The Second Bass by George A. Birmingham
"Be careful, Bates," said Miss Willmot; "we don't want your neck broken."
"No fear, miss," said Lance-Corporal Bates; "I'm all right."
Lance-Corporal Bates had three gold bars on the sleeve of his tunic. He
might fairly be reckoned a man of courage. His position, when Miss Willmot
spoke to him, demanded nerve. He stood on the top rail of the back of a
chair, a feeble-looking chair. The chair was placed on a table which was
inclined to wobble, because one of its legs was half an inch shorter than
the other three. Sergeant O'Rorke, leaning on the table, rested most of
his weight on the seat of the chair, thereby balancing Bates and
preventing an upset. Miss Willmot sat on the corner of the table, so that
it wobbled very little. Bates, perilously balanced, hammered a nail, the
last necessary nail, into the wall through the topmost ray of a large
white star. Then he crept cautiously down.
Standing beside Miss Willmot he surveyed the star.
"Looks a bit like Christmas, don't it, miss?" he said.
"The glitters on it," said Sergeant O'Rorke, "is the beautifullest that
ever was seen. The diamonds on the King's Crown wouldn't be finer."
The star hung on the wall of the canteen opposite the counter. It was made
of cotton wool pasted on cardboard. The wool had been supplied by a
sympathetic nurse from a neighbouring hospital. It was looted from the
medical stores. The frosting, which excited Sergeant O'Rorke's admiration,
was done with sugar. It was Miss Nelly Davis, youngest and merriest of
Miss Willmot's helpers, who suggested the sugar, when the powdered glass
ordered from England failed to arrive.
"There can't be any harm in using it," she said. "What we're getting now
isn't sugar at all, it is fine gravel. A stone of it wouldn't sweeten a
single urn of tea."
Miss Willmot took the sugar from her stores as she accepted the looted
cotton-wool, without troubling to search for excuse or justification. She
was a lady of strong will. When she made up her mind that the Christmas
decorations of her canteen were to be the best in France she was not
likely to stick at trifling breaches of regulations.
She looked round her with an expression of justifiable satisfaction. The
long hut which served as a canteen looked wonderfully gay. Underneath the
white star ran an inscription done in large letters made of ivy leaves.
Miss Willmot, in the course of two years' service in the canteen of a base
camp, had gained some knowledge of the soldier's heart Her inscription was
calculated to make an immediate appeal. "A Merry Christmas," it ran, "And
the Next in Blighty." The walls of the hut were hung round with festoons
of coloured paper. Other festoons, red, blue, and green stretched across
the room from wall to wall under the low ceiling. Chinese lanterns,
swinging on wires, threatened the head of anyone more than six feet in
height Sergeant O'Rorke, an Irish Guardsman until a wound lamed him, now a
member of the camp police force, had to dodge the Chinese lanterns when he
walked about Jam-pots and cigarette-tins, swathed in coloured paper, held
bunches of holly and sprigs of mistletoe. They stood on the tables and the
But the counter was the crowning glory of the canteen. In the middle of it
stood an enormous Christmas cake, sugar-covered, bedecked with flags.
Round the cake, built into airy castles, were hundreds of crackers. Huge
dishes, piled high with mince pies, stood in rows along the whole length
of the counter on each side of the cake. Behind them, rising to the height
of five steps, was a long staircase made of packets of cigarettes.
"Sure, it's grand," said Sergeant O'Rorke; "and there isn't one only
yourself, miss, who'd do all you be doing for the men."
Miss Willmot's eyes softened. They were keen, grey eyes, not often given
to expressing tender feeling. At home in the old days men spoke of her as
a good sport, who rode straight and played the game; but they seldom tried
to make love to her. Women said she was a dear, and that it was a thousand
pities she did not marry. It was no sentimental recollection of bygone
Christmases which brought the look of softness into her eyes. She was
thinking that next day the men for once would feast to the full in the
canteen—eat, drink, smoke, without paying a penny. She knew how well
they deserved all she could do for them, these men who had done so much,
borne so much, who still had so much to do and bear. Miss Willmot thanked
God as she stood there that she had money to spend for the men.
