As I was going up the roadMa'selle said, "Voulez vousCome in and have somepain et beurreAndcafé au laitfor two."So now I hope the war won't end;I'll never go awayAnd leave my little MadamoiselleWho sells goodcafé au lait.I hope the war will never end,—A curse upon the dayThat takes me away from Madamoiselle,Who sells goodcafé au lait.(From "The Love of an Hour.")
As I was going up the roadMa'selle said, "Voulez vousCome in and have somepain et beurreAndcafé au laitfor two."
So now I hope the war won't end;I'll never go awayAnd leave my little MadamoiselleWho sells goodcafé au lait.
I hope the war will never end,—A curse upon the dayThat takes me away from Madamoiselle,Who sells goodcafé au lait.
(From "The Love of an Hour.")
Fitzgerald made his way to the barn, which was above the byre, sat down in the straw but did not unloosen his puttees or boots.
A lamp swinging from a beam lit up the apartment, showing the straw heaped in the corners, the sickles and spades hanging from the rafters, the sleepers lying in all conceivable positions, the bundles of equipment, the soldiers' rifleswhich stood piled in the corners out of the way. Now and again a rat glided across the straw, stood for a moment in the light, peered cautiously round, and disappeared. The air was full of the smell of musty wood, of straw, and of the byre underneath. All was very quiet, little could be heard save the breathing of the men, the noise of the restless cattle as they lay down or got up again. Snoggers and Benners laid themselves on the straw, Bowdy curled up like a dog, Snoggers stretched out as stiffly as a statue. Bubb undressed and Fitzgerald, getting to his feet, applied sticking plaster to the dog's bite.
"You'll go mad, you know," said Fitzgerald. "The only thing that can save you is to get three hairs of the dog that bit you and put them on here."
Having performed his job Fitzgerald sat down and Bubb dressed again. Then he lay on the straw, both hands in his overcoat pockets, one leg across the other and a cigarette in his mouth.
"Get down to it, Fitz," Snogger shouted. "Ye're damned slow o' showin' a leg in the mornin', you woman."
"It's all right, Sergeant," the Irishman replied. "I'm just goin' to look at a paper. I'll be in bed in a twinkling."
"Douse the glim 'fore you kip, then," said the sergeant. "Night!"
Fitzgerald fumbled in his pocket, brought out a newspaper and looked at it. His thoughts seemed to be elsewhere, for his eye, scanning the printed columns of an advertisement page, turned from time to time and rested on the face of Sergeant Snogger.
"I think it's safe now," said Fitzgerald, when five minutes had passed. "Old Snogger is snoring."
The sergeant was indeed asleep, but had not lost his military pose. He might have been frozen stiff while standing to attention on the parade ground and carried from there into the barn and placed down just as he had been standing. Bowdy was fighting Germans in his dreams. Bubb's cigarette had fallen on his clothes and the smell of burning pervaded the barn.
Fitzgerald got to his feet, dropped the newspaper, lifted the fag-end from Bubb's overcoat and turned out the lamp. Then, stepping across the sleepers, he made his way cautiously to the door and descended the steps leading to the farmyard. The night was very quiet; and very dark. The lights were out in the farmhouse; no doubt the occupants were all in bed.
"What am I doing out here?" Fitz asked himself. "I'm drunk, that's why." He stood still and he could feel his heart beating. Something was moving in the midden and grunting.
"It's a pig, I suppose," said the Irishman. "They're all over the place." Then he thought of the dog that had bit Bubb. "Will it bite me?" he questioned and moved hurriedly across the farmyard towards the gable end of the building. He stood there for a second to draw breath, then he went round to the back of the house.
All were not yet in bed, a light burned behind a small four-paned window and the shadow of a girl showed on the blind. Standing a little distance from the window, Fitzgerald stared at the shadow, watching its movements. For a moment he had a view of a face in profile, then of a head bent down and an arm stretching out as if pulling a needle from a piece of cloth. The girl no doubt was mending some clothes.
"That's Fifi," said Fitzgerald in a whisper. His voice was husky and a lump rose in his throat. "She's very graceful bending over her work.... Damn it! I'm in love with her.... If not that, I have a great respect for her ever since I saw her for the first time.... I suppose I have been a gay Don Juan, but Fifi....Well, I've never felt like this before.... Probably I'm drunk and to-morrow.... But all to-day and yesterday I felt the same.... I don't think I am drunk for I put the bandage on with a firm hand.... If she would open the window and look out only for a moment.... I want to see her; I must see her.... Suppose she spoke to me and then told Snogger in the morning, told him that I was hanging about her bedroom window all night, what would he say?... Oh! damn Snogger, he's a fool.... I'll tap on the pane, anyway."
