September 5, 1918 
LAND G? WATER 
13 
The Veteran : By Charles Hodson 
HE was old when I first knew him ; and that was 
a dozen or more years ago. His beard was 
sr(ow-white and his eyes were dim, and'he was 
well past the allotted span of three-score years 
and ten. He was a Norfolk man — that county 
of splendid centenarians — andnt was in a Norfolk village 
where I first ran across him. He was standing outside 
his cottage, shading his eyes with Ms hand. It was a 
Sunday morning in August. I can see him raise his stick 
again in greeting as I passed. I stopped, and got into con- 
versation with him. There was something in his appearance 
which interested me vastly. It was one of the most curious 
I had ever seen. He wore a long black velvet swallow-tail, 
of ample cut and proportions, which was buttoned up to his 
'neck. His trousers were of the same material. His garb 
was completed by an ancient top hat, pressed firmly down 
on to his head. The effect under the broiling sun must have 
been stifling ; but I learnt afterwards that he always went 
about like that, summer or winter. 
He was friendly disposed and more than respectful. He 
was shy rather than talkative ; but he was no fool, and 
I gleaned a good deal from him of local interest. By and 
b\' he took me into his cottage, and introduced me to his 
poor old bed-ridden wife ; and from that day a friendship 
■sprang up between us. I never failed to visit the cottage 
when in those parts. 
What always struck me about him was his upright bearing. 
He held himself straight and erect, like an old soldier. He 
carried a stout stick, but never used it to support himself. 
He kept his head up and his shoulders square. Change his 
black coat for a red one, and he was a typical Chelsea pen- 
sioner. ^ Soldier was written all over him. When he spoke, 
you expected to hear of India or the Crimea. He could have 
been full of tales of the horrors of the Mutiny. He might 
have been one of the six hundred. 
But he was no retired soldier. The Army had rtever known 
him. He knew no country but his own, no county save that 
which had given him birth. All his life he had spent in the 
seclusion of his native countryside. Norwich or King's Lynn 
had been the limit of his peregrinations. For si.xty years he 
had toiled in the ploughed fields and amongst the ripened corn. 
Now he was past work, and waiting until the brown earth, from 
which he had wrung his living, should take him to its 
breast. ^ 
It was not long before I found out the secret of his military 
bearing. Though not a soldier himself^ he came of a family 
of soldiers. His old father had been a Peninsular veteran. 
Th^re were a few ancient relics of that campaign to be found 
in the cottage, which were his greatest pride. The century- 
old French. musket was more than a god to him. • He had 
tried to enlist several times, but they had refused him each 
time. There was something wTong with his heart. He had 
never been strong in his youth. When a child, his mother 
had despaired of ever raising him. Yet her.e he was ; and 
he had outlived manj' a man whom, in his youth, he had 
envied for his health and strength. 
The last tin\e I paid him a visit was in the year before the 
war. His wife had died, and he was carrjing on in the cottage 
by himself. He was beginning to show signs of breaking up. His 
spare figure was not so erect as of yore, and he leaned on his 
stick. His gait was slower, and his white head shook a little. 
They had tried to persuade him to leave the cottage, and go and 
live with his married daughter, but he had refused. He 
preferred to stay on. As long as he could keep body and soul 
together, he would not give up his independence. There was 
always a touch of obstinacy in his nature. 
And then came the war. Like many another English 
village, it filtered slowly, very slowly, through to his, 
A few young men went — then more. At odd intervals 
they came home on leave to the village, and the novel 
spectacle of khaki became familiar. Later on they appeared, 
some limping, some on crutches, and told stories of 
what they had seen of battle, and wounds, and death. 
Mourning began to appdar in the village. Pal^ women, clad 
in black, went about silently. But still the war was a long 
way off, and the sleepy life of the village went on as usual. 
Months — years I — passed before it was brought home to the 
inhabitants that the even tenor of their existence was to 
change to bustle and activity. 
