Rations enough to go round;Rations enough to go round;Gawd, it's enough!And it's horrible stuff;But still there's enough to go round.(From "The Song of the Best Fed Army.")
Rations enough to go round;Rations enough to go round;Gawd, it's enough!And it's horrible stuff;But still there's enough to go round.
(From "The Song of the Best Fed Army.")
In the village the houses were fractured by high explosive shells, the windows were paneless and the doors latchless, chimneys had been hurled to the ground and pounded to dust. Now in the Summer it was sad to see the fallen homes of the little people, especially in these days soft with sunshine, glorious days when men whispered to themselves secretly: "How good, how very good it is to be alive." The mad vitality of life exulted itself amidst scenes of demolition and decay; young blood pulsed warmly, the quick walked through the barren streets of the village, young men pleased with their vigour and their calling. Man values existencein haunts where he holds insecure purchase of life.
A solitary violet peeped coyly out from between two bricks which topped a heap of rubble by the roadway near the church. The heap of rubble had once been a home. The cataclysm of continents, the hatred of kings, the mustering of armies, the thunder of guns, were all needed in the making of this—a mean little nook on a rubble heap where a modest violet blossomed.
Like cats to their accustomed haunts the natives clung to their village and braved danger and death in preference to exile. But now in the day of big things the authorities removed the villagers and sent them back to localities further away from the firing line.
The villagers left the place without a moan; placid fatalists who had lived and died midst the thunder of a thousand guns; they accepted the change mutely and left in silence their native place when ordered to do so. They took away much of their portable property and left much of it behind. On the eve of Lammas Day Spudhole Bubb caught two homeless chickens fluttering despairing wings outside the estaminet La Concorde in the village.
"'Ow am I to kill these 'ere h'animals?" heasked Bowdy Benners, who accompanied him. Bowdy's face still bore the marks of his encounter with the German sniper.
"Put a bullet through them," answered Bowdy, looking at the chickens.
"That'll blow 'em to blazes," said Bubb.
"Then wring their necks."
"'Ow?"
"Like this," said Bowdy getting hold of a water-bottle by the neck and swinging it round his head.
"I've a better plan," said Bubb gazing at the door of the estaminet. "You open that there door and I'll 'old the neck of the 'en against the jamb. I'll say 'One! two! free!' And at the word 'free' you swings the door wiv a bang against the post an' you'll snick the neck of a 'en like winkin'."
The operation was performed with great success, the chickens were decapitated and Bubb's thumb was bashed into an ugly purple.
"That's a go," he muttered. "Not much of a gyme killin' chickens like this."
"Not much of a gyme indeed," said Bowdy. "But they'll make a good meal, these fowl."
"An' there's a bloomin' dawg too as was leftbehind," said Bubb, pointing his finger at the top window of the estaminet.
It was looking down at the two soldiers, a lean dog with plaintive eyes and a queer crooning cry which said as plainly as any doggie can say: "Take me away from this place."
"Why doesn't it come down the stairs?" asked Bowdy Benners.
"Why?" said Bubb. "'Cos there ain't no stairs; they've been blown away by a shell."
"Then we've got to get the poor thing down," said Bowdy.
"'Ow?" asked Bubb, then without giving Benners time to answer, he said: "Oh, I knows 'ow. There's a ladder round the corner. We put it up and take the beggar down."
Raising the ladder they placed it against the window sill, clambered up and rescued the dog which they placed on the street. Then Bowdy and Bubb went up the ladder again and entered the room.
"What's that thing under the bed?" asked Bowdy who had noticed a dark bundle on the ground.
Bubb peeped under and drew back his head as suddenly as if somebody had given him a blow on the face.
"It's a dead bloke," he said. "Let's get out."
They reached the street to find the dog lying on the pavement wagging its tail.
"It's so pleased with us," said Bowdy. "It might have died with hunger up there."
"Pleased!" echoed Bubb. "The damned ungrateful swine! Take that, and that!"
The two kicks were neatly delivered on the animal's hindquarters and it rushed off, howling.
"Ate our two blurry chickens and us rescuin' 'im. Anyway we've the taters. We'll get back to the trench and cook 'em."
"I'll be back as soon as you," said Bowdy. "But I'll run down to Rentoul and get a bottle of champagne. I've a few francs to spare."
On reaching the trenches Bubb found Flanagan just finishing a good dinner of fried potatoes and onions.
"Blimey, I've taters, lots of 'em and if you give me some h'onions I'll make myself a bit of a feed," said Bubb to Flanagan. "I do feel empty inside."
"Yes, I've got some onions to spare," said Flanagan. "Are you going to cook now?"
"I'm goin' to cook now," said Bubb, "but I want some lard or something greasy for fryin'."
"Good idea," said Flanagan.
"What did you fry the taters in?" asked Bubb.
