The final preparations completed, the first platoon began to move off; other platoons followed at intervals, the column slowly wending its way through the Valley of Death to its mysterious destination.
We seemed to be going into the unknown; the air was full of mystery; it was uncanny, unnatural. We were moving over battle-fields. The ground was a mass of shell-holes; progress could only be made by walking in single file along a narrow footpath, which twisted in tortuous persistency between the shell-holes, causing innumerable halts and starts, until the column tailed off into an endless line of shadowy figures.
Here and there the men became lost to view insome gun-ridden cavity; whilst there again they appeared silhouetted against the moonlit sky, as man by man they appeared and disappeared from view over a rise in the ground.
Those who had fallen in the desperate struggle of the previous week lay yet unburied. Friend and foe alike shared the shelter of the heavens, clutching at the soil of France in the agonies of death. There are times when the sight of death excuses the quivering step and the irrepressible sob from the hearts of those who pass onward to brave a similar fate.
The Valley of Death was a silent tomb of the wrath of nations, that long, winding Valley of Death, where the bodies of friend and foe lay side by side, or clutched in a desperate embrace, marked the line where the fury of nations found its expression, like the scar of a devil's vengeance.
As I looked on the bodies of the dead, twisted and mutilated, limbless and torn, some half buried in débris—here and there lying doubled in unnatural positions, while others yet, seemed to be clutching at some mortal wound—I felt like one who fearfully treads into the vortex of Dante'sinferno. Yes, this was the devil's own hell, but a hell far more dreadful than I had ever imagined it to be.
After a tiring, disheartening trudge, we found the spot we were to occupy, and, to our intense relief, the —— Battalion, London Regiment, were in possession.
After the usual formalities of the relieving and taking over of the line of shell-holes which marked the position, I stopped for a final word with one of the —— officers:
"How many casualties?" I asked.
"About fifty in two days—bit tough, eh?"
"Been attacked, then?"
"No; shelled like billyho. They've got the range nicely."
"Where's the Boche?"
"Don't quite know; somewhere in front. About eight hundred yards away there's a trench which forms three sides of a square, each side about three hundred yards, with the open side resting on Leuze Wood, and the lower end extending into the wood."
"Fritz there?"
"In the upper part, yes; but the lower part isa bit of a mystery. The part that extends into the wood the —— Regiment are holding; but the rest of it the Boche seems to have. At least, that's what I think. Awkward position! Well, cheer oh!"
After a sleepless night I anxiously waited the rising mist to take a view of my surroundings. There, on the right, was a high table-land, with a frowning bluff overlooking the town of Combles, which slowly emerged, house by house, from the rising mist.
In the trench the right man of my company was vigorously shaking the hand of a French soldier, who marked the left of the French army.
There, straight in front, could be faintly seen the trench formed in the shape of a square, and left of it Leuze Wood. But what were those peculiar stumps to the left of our trenches? They looked like the remains of a copse which had been shelled until only the stumps of a few trees remained. And where was Falfemont Farm? There was no sign of it anywhere. I was not sure of my position on the map; it was puzzling.
I went over to consult the French officer on my right:
"Morning, monsieur," I said, approaching a smart young officer.
"Ah! Good morning; you relieve the —— Battalion, London Regiment, already—yes?"
"Yes; last night. I came to ask you what those stumps are over there; they are not marked on the map. Do you happen to know?"
"Ah! Oui; zat is Falfemont Farm. Nothing left now; very bad place that farm. Zay say one whole brigade of infantry was lost in storming that farm. Yes, nasty place, that farm, M. le Capitaine."
I went back to my trench. I didn't like the look of things. If Falfemont Farm got blown to smithereens like that, what chance did I stand? Whew! I was getting the wind up.
After a strenuous day's work, during which I had only time to take a mouthful of bread and cheese, which I carried in my pocket, I espied an orderly making his way towards me.
"The C.O. sent me, sir; you're wanted at once."