Fitzgerald went up to the window, pressed his hand softly against the pane, but drew it quickly away.
"I can't," he muttered under his breath. "My God, why have I not more courage ... a gay Don Juan.... But perhaps she'd do something awful, throw a tin of water or.... A gay Don Juan," he repeated, in a louder voice, and then added: "It doesn't matter. I'll let her know I'm here."
He raised his hand and tapped lightly on the pane, then turned, walked off for a distance of a few yards and stopped. Looking back he saw the light turned down and heard the window open. The girl looked out into the darkness.
"Who is there?" she called in a low voice. "What do you want?"
Moving quietly, Fitzgerald made his way back to the window again. The girl could see him now and apparently recognised him.
"English soldier, you should be asleep," she said, in a voice charged with laughter. "Go away. What do you want?"
"I want nothing," said Fitzgerald in a hoarse whisper.
In the shadows he could see the outline of her face, which looked strangely white. "I was up at the Café," he said. "Coming back I saw the light, so I tapped.... Is it not time for you to be in bed?"
"Listen to him!" said the girl, speaking in a whisper, and bringing her face close to the man's. "Time to be in bed, indeed! What does it matter to you when I go to bed? And I have work to do. You English soldiers never work.... Go away!"
"You are always working, Fifi," said Fitzgerald, without moving from where he stood.
"Always working," repeated the girl. "We are not like English girls; they never work. They have too much money. But I must go to bed,"she said, making as though to shut the window. "Au revoir, English soldier."
"Not yet, not yet!" said Fitzgerald, speaking hurriedly. "I want to speak to you."
"What are you going to say?" asked the girl in a hesitating voice.
Fitzgerald was silent. He had so much to say, but in reality he said nothing at all. He merely coughed, unbuttoned the pockets of his tunic and buttoned them up again. He looked at the girl, and her eyes dropped.
"What are you going to tell me?" she asked.
"Nothing," Fitzgerald stammered. "I mean.... Au revoir, Fifi."
He turned round and walked away. When he got to the corner, he heard her calling.
"English soldier, come back," she said in a loud whisper.
Fitzgerald was back with her in an instant.
"What is it, Fifi?" he asked.
"Souvenir pour moi," she said, in a coaxing voice. "Jam, hat badges, many souvenirs. Boots for my father in the trenches. Other soldiers give me souvenirs often—but you—never. The sergeant gave me a big knife. Also chocolate. His mother sent it to him from England. Butyou, you never give me anything. Will you give me some souvenirs to-morrow?"
"All right, I will, Fifi," said Fitzgerald. "Many souvenirs."
"And I'll give you beer, café-au-lait, several things," said the girl, pulling the window a little way towards her. "Au revoir, English soldier."
She held out her hand, the left, the nearer to her heart, and Fitzgerald took hold of it. Fifi looked at him smiling.
"Are you in love?" he asked.
"No," said the girl. "Are you?"
"No, certainly not," said Fitzgerald. "I never have been."
"I don't believe you," said Fifi. "You English cannot be trusted. The English girls are so well dressed."
"Why don't you believe me?" asked Fitzgerald, pressing her hand, and she made no effort to withdraw it. "I have never been in love; but now ... since I have met you ... I would do anything for you, Fifi. You are the nicest girl...."
He paused, conscience stricken, for his words seemed so futile. For a moment he paused, and then a strange thing happened. In all his days afterwards he could not account for it. How ittook place was beyond his understanding, but he had taken Fifi in his arms and kissed her.
"Fifi, I love you," he said. "I'll do anything for you. After the war, I'll marry you, come here and live, or take you to England—whatever you desire.... Tell me that you care for me," he said, pressing her to his breast.
Fifi started back like a frightened fawn and pulled the window to. Almost immediately she opened it again and looked out.
"Go away, English soldier," she said, but there was no anger in her voice. "You're drunk and you should be in bed."
Fitzgerald hung around the place for quite an hour afterwards, hut Fifi did not come to the window again.
Early the next morning, after a sleepless night, he found himself in the house of Josef Babette. The man himself was away at the war, his wife and daughter were running the place during his absence. They had only one servant, a relative of Madame Babette, an oldish man, lean and twisted up, with his mouth almost hidden between nose and chin. But he was a good worker; few could surpass him at his labour on the wet level fields. Madame Babette was very industrious, she got out of bed every morning at five andnine at night saw her finishing up the day's labour. So from week to week, her toil went on all the year round. Only on Sunday did she seek a moment's relaxation, then she went to church, told her beads and prayed for her good man who was away in the trenches fighting the battles of France.
