Now out in the trenches you'll find to your costThat the slower you shuffle the sooner you're lost;There are actions done better the quicker they're done,Like getting your rations or bombing a Hun,Or dodging a pip-squeak or catching a flea,—The quicker you do them the better they be.(From "Trench Wisdom.")
Now out in the trenches you'll find to your costThat the slower you shuffle the sooner you're lost;There are actions done better the quicker they're done,Like getting your rations or bombing a Hun,Or dodging a pip-squeak or catching a flea,—The quicker you do them the better they be.
(From "Trench Wisdom.")
The Irish were back in the trenches again. It was night; the ground was covered with snow, and Spudhole who did not feel well was glad of an hour's rest in a dug-out.
The dug-out belonged at one time to the Germans. It was a spacious apartment stretching out into unfathomable corners. The dry floor was level as a board and all round the walls snug little crannies were scraped out in the clay. Here were stored all manner of odds and ends, bully beef tins, loaves, biscuits, coils of barbed wire, hand grenades, bandoliers, water jars, tins of jam, candles and firewood.
A brazier burned on the floor, the smoke curled upwards and was sucked out through a hole inthe roof as through a chimney. A dozen men sat around the fire, their sheepskin jackets steaming and the brass buckles of their equipment shining like gold. The blaze, burning high, lit up the steady eyes and ruddied the strong features of the men. Spudhole, half asleep, leant forward over his knees, his arms folded, his shoulders humped up and his helmet well down over his face. Bowdy Benners was writing a letter, his notepaper spread out on Bubb's back, his knees crossed. An old, wrinkled man of forty-eight, named Bill Hurd, was telling how his own son had joined the Army at the outbreak of war. Hurd was an Irishman and had worked as a carpenter on a big estate in Devon, and his son John had a job in his father's workshop.
"'Twas two days after war was declared," Bill was saying, "and I was down in the kitchen waitin' till it was time to go out till my job. I was always an early riser. Upstairs I heard John singin' like a thrush. 'What's wrong with him?' I says till myself, for, though he was a good, willin' cub, he was not an early riser. When he came down I says till him, 'What's up wid ye this mornin'?' I says. 'I'm goin' till jine up,' he says. It most took my breath away. 'But ye're not only eighteen come the end of next week,' Isays till him. 'But I can be nineteen at a pinch,' he answers, and what was to be said to that? I ups and shakes him by the hand. 'Ye're a man, that's what ye are,' I says till him. 'And where are ye goin' to jine up?' I asks him. 'In the town,' he says, meanin' the town nearest where there was a recruitin' station. 'Then I'll go 'long wid ye an' see that ye're right fitted up,' I says to him. 'I must go out an' do an hour's work,' he then says. 'When I've finished that I'll be ready to go.' 'Right, me boy,' I says, for I knew that he wanted to go out and tell the other men what he was going to do.
"So we goes to the recruitin' station and the corp'ral there runs a tape over John. 'Ye'll do,' he says. 'Ye'll make a fine sodger.' So we went out, me an' him, and I goes wid him to the nearest tobacco shop. 'Now think of what ye're goin' to do,' I says till him. 'It's not an easy job, the job of a sodger. Now think,' I said, 'think, me boy.' He looked at me straight in the face and said, as if he was offended: 'Ye don't think I've done wrong, do ye?' Begorra, there and then, I just—and there were a lot iv people lookin' at us—I just caught him be the hand and squeezed it. 'Ye're a man,' I says, 'an' I'll get ye a pipe an' tobacco.'
"And so I did, and would ye misdoubt me when I say that he was as handy puttin' a match to a pipe as I was meself. But it's not easy to understand young cubs."
"When did you join up?" asked Snogger, who came into the dug-out at that moment.
"Long after that," said Billy. "There was a young fellow on the estate, the son of me mistress. A fine, hearty-lookin' fellow, a rale good lump iv a cub with laughey eyes and so handsome. He was a great friend iv mine. Well, he was an officer in the regulars, and he got hit in the eyes out here be a splinter iv a shell and he was knocked stone blind. He comes home, goes into hospital, and was there for long enough, but nothin' could be done. All hope was lost; he would be blind for life. And his mother, she took it as calm as anything. 'Billy,' she used to say to me, 'somebody must suffer and it's all for the country when all's said and done.' She was a brave woman; didn't wear her heart on her sleeve. I never saw her eyes wet, not until one day. 'Twas when her boy sent a wee fretwork letter-rack home from hospital as a present to his mother. He had made it himself, blind as he was, and it was very purty. I was doin' a bit of woodwork in the hall when it came in aparcel. The mother opened the parcel and saw what was inside.... And she began to cry as if she would never stop. After that, when anybody spoke of her boy, she would burst out weepin'.
