Next morning we were disturbed early, and rolled up our kits ready for disembarkation.
About 7A.M.we pulled alongside the wharf, and a light-hearted, jostling crowd struggled for the gang-plank.
I have not yet been able to find out why gang-planks are made so narrow, so that only one person at a time dare undertake the passage.
Chaos seemed to prevail. The deck suddenly became a struggling mass of humanity, struggling, tugging, and dragging at valises and kit bags.
Officers were manfully shouldering their "marching order," and struggling with their valises, hoping that their turn would come to find a footing on the gang-plank.
The gang-plank was long and narrow, bending and squeaking under its burden. There were twogang-planks: one to go down and one to come up.
But we were not sailors, and did not know the system; the inevitable result being that those going up met those coming down, until they became an unwieldy medley of men, baggage, protests, and apologies.
Gang-planks at the best of times appear structures of absurdity. They either appear to be placed at an angle so dangerous that the only safe way of getting ashore appears to be to sit down and slide. At other times the gang-plank has an unhappy knack of sagging in a precarious manner as you approach the middle, while a couple of sailors hold desperately on to the end to prevent its slipping off the dock.
Here we reported to the landing officer, who was making frantic endeavours to create order from chaos.
In circumstances of this kind the best thing to do with the landing officer is to keep clear of him. So we seized the only hack available and drove to one of the leading hotels, which had the reputation of being popular.
I am not quite sure if these conveyances are called hacks, but the name seems veryappropriate; for carriage seems too dignified a term for such dilapidated vehicles.
We were, however, too glad to get away as rapidly as possible from the dusty deck, and it was already getting very hot.
Turning into one of the side streets, we beheld the immortal Septimus, looking like one who is hopelessly lost in the middle of the Sahara Desert.
Now Septimus was not a born soldier, and he had made no attempt to carry his equipment on his back; neither would it seem right for Septimus to carry any greater burden on his podgy form than his well-polished Sam Brown. So his equipment lay on the pavement beside him. He had evidently dragged it some little distance, and looked upon it as a beastly nuisance, and was standing there vainly hoping that a taxi would come to his rescue and help him carry the beastly thing away.
We gave Septimus a lift, as he evidently needed looking after.
Arriving at the hotel, we all tumbled into the dining-room for breakfast, all except Septimus D'Arcy, who made straight for the nearest bar, and was last heard of that day tapping a coinvigorously on the counter, and with the perspiration standing in beads on his nose, frantically screeching for a whisky and soda.
Two days later I received a slip of paper which warned me that I was to proceed up the line that evening.
I was a senior officer, and would have charge of all the troops departing that evening. If you have never had that job, take my tip and avoid it; for of all the thankless tasks the poor devil who suddenly finds himself O.C. train, has the most difficult one of all.
I reported to the camp adjutant, an awfully decent sort of chap, and as a farewell gift he placed in my hands a pile of documents and several sheets of printed instructions.
"There you are, old chap, you will find everything there."
"Why, what is all this about?" said I, holding on to the mysterious bundle of papers which he thrust into my hands.
"That is a complete record, in duplicate, of all the troops in your charge. When you get to the station hand those papers over to the R.T.O."
"How many men have I charge of?"
"Rather a big crowd going to-night—38 officers and 1,140 other ranks."
"What regiments do they belong to?"
"Well, I think you have got men who belong to nearly every regiment serving in France. There are reinforcement draughts going to various units, and numerous men returning from leave. You've got English, Scotch, Canadians, and Australians. You've got cavalrymen, artillerymen, engineers, and infantrymen. Believe me, you've got your hands full to-night.
"You will find a guide at the head of the column who knows the way to the station. It's a good five miles from here."
When I got outside I found the column nearly a quarter of a mile long, formed up ready to march off.
I gave the order to move to all those within reach of my voice, and trusted to the remainder to follow on.