Fitzgerald was sitting near the stove, writing up his diary, a habit he contracted at the beginning of the war and which he was still religiously pursuing. Mother Babette was washing her dishes. She was a thin, shrivelled woman of forty years of age, bent a little through hard work but still untiring as an ant.
An adventurous hen was picking up the crumbs under the chairs. Two chickens, less daring than their older feathered friend, came in, stalked gingerly up to their mate, seized each a crumb in their beaks and ran off as fast as their red legs could carry them.
Mother Babette finished her work, wiped the table, dusted the stove, put the plates on the dresser and sat down. Fitzgerald continued writing, but looked up now and again and took in with his eye the walls blackened with smoke, the rafters festooned with spider webs, the strings of onions hanging from the beams, thetall wooden clock beside the dresser and the dog which lay under the table, wagging its tail and shaking its ears as if trying to get rid of flies....
Then Fitzgerald's eyes were attracted by something else. Outside the door Fifi was standing, throwing crumbs to the hens which clustered round her feet. She was a well-built girl of eighteen with velvety black eyes and a fascinating face. She wore a grey blouse and a striped petticoat which reached a little lower than her knees, strong sabots and a kerchief which was tied carelessly around her head. A prudent and hard-working girl, she had already fed the pigs, foddered and milked the cows, in addition to the hundred and one little things which must be done every morning in a farmyard. She was in a good humour when she entered the house, her white teeth and bright eyes were made for laughter, and the girl's face generally wore a provokingly coquettish expression. But behind it all lay hidden a reserve of restraint and dignity which showed itself when the soldiers, speaking as soldiers often speak, went too far with an indelicate jest. Fifi would look steadily, with wide open eyes, at the speaker for a moment, then the eyelids would slowly descend and the girlwould rise to her feet and proceed with her work.
This morning, she went up to Fitzgerald where he sat beside the stove, writing.
"To your sweetheart?" she asked.
The Irishman flushed crimson and closed the diary.
"No, I have no sweetheart."
"You haven't slept; you look tired," said Fifi.
"I couldn't sleep. How could I, after last night?"
What a fool he had been, he thought. Raving of love and marriage at the café, then proposing marriage to Fifi. If Snogger and Bubb and Bowdy knew all that had happened last night, what would they say? They would never cease twitting him. And Fifi. What was she thinking of now? Of the affair at the window, probably. He looked up at her. Her eyelids dropped, but behind this shyness there was something impetuous and passionate in the whole of her personality. And he had kissed her last night. He had pressed those lips in one great kiss. But now she seemed very far removed from him. And the souvenirs. The request of the night before seemed so unworthy of the girl.
"You couldn't sleep last night," said Fifi. "Why not?"
"I was thinking of you, of all that took place."
"But you were drunk?"
"I was not. I remember all that happened. I have gathered up a lot of souvenirs for you."
"I don't want any," said the girl. "I was only joking."
"But you must."
"No, no. Have some coffee. Who are you writing to?" she asked.
"Nobody," said Fitzgerald. "It's part of a diary."
"Is that true?"
"Yes, quite true."
"Not writing to a woman in England?" said Fifi. "There was a soldier here some time ago. He used to run after me. And I discovered that he had a wife in England."
"I have neither wife nor sweetheart," said Fitzgerald. "But if you, Fifi.... I am serious, you know...."
At that moment a French soldier came to the door, a man of about forty-two. Over his shoulder he carried a kit-bag. Fifi and her mother ran up to the man and embraced him. Josef Babette was back home on leave, after seven months of war. He was a strong-muscled, well-built man of medium size, a good soldierand diligent worker. He was a well-to-do farmer, a respectable man, who was trusted by his neighbours and bounden to none. He placed his kit away carefully in a corner, bade good morning to Fitzgerald, and sat down. Fifi brewed a fresh pot of coffee; Babette spoke about the war. He had just come from Souchez, and it was a bad locality. He had never known a spot as bad. No peace day or night. And as far as he could see the war would never come to an end.
He drank his coffee, got to his feet, and went outside. Fifi, whose eyes were wet with tears of gladness, lifted the kitbag from the ground and took it into the bedroom.
"Where has your father gone?" Fitzgerald asked her when she returned.
"Oh, he has gone out to work," she replied.
"Things are behindhand on the farm. We have so little help."
Fitzgerald went out into the farmyard. Josef Babette was harnessing a cart-horse, his coat off and his shirt-sleeves thrust up over his elbows. Sergeant Snogger was washing at the pump.
"Ow're yer feelin' after last night?" he asked.
"Not so bad, sergeant," Fitzgerald replied.
"Been in seein' Fifi?" asked the sergeant.