"Well, I liked the boy," said Billy. "So I thought 'twas up to me to have revinge for him on the Germans. So I had a clean shave and went to the recruitin' office and signed on as a man of thirty-nine."
"Ye should have had more sense," said Bubb, getting to his feet, and disappearing into a corner. No doubt the boy, who was not feeling well, wanted to snatch an hour's sleep.
Snogger looked at the men.
"Six of you for rashun fatigue," he said. "Two to relieve the men on guard. Whose turn is it?"
"I'm one," said Bowdy.
"Me as well," said Billy Hurd.
"Pull yourselves together, then, and git out," said Snogger. "It's two minutes past time."
Bowdy and Billy got to their feet, buckled their equipment and went out to their posts. An hour later they came back. Bowdy shook the snow from his sheepskin jacket and sat down on the ground beside the brazier.
"It's a very cold night outside," he said. "Freeze the horns off a brass monkey, it would. Where's Spudhole?" he asked.
"Wot's wrong now? Wot d'yer want?" asked a feeble voice, as Spudhole peeped out from a dark corner by the wall. He rose to his feet and buttoned his sheepskin jacket which had become loose.
"How are you feeling now, Spudhole?" asked Benners.
"Oh, I'm all right; in the pink," said Spud. "'Ave yer a drop of water to spare?"
Bowdy handed a water-bottle to Spud; the youngster raised it to his lips and drank greedily.
"Cold water's not a drink for a night like this," said Bowdy. "What you want is something hot. If I make a mess-tin of tea, will you have some?"
"Thank you," said Bubb, handing the bottle back.
"I'm goin' to 'ave another kip now," he added. "Rouse me up when it's my turn for sentry-go."
He lay back, closed his eyes and felt very cold. At intervals he shivered, shaking from head to foot. Innumerable currents of icy air seemed to have taken up their abode in the dug-out, living, crafty currents as cruel as enemies, which stole slyly down his back penetrating between flesh andunderclothing. They blew on the back of his neck; when he turned round he encountered them on his face, they stole out from all corners incessantly chilling him with their treacherous, frozen breath. He fell asleep, woke up, and it seemed to him that a swarm of ants had got into his throat and that other ants, thousands of them, were crawling over his arms and legs.
He got up, shook himself. His legs felt very weak, his head was spinning. He tottered over to the fire. Bowdy, who was pouring a handful of tea into the boiling water, looked up.
"Good heavens, Spudhole, you are looking bad," he said. "Feeling cold?"
"Cold's not the word," Bubb replied. "I wouldn't be worse off 'andcuffed to a ghost. Wot's the time?" he asked.
"Ten to eleven," said Bowdy, looking at his wrist watch.
"Just 'bout my time for sentry-go," said Bubb in a weak voice. "I s'pose I'm gettin' trench fever or somefin'," he added.
Bowdy placed a spoonful of condensed milk in the tea, stirred it and added sugar.
"This will warm you up," he said, filling the mess-tin lid with tea and handing it to Bubb."Then you can lie down agin near the fire and I'll do your turn as sentry."
Spudhole had the lid half raised to his lips. His hand shook, the tea splashed out in little drops which fell on the brazier.
"Bowdy!" he said, in a slow voice.
"What is it?"
"I've never failed at my work yet," said Spudhole. "I'm not 'ere in the trenches to shift my jobs on to other blokes."
"But you're feeling queer," said Bowdy. "If I felt like that I would go down and see the M.O. and get shoved into hospital."
"Would you!" said Spudhole, placing the mess-tin lid on the floor. "I know better. Wot did I 'ear yer say once? Ye'd never leave your trenches when the regiment was there unless you were carried out on a stretcher."
"That was only swank," said Bowdy. "You drink your tea, Spudhole, and lie down. I'll put a couple of sandbags round you and if you're not better in the morning, just run down and see the M.O."
"Well, I'm damned if I goes away from the line," said Bubb. "Not until the battalion is wiv me. That's settled."
He bent down, raised the mess-tin and drank the tea. Snogger came to the door.
"Next on sentry-go?" he called.
"I'm there," said Bowdy.
"It's my turn," said Bubb.
"No chewin' the fat, or some of ye'll be damned unlucky," said Snogger. "'Ooever's on's on, that's all; so get some elbow grease on and 'urry out. Them that's on's a minute and 'arf over their time already."
Spudhole went out, crawled up on the firestep and relieved the sentry. Leaning both arms on the parapet, he looked over No Man's Land towards the German trenches. The levels in front, a shell-scarred spread of ground set off in its ghastly array of barbed wire entanglements, was covered with snow. Here Nature had only one mood, a mood of sulky menace which overawed and subdued the tempers of the onlookers. The sky was coldly clear and a million stars showed in its broad expanse. But Bubb's circle of horizon was very small, objects quite near at hand stood out weirdly silhouetted with a blurred, though definite outline. The trenches were wrapped in ghostly solitude, the brazier aflare in the dug-out which Bubb had just left added no relieving tint to the blind helplessness of the night.
