Part 10

Seeing officers outside, one of the women came out. I said "good-morning" to her in French, and with a delighted "_Ah, Monsieur, vous parlez Français_," she addressed herself to me excitedly. It appeared that her husband had been missing since the day before. She was very anxious about him. Two officers had come to the cottage, asked him some questions, and then taken him away with them. She had not seen the man since. What did I think could have become of him? I asked her some questions about the officers who had taken her husband away, and from her description gathered that they were a captain and subaltern in the British Army. As the Westshire Regiment was the only regiment that I knew had been in the village since the Germans left it, I felt sure the officers the woman referred to must be from that regiment. Accordingly I went back to ask the adjutant of the Westshires if he could give any information on the subject. He told me that when the regiment had got up to the village the day before they had searched the cottages and found a man in one of the upper rooms behaving suspiciously with a lamp by a window which looked on the German lines. They had taken the man off with them and sent him back to the rear, where he would probably be tried for his life for a spy. This put me in an awkward position, as I did not know what to tell the poor woman, who, whatever her husband had done, was herself innocent of any evil intentions. I contended myself with telling her that her husband was in British hands, and that she might rest assured he would be fairly treated.

Another difficulty then presented itself. The little party of women in the cottage all wished to leave the village. They had collected their few most cherished possessions together in a cart and proposed to go off as soon as it was dark. But this could not be permitted, as the noise of the cart, which would have to go along a road that ran through our lines, would have attracted the enemy's attention and drawn their fire on our men. The women refused to leave the cart with their treasures behind and the situation seemed to have reached an _impasse_. Finally, after interviewing the colonel of the Westshires, I was able to get permission for them to take their cart, provided they kept it along the grassy side of the road.

I shall never forget the little procession as it moved off after dark. First the cart, drawn by an old horse with a woman leading it, followed by a sorrowful little procession of women and children with quick, frightened steps and bowed heads. They were leaving their village, their homes, nearly all their belongings, and the little plots of garden and weaving looms which were their livelihood, to go out to the country beyond--which had always appeared in the little hemisphere of their lives as a strange land dealing hardly with wandering strangers. They were going away and would, perhaps, never see their village again. (Alas, indeed, they never did.) Well may they have wondered what they had done to bring such misery about their heads--misery embodied in the Scriptural curse of old: War, rape, desolation, and famine.

However, there is little sentiment in war, and as we watched them go we had not more than a passing thought for them. We were chiefly conscious of having a farm to ourselves, and the prospect of a night of unusual comfort for the firing-line.

Jenkins had made great preparations while we were away, and had a two-course dinner ready for us--roast chickens and stewed apples. We fell to on this heartily, and then sat round the kitchen stove drinking hot rum and water. We turned in early, two of us using two beds and the other two mattresses on the floor. With the Westshires in front of us we were care-free for the night. An hour before dawn we were called, and went back to the trenches to rouse the men to stand to arms. Then we went to bed again and slept till eight.

We pulled the kitchen table out to the garden for breakfast, and made a capital meal of fried eggs and bread and marmalade. We sat over breakfast smoking cigarettes and drinking last cups of tea. It seemed odd to be living such a leisurely life 700 yards from the enemy, but the cottages in front secured us as long as they did not use artillery. However, this was to come later. An artillery observing officer came to fix up a field telephone just by our breakfast table. He expressed his opinion that the enemy had got their guns up, and that the day would be lively.

"Well," said Goyle, "perhaps we had better get back to the trench for a bit anyway." Our trench was only ten yards off, just the other side of the garden, and we stepped into it. Scarcely had we done so than--crash!--a black Maria fell fair and square on the farm where we had been sleeping. It was a matter of seconds, and what happened to the artillery observing officer, whom we had left behind adjusting his telephone, I do not know. Perhaps he lived. Artillery observing officers have a knack of living in places where any other man would be killed. However, we had no time to speculate on his fate, for a minute later another high-explosive shell burst fifty yards over the trench, followed by a second twenty-five yards over us. The enemy were shortening their range. The men stirred uneasily in their dug-outs. No rat in a trap could feel worse than an infantryman in a trench when a big gun is searching for him with high explosive. BANG! A shell burst on the other side of the road--ten yards from us. The next would undoubtedly do it.