It was quite dark as the long column moved slowly down the long boulevards. I had not the faintest notion where the station was. Wherever I went that long, unwieldy column would slowly follow me, and trust blindly to my direction.I pinned my faith to the guide, and on we went.
Before we had got half-way it became evident that the guide had a very remote idea which was the direction to take; and he began to make anxious inquiries of passers-by as to the right way.
I was beginning to feel anxious and lose patience.
"What are you fussing about for? Are you taking us the right way?" I demanded.
"I think so, sir. I don't know."
"You don't know! But you are the guide, aren't you?"
"Yes, sir. But I've never been to the station before."
"But you are supposed to be the guide. Do you mean to tell me that you are not sure of the way?"
"Not quite, sir. But I am doing my best."
"Well, you are a fine sort of guide! Who detailed you?"
"The adjutant, sir."
"Well, did he know you had never been down to the station before?"
"He never asked me, sir. I was not doing anyother duty, so he detailed me to act as your guide."
What staff work! But it served me right; and we muddled along, and finally, to my great relief, we entered the station yard.
I walked into the R.T.O.'s office and laid my pile of papers on his desk.
The railway transport officer is an individual who is prominent in the memory of all those who have passed up the line; and many of us have reason to remember at least one of them with indignation.
There are two kinds of R.T.O.'s, and you have met them both.
There is the one who has earned his job at the front by hard work. He has been through the thick of the fighting, and after months in the trenches has been sent back to act as R.T.O. at the rail-head or the base, to give him a well-earned rest beyond the sound of the guns. We have no unpleasant memories of him. He is a man; he is human; he treats you as a comrade; he is helpful and considerate. And you can spot such men in a moment.
But R.T.O. No. 2 carries no sign of war onhis features. He has never heard the sound of guns, and never intends to, if he can help it.
Look back upon the time when you left the base, and you find him prominent in your memory. When you are huddled up in your dugout, how you wish he could be transferred to you for a tour of duty in the trenches.
What a delight it would be to send him in his immaculate uniform; his highly polished leggings and boots, along the muddy communication trenches. You know what the feeling is, for oftentimes you have said to yourself in those lonely night-watches: "How I wish I had him here!"
It is 2 o'clock in the morning; the rain is coming down in torrents; danger lurks in every fire-bay; the loneliness and the weirdness give you the creeps.
How you wish you could wake him up by digging him in the ribs, and telling him that it is time to go on his tour of duty up and down those clay-sodden trenches at the hour of the night when his courage (if he ever had any) would be at its lowest.
What a delight it would be if we only had himwith us when we take over our trenches, to show him that foul-smelling, rat-ridden dugout, and tell him to curl himself up to sleep there.
How sweet would be the joy to see him in his pale-coloured breeches, huddled up in a saphead, trying to get a little comfort on a cold, raw December morning, from a drop of tea in a tin mug, well smudged with the wet clay of numerous fingers.
We arrived at Rouen at 7.30 the following morning. I had to report to the R.T.O. by 9.30, and in the meantime 3,534 rations had to be cut up and distributed on the station platform among 1,178 officers and men.
Have you ever had such a problem as that? If not, then avoid it, if it ever comes your way.
The train was about twice the length of the platform, so on arrival it was broken in half, and the rear half shunted on to another line.
The rations were contained in two trucks, attached to the rear half of the train, so the contents had to be carried by hand across several sets of rails, to the end of the platform.
I had a fatigue party of 60 men at work, and presently a huge quantity of provisions began to pile up. There were chests of tea, cases ofbiscuits, cases of jam, cases of bully beef, sugar, and bacon sufficient to fill the warehouse of a wholesale provision merchant.
Three days' rations for 1,178 officers and men, in bulk; and 1,178 officers and men began to gather around the stack, in hungry expectancy of breakfast.
Now to issue rations to a battalion straight from bulk is quite difficult enough, but to issue rations from bulk to units of various strengths, belonging to over fifty regiments is enough to drive any one crazy.