The sick boy stood back from the parapet and clapped his hands together in an endeavour to warm himself.
"Gawd, it's cold 'ere," he muttered. "I wish I was in the dug-out 'avin' a kip. 'Twould be so much better than standin' out 'ere. But I wouldn't 'ave it, naw, not at any price. I wouldn't shove my job on to any bloke. Bowdy would do sentry-go for me, good old Bowdy, and so would old Flan if 'e warn't down at the dump, but why should they? I wouldn't mind lettin' them do it if it was out o' the trenches."
"How are you getting on, Spud?" asked a voice from the trench. "Feeling the cold?"
The boy looked down at Captain Thorley. The captain and he were great friends.
"Cold," said Spud, through chattering teeth. "It's not warm 'ere, is it, sir? I feel as cold as if I was 'andcuffed to a ghost."
"I hear that you're not feeling well," said the captain.
"I'm orlright, sir. Was a bit dicky a minute back, but the cold air 'asn't 'arf bucked me up."
"Well, you know that Bowdy will do your job for you if you're feeling queer," said Thorley.
"I know that, sir, but I'm orlright," said Bubb. "Besides, I wouldn't rob a man of 'is sleep."
Bubb finished his hour, but when his next turn as sentry came round he was unable to perform his duty. He looked helplessly at his mate.
"Bowdy," he said, in a low, apologetic voice. "I've no guts for anuvver hour's sentry-go. I'm washed out. I will go down to the M.O. not to-morrow mornin' but now. If I stay 'ere any longer, I'll 'ave to be carried out o't. But didn't I stick it to the last, Bowdy?"
"Of course, you did. I'm damned if I'd stick it so long."
"Clear out of it at once, Spudhole," said Billy Hurd. "Ye're like a ghost, somethin' like what a cat would take in on a wet day."
"Ye think I'm sick enough to leave 'ere then?" asked Bubb. "I don't want any o' the fellers to say, arter I go, that I was swingin' the lead."
"If ye stop 'ere any longer, they'll say that ye're stayin' here, hopin' that ye'll be so bad when ye leave that ye'll never be sent back again."
"Then I'm off out't," said Bubb, decision in his voice. "I'll try and be back as soon as I can."
He went outside and made his way to the dressing station. Dawn found him snug in a motor ambulance on his way to hospital.
CHAPTER XLOST TO THE WIDE
There's a rum jar in the dug-out and a parcel in the post—Fol ol the diddle ol the dee!And I couldn't be much colder were I handcuffed to a ghost—Fol ol the diddle ol the dee!There's a quartermaster-sergeant and the dug-out's his abode—Fol ol the diddle ol the dee!And a shell has hit the mail-bag and it's scattered on the road—Fol ol the diddle ol the dee!(From "The Strafed Mail-bag.")
There's a rum jar in the dug-out and a parcel in the post—Fol ol the diddle ol the dee!And I couldn't be much colder were I handcuffed to a ghost—Fol ol the diddle ol the dee!There's a quartermaster-sergeant and the dug-out's his abode—Fol ol the diddle ol the dee!And a shell has hit the mail-bag and it's scattered on the road—Fol ol the diddle ol the dee!
(From "The Strafed Mail-bag.")
It was past eight o'clock of a January evening and the soldiers in "Home Sweet Home" dug-out sat down late to tea. The dug-out was situated at the bottom of a chalk-pit near Vimy Ridge and was occupied by officers' servants, company runners, signallers and others who generally kept in close touch with battalion headquarters. The chalk pit was more or less immune from shell fire, for, being narrow and deep, it was difficult for a shell to reach the bottom, round which a ring of spacious dug-outs circled. Over the top and five hundred yardseastwards ran the communication trench which wound its way discreetly up to the British front line.
Lights gleamed in the dug-outs and sounds of laughter and singing could be heard from "Home Sweet Home." It was a capacious shelter, originally fashioned by the French, and capable of holding thirty men. At the present moment it contained some fifteen British soldiers engaged in the pleasant task of eating a substantial meal. Rations as well as the post had just come up from the railhead, rum was issued, and the parcels from home had been bulky. The meal was proceeding merrily. Some of the men were laughing and chatting, sitting on the ground, their knees crossed and mess-tins of steaming tea in their hands. Two or three were stripped and their wet clothes were hung over the fire in the brazier. All were so cool and happy that it was difficult to believe that the German shells were just dropping outside the door.... Suddenly the waterproof sheet that covered the door was raised and a newcomer entered. He stood for a moment looking round, then he approached an up-ended ammunition box which stood in the centre of the dug-out and sat down on it.
"Oh, it's old Fitzgerald," exclaimed Flanagan,now of the signalling section, who was endeavouring, with the aid of a bayonet, to draw the cork from a rum jar. "How are things going on up at Vimy?" he asked.