"Here," I called to Goyle, "what about this? They are getting our range."

"We had better quit," he said. "Don't let the men run--file out slowly to the right, and lie down behind that bank there. The other platoon must stay; they are not being molested at present."

With as much dignity as possible, considering I expected a black Maria in the back at any moment, I led the men out of the trench, and we threaded our way gingerly back to the bank indicated, from which we watched the vicious demolition of our empty trench.

XVII. BETWEEN ACTIONS

Just before dusk I was sent up with my platoon to join D Company, who had more line than the number of men in the company could safely hold. After being shown the section of ground where my men were wanted, I went off to join the other officers of the company, who were having a bit of dinner in a cottage, leaving the men to improve the trench, and telling Jenkins, my soldier-servant, to make a good big dug-out for us both.

It is interesting now to record that the officer commanding the company to which I was lent was a man I had known in times of peace and loathed to the point which drives a man to homicide. He was a fine great fellow, but a bit rough with subalterns, and had, as he no doubt thought for my own good, made my life a burden to me when I joined the regiment. I often used to say to myself, when discipline and mess etiquette prevented my replying to his remarks to me in the anteroom in days of peace: "My sainted aunt--if ever I get alone with you in the desert, my friend, I'll shoot." For two or three years we never spoke to each other, and then suddenly I found myself sent up to serve under him in the firing-line in front of La Bassée. How circumstances alter cases. He had me in his hands then. Had he been the bully I thought him, there were a hundred dirty jobs he could have made me do. He could have sent me out on patrol or with messages to the next regiment. There were many nasty things which had to be done that night. But all he said, when I came up and reported myself as having been sent up to reinforce him with a platoon, was: "Hullo, old chap. Look here, I just want you to put your men along here, do you see?"--indicating the gap he wanted filled--"and when you've done that, come into the cottage and have a bit of dinner."

It was hospitable at a time when each man carried his own rations for the day, and I had none left. The putting out of patrols and walking up and down the line he did himself rather than ask me, whose job it was as his subaltern for the time being. A few days later, when I was hit, he was one of the first people to come up to me, and he was himself killed five minutes later, gallantly leading a charge to drive the Germans back from the spot where the wounded were dying.

While we were having dinner, the other subalterns and myself compared notes about the different quarters we had for the night; one saying he had not room to lie down in his dug-out; another that he had found a lot of hay and made a fine lair; and the machine-gun officer saying that he was best off of all, as he had his guns peeping from the window of a bedroom above, and proposed to spend the night in bed by the side of them.

When the meal was over and we had had a smoke, we dispersed to the different sections of the defence we were holding. I found that Jenkins had made a beautiful dug-out, lined it with straw, and roofed it with some V-shaped pieces of thatch which the peasants in that part of France use to protect their fruit. He had allowed just the right space for me to lie down, and done everything he could think of that would enable us to spend the night comfortably. Jenkins in private life was a chauffeur-valet, of a fastidious, easily ruffled, and slightly grasping disposition. However, though he would have died rather than wear some of my old clothes, he was so well able to adapt himself to the war that he won the D.C.M.

Having looked along the trench and moved the group sentry to a point just near the dug-out, I settled down beside Jenkins on the straw. Jenkins and I shared a little rum I had left over in my flask from the day's rations, and, feeling very warm and good inside, closed our eyes. My guardian angel was with me that evening, for I could not sleep, and Jenkins, who could, kept grunting, which got on my nerves so near my ear, so I decided to take some of the straw and lie down behind the trench outside.

It was very dark, and the outline of the group sentry could just be seen against the parapet. From where I had been in the dug-out I could not see either of the sentries. As we were in the front line, with nothing but a stretch of ploughland between ourselves and the Germans and all the men in the trench were asleep, those two sentries were pretty important. I lay there watching them with half-closed eyes. One was resting with his head on the parapet (which is permissible as long as the other keeps a sharp watch), but to my horror I saw the other, after about ten minutes, turn round, sit against the parapet with his back to the enemy, and deliberately drop his head on his arms and go to sleep. We now had no one keeping watch over us at all, and there was nothing to stop the Germans creeping over and bayoneting a trench full of sleeping men. My first instinct was to march the sentry straight off under arrest, then I remembered the penalty, and that he was only a boy, and that it was many days and nights since the men had had proper sleep. So I crept towards him, gave him a crack under the jaw with my fist, which would effectively keep him awake for the rest of his turn of duty, said, "You dare to turn round with your back to the enemy," and lay down again. I remember waking up uneasily every quarter of an hour through the night and looking to see if the sentry was keeping awake, and being reassured by a plaintive snuffling as the boy looked ahead and rubbed his chin.

