Simon Called Peter by Robert Keable

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"'When I had done, he walked on for a bit in silence, and then he said,
"Do you think the men understand that?"

"'I said I thought and hoped they might. It was simple enough.

"'"Well," he said, "it's hopeless jargon to me. If I try to analyse it,
I am knocked out right and left by countless questions; but leave that.
It is when I try to take you practically at your word that I find you are
mumbling a fetish. Forgive me, but it is so."

"'I was a little annoyed and very troubled. "Do explain," I said.

"'"All right, only you mustn't mind if I hurt you," he said. "Take _Trust
in Christ_--well, that either means that a man gets intoxicated by an
idea which does control his life, just as it would if he were intoxicated
by the idea _Trust in Buddha_, or else it comes to nothing. I can't
really trust in a dead man, or a man on the right hand of the throne of
God. What Tommy wants is a pal to lean on in the canteen and the street.
He wants somebody more real and more lovable and more desirable than the
girl who tempts him into sin. And he can't be found. Was he in your
service to-night? Can he be emotionally conjured up by 'Yield not to
temptation' or 'Dare to be a Daniel'? Be honest, padre--the thing is a
spectre of the imagination."

"'I was absolutely silent. He went on:

"'"You make much talk of sin and forgiveness. Well, Tommy doesn't
understand what you mean by sin. He is confused to bits about it; but
the main thing that stands out is that a man may break all the Ten
Commandments theologically and yet be a rattling good pal, as brave as
a lion, as merry as a cricket, and the life and soul and _Christ_ of a
platoon. That's the fact, and it is the one thing that matters. But there
is another thing: if a man sins, how is he to get forgiveness? What sort
of a God is it Who will wipe the whole blessed thing out because in a
moment of enthusiasm the sinner says he is sorry? If that's all sin is,
it isn't worth worrying about, and if that is all God is, He's not got
the makings of a decent O.C."

"'"Good for you, skipper," said the other man.

"'Langton rounded on him. "It isn't good for me or for anyone," he said.
"And I'll tell you what, my boy: all that I've said doesn't justify a man
making a beast of himself, which is what the majority of us do. I can see
that a man may very wisely get drunk at times, but he's a ---- fool to
get himself sodden with drink." (And he went on to more, Hilda, that I
can't write to you.)

"'Well, I don't know what I said. I went back utterly miserable. Oh,
Hilda, I think I never ought to have come out here. Langton's right in a
way. We clergy have said the same thing so often that we forget how it
strikes a practical common-sense man. But there must be an answer
somewhere, if I only knew it. Meantime I'm like a doctor among the dying
who cannot diagnose the disease. I'm like a salesman with a shop full of
goods that nobody wants because they don't fulfil the advertisement. And
I never felt more utterly alone in my life.

"'These men talk a different language from mine; they belong to another
world. They are such jolly good fellows that they are prepared to accept
me as a comrade without question, but as for my message, I might as well
be trying to cure smallpox by mouthing sonorous Virgil--only it is worse
than that, for they no longer even believe that the diagnosis is what I
say. And what gets over me is that they are, on the whole, decent chaps.
There's Harold--he's probably immoral and he certainly drinks too much,
but he's as unselfish as possible, and I feel in my bones he'd do
anything to help a friend.

"'Of course, I hate their vices. The sights in the streets make me feel
positively sick. I wouldn't touch what they touch with a stick. When I
think of you, so honest and upright and clean....' Oh, but I needn't read
that, Uncle Bob." She turned over a page or so. "I think that's all.
No, just this:

"'I've been made mess secretary, and I serve out coffee in the canteen
for a couple of hours every other day. That's about all there is to do. I
wish to Heaven I had an ordinary commission!"

The girl's voice ceased with a suspicious suddenness, and the man's
hand tightened on her arm. For a minute they remained so, and then,
impulsively and unrestrained, she half-turned and sobbed out against his
knees:

"Oh, Uncle Bob, I'm so unhappy! I feel so sorry for him. And--and--the
worst is, I don't really understand.... I don't see what worries him. Our
religion is good enough, I'm sure. Oh, I _hate_ those beasts of men out
there! Peter's too good for them. I wish he'd never gone. I feel as if
he'd never come back!"

"There, there, my dear," said the old soldier, uncomfortably. "Don't take
on so. He'll find his feet, you know. It's not so bad as that. You can
trust him, can't you?"

She nodded vigorously. "But what do _you_ think of it all?" she demanded.