"Not so bad," Fitzgerald answered. "There's plenty of shells flying across, and now and again we get a Minnie, saucy devil. We do get more than is good for our health. Vimy is not the most pleasant place on our front. I've helped to take a prisoner down."
"A prisoner?" Flanagan exclaimed, handing Fitzgerald a drop of rum in a mess-tin. "A German?"
"Yes, a youngster," Fitzgerald answered, lifting the rum reverently to his lips and rolling it round in his mouth. "He was caught on a listening patrol. Wounded and unconscious. I've got to wait here until he recovers, hear what he has to say, and report back to Captain Thorley with any information. You know we fear a mine going up at the sap, for all day and night we can hear tapping under the ground."
Fitzgerald held out his mess-tin again and received another tot of rum. Then he lit a cigarette.
"There's nothing like a drop of rum," he remarked."It's 'health to the navel and marrow to the bones,' as the Scripture has it."
The hut laughed.
"What about a song, Fitz?" Flanagan asked.
"An old Irish one; a come-all-you."
"Nell Flaherty's Drake?" said Fitz in a tone of enquiry. The rum had put him in gay good humour.
"Spit it out," Flanagan yelled.
Fitzgerald commenced the song.
"My name it is Nell, the truth for to tell,I live near Coothill, which I'll never deny,I had a fine drake, the truth for to spake,Which my grandmother left me before she did die."He was wholesome and sound and could weigh forty pound,The wide world round I would roam for his sake,But bad luck to the robber be he drunk or sober,Who murdered Nell Flaherty's beautiful drake."May his temples wear horns and all his toes corns,May he always be fed on lobcourse and fish-oil,May he ne'er go to bed till the moment he's dead,May his cow never milk, may his kettle never boil."
"My name it is Nell, the truth for to tell,I live near Coothill, which I'll never deny,I had a fine drake, the truth for to spake,Which my grandmother left me before she did die.
"He was wholesome and sound and could weigh forty pound,The wide world round I would roam for his sake,But bad luck to the robber be he drunk or sober,Who murdered Nell Flaherty's beautiful drake.
"May his temples wear horns and all his toes corns,May he always be fed on lobcourse and fish-oil,May he ne'er go to bed till the moment he's dead,May his cow never milk, may his kettle never boil."
"That's the supreme curse, I think," Fitzgerald remarked, smiling lazily. "'May his kettle never boil'! Think of that—in Ireland, where the teapot's as greedy as the grave."
"Is that the end of the song?" a soldier asked from the corner.
"Only the first three verses," Fitzgerald replied. "There are forty verses in the song, but I forget the rest. My memory!" he exclaimed, rising to his feet. "Good God! I forget everything, my memory is my curse.... Who has got a cigarette to spare?"
At that moment an orderly came to the door and shouted out: "D Company runner."
"I'm D Company runner," Fitzgerald remarked.
"Report to headquarters immediately," said the orderly. "Also Rifleman Flanagan to report. Two men must take the message."
"I'm there," said Fitzgerald, turning to Flanagan and asking: "Can I have another cigarette before we go?"
He got another cigarette, placed it in his cap and accompanied by Flanagan went out into the open and across to headquarters dug-out. The adjutant was inside sitting at a table, a cup of tea and a box of cigarettes in front of him. He knew Fitzgerald very well, having met him in civil life.
"I want you to go to the Ridge as quickly as you know how," said the adjutant, fixing his eyes on the runner. "The young German has regained consciousness and he tells us that theenemy are going to blow up three mines under our front to-morrow morning at six. The men must withdraw to the second trench until further orders. I've tried to 'phone up, but can get no answer to my calls. The wire must be broken. Hand the message over to Captain Thorley or any other officer whom you may encounter. You do the same, Flanagan, and both report back here when you've done this...."
He handed a sealed envelope to Fitzgerald and the runner went out into the night, the final words of the adjutant ringing in his ears.
"Very important, remember; very important."
Fitzgerald clambered up the side of the pit with difficulty, the chalk was frittering away and the man had very insecure purchase of his feet. Flanagan followed keeping a hundred yards to rear. At headquarters another runner was receiving a similar message. One would certainly deliver it safely.
When Fitzgerald crossed the rim of the chalk pit he could see the line of battle, the starshells flaring in the heavens and the lurid flames of bursting explosives lighting up the darkness. In front a spinney where the trees were riven and shattered took on strange shapes, the lifeless ruined branches stretched outwards, as it were,in reproach and despair; the fallen trees lay on the ground like rotting corpses.