At 4 A.M. a regiment came to take over our lines, and we were sent back in reserve. We marched back about a mile to a big empty farm, where we were told we were going to spend the day. I had rejoined my own company, and, as caterer for the company officers' mess, set about getting breakfast for the five officers.

One of the latter, Edwards, was fresh out to the Front, and had not quite got out of the way of being waited on by mess waiters. We had sat down to the meal, which I had got ready on a table in the garden. Edwards came up late, and found there was no tea left, so I sent him to the kitchen to get some. Later we all wanted another cup, and I dispatched him again, as he was the junior of the party, and I did not see why I should do all the work. He came back and said there was no one there; what was he to do about the tea? I said, "Make it." He said he did not know how to. I took him gently by the arm and led him to the kitchen to show him. When we had finished breakfast, Goyle and the senior platoon commanders lit their pipes, while I cleared away the things. Edwards pulled out his pipe too. But I said, "No, my boy; you help here." I had an armful of crockery as I spoke, which I was taking to wash up. Looking rather hurt, he followed me into the kitchen, carrying a teaspoon. "I don't see why I should do all this," he said, as we were washing up. "Don't you, my boy?" I said, sharply. "And do you see any reason for me doing it?" He did not answer. "It may not be one of the things you learnt at Sandhurst," I continued, "but when you've been engaged in this campaign a little longer, you'll discover that if you don't bally well shift for yourself you'll starve."

He was a good boy all the same, and got a bullet through the knee leading his men at ----, and is a guest of the Kaiser now.

For lunch we had a Mc'Conochie. Mc'Conochie is a form of tinned stew, and very succulent if properly cooked, as vegetables and a rich gravy are contained in the tin. The usual way is to put the tin in a saucepan of boiling water, let it boil for a while, and then take it out and open it. However, that day as we were in a hurry--we had had orders to take over the Westshires' trenches at midnight--I put the tin straight on the fire, thinking to warm it up quicker. We were sitting round talking when Evans suddenly exclaimed, "Gad, look at that tin!"

We looked and saw it swelling itself out. The gravy had turned to steam, and the thing was on the point of bursting. I seized the tongs and snatched it from the fire, placing it on the table. The thing still seemed to be swelling gently.

"Quick," said Goyle, "prick it--it will go off."

I opened my clasp knife and gave it a jab. There was a sound like an engine-whistle, and a jet of gravy steam shot into Goyle's eye.

"Oh, oh, you blithering idiot," he shouted, dancing about the room with his hand clapped to his eye.

I watched the tin, wondering if all the stew had turned to steam. However, happily it had not, and we had a good meal.

After lunch I strolled across to have a look at the field-dressing station, which was in one of the farm outbuildings.

The doctor was attending to one or two wounded who came in, but not having a very busy time. I watched him at work for a little while. He was wonderfully thorough considering that his ward consisted of an open yard and his material a box of dressings, a pair of scissors, and a bottle of iodine. He stripped off the field bandages of each man that came in and put on fresh dressings. One fellow walked in with a bullet straight through his chest. He was deathly pale, but he stood up while they took off his jacket and cut his shirt away, and looked down quite unconcerned at the blood pouring from the hole through him.

At four o'clock we were told we were wanted in the firing-line again. Goyle made the men take off their greatcoats and advised the officers to put away their mackintoshes.

This last piece of advice was very sound. An officer wearing a mackintosh is a conspicuous target in a line of men, and many have met their death through doing it. Officers will carry rifles, cover their field-glasses with khaki cloth, wear web equipment, and take all sorts of precautions to make themselves as like the men as possible, and then the first time a shower of rain comes put on their mackintoshes and forget to take them off again when they advance. They might just as well wear surplices.

XVIII. "THE --TH BRIGADE WILL ATTACK ----"

We thought we should have to attack that day, as we knew the powers that be were most anxious for ---- to be taken.

