Part 7

However, it was to be billets that night. Goyle came up with the order from battalion headquarters. The company fell-in in fours and marched down the road. I don't know what it is, but there is a sort of feeling about a body of men marching which conveys a lot to a trained ear. In the ready click of the rifle to the shoulder and the steady tramp of the fifty pairs of feet behind me I could read hearts full of thankfulness as we headed down the lane towards the tiny village where we were to billet.

It was by now nearly ten o'clock. The village itself consisted of two farms and half a dozen cottages, and the Adjutant was disposed to say that it was hardly worth billeting the men in view of the lateness of the hour and the possibility of their having to turn out at short notice. He suggested they should lie down in a field. However, Evans and I guaranteed to have all the men in billets within a quarter of an hour and to make ourselves personally responsible for knowing where they all were and turning them out at short notice if required. The Adjutant, who was merely taking up the point of view proper to adjutants of not wanting to run the risk of any company being caught napping, was agreeable to this, and off we started.

To be able to billet a company quickly is a question of practice. The eye quickly gets trained to know what amount of men will go into what space and the look of likely places. To stow away 200 men in a tiny village of two farms and four cottages would at first seem a difficult task, especially when a certain amount of the space has already been taken up by different details attached to battalion headquarters. Barns are the first things to look for, and we were lucky in finding two, which each held fifty men. The French barns always have plenty of straw in them, and make warm, snug lying. An empty stable took another fifty men, and an outhouse twenty-five; the remaining twenty-five had to be content with a sort of porch which ran along a wall. These last we were subsequently able to transfer to the barn on finding there would just be room for them. The process of billeting the men did not take more than the quarter of an hour we had estimated, one of us going ahead to explore, the other following with the men and standing at the entrance to the barn or outhouse, counting them in and flashing his torch into the interior to show the way.

Having got the men under cover, we looked about for a place for ourselves. Goyle had been offered a mattress in the kitchen of the farm where the Colonel and Adjutant were making their battalion headquarters. He was also no doubt going to have some of the Colonel's supper, and might be considered arranged for for the night. But there was no room for four hungry subalterns at battalion headquarters. We had received our day's rations and were expected to look after ourselves. Four sergeants were using the kitchen of the other farm, and of the cottagers only one, from a light in the window, looked as though it was inhabited. Evans and I pushed our way into this but found the kitchen already occupied. Six Tommies were sitting round the stove watching a stew simmer in a pan. They did not belong to our company, but were some of the headquarters details. The cottage was certainly theirs by right of annexation, and Evans and I turned to go out.

"Beg pardin, sir," said one of the men; "but there's another room at the back." This was extremely kind and hospitable of the man, as the little class distinctions between officer and man are to a certain extent preserved on active service, and the Tommy who has found a nook likes to keep it to himself just as much as the officer.

Evans and I accepted the invitation and went to inspect the other room. We found a comfortable cottage bedroom with two large four-post beds. The old woman to whom the cottage belonged and her husband said we were welcome to the use of the beds, and the sight of them was so tempting that I am afraid we did not trouble to inquire where she and her old man would sleep.

Jenkins, my servant, and the other two platoon commanders being then found, we put a stew of bully beef and vegetables on the fire, and, having eaten this, doubled up on the two beds.

Impossible to describe the joy of throwing off our wet boots and coats, stretching ourselves on the mattresses, and pulling a blanket up to our chins. We were soon all fast asleep.

After six hours real rest we woke feeling fit for anything. When we went out into the lane we found Jenkins in the middle of preparations for breakfast. He had dragged a table outside the cottage, discovered two chairs and two packing-cases, and laid four places with a miscellaneous assortment of knives and forks. For breakfast we had some fried ration bacon, a small and carefully apportioned wedge of bread each from the only loaf to be found in the village, coffee, and a tin of marmalade.

The company passed the day in converting a ditch into a trench. Although they were supposed to be resting in reserve, the men needed no urging to dig. The day before they had come under shrapnel fire when they were fortunately in a fine natural trench, but the memory of the murderous hail of bullets which had swept over their heads was sufficiently vivid to make them all anxious to provide themselves with equally good cover against a second attack. Each man worked away individually for himself, digging away into and under the ground until he had scooped a little burrow in which he would be secure from shrapnel, no matter how accurately it burst over the trench. As the men finished their burrows to their satisfaction they lay down in them, pulled out their pipes and cigarettes, and smoked, watching with complacent interest the efforts of neighbours who had roots or rocks or other difficulties in the soil to contend with.