Sir Robert Doyle cleared his throat. "Well," he began, but stopped. To
him it was an extraordinarily hard thing to speak of religion, partly
because he cherished so whole-heartedly what he had got, and partly
because he had never formulated it, probably for that very reason. Sir
Robert could hardly have told his Maker what he believed about Him. When
he said the Creed he always said it with lowered voice and bowed head, as
one who considered very deeply of the matter, but in fact he practically
never considered at all....

"Well," he began again, "you see, dear, it's a strange time out there,
and it is a damned unpleasant age, if you'll excuse me. People can't take
anything these days without asking an infernal number of questions. Some
blessed Socialist'll begin to ask why a man should love his mother next,
and, not getting a scientific answer, argue that one shouldn't. As for
the men, they're all right, or they used to be. 'Love the Brotherhood.
Fear God. Honour the King'--that's about enough for you and me, I take
it, and Graham'll find it's enough for him. And he'll play the game, and
decent men will like him and get--er--helped, my dear. That's all there
is to it. But it's a pity," added the old Victorian Regular, "that these
blessed labour corps, and rest camps, and all the rest of it, don't have
parade services. The boy's bound to miss that. I'm hanged if I don't
speak about it!... And that reminds me.... Good Lord, it's ten o'clock!
I must go."

He started up, Hilda rose, smiling a little.

"That's better," said the old fellow; "must be a man, what? It's all a
bit of the war, you know."

"Oh, Uncle Bob, you _are_ a dear. You do cheer one up, somehow. I wish
men were more like you."

"No, you don't, my dear, don't you think it. I'm a back number, and you
know it, as well as any."

"You're not, Uncle Bob. I won't have you say it. Give me a kiss and say
you don't mean it."

"Well, well, Hilda, there is life in the old dog yet, and I must be off
and show it. No, I won't have another, not before duty. Good-night, dear,
and don't worry."

Hilda saw him off, and waved her hand from the door. Then she went back
slowly to the study and looked round. She stood a few moments and then
switched off the lights, and went out and slowly upstairs. The maid was
in the bedroom, and she dismissed her, keeping her face turned away. In
front of her glass, she held her letter irresolutely a moment, and then
folded it and slipped it into a drawer. She lifted a photo from the
dressing-table and looked at it for a few minutes earnestly. Then she
went to her window, threw it up, and leaned on the sill, staring hard
over the dark and empty park.

Outside, the General walked some distance before he found a taxi. He
walked fast for a man of his age, and ruminated as he went. It was his
way, and the way of his kind. Most of the modern sciences left him
unmoved, and although he would vehemently have denied it, he was the
most illogical of men. He held fast by a few good, sound, old-fashioned
principles, and the process of thought, to him, meant turning over a new
thing until he had got it into line with these principles. It was an
excellent method as far as it went, and it made him what he was--a
thoroughly sound and dependable servant of the State in any routine
business.

At the War Office he climbed more slowly up the steps and into the lobby.
An officer was just coming out, and they recognised each other under the
shaded lights. "Hullo, Chichester, what are you doing here?" demanded
Doyle heartily. "Thought you were in France."

"So I was, up to yesterday. I've just arrived. Orders."

"Where have you been?"

"Rouen. It's a big show now. Place full of new troops and mechanics in
uniform. To tell you the truth, Doyle, the Army's a different proposition
from what it was when you and I were in Egypt and India. But that's a
long time ago, old friend."

"Rouen, eh? Now, that's a coincidence. A young chap I know has just gone
there, in your department. Graham--Peter Graham. Remember him?"

"Oh, quite well. A very decent chap, I thought. Joined us ten days ago or
so. What about it? I forget for the moment where we put him."

"Oh, nothing, nothing. He'll find his feet all right. But what's this
about no parade services these days?"

"No parade services? We have 'em all right, when we can. Of course, it
depends a bit on the O.C., and in the Labour Corps especially it isn't
usually possible. It isn't like the line, old fellow, and even the line
isn't what we knew it. You can't have parade services in trenches, and
you can't have them much when the men are off-loading bully beef or
mending aeroplanes and that sort of thing. This war's a big proposition,
and it's got to go on. Why? Young Graham grousing?"

"No, no--oh, no," hastily asserted Doyle, the soul of honour. "No, not at
all. Only mentioned not getting a parade, and it seemed to me a pity.
There's a lot in the good old established religion."

"Is there?" said the other thoughtfully. "I'm not so sure to-day. The men
don't like being ordered to pray. They prefer to come voluntarily."

Doyle got fierce. "Don't like being ordered, don't they? Then what the
deuce are they there for? Good Lord, man! the Army isn't a debating
society or a mothers' meeting. You might as well have voluntary games
at a public school!"

