Simon Called Peter by Robert Keable

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They rolled off down an avenue of wintry trees, passed a wooden building
which Peter was informed was the English military church, and out on to
the stone-paved quay. To Peter the drive was an intense delight. A French
blue-coated regiment swung past them. "Going up the line," said Jenks. A
crowd of black troops marched by in the opposite direction. "Good Lord!"
said Jenks, "so the S.A. native labour has come." The river was full of
craft, but his mentor explained that the true docks stretched mile on
mile downstream. By a wide bridge lay a camouflaged steamer. "Hospital
ship," said Jenks. Up a narrow street could be seen the buttresses of the
cathedral; and if Peter craned his head to glance up, his companion was
more occupied in the great cafe at the corner a little farther on. But
it was, of course, deserted at that early hour. A flower-stall at the
corner was gay with flowers, and two French peasant women were arranging
the blooms. And then the fiacre swung into the Rue Joanne d'Arc, and
opposite a gloomy-looking entrance pulled up with a jerk. "Here we are,"
said Jenks. "It's up an infernal flight of steps."

The officers' club in Rouen was not monstrously attractive, but they got
a good wash in a little room that looked out over a tangle of picturesque
roofs, and finally some excellent coffee and bacon and eggs.

Jenks lit a cigarette and handed one to Peter. "Better leave your traps,"
he said. "I'll go up with you; I've nothing to do."

Outside the street was filling with the morning traffic, and the two
walked up the slight hill to the accompaniment of a running fire of
comments and explanations from Jenks, "That's Cox's--useful place for
the first half of a month, but not much use to me, anyway, for the
second.... You ought to go to I that shop and buy picture post-cards,
padre; there's a topping girl who sells 'em.... Rue de la Grosse
Horloge--you can see the clock hanging over the road. The street runs
up to the cathedral: rather jolly sometimes, but nothing doing
now.... What's that? I don't know. Yes, I do, Palais de Justice or
something of that sort. Pretty old, I believe.... In those gardens is the
picture gallery; not been in myself, but I believe they've got some good
stuff.... That's your show, over there. Don't be long; I'll hang about."

Peter crossed the street, and, following directions ascended some wooden
stairs. A door round the corner at the top was inscribed "A.C.G. (C. of
E.)," and he went up to it. There he cogitated: ought one to knock, or,
being in uniform, walk straight in? He could not think of any reason
why one should not knock being in uniform, so he knocked.

"Come in," said a voice.

He opened the door and entered. At a desk before him sat a rather elderly
man, clean-shaven, who eyed him keenly. On his left, with his back to
him, was a man in uniform pattering away busily on a typewriter, and, for
the rest, the room contained a few chairs, a coloured print of the Light
of the World over the fireplace, and a torn map. Peter again hesitated.
He wondered what was the rank of the officer in the chair, and if he
ought to salute. While he hesitated, the other said: "Good-morning. What
can I do for you?"

Peter, horribly nervous, made a half-effort at saluting, and stepped
forward. "My name's Graham, sir," he said. "I've just come over, and was
told in the C.G.'s office in London to report to Colonel Chichester,
A.C.G., at Rouen."

The other put him at his ease at once. He rose and held a hand out over
the littered desk. "How do you do, Mr. Graham?" he said. "We were
expecting you. I am the A.C.G. here, and we've plenty for you to do.
Take a seat, won't you? I believe I once heard you preach at my brother's
place down in Suffolk. You were at St. Thomas's, weren't you, down by the
river?"

Peter warmed to the welcome. It was strangely familiar, after the past
twenty-four hours, to hear himself called "Mr." and, despite the uniforms
and the surroundings, he felt he might be in the presence of a vicar in
England. Some of his old confidence began to return. He replied freely
to the questions.

Presently the other glanced at his watch. "Well," he said, "I've got to
go over to H.Q., and you had better be getting to your quarters. Where
did I place Captain Graham, Martin?"

The orderly at the desk leaned sideways and glanced at a paper pinned on
the desk. "No. 5 Rest Camp, sir," he said.

"Ah, yes, I remember now. You can get a tram at the bottom of the street
that will take you nearly all the way. It's a pretty place, on the edge
of the country. You'll find about one thousand men in camp, and the
O.C.'s name is--what is it, Martin?"

"Captain Harold, sir."

"Harold, that's it. A decent chap. The men are constantly coming and
going, but there's a good deal to do."

"Is there a chapel in the camp?" asked Peter.