War's earthquake had rent the whole country. Dark, sepulchral chasms yawned in the ground and the whole earth seemed to have been gutted to its core. A little red-brick cottage was smashed to smithereens; the machinery of a mill stood suspended over nothing, and shapeless walls, jagged and lacerated, quivered in air, ready to fall at the first gust of wind. Where the pits were dug in the earth, shapeless heaps of white chalk were flung up, and beside one of these heaps lay a battery of field guns jumbled in inextricable confusion. The rusty steel muzzles of the guns looked grotesque and distorted; the ruined dug-out in which the gunners once lived, breathed tragedy from every broken beam and torn sandbag. Dead men lay all over the place, shamelessly exposed in the most unlikely situations. On the field of war Death is denied its privileged privacy.
Fitzgerald entered the communication trench and hurried along, panting as he ran. Two shells swooped over his head, bursting with a vicious clatter on the field behind him. Others followed, pounding at the parapet like drunken gods. He could hear the splinters hitting the parados with adull thud to the accompaniment of a thousand rifle bullets which tore at the suffering sandbags.
Fitzgerald passed through one trench crossing, then another. "I'll do it in five minutes now," he said, changing his rifle from one shoulder to the other. "I hope the mine doesn't go up before I get there. Five minutes," he muttered, "I'll be there in five minutes."
But Fitzgerald miscalculated. At the end of five minutes he found himself in a deserted trench, all alone, and then decided that it was time to turn back. Probably he had taken the wrong trench at the last crossing. He went back for a short distance and came to a junction. Several trenches crossed at this point, but the locality seemed new to him. He had not been there before.
"Well, I'm damned," he said, and then added, "I'm lost as well." He realised the danger of his plight and felt uncomfortable. Stories were often told over braziers in the dim trench traverse, and many of these stories spoke of men who went astray in the trenches and never returned. Sometimes the lost soldiers found themselves in the enemy's lines, and on other occasions they wandered up to their home parapets to fall a victim to the rifle of a nervous sentry. Fitzgeraldhad heard many of these stories and he recollected them now.
Much fighting had recently taken place on Vimy Ridge and the English and German trenches criss-crossed in several localities; in some places both parties occupied the same trenches.
Fitzgerald, alone and astray, had no definite idea of his position; he only knew that he was lost at the cross-trenches and did not know which trench led to safety. Perhaps he had passed beyond the British front. He peered over the top. The night was quiet, scarcely a rifle spoke, though many star shells were ablaze in the heavens and dropping petals of flame to the dark earth.... Right in front of Fitzgerald was a ghastly heap, jumbled and confused, a heap of dead men. And round this heap lay other dead things, rejected from the more composite and bulky distortion of war. The solitary figures lay—some face downwards, arms spread out, others curled up like sleeping dogs.
"Well, where am I?" asked Fitzgerald. "Whose starshell is that, ours or theirs?... Where's our line?"
He looked at a dead thing near him and shuddered.Then, shouldering his rifle, he made his way up the trench on his right.
"This is all right!" he muttered, passing a projecting beam of a fallen dug-out. "I passed this a minute ago ... but not this."
He detached himself awkwardly from the heap of limp bodies into which he had fallen and hurriedly retraced his steps to the junction where the dark trenches opened up to unknown mysteries.
Fitzgerald leant wearily against the wall and puzzled over many things.
"If I go over the top, what happens?" he asked himself. "Run into a German patrol, maybe, or into one of our own covering parties and they'll shoot me on sight. If I go along a trench, I'll probably get into the German lines. That won't do, either. I'm like a rat in a trap.... But I must get out of it. Yes, I must get out of it.... But how?"
The question caused a queer sensation to run down the innermost parts of his body and the sensation was one of fear. He mumbled many things to himself in a thick, quick undertone. Then, without realising the risks he ran, Fitzgerald crawled over the parapet and went out into the open, taking his rifle with him.
It was a man lying face downwards on the ground that attracted his attention first. He could have sworn that the man moved and brought a rifle to bear upon him. Fitzgerald stood upright and fired at the man twice, only to find that he was riddling a corpse with bullets. He flung himself flat to avoid the machine gun that opened fire and waited till it ceased its play. A galaxy of starshells lit up the heavens and a big shell of another pattern whirled across the open and burst with a dizzy clatter. In the distance could be heard the transports of war clattering along the roads, the clank of rails unleaded at some far-off railway siding, and gleaming luridly against the darkness could be seen the flames of a building on fire some dozen miles away. Near Fitzgerald lay a dead man, further off another, looking like an empty sack flung on the ground.
The maxim fire stammered into silence and the youth got to his feet, looked round and listened with strained ears. Somewhere near he could hear the sound of hammers and the creaking of shovels and he concluded that a working party was busy at its toil. It was impossible to determine to what side the party belonged. It might be German. The lines of trenches were very confusedand salients projected out like ducks' bills in places, and at other points they receded some five hundred yards from the opposite front. No man was ever more solitary than poor, mud-stained Rifleman Fitzgerald at that moment.