"I have," said Fitzgerald. "She's a splendidgirl. I love her, and if she'll have me after the war, I'll marry her. God! there's something grand in her; too good for me. But I don't know what to make of her. She won't trust me, thinks I'm married, or something like that. And I love her, but she refuses to understand me. We are so far apart, somehow."
Snogger looked through his soapsuds at Fitzgerald, astonished at the Irishman's burst of confidence.
"There is nothing artificial about the girl," Fitzgerald continued. "She is grand, so simple and original. She says what she thinks and is far too childish to hide her thoughts. And I don't think she has much of an opinion of us."
"I don't think any of these 'ere French wenches care much for an English Tommy," said Snogger. "They'll go a little way wiv 'em and then they turn the deaf ear. I never was able to fool about wiv 'em. They're more freer than English birds at first, but it's ''ands off' if you want too much. They're all right if it's only cawfee and kisses, but ye'll never get any further."
Snoggers winked knowingly and laughed. Fitzgerald made his way into the barn.
CHAPTER IVTO THE TRENCHES
I knew a bird at 'Ammersmith and free or four at Bow,But that was 'fore the war begun, a damned long time ago;But I'm a blurry Tommy now and never lose a chanceWhen far away from dear old Smoke to kiss the girls o' France.Never lose a chance,Lead the dears a dance,'Twasn't bad at 'Ammersmith; God! It's fun in France!(From "Forgotten Girls.")
I knew a bird at 'Ammersmith and free or four at Bow,But that was 'fore the war begun, a damned long time ago;But I'm a blurry Tommy now and never lose a chanceWhen far away from dear old Smoke to kiss the girls o' France.Never lose a chance,Lead the dears a dance,'Twasn't bad at 'Ammersmith; God! It's fun in France!
(From "Forgotten Girls.")
It was early morning; the soldiers billeted in Y—— Farm were rousing themselves and making preparations for the march up towards the firing line. It was now coming towards the Christmas season; the weather was cold and rainy, the farmyard damp and muddy, and a haze rose over the midden in the centre of the yard. Inside the farmhouse two officers were sitting down at the only table eating a breakfast of bread, butter, eggs and tea.
The soldiers were in the barn preparing their early meal. The barn seen in daylight was a cold, bleak, cheerless place, with a broken roof and rough uneven floor. The men shivered asthey toiled. They had slept in the cold and felt frozen when they got up. A big fire had been lit in the byre beneath; the smoke filled the whole place and stung the eyes of the soldiers who worked at the cooking.
Sergeant Snogger was superintending operations upstairs and fretting, fuming and coughing. He was in a very bad temper, having lost a week's wages at the gambling table the night before.
"'Urry up, you men," he yelled. "I never seed as slummicky a crush in my natural. Ye're slouchin' about same as if ye were in the trenches. Come on Bowdy! Come on Fitz! Get a blurry move on, ye Spudhole! Ye're dowsy, men, ye're dowsy! Ye must wake up. We're off from here in an hour's time and we've a long march before us. We'll be in the trenches for Christmas."
"Where are we stopping to-night?" asked Fitzgerald, who was pouring tea into a messtin of boiling water, brought up from the byre.
"At the Ritz," said Snogger with fine irony.
"I heard we were billeting at Vinant," someone remarked.
"I thought we were bound for Bethune," Bowdy Benners said as he lifted a rasher of bacon from the lid of his messtin.
"You thought," spluttered Snogger. "Gawd Almighty, man, you're not paid to think in the army! If you think too much you'll find yourself damned unlucky. Anyhow, you'll find things hot in the trenches when you get there this time, I'm telling you," he continued, lowering his voice. "There's big things in the wind. We are going up by slow stages. I'm glad that we're goin'. I don't like these rests; there's too much damned work to do. Give me the trenches when I'm on the look-out for a cushy time. It's better than 'ere."
The sergeant took stock of the apartment with vigilant eyes.
"Now this 'as to be swept out 'fore you go 'way," he said. "All fag-ends, straw and everything 'as to be cleaned out."
"Wot's the 'ell good o' cleaning this caboosh," growled Bubb. "It can't be made clean."
"It's got to be done," said Snogger, raising his eyebrows with the decision of a verdict beyond appeal. "It's horders, and if horders isn't obeyed ye'll find yourselves damned unlucky.... 'As anybody got a fag to spare?"
Somebody handed the sergeant a cigarette and he lit it. This seemed to put him in a good humour and he began relating to Bowdy Bennersthe story of his card-playing the night before.
"Couldn't get a card," he said. "I was dead off all the night. Once I got a top trotter, but Sergeant MacManus had a priol of deuces. I went some money on my 'and that go. But it's as I've always said: 'When a man's luck's out s'out, but when it's in s'in.'"