"Oh, no, I don't think so. You'll use the canteen. There's a quiet room
there you can borrow for celebrations. There's a P.O.W. camp next door
one way and a South African Native Labour Corps lot the other. But they
have their own chaplains. We'll let you down easy at first, but you might
see if you can fix up a service or so for the men in the forest. There's
a Labour Company out there cutting wood. Maybe you'll be able to get a
lift out in a car, but get your O.C. to indent for a bicycle if there
isn't one. Drop in and see me some day and tell me how you are getting
on, I'll find you some more work later on."

Peter got up. The other held out his hand, which Peter took, and then,
remembering O.T.C. days at Oxford, firmly and, unblushingly saluted. The
Colonel made a little motion. "Good-bye," he said, and Peter found
himself outside the door.

"No. 5 Rest. Camp;" said Jenks a moment later: "you're in luck, padre.
It's a topping camp, and the skipper is an awfully good sort. Beast of a
long way out, though. You'll have to have a taxi now."

"The A.C.G. said a tram would do," said Peter.

"Then he talked through his blooming hat," replied the other. "He's
probably never been there in his little life. It's two miles beyond the
tram terminus if it's a yard. My place is just across the river, and
there's a ferry that pretty well drops you there. Tell you what I'll do.
I'll see you down and then skip over."

"What about your stuff, though?" queried Peter.

"Oh? bless you, I can get a lorry to collect that. That's one use in
being A.S.C., at any rate."

"It's jolly decent of you," said Peter.

"Not a bit, old dear," returned the other. "You're the right sort, padre,
and I'm at a loose end just now. Besides, I'd like to see old Harold.
He's one of the best. Come on."

They found a taxi this time, near the Gare du Vert, and ran quickly out,
first over cobbles, then down a wide avenue with a macadamised surface
which paralleled the river, downstream.

"Main road to Havre," volunteered Jenks. "I've been through once or twice
with our stuff. It's a jolly pretty run, and you can lunch in Candebec
with a bit of luck, which is one of the beauty-spots of the Seine, you
know."

The road gave on open country in a few miles, though there were camps
to be seen between it and the river, with wharves and buildings at
intervals, and ahead a biggish waterside village. Just short of that
they pulled up. A notice-board remarked "No. 5 Rest Camp," and Peter
saw he had arrived.

The sun was well up by this time, and his spirits with it. The country
smiled in the clear light. Behind the camp fields ran up to a thick wood
through which wound a road, and the river was just opposite them. A
sentry came to attention as they passed in, sloped arms, and saluted.
Peter stared at him. "You ought to take the salute, padre," said Jenks;
"you're senior to me, you know."

They passed down a regular street of huts, most of which had little
patches of garden before them in which the green of some early spring
flowers was already showing, and stopped before the orderly-room. Jenks
said he would look in and see if "the skipper" were inside, and in a
second or two came out with a red-faced, cheerful-looking man, whom
he introduced as Captain Harold. With them was a tall young Scots officer
in a kilt, whom Peter learned was Lieutenant Mackay of their mess.

"Glad to see you, padre," said Harold. "Our last man wasn't up to much,
and Jenks says you're a sport. I've finished in there, so come on to the
mess and let's have a spot for luck. Come on, Scottie. Eleven o'clock's
all right for you, isn't it?"

"Shan't say no," said the gentleman addressed, and they passed behind the
orderly-room and in at an open door.

Peter glanced curiously round. The place was very cheerful--a fire
burning and gay pictures on the wall. "Rather neat, isn't it, padre?"
queried Harold. "By the way, you've got to dub up a picture. Everyone in
the mess gives one. There's a blank space over there that'll do nicely
for a Kirschner, if you're sport enough for that, Jenko'll show you where
to get a topper. What's yours, old son?"

"Same as usual, skipper," said Jenks, throwing himself into a chair.

Harold walked across to a little shuttered window and tapped. A man's
face appeared in the opening, "Four whiskies, Hunter--that's all right,
padre?"

"Yes," said Peter, and walked to the fire, while the talk became general.

"First time over?" queried Mackay.

"Well, how's town?" asked Harold. "Good shows on? I ought to be due next
month, but I think I'll! wait a bit. Want to get over in the spring and
see a bit of the country too. What do they think of the war over there,
Jenko?"

"It's going to be over by summer. There's a big push coming off this
spring, and Fritz can't stand much more. He's starving, and has no
reserves worth talking of. The East does not matter, though the doings
at Salonika have depressed them no end. This show's going to be won on
the West, and that quickly. Got it, old bean?"