The morning passed quietly, but at noon the enemy sent several shells over the ground where we were. One of these shells struck one of the cottages, crumpling it like a matchbox. I happened at the time to be back in the cottage where we had slept, helping Jenkins to concoct a stew for lunch. It was pitiful to see the terror of the old peasant woman and her husband, who sat dumbly in their kitchen, waiting for one of the great projectiles to come and wreck their home. As each shell fell the old woman lifted her hands and gave a little pitiful gasp. It was all more than she could understand, and no efforts of Jenkins or myself could calm her. However, they were a brave old couple, and as soon as the shelling was over busied themselves getting us potatoes and carrots for our stew from a store they had in a loft. They were delighted with a tin of army bully beef which we gave them for themselves. Except for this old couple, the farms and cottages were deserted, and I rather wondered why they had remained. Probably because they were too frightened and bewildered to do anything else.

Just before dusk we heard the dull report of a heavy gun in the distance. _R-rump_--CRASH--a shell burst a quarter of a mile to our right. Again the gun boomed, and again the dull "_R-rump_," followed by a loud explosion and cloud of mud and earth in the same place. The men stirred uneasily in their dug-outs. They knew what it was--60 lb. high-explosive melinite. It was no joke like shrapnel, this. If the enemy happened to turn a few on to us we should be blown to bits. It was an anxious time listening to the gun and waiting for the shells to explode. But they did not seem to be swinging round in our direction, and darkness found us all still safe. At eight the order came for the company to go back into the firing-line.

XI. A NIGHT ATTACK

After twenty-four hours in reserve it was our turn to go back into the firing-line and relieve A Company. We took over A Company's trenches at dusk, Goyle going with each platoon commander, showing him his section, and giving orders about the posting of groups and improvement of cover.

My section of trench had already been worked on by the company we took over from. The officer before me had scooped out a dug-out for himself at one end and lined it with straw. This I marked off for my own use, and then went along the line to see that all the men were busy. By the time I had inspected the trench and put out an advanced post it was quite dark, and I settled myself down in my own dug-out with a pious hope that the night would remain fine and we should all be able to pass it comfortably. There was no sound from the front, and it looked as though we should be undisturbed. One by one the stars came out, the night grew colder, and I pulled on my greatcoat. It was weird lying there in the darkness, hearing nothing, seeing nothing, with only the dark shapes of the men on each side and the occasional tinkle of an entrenching tool against a stone to remind one that one was taking part in a great war. I wondered what my friends at home were doing, thought of dances at the Ritz and the happy days when one dressed for dinner, and smiled to think what a funny sight I must look tucked up for the night in a ditch.

As I lay there I heard far away on the right the sound of rifle fire. Were they our troops or the French? Perhaps it was one of our divisions which we had been told was swinging round on our flank. So the division had done its march and was fighting now. I was glad we were not. It was much better to lie peacefully in a ditch. Fighting meant seeing one's pals killed--crawling about, peering forward with tired eyes--worry, anxiety, with, of course, always the fever of excitement. But we had all had a full share of excitement, and were not sorry to lie still until we were wanted. Hullo! The sound of firing was drawing nearer and swelling in volume. That must be the brigade on our right engaged. Ah! There were two sharp shots from the farm where the next company lay.

"Pass along the word for every man to stand to," I called, jumping to my feet.

"Sergeant X," I said to the N.C.O. next to me, "go down the trench and see that every man is awake."

Pht! pht! pht!

I ducked down into the trench. Half a dozen bullets came singing through the edge. There was sharp firing now on our right. The next company was evidently engaged. Away beyond the rifle fire had swelled into one big crash of sound. Suddenly a hot fire broke out in front of us. To the left I heard our two Maxims, like watchdogs, barking viciously. It was a night attack, then--the enemy had come up to have a go at us.

"Quick--get into the trench and line along to your left. Where do you want me?"

I looked up and saw Mulligan hurrying his men into my trench. He had been sent up with his platoon from the reserve company to strengthen the line.