"Oh! any news?"
"I think we are in for a binge, sir."
"Which is the way to headquarters?"
"About two hundred yards back. Follow that narrow little track which winds around the shell-holes, and you can't miss it. Don't leave the track, or you will lose your way."
On arriving at H.Q. I found a small group of officers bending anxiously over a map. The C.O. turned to me as I approached:
"Ah! There you are. Get your books out,and take down your orders—ready! You are to take command of B Company. Well, now, here's our position; there's Combles and there's Leuze Wood. Take your company out into 'No Man's Land,' and extend along a line facing half right to our present position, with your left resting on the wood. C Company will be in the wood on your left; and A Company will be on your right—understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"You'll dig in to-night, and to-morrow we are going to take that trench that's formed like a square, to prepare the way for a frontal attack on Combles by the French. You'll take the upper portion of that perpendicular trench, passing the wood on your left."
"Then, I shall have to cross over the lower trench; isn't that occupied, sir?"
"The battalion bombers will clear that out for you during the night."
"When is zero hour, sir?"
"Don't know; I've told you all I know at present. Take ten flares, and send up two when you arrive at your objective, and send up another two at 6 o'clock the following morning."
"What about ammunition and water, sir?"
"The water you've already got is supposed to last forty-eight hours. I don't know about ammunition; I think there's an ammunition dump in the wood, but I will find that out and let you know. All right; it's dark enough now."
Sch!—Crash!—Zug! A 5·9 burst on the parapet a few yards away. The thud of an awky bit was felt in our midst, and the sergeant-major jumped up, holding his foot. The C.O. looked up without turning a hair:
"Any one hurt?" he asked.
"Only my boots, sir," replied the sergeant-major, suspiciously feeling his heel.
I took my departure and began to grope around in the dark in search of the narrow track which would guide me back to my company. I searched for about ten minutes, but in vain, and I became for a while hopelessly lost in a mass of shell-holes. I knew the direction roughly, but direction was of little use in that wild confusion of broken ground and débris.
What if I should be lost all night? What would they think? It would be put down to funk. A cold perspiration came over me. I feltan overwhelming sense of loneliness amidst that gruesome scene of destruction; and to crown it all, a feeling of responsibility and anxiety which made the craters seem deeper as I frantically scrambled out of one and into another. At last, to my intense relief, I found the little footpath and reached my trench safely.
Time was getting on. I gave orders for the men to dress and lie flat on the parados, ready for the word to move. When all preparations were completed, and bombs, picks, and shovels issued to each man, I signalled the advance, and with a few scouts in front and on the flanks, we slowly moved in single file into the unknown.
It was a pitch-black night, intensified by a slight fog, and I took my direction by compass bearing, wondering all the while if it would lead me right.
The men marched in silence. Nothing could be heard but the muffled footsteps over the soft ground, and occasional jingling of a spade or pick against the butt of a rifle.
Distance became exaggerated, and fifty paces seemed like five hundred, until I began to get a horrible fear that my compass had misled me,and that countless German eyes were watching me leading my men into the midst of their guns. Where were we going? When would we get back, and how many of us? Call it funk or what you like, but whatever it is, it's a devilishly creepy feeling; and when at last I found myself close to the edge of the wood, I felt as if I were arriving home.
But the real job had not yet begun. I signalled the halt to the leading file, and passed the word to turn to the right and extend two paces to the right and lie down. I next ordered a sentry group, consisting of one section to be sent out by each platoon to occupy shell-holes fifty yards in front as a protection against surprise.
The platoon on the left was to bend its flank to face the edge of the wood, and get in touch with C Company in the wood; while the platoon on the right secured connection with A Company. One Lewis-gun section took up position on the left flank at the corner of the wood, whilst the other Lewis gun protected my right.
These precautions against surprise being completed, I ordered the men to dig for all they were worth; rifles with bayonets fixed, and magazinescharged to be placed within arm's reach at the back of the trench, the earth to be thrown in front until the parapet became bullet-proof.