"Good old Blighty!" ejaculated Harold. "But they don't really believe all
that, do they, padre?"

"They do," said Peter. "And, to tell you the truth, I wondered if
I'd be over in time myself. Surely the Yanks must come in and make
a difference."

"This time next year, perhaps, though I doubt it. What do you think,
Scottie?"

"Oh, ask another! I'm sick of it. Say, skipper, what about that run out
into the forest you talked of?"

"Good enough. Would you care to go, padre? There's a wood-cuttin' crowd
out there, and I want to see 'em about firewood. There's a car possible
to-day, and we could all pack in."

"Count me out," said Jenks. "I'll have to toddle over and report. Sorry,
all the same."

"I'd love it," said Peter. "Besides, the A.C.G. said I was to look up
those people."

"Oh, well done. It isn't a joy-ride at all, then. Have another, padre,
and let's get off. No? Well, I will. How's yours, Scottie?"

Ten minutes later the three of them got into a big car and glided
smoothly off, first along the river, and then up a steep road into the
forest. Peter, fresh from London, lay back and enjoyed it immensely. He
had no idea Normandy boasted such woods, and the world looked very good
to him. It was all about as different from what he had imagined as it
could possibly have been. He just set himself to appreciate it.

The forest was largely fir and pine, and the sunlight glanced down the
straight trunks and patterned on the carpet beneath. Hollies gleamed
green against the brown background, and in an open space of bare beech
trees the littered ground was already pricked with the new green of the
wild hyacinth. Now and again the rounded hills gave glimpses of the far
Normandy plain across the serpentine river, then would as suddenly close
in on them again until the car seemed to dart between the advancing
battalions of the forest as though to escape capture. At length, in
one such place, they leaped forward up a short rise, then rushed
swiftly downhill, swung round a corner, and came out on what had
become all but a bare tableland, set high so that one could see
distant valleys--Boscherville, Duclair--and yet bare, for the timber
had been all but entirely cut down.

Five hundred yards along this road brought them to a small encampment.
There were some lines of Nysson huts, a canteen with an inverted triangle
for sign, some tents, great stacks of timber and of smaller wood, a few
lorries drawn up and silent, and, beyond, two or three buildings of wood
set down by themselves, with a garden in front, and a notice "Officers'
Quarters." Here, then, Captain Harold stopped the car, and they got out.
There were some jovial introductions, and presently the whole party set
off across the cleared space to where, in the distance, one could see
the edge of the forest.

Peter did not want to talk, and dropped a little behind. Harold and the
O.C. of the forestry were on in front, and Mackay, with a junior local
officer, were skirmishing about on the right, taking pot-shots with small
chunks of wood at the stumps of trees and behaving rather like two
school-boys.

The air was all heavy with resinous scent, and the carpet beneath soft
with moss and leaves and fragrant slips of pine. Here and there, on a
definite plan, a small tree had been spared, and when he joined the men
ahead, Peter learned how careful were the French in all this apparently
wholesale felling. In the forest, as they saw as they reached it, the
lines were numbered and lettered and in some distant office every
woodland group was known with its place and age. There are few foresters
like the French, and it was cheering to think that this great levelling
would, in a score of years, do more good than harm.

Slowly biting into the untouched regiments of trees were the men, helped
in their work by a small power engine. The great trunks were lopped and
roughly squared here, and then dragged by motor traction to a slide,
which they now went to view. It was a fascinating sight. The forest ended
abruptly on a high hill, and below, at their feet, wound the river. Far
down, working on a wharf that had been constructed of piles driven into
the mud, was a Belgian detachment with German prisoners, and near the
wharf rough sheds housed the cutting plant. Where they stood was the
head of a big slide, with back-up sides, and the forest giants, brought
to the top from the place where they were felled, were levered over, to
swish down in a cloud of dust to the waiting men beneath.

"Well, skipper, what about the firewood?" asked Harold as they stood
gazing.

"How much do you want?" asked the O.C. Forestry.

"Oh, well, what can you let me have? You've got stacks of odd stuff
about; surely you can spare a bit."

"It's clean agin regulations, but could you send for it?"

"Rather! There's an A.S.C. camp below us, and the men there promised me
a lorry if I'd share the spoils with them. Will that do?"

"All right. When will you send up?"

"What's to-day? Wednesday? How about Sunday? I could put some boys on to
load up who'd like the jaunt. How would Sunday do?"

"Capital. My chaps work on all day, of course, and I don't want to give
them extra, so send some of yours."

