An Interrupted Conversation

I

LATE on a summer night in 1915 a hospital train lay in railway yards on which war had imposed one of its times of alert inactivity and a hush intensified by the panting of a locomotive at a standstill. On the steps of the last Red Cross carriage lounged a marine, a tall young German with a good-humored face. He yawned at the stretcher on the ground at his feet, gazed across many lines of metals at the distant station, and envied the sentry pacing the platform under the lights: that soldier had only a rifle to carry.

At a pattering of footsteps along the vestibule he glanced up. A medical orderly, about twenty years old, under medium height, fair, with candid features and a quick manner, was beckoning to him to bring in the stretcher.

‘Make a prisoner walk this far anyway,’ protested the marine.

‘He is badly hurt. Hurry up!’

‘Is he heavy, Martin?’ groaned the marine, as he pulled the stretcher into the vestibule.

‘Heavy enough. He is an Englishman, a captain. You must be careful.’

‘ Cattle trucks should be good enough for prisoners,’ grumbled the marine, thrusting the head end of the stretcher at Martin. For nearly two hours they had been carrying wounded to and from the operating car, but Martin, without demur and seemingly without fatigue, had always borne the greater share of the weight. At first the marine had thought that the little orderly was too stupid to notice the trick, but with misgivings he had begun to suspect that perhaps Martin fancied himself the stronger of the two.

They passed down the corridor between bunks in two tiers, occupied by bandaged forms with discolored eyepits, whitish lips, and jaws patchy with stubbly hair: all in that carriage were prisoners from the last battle. Of the few who were awake one only paid any attention to the Germans. He was a solidly built man over forty, with a round head, thick black hair, and brown eyes. Loss of blood had made him less rubicund, but he had recently been shaved clean and was manifestly one who had spent most of his life in the open. Expectantly he watched their approach.

‘Captain,’ said Martin in English, ‘this marine has come to help carry you to the doctor.’

‘Thank you,’ answered the captain, and nodded to the marine, who grinned in spite of his determination to remain impassive toward the enemy.

After they had placed the captain on the stretcher, the marine volunteered, ‘Let me take the head end.’

‘No!’ returned Martin. ‘This is an important case, and I understand better how to carry him.’

‘Very well, “doctor”!’ the marine said mockingly, and wondered why the orderly flushed.

‘Lift slowly and be careful,’ said Martin curtly.

They carried the wounded man out of the carriage and trudged beside the train. After they had passed four carriages the marine grunted, ‘He is the heaviest yet.’

‘He may understand you,’ cautioned Martin.

‘I hope he does.’ The marine, who considered that wounds did not make anyone less an enemy, felt that this Martin, whose acquaintance he had made on the arrival of the train at midnight, was somewhat ladylike in his view that all sufferers were entitled to the same attention; and in his opinion the marine was almost justified, for Martin belonged to that group of men who have much of woman’s tenderness without her relapses into primordial ferocity — men who are active in trying to make the world better.

Captain Reynolds looked at the station. ‘Antwerp,’he thought. ‘Antwerp it must be. And a new view of it. Clément’s place will be full of these fellows. When it’s over I must look him up and tell him that the last time I was here the German marines found me heavy. I’ll bet he finds them heavy. Rut the little orderly is a prize. Blushed at being called “doctor.”’

His bearers lifted him up steps and into a railway carriage equipped as an operating room. After they had placed him on the table, the orderly stood at attention and the marine withdrew to the door.

On entering, Reynolds had seen that the two nursing sisters were nice-looking brunettes under thirty. The surgeon was spare, red-haired, about fifty, with pleasant eyes behind rimless gold spectacles.

‘How do you do, sir,’ said Reynolds, and thought, ‘Pretty good man. Everything shipshape and looks modern. No sour faces at his elbow.’

‘Good evening,’answered the surgeon in precise English. ‘Captain, I understand,'

Yes, sir. Reynolds wore a coarse white shirt, and over his hips and legs had a blanket; of his uniform there remained only his cap, which was in Martin’s care.

At a sign from the surgeon Martin rolled up the captain’s shirt and unwrapped wide bandages at his waist. After he had examined the wounds, the surgeon asked, ‘When was the operation?’

‘About ten days ago — I think.’

‘Shrapnel, eh? How do you feel?’

‘All right, sir.’

‘No trouble?’

‘Not to speak of, though sometimes I wonder if they found it all.’

’Why do you think that?’

‘At times I feel there’s a bit about here,’ — Reynolds pointed to the left of his navel, — ‘ but it may be only my fancy.’