The sergeant paused as if waiting for the full wisdom of his remark to sink into Bowdy's brain. Then he shouted at the top of his voice, "Get ready, men, get ready! We'll soon be movin' off," and went out to the farmyard.
Much work was yet to be done, rifles had to be cleaned, odds and ends had to be collected from the straw. Here a knife and fork was found, there an entrenching tool handle, a tin of bully beef, a towel and a cake of soap. A great amount of stuff is lost in large barns; things disappear mysteriously, lost in the straw or stolen, perhaps, by the children of the billet. Soldiers treating themselves to meals at village cafés often find themselves served up with bully beef in new guise.
Outside in the farmyard the fowls were standing on the smoking midden, several of them scratching the dung with crooked claws in search of worms. In the midst of the assembly, a rooster,proud as Lucifer, was clucking amorously. Now and again he selected a gentle hen, walked leisurely round her and strove to attract her attention. The hen would fix a careless but coquettish look on him, stretch out a wing and stand on one leg for a moment. Afterwards she would succumb and the triumphant Sultan would stretch out his neck and crow a challenge to any cock that dared to listen.
At the hour of nine the battalion was ready to move off. The men were in a good temper now and full of confidence. The every-day inspection of equipment had been gone through, rifles had been examined and the men's feet looked at. All were so cool that it was difficult to believe that they were going up to the trenches, in which doubtless a number of them would lay down their lives. Most of the soldiers carried big French loaves on the back of their packs. The loaves had been holed through the middle, a string was placed in the hole and tied to the dees on the braces.
Sergeant Snogger made a final inspection of his platoon.
"'Ave yer everything?" he asked, then without waiting for an answer he went on: "Course yer should 'ave everything. If ye 'aven't ye 'aven'tand that's all. Here, where the devil is Fitz?" he asked.
"Forgot somethin' and 'e's gone into the barn," Bubb replied.
"I see, I see," said Snogger, winking knowingly. "Fifi 'as gone in too, to 'elp 'im look for what 'e's forgot."
"'E's fair dotty on the bird," said Bubb.
"But 'e's forgotten hisself," Snogger remarked. "If Captain Thorley finds 'im missin' he'll be for it. Ah, 'ere 'e comes."
Fitzgerald came out from the barn fully equipped and took his place in the ranks.
"Ye're just in time," said Snogger. "Another minute late and ye'd be for it."
Fitzgerald laughed awkwardly and cast a sheepish glance back at the barn. Fifi was standing at the door, and Bubb vowed she was crying.
"Fancy 'er cryin' cos you're goin' off, Fitz," he said.
Fitzgerald did not reply.
The company marched off, the men singing at the tops of their voices; Spudhole, as was his wont, leading the singing. He was a most vivacious youth, full of high spirits and good humour,fond of his fun and his beer, and as vital at the end of a journey as at the beginning.
Despite the distance which a regiment may travel, the soldier is as circumscribed in his area as the spoke of a limber wheel. The space is confined, and Spudhole Bubb was no less a prisoner on the march than he had been in the guard-room. Always the same mates in front, the same ruddy necks pressed sturdily back, the same red-brick hands swinging across the khaki, the same entrenching tool handles waving backwards and forwards, the same round loaves tied to the packs, the same red-haired sergeant with the tops of his ears pressing tightly to his head, the same platoon commander who now and again stood out from the ranks and shouted the ancient words of command. "Get a step there, get a step!" or "Cover off from the front" or some such order. Once in every hour a whistle was blown and the whole battalion halted. The Captain of a company would step out in front, halt, turn about and shout at the top of his voice, "Ten minutes. Left of the road. Fall out!"
The men would loosen their equipment and throw themselves down anywhere. Cigarettes would be lit, jokes passed, and rations taken out of haversacks. A few would drink from theirwater bottles, sipping the water carefully, for it was impossible to know when the next pump would be reached.
At the end of the fourth hour and the sixteenth fag (Spudhole computed the length of a march by the number of fags he smoked on the route), Fitzgerald, who had been silent for quite a long time, turned to Benners and said: "You know, I had a damned strange dream last night. I dreamt that I was up in the trenches fighting a big German who got in my way somehow, and he ran his bayonet through my neck."
"You may get killed this time," said Benners.
"No, not this time," Fitzgerald replied. "I decided that by the cards last night. 'Red: I come back safe; black: I don't' I said to myself, cut the cards and turned up the ace of hearts. A good omen."
"'Ear old Fitz!" muttered Spudhole, "'e's always pullin' our legs."