Peter listened, and now cut in.

"Excuse me, sir," he said, "but I was told I ought to try and get a
service of some sort out here. Could I come out on the lorry and hold
one?"

"Delighted, padre, of course. I'll see what I can do for you. About
eleven? Probably you won't get many men as there are usually inspection
parades and some extra fatigues on Sunday, but I'll put it in orders. We
haven't had a padre for a long time."

"Eleven would suit me," said Peter, "if Captain Harold thinks the lorry
can get up here by that time. Will it, sir?"

"Oh, I should think so, and, anyway, an hour or so won't make much
difference. If I can, I'll come with you myself. But, I say, we ought
to be getting back now. It will be infernally late for luncheon."

"Come and have a drink before you start, anyway," said the O.C.; and he
led the way back to the camp and into an enclosure made of bushes and
logs in the rear of the mess, where rustic seats and a table had been
constructed under the shade of a giant oak. "It's rattling here in
summer," he said, "and we have most of our meals out of doors. Sit
down, won't you? Orderly!"

"By Jove! you people are comfortable out here," said Harold. "Wish I had
a job of this sort."

"Oh, I don't know, skipper; it would feed you up after a while, I think.
It's bally lonely in the evening, and we can't always get a car to town.
It's a damned nuisance getting out again, too." Then, as the orderly
brought glasses and a bottle: "Have a spot. It's Haig and Haig, Mackay,
and the right, stuff."

"Jolly good, sir," said that worthy critically. "People think because
I don't talk broad Scots I'm no Highlander, but when it comes to the
whisky I've got a Scottish thirst. Say when, sir."

Peter had another because he was warm with the sense of good comradeship,
and was warmer still when he climbed into the car ten minutes later. Life
seemed so simple and easy; and he was struck with the cheeriness of his
new friends, and the ready welcome to himself and his duty. He waved to
the O.C. "See you Sunday, sir," he called, out, "'bout eleven. You won't
forget to put it in orders, will you? Cheerio."

"Let's go round by the lower road, skipper," said Mackay. "We can look
in at that toppin' little pub--what's its name, Croix something?--and
besides, the surface is capital down there."

"And see Marie, eh? But don't forget you've got a padre aboard."

"Oh, he's all right, and if he's going to be out here, it's time he knew
Marie."

Graham laughed. "Carry on," he said. "It's all one to me where we go,
skipper."

He lay back more comfortably than ever, and the big car leaped forward
through the forest, ever descending towards the river level. Soon the
trees thinned, and they were skirting ploughed fields. Presently they ran
through a little village, where a German prisoner straightened himself
from his work in a garden and saluted. Then through a wood which suddenly
gave a vista of an avenue to a stately house, turreted in the French
style, a quarter of a mile away; then over a little stream; then round a
couple of corners, past a dreamy old church, and a long immemorial wall,
and so out into the straight road along the river. The sun gleamed on the
water, and there were ships in view, a British and a couple of Norwegian
tramps, ploughing slowly down to the sea. On the far bank the level of
the land was low, but on this side only some narrow apple-orchards and
here and there lush water-meadows separated them from the hills.

The Croix de Guerre stood back from the road in a long garden just where
a forest bridle-path wound down through a tiny village to the main road.
Their chauffeur backed the car all but out of sight into this path after
they climbed out, and the three of them made for a sidedoor in a high
wall. Harold opened it and walked in. The pretty trim little garden had
a few flowers in bloom, so sheltered was it, and Mackay picked a red
rosebud as they walked up the path.

Harold led the way without ceremony into a parlour that opened off a
verandah, and, finding it empty, opened a door beyond. "Marie! Marie!"
he called.

"Ah, Monsieur le Capitaine, I come," came a girl's voice, and Marie
entered. Peter noticed how rapidly she took them all in, and how cold
were the eyes that nevertheless sparkled and greeted Harold and Mackay
with seeming gaiety. She was short and dark and not particularly
good-looking, but she had all the vivacity and charm of the French.

"Oh, monsieur, where have you been for so long? I thought you had
forgotten La Croix de Guerre altogether. It's the two weeks--no,
_three_--since you come here. The gentlemen will have dejeuner? And
perhaps a little aperitif before?"

"Bon jour, Marie," began the Captain in clumsy French, and then abandoned
the attempt. "I could not come, Marie, you know. C'est la guerre. Much
work each day."