I spotted one man leaning on his shovel, and looking vacantly into the darkness.
"Dig, man! Don't stand looking about you," I whispered hoarsely.
"The ground's hard, sir; it's all chalk here."
"Don't be a fool! Dig! I tell you we may be discovered any minute. If we get shelled you'll be glad enough of a hole to lie in."
Passing along the line, I overheard two men talking in an undertone:
"How do you like it, Timmy?"
"Fed to the teeth. It's all very well for the skipper to say: 'Dig like hell!'—Seems quiet enough here."
"Heard about Bill? Went balmy just after we started. He began by laughing and crying; he was as mad as a hatter. He nearly put the wind up us in the rear. The skipper sent him back with a couple of stretcher-bearers."
"Poor old Bill, hard luck. Thought he couldn't stand much. Got any water?"
"Not a drop; I'm as dry as a brick."
"Shut up; there's the skipper standing there."
The conversation stopped; but the latter part worried me not a little. Water-bottle empty, good Lord! and no more water for forty-eight hours.
All of a sudden the sky was illuminated. Half a dozen Very lights went up in rapid succession: we were discovered!
A moment or two later from two different points, three reds and a green light went up, falling in our direction. Every man stopped work and looked up in amazement. We were in for it; we wanted no telling.
"Dig like hell!" I whispered hoarsely, hurrying along the line of wondering men.
But they wanted no urging this time, and every man set to work with feverish energy.
Then the bombardment commenced, and in a few minutes the air was filled with whistling shells, screeching through the night and making the darkness hideous.
We were only a foot below the surface of the ground. Once again I hastened along the line:
"Dig like hell!"
Lights were going up in rapid succession, andthe German line whence they came appeared only a couple of hundred yards in front, and seemed to form a semicircle around my left flank.
Clack! Clack! Clack! What was that?—Rifles! My sentry groups were firing. Again the rattle of rifles, this time all along the line of sentry groups.
"Stand to!"
Every man seized his rifle and crouched in the pit he had dug and faced his front. We waited: the bombardment had stopped, and the crack of the rifles alone disturbed the night.
I drew my revolver and waited in breathless suspense for the sudden rush which seemed imminent.
Were our preparations to be nipped in the bud, after all? Would it be a sudden rush; a desperate hand-to-hand fight?—and then, what then?
The minutes passed like hours in an agony of suspense, and then, unable to bear the strain any longer, I crept cautiously forward into the inky darkness towards one of the sentry groups to find out what was amiss.
"Halt! Who is there?"
"O.C., B Company."
"Advance!"
"What's up?" I asked, sliding into the shell-hole beside the corporal.
"There seemed to be a patrol moving about in front; it's all quiet now, sir."
"All right; double the sentries for the next hour."
I returned to the line and ordered the men to continue digging.
The bombardment continued, but by and by we began to grow accustomed to the din. Several casualties occurred; but still the work of digging in continued.
Time was getting on, and I must make my plans for to-morrow's attack.
A few minutes later I chanced to notice a figure sitting leisurely in a shell-hole.
"Why, Septimus, is that you?"
"I think so; I say, I think so. Unearthly row; devilishly dangerous place, this—what?"
"But what are you doing in there?"
"I was just coming to talk to you about ammunition. A shell burst, and my face is simply covered with dust. Has the ammunition arrived yet?"
"No; there's an ammunition dump in the wood somewhere."
"Like me to go and find it?"
I looked at him in amazement. It wasn't funk then, that made him seek safety in that shell-hole. Was it possible that dear old Septimus, this bland, indifferent tubby, blasé old thing of Bond Street, was anxious to go into that creepy, mysterious wood to look for ammunition?
"All right; take a corporal and 12 men, and bring back six boxes. Don't take unnecessary risks; we shall need every man to-morrow."