"Tea! tea! tea! Tea's ready. Come along, Miss Willmot."
The call came from behind the counter. Miss Nelly Davis stood there, a
tall, fair girl in a long blue overall.
"I've made toast and buttered it, and Mr. Digby's waiting."
"Good evening, miss, and a happy Christmas to you," said Bates.
"If there's a happy Christmas going these times at all," said Sergeant
O'Rorke, "it's yourself deserves it."
"Thank you, thank you both," said Miss Willmot "If it hadn't been for your
help I'd never have got the decorations done at all."
The men left the hut, and Miss Willmot locked the door behind them. The
canteen was closed until it opened in all its glory on Christmas
She passed through a door at the back of the counter, slipped off her
overall, stained and creased after a long day's work, then she went into
Miss Nelly Davis was bending over a packing-case which stood in the middle
of the kitchen floor. It served as a table, and she was spreading a cloth
on it In front of the stove stood a young man in uniform, wearing the
badges of a fourth class Chaplain to the Forces. This was Mr. Digby. Once
he had been the popular curate of St Ethelburga's, the most fashionable of
London churches. In those days Miss Willmot would have treated him with
scorn. She did not care for curates.
Now he was a fellow-worker in the Camp. His waterproof hung dripping
behind the kitchen door. Drops of rain ran down his gaiters. He was trying
to dry the knees of his breeches before the stove. Miss Willmot greeted
"Terrific night," he said; "rain coming down in buckets. Water running
round the camp in rivers. I say, Miss Davis, you'll have to get out
another cup. The Major's coming to tea."
"There isn't a fourth cup," said Miss Nelly. "You'll have to drink out of
"Right-o! Mugs hold more, anyway."
"All padres are greedy," said Miss Nelly. "What's bringing the Major
"I've arranged a practice of the Christmas carols," said Digby.
"Bother your old carols," said Miss Nelly.
"Must have a practice," said Digby. "You and Miss Willmot are all right;
but the Major is frightfully shaky over the bass. It won't do to break
down to-morrow. By the way, Miss Willmot, there's something I want to
speak to you about before the Major comes. There's——"
"Before the Major comes, Nelly," said Miss Willmot, "give me some tea. He
always looks shocked when I drink four cups, so let me get through the
first two before he arrives."
"I wouldn't sit there if I were you," said Digby.
"There's a drip coming through the roof just there which will get you on
the back of the neck every time you lean forward."
Miss Willmot shifted the biscuit-tin. It was not easy to find a spot to
put it The roof of the kitchen leaked badly in several places.
"Look here, Miss Willmot," said Digby. "I wonder if you could do anything
about this. I've just been round to the guard-room. There's a poor devil
"Language! language!" said Miss Nelly.
She was on her knees beside the stove rescuing her plate of toast from
danger. Drops of water were falling on it from the knees of Digby's
breeches every time he moved.
"There is," said Digby, speaking with great precision, "an unfortunate man
at this moment incarcerated in the cell behind the guard-room, under the
stern keeping of the Provost Sergeant I hope that way of saying it
satisfies you, Miss Davis."
"For goodness' sake, don't talk Camp shop," said Miss Davis. "Let's have
our tea in peace."
"Drink, I suppose," said Miss Willmot "Why will they do it, just at
"This isn't a drunk," said Digby. "The wretched devil has been sent down
here under arrest from No. 73 Hospital. He's to be court-martialled. He's
only a boy, and a decent-looking boy, too. I hate to think of his being
shut up in that cell all by himself at Christmas with nobody to do
anything for him."
"What can we do?" said Miss Willmot.
"I can't do anything, of course," said Digby, "but I thought you might."
"I don't see what I can do."
"Well, try," said Digby. "If you'd seen the poor fellow—— But
you'll do something for him, won't you?"
Digby had a fine faith in Miss Willmot's power to do "something" under any
circumstances. Experience strengthened his faith instead of shattering it.
