The crime at Vanderlynden'sMottram, R. H. (Ralph Hale)
General
The crime at Vanderlynden's
Mottram, R. H. (Ralph Hale)
World War, 1914-1918 -- Fiction
Then he turned to Dormer, hunted a moment among the papers on the
table, and spoke:
“Look here, Dormer, about this affair of yours?”
It took all Dormer’s training to keep his mouth shut. He saw more
clearly than ever how Colonel Birchin and all like him and all he
represented, were divesting themselves of any connection with what
looked like a nasty, awkward, tedious and probably discreditable
business. But he had not grasped it.
“They’ve found Andrews--this--er--gunner, who will be able to give you
information. And--look here, Dormer--this affair must be cleared up, do
you understand? Andrews is in hospital. You can go by car to Boulogne,
but we expect you to get it done this time. Corps are most annoyed.
There’s been a nice how-d-y-do with the French.”
Dormer swallowed twice and only said:
“Really, sir.”
“Yes. Car starts at seven.”
Accordingly at seven, the big Vauxhall moved off from that little
group of huts, in the meadow that was so regularly bombed every night.
Dormer, sitting next to Major Stevenage, did not mind. As well Boulogne
as anywhere, while this was going on. All the roads were full of
transport, all the railways one long procession of troop and supply
trains. It was about as possible to hide it all from the Germans, as
to conceal London on a Bank Holiday. In fact it was rather like that.
The population was about the same, if the area were rather larger, the
effect of the crowd, the surly good humour, the air of eating one’s
dinner out of one’s hand was the same.
There was very little sign of any consciousness of the shadow that hung
over it all. Hospital trains and ambulances abounded, going in the
opposite direction, but no one noticed them, so far as Dormer could
see. The type of man who now came up to fight his country’s battles
was little changed. The old regular was hardly to be found. The brisk
volunteer was almost gone. Instead there had arisen a generation that
had grown used to the War, had had it on their minds so long, had been
threatened with it so often that it had lost all sharpness of appeal to
their intellects.
Right back to St. Omer the crowd stretched. Beyond that it became more
specialized. Air Force. Hospitals. Training grounds. Then, across high
windy downs, nothing, twenty miles of nothing, until a long hill and
the sea.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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