Each man was entitled to two and one-fourth ounces of tea, one-fourth ounce of mustard, two and one-fourth pounds of biscuits, three-fourths pound of cheese, twelve ounces of bacon, one tin of bully beef, nine ounces of jam.
Each unit had to be dealt with separately, so that each unit presented a mathematical problem of the most perplexing kind. Each unit sent up its fatigue party to draw rations, whilst I and several officers who had volunteered to assist me made a bold attempt at distribution.
"Come along, first man, what's your regiment?"
"Manchester, sir; 59 men."
I looked through my volume of papers to check his figures.
"Quite right! Fifty-nine men."
Fifty-nine men meant fifty-nine times two and one-fourth ounces of tea, one-fourth ounce of mustard, two and one-fourth pounds of biscuits, three-fourths pound of cheese, twelve ounces of bacon, one tin of bully beef, and nine ounces of jam. My brain whirls when I think of those problems.
The next unit consisted of 9 men; the next of 1; then came a long list of 2's, 5's, and 7's, and so on; and in each case the mathematical problem had to be worked out; and when the figuring was finished, the stuff had to be cut up.
Seventy-nine pounds of cheese for the Manchesters; does any one know what seventy-nine pounds of cheese looks like? No one did; we had never seen so much cheese before in our lives.
"Give him a whole cheese and chance it. And now tea; the Manchesters want one hundred and thirty-two and three-fourths ounces of tea. Give him about three handfuls and chance it."
The next party consisted of 2 men.
"Six ounces of jam for the 19 Canadians; how much is that?"
"Nearly half a pot."
"What are you going to put it in?"
"Got nothing."
"Can't have any, then?"
"Come on, next man."
When I saw the last of that stack of food it was 11.30. We were hungry and tired, and we made our way to the nearest hotel, fervently hoping that we might never see food in bulk again.
We made our way back to the station and secured a very luxurious compartment; and to my intense relief on this occasion I found there was an officer senior to me present, who succeeded to the duties of O.C. train.
The duties of O.C. train are a new sensation to most officers; and it is particularly difficult to know just what to do, and how to do it, when you have an unorganised body of men made up of sundries from every part of the British army.
Our new O.C. train evidently felt the difficulties of his position, and came to me for assistance.
"Excuse me," he said, "but were you in charge of the train last night?"
"Yes, sir. I'm sorry to say I was."
"Well, what does one have to do?"
"Nothing."
"Well, but how does one keep order?"
"One doesn't keep order. But they've given me a pile of printed instructions, and I don't see how they can possibly be carried out. How can I keep order in a train half a mile long with men I know nothing about?"
He was getting worried. I knew the feeling.
"Do you want a tip," I said.
"Yes, if you can give me one."
"Well, just walk along the train until you find a very comfortable compartment marked, 'O.C. train.' Get inside, lock the door, pull down the blinds and go to sleep."
"Thanks, awfully. I think I'll take that tip."
"By the way," I shouted after him, "what is our destination?"
"Haven't the faintest idea."
"Does anybody know?"
"I don't think so."
"Thanks, awfully."
The train journey was uneventful, save for alternatively eating and sleeping, and two days later I reported at battalion headquarters.
The battalion was in rest billets at St. Amand;and I was posted as second in command to B Company.
The officers of B Company were just about to begin their midday meal when I put in an appearance at the company mess.
Captain George commanded the company. He was a splendid type of the fighting man of the present day—young, active, and clear-cut, boyish, yet serious. Captain George was made of the right stuff, and we became chums on the spot.
The other officers of the company were Second Lieutenant Farman, who had just received his commission in the field, Second Lieutenant Chislehirst, and Second Lieutenant Day.
They were all splendid fellows, the type you meet and take to at once; all as keen as ginger when there is serious work to be done; and when work is over are as light-hearted as schoolboys.
The mess consisted of a dilapidated kitchen, with a stone floor, and ventilated by the simple method of broken windows and a door removed from the hinges.