And the night was full of mysterious whispers, sounds, creakings and rustlings. Spirits seemed to lurk on the vacant face of the earth and uncanny spirits hovered over the world. In the near distance all objects took on strange, undefined shapes, well in keeping with the grotesque fantasy of war.... Suddenly Fitzgerald fancied that he heard somewhere near him the sharp snap of a rifle bolt. He turned round and scurried back to the trench which he had just left. It seemed quite a distance to traverse and he slipped over the parapet and flopped down into the mud. But not a soul was to be seen, the trench was deserted. Neither was it the trench which he had left. Here the slush reached his hips. "Well, I'm damned!" he said, and leant against the parapet. "What am I going to do? I'm going to stick here, stick well in."
Shadow and silence brooded over the place, he had descended into the stagnation of the tomb. The clammy slush ran down his top boots and settled round his heels. He advanced one step,then another, touching both walls of the alley with his outstretched hands. He looked up and saw that the walls were very steep. It was impossible to climb up; the clay was too soft, it came away in the hands, and his feet were so weighty. Besides now he was sticking. Every time he moved the mud gripped him with greater vehemence. It seemed as if his feet were slipping down the throat of a voracious monster which was endeavouring to swallow him. The floor of the trench was a treacherous quicksand, as greedy as the grave. For a moment, Fitzgerald fought madly against the embrace of this soft, elusive terror, he gripped at the walls, the mud came away in his hands, he pulled one foot out, the other sank deeper. To move was ghastly, to remain still was deadly.
"I must move," he muttered. "If I don't I'll die; if I make a struggle, my fate will rest on the knees of the gods and they may save me."
The mud was reaching his waist. To pull out one leg he had to reach forward until his face touched the mucky floor, raise his hind foot clear, bring it round with a circular motion and place it down in the slush again. The same operation had to be performed at each remove. Once, he placed his hands in the muck and tried to crawl.But the effort was futile; his hands sunk in to the shoulder and the earth rose greedily, as if wanting to clutch him.
Fitzgerald came to a halt and looked hopelessly round. Nothing was to be seen but the darkness; the night was a cavern in which he had got lost. He gripped at the wall of the trench with furious fingers and part of the parapet came away in his hands, almost burying him.
"It's no good. I'm going to peg out here," he said, as he tried to shake himself clear. "If I only had a starshell over my head I'd look for a spot to die. I would select a better spot than this, anyway, if I had choice. But they've stopped sending up starshells now.... And I should have a parcel by the post to-night," he muttered. "And another drop of rum will be going round now I think.... But is that all I've to think about?..."
He shouted at the top of his voice, but there was no reply. He yelled again and then became silent. "What's the good of it?" he asked himself in a whisper. "I don't know where I am. Maybe I'm near the German trenches. If they find me here what will they do? Tread me in, probably.... And the mine, what about it? I've still got the message in my pocket. I wishthis had happened after I had delivered the thing. But I'll go on a bit. I'll get to somewhere."
He moved forward. The first step was difficult, the next was easier, the subsoil had lost its birdlime tenacity and the slush was not as dense. A few steps further and Fitzgerald breathed. He was going up an incline, getting out of it his head was almost parallel with the rim of the trench. He burst into song:
"Four stick standers,Four lilly wanders,A hookerAnd a crookerAnd a swing about.Three sheep sharahan,Owned by Eamon Garahan,A ribagAnd a thonagAnd a coat of bawnagh brockagh."
"Four stick standers,Four lilly wanders,A hookerAnd a crookerAnd a swing about.Three sheep sharahan,Owned by Eamon Garahan,A ribagAnd a thonagAnd a coat of bawnagh brockagh."
The song suddenly stopped. A heavy shell swept over his head and burst very near. Another followed and another and Fitzgerald noticed that he had reached a junction where a number of trenches criss-crossed.
"Another damned labyrinth," he muttered. "Out you get, on to the top, Rifleman Fitzgerald," he ordered, apostrophising himself. And out he did get. It was now he discovered that his riflehad vanished, "Oh, I suppose it's in the mud," he muttered. "Lucky I'm not."
A trench showed some distance away. He made for it, slipped over the parapet and landed on something soft which moved.
"Gawd Orlmighty! Wot the —— are yer —— up ter," said a soldier, rising from the mud.
"They're shelling us," said Fitzgerald. "You'd better rouse up. What trench is this?"
"The support," said the man, "We're waitin' for a mine to go up or somefing."
The rest of the men were standing at their posts, alert and ready. The enemy had become nasty and were using an exceptionally heavy shell on the sector, but as yet it was bursting wide.
"A nine-point-two," somebody remarked to Fitzgerald, adding: "And Gawd! it doesn't 'arf send the dirt flyin' about. They'll attack, maybe."
"Any officers near here, Spudhole?" Fitzgerald asked, for he had recognised the voice of his comrade Bubb.