"You don't understand, Spudhole," said Fitzgerald. "I'm damned superstitious. Once I dreamt...."
"One night I had a dream," Bubb interrupted. "Dreamt I was 'avin' a feed at the S.P.O.[A] shop. Next day I was at the street corner a dogger-onfor flatties. As I was there a copper comes round the other turnin' and flops into the banker school. 'Twasn't arf a barney. They sets about 'im an' knocks 'im down and I gets 'is 'at and I kicks it along the street. Didn't arf make a big 'ole in it either. But I was unlucky, for two other coppers comes up and collars me. I was put in the reformatory."
[Footnote A: Sausage, potato and onion.]
Sergeant Snogger detached himself from the ranks.
"Oo's got a fag to give away?" he asked as Fitzgerald came up.
"Here's one," said Fitzgerald, handing the sergeant a cigarette.
"'Ave yer 'eard about the German as was captured about 'ere the other day?" asked Snogger, marching by the side of Fitzgerald and lighting the fag. "'E was got sleeping in a ruined cottage near the Café Belle Vue. Dressed in khaki, with the badge of the A.S.C."
"Good God! I must have met that man," said Fitzgerald, and told for the first time the story of his adventure on the night of his return from the Café.
He told the story in full, frequently interrupting himself and going back in the narrative to present a detail which he had forgotten. Whenhe had finished he looked at Snogger, who had listened very attentively, and suddenly realised that the sergeant did not believe him. To be sure, Fitzgerald had wandered away a little from the absolute truth, and the story of his own behaviour had lost nothing in the telling. A sarcastic smile showed on Snogger's lips and Fitzgerald suddenly wished that the narrative had never been told.
"Damned good, or in French, tray bon!" said the sergeant in a drawling voice. "Blurry fine story. That A.S.C. bloke told me all about it. 'E was one of our own men, too, not an A.S.C. at all. You don't know the feller. 'E's in another company. But 'e's allus up to a joke. We planned it all out in the Café after old Fatty 'ad told that cock and bull story about the Germans breakin' through. The A.S.C. man was to wait for you on the road outside. Wasn't that the ticket, Spudhole?"
"That was 'ow we planned it out," said Bubb.
Fitzgerald puffed his cigarette viciously and his face was crimson. For a moment he was silent, then he spoke, turning to Bubb.
"I cannot follow your remark, Bubb," he said in a slow voice. "The crash of your falling aitches drowns all other sounds. You shouldtake a lesson in pronunciation from Sergeant Snogger. If you listen to him when he orders the 'wear wanks to wipe their wifles wiv woily wags,' you can't fail to become a master of English as it is spoken."
The sergeant blushed red as a beetroot. His imperfections in speaking were a great eyesore to the man, and only once before had he been twitted about the matter. Then thick ears and black eyes were kept as mementoes of the occasion.
But now he could say nothing; he had given Fitzgerald sufficient provocation to warrant the jibe. Without another word he went back to the head of his platoon. Fitzgerald relapsed into silence and the march went on.
At one o'clock came the order "Halt! Left of the road! Fall out!" And the men sank down wearily. Their packs were very heavy and their weight seemed to increase at every yard, justifying the soldiers' proverb: an ounce at the start is a pound at the finish.
"Blimey, I don't know why we carry all this 'ere clobber about wiv us," Spudhole muttered, leaning back on his pack and stretching out his legs to their fullest extent. "Ballyclavvy 'elmet, trench 'elmet, gas 'elmet and cap," he enumerated. "Bay'net, 'ipe, trenchin' tool, munition(unner and eighty rounds), 'ousewife, 'oldall, ground sheet, messtin, razor, soap, comb, towel, paybook, clasp knife, iron rashuns, knife, fork and spoon, a bottle of water, a tin of condensed milk, a tin of café-o-lay, chocolate, matches and a box o' fags...."
"I'll carry yer fags for you if you like," said Bowdy Benners.
"Will yer?" muttered Bubb. "I've lost things that way 'fore now."
"There are a lot of things which you haven't mentioned yet," Fitzgerald remarked. "There's the first field dressing, the loaf, your overcoat and spare shirt, pants, socks and vest. By the way, what are we stopping here for?" he asked. "There's no sign of dinner as far as I can see."
"You're damned unlucky about dinner," said Snogger, coming up at that moment. "There's no dinner, not yet for a while, anyhow. We're going away from 'ere by buses soon as they come along."
"Where to?" asked Bowdy Benners.
"'Ome," Snogger answered sarcastically. "'Ome to the trenches. Big doins up there, I s'pose."
"It's like the blurry Army," Bubb remarked with an air of finality. "Turnin' us out to fightwhen we're just ready for a bit o' grub. I never could 'old with this 'ere war. Look, there they come, curse 'em!"