In those northern farmhouses of France it is purely a matter of opinion as to whether ventilation is really an advantage; for from the yardin front of the house the odour from the refuse and manure of the farm, piled up in a heap outside your window, becomes very acute when the wind is in the wrong direction, as it usually is.
I shall never forget the day I made my first inspection of billets.
While walking through the village street I noticed a structure which appeared to be inviting some stray breath of wind to cause it to surrender its last resistance by collapsing into a heap of rubbish.
Many years ago, in days of prosperity, it had served the purpose of a covering for cattle, for I believe cattle are not very particular in northern France.
It is quite within reason to suppose that, with a view of misleading his cattle into a false sense of security, the farmer may have called it a barn. It had never been an expensive structure, nor did it give any evidence of having ever laid claim to architectural beauty.
But its simplicity of construction was a marvelof ingenuity. Yes, it was a barn, but who but a genius of modern arts would have thought it possible to build even a barn by the simple but equally economical method of erecting a number of props and simply sticking mud between?
But the stability of the barn was, as might reasonably be supposed, subject to "wind and weather permitting," and was now sorrowfully deploring its advancing years, and anxiously waiting an early opportunity to rest its weary limbs in a well-earned rest in a shapeless heap on the ground that gave it birth.
How very strange! Out of the numerous holes in the wall I saw familiar faces, while inside a score of men were laughing and joking, playing cards or lounging about in loose attire, as though they were enjoying the freedom and comfort of a West End club.
"But what are you men doing here?" I asked.
"This is our billet, sir," answered a lance corporal.
"Your billet? Do you mean you sleep here?"
"Yes, sir, this was allotted to half my platoon."
"Comfortable?"
"Yes, sir. Quite a treat after the trenches."
"A bit draughty, isn't it?"
"Yes, sir; but, like everything else, we have to get used to it."
"But can't you find a better place than this, and with more room? You seem to be almost on top of each other."
"There is no other place available. The men are quite satisfied, sir."
I turned away thoughtfully. What magnificent chaps! And yet, when they were in comfortable billets at Haywards Heath, or in well-built huts at Fovant, they were far more particular; when they were recruits and spent their first night in the army, they looked with dismay at the prospect of sleeping on a clean straw mattress in a well-built modern English house.
War makes men, and hardships breed content!
I will pass over our life in the trenches in this part of the line, but an incident worth recording occurred while we were marching back after five days amongst the rats and mud of the trenches facing Gommecourt Wood.
It is interesting, by the way, to watch the men leaving the trenches for their rest billets, for, in addition to their packs, they carry manyan additional article of private belongings to add to their comfort during these tedious days of duty, and they emerge with all kinds of curious packages and extra articles of clothing strapped or tied to their equipment. They were covered with mud and clay before they left the front-line trenches, but the long journey along endless communication trenches on their way out, gathered up an additional covering of clay and mud through their bulky attire, until they resembled a curious assembly of moving débris.
But the incident I have referred to occurred just as we were approaching a village.
An observation balloon was being drawn down, but when within a hundred feet of the ground suddenly broke away and began to rise rapidly and drift towards the German lines.
I halted the men, and we watched in breathless suspense the tragedy which was about to take place before our eyes. There was some one in the basket of the balloon.
It rose higher and higher. Nothing could save it! Presently the occupant was seen to lean over the side and throw out a quantity of books and papers.
Still upward it went, and seemed to reach a great height before the next sensation caused us to thrill with amazement.
Something dropped like a stone from the basket and then, with a sudden check, a parachute opened, and a man was seen dangling from it. When he dropped, the balloon must have been many thousand feet in the air, and both balloon and parachute continued to drift towards the German lines.
Then a flight of four or five British aeroplanes went up and soared around the balloon, evidently bent on its destruction.
As we watched we saw a flash and a puff of smoke! A bomb had struck the balloon, but seemed to have no effect.