"'Orficers," said Spudhole. "Yes, Cap'n Thorley was about 'ere a minute ago; 'e.... Gor blimey, there's the shell again!"
Fitzgerald listened and heard "her" coming,crooning out the unknown. It was the big shell. Gathering volume it approached, an inevitable terror, a messenger of death. There was a hurried stampede to a near dug-out and Fitzgerald found himself in the crush and carried forward into the dark recess of a deep shelter. In the next few moments he was conscious of many things, of a sudden fall to the soft, muddy floor, of a choking sensation in the throat, a monstrously futile effort to drag himself clear of the man who fell on top of him, of nervous laughter and fierce imprecations. Then he sank into forgetfulness. The shell had blown the dug-out in on its occupants.
CHAPTER XIA SCRAP
We're well in the doin's. No more to be said—The orficer wounded; the sergeant is dead.If somethin' don't 'appen and that very soon,We'll not have a man in the blurry platoon—Blurry platoon,Pore ole platoon,Always it's for it; this blurry platoon.(From "A Soldier's Song.")
We're well in the doin's. No more to be said—The orficer wounded; the sergeant is dead.If somethin' don't 'appen and that very soon,We'll not have a man in the blurry platoon—Blurry platoon,Pore ole platoon,Always it's for it; this blurry platoon.
(From "A Soldier's Song.")
It was not yet dawn, and the rain dropped sullenly into the wet trench where the soldiers stood to arms on the banquette, yawning and shivering with the cold. The bayonets showed clear cut and ominous when the blazing star-shell caught them. The men on watch shook themselves, rubbed their eyes with clay-encrusted fingers, and hummed monotonous tunes. All was very quiet. The dawn was oppressive, the dark, mysterious levels had an ominous threat in their incomprehensible silence. The support trench into which the soldiers had come was a great mysterious alley filled with spectres as impalpable as air.... The dawn came imperceptibly, men stood down and spoke of breakfast. But therewas no fire; the loaves and biscuits were sodden with rain. Spudhole, who tried to open a tin of bully-beef with his clasp knife, cut his finger and swore dreadfully. His mates stared at him and nodded their heads, but did not speak....
Captain Thorley came along the trench speaking to the men on sentry-go.
"Cut your finger, Spudhole?" he asked when he came into the bay in which Bowdy and Bubb were stationed. The captain knew every man by nickname.
"Cut it," said Bubb. "Course I've cut it, sir. My fingers are so damn cold. Wot about this 'ere mine, sir?"
"It may go up now at any moment," said Captain Thorley. "You've all got to keep a good look-out. When it goes up every man cross the top and man the crater. Just as you did on Christmas morning. Bowdy will go with us this time. On the last occasion he was away, making love to some dear French girl."
Bowdy blushed.
"Pore ole Fitz 'as gone west," said Bubb. "'E's under the ground wiv a dozen tons o' muck on top o' 'im. There are five or six o' our boys buried wiv 'im. Round the corner in the next bay."
"I was looking at the dug-out that fell in," said Bowdy. "They're buried deep enough anyhow. It's no good digging them out."
"We've no time for that," said Thorley. "It's a long day's work for a big squad if it's ever attempted. Of course there's not a soul alive. Fitzgerald was coming with a message too. But it's all right, Flanagan brought the message in."
"Did you see a bay'net stickin' up froo the roof?" asked Bubb. "The dug-out fell down round it, and there it's stickin' up as if it wanted to stab somebody."
At that moment the earth trembled like a wind-shaken leaf. The men rushed to the parapet and looked over. Out in front a great lump rose on the level like a whale breaking up from the sea, and a livid flash lit the world. The soldiers sank into cover, mute, pale, hesitating. The roar of an earthquake filled their ears, and a million flying fragments filled the sky.... An almost incoherent order passed along the trench, and on the right men clambered over the sandbags into the open field.... They had to take possession of the mine crater. Snogger, Bowdy Benners and Bubb were across and in the next minute they were conscious of many things. Bubb slipped twice in getting over the top, and panted wearilyas he rushed towards the spot where the earth was lumped up black and raw. Other men rushed along at his side, shouting and yelling. Rifles were discharged wildly at no particular objective, and a group of voluble guns chorused in dizzy harmony.
The men clambered down the steep sides of the newly-formed valley, a hundred feet deep or more, and up the crest again, where it looked over the enemy's trenches. The Germans were already advancing in extended order several hundred strong. The advance was done at the double through the lurid flashes of curtain fire which the English guns had opened. The Germans were falling, and the sight steadied the men somewhat, and they trained their rifles with precision and a certain amount of calmness on the oncomers.
The English guns were now speaking with furious vehemence and the shrapnel hissed at the grey forms which were still rising over the rim of the trench in front. Bubb and Benners lay down with their mates on the slope of the parapet and fired, a bit wildly perhaps, but it was impossible to miss. A machine-gun, already in position, swayed its snout from side to side, snapped viciously, and extracted its toll from the attackers.