Septimus sprang out of the shell-hole, saluted in the most correct manner—something quite new for him—and disappeared in the darkness.
This was a new side of Septimus's character which had not shown itself before. Only the stoutest heart would have chosen to wander about in that wood at midnight, with enemy patrols lurking about. Septimus was a man, after all.
Five minutes later he passed me, leading his men. He gripped my hand as he passed, with the remark: "Well! Ta-ta, old thing."
"Cheer oh!"
And Septimus was gone. We may call menfops, simple vacant fools, or what we like; but the war has proved over and over again that the man within the man is merely disguised by his outer covering. Many a Bond Street Algy, or ballroom idol has proved amidst the terrors of war that the artificial covering of a peace-time habit is but skin-deep; and the real man is underneath.
Just then a movement in the rear of my position attracted my attention. A number of men were approaching; then halting, they sat on the ground, while two figures continued on towards me.
They were Second Lieutenant Wade, the intrepid scout officer, and Second Lieutenant Brady, in command of the battalion bombers. It was Brady who spoke first:
"Hullo! Getting peppered pretty hot, aren't you?"
"Rather lively! Where are you off to?"
"I've got orders to bomb out that mysterious trench you've heard so much about, in order to clear the way for your attack to-morrow. I'm going in front of your line and along the edge of the wood."
I despatched a runner to warn the sentry groups, and presently the little group of bombers disappeared round the edge of the wood into the darkness on their adventurous errand, the success of which would mean so much to me on the morrow.
All this time the work of digging is continued with unabated anxiety, shells dropping around unceasingly.
All of a sudden I was startled by a rattle of musketry in the direction of the wood. There was silence; then several more shots followed by a rushing, tearing noise, and yells.
Almost at the same moment the ammunition party emerged breathlessly from the wood.
I ran forward to where the men were dropping the ammunition boxes on the ground, and falling exhausted. For a moment or two they were too breathless to speak. I counted the men: there were 12 of them, and the six boxes of ammunition had safely arrived.
But where were Septimus and the corporal? All was silent in the wood. I turned to the nearest man who was by this time sitting up, holding his head in his hands.
"Where is Mr. D'Arcy and Corporal Brown?" I asked.
"God knows, sir! They stayed to cover our retirement."
"What happened?"
"We found the ammunition dump, sir, and were just beginning to move the boxes when we heard some one moving. We grabbed our rifles and waited. There seemed to be quite a number crawling around us. Mr. D'Arcy ordered us to retire at once, and get the ammunition away at any cost; he said he would stay behind and cover our retreat, and Corporal Brown offered to stay with him. We hadn't got far, sir, when they opened fire; bullets hit the trees and whizzed over our heads. Then we heard a rush and some yells. I distinctly heard something in German, and Mr. D'Arcy's voice shout back: 'Kamarade be damned!' Then there was a scuffle; that's all I know."
My heart beat wildly as I listened to this story. Good God! what did that silence mean? There was no further time to be lost.
I ordered a relief party and led the way into the wood. There was not a sound to be heardas we crept forward on our hands and knees towards the spot where the ammunition had been found.
What was that? We listened breathlessly, and again we heard a low groan almost in our midst. There was a shell-hole just in front, and crawling along on all fours, I found Septimus D'Arcy, wounded and helpless, with his left leg almost blown away, and bleeding from the head.
"What's up, D'Arcy? What has happened?" I whispered hoarsely.
A faint smile of recognition came over his pale face as I supported him in my arms. His words came painfully:
"The ammunition—is it—safe?"
"Yes, quite safe."
"But what happened after they left?"
"I stayed behind—with the corporal—to protect their retirement. We opened rapid fire—to draw German fire on to us. I saw six creeping forward. They called to us—to surrender. I refused—demn them! They threw bombs—killed the corporal—dirty dogs! smashed my leg—nothing much. I picked off three—with my revolver—never used beastly thing before;two bolted—last one jumped at me—with bayonet. That's him there—just got him—last cartridge."
