the novel Buttons

Buttons


StephenMorehouseAvery
Speakingstrategically,thevillageofAngresisnotworththepowder,anditis
doubtlessforthisreasonthatitisabletosmirkimpudentlyupatthebright
Frenchsunwhenallofthesurroundingtownshavebeenbombardedtobits.
Angresdoesn’tnestlebeautifullyinanyhills.Itpeeksrightupoutofamildly
rollingcountryasthoughitsimmunitywastheresultofdivineprotectionrather
thantheincidenceofitsboardoftrade.Ithasprovedtheimportanceofbeing
unimportant.
Mme.Moignneawasentirelyunappreciativeofthetown’sgoodfortune,She
declaredthatshepreferredbulletstobillets,andthatanoccasionalshellwas
n’importecomparedtothedevastationofthoseBritishappetites.Themadame
hadabigandcomfortablehouse—shewasthegeneral’swife,youknow—soit
wasbutnaturalthatherthirdfloorshouldbeabarracks,hersecondfloora
quartersdeluxeforthoseunscrupuloussublieutenants,andherdownstairsune
grandedining-room.
“Eatiswhattheydo,thoseTommeeAtkeens.TheyeatandflirtwiththatEmilie
ofmine,m’sieu,untilIamvereewild.”Itwastoomuchformadame.
ThatEmilieofherswasenoughtomakeanyone“vereewild.”Ofcourseher
talentsinthisdirectionwereutilizedmoreuponmenthanmothers,butastothe
“wild”partofit,therecanbenodoubtThemenweremadewilderthan
madame.ItwassaidthatEmilie’sprettyfacehadkepttheblazefromthegreat
housewhentheHunssweptthroughontheirwaytothegatesofParis.Infact,all
throughthewearymonthsofSchrecklichheitinAngres,Emiliehaddevoted
mostofhertimetosingingtoandflirtingwiththeofficerFritzies.
Ithadbeenworthwhile,however,becausethoseofficerFritziesgottolike
Angresprettywell,andeverythingwasleftintactforthemostpartwhena
FrenchflankmovementsqueezedtheGermansintotrenchesjusteastofthe

village.
Thencamethegloriousoccupationofthepoilusandallwouldhavebeenlovely
ifGottliebhadnotmadeoffwithherbuttons.ButGottliebhadbecomeangry
andtakenherbuttons,whichwasadastardlybitoffrightfulnessinEmilie’s
eyes.


Yousee,itwasaverywonderfulcollectionofbuttons.TherewereFrench
buttons,Englishbuttons,Germanbuttons,evenRussianandItalianbuttons,and
theyhadbeenterriblyhardtocollect,becausethoseofficerpeopledidnotliketo
givethemup.Emilie’senemiessaidthatshewouldofferakissforaregimental
buttonwhichwasnotalreadyinhercollection.
“Itwasthisway,mamere,”saidEmilie.“GottliebwasacaptainoftheBavarian
Forty-Third,andIdidnothavetheirbutton.
Besides,hewantedtotakemebackforaFritziewife,andhewasthenicest
officerFritzthatwaseverinthishouse.”
“HeisaGerman,Emilie.Youshouldbeashamed.”
“ButIdidnotwantGottlieb—onlyhisbutton,whichheshouldhavegivenme
gladly.Instead,hesaid,mamere,thatImustkisshimtogetit.ThisIsaidI
woulddo,becauseIthoughthewasaniceFritz.ButwhenIhadthebuttonIdid
notwantthekissandpostponedit.”
Madamebecamealittlewilderthanusual.
“Youareawickedgirl,Emilie,andyourgreatfatherwillbebrokenintheheart
withyou.Begone!Itisthetimeforyoutogotothehospital.”
“Itisatragedy.Iambrokenintheheartalready,becauseofmybuttons.Before
theretreatGottliebcameforhiskiss,buthismustachewaslonger,andIcould
butrefuse.Thenhedidswearvereemuch,andtookallmybuttonsawaywith
him.YourEmilieisdesolated.”
“MyEmilieisinsaneandwicked.”
TheFrenchoccupationwasquitebrief.