He wetit about as usual from the first like the others, and 
did not appear to be interested. He had neither sons nor 
grandsons to send. No ties of relationship Dound him to 
those who went from the village. Outwardly, he was not 
affected. But he never missed a chancie of a talk with any ' 
of the' wounded soldiers in the village or from the Hall, which 
was now a hospital. He would entertain them in the cottage. 
Often he would be seen seated with three or four of them 
before his_door. He seemed to understand them and they 
him. It was not long before he discovered that they did 
not care to talk of the war. As for himself, it never occurred 
to him to boast what he would have done had he been 
younger. But, then, he was never a talkative man. ^ 
There was a road which led from the village over some 
rising ground, a mile away. It was there that some one, 
during one quiet evening, heard a faint sound — a very distant 
rumble which seemed to come and go with the wind. Soon 
it was found out to be the guns in Flanders which caused it. 
The villagers would go on quiet evenings, when the wind 
was in the right direction, and listen to the low vibrating 
sound. He would go, too, for his ear was quick to catch 
anything. Long after it had ceased to be an attraction, he 
would still go there and listen, by himself, for hours. Yet 
he did not seem to do it idly. There seemed to be a set 
purpose with bin;. 
Changes began to appear in the village. The older men 
began to go. Women came to work on the farms and on the 
land. Strange faces made their appearance. Food began 
to get scarce. The farmers grumbled at the shortage of 
labour. The village postman was called up, and the old 
vicar delivered the letters. 
But on Sundays the vicar was busy all day, and could not 
take round the mail that came in by the afternoon train. 
It was usual for the letters to remain over until the 
Monday ; until he volunteered- to deliver them. Thus it 
was that he came to lend his hand. He made himself 
useful in many small ways. Sometimes he got a little 
confused, and mixed up hj5 messages and parcels ; but , 
they were indulgent with him and grateful to him for his 
help. His bent figure was always to be seen now in the 
village, moving slowly from door to door ; or he would help 
the village milk-girl, an undersized child of twelve, to push 
her heavy cans along the road. But it was not until this 
present summer that his chance came. 
The corn stood ripe in the fields, the sun shone brightly, 
and everywhere preparations began for getting in the harvest.' 
Land-girls, old men and boys, women and children, came to 
help the farmers. Still there were not enough hands. The 
wounded, in their hospital blue, joined the harvesters in the 
fields. But the work progressed slowly, for there were not 
enough workers. Then one day he came and offered himself. 
The farmer gazed at him, thinking he was mad. But he 
was in earnest. He was good for a day's work yet, he said. 
The farmer did not laugh. There was something in his 
earnestness which commanded respect. He humoured him ; 
and very soon his old figure had mixed with the rest. " 
He was slow at first, but be worked hard and with a will. 
When he was tired he leaned on his stick and watched the 
others. The sun was high in the heavens. The shouts of the 
workers sounded merrily over the fields. And so he worked 
on all through the day until the sun went down. 
The field where he worked was close to the spot where the 
distant guns could be heard. When the reapers had finished 
for the day, he did not go home, like the rest. He said he 
would wait a bit. With the help of his stick, he climbed to 
the top of the hill, and stood there, listening. 
• ••«*« 
It was not until the next afternoon that his absence from 
the cottage was discovered. It was a Simday — the day that 
he took round the letters. As he did not appear at the 
post office as usual, suspicions were aroused. They viated 
the cottage, and found it empty. A search was made for 
him. Every ont*'in the village by and by joined in it ; and 
towards evening they found him. ' 
He was lying face downwards among the stubble. His hat 
was off, but he grasped his stick firmly in his hand. He 
lay just where he had fallen, and his white beard was stained 
with earth. His face bore a peaceful expression. It resem- 
bled that of a departed warrior. He had evidently been 
dead many hours. 
They brought hina in, and laid him in his cottage ; and 
there was a husJi over all the village. A few days later they 
buried him, and his dust was put to mingle with his native 
soil. No flag covered him, no salvo was fired over him, 
no bugle sounded the "Last Post." But he had fallen u] 
harness with his face to the East, listening t.s the guns. .It 
was his wish. 