Septimus was lying heavily on my arms. Nothing could be done for him; I saw the end was at hand.
"Good-bye, captain! Knew you'd come. Don't know much about soldiering—good sport; shan't have to carry that—demned pack again."
A placid smile came over his chubby face as he gasped out the last words. His monocle was still firmly fixed between his fat cheek and his eyebrow. Once more he seemed indifferent to his surroundings.
In front of him, the silent evidence of his plucky stand, were the dead bodies of four Germans. By his side lay a revolver. I picked up and examined the chamber; the last cartridge had been fired!
The men had gathered around; their caps were off. Septimus seemed to be looking up smilingly into their faces.
Septimus was dead! But Septimus was still in Bond Street!
ThreeA.M.Heavy shell-fire still continues. I have just ordered the men to cease work and take rest. Trench is about two feet deep; men are dead beat.
4A.M.Have just received three pages of operation orders. We are to attack at 4.45P.M.in four ways, starting from the trenches we have been digging, and advancing diagonally from the corner of the wood across the open; passing over the mystery trench and taking the central trench.
I have only a vague idea at present where that is. Am fervently hoping that the battalion bombers have solved the mystery trench and cleared it. No news from them yet. God knows what has been happening there during the night.
5A.M.Have just held a council of war with my officers and N.C.O.'s, and explained in detail my plans for the attack. Very impressive sight,seeing them all crouching around me in a shell-hole, with shells bursting around us, while they listened intently to my orders.
"Each officer is to carry his papers in lower right-hand hip pocket; and if he fails, the nearest man is to search the pocket and hand the contents on to the next senior. I intend to attack in the following order:
First waveNo. 5 PlatoonSecondNo. 6 "ThirdNo. 7 " andFourth waveNo. 8 "
Eighty yards interval between each wave. Bombing sections of Nos. 5 and 7 to be on the right, and Nos. 6 and 8 on the left of their respective platoons.
"No. 1 Lewis Gun to be on the right of the second wave; No. 2 Lewis Gun to be on the left of the fourth wave.
"Two runners from each platoon to report to me five minutes before zero hour. My position, accompanied by the runners, will be between the third and fourth wave.
"On arrival at objective Lewis Gunners to establish strong points, assisted by bombers at each end of objective. Each man to carry two hundreds rounds of ammunition and three bombs; also three sand-bags in his belt, and a pick or shovel tucked through his belt behind. Bombers to carry each a sack, containing twelve bombs, but no tools."
Strange warfare this, going into a fight like a navvy.
5.30A.M.Plans have been explained in detail to every man, and orders given that if all officers and N.C.O.'s are knocked out, the men are to carry on and finish the job themselves.
Very foggy morning; we are able to finish digging trench.
6A.M.Astounding news. The battalion bombers have failed. A few survivors, after fighting all night, have been driven into the wood. The mystery trench over which I must cross is in the hands of the Boches. Could we hope to accomplish the double task?
The men heard the news in silence.
7A.M.Breakfast consists of some dirty bread and cheese, and a little water.
8A.M.Fog lifted. Our position is correct. Can see objective plainly about four hundred yards off. We can also be seen plainly, and snipers are busy trying to pick us off.
Have made a reconnaissance, and find intervening ground a mass of shell-holes. Looks like a rough sea. The advance will be difficult; the ground is so churned up. Not a square yard of unbroken ground.
2P.M.Everything is now in readiness, with nearly three hours to spare.
Have ordered men to eat their dinners, which consists of bread and cheese at 3P.M., so that they will go into the fight on full stomachs.
I have had no sleep or proper food for nearly two days. Will lie down and get an hour's rest before the attack.
I had hardly closed my eyes when a runner from headquarters came hurrying along the line, and was directed to where I was dozing at the bottom of a trench.
"Message from the C.O., sir, very urgent."