The aeroplanes withdrew, and a minute later we heard the boom of the anti-aircraft guns.
The second shot was a dead hit, for we saw a flash of fire clean through the centre, a volume of blue smoke, and then it buckled in the middle. The flame spread, and the blue smoke increased in volume until the balloon resembled a curious shapeless mass, twisting and turning and shrinking as it quivered and fell to earth; meantime,anxious eyes were also turned to the parachute, which by this time had approached to within a few hundred feet or so of the earth.
Both armies must have watched the spectacle in silent wonder, for no shot was fired at the falling figure from the German lines.
It was difficult to tell from where we were just where it might fall. It seemed to me from where I stood that the odds were in favour of it reaching the ground in No Man's Land.
As it neared the earth it began to sway to and fro, in ever-increasing violence, and finally disappeared from view behind a clump of trees. So far as I could observe, it did not seem in any way possible for the parachute to have delivered its human freight safely to the earth.
Next day we began a three days' march to a village some thirty-eight miles back of the line.
We were to be rested and fattened for the Somme.
The mention of rest camps to men at the front generally raises a smile, for if there is one thing more noticeable than anything else during a rest period, it is the hard work which has to be done.
The long days of training, the unlimited fatiguework, and the never-ending cleaning of tattered uniforms and trench-soiled boots are equalled only by the fastidiousness of an Aldershot parade.
On Sunday, September 2, our so-called rest came to an abrupt finish, and we entrained for an unknown destination. Destinations are always a mystery until the train pulls up with a jerk, and peremptory orders are given to get out.
The difference in travelling as a civilian and travelling as a soldier is that in the former case you choose your time of departure or arrival at a convenient hour; while in the latter case the most unearthly hour is selected for you.
We arrived at Corbie at 2A.M.Not that we knew it was Corbie at the time, or cared; and even if we had known, we should have been little the wiser. Still, I will say this about Corbie, that it is pronounced in the way it is spelled, andthat relieves one of a sense of uneasiness. For, as a general rule, no matter how you pronounce the names of a French town, you will find some one with an air of superior knowledge, or gifted with a special twist of the tongue, who will find a new pronunciation.
However, we detrained onto the line. The night was as black as pitch. Sleepy soldiers, struggling with their equipments, dropped out of the carriages; and after a great deal of shouting we got into some kind of formation, and the long column slowly moved off into the night.
I dropped into position in the rear of the column, feeling very tired, and wondering where I should find a place to sleep. The long column wended its way through narrow streets and along cobbled roads, and gradually seemed to melt into mysterious doorways under the guiding influence of quartermaster sergeants.
This process went on until I suddenly realised that the whole column had disappeared, and I was left alone in the streets of Corbie at 3A.M.in a steady downpour of rain, without the faintest notion of where I was, or where my billet was. I walked a little farther down the street, andbeing very tired, wet, and sleepy, had almost decided to lie in the street until the morning, when I tumbled across Farman, Chislehirst, and Day following the faithful quartermaster-sergeant to an unknown billet.
The billet consisted of a bathroom in one of the outbuildings of a large estate. The door of the bathroom had been locked, and the water had been turned off. However, we scrambled through the window. The floor was hard, but we had a roof above our heads, and we were all soon snoring on the floor, fast asleep.
Next morning I took a walk around the estate and found myself in a lovely orchard. It was deserted. An abundance of most delicious fruit met my gaze wherever I went. I wandered up and down, picking the apples and the pears, biting the fruit and throwing it away. I felt like a bad boy in an orchard; but the orchard was deserted and the fruit was going to waste; so if I was looting, I consoled myself with the thought that I was preventing waste.
It was about 1.30 in the afternoon, and I had just settled myself down in a comfortable seat under an apple-tree, and had pulled a Sundaynewspaper out of my pocket; it was a hot September day, and I was feeling lazy.