' You feel it now?’

‘No, doctor.’

‘ Often ? ’

‘Only when I think about it, and not always then.’

‘To-morrow night you will be in hospital. Tell them. They will take an X-ray.’

While they put on fresh bandages, Reynolds stared at the ceiling. His patient’s calmness and breeding, the healthy appearance of the wounds and other signs of a successful operation, pleased the surgeon.

‘You have only to be careful, Captain, and all should go well. If they have to operate again, you have an abundance of strength.’ The surgeon had seldom seen so fine a torso on the operating table; this Englishman, who had followed the laws of health, would in time recover from lacerations which would have crippled for life an ordinary man. ‘You have remarkable strength,’ he commented in an appreciative tone, and studied the great chest; his hobby was collecting statuary, his passion personal hygiene, and he used the scalpel only as a last resort.

Martin, who idolized the surgeon, was glad that they both liked this foreign captain.

Reynolds, whose one pride was his body, for some moments was silent under their admiring gaze, but at last glanced feebly toward his legs.

‘A piece struck my thigh.’

Martin drew up the blanket and unwound bandages: from hip to ankle the right leg was spotted with shrapnel, but the holes were shallow and the joints untouched; and on the left thigh was a wound larger than a man’s hand, as though a hoe had slashed away skin and flesh.

‘The second shell,’ Reynolds explained, ‘burst farther off.’ He had taken a liking to his courteous enemy.

‘You received your share of metal,’ remarked the surgeon.

After t hey had rebandaged his legs, Reynolds said as nonchalantly as he could, I suppose, sir, the left will be all right?'

‘I can promise you that you will recover practically full use of it. The army is your profession?’

‘I have n’t any.’ He knew that the German was inquisitive about the old scars a bullet had left on his thigh. ‘They once tried to make a lawyer of me.’

The surgeon surmised that His patient was one of those Englishmen of means who in time of peace wander about the world in search of sport and, probably, of information, but in war prefer to serve their country on the battlefield. He persisted gently, ‘But once before you have been unlucky, and lucky, with that thigh.’

‘A present from a Boer gentleman.'

‘I may have guessed as much,’ rejoined the surgeon with a touch of selfsatisfaction, and went on in a kindly tone, ‘You will be all right, Captain, for more adventures, if for a while you are quiet. Remember. You must rest.’

‘Thank you, sir. I had been worrying about that leg.’ Reynolds made an attempt at a bow which included the sisters. Throughout they had worked in silence, but from their glances he had inferred that they understood part, of the conversation. At his bow they smiled faintly; and the surgeon, as though unwilling to end the interview abruptly, raised a warning linger: —

‘In time you will be well, but for a while you must be quiet.’

‘I’m rather of the opinion,’ came with a smile, ‘that your gunners made sure of that.’

‘You must do as I say,’ enjoined the surgeon gravely, ‘and remain quiet.’

‘I will, sir. Thank you. Goodnight.’

While they carried him back along the metals, Reynolds felt almost elated. After he had recovered somewhat from shock, he had begun to fear that the abdomen and one thigh had been permanently weakened; but now he looked forward to complete recovery. ‘As for keeping quiet,’ he mused, ‘I could sleep for another week or two. Doctors always say things like that.’

They laid him on his bunk and carried out another patient. On the way Martin volunteered, ‘He is a nice man, that captain.'

‘A nice Englishman!’ drawled the marine.

‘What a physique he has! Wounded in South Africa also, and yet not a professional soldier!’

‘A nice Englishman?’ repeated the marine, who had heard enough praise of an enemy and, to lighten the distasteful and unexpected task of carrying stretchers, diverted himself with teasing his chance comrade.

‘He is polite to everyone,’ retorted Martin, ‘even to you.'

‘He’s a prisoner,’ goaded the marine, ‘and know’s what’s good for him.’

Martin disregarded the sneer. Something of a gymnast, a patriot who preferred healing to killing, he admired the composure of one with severe wounds, of an athlete who became a soldier in time of war only. ‘Though he understands how to be strong,’ he thought uneasily, ’he may not know the danger.’ A dread had seized him lest a clot in the biood stream might suddenly kill the Englishman. ‘I will give him special care, and he will be strong again, that fine man.’ As he plodded on, in the glow of feeling himself a disinterested benefactor he forgot his aching arms. Perhaps the captain, a superior man, would ask him his name and after the war write and thank him.

Each time that night he passed along the corridor he paused to make sure that the captain was only sleeping.