"Oh, I fried them in—vaseline," was Flanagan's reply.
"Git out!"
"Yes, I did."
"Truth?"
"Oh, it's quite true," Flanagan lied, "you should try it."
"So I will," said the simple Bubb, and so he did. He used a whole box of vaseline, frying his taters on a mess-tin lid placed over a little fire at the base of a traverse. He ate his portion with great zest, vowing that he never had had a better repast in all his life. Part of the feed he kept for Bowdy.
Flanagan, delighted with the little joke, told Sergeant Snogger how Spudhole Bubb had used vaseline in frying potatoes. Snogger came up to Bubb as the latter sat smoking a Woodbine in the corner of the dug-out.
"Spudhole Bubb," he said, "what's wrong with ye?"
"Wiv me?" asked Bubb. "There's nuffink wrong wiv me."
"Ye're lookin' very pale," said Snogger. "I never saw a man look as bad. Have ye had no dinner?"
"No dinner!" exclaimed Bubb. "I 'ad the best meal ever I 'ad."
"It can't have agreed with you," said Snogger. "You look as white as a ghost."
The sergeant walked away and Flanagan poked his head through the door.
"Good God, Bubb!" he exclaimed, "what has happened to you?"
"'Appened to me!" said Bubb. "Nuffink, man. Wot gyme are yer up to?"
"No game at all," said Flanagan. "But you look bad. You should go and see the doctor this evening."
Bubb looked in the little mirror which he always carried about with him (he was really a devil for the girls), and he thought that he was looking white.
"But I don't feel bad," he said to Flanagan.
"You mayn't feel bad," said the Irishman, "but by heaven! you look bad. Is it yer nerves that are givin' way?"
"I've no nerves," said Bubb.
Bowdy, who had just returned, was the next to pass a remark on Bubb's condition.
"What has happened to you, matey?" he asked. "You look like a dead hen."
"I'm orl right," said Bubb, but there was anote of concern in his voice. "I 'ad the best dinner ever I 'ad a moment ago. There's some left for you."
"Has it disagreed with you?" asked Bowdy. "What kind of dinner was it?"
"Taters and h'onions fried in vaseline," was Bubb's reply. "The same taters that we got...."
"Vaseline!" Bowdy repeated, "Vaseline! Vaseline!"
"Wot's wrong wiv vaseline?" Bubb enquired.
"What's wrong with it, man," said Bowdy, "everything's wrong with it. Devil blow me blind, it's poison, pure poison. No wonder you're looking white."
Bubb cast an imploring look on Bowdy. He was now evidently frightened.
"I do feel something wrong with me inside," he said.
"I will see the M.O. this evening."
Bubb had a temperature that evening, whether due to fright or the ill effects of potatoes fried in vaseline it was impossible to say. The doctor sent him back to the hospital at ——, a shell-stricken town where the wounded were confinedto cellars before going further back from the firing line.
Wrapped in blankets, Bubb went to sleep on the floor, and about one o'clock in the morning he woke up and looked around him. A candle stuck on the cold ground burned timidly and big black shadows lurked in the corners of the apartment. Opposite Bubb an R.A.M.C. orderly sat on a biscuit box dozing, the unlighted stump of a cigarette between his fingers. Near Bubb another patient lay asleep, his mouth wide open, and his knees hunched up so that they formed a little hill that dominated the cold clammy floor of the cellar.
Spudhole looked up at the roof where the light played in little ghostly ripples. As he watched, a spider slipped out of a hole directly overhead and dropped slowly down towards his face. In the half light the spider looked an immense size and its legs spread out as if endeavouring to clutch something. Fascinated Bubb watched it draw nearer, nearer, until it almost touched his face.
"Git out ye lobster!"
He raised his hand as he spoke and aimed a blow at the insect and missed. The spider clambered up again and disappeared.
"Blast the bloomin' thing!" he muttered and turned on his side. "Oh, blimey!... Good mornin'!"
A large toad was sitting on the corner of his blanket, a mere hand's breadth away, and looking at him with a pair of big glistening eyes. For a moment the man and the toad looked fixedly at one another, then the toad hopped away and disappeared round the corner of the bed.
"Well, blimey," said Bubb, cuddling up in the clothes and trying to sleep. He was unsuccessful for his mind followed the toad. "Where 'as it gone?" he muttered. "Spiders as big as lobsters, and toads as big as helephants. This 'ere place is 'aunted. Now where 'as that 'ere vermin gone?"
He turned round on his side and again his gaze fell on the toad. The thing had ascended the hill formed by the knees of Bubb's mate, and there on the eminence it sat, its eyes fixed on the open mouth of the sleeper.
"Blimey! It's goin' to jump in," said Bubb. "Raise the foresight a little you bounder and 'op!... Ten to one that you miss it."