I was bound for the Somme. There was a mysterious air about the place that seemed unnatural. These beautiful gardens were deserted, but the sound of the guns could be heard in the distance.
I had settled myself comfortably, trying to imagine with the aid of the Sunday paper and a cigar that I was really sitting in my own gardens, when I noticed a man filling his water-bottle.
"What are you filling your water-bottle for?" I asked.
"We have got orders to parade at 2 o'clock, to move off."
"Good Lord! Who told you that?"
"Captain Wilkie, sir. The orders have just come down."
I never had such a scramble in my life. With an appetite oversatisfied with apples; my kit spread all over the floor; my company half a mile away in all sorts of holes and corners—to move out of the village in twenty minutes.
It's the same old thing in the army; you say to yourself it can't be done; but it is done. Andat five minutes past two the whole brigade was moving out of Corbie, and was once more facing towards the Somme.
Our destination was in Death Valley; but before going into the line we rested a few days in Happy Valley. Happy Valley and Death Valley—there is a touch of sarcasm about the names, but they are, nevertheless, very appropriate.
Happy Valley is a peaceful spot where we would sit contentedly in the afternoon puffing at our pipes, listening to the sound of the guns; watching the shrapnel bursting in the air some two or three miles away, and thanking our lucky stars that we were watching it from a distance. But we were resting. It was a lull before the storm, and we were soon to march towards the storm.
Death Valley was three miles away, and to-morrow the storm would break upon us! We were thinking; men everywhere were writing. Why were they biting their pencils and thinking so hard? The padre was a busy man. Everything was so quiet and mysterious: there was no joking, no laughing, men were thoughtful and pulled hard at their pipes. To-morrow the storm would break! To-morrow! And what after?
The following afternoon, after struggling across a sea of shell-holes, we arrived at Death Valley and halted by Trones Wood. Here hundreds of our guns of all sizes were massed, wheel to wheel, and row upon row; and every gun was being worked as hard as possible.
A bombardment was taking place. And in the midst of all these guns we were halted for two hours until our trenches could be located. The sight was wonderful. It was impressive. The might of Britain was massed and belching forth its concentrated fury.
As darkness came on the roar of the guns was accentuated by the flash of the discharge. We did not speak, for speaking was out of the question; the noise was too terrific; and we lay on the ground silenced by wonder and bewilderment.
What was happening over yonder where those shells were dropping? What was that droning, whistling noise far overhead? They were the big guns: the 15-inch, five miles back; 16-pounders, 4·9-inch, 6-inch, 9-inch, 12-inch, and 15-inch. Guns here, guns there, guns everywhere; all belching and flashing; all concentrating in astupendous effort to pound some part of the German line into confusion.
Ammunitions workers in England, and those who should be munition workers, come right over here; creep with us along the edge of Trones Wood, and watch this amazing sight. You miners, you tramway men, you boiler-makers! You, who would throw down your tools and strike, look upon this sight!
This is the voice of England. This is the stupendous effort which is protecting you. On your right, that dark, creepy, silent place, is Trones Wood. Look across to your left, those sticks showing on the sky-line, across the valley. In those woods, churned up in the soil, lie the rotting bodies of your comrades, your brothers, your sons. They have sacrificed all; they have suffered untold deaths.
The contrast between that thundering voice of England and the silent mystery of those woods causes a shudder. Bring out those strikers and let them get a glimpse of this and realise their danger, and the horrors which will come upon them, their wives, their children, their homes, if those guns fail.
What is their quarrel to this? Shall we stop those guns for a penny an hour? Shall we leave unprotected those desperate men across the valley, who are hanging on tooth and nail to those last trenches gained? Shall we do these things for a penny an hour? Shall we do these things so that we can stand up for these so-called rights in England?
No! Our mines must be worked; our boilers must be made; and our munition machinery must be run to its utmost capacity, or we are traitors to those guns and our fighting men; our brothers, our own sons, who are depending upon the might of England for victory and their lives.
