HIS," said Captain Power, "is an utterly rotten war."
The rain was dripping through the roof of the shed which had been allotted to the mess as a billet. The mud outside was more than ankle-deep. The damp inside was chilly and penetrating. Ned Waterhouse, a second lieutenant, the only other occupant of the shed, looked up from an old newspaper which he was trying to read.
"All wars are rotten," he said.
Power stretched himself on the wire netting which formed the bed on which he sat. He looked at Waterhouse with a slow smile.
"Not at all," he said. "A properly conducted war run in a decent way by civilized men is quite agreeable—rather fun, in fact. The last one I was mixed up in was very amusing."
Waterhouse eyed Power suspiciously. He suspected that he was being made the victim of some kind of joke. Waterhouse was an Englishman and it was not of his own choice that he was an officer in the Hibernian Light Infantry. He felt himself out of place among Irishmen, whom he never quite understood. He was particularly distrustful of Captain Power. Power was an expert in the art of "pulling the legs" of innocent people. Waterhouse had several times found himself looking like a fool without knowing exactly why.
"What I call a civilized war," said Power, "is waged in fine weather and men have a chance of keeping clean. The combatants show some regard for the other side's feelings and don't try to make things as nasty for each other as they can. The business is done in a picturesque way, with banners and bands and speeches. There are negotiations and flags of truce and mutual respect for gallant foemen instead of this damned cold-blooded scientific slaughter."
"No war was ever like that," said Waterhouse. "Novelists and other silly fools write about war as if it were a kind of sport; but it never really was."
"The last one I was in was," said Power.
"I don't believe you ever were in a war before," said Waterhouse. "You're not nearly old enough to have gone to South Africa."
"All the same, I was in a war," said Power, "though I didn't actually fight. I was wounded at the time and couldn't; but I was there. You forget that we had an Irish war at Easter, 1916."
"That footy little rebellion!"
"You may call it what you like," said Power, "but it was a much better war than this one from every point of view except mere size. It was properly conducted on both sides."
"I suppose you want to tell a yarn about it," said Waterhouse, "and if you do I can't stop you; but you needn't suppose I'll believe a word you say."
"The truth of this narrative," said Power, "will compel belief even in the most skeptical mind. I happened to be at home at the time on sick leave—wounded in the arm. Those were the days when one got months of sick leave, before some rotten ass invented convalescent homes for officers and kept us in them. I had three months' leave that time and I spent it with my people in Ballymaher."
"The whole of it?" said Waterhouse. "Good Lord!"
"You'd have spent it in the Strand Palace Hotel, I suppose, running in and out of music-halls. But I prefer the simple joys of country life, though I couldn't shoot or ride properly, on account of my arm. I used to watch sunsets and listen to the birds singing, which I liked. Besides, I was absolutely stony at the time and couldn't have stuck it out in London for a week. As it happened, it was a jolly good thing I was there. If I'd been in London I'd have missed that war. Perhaps I'd better begin by telling you the sort of place Ballymaher is."
"You needn't," said Waterhouse. "I spent three months in camp in County Tipperary. I know those dirty little Irish towns—twenty public houses, two churches, a workhouse, and a police barrack."
"In Ballymaher there is also a court-house and our ancestral home. My old dad is the principal doctor in the neighborhood. He lives on one side of the court-house. The parish priest lives on the other. You must grasp those facts clearly in order to understand the subsequent military operations. The only other thing you really must know is that Ballymaher lies in a hole with hills all round it, like the rim of a saucer. Well, on Monday afternoon, Easter Monday, the enemy—that is to say, the —marched in and took possession of the town. It was a most imposing sight, Waterhouse. There were about eight hundred of them. Lots of them had uniforms. Most of them had flags. There were two bands and several rifles. The cavalry—"
"You can't expect me to believe in the cavalry," said Waterhouse. "But, I say, when they came, supposing they really did come, didn't the loyal inhabitants put up any kind of resistance?"