Behind the Lines by W. F.; Morris Page A

door.
    â€œBerney!” His tone arrested her slow movement. She waited for him to speak, and when he remained silent she asked, “What is it?”
    He prodded the ground with his short stick. “I’ve had a topping time, and—dash it, I wish you had not to go.”
    She was leaning against the wall with her palms flat against the plaster behind her. “But I must. It’s getting so late.”
    â€œYes, I suppose you must,” he answered miserably, prodding fiercely at the ground.
    She nodded in the darkness. “I’m afraid so.” Her dark form was moving away again.
    â€œBerney!” She stopped again. “Berney!”
    She turned and faced him, and he saw her eyes dimly fixed appealingly on his. “I must go, Peter dear—really,” she answered gently. “I don’t want to, but I must.”
    He came close to her. “I know, but—but can’t we say goodnight properly?”
    She fiddled with a button on her coat. “Haven’t we said goodnight?” she asked, in a low voice.
    â€œYes, but not properly,” he persisted desperately. “Can’t we, Berney?” he added pleadingly.
    He slid his arm round her shoulders. Her face was turned from him. He bent his face towards her cheek, but paused with his forehead touching the brim of her hat. “Berney,” he whispered, “Berney, you are not angry with me—for this?”
    Her head came round slowly, and he saw her eyes quite close, dark and shining in the shadow of her hat.
    â€œYou don’t hate me?” he whispered earnestly.
    The slow shake of her head was almost imperceptible.
    â€œThen this is really goodnight.” He bent swiftly and kissed her.
    Piddock was waiting for him in the main street of the village. They fetched their cycles from the club and began the ride back. Piddock was lyrical. “She’s wonderful,” he cried. “Wonderful; they are both wonderful.” He apostrophized the moon with raised hand till Rawley’s growling warning only just averted a collision. Then he pedalled cheerfully along crooning ‘Roses in Picardy’ to himself, while Rawley rode in silent happy sadness beside him.
    IV
    It was after midnight when they rode up the quiet street of the village, but a light still showed through the curtains of the mess-room. They pushed open the half-glazed door and went in. Whedbee in pyjamas and Britishwarm and with a long pipe between his teeth was sitting at the table writing in a squared field note-book. Piddock smote him boisterously on the back.
    â€œHullo, teacher!” he cried cheerfully. “Want me to help you with your prep! Twice three are six.”
    He went over to the little sideboard and poured out a drink. Rawley looked at the half-packed gramophone box on the floor, and unbuckled his Sam Browne in silence.
    Piddock turned, glass in hand. “I don’t care how long this old war lasts,” he declared, “or how long we stay in smelly old Bluebottlevillers.” He flung out an arm dramatically and carolled nasally: “Though it’s only a tumbledown ne-e-st, it’s a corner of heaven itself, f-o-r with l-o-ve blooming there why no place can comp-a-are with the little round hole in my v-e-e-st.”
    Rawley tapped the half-filled gramophone box with his toe. “What’s all this about?” he asked.
    Whedbee took off his glasses and sat back in his chair. “We are moving up again tomorrow,” he said. “Taking over gun positions the same night. Reveille is at 4.30. Cane is up at brigade now. The orders came about an hour ago.”
    Piddock put down his glass and collapsed into a chair like a pricked balloon. “Oh, my God!” he cried. “And I was just beginning to enjoy life.”
    â€œWhere are we going?” asked Rawley.
    Whedbee shook his head. “In the orders it only says, ‘the head of the column will pass 11.b.57 at