I signed the receipt and tore the envelope open. Good heavens! new operation orders! I was astounded. I looked again, hardly daring to believe my eyes. Sure enough, there was no mistake about it, three pages of closely written operation orders. The head-line seemed to be mocking me:
"Fresh operation orders, cancelling those issued this morning."
I read on: "You are to advance on throughLeuze Wood, and attack from that part of the wood which forms the fourth side of the square-shaped trench, thus attacking the inside of the square; B Company taking the lower half, and C Company the upper half; A Company to be in support."
A cold shiver ran down my back. What a calamity! and after all the pains I had taken to work out the details of the attack, and that dreadful night spent in digging these trenches to jump off from. Every man knew what to do, and now at the eleventh hour the whole plan was altered.
I glanced again at the new orders:
"You are to be at the new place of assembly by 3.30P.M.; zero hour is 4.45."
I looked at my watch—Great Scott! it was already 2.15; at 3P.M.I must commence the advance through the wood.
The men had not yet commenced their dinners. What time was there? and how was it possible to sit down quietly and digest those three pages of new orders and understand their meaning? What time had I to make new plans and explain to each man his new task?
There was not a moment to be lost; I turned to my two runners:
"Dinners to be eaten at once. Platoon commanders wanted at the double."
I waited, and by and by the platoon commanders, Second Lieutenant Farman and Chislehirst, and Sergeants Blackwell and Barnes, came running along the top, snipers shooting at them as they ran along. They halted on the parados, saluting as they came up, and, still standing up, awaited orders, seemingly indifferent to the excellent target which they presented.
"Lie down flat," I ordered.
They did as I directed, their faces turned anxiously toward me, wondering what was up.
"New operation orders just arrived from headquarters; previous orders cancelled. We are to advance through the wood and attack from the inside of the square."
I hurriedly read the whole of the orders over to them, and they listened silently.
"Go back to your platoons. The men are to be dressed in battle order by 2.50—it's now 2.30—by 3P.M.the platoons are to be closed up along the trench, and the leading platoon willenter the wood in single file, other platoons following."
As I glanced up I noticed their faces were pale; they were listening intently, but uttering no sound. They were receiving orders; they realised their responsibility, and they knew their duty.
The last paragraph was underlined. I hurriedly read it and looked up at them again:
"Just one more thing," I said. "These are my orders underlined:
"You must reach your objective at any cost. If driven back, you are to make a stand at the edge of the wood, and hold out till the last man falls."
It sounded like a death sentence, a forecast of the hour of trial which we were to face. Only those who have received such orders on the field of battle can realise what it feels like.
In those few dramatic moments we counted our lives as lost. We recognised how desperate was our task. Success we might hope for; but failure we must pay the price of. We must fight till the last man falls—and yet we were merely civilian soldiers.
I looked into their faces; our eyes met. I understood; I could trust them; they could trust me.
"That's all; return to your platoons and prepare to move."
They had not uttered a word through all this; no words were necessary. They jumped to their feet; saluted as though we were back on Salisbury Plain, and the next moment ran along the parados to their platoons.
I watched them, and saw them kneel down on the top of their trench, indifferent to the snipers' bullets whistling about their heads, hurriedly explaining the situation to their men.
By 3P.M.the men were ready and had closed along the trench to the wood.
The movement had been seen by the enemy, and a terrific burst of firing commenced; although, at the time I could not see what effect it was having.
I waited several minutes, but there was no further movement along the trench to indicate that the first platoon had entered the wood. I sent forward the message, "Carry on," but still no movement resulted.
At last, feeling something was wrong and unable to restrain my impatience any longer, I jumped out of the trench and ran along the parados.
What I saw there appalled me for the moment; the wood in front of me was filled with bursting shells; a continuous pr-r-r-r-r seemed to be moving backward and forward, and bullets were whistling in all directions.