II

The following afternoon Martin found the captain wide awake and much refreshed. As his other patients needed no attention, he might talk for a very short while with this Englishman who was willing to be friendly, appreciated any little service, and would be grateful to the Medical Corps for having saved his life. How boldly this captain must have lived, and how coolly he accepted whatever happened! Though seriously injured, from his air he might have had merely a broken leg.

‘Is there anything you wish, Captain?’ he asked, hovering by the bunk.

‘Nothing at all, my lad.’ Reynolds observed that this young man with the engaging manner was interested in him; conversation would help to pass the time. ‘Don’t run away.’

‘There is something you need?’

‘Why, yes! If you’re not busy.’

‘No, sir!’

‘Then stay and talk to me. Your English, you know, is very good.'

‘I have been in London.’

‘You were long there?’

’Two years.’ As he spoke, Martin recalled the warning against spies, but at once dismissed the idea as ridiculous: his personal affairs were of no importance to governments and might entertain his patient. ‘My father was willing,’ he went on, ‘that I go later to America, and to improve my English he sent me to work for a friend of his in London, a chemist.’

‘And when you were on a visit home war broke out.’

‘No, no!’ Martin decided that it was better he should do most of the talking and let the captain rest. ‘My father died, and I came back to be with my mother, who was alone. We went from the hills into Miinchen, but work with chemists was scarce and I became a hospital orderly. My mother had always lived in Bayern and would not leave, so I could not go to America. Then, when she saw how much I wished to go, she was willing to leave; but war came, and so —’

‘And so!’ echoed Reynolds sympathetically.

‘But I am glad to be here, glad to give a year to my country. Later we shall go to America. In New York there is a cousin of my father. We should live near him. I know chemistry and English. I should work and make money.’

‘And —’ suggested Reynolds.

‘And — and I should go to college.’ Astonished at having admitted this ambition to a stranger, he hastily changed to: ‘Naturally we like to live here, in a civilized land, but in America there is more opportunity for me.’

‘Then you consider America uncivilized.’

‘Their machines are good, but for other things I think it must be a sort of Russia, except that in America many are rich and few of the upper classes have culture. What culture they have, they have copied from Europe: their best doctors come to us to learn.’

‘That’s interesting. What countries would you call civilized?’

‘England, of course, has had great minds,’ admitted Martin, ‘ but her time is past. We can improve her. The Latin nations are decaying.’

‘That’s a bad outlook.'

‘We shall make things so much better! After the war one of the Kaiser’s sons will be King of France and another King of England. That is settled.’

‘I see.’ Reynolds gazed at the intelligent face and with a grave air asked, ‘What about the Russians?’

‘From Russia we shall take some provinces, and Poland. From there we can civilize the rest of their land.’

‘And America will like all that.’

‘They will be glad to become our allies,’ said Martin earnestly.

‘That would be very convenient for you when you go to America, and to college.’

‘Yes, to college,’ affirmed Martin, with the quiet obstinacy of one who has been often laughed at.

‘You will be a good surgeon.’

‘You — you have guessed!’

‘That was easy. You will be like the surgeon on this train.’

‘ I cannot hope for so much. But how did you know?’ He was astounded and delighted. In the hospital at Münchcn and in the Medical Corps he had with increasing zeal regarded his surgeon as the exemplar of noble living.

‘You watch closely what he docs, and you look after us so well.’

In an effort to conceal his joy Martin fumbled at a pocket and drew out bis watch.

‘I must leave you, sir. Soon we put off the Frenchmen. You will leave the train later. You will go to a very good hospital where they can do more for you than we can here.’ Reluctantly he went away.

Reynolds turned to the window: the train was crossing a bridge over the Rhine, and soon was entering a city which he guessed to be Düsseldorf. He looked at the quiet streets, at the people in Sunday clothes. Everything seemed much as it had been three years ago when he had passed through on his way to fish in Southern Germany. Except for the fascinated stare of the citizens as the train crept into the station, he might have convinced himself that the war was a dream and that his injuries had been caused by an accident. While the grim and painted caravan glided past, couples and family parties, respectably dressed, stood in silence. Reynolds, a bachelor with distant relatives whom he regarded with tolerance but avoided as much as possible, felt a touch akin to pity for those burghers, stout or scrawny, who were awed by a glimpse of the humane side of war. ‘Just as well they don’t know what’s coming,’ he thought.