Throw down your tools, slacken your machinery, and High Wood and Trones Wood will become blacker still with the mutilated bodies of a thousand men. A penny an hour! You, who are being coddled under the protection of these guns, what is your quarrel to this?
If those desperate fellows on the other side of the hill were to leave their tasks, they would be called traitors. Yet, when men in England, whom these fighters are dependent upon, and whose work is just as necessary for the successof the war, throw down their tools, they are only called strikers.
The crime is the same; the punishment should be the same.
Late that evening orders came to move into the trenches on the far slope of the Valley of Death. Trenches here, trenches there, trenches everywhere, while we groped around without knowing where the trenches led to, or the position of the German lines.
We spent an anxious night, the uncertainty of our position and mystery of those massed guns, thundering their wrath into the darkness of the night, caused a tension which defied any desire to sleep.
What was the meaning of it all? What was happening over yonder, where the iron of England's anger was falling, bursting, tearing, killing? What was happening over there? Would we receive a similar reply? The signs were significant: we were at last on the Somme; we were in for it with a vengeance.
The next morning broke bright and fair, and found us still awake with eyes peering anxiously through the rising mist. We were evidently not in the front line, but were there on the Somme; and that sea of shell-holes which everywhere surrounded us told its own story of what had been, and what was yet to be.
At about 11 o'clock all eyes were turned towards High Wood, on the crest of the hill to the left. A burst of shells from the enemy's guns told that a target had been found. We watched, and presently we could faintly see a column slowly moving along the road through the wood.
Three ammunition wagons moved slowly towards our guns. Crash! A 5.9 fell in front of the leading horses; a cloud of dense, black smoke arose and blotted the picture from view. The smoke cleared, and the little column was still moving slowly forward, undisturbed and indifferent. Crash! Crash! Two more shells burst by the side of the second wagon; the smoke cleared; the horses were startled and giving trouble, but once again the defiant little column moved slowly forward, indifferent and undismayed.
We continued to watch the plucky little column,now obscured by the black smoke of the bursting shells, then again emerging from the smoke, heedless of danger.
Those men were human. How could they stand it with such calm and determined indifference? The answer was the guns: the guns must be fed; and British grit and discipline were unconquerable. The army is wonderful.
At this moment I received a message calling me to headquarters, and I at once went to find my C.O.
"Well, had a good rest?" he asked.
"Not much, sir."
"Stuff and nonsense; get your map out."
I spread my map out on my knees and took a note-book out of my pocket.
The C.O. pointed on the map with his pencil:
"We are here; the —— Regiment is there."
"Front line, sir?"
"Right bang up in the front line."
"What are the trenches like, sir?"
"No time to dig trenches; they're hanging on to a few shell-holes, though they may have connected them up by now. See, there's Combles,and that's Leuze Wood. We shall be on the extreme right of the British army. B Company will be on the right; C Company in the centre, and A Company on the left with D Company in support. Headquarters will be close by Falfemont Farm."
"Very good, sir."
"You won't find any farm left; been blown to dust. Men are to go in battle order; packs are to be parked just outside here, by companies. No. 5 platoon will move off at 7P.M., the remainder following in succession at fifty yards' interval."
I understood, and turned to go.
"By the way, I am not sure whether the Germans are in that trench or the —— Battalion, London Regiment. Anyhow, that's where we've got to be to-night."
Half an hour later and the men were laying out their packs in long rows, by companies. Strange sight, all these packs laid out in neat rows. The reason did not need explaining. There was work at the other end of that Valley of Death; there lay the pit of the Great Adventure. Perhaps to-night we should look into it; but how many would come back to claim their packs.
We are in the soup with a vengeance! Well, who cares?
Early that afternoon I went to my dugout, and was just trying to get a little rest, when I was disturbed by a voice outside, which sounded strangely familiar.
"Sergeant, excuse me, but is this the beastly hole where B Company is to be found?"
"Yes, sir, this is B Company's line."