Emiliebusiedherselfwiththehospitalwork.Shequicklyobtainedallthenew
buttons,andshehadonlytwoproposalsfromthenewofficers.Thenthepoilus
wererelievedbyaregimentofBritish
“TommeeAtkeens,”theBradfordFusiliers.Thesecondfloorwasfilledwith
unscrupuloussublieutenants,themostunscrupulousofwhomwasthat
LieutenantVicCottingham.Emiliehadtosiedugout,andwriggleoutinthedark.”
“Thatiswhatwewant,sergeant.”Whenthelittletimepiecewhichlivedon
Cottingham’swristassuredhimthatitwastwo-fifteen,heandthesergeantwent
outsideandledthebombersthroughalittlestretchofadvancetrenchwhichthe
Fusiliershadbeengraduallyworkingforward.Thedangerwasminimizedbythe
coal-tarblacknessofthenight,buttheyhadtomovewithcat-likequietnessor
theFritziefireworkswouldshowthemup.SergeantSandswasthedefacto
commanderoftheexpedition,althoughthelieutenant,ashissuperior,was
nominallyincharge.
“Allrightmen,”saidthesergeant,andtheyclamberedoutofthetrenchandstole
awayintothedarkness.Theenemy’strenchlinewasaboutfourhundredand
fiftyyardsahead,andtheycouldadvanceuprightforabit.
TheBradfordbomberswereintheirelement.Theextremeperilofthenight
trenchraidhardlyoccurredtothem.Theyhadbeenthroughitsomanytimesthat
itrequiredaveryexceptionaltrenchraidtoeveninterestthem.Therewouldbea
scuffleforsure,anda‘ellofascrap,perhaps;buttheywouldcomeoutallright.
Itwasthespiritofthebombers—we’llcomeoutallright.
“Down,now!”camethesergeant’swhisperedhissofacommand,anddownthey
wentontheirhandsandkneesonthewetground.


Thenbeganthetortuous,nerve-blasting,footbyfootadvancewhichisoneof
themostsevere-testsofhumancouragethatcouldbeasked.Thedeadly
slownessofitwouldhavetakentheheartoutofgallantbutmoresensitivemen.
Thebomberisapeculiartype,nerveless,reckless,andabsolutelyfatalistic.

Cottingham’sboldnesswasofanothersort.Itwasallhecoulddotorestrain
himselffromjumpingupanddashingforward.Therewasathrillto“goingover”
inthelightofthesunandwithchapsshoutingallaboutoneandshellsbursting
everywhere,butthis—cursedsneaking,he’dcallit,anditrattledafellow,you
know.
Afteranageofstealthycrawlingtheraiderslayatthefootofthelittleknollat
thetopofwhichwasthefortifiedbitoftrenchthatwastheirobjective.They
wereliterallyundertheenemy’sguns,andinthestillnesstheycouldhearthe
nightwatchmovingabout.OccasionallytheFritzies’voicescouldbeheard,and
onceoneofthemlaughedout,andtheclearnessofhislaughterpiercedthe
silenceaswouldthescreamofashell.
Onemighthaveheardthebreathingofthebombersbelowastheyrelaxedfrom
therigidtensenesswhichthesuddensoundhadstruckintothem.Wetthrough
andthrough,andcoveredwithmud,theylaytherewaitingthesergeant’sword.
Theslightestsoundandthemachinegunsabovewouldhavesweptthelittle
slopewithasheetoffirethroughwhichnolivingthingcouldhavepassed.
Thesergeantwastoooldatthisbusinesstokeephismenlongundersucha
strain.“Now,men!”hesaidinalowvoice,andatthewordthetwenty-nine
raidersdashedforward.Theymountedtheriseandflungthemselvesintothe
blackpitwithasuddennessthatmusthavestupefiedthehandfulofdefenders.
Notgunshotwasfired.Themuffledcursingandscuffleofthebriefhand-to-hand
combat,andtheterriblethudsofheavyblowsdealtinthedark,andthen,almost
atthesameinstant—silenceagain.Butthereweretwoheavy-handedbombers
waitingattheendofthetrenchsectiontowelcomeanyunluckyFritzwhomight
happenalong,andthatunscrupulouslieutenanthadclimbedofftheHunwhohad
beentherecipientofhispersonalattentionsandwaslookingfortheentranceofa
certaindugoutinwhichthereweresuchthingsasGottliebsandbuttons.
Hewasnotlonginfindingit.Justafewpacesdownthetrenchfromwherethe
briefmeleehadoccurredandbehindahighpointwheretheparapetwas

convenientlyhigh,Cottingham’sflashlightdiscoveredaheavylittlesheet-iron
doorinthetrenchwall.
ThatFritzbacktheremusthavebeenveryhungry,indeed,tohavetoldthetruth
inthisunusualfashion.Buthehadnottoldthewholetruth.Hehadsaidnothing
aboutGottlieb’sbeinganightowl.Yetherewaslightstreamingoutofatiny
chinkatthebottomofthedoor,andmuchdidthattinypointoflightdisconcert
theunscrupulouslieutenantwhohadexpectedtofindhishosttuckedinforthe
night.
ItrequiredathoroughrecollectionofeverydetailofthatEmilie’slovelinessand
fitnesstobecomeMrs.Cottinghamtoconvincethelieutenantthatitwas
necessarytoopenthatdoor.
Firsthegaveitabitofapush,butitwasn’tthatkindofadoor.Ithadtobe
dragged,andthefirstdragopeneditonlyaboutaninchandahalf,butthrough
thatinchandahalfthelieutenanttookonepenetratingpeek.
AroundthelittletableinthecenteroftheroomsatthreeofficerFritziesplaying
cards.Overtheirheadshunganelectriclight,andoverinfrontofthemirrora
fourthFritzbrushedhisbristleswitharealhairbrush.Thereweretwoentrancing
bunks,onelegitimatechair,severalframedphotographsonthewalls,and
numerousmagazinesstrewnabout.Theonlythingthatdugoutlackedwasperiod
furniture.
Cottinghamturnedhisattentionagaintothecardplayers.Hepresumedthey
wereplayingskat,buthebegantodoubtthiswhenoneofthemshowedhishand
andsaid,“DreiKoenigen.Washabstdu?”Themanoppositesaid,“Alleblau.”
AccordingtoCottingham’sfeebleGerman,oneplayerhadannouncedthree
kingsandtheotherhadsaidthathiscardswereallblue.Thissoundedverymuch
likethegametheyhadtaughthimintheStates,whereinhisYankinstructorhad
said,“allblue,”andonthestrengthofithaddemandedeightpounds.Sillygame
itwas,butthelieutenantdidnothavetimetoreflectaboutit,becausethe
disgruntledloser,whofromEmilie’sdescriptionmusthavebeenGottlieb,