His had been years of physical adventure, and, though the timid would have called him reckless, he was shrewd through experience and daring at need. In his travels he had acquired for most of mankind, except for the young, an indolent contempt, a contempt hidden under affability, under an case of manner which made subordinates eager to serve him. Having foreseen that war was possible, he had retained his commission in the Territorials as a duty expected of a man of his class; and when Great Britain had declared war, with a shrug of his shoulders he had canceled a hunting trip abroad and had volunteered for active service. In its first engagement his regiment, thrown hurriedly into a battle, bad been almost annihilated. After he had been struck down, the German battalions had flowed past him. He had waited for his side to advance again, but to his disgust had been picked up by the enemy. Then he had cheered himself with the thought that he was yet alive. For the present his business was to recover his health; later he would escape, for he knew the country fairly well.

III

The train was far out from Diisseldorf when Martin reappeared.

‘How’s the fishing this year?’ asked Reynolds idly, remembering his last visit to Germany.

‘The fishing! You like fishing?’

‘Of course! How is it this year?’

‘I do not know. I have had little time.’

‘Had any luck at all?’

‘Only twice I have been,’ whispered Martin excitedly. ‘The one time nothing. and the second time little ones. It is better in Bayern. But to think that you fish!’

‘All sensible fellows do,’ answered Reynolds, amused, but attracted by the unexpected enthusiasm. ‘I had some good catches in England, but not. much in France.’

‘It is so funny you also arc a fisherman. But I might have known. Yet, it is funny. You see, the other Englishman was one also.’

‘The other Englishman?’

‘Yes! It. is funny — you both are fishermen. I met him also by chance. That was long ago, but I have always remembered.’

‘Will you tell me about him?’ prompted Reynolds.

‘He was very different,’ began Martin, with the ardor of one who would be completely understood, ‘but he was very nice. He was the first Englishman I had met. That was long ago — while I was at school. We lived then in the country in Bayern.’

' I have heard it is good fishing there.’

‘You also should have come. I know all the water about my home. But the other Englishman — it was so. One morning I was fishing, and a gentleman on a motor cycle came along the road on the other side of the stream. Some distance from me he stopped and fished. I was vexed that a stranger should have chosen one of the best pools, which I had not yet reached. I had caught several that morning, and was in no hurry; but that a stranger — I knew that from his clothes — should take my fishing vexed me. So I watched him. He was short, very thick. When I saw he could put the flies wherever he wished, I was not quite so vexed. Soon he had one, a large one. He danced about, and I went near to tell him where the weeds were, but I saw he understood. Twice he had the trout close, but let him run off again. After the second time I shouted, “ Use the net! Use—

‘You will disturb the others.'

I forgot.’ Martin glanced up and down the corridor and went on in a low voice, ‘“Use the net!” I called. Without looking at me he said damns, and I guessed he was an Englishman. But I wanted him to have that trout, and I threw my net across. He picked it up, and soon he had the trout. I thought he was angry, he looked at me so. He had a crooked moustache and yellow teeth. He looked at me and twisted his mouth till his moustache was more crooked and I saw all his teeth. How could I know he was pleased? He thanked me and said that he had left his net on the motor cycle, lie liked to talk, and that whole day we were together. I knew where the fish were, and we rode on his cycle. He was crazy, but very kind.’

‘Crazy, was he? Ah, yes! An Englishman.’

‘I do not think that, Captain,’ protested Martin. ‘Some English arc not. But,’ he went on hurriedly, ‘he talked only about fish and about himself. He had many illnesses, he told me, and the doctors for years had said he must die soon. Yet he was very kind. I think he was a hypochondrist. Hut, sir, is that the English word?’

‘Hypochondriac,’ suggested the captain.

‘Hypochondriac. I must remember.’ He repeated the word twice. ‘Yes, he was a hypochondriac and he himself said he was crazy — fish-crazy. He had boxes of flies and things of metal and rubber I had not seen before. They must have cost much money. At lunch — he had food for six men, but we were hungry — he looked at my rod and flies and swore. “ Why don’t you make your own flies?” he asked. “You have the hands.” The afternoon was warm; we sat under a tree, and he showed me how to make them. I tied and tied, and for some time he said only, “Rotten”; but with the last he was pleased and still pretended to find fault. “Now that I have taught you,” he said, “you must never use a bad fly.” He gave me three old ones to copy and said he must go. When he had stopped that morning he was on his way to fish in a place he had heard of. That was his habit, to go to some new place he had heard of. I told him that many kilometres away there was a stream that few knew of, but I would take him to that secret place. He said he liked that. We went, and there he lent me one of his rods. I had never held such a rod. The line went out straight and fell so.’ He dropped hand and arm lightly along the edge of the bunk. ‘I am tiring you, Captain.’ He stepped back. ‘I must go away and let you sleep.’