Good God! what a hell! No wonder the men hesitated! What was to be done? My orders left me no alternative. I must advance through the wood. My brain kept repeating the words, "At any cost!" What a cost it would be to enter that hell! It was now, or never!
We were hesitating; something must be done, and done quickly. I looked at Farman, and I knew I could count on him.
The next moment I leaped into a newly made shell-hole, about five yards in the wood; called upon Farman to follow, and a moment later he came jumping after.
The noise was terrific. We yelled at the top of our voices for the next man to follow.
The next man to take the leap was thecompany sergeant-major. A piece of shell struck him in the side, and he rolled over on the ground, clutching at his tunic.
Again we yelled for the men to come along; and one by one they took the leap.
When six of us were in the shell-hole it was time for us to empty it to make room for others. Farman and I took it in turns to lead the way, and this process went on through the wood, leaping from hole to hole, and yelling at the top of our lungs for the others to follow us.
By this time the scene inside the wood was indescribable. Machine-gun bullets were spraying backward and forward; 6-inch shells were exploding in all directions; and the din was intensified by the crashing of trees uprooted by the explosions, and the dull thud of the missiles striking the ground.
Through the dull light of that filthy wood we frequently cast an anxious glance towards the red rockets being sent up from the German lines, directing the fire of their artillery towards us.
Sometimes, in leaping forward, we would land beside the dead and mutilated carcass of a German soldier who had fallen a week before. Itwas ghastly, terrible; and the millions of flies sucking at his open wounds would swarm about us, seemingly in a buzz of anger at our disturbance. But sickly and ghastly as the scene was, farther and farther into this exaggerated hell we must go.
By this time the cries of the wounded added to the terrors of the scene. Each time we jumped into a shell-hole, we turned to watch the men leap in. Each time it seemed that a new face appeared, and the absence of those who had jumped into the last shell-hole was only too significant.
But, undaunted by their falling comrades, each man, in his turn, leaped forward and would lie gasping for breath until his turn came for another effort.
Farman was the first to speak. It was his turn to take the next leap:
"I don't think it really matters. There's a hole about thirty yards away; I think I'll go straight for that."
He got up and walked leisurely across, as though inviting the death which seemed inevitable. He stopped at the shell-hole, and for amoment seemed to be looking down undecided whether to jump in or not.
I shouted at him:
"Don't be a damned fool; jump!"
The next moment a shell burst between us, and I fell back into the shell-hole. When I again looked out and my eyes could penetrate the smoke, I saw no sign of Farman. I yelled, and to my intense relief I saw his head appear. He was safe!
Again and again the last paragraph of my orders seemed to be blazing in front of me, and like a hidden hand from that dark inferno of horrors, kept beckoning me forward, "At any cost! At any cost!"
Yes; this must be the end; but it's hell to die in a wood.
The men used to call it Lousy Wood. What do they call it now? They were brave fellows; and they were only civilian soldiers, too! They used to be volunteers once. People would laugh, and call them Saturday afternoon soldiers.
Reviews in Hyde Park used to be a joke, and the comic papers caricatured these men, and used them as material for their jests.
They were only Territorials! That man, panting hard at the bottom of the shell-hole, and still clutching at his rifle, is a bank clerk; that man who fell at the last jump, with his stomach ripped up, was a solicitor's clerk.
Look at the others. Their faces are pale; their eyes are bulging. But they are the same faces one used to see in Cornhill and Threadneedle Street.
Yes, they are only Territorials! But here in this filthy wood they are damned proud of it.
And what is taking place in England to-day?
Is it really true that while all this is going on in Leuze Wood, orchestras are playing sweet music in brilliantly lighted restaurants in London—while a gluttonous crowd eat of the fat of the land? Is it really true that women in England are dressing more extravagantly than ever? Is it really true that some men in England are unable or unwilling to share the nation's peril—are even threatening to strike?
No! No! Do not let us think that this is the true picture of England. If it is, then, Territorials, let us die in Leuze Wood!