"'Pon me word, extraordinary place! Demned hot; walked nearly five miles. Where's the captain?"
"In his dugout, sir, near that shell-hole."
"I've got to report to him; will you tell him I'm here?"
"Hadn't you better go to him, sir?"
"Oh! Is that the thing to do?"
At that moment, unable to restrain my curiosity, I came out of my dugout, and there, sure enough, was none other than the irresistible pattern of Bond Street, Septimus D'Arcy, by all that was wonderful!
There he was, with his monocle riveted in his right eye, between the frown of his eyebrow and the chubby fatness of his cheek, with the boredexpression of one who saw no reason for the necessity of the fatigue which caused the undignified beads of perspiration to assemble on an otherwise unruffled countenance. A pair of kid gloves, buttoned together, were hanging from the belt of his Sam Brown, and four inches of a blue-bordered silk handkerchief dangled from his sleeve. As he approached he half carried on his arm and half dragged along the ground, the burden that was known as his full marching order.
"Hello, Septimus!" I said, as he came along, dragging his things behind him.
"Ah! Hellow! Well, I'm demned! Never expected to find you here; awfully glad to meet you again."
"What are you doing here?"
"I'll be demned if I know! Uninteresting spot this—what?"
"Well, what have you come here for?"
"Nothing much. I saw a fellow in that big dugout in the valley, and he told me to report to you. The fact is, you know, you are attached to me, or I'm attached to you, or something of that sort."
"Well, you are not in Havre now; there aresnipers about, and if you stand up there like that, you'll get hit."
"You don't mean to say so; that seems perfectly safe."
"Well, get down, and don't be a fool."
He carefully got down into the trench, leaving his equipment behind, probably hoping it would get lost, and we entered the dugout.
"I must tell you, captain, I am horribly fatigued. I came through the guns; very interesting and all that, but it's made my head ache."
"Have some water. It's rather muddy, but better than nothing these days."
"No, thanks; doctor warned me against drinking dirty water; dysentery and all that, don't you know. Any whisky and soda?"
"Look here, Septimus, now you are here, you must drop that nonsense."
"All right, old thing. I rather doubted the soda, but thank Heaven I've got a flask; a sort of emergency ration. Help yourself and let's drink it neat."
"How long have you been in the army, Septimus?"
"Three months. Why?"
"Like it?"
"Not bad. Saluting seems rather absurd; but it seems to please some. I longed to come out; thought it would be interesting and all that sort of thing. But so far I've had nothing to do but get from place to place, carrying a beastly load with me."
"Probably your own fault. I have never seen a pack or haversack crammed so full. What have you brought with you?"
"Necessaries; but not half what I shall need. Has my kit arrived?"
"My dear chap, you will never see your kit up here; and what is more, you will have to leave most of those things you have brought with you behind, before you go up the front line. Dump your things out here, and I will tell you what to take."
We emptied his pack and haversack. I have never in all my life seen such a lot of rubbish in the war kit of a soldier. There seemed to be nothing there he would really need; but a curious mixture of strange articles which would fill a fancy bazaar. There were hair-brushes with ebony backs and silver monograms, silkhandkerchiefs with fancy borders, a pinky tooth-paste, oozing out of a leaden tube; and crushed between a comb and a pair of silk socks, a large bottle of reddish tooth-wash, sufficient to last him three years; and half of which had leaked through the cork to the destruction of about a dozen silk handkerchiefs, spotted and bordered in fanciful shades. There was a box of cigars, a heavy china pot of massage-cream, a pot of hair-pomade, a leather writing-case, a large ivory-backed mirror, which had lost its usefulness for ever, a bottle of fountain-pen ink, two suits of silk pajamas, one striped with pink and the other blue, a huge bath-towel, a case containing seven razors, one for each day in the week, and a sponge as big as his head. Poor Septimus! in his simplicity and ignorance, for the first time in his life he had packed his own kit.