I was now a real Second Lieutenant. On my right sleeve I had a single star. Thus:
* (not on probation).
On my left sleeve I also had a single star. In this manner:
*
This star also was now a fixed one.
From that time forward my thoughts dwelt naturally on promotion. There were exalted persons in the regiment called Lieutenants. They had two stars on each sleeve. So:
**
I decided to become a Lieutenant.
Promotion in our regiment was difficult. After giving the matter every consideration I came to the conclusion that the only way to win my second star was to save the Colonel's life. I used to follow him about affectionately in the hope that he would fall into the sea. He was a big strong man and a powerful swimmer, but once in the water it would not be difficult to cling round his neck and give an impression that I was rescuing him. However, he refused to fall in. I fancy that he wore somebody's Military Soles which prevent slipping.
Years rolled on. I used to look at my stars sometimes, one on each sleeve; they seemed very lonely. At times they came close together; but at other times as, for instance, when I was semaphoring, they were very far apart. To prevent these occasional separations Celia took them off my sleeves and put them on my shoulders. One on each shoulder. So:
*
And so:
*
There they stayed.
And more years rolled on.
One day Celia came to me in great excitement.
"Have you seen this in the paper about promotion?" she said eagerly.
"No; what is it?" I asked. "Are they making more generals?"
"I don't know about generals; it's Second Lieutenants being Lieutenants."
"You're joking on a very grave subject," I said seriously. "You can't expect to win the War if you go on like that."
"Well, you read it," she said, handing me the paper.
I took the paper with a trembling hand, and read. She was right! If the paper was to be believed, all Second Lieutenants were to become Lieutenants after eighteen years' service. At last my chance had come.
"My dear, this is wonderful," I said. "In another fifteen years we shall be there. You might buy two more stars this afternoon and practise sewing them on, in order to be ready. You mustn't be taken by surprise when the actual moment comes."
"But you're a Lieutenant now," she said, "if that's true. It says that 'after eighteen months—'"
I snatched up the paper again. Good Heavens! it was eighteen months—not years.
"Then I am a Lieutenant," I said.
We had a bottle of champagne for dinner that night, and Celia got the paper and read it aloud to my tunic. And just for practice she took the two stars off my other tunic and sewed them on this one—thus:
** **
And we had a very happy evening.
"I suppose it will be a few days before it's officially announced," I said.
"Bother, I suppose it will," said Celia, and very reluctantly she took one star off each shoulder,
leaving the matter—so:
* *
And the years rolled on….
And I am still a Second Lieutenant….
I do not complain; indeed I am even rather proud of it. If I am not gaining on my original one star, at least I am keeping pace with it. I might so easily have been a corporal by now.
But I should like to have seen a little more notice taken of me in the "Gazette." I scan it every day, hoping for some such announcement as this:
"Second Lieutenant M ― to remain a Second Lieutenant."
Or this:
"Second Lieutenant M ― to be seconded and to retain his present rank of Second Lieutenant."
Or even this:
"Second Lieutenant M ― relinquishes the rank of Acting Second Lieutenant on ceasing to command a Battalion, and reverts to the rank of Second Lieutenant."
Failing this, I have thought sometimes of making an announcement in the Personal Column of "The Times":
"Second Lieutenant M ― regrets that his duties as a Second Lieutenant prevent him from replying personally to the many kind inquiries he has received, and begs to take this opportunity of announcing that he still retains a star on each shoulder. Both doing well."
But perhaps that is unnecessary now. I think that by this time I have made it clear just how many stars I possess.
One on the right shoulder. So:
*
And one on the left shoulder. So:
*
That is all.
The Joke: A Tragedy
Chapter I
The Joke was born one October day in the trench called Mechanics, not so far from Loos. We had just come back into the line after six days in reserve, and, the afternoon being quiet, I was writing my daily letter to Celia. I was telling her about our cat, imported into our dug–out in the hope that it would keep the rats down, when suddenly the Joke came. I was so surprised by it that I added in brackets, "This is quite my own. I've only just thought of it." Later on the Post–Corporal came, and the Joke started on its way to England.
CHAPTER II
Chapter II finds me some months later at home again.
"Do you remember that joke about the rats in one of your letters?" said Celia one evening.
"Yes. You never told me if you liked it."
"I simply loved it. You aren't going to waste it, are you?"
"If you simply loved it, it wasn't wasted."
"But I want everybody else—Couldn't you use it in the Revue?"
I was supposed to be writing a Revue at this time for a certain impresario. I wasn't getting on very fast, because whenever I suggested a scene to him, he either said, "Oh, that's been done," which killed it, or else he said, "Oh, but that's never been done," which killed it even more completely.
"Good idea," I said to Celia. "We'll have a Trench Scene."
I suggested it to the impresario when next I saw him.
"Oh, that's been done," he said.
"Mine will be quite different from anybody else's," I said firmly.
He brightened up a little.
"All right, try it," he said.
I seemed to have discovered the secret of successful revue–writing.
The Trench Scene was written. It was written round the Joke, whose bright beams, like a perfect jewel in a perfect setting—However, I said all that to Celia at the time. She was just going to have said it herself, she told me.
So far, so good. But a month later the Revue collapsed. The impresario and I agreed upon many things—as, for instance, that the War would be a long one, and that Hindenburg was no fool—but there were two points upon which we could never quite agree: (1) What was funny, and (2) which of us was writing the Revue. So, with mutual expressions of goodwill, and hopes that one day we might write a tragedy together, we parted.
That ended the Revue; it ended the Trench Scene; and, for the moment, it ended the Joke.
CHAPTER III
Chapter III finds the war over and Celia still at it.
"You haven't got that Joke in yet."
She had just read an article of mine called "Autumn in a Country Vicarage."
"It wouldn't go in there very well," I said.
"It would go in anywhere where there were rats. There might easily be rats in a vicarage."
"Not in this one."
"You talk about 'poor as a church mouse.'"
"I am an artist," I said, thumping my heart and forehead and other seats of the emotions. "I don't happen to see rats there, and if I don't see them I can't write about them. Anyhow, they wouldn't be secular rats, like the ones I made my joke about."