pushedacrossthetablealittleheapof—buttons.
Thesightofthemwasenoughtobanishcaution.Cottinghamjerkedopenthe
doorandputhisautomaticinthefacesoftheastoundedofficerFritzies.They
weretoosurprisedtoevencurse,andtheystoodagainstthewallwiththeirhands


ashighasthedugoutroofwouldpermitandwatchedhimashescoopedeach
man’spileofbuttonsintothebigpocketofhisbomber’scoat.
“Yousee,myhandishigh,”helaughed,butbedidnotlaughlong.Eighthandsis
agoodmanyforonemantowatchwhilehegathersbuttons,andbeforeheknew
itthatGottliebhadshothiminthehead.Almostwiththeflashandthecrash
Cottinghamdemolishedthelightglobewiththebarrelofhisrevolverand
droppedunderneaththetable.
Inthepitchblackandthesilenceoftheroomnotamandaredmove.The
lieutenant’swoundwasevidentlynotserious.Hehuddledthereinadaze,but
listeningforasoundthatwouldtellhimthepositionoftheFritzies.Hecould
hearthescurryingoutsidewhichthereporthadcaused.Itseemedasthoughthey
waitedinthisbreathlessstillnessforhours.Perhapsitwastwominutes.
Thensomeoneshoutedinthedoor:“Comeonout‘ere,Fritzie,orI’mdingin’
yerter‘ellThreeI’mgivin’yer—wan—two—”
ButSergeantSandsnevergottothree.Therewasatumultofyelpsinthat
dugout,andthosefourofficerFritziesboltedthroughthelittledoorintothe
waitingarmsoftheBradfordbomberswithsuchhastethattheundersizeddoor
couldn’taccommodateasmanyaswantedtogetthroughatthesametime.
Cottinghamstaggeredafterthem.
“Havetheygotyer,Liftinint?”demandedthesergeant.
“Bitofaheadwound,”repliedCottingham.
“Areyourbombsplaced?”
“Theyare,sir.”
“Firethemandlet’sgo.”

AnotherminuteandtheraiderswentbackovertheparapetwithtwomachinegunsandelevenFritzprisoners,includingfourofficerFritzies.Theywereoutof
dangerwhenthebombsexploded,wreckingtheconcreteemplacements.
AfterthatthewholeGermanlineforhalfamileburstintoasheetofrifleand
machine-gunfirethatforcedthem,prisonersandall,flatontheirstomachs.


TheterrifyingandagonizinglyslowcrawlbacktotheBritishtrenchestothe
blackesthourofthenightseemedmileslong.Thesergeanthalfdraggedthe
semiconsciousCottinghamwithhimastheymovedforward.Fourofthemen
wereseriouslywoundedbeforetheyfinallygainedtheshelterofthelittle
advancetrenchfromwhichtheyhadstarted.Butthatwasnothing.“Another
successfulraidbytheBradfordbombers,”thedispatcheswouldsay.
AndmadamewaswonderingandworryingagainaboutthatEmilie.Neverhad
shedelayedwhenhertimewasupatthehospitalbefore.
Probablyshewasflirtingwithoneofthedoctors—orperhaps,withoneofthose
TommeeAtkeenswhowashurtinthatraidlastweek.
Thislastwasaveryshrewdconjecture,becausethatwasexactlywhatEmilie
wasdoing.
ShewassittingontheedgeofthatunscrupulousCottingham’scotpretendingto
beministeringtohisneedswheninrealityshewassubmittingtohismakingsof
lovewithgreatjoy.Onthewhitecoverlet,allarrangedinorder,wasagreatarray
ofmilitarybuttons.Theywereveryprecious,becausethisbelovedVeekhad
beenallthewaytoBerleenafterthem.Eachtimeshecountedthemandfound
thecorrectnumberpresent,shewatchedherchanceandkissedthedefenseless
lieutenantonthecheekornoseorthebandagedhead.
“Youknow,Emilie,”hesaid,“IbroughtbackyourGottliebaswellasyour
buttons.Thoughtyoumightwanthim,youknow.”
“Butno,moncherVeek—Iamcontentwithonlythebuttonsand—you.”