Had not Miss Willmot on one occasion faced and routed a medical board
which tried to seize the men's recreation-room for its own purposes? And
in the whole hierarchy of the Army there is no power more unassailable
than that of a medical board. Had she not obtained leave for a man that he
might go to see his dying mother, at a time when all leave was officially
closed, pushing the application through office after office, till it
reached, "noted and forwarded for your information, please," the remote
General in Command of Lines of Communication? Had she not bent to her will
two generals, several colonels, and once even a sergeant-major? A padre,
fourth class, though he had once been curate of St. Ethelburga's, was a
feeble person. But Miss Willmot! Miss Willmot got things done, levelled
entanglements of barbed red tape, captured the trenches of official
persons by virtue of a quiet persistence, and—there is no denying it—because
the things she wanted done were generally good things.
The Major opened the door of the kitchen. He stood for a moment on the
threshold, the water dripping from his cap and running down his coat,
great drops of it hanging from his white moustache. He was nearer sixty
than fifty years of age. The beginning of the war found him settled very
comfortably in a pleasant Worcestershire village. He had a house
sufficiently large, a garden in which he grew wonderful vegetables, and a
small circle of friends who liked a game of bridge in the evenings. From
these surroundings he had been dug out and sent to command a base camp in
France. He was a professional soldier, trained in the school of the old
Army, but he had enough wisdom to realize that our new citizen soldiers
require special treatment and enough human sympathy to be keenly
interested in the welfare of the men. He grudged neither time nor trouble
in any matter which concerned the good of the Camp. He had very early come
to regard Miss Willmot as a valuable fellow-worker.
"Padre," he said, "I put it to you as a Christian man, is this an evening
on which anyone ought to be asked to practise Christmas carols?"
"Hear, hear," said Miss Nelly.
"We've only had one practice, sir," said Digby, "and I've put up notices
all over the Camp that the carols will be sung to-morrow evening. It's
awfully good of you to come."
"And of me," said Miss Nelly.
"You're here, in any case," said Digby. "The men are tremendously pleased,
sir," he added, "that you're going to sing. They appreciate it."
"They won't appreciate it nearly so much when they hear me," said the
Major. "I haven't sung a part for, I suppose, twenty years."
Christmas carols have been sung, and we may suppose practised beforehand,
in odd places, amid curious surroundings. But it is doubtful whether even
the records of missionaries in heathen lands tell of a choir practice so
unconventional as that held on Christmas Eve in the kitchen of Miss
The rain beat a tattoo on the corrugated iron roof. It dripped into a
dozen pools on the soaking floor, it fell in drops which hissed on to the
top of the stove. There was no musical instrument of any kind. The
tea-tray was cleared away and laid in a corner. The Major, white-haired,
lean-faced, smiling, sat on the packing-case in the middle of the room.
Miss Willmot sat on her biscuit-tin near the stove. Miss Nelly perched,
with dangling feet, on a corner of the sink in which cups and dishes were
washed Digby, choir-master and conductor, stood in front of the stove.
"Now then," he said, "we'll begin with 'Nowell.' Major, here's your note—La-a-a"—he
boomed out a low note. "Got it?"
"La-a-a," growled the Major.
"Miss Willmot, alto," said Digby, "la-a-a. That's right Miss Davis, a
third higher, la-a-a. My tenor is F. Here's the chord. La, la, la, la.
Now, one, two, three. 'The first Nowell the angels did say——'"
The rain hammered on the roof. The Major plodded conscientiously at his
bass. Miss Nelly sang a shrill treble. Digby gave the high tenor notes in
shameless shouts. "Good King Wenceslas" followed, and "God rest you merry,
gentlemen." Then the Major declared that he could sing no more.
"I wish you'd get another bass, padre," he said. "I'm not trying to back
out, but I'm no good by myself. If I'd somebody to help me, a second bass——"
"There's nobody," said Digby. "I've scoured the whole camp looking for a
"If only Tommy were here," said Miss Nelly.