"Anywhere you like, old boy," I called back; "but I should get down out of that quick." The bullets were literally singing round him.

Our men were now all standing up to the parapet, firing into the night. I craned forward, trying to see in the darkness. A bullet lopped a branch off my ear, and I withdrew my head hurriedly.

"They're all awake, sir," said Sergeant X, as he returned to his place beside me.

"So it seems," I answered, as the din from our rifles swelled into a deafening volume. "Here, mind where you are pointing that gun," I said to the man on my left, as he brought down a bit of the hedge in front of my nose in his effort to get off five rounds in as many seconds.

"No. 5 platoon are running short of ammunition," the word came down the trench.

"Tell No. 6 to pass along any they have to spare and save their fire as much as possible," I ordered.

It was going to be a tight business this, with the enemy's fire growing hotter every minute and our ammunition supply running short.

Again the message came down, "No. 5 platoon are running short of ammunition."

I looked at Sergeant X. We had already sent men back for fresh supplies.

"I'll go back, sir," said Sergeant X. It seemed impossible for him to get out of the trench and cross the bullet-swept open ground. Still, it was the only thing to be done. I nodded.

Grasping his rifle, he turned to clamber out of the trench. Just as he was going a voice from behind called, "Where will you have this, sir?"

There was a thump behind, and two men rolled over into the trench dragging a box of ammunition after them. They sat up and mopped their foreheads. "Lord! it's like hail out there," said one of them breathlessly, "and that stuff weighs about a ton," pointing to the box of ammunition.

"Well, come on, mate," and back they went out of the trench to the rear for more.

Sergeant X and I wrenched the lid off the box of ammunition and started passing the bandoliers down the trench.

"Pass these right along to No. 5 platoon," I ordered.

A second box was brought up by two more panting men. I distributed the contents among my own platoon. This put a better complexion on things. With plenty of ammunition we had nothing to fear, but the anxiety had been great. The sensation of running short of water in the desert is as nothing compared to that of running short of ammunition in action.

"They're getting closer, aren't they?" I said to Sergeant X, listening to the enemy's fire.

"I think they are, sir," He refilled his magazine and bent once more over the rifle.

"By gad! did you see that flash--they are only a hundred yards off. Here, give me that." I took the rifle from a man next me who had been wounded, and laid it, with the bayonet fixed, on the parapet in front. At the same time I drew my revolver and put it ready for use by my other hand. It was getting exciting this--quite pleasantly so.

"What do we do if they charge--get out and meet 'em?" I asked. My sergeant had had more experience of action than I, and I felt I could well afford to ask his advice.

"Just stay where we are, sir," he answered; "but they won't do that; they don't like these"--he tapped his bayonet. He was a splendidly calm fellow, that sergeant, and it was good to feel him firm as a rock beside me. All men, N.C.O.s, officers, and privates, instinctively lean towards each other when the corner is tight.

For the next five hours the firing continued, sometimes dying down, sometimes swelling to a sharp volley. Ammunition boxes arrived and were emptied. There were moments of acute anxiety when the supply seemed running short. Each man was told to keep fifteen rounds by him at all costs to meet a charge. Sergeant X bent steadily over his rifle, pumping lead into the dark patch where the enemy appeared to be. Sometimes I could hear guttural voices and harsh words of command, somewhere away there in the blackness the enemy were lying. I could see clearly for about forty yards. Would masses of dark shapes suddenly appear? They should have ten rounds from the rifle, then six from the revolver, and then the bayonet would be left. Furtively under cover of the parapet I lit a cigarette, and holding it well screened from the front, puffed big satisfying gasps. All the while the rifles rattled like the sharp ticking of a clock.

The firing grew quieter, and from the front there was now only an occasional shot. I suddenly felt sleepy, as though lulled by the rattle of the rifle fire. I sat down a moment on the edge of my dug-out.

"Mr. Mulligan's compliments, and could you tell him the time, sir?" I pulled myself together with a start. By Jove, I had nearly been asleep. "What's the time, sergeant?" I asked. There was no reply. Sergeant X was nodding as he stood, arms folded over his rifle. He, too, as the firing died down had been overcome by sleep. I sent back the time to Mulligan, each man passing the message to the man next him.