They came forward, rushing wildly, their bayonets in air, their legs clumsily cutting off the distance between their trench and the crater. Many in the first line of attackers were falling and several were crawling back to their own lines on their bellies. Our bombers stood waiting, fingering their bombs nervously. The stench of explosives was suffocating. Several who were overcome with the gases dropped to the ground and rolled down the slope into the bottom of the pit. Bill Hurd stood up on the verge of the crater, where the wet, glistening machine-gun peeped forth.
"Steady, boys, steady!" he cried. "Take careful aim! Don't waste a round! Make every bullet tell! We'll beat them off! We'll beat them back, back, well back! Begorrah we'll show them."
He looked enormous, standing there, shouting vehemently and waving his arms.
"Beat them back!" he yelled, repeating the same remark over and over again. His rifle lay against the rim of the crater; the bayonet, rusty and grim, peered over the top as if in waiting.
"Take good aim," he shouted, running along the rim of the crater. "Be sure of your min.... Don't get flurried.... We'll bate thimback easily!... Keep cool and don't get flurried. If ye do you'll be damned unlucky. Don't get excited," he shouted. "If you do it won't be no good."
He held his peace then and Bubb looked round to see where he had sought cover. He was lying on his face and a very tiny red scar showed on his forehead.
Although the enemy advanced at the double, the time dragged slowly for the men on the parapet. They waited in agonised suspense for closer combat; somehow the firing seemed to have very little effect on the attackers. Hundreds fell and hundreds took the place of the fallen. The rim of the foemen's parapet was like the lip of a waterfall; the men came across in waves, got dashed to pieces, and waves followed only to meet with a similar fate. The successive lines of men were endless, eternal as a running brook.
The German first line drew nearer, the English could almost see the expressions of the men's faces; felt that the soul of the attackers was not in their work. It was impossible to miss them now. The attacking lines withered like waves on a beach. One man who came in front flung down his rifle, raced towards the crater with hishands in air and jumped in on top of Bill Hurd's bayonet, a ludicrous fixture.
"Pull it out!" he yelled in agony, speaking in good English. "Pull it out, for Gott's sake!"
But there was no time to spare at that moment; the English were fighting to save their own skins. The German rolled down to the bottom of the crater with the bayonet on which he had sat still stuck in his body.
A second and a third wave of attack followed; but the concentrated fire of the defenders cut great gaps in the attackers' lines, which became merged one with the other, when half way across. The men had no heart for further movement; they drew themselves to earth, and dug holes in the ground for safety. The English artillery fire prevented them from going back, the rifles would not allow them to come forward; they were caught between two fires.
Now and again an entrenching tool could be seen rising in air, and it was fired at. When a figure in grey moved, a questing bullet reminded it forcibly of the indiscretion. At times one would rise and walk around in an unconcerned and indifferent manner, probably he had gone insane, or perhaps the pain of a wound putdeath out of reckoning. The end was in all cases the same, the bullet found the man, and the ghastly fury of destruction held its sway.
On the right they reached the wires and the boys went out and met them: there the bayonet was at work.
They came up in big droves and some fumbled through. The defenders rushed out and gave fight.... An excited machine gunner played for a minute on the crush of friend and foe....
The Germans lost heart, retreated and were followed with bayonet, bludgeon and bomb. Tripping on the wires and stepping in flesh and blood, they went back, tramping on dead and wounded. The latter groaned piteously and shrieked for mercy.
The retreat became general, the front wave of attackers receded, those which followed stood still undecided. Here and there isolated parties made great fight, holding out until the last men fell....
Some of the Irish followed them across: a large party of prisoners were surrounded near the hostile trench. The German gunners had shortened their range and were now shelling the ground between the lines.
Fighting was even more severe on the right.There a confused and struggling mass reeled round the wires in a last wild effort, and the German artillery dealt death impartially to friend and foe alike. On all sides the wounded covered the field, lying in huddled heaps, in rows, singly and in pairs. In front of the mine a German moved on his stomach, then rose to his feet and flung a bomb at a party which went out to succour the wounded. A youngster, a boy newly out, named Ryan, rushed forward with his rifle, fired and missed. Still advancing, he slid a round into the breach of his weapon, shoved the rifle close to the German's forehead and pulled the trigger. The upper part of the man's head was blown off....
All day long the men stopped in the crater, always on the alert, and in front of them a long line of earth gradually took shape on the field, which showed that the enemy worked hard digging himself in. Towards dusk the dark line took on a whitish colour; the diggers had reached the chalk and were well under cover. When darkness fell the trench was raided and the occupants taken prisoners. Then graves were dug and the dead were buried.
CHAPTER XIITHE DAY'S WORK