Sit On the Saddle. Turn the Throttle. Squeeze the Brake. Now, You Are Slowly Falling Asleep.
Sit On The Saddle. Turn The Throttle. Squeeze The Brake. Now, You Are Slowly Falling Asleep. Sleep, Sleep, Sleep......
Cecil P. Mack
THE MOTORCYCLE careened along the cobbled road. A building shuddered,dissolving in a blinding, choking avalanche of dust and rubble as the shells tore the town apart. A gutted Model T Ford Ambulance was on its side against a wall, its free front wheel turning slowly at the whim of the wind and rain, like a huge red and white beetle trying vainly to regain its feet.
The rider fought to control the Triumph as it bounced and plunged. The field telephone was out. Homing pigeons could not get aloft through the withering barrage that pinned everything down.
The dispatch rider stood stiffly at attention. “Damn it, Smithers, we’re low on ammo and the phone’s out. You’ll have to get back to headquarters. They must have gotten Quimby, poor devil. Blast it, man, get going.” Smithers saluted, straddled the Model H Triumph, and wheeled it down the muddy road.
“Wonder if Quimby got it? Hope not, decent sort,” Smithers mused, pulling up the oil pump handle, forcing it down again. A shell crumped into the field, showering bike and rider with mud. The big Single shuddered as the concussion hit. The fork barrel spring flexed and strained against the leather strap holding it from snapping. The stately trees that once lined and sheltered the road held up their mutilated limbs as if in horror.
“What the devil?” Smithers muttered, spotting a cavalry squad silhouetted against the horizon. “Uhlans, nasty blighters, if they see me I’ll be stuck like a pig.” He stopped and looked around, the bark of the Triumph lost in the crash and whine of the shelling. Near the road stood a straw stack that had escaped the salvos. He pulled over and feverishly scooped out the straw in order to hide the bike, then burrowed in himself until he was hidden, but commanded a good view of the surrounding farm.
The straw gave off a damp, musty smell—it wouldn’t flame. If they fired it, the choking, smouldering smoke would drive him out. Smithers shuddered at the grisly prospect. The mounted patrol roving behind the Allied Lines could not afford to take prisoners. Their very survival depended on not being detected. Harrass and destroy was their mission.
The Lancers were cantering towards the shattered farmhouse. Smithers watched them closely. They hadn’t seen him, or had they? “My God, suppose they had overtaken Quimby on the Douglas?” Not much chance of outrunning them on the shell-riddled road. It started to rain again.
The Patrol circled the sodden ruins. He could hear them talking, the stamp of hooves, the creak of leather. They looked at the stack, wheeled and trotted over.
He could see the rain glistening on the plumed helmets, their lances at the ready angle. Smithers crouched down. The stink of the rotting straw stung his nose. He pulled out his service revolver. Hell! Seven to one. He’d take some of them with him. One of the horses shied and reared, and the trooper yanked it down cruelly. If they found the bike they would skewer the stack. “What a way to go,” Smithers reflected bitterly. A shell exploded very close. The patrol captain barked an order. The Lancers spurred their horses into a ragged gallop.
He breathed with relief as the Uhlans headed up the road toward the front lines. Dragging out the Triumph, he went through the gears. “Blast the luck.” The bike slewed and stopped. “Ruddy belt broke again.” He pulled it up on the stand. The Bombardment had died down. In the uncanny quiet, a dog howled miserably amidst the ruins on the hill.
The cold rain spat and hissed on the hot cylinder. Smithers picked up the slimy rubber belt. Numb Fingers fumbled a spare connector from the tool bag. He joined the belt and turned the rear wheel as the belt climbed into the drive flange.
“Belts are a bloody nuisance. Why can’t we have chain drive like the Indians? Smart chaps, those Yanks.”
A pack mule still burdened with it’s load of artillery shells lay at the road’s far side—its unseeing eyes and gaping mouth a damning indictment to the horrors of man’s conflicts. Rounding a corner, he came to a sliding halt. A Flat Twin Douglas lay in a shell hole, the front forks twisted at a crazy angle. On the road bank lay a forlorn figure in Khaki. One leg was stained with blood that had seeped through the puttee.
“Caught a Blighty, mate?” Smithers shouted, standing the Triumph and scrambling over to Quimby.
“Crashed the Duggie, rotten luck. Leg’s broken. Got a gasper? I’m out.” Quimby winced with pain.
Smithers handed over his cigarettes and struck a match, watching his wounded comrade draw eagerly. The smoke whirled away on the raw, wet wind. Pain filled eyes closed. “Ran into a Uhlan Patrol, gave them the slip. Oh, it’s a lovely war, chum.” Smithers shivered in the damp, chilling air.
Quimby scanned the cloudy sky. “Better get on with it. I saw a Fokker in the clouds. I’ll be all right. Send the medics to pick me up.”
Smithers remounted and the Triumph came to life.“Chin up, mate. I’ll get the boys to pick you up.”
He was getting very tired. The jarring ride was taking its toll. The bike crashed in and out of the holes, hurling back a torrent of muddy water that hissed and steamed around machine and rider. A droning sound became audible above the exhaust of the straining Triumph. Smithers yanked down his mud spattered goggles and glanced aloft. “A Fokker. Just my ruddy luck. I’ll be a sitting duck.” He pulled the throttle lever full open. “Can’t be far to H.Q.”
He glanced fearfully behind him. The roar came closer. “Where’s the bloody Spads?” he groaned, scanning the sodden sky. A searing pain shot through his leg. A wave of nausea swept over him as he struggled to stay astride. It felt like his hip. He could feel a wet, warm stickiness running down his leg. Smithers watched dully as the Fokker dove into the overcast for another sweep. Somehow he didn’t care. Pain was slowly eroding away his will to keep going.
Three Spads hurtled overhead. The Fokker sped to the Horizon.
Headquarters loomed through the driving rain. Painfully Smithers braked. “Damn it, not the right leg, man. One doesn’t crash in front of the Commanding Officer.” He saluted and handed over the dispatch case and reported Quimby’s plight.
“Good show, Smithers. Well done. My God man! Your hit,” the C.O. exclaimed. “Orderly, get this man to the field hospital.” The pain receded and wave of engulfing darkness settled around him as he was lifted gently off the Triumph.
“Oh! Daddy, wake up! You’ve been sitting on Billie’s mini-bike nearly hour.” Smithers woke with a start, smiled sheepishly at his daughter. “I’ll bet you were fighting World War I over again,” she laughed.
A faraway look crept into his eyes and a small wistful smile lifted the corners of his mouth. He nodded and reached for her hand, then slowly dismounted, favoring his right leg.
“That old hip bothering you again?” the girl asked anxiously. “Come on, Old Soldier, I’ve made tea.” Smithers put his arm around her slender waist. “Good show, lass.”