The A.C.G. smiled. "That's it, old headstrong! No, my boy, the Army isn't
a mothers' meeting--at any rate, Fritz doesn't think so. But times have
changed, and in some ways they're better. I'd sooner have fifty men at a
voluntary service than two hundred on a parade."

"Well, I wouldn't," exploded Doyle. "I know your voluntary
services--Moody and Sankey hymns on a Sunday night. The men had better
be in a decent bar. But turn 'em out in the morning, clean and decent
on parade, and give 'em the old service, and it'll tighten 'em up and
do 'em good. Voluntary service! You'll have volunteer evangelists
instead of Army chaplains next!"

Colonel Chichester still smiled, but a little grimly. "We've got them,"
he said. "And no doubt there's something in what you say; but times
change, and the Church has got to keep abreast of the times. But, look
here, I must go. What about a luncheon? I've not got much leave."

"So must I; I've an appointment," said Doyle. "But all right, old friend,
to-morrow at the club. But you're younger than I, Chichester, or perhaps
you parsons don't get old as quickly!"

They shook hands and parted. Sir Robert was busy for an hour, and came
out again with his head full of the proposed plans for the aerial defence
of London. "Taxi, sir?" he was asked at the door. "No," he replied; "I'll
walk home."

"Best way to think, walking at night," he said to himself as he turned
down Whitehall, through the all but empty streets, darkened as they were.
The meaning of those great familiar spaces struck him as he walked.
Hardly formulating it, he became aware of a sense of pride and
responsibility as he passed scene after scene of England's past glory.
The old Abbey towered up in the moonlight, solemn and still, but almost
as if animate and looking at him. He felt small and old as he passed into
Victoria Street. There the Stores by night made him smile at the
contrast, but in Ashley Gardens Westminster Cathedral made him frown. If
he hated anything, it was that for which it stood. Romanism meant to him
something effeminate, sneaking, monstrous.... That there should be
Englishmen to build such a place positively angered him. He was not
exactly a bigot or a fanatic; he would not have repealed the Emancipation
Acts; and he would have said that if anyone wanted to be a Romanist,
he had better be one. But he would not have had time for anyone who did
so want, and if he should have had to have by any chance dealings with a
priest, he would have been so frigidly polite that the poor fellow would
probably have been frozen solid. Of course, Irishmen were different,
and he had known some capital fellows, Irish priests and chaplains....

And then he saw two men ahead of him. They were privates on leave and
drunk, but not hopelessly drunk. They were trying to negotiate the blank
of the entrance to the Catholic Soldiers' Hut in the protecting wall
which guarded the pavement just beyond the cathedral. As Sir Robert came
within earshot, one of them stumbled through it and collapsed profanely.
He halted for a second irresolutely, with the officer's hesitancy at
meddling with a drunken man.

The fellow on the ground tried to raise himself, and got one elbow on the
gravel. This brought him into such a position that he stared straight at
the illuminated crucifix across the path, and but little farther in.

"Lor', blimey, Joe," he said, "I'm blasted drunk, I am! Thought I was in
old Wipers, I did, and see one of them blessed cru-crushifixes!"

The other, rather less away, pulled at his arm. "So yer did, ole pal," he
said. "It's there now. This 'ere's some Cartholic place or other. Come
_hon_."

"Strike me dead, so it is, Joe, large as life! Christ! oo'd 'ave thought
it? A bloody cru-cru-chifix! Wat's old England comin' to, Joe?" And with
drunken solemnity he began to make a sign of the cross, as he had seen it
done in Belgium.

The other, in the half-light, plainly started. "Shut your bloody jaw,
'Enery," he said, "It's bad luck to swear near a cruchifix. I saw three
chaps blotted out clean next second for it, back behind Lar Basay. Come
on, will yer? We carn't stay 'ere all the blasted night."

"You are down on a chap, you are," said the other. "_Hi_ don't mean no
'arm. '_E_ ought to know that, any'ow." He got unsteadily to his feet.
"'E died to save us, 'E did. I 'eard a Y.M.C.A. bloke say them very
words, 'E died on the cru-cru-chifix to save us."

"'Ere, cheese it, you fool! We'll have somebody out next. Come away with
yer. I've got some Bass in my place, if we git there."

At this the other consented to come. Together they staggered out, not
seeing Sir Robert, and went off down the street, "'Enery" talking as they
went. The General stood and listened as the man's voice died down.