The regiment had been, so to speak, in the forefront of the battle for the past two or three days; that is to say, we had not had any troops between ourselves and the enemy, and, though the fighting had never been of a brisk nature, nevertheless the men were feeling the strain of constant watchfulness and going without sleep. Even if there is not much firing it is not a restful feeling to have nothing but a stretch of open ploughland between oneself and the enemy, and to feel one may be called upon to advance over the ploughland at any minute. It was a nasty stretch of open country, swept and raked from every corner by the enemy's machine-guns, and to lie there waiting for the order to get up and cross it was rather like sitting inspecting a stiff fence.

Greatly to our relief the Westshire Regiment had been sent up to relieve us at 4 A.M. and we had gone back in support. We had handed over the trenches to them without much reluctance, and with an easy prescience that we had had our share of work, and that it was the turn for a regiment fresh from reserve to come up and take our place.

After being relieved we were marched back to a sugar refinery a mile behind, and here we fully expected to spend the day. The men were issued out rations, and the officers made preparations for breakfast. There was a nice house belonging to the manager of the sugar refinery, and in a kitchen we found some crockery and a fire, also the caretaker of the manager's house and his wife. The latter made us a pot of tea, and with our morning issue of cold bacon, a tin of marmalade, and a loaf of bread there were the materials for a good breakfast for the five of us--Goyle, Evans, myself, and the other two platoon commanders.

Our dream of lolling round the sugar refinery all day in reserve was early dispelled. We had barely finished breakfast when the order came that we were to pack up and march off. We went back the way we had come towards the line we had been holding overnight.

As we were marching along the rumour spread that we were going back in support of the Westshires, and that there was an attack impending. We halted in some dead ground, and lined a ditch four or five hundred yards behind the line the Westshires were holding. As we were lying there an orderly came up with a message which Goyle was to read and pass on. Goyle showed me the bit of paper before folding it up again. The message ran: "The --th Brigade will attack ---- at 10 A.M. in support of the French attack on ---- on their right."

It was then nine o'clock, so we had an hour to wait. Goyle was much excited by the message, and said we were certain to be sent up to swell the Westshires' line. The men were still wearing the greatcoats they had had on during the night, and he ordered them to be taken off and put away in the packs. He also advised the platoon commanders to take off their mackintoshes, which show up an officer clearly.

While these preparations were going on I took a stroll down the ditch to battalion headquarters, hoping to find somewhere to leave my greatcoat instead of having to carry it. Battalion headquarters were behind a small house at the junction of a cross-roads. Here other people had collected--the stout officer, the doctor, and an artillery observing officer. The artillery observing officer was in telephonic communication with a heavy battery about two miles back, to which he was sending back messages about possible targets and the effect of fire. Outside the scout officer was making an early lunch off a piece of ham which he had found in the mess-box. I joined him, contributing a biscuit.

"The Major is an ass, you know," he said; "he will go showing himself."

He pointed to our senior major, a very gallant officer indeed, but a man who had, as the scout officer said, an unfortunate tendency to expose himself to fire. He was at the moment standing at the cross-roads, beyond the shelter of the cottage, looking through his field-glasses in the direction of the enemy's lines. The cross-roads at which he was standing was a most exposed place. The Major was a smart, dapper-looking man, and he stood with his legs apart, one hand holding the glasses, the other brushing his moustache. Suddenly there was a sharp ping; he dropped the glasses, raised his right foot sharply, and swore. Then he came limping in.

"Curse the brutes--curse the brutes," he said, sitting on the ground and nursing his foot; "they have shot me through the big toe."

The doctor went to the Major's assistance and the scout officer peered round the corner of the house to see if he could make out where the shot had come from. Presently he came back.

"I think they have got a Maxim up in that church tower, sir," he said.

There was a fine church in the town the enemy were holding, and the tower stood high up above the other buildings.

"Have they, by Gad--the brutes," said the Major, still nursing his injured foot, which was causing him acute pain. "Here, let me look" he limped to the corner. A Maxim could plainly be heard firing from somewhere in front, ping-ping-ping--ping-ping-ping.

"By Jove, I believe you are right," said the Major. "Here, just send that gunnery officer to me."

The artillery observing subaltern came up.