Moodily contemplative, the toad sat silent, its big shining eyes fixed on the cavern in front.
"Jump, you beggar!" yelled Bubb, shouting atthe top of his voice. "One good 'op and you'll score a bull."
He fell into a paroxysm of mirth; the R.A.M.C. orderly awoke, rubbed his eyes, lifted the cigarette end which had fallen to the floor, put it in his mouth, and came across to Bubb.
"What's amusin' you, chummy?" he asked.
"The spider and the toad," said Bubb. "A big lobster of a spider and then the toad. It's tryin' to jump into the man's mouth. Look there! Ten to one it misses!"
"That's all right," said the orderly with a bland smile of understanding. "You just lie down quietly and try and have a little sleep."
"But the toad," Bubb remonstrated. "It's just goin' to jump."
"I know, I know," said the orderly. "I see it myself. But try and compose yourself, chummy."
"But, man, it's real," said Bubb sitting up. "Look yourself and you'll see it. Don't think I'm off my napper."
"I don't think anything of the sort," said the orderly still smiling. "I often see things 'ere, myself. You lie down again and you'll be as right as rain in the morning."
He put his fingers on Bubb's pulse, held themthere for a moment, then pressed the boy gently back into the blankets.
"I tell you there's a toad," said Bubb, struggling to get up again. "Look at that man lyin' there and see the toad on 'is knees. It's goin' to 'op into the bloke's mouth in a minute."
To humour the patient, the orderly looked as he was directed and sure enough there was the toad, a real one, not a phantom originating from the disordered imagination of a sick man, perched on the knees of the sleeping patient.
"So there is," said the orderly. "I thought you were delirious, matey. Well, we'll put the thing out," he said and shoved it off the blanket on to the floor.
"Ye're not a sport," said Bubb and his voice was charged with contempt. "Why didn't you let it 'op? I was bettin' on it. Now my bloomin' toad 'as gone. Bet yer it'll not come in again either," said Bubb sadly.
"I'll bet you it doesn't," said the orderly, but in a different tone.
Bubb returned to his regiment three days later, a healthy and wiser man. Afterwards he would never take part in a conversation wherein vaseline was mentioned, but the sight of a frog alwaysbrought memories of toads to his mind, and all conversation had to be cut dead until Bubb had narrated for the hundredth time the tale of a toad in a cellar.
CHAPTER XVITHE ROOKY
What awaits you, boy, out yonder, where the great guns rip and thunder,There's a menace in their message, guns that called you from afar,But where'er your fortune guide you may no woe or ill betide you—Heaven speed you, little soldier, gaily going to the war.(From "Soldier Songs.")
What awaits you, boy, out yonder, where the great guns rip and thunder,There's a menace in their message, guns that called you from afar,But where'er your fortune guide you may no woe or ill betide you—Heaven speed you, little soldier, gaily going to the war.
(From "Soldier Songs.")
The stifling heat of the summer day had given place to the coolness of night and a big moon rode gallantly amidst the stars of the dark blue eastern sky. A searchlight felt the country with a long, pale arm, lighting up the road, village and wood for miles around; a galaxy of starshells stood over the firing line where the meteoric flashes of bursting shells rioted along the horizon of war.
Back in a village by La Bassée canal lights shone in the windows of houses and through the chinks of shutters. The poplars which lined the village streets showed black and solitary against the red-brick cottages, their shadows stretchedstraight along the pavement spreading out to an intricate tracery of tremulous boughs which moved backwards and forwards as the soft night breeze caught them.... The moonlight rippled over the roofs, the walls, and the grey, dusty road; the canal lapped sleepily against its banks; soldiers walked up and down the streets smoking, laughing and chatting; women came out from the cottages bearing pails which they placed under the pumps and filled with water. All was peaceful here, only twice had the village been struck by shells and then the roofs of two houses had been shattered. In twenty-four hours, however, the willing hands of the villagers had made the roofs whole again.
In the attic of a dwelling that stood by the riverside, a party of soldiers, three in all, were billeted. The boys were in a gay, good humour, for the day had been pay day and two bottles of champagne had been bought and the second bottle had just been opened.
Bowdy Benners was there, sitting on a bundle of straw under the niche in which a candle was placed, surveying the newly-drawn cork with a lazy smile, his hands under his thighs and his short, powerful legs stretched out in front to their fullest extent. He was dressed in shirt,trousers and socks, his braces were tied round his waist, his hairy chest was bare, and his identity disc tied round his massive neck with a piece of twine was almost hidden in the hair.
Opposite him sat Harry Bubb, nothing the worse after his tater and vaseline meal. A bright sparkle was in his alert eyes, his legs were crossed and the fingers of his left hand kept strumming idly on the floor. His right hand gripped a mess-tin which he pushed towards the champagne bottle in a slow, guileless manner as if he was doing it knowingly.