"Tommy has a splendid voice. And I don't see why he mightn't be here
instead of stuck in that silly old hospital He's quite well. He told me so
yesterday. A bullet through the calf of the leg is nothing. Major,
couldn't you get them to send Tommy over to the Camp just for to-morrow?"
The Major shook his head. He had every sympathy with Miss Nelly. He knew
all about Tommy. So did Miss Willmot. So did Digby. Miss Nelly made no
secret of the fact that she was engaged to be married to Tommy Collins.
She was proud of the fact that he was serving as a private in the Wessex
Borderers, wishing to work his way up through the ranks to the commission
that he might have had for the asking. No Wessex man ever entered the
canteen without being asked if he knew Private 7432 Collins, of the 8th
Battalion. Every one—even the sergeant-major—had to listen to
scraps read out from Tommy's letters, written in trenches or in billets.
When Tommy was reported wounded, Miss Willmot had a bad day of it with an
almost hysterical Nelly Davis. When the wound turned out to be nothing
worse than a hole in the calf of the leg, made by a machine-gun bullet,
Miss Nelly cried from sheer relief. When, by the greatest good luck in the
world, Private 7432 Collins was sent down to 73 General Hospital, no more
than a mile distant from the Camp, Miss Nelly went wild with joy.
"Can't be done," said the Major. "If it were any other hospital—but
the people in No. 73 don't like me."
The Major was a stickler for extreme accuracy in the filling in of all
official papers. The staff of No. 73 Hospital cured its patients of their
wounds, but sometimes turned them loose afterwards, insufficiently,
occasionally even wrongly, described and classified. The Major invariably
called attention to these mistakes.
The Major, though particular on some points, was a kindly man. He did not
want to speak evil of the hospital authorities. He was also a little tired
of hearing about Tommy Collins. He changed the subject abruptly.
"By the way, Miss Willmot," he said, "it's all right about the men's
Christmas dinner. I spent an hour this morning strafing everybody in the
cook-house. I told them they must try to make the Yorkshire pudding.
Heaven knows what it will be like?"
"If they'll only follow the receipt I gave them——" said Miss
"If," said Digby. "But those cooks are rotters."
"Anyhow," said the Major, "there'll be a decent dinner. Roast beef, plum
pudding, oranges, and then all the things you have for them in the
canteen. They'll not do badly, not at all badly."
He rubbed his hands together and smiled with benevolent satisfaction. He
had arranged to eat his own Christmas dinner at the unholy hour of three
in the afternoon. He meant to see that all went well at the men's dinner,
and that their tea was sufficient. He meant to look in for an hour at the
canteen festivities. He had promised to sing Christmas carols. From three
to four was the only time left at which he could dine. But that thought
did not spoil his satisfaction.
Digby saw, or thought he saw, his opportunity.
"There's one poor fellow in the guard-room, sir," he said. "Will he get
any Christmas dinner?"
He winked at Miss Willmot as he spoke. This was the time for her to back
up his charitable appeal.
"Ah," said the Major, "I'm afraid I can't do much for him. It's a serious
charge, a case of a Field General Court Martial. I'm afraid there's no
doubt about the facts. I'm sorry for him. He's quite young; but it's a
disgraceful thing for any man to do."
The Major's face hardened. For many offences and most offenders he had
some sympathy; but a man who sinned against the code of military honour
had little pity to expect from the Major.
Miss Willmot looked up.
"Is it very bad?" she asked.
"One of those cases of self-wounding," said the Major. "Shot himself in
the leg with his own rifle."
There are cases of this kind, a few of them. Some wretch, driven half
frantic by terror, worn out with hardships, hopeless of any end of his
sufferings, seeks this way out. He gains a week of rest and security in a
hospital ward. Then he faces the stern judgment of a court martial, and
pays the penalty.
"Poor fellow!" said Miss Willmot. "Poor boy! What he must have gone
through before he did that!"
"He went through no more than any other man went through," said the Major;
"but they stuck it and he shirked. There are men enough who deserve our
pity, Miss Willmot We can't afford to waste sympathy on cowards."