"Ah, non, monsieur cannot cheat me. He had found another cafe and another
girl.... Non, non, monsieur, it is not correct;" and the girl drew
herself up with a curiously changed air as Harold clumsily reached out
towards her, protesting. "And you have a cure here--how do you say, a
chapelain?" and Marie beamed on Peter.

The two officers looked at him and laughed. "What can I bring you,
Monsieur le Capitaine le Cure?" demanded the girl. "Vermuth? Cognac?"

Mackay slipped from the edge of the table on which he had been sitting
and advanced towards her, speaking fluent French, with a curious
suggestion of a Scotch accent that never appeared in his English. Peter
watched with a smile on his face and a curious medley of feelings, while
the Lieutenant explained, that they could not stop to lunch, that they
would take three mixed vermuth, and that he would come and help her get
them. They went out together, Marie protesting, and Harold, lighting a
cigarette and offering one to Peter, said with a laugh: "He's the boy, is
Mackay. Wish I could sling the lingo like him. It's a great country,
padre."

In a minute or two the pair of them came back, Marie was wearing the rose
at the point of the little _decollete_ of her black dress, and was all
over smiles. She carried a tray with glasses and a bottle. Mackay carried
the other. With a great show, he helped her pour out, and chatted away in
French while they drank.

Harold and Peter talked together, but the latter caught scraps of the
others' conversation. Mackay wanted to know, apparently, when she would
be next in town, and was urging a date on her. Peter caught "Rue Jeanne
d'Arc," but little more, and Harold was insistent on a move in a few
minutes. They skirmished at the door saying "Good-bye," but it was with
an increased feeling of the warmth and jollity of his new life that Peter
once more boarded the car. This time Mackay got in front and Harold
joined Graham behind. As they sped off, Peter said:

"By Jove, skipper, you do have a good time out here!"

Harold flicked off the ash of his cigarette. "So, so, padre," he said.
"But the devil's loose. It's all so easy; I've never met a girl yet who
was not out for a spree. Of course, we don't see anything of the real
French ladies, though, and this isn't the line. By God! when I think of
the boys up there, I feel a beast sometimes. But I can't help it; they
won't pass me to go up, and it's no use growling down here because of
it."

"I suppose not," said Peter, and leaned back reflecting for the rest of
the way. He felt as if he had known these men all his days, and as if his
London life had been lived on another planet.

After lunch he was given a cubicle, and spent an hour or two getting
unpacked. That done, just as he was about to sit down to a letter, there
came a knock at the door, and Mackay looked in.

"You there, padre?" he asked. "There's a lorry going up to town that has
just brought a batch of men in: would you care to come? I've got to do
some shopping, and we could dine at the club and come back afterwards."

Peter jumped up. "Topping," he said. "I want to get one or two things,
and I'd love it."

"Come on, then," said the other. "I'll meet you at the gate in five
minutes."

Peter got on his Sam Browne and went out, and after a bit Mackay joined
him. They jolted up to town, and went first to the Officers' Store at the
E.F.C. Mackay bought some cigarettes, and Peter some flannel collars and
a tie. Together the pair of them strolled round town, and put their heads
in at the cathedral at Peter's request. He had a vision of old grey stone
and coloured glass and wide soaring spaces, but his impatient companion
hauled him out. "Of course, you'll want to see round, padre," he said,
"but you can do it some other time and with somebody else. I've seen it
once, and that's enough for me. Let's get on to the club and book a
table; there's usually a fearful crowd."

Peter was immensely impressed with the crowd of men, the easy greetings
of acquaintances, and the way in which one was ignored by the rest. He
was introduced to several people, who were all very cheerful, and in the
long dining-room they eventually sat down to table with two more officers
whom the Scotsman knew. Peter was rather taken with a tall man, slightly
bald, of the rank of Captain, who was attached to a Labour Corps. He had
travelled a great deal, and been badly knocked about in Gallipoli. In a
way, he was more serious than the rest, and he told Peter a good deal
about the sights of the town--the old houses and churches, and where was
the best glass, and so on. Mackay and the fourth made merry, and Mackay,
who called the W.A.A.C. waitress by her Christian name, was plainly
getting over-excited. Peter's friend was obviously a little scornful.
"You'll meet a lot of fools here, padre," he said, "old and young. The
other day I was having tea here when two old buffers came in--dug-outs,
shoved into some job or another--and they sat down at the table next
mine. I couldn't help hearing what they said. The older and fatter, a
Colonel, looked out of window, and remarked ponderously:

"'By the way, wasn't Joan of Arc born about here?'

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