An omnibus came in sight, then a second, a third; coming from a village through which the battalion had just passed. As the vehicles drew up the spirits of the soldiers seemed to rise, jokes were passed with the drivers, mock enquiries were made and jesting answers were given: "Is this the bus for Wandsworth?" "Not this one—next along this way, No. 32." "Fares, please." "Full inside; room for two on top," etc.
The soldiers got on to the buses, which set off hurriedly when all were aboard. Nobody seemed to know where the battalion was bound for, but all anticipated big things ahead. The soldiers' hearts vibrated with a strange expectant thrill—something great was going to happen. Where? When? The men asked one another, but none could answer the questions. They stood on the threshold of great events; children outside the door of a chamber of mysteries.
CHAPTER VMARCHING
The good French girls will cook brown loaves above the oven fire,And while they do the daily toil of barn and bench and byre,They'll think of hearty fellows gone and sigh for them in vain—The billet boys, the London lads who won't return again.(From "Soldier Songs.")
The good French girls will cook brown loaves above the oven fire,And while they do the daily toil of barn and bench and byre,They'll think of hearty fellows gone and sigh for them in vain—The billet boys, the London lads who won't return again.
(From "Soldier Songs.")
The men moved wearily, grunting and stumbling, their uniforms muddy and dirty, their rifles held at all angles. Now and again one would stand still for a moment, look round, readjust his equipment braces and continue marching. On all faces was a sluggish indifferent look: the march from Y—— Farm had begun centuries ago and would never end. They kept walking and walking, drowsily heedless of all that went on around them.
Although midwinter the day had seemed very close, the night seemed closer still. The men sweated as they marched. The silence was profound, hopeless and oppressive. The crunchingboots were part of the eternal monotonous silence; when the column halted the cessation of movement came like a blow and almost stunned them as they stood. Where was the battalion going to? Nobody seemed to know and nobody cared now. Weariness had killed the men's curiosity.
Sergeant Snogger came along on the right flank of his company during one of these stoppages; his feet moving ponderously, his back crooked like an old man's.
"What's up?" somebody asked.
"Feel to the left or you'll be damned unlucky," he said. "Reinforcements!"
His voice was almost incoherent and his tones were charged with impatience.
Dark bulks took shape on their right, creaked and thundered for a moment, then vanished.
"Reinforcements!" someone muttered, and added: "On buses, London buses. Same as we came on t'other day. And we've been marching nearly all the time since then!"
Again the living body crawled forward step by step. Bubb leant forward on Fitzgerald's arm, fell asleep but still continued his march. Fitz could feel Bubb's hand on his own; it was soft and warm but very heavy. He tried to shake itoff but it clung tighter.... Why was it done to him? The Irishman was not conscious of having done any wrong. But to press his hand with pincers and crush him down with a steam hammer—it was too much.... He was falling through space with a monstrous load on his shoulders. Down, down, ever so far down and no bottom. The fall was endless. A branch of a tree stretched out towards his hand and he strove to grip it. It evaded him and he still fell.... Fitzgerald suddenly bounced into conscious life to see figures moving forward right in front of him. Then he knew that he was still marching, marching up to battle. "What battle?" he asked himself, and then became annoyed at his own curiosity. "I don't know," he muttered. "What the hell does it matter, anyway?"
"Are you sleepy?" asked Bubb, who had woke up.
"No," the Irishman answered unconcernedly. "Please take your hand away! Take it away at once."
Bubb paid no heed but his hand gripped tighter still. Fitz tried to shake it off, but the effort was monstrously futile. But what did it matter? He was living in a confused and muddled nightmareand his mind was a great vacant chamber filled with spectres more impalpable than air.
"The lights!" somebody said. "Look at them!"
The starshells seemed very near, blazing in the heavens, green, red and white. The green was restful to look upon, the white hard and cold; the red starshells were lurid wounds dripping with blood. Fitz shuddered and his eyes sought the ground again....
"On the left of the road, fall out!"
The command was given in a weak voice and the men dropped down on the withered grass. It was now almost dawn; the ambulance waggons were tearing along the road and the wounded could be heard groaning and cursing as the vehicles were jolted from side to side on the cobbled way.
The battle to which the London Boys were going was at an end now. The soldiers were dimly conscious of this but all were indifferent to the result of the conflict.... Most of the men were already asleep. A cold breeze was blowing and high up in the air the starshells werestill blazing merrily over the firing line.... Soldiers came tottering back from battle in platoons, in squads, in pairs. They were all war-worn and dejected, they straggled by, their heads sunk on their breasts. Now and again the men spoke to them, but they seldom made answer and when they replied their answers were ever the same.