Miss Willmot was of another mind. For her there was a law higher even than
the Major's lofty code of chivalry and honour. She had pity to spare for
The Major himself was not wholly consistent As he rose to leave the
kitchen he spoke of the prisoner again.
"He doesn't look like a man who'd do it. He looks like a gentleman. That
makes it worse, of course, much worse. All the same, he doesn't look it."
"Well?" said Digby, when the Major left.
"I can't do anything," said Miss Willmot "In a case of this kind there's
nothing to be done."
But Miss Willmot made up a little parcel before she left the canteen.
There were cigarettes in it, and chocolate, and a couple of mince pies,
and a large slice of cake, and some biscuits. Afterwards she acted
lawlessly, offended against discipline, treated rules and regulations with
Sergeant O'Rorke was sitting in the guard-room playing patience when Miss
Willmot entered. He stood up at once and saluted.
"Terrible weather, miss. I'll never say again that it rains in the County
Galway. Sure, it doesn't know how. A man would have to come to France to
find out what rain is."
"Sergeant," said Miss Willmot, "I want to speak to your prisoner."
Sergeant O'Rorke scratched his ear doubtfully. Miss Willmot had no right
to see the prisoner. He had no right to open the door of the cell for her.
They had hammered some respect for discipline into Sergeant O'Rorke when
he served in the Irish Guards. But they had not hammered the Irish nature
altogether out of him. He was willing to go to great lengths, to take
risks in order to oblige a friend whom he liked and respected. He had an
Irishman's feeling that laws and regulations are not meant to apply to
ladies like Miss Willmot.
"Did you think to ask leave of the Major, miss?" he said.
"No," said Miss Willmot, "I didn't ask anybody's leave."
"That's a pity now," said O'Rorke; "but sure the Major would never have
said no if you'd have asked him."
He fitted the key into the lock and flung open the door of the cell.
"Prisoner, 'tention," he said.
Miss Willmot entered the small square room, lit by a single electric
light. It was entirely bare of all furniture, save a single rug, which lay
rolled up in a corner. The walls and floor were lined with sheets of zinc
A young man stood stiffly to attention in the middle of the room. Miss
Willmot stared at him.
Then she turned to Sergeant O'Rorke. "Shut the door please, sergeant, and
The young man neither stirred nor spoke.
"Tommy!" said Miss Willmot.
"7432! Private Collins, miss, 8th Wessex Borderers."
He spoke in a tone of hard, cold fury.
"Tommy," said Miss Willmot.
"Awaiting trial by Field General Court Martial on a charge of deliberately
wounding himself in the leg."
"Tommy," said Miss Willmot again, "you didn't do that."
The boy broke down suddenly. The hardness and the anger vanished.
"Miss Willmot," he said, "for God's sake don't tell Nelly that I'm here."
"You didn't do it," said Miss Willmot.
"Of course I didn't do it," he said. "There's been some infernal blunder.
I didn't know what the damned idiots meant when they put me under arrest I
didn't know what the charge was till they marched me in to the C.O. here.
He told me. Oh, the Army's a nice thing, I can tell you. I was expecting
to get my stripe over that raid when I got hit with a bullet in my leg,
and here I am charged with a coward's trick. I suppose they'll prove it I
suppose they've got what they call evidence. I only hope they'll shoot me
quick and have done with it I don't want to live."
Miss Willmot went over to the boy and took his hand. She led him to the
corner of the bare room. They sat down together on the folded blanket She
talked to him quietly, sanely, kindly. For half an hour she sat there with
him. Before she left, hope had come back to him.
"Don't you worry about my being here," he said "If things are cleared up
in the end I shan't mind a bit about spending a night or two in this cell.
With all the things you've brought me"—the cake, chocolate, and
cigarettes were spread out on the floor—"I'll have a merry
Christmas, better than the trenches, anyhow. But, I say, don't tell Nelly.
She might fret."
The Christmas festivities in the Camp were enormously successful. The men
had cold ham for breakfast, a special treat paid for by the Major. They
assembled for church parade, and Digby gave them the shortest sermon ever
preached by a padre. The Major, who liked to play the piano at church
service, was so startled by the abrupt conclusion of the discourse, that
he started "O Come, All ye Faithful," in a key so low that no one could
sing the second line. The Major pulled himself together.