"Good for yer, old pal. But 'E died to save us _hall_, 'E did. Made a
bloomer of it, I reckon. Didn't save us from the bloody trenches--not as
I can see, any'ow. If that chap could 'ave told us 'ow to get saved from
the blasted rats an' bugs an'...."

Sir Robert pulled himself together and walked away sharply. By the
cathedral the carven Christ hung on in the wan yellow light, very still.

CHAPTER V

Peter lay on a home-made bed between the blankets and contemplated the
ceiling while he smoked his first cigarette. He had been a fortnight at
Rouen, and he was beginning to feel an old soldier--that is to say, he
was learning not to worry too much about outside things, and not to show
he worried particularly about the interior. He was learning to stand
around and smoke endless cigarettes; to stroll in to breakfast and out
again, look over a paper, sniff the air, write a letter, read another
paper, wander round the camp, talk a lot of rubbish and listen to more,
and so do a morning's work. Occasionally he took a service, but his real
job was, as mess secretary, to despatch the man to town for the shopping
and afterwards go and settle the bills. Just at present he was wondering
sleepily whether to continue ordering fish from the big merchants, Biais
Freres et Cie, or to go down to the market and choose it for himself. It
was a very knotty problem, because solving it in the latter way meant
getting up at once. And his batman had not yet brought his tea.

There came a knock at the door, and the tea came in. With it was a folded
note. "Came last night, sir, but you was out," said the man. He collected
his master's tunic and boots, and departed.

Peter opened the note and swore definitely and unclerically when he had
read it. It was from some unknown person, who signed himself as Acting
Assistant Chaplain-General, to the effect that he was to be moved to
another base, and that as the A.C.G. was temporarily on leave, he had
better apply to the Colonel of his own group for the necessary movement
order. On the whole this was unintelligible to Peter, but he was already
learning that there was no need to worry about that, for somebody would
be able to read the riddle. What annoyed him was the fact that he had got
to move just as he was settling down. It was certainly a matter for
another cigarette, and as he lit it he perceived one gleam of sunshine:
he need worry no more about the fish.

Peter waited till Harold had finished his breakfast before he imparted
the news to the world a couple of hours or so later. "I say, skipper," he
said, "I've got to quit."

"What, padre? Oh, hang it all, no, man! You've only just taken on the
mess secretary's job, and you aren't doing it any too badly either. You
can't go, old dear."

"I must. Some blighter's written from the A.C.G.'s office, and I've got
to get a movement order from the Colonel of the group, whatever that
means. But I suppose you can put me straight about that, anyway."

"Sure thing. Come up to the orderly-room 'bout eleven, and you can fill
up the chit and I'll fire it in for you. It's only a matter of form. It
goes through to Colonel Lear at La Croisset. Where to?"

Peter told him moodily.

"Eh?" said Harold. "Well, you can cheer up about that. Havre's not at all
a bad place. There are some decent shows about there and some very decent
people. What you got to do?"

"I don't know; I suppose I shall find out when I get there. But I don't
care what it's like. It's vile having to leave just now, when I'm getting
straight. And what'll you do for a four at bridge?"

Harold got up and fumbled in his pockets. As usual, there was nothing
there. "Why that damned batman of mine won't put my case in my pocket I
can't think," he said. "I'll have to fire the blighter, though he is T.T.
and used to be a P. and O. steward. Give me a fag, somebody. Thanks.
Well, padre, it's no use grousing. It's a beastly old war, and you're in
the blinkin' British Army, me lad. Drop in at eleven, then. Cheerio till
then."

At eleven Peter found Harold signing papers. He glanced up. "Oh,
sergeant," he said, "give Captain Graham a Movement Order Application
Form, will you? Sit down, padre; there's a pen there."

Peter wrestled with the form, which looked quite pretty when it was done.
Harold endorsed it. "Fire this through to the orderly-room, 10th Group,
sergeant," he said, and rose wearily. "Come along, padre," he said: "I've
got to go round the camp, and you can come too, if you've nothing better
to do."

"When'll I have to go, do you think?" asked Peter as they went out.

"Oh, I don't know. In a day or two. You'll have to hang about, for the
order may come any time, and I don't know how or when they'll send you."

Peter did hang about, for ten days, with his kit packed. His recently
acquired calm forsook him about the sixth day, and on the tenth he was
entirely mutinous. At lunch he voiced his grievances to the general mess.

"Look here, you men," he said, "I'm fed up to the back teeth. I've hung
round this blessed camp for more than a week waiting for that infernal
movement order, and I'm hanged if I'm going to stay in any more. It's a
topping afternoon. Who'll come down the river to La Bouille, or whatever
it is called?"