"The Boche attacked," they said. "Christ! he didn't half send some stuff across 'fore he came over. We chased him back. But 'twas a fight."
Fitzgerald lay close to the earth and he could smell the moist clay and dead grass. It was very cold too. He turned over on his side and stretched out his legs to their full extent. It was now on the fringe of dawn....
The earth grew pale and objects in the near distance took on definite form....
Fitzgerald woke with a start and got to his feet. He had been asleep for a few minutes only. His mates were buckling their belts and grumbling at their lot. What was going to happen now? Going back again and all that damned trek for nothing. Not one of them could march another hundred yards....
"We're not going far back," Snogger said. "Just a mile or so and we'll billet at a village.Then you can all 'ave a kip. That's if ye're lucky."
"And the attack?" Fitz asked. "Was it beaten off?"
"Yes," said the sergeant. "The Germans got as far as our trench and there they stopped; some of them for good. We're lucky we weren't in it, I'm thinking.... Come on, boys, and pull yourselves together," he shouted. "We've got to get out of this before it gets too clear. It'll soon be broad daylight, and we'll be damned unlucky if we're 'ere then."
Wounded men who were able to walk straggled along the road. When they fell they fell silently and got up mutely. But many fell and did not rise.
The men were well on their way when dawn broke, and the rim of the sky flushed crimson. Dead mules lay on the cobbled ways, torn with ghastly wounds; drivers in khaki, helplessly impotent, lay huddled amidst their broken limbers. The roadway was gutted by shells and the poplars that lined the path were scarred and peeled by many a projectile. Behind, the shells were bursting and the sound of explosions quivered through the crisp clear air.
If the men looked back they could see the hillsbehind, rising out of the dawn, the white mists in the Zouave valley—the valley of Death, the Cabaret Rouge, the inn on the Souchez Road, and Souchez itself which is now a heap of powdered dust. War had rent and riven many a village but Souchez it had powdered to dust. Not the fragment of a single wall remained standing and not a whole brick remained of the village of Souchez.
Higher than any of the hills of Lorrette rose "The Pimple," the highest peak in the district. From the top mile after mile of the surrounding country was visible—woods, roads, towns, villages and canals. The French were supposed to be holding it.
Sergeant Snogger, who had been marching in front, came back and kept in step with Bowdy Benners and his mates.
"The French lost 'The Pimple' last night," he said. "There were two thousand 'oldin' the place and the Germans turned every damned gun they'd got on it. Blew it to blazes, they did. Not one Frenchman came back; and they say none was taken prisoners. They were damned unlucky."
Half-an-hour's march brought the men to a little village, broken, ruined, untenanted. Therethey halted while the officers inspected the cellars, seeking shelter where their men might sleep. Snogger's friends were lucky and found a cellar, the floor of which was littered with hay, and here they lay down, but not before they lit a candle to frighten the rats away. Holding himself erect, Snogger tried to unbuckle his equipment, but his fingers were unable to perform the task. "Damn it!" he shouted in a petulant voice and collapsed in a heap on the straw where he lay crumpled up. He might have been hit in the head by a bullet so sudden was his fall.
The men lay near the bottom of the cellar stairs; the apartment lost itself in unfathomable corners, and there the rats were scurrying backwards and forwards. Bowdy was just dropping off to sleep when a hoarse sepulchral yell echoed through the cellar and a strange unearthly figure rushed into the circle of candle-light, waving his arms in the air and shouting in a strange incoherent voice. The men were looking at a French soldier.
He came to a halt at the foot of the stairs; his eyelids slowly opened, the eyes took in the apartment—the dim candle, the forms lying on the floor.
"Who are you?" he asked in a steady voice.Then as if collecting his scattered wits he muttered: "You are billeted here. I have just come down from the 'Pimple'.... I'm the only man left.... Who has a drop of water to spare?"
Thus did Fitzgerald, who woke up, translate the man's remarks. Bowdy gave him a drink of water. He lay down again in one of the men's overcoats and was soon asleep. As the men dozed off one by one the rats drew closer, peering curiously out from the darkness of the remote corners of the cellar.... Fitzgerald fell asleep to awake suddenly with a start. A rat had run over his face.
"The damned pests," he muttered getting to his feet. "I can't stand them. I'll get outside and sleep on the ground. God! it's strange how a little thing like a rat disturbs me," he muttered.
He went outside, lay down on the cobbles and slept the sleep of a weary man.
In the evening the battalion marched away from the neighbourhood of Souchez and entered the Loos Salient just in time for the Christmas season.
CHAPTER VICHRISTMAS EVE