"As you were," he said, and started again.
The men, thoroughly roused by the novelty of the proceedings, yelled the
hymn. The dinner was all that could be hoped. Sweating cooks staggered
into the dining-hall with huge dishes of meat and steaming cauldrons of
potatoes. Sergeants, on that day acting as servants to the men, bore off
from the carving-tables plates piled high. The Yorkshire pudding looked
like gingerbread, but the men ate it The plum pudding was heavy, solid,
The Major, smiling blandly, went from table to table. Miss Nelly, flushed
with excitement and pleasure, laughed aloud. Only Miss Willmot looked on
with grave eyes, somewhat sad. She was thinking of Tommy Collins in his
cell, with the weight of an intolerable accusation hanging over him.
Later on, not even Miss Willmot had time to be thoughtful. There was a
pause in the festivities for an hour or two after dinner. The men smoked,
slept, or kicked at a football with spasmodic fits of energy. Then the
canteen was opened. Miss Willmot's great cake was cut The men passed in a
long file in front of the counter. Miss Willmot handed each man a slice of
cake. Other ladies gave crackers and mince pies. Digby, garrulous and
friendly, distributed cigarettes. The Major stood at the far end of the
room under the glistening white star. He was waiting for the moment to
arrive at which he should make his speech, a speech sure to be received
with genuine applause, for it was to be in praise of Miss Willmot The
Major did that kind of thing well. He had the proper touch, could catch
the note appropriate for votes of thanks. He knew his talent, and that
Christmas Day he meant to do his best.
An orderly entered the canteen, looked round it, caught sight of the
Major. He pushed his way through a crowd of laughing men who munched cake,
smoked furiously, and decked each others' heads with paper caps from
crackers. He reached the Major at last, and handed him a note. The Major
read it and swore. Then he began to push his way towards the counter. The
orderly followed him.
"Gangway," he called, "gangway, men. Make way for the Major."
Way was made at last The Major seized Digby by the arm.
"It's a damned nuisance," he said. "I beg pardon, padre, an infernal
nuisance. I've got to go to the orderly room. Those fellows in No. 3
Hospital are ringing me up. Why couldn't they keep quiet on Christmas Day?
I must go though, and I may be kept. You'll have to make the speech and
thank Miss Willmot."
Digby escaped making the speech in the end. Just as the distribution of
cakes and mince pies had finished, when Digby was searching frantically
for an opening sentence, the Major returned. He made two speeches. One was
in a low voice across the counter to Miss Willmot. The other was to the
men. It was all about Miss Willmot. It was beautifully phrased. But she
did not hear a word of it She was scarcely aware of the men's cheers,
though the paper festoons swayed to and fro, and the Chinese lanterns
shook with the violence of the shouting. For the Major had said this to
"It's all right about that boy in the guard-room, the prisoner you know,
who was to have been court-martialled. Some blatant idiot of an orderly
sergeant mixed up two sets of papers, and put the wrong man under arrest.
They're sending over the right man now. I told Sergeant O'Rorke to bring
that poor boy straight here from the guard-room. Keep a bit of cake for
It was while the men were cheering the Major's other speech that Tommy
Collins, guided by Sergeant O'Rorke, entered the canteen.
Miss Nelly saw him at once. She stretched herself across the counter to
grasp his hands, upsetting the few remaining mince pies, and scattering
crackers right and left. If the counter had not been so broad and high she
would in all probability have kissed him.
"Oh, Tommy!" she said. "And I'd given up all hope of seeing you. This is
just a perfect Christmas box. How did you get here?"
Tommy Collins looked appealingly to Miss Willmot. His eyes begged her as
plainly as if words had crossed his lips not to tell the story of his
"Now you are here," said Miss Nelly, "you must help us with the carols.
The Major's a perfect darling, but he can't sing bass for nuts. You'll do
it, won't you? I'm singing, and so is Miss Willmot."