"Mr. Mulligan's compliments, and would you like a biscuit, sir?" A biscuit was pressed into my hand which had come the same way as the message.

"Mr. ----'s compliments to Mr. Mulligan, and would he care for a piece of cheese?" I wrapped a piece of cheese in a piece of paper and sent it back.

So we kept passing messages to one another all through the night, and no man slept. With the enemy a hundred yards away it was advisable they should not; but, like Sergeant X and myself, each, once the fierce strain of firing had passed, found the inclination wellnigh irresistible.

At last the dawn broke, and we saw the ground clear in front of us.

XII. THE FARM IN THE FIRING-LINE

A farm lay behind our trench. Just in front of the farm there ran a wooden fence. This fence had been loopholed and banked with earth, and was now held by a platoon of infantry. Trenches ran to the right and left in continuation of the fence, and were manned by the remaining platoons of the company. For two days now the enemy had attacked the farm, and all through the past night bullets had come smack-smack against the walls, like heavy hailstones. It was a fair-sized farm built round a yard, three sides grain lofts and cattle sheds and the remaining side a dwelling-place. The company commander, the company sergeant-major, the stretcher-bearers, and others who were attached to company headquarters were standing about in the yard. One or two of the men had their coats off and were shaving and washing in buckets of water.

As there had been no firing since dawn, and the enemy had evidently withdrawn after their unsuccessful attack during the night, Evans and I left our platoons and came into the farm.

Goyle, like the wise company commander he was, made no comment on our having left our trenches, relying on us to know when we ought to go back, and said that there was a room in the farm which the farmer's wife had set apart for the officers, and that we should find some food inside. This room, which was evidently the best parlour, was approached through the kitchen which opened on the front door.

Never shall I forget the sight as I opened the front door and looked into the kitchen. The small stone-flagged room was filled with civilians. These were evidently peasants from outlying cottages who had left their homes when the fighting began and flocked to the farm as a central place of refuge. At a wooden table sat a party of four women, two with children. One woman was weeping bitterly. The others were trying to console her. All were drinking from bowls of soup. The farmer's wife was stirring a fresh pot of soup over the stove. She was a fine-looking woman, with proud, sad eyes. Seeing Evans and me standing at the door, she beckoned to us to come in, and gave us each a cup of soup. Beside the stove sat an old, old man, his head resting against his hand, staring fixedly before him.

Sometimes he moaned gently. He sat like this all day, refusing to talk to anybody, or to eat anything, or to be comforted. The farmer's wife told us that the day before a shell had hit his cottage and killed his horse. He was the village carrier. The horse was perhaps as old as himself--as horses' years are measured--still it had been his companion and means of livelihood, and now it was taken from him. He could not understand it all--why the shell had come to wreck his home and kill his horse. He just sat there moaning and staring before him. We turned away. Neither we nor the farmer's wife could do anything. But with the weeping woman at the table it might be different. The farmer's wife thought that we, being British officers, could do something. She brought the woman up to us and she told us her tale. Her husband, it seemed, had been hit by a bullet while working in his field. He now lay out there wounded. She could not say she was sure if he was dead, but could we go and get him in. They had fired at her when she tried to go out to him. It was terrible to feel he was still lying there. We asked where the field was and then looked at each other helplessly. It lay in no man's land, between ours and the German lines. Perhaps at night, but for the rest of the day, no--we could do nothing. While we were drinking our soup two more refugees came in: a broken-looking middle-aged peasant, with red-rimmed eyes and thin shambling legs, and his wife. He was clinging round his wife's neck, tears pouring from the red-rimmed eyes. He, too, like the old peasant by the stove, was speechless; his wife told us that the Germans had taken him and made him march in front of them for three days.

She repeated the words "_trois jours_," her voice shaking with passion. The farmer's wife set the couple at the table and gave them soup from the pot. I wondered that she, too, did not join in the general weeping; but she went quietly and sadly about her work, saying little, giving food and drink to the afflicted people who had come to her kitchen, tending her pots and pans and fire. She asked no questions about the enemy, where they were or when we should drive them from the farm. She showed no signs of the night of terror she must have passed as the fight raged about her house. It was as though she stood for the spirit of France, proud to suffer for her country, confident in the prowess of her men, and patient and undoubting that they would succeed.