Harold volunteered. "That's a good line, padre. I want to go there
myself. Are the boats running now?"

"Saw 'em yesterday," volunteered somebody, and it was settled.

The two of them spent a decent afternoon on the river, and at Harold's
insistence went on back right up to town. They dined and went to a
cinema, and got back to camp about midnight. Graham struck a match and
looked at the board in the anteroom. "May as well see if there is
anything for me," he said. There was, of course. He tore the envelope
open. "Good Lord, skipper!" he said. "Here's my blessed movement order,
to report at the Gare du Vert at eight p.m. this very day. I'm only four
hours too late. What the dickens shall I do?"

Harold whistled. "Show it me," he said. "'The following personnel to
report at Gare du Vert ... at 8 p.m. 28th inst'" he read. "You're for it,
old bird," he continued cheerfully. "But what rot! Look here, it was
handed in to my orderly-room at six-thirty. You'd have hardly had time to
get there at any rate."

Graham looked over his shoulder. "That's so," he said. "But what'll I do
now?"

"Haven't a notion," said the other, "except that they'll let you know
quick enough. Don't worry--that's the main thing. If they choke you off,
tell 'em it came too late to get to the station."

Peter meditated this in silence, and in some dismay. He saw visions of
courts-martial, furious strafing, and unholy terrors. He was to be
forgiven, for he was new to comic opera; and besides, when a page of
_Punch_ falls to one in real life, one hardly realises it till too late.
But it was plain that nothing could be done that night, and he went to
bed with what consolation he could derive from the cheerful Harold.

Next morning his breakfast was hardly over when an orderly came in.
Harold had been earlier than usual, and had finished and gone out.
"Captain Graham, sir?" queried the man. "Captain Harold's compliments,
and a telephone message has just come in that you are to report to H.Q.
10th Group as quickly as possible."

Peter brushed himself up, and outwardly cheerful but inwardly quaking,
set off. Half an hour's walk brought him to the place, a little office
near a wharf is a tangle of trolley lines. He knocked, went in, came to
attention, and saluted.

Colonel Lear was a short, red-faced, boorish fellow, and his Adjutant sat
beside him at the desk, for the Colonel was not particularly well up in
his job. The Adjutant was tall, slightly bald, and fat-faced, and he
leaned back throughout the interview with an air of sneering boredom,
only vouchsafing laconic replies to his superior's occasional questions.
Peter didn't know which he hated the more; but he concluded that whereas
he would like to cut the Colonel in Regent Street, he would enjoy
shooting the Adjutant.

"Ah!" said the Colonel. "Are you Captain Graham? Well, sir, what's the
meaning of this? You applied for a movement order, and one was sent you,
and you did not report at the station. You damned padres think you can do
any bally thing you choose! Out here for a picnic, I suppose. What is the
meaning of it?"

"Well, sir," said Peter, "I waited ten days for the order and it did not
come. At last I went out for the afternoon, and got back too late to
execute it. I'm very sorry, but can't I go to-day instead?"

"Good God, sir! do you think the whole British Army is arranged for your
benefit? Do you think nobody has anything else to do except to arrange
things to suit your convenience? We haven't got troopers with Pullman
cars every day for the advantage of you chaplains, though I suppose you
think we ought to have. Supposing you did have to wait, what about it?
What else have you to do? You'd have waited fast enough if it was an
order to go on leave; that's about all you parsons think about. _I_ don't
know what you can do. What had he better do, Mallony?"

The Adjutant leaned forward leisurely, surveying Peter coolly.

"Probably he'd better report to the R.T.O., sir," he said.

"Oh, very well. It won't be any good, though. Go up to the R.T.O. and ask
him what you can do. Here's the order." (He threw it across the table,
and Peter picked it up, noting miserably the blue legend, "Failed to
Report--R.T.O., Gare du Vert.") "But don't apply to this office again.
Haven't you got a blessed department to do your own damned dirty work?"

"The A.C.G.'s away, sir," said Peter.

"On leave, I suppose. Wish to God I were a padre, eh, Mallony? Always on
leave or in Paris, and doin' nothing in between.... Got those returns,
sergeant?... What in hell are you waiting for, padre?"

For the first time in his life Peter had an idea of what seeing red
really means. But he mastered it by an effort, saluted without a word,
and passed out.

In a confused whirl he set off for the R.T.O., and with a sinking heart
reached the station, crowded with French peasantry, who had apparently
come for the day to wait for the train. Big notices made it impossible to
miss the Railway Transport Officer. He passed down a passage and into an
office. He loathe and hated the whole wide world as he went in.

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