‘Nonsense! I’ve been asicep all day. What was the stream like?’

‘Very good.’ As he came back to the side of the bunk he studied his patient’s features and was satisfied. He would talk a while longer and go at the first hint of weariness. If he left now, the captain might be annoyed, might again fret about the possibility of a piece of shrapnel being yet in his abdomen, and might even imagine he had detected pessimism in the orderly’s precautions. To worry was bad. Often he had noted how his surgeon had talked an anxious patient into calmness of mind. ‘ Very good,’ he repeated quietly; ‘one you would like. Little waterfalls and pools. We went up a long way, and he said it was the best fishing he had had for the year. We were there till the moon was shining. Then I remembered that my father would be vexed at my being late. The crazy—the Englishman saw that I was nervous, but he laughed when he knew why. “ We shall go home together,” he said, “and have fish for supper.” He rode his motor cycle so fast that I thought we should be arrested, but we reached home. Before my father could speak, the Englishman said, “I kept your son out late, but see the fish.” Now my father seldom fished, and, though for the Socialists, he suspected the English; but this Englishman went on talking until he had persuaded my mother to let him go into the kitchen and clean the fish for supper. For a time my father was vexed with me; but, as I said, he was very much for the Socialists, and after supper he began to like this rich gentleman who answered. “Yes, yes!” and agreed with his opinions. But I think he cared only for fish and did not always understand my father’s Socialist speech. Perhaps also he thought of me, of my being late. He went suddenly. He was leaving early next day for the place he had heard of.’

‘Did you meet him again?’ asked Reynolds, and from the lad’s rueful face knew the answer.

‘No. And I wished to so much! I told you he was kind. In the morning my mother found, under the bench outside, the rod he had lent to me. Tied to the winder was a paper with the words, “For my good friend Martin Wullenweber.” That is myself. But he had not told us his name, and we could not ask him. You see, I could never thank him. He liked me because he was crazy about fish.’

‘ Possibly,’ said Reynolds with twinkling eyes. ‘And he made you also fishcrazy.’

‘Perhaps. But my work is with the people, to make them well again. The fish were his people. He had many laws for them and he obeyed the laws. About young fish and mother-fish and times he forbade much. He forbade more than the Government. You may smile, Captain, but you and I know that, as he said, the fish do not read the almanac. He told me so much, and I should have wished to thank him for what he told me and for the rod. He may have come back when I was in München.’

‘So you tie your own flies.’

‘I try to.’ Martin hesitated, then blurted out, ‘May I show them?’

‘You have them here? Rather!’

‘I bring them.’

Martin darted along the corridor and soon returned with an old-fashioned fly book.

‘Raise me a little, please,’ demanded Reynolds.

‘It is better that I hold the book for you,’ advised Martin, without realizing that he was imitating his surgeon’s manner and tones.

IV

While the train ran its smooth course and the afternoon sun threw splashes of light on the bunks, Martin displayed a succession of neat rows of flies, of which Reynolds recognized all the varieties except one.

‘These I did not make,’ admitted Martin, and pointed to a single row. ‘A friend gave them.’

‘But you tied the others. Then you are a fisherman,’ said Reynolds in a tone of admiration.

Martin flushed.

‘What are those in the top row?’ inquired Reynolds. ‘I never saw that kind before.’

’I made them from one he gave me. He himself had invented it.’

‘It looks good. What luck have you had with it?’

‘It is good,’ replied Martin emphatically.

‘What did he call it?’

’He said it had no name, but I—’ He paused and became very red.

Reynolds looked at him with a smile.

‘But you call it “The Crazy Englishman.’”

’I — I did not know his name. I — I was young then.’

‘The best name you could have given it,’ observed Reynolds with a serious air, ‘and a fine lot.’

Martin, still pink in the face, pulled out and offered a ‘ Crazy Englishman ’ with, ‘Will you please take this? I have others. Some day— perhaps—’ With boyish eagerness he gazed at his patient.

Reynolds looked at him curiously, opened his lips, turned pale, and gasped. Martin let the book fall and caught the captain’s head as it fell to one side. Desperately he held the head straight. The captain gasped a few times and became livid. Then Martin felt the body stiffen under his arms.

Some minutes later the doctor gazed critically at an erect and haggard orderly on whose white tunic hung a gay trout fly.

‘What is the matter, Wullenweber?’ he asked reprovingly.

‘Sir,’ reported Martin in a dull tone, ‘the English captain is dead.’