Flanagan was there, stripped to the waist and rubbing his body with a towel. He had been out through the village and had just come back, sweating profusely. He had eaten at a café round the corner and made a study of "the movements of masticating jaws" as he expressed it.
"It's damned interesting to watch people eat," he said. "Some eat slowly as if deliberating whether they should swallow the food or spit it out, some eat quickly, trippingly as it were, and some gorge. Those who eat slowly keep their mouths shut, those who eat quickly show their teeth all the time, and those who gorge simply gorge. We were sitting at a long table and I was at the end of the seat. I had a look alongthe line of moving jaws rising and falling, at the man next to me having a canter...."
"A canter?" queried Bubb.
"Yes, a canter round his teeth with his tongue," said Flanagan; "and at the man opposite whose moving jaw shook his ears until I thought they would fall off!"
Flanagan got no further with his chatter. The door opened, Sergeant Snogger entered followed by a stranger, and glanced keenly about him.
"Watch that candle," he said; "it will fall down on the straw and burn the whole damned place out if you are not careful. And that window, what about it? The light's showing froo and you'll have a shell across 'ere if you're not careful. You're not at 'ome now, boys."
"'Aven't been in Blighty for eighteen months, sarg," said Bubb blandly.
"I've got a new mate for you fellows," said the sergeant, paying no heed to Bubb's remark. "'E 'as just come out an 'e's for this 'ere section.... And another thing," he said, "I s'pose you think yourselves lucky gettin' your pay to-day and gettin' a good night's sleep to-night after fillin' your guts with grub and fizz. Don't you, now?"
"Yes, of course," Bubb assented.
"Well, you're damned unlucky," said the sergeant. "We've got ter go up ter the trenches ter-night."
"Blimey!" "Damn!" "Curse it!" Three voices yelled.
"We're startin' off as soon as we can, so get ready," said the sergeant. "Every man wipe 'is wifle wiv a woily wag 'fore 'e goes, for 'e may need it 'fore 'e comes back.... Buck to when you give me a wet and get ready."
They gave the sergeant a drink and started to pack up their things. Only when they had finished and sat down to wait for the call to move had they time to pay any attention to the new mate, the boy who had just come out from home.
He had helped them at the making up of their kits, oiled their rifles and rushed out to the baker's shop near at hand and bought two loaves to take up to the trenches. When he returned, the others were sitting on the floor waiting for him.
He came in with a brisk step, placed the loaves on the floor and looked at his mates. In carriage he had a certain individual grace, and his face, good-looking and youthful, wore an expression of intense expectation. A traveller within sight of a long-sought objective might look as that boy did. His age might be about nineteen, helooked seventeen. When he saw the men looking at him, he smiled awkwardly and blushed as if he had been found guilty of a mean action.
"Well, wot d'yer fink of it?" asked Bubb.
"Of this place?" asked the boy.
"No, not of this place, but the 'ole blurry business," said Bubb; "o' this 'ere war."
"I don't know what to think of the war, but I love being out here," said the boy, putting his hand in his pocket and bringing out a packet of cigarettes. "I couldn't get out before; my mother spoke to the authorities back in England, and I couldn't get away until I was nineteen."
"And ye're glad to be out 'ere?" asked Bubb in an incredulous voice, then added: "Of course you are. I was dyin' ter get out 'ere myself.... But I know where I'd like ter get now.... Thanks, matey."
Spudhole put the cigarette in his mouth and the newcomer lit it with a match. He gave the others cigarettes also and lit the last three with the same match; the stranger was the third smoker. This was not discovered until it was done.
"Devil blow me blind!" exclaimed Bowdy Benners. "He lit his cig——" Then he stopped, and a moment's silence ensued.
"It's always unlucky," said Spudhole. "D'ye mind old Stumpy...."
"Hold your row, you old woman!" Benners exclaimed.
"The superstition is a modern one," said Flanagan, blowing the smoke of a cigarette through his nostrils. "Invented, I suppose, by Bryant and May's to increase the output of matches."
"But wot about old Stumpy?" asked Bubb.
"Stumpy be damned!" exclaimed Benners, who was seldom moved to such a state of excitement. "Hold your jaw, Spudhole."
"So we're going up to the trenches to-night," said the newcomer in an eager voice.
"Yes, we're going up," said Flanagan moodily. "It's always going up. I suppose you'll be quite pleased going into action for the first time."
"Delighted," said the boy, and his hearers chuckled at the frank admission.
"It's young blood and not knowin' things that makes you say that," said Bubb, shaking his head with an air of wisdom at which his mates would have laughed if their rest had been assured for another week. But now as they sat there waiting for the signal to move up to the fighting linewhich they knew so well, it was a different matter....
The talk turned to England; the newcomer, whose name was Frank Reynolds, had much to tell about home, his people, his life at school, and above all, about his life in the Army. