’m looking forward to seeing the old boy and hearing what occurred.”

  And that is the unvarnished account of the first part of Jim’s last game with fate. Incidentally, it’s the sort of thing that hardly requires any varnishing.

  The rest of the yarn I heard later from Brent himself, when I went round to see him in hospital, while I was back on leave.

  “For heaven’s sake, lady, dear,” he said to the sister as I arrived, “don’t let anyone else in. Say I’ve had a relapse and am biting the bedclothes. This unpleasant-looking man is a great pal of mine, and I would commune with him awhile.”

  “It’s appalling, old boy,” he said to me as she went out of the room, “how they cluster. Men of dreadful visage; women who gave me my first bath; unprincipled journalists – all of them come and talk hot air until I get rid of them by swooning. My young sister brought thirty-four school friends round last Tuesday! Of course, my swoon is entirely artificial; but the sister is an understanding soul, and shoos them away.” He lit a cigarette.

  “I saw Petersen the other day in Hazebrouck,” I told him as I sat down by the bed. “He wants to come round and see you as soon as he can get home.”

  “Good old Petersen. I’d never have brought it off without him.”

  “What happened, Jim?” I asked. “I’ve got up to the moment when you left his bus, with your old parachute, and disappeared into space. And of course I’ve seen the official announcement of the guns being seen in the river, as reported by that RFC man. But there is a gap of about three weeks; and I notice you have not been over-communicative to the halfpenny press.”

  “My dear old man,” he answered seriously, “there was nothing to be communicative about. Thinking it over now, I am astounded how simple the whole thing was. It was as easy as falling off a log. I fell like a stone for two or three seconds, because the blessed umbrella wouldn’t open. Then I slowed up and floated gently downwards. It was a most fascinating sensation. I heard old Petersen crashing about just above me; and in the distance a searchlight was moving backwards and forwards across the sky, evidently looking for him. I should say it took me about five minutes to come down; and of course all the way down I was wondering where the devil I was going to land. The country below me was black as pitch: not a light to be seen – not a camp-fire – nothing. As the two things I wanted most to avoid were church steeples and the temporary abode of any large number of Huns, everything looked very favourable. To be suspended by one’s trousers from a weathercock in the cold, grey light of dawn seemed a sorry ending to the show; and to land from the skies on a general’s stomach requires explanation.”

  He smiled reminiscently. “I’m not likely to forget that descent, Petersen’s engine getting fainter and fainter in the distance, the first pale streaks of light beginning to show in the east, and away on a road to the south the headlamps of a car moving swiftly along. Then the humour of the show struck me. Me, in my most picturesque disguise, odoriferous as a family of ferrets in my borrowed garments, descending gently on to the Hun like the fairy godmother in a pantomime. So I laughed, and – wished I hadn’t. My knees hit my jaw with a crack, and I very nearly bit my tongue in two. Cheeses all over the place, and there I was enveloped in the folds of the collapsing parachute. Funny, but for a moment I couldn’t think what had happened. I suppose I was a bit
dizzy from the shock, and it never occurred to me that I’d reached the ground, which, not being able to see in the dark, I hadn’t known was so close. Otherwise I could have landed much lighter. Yes, it’s a great machine, that parachute.” He paused to reach for his pipe.

  “Where did you land?” I asked.

  “In the middle of a ploughed field. Couldn’t have been a better place if I’d chosen it. A wood or a river would have been deuced awkward. Yes, there’s no doubt about it, old man, my luck was in from the very start. I removed myself from the folds, picked up my cheeses, found a convenient ditch alongside to hide the umbrella in, and then sat tight waiting for dawn.

  “I happen to know that part of Belgium pretty well, and when it got light I took my bearings. Petersen had borne a little south of what we intended, which was all to the good – it gave me less walking; but it was just as well I found a signpost almost at once, as I had no map, of course – far too dangerous: and I wasn’t very clear on names of villages, though I’d memorised the map before leaving. I found I had landed somewhere south of Courtrai, and was about twelve kilometres due north of Tournai.

  “And it was just as I’d decided that little fact that I met a horrible Hun, a large and forbidding-looking man. Now, the one thing on which I’d been chancing my arm was the freedom allowed to the Belgians behind the German lines, and luck again stepped in.

  “Beyond grunting ‘Guten Morgen’ he betrayed no interest in me whatever. It was the same all along. I shambled past Uhlans, and officers and generals in motor cars – Huns of all breeds and all varieties, and no one even noticed me. And after all, why on earth should they?

  “About midday I came to Tournai; and here again I was trusting to luck. I’d stopped there three years ago at a small estaminet near the station kept by the widow Demassiet. Now this old lady was, I knew, thoroughly French in sympathies; and I hoped that, in case of necessity, she would pass me off as her brother from Ghent, who was staying with her for a while. Some retreat of this sort was, of course, essential. A homeless vagabond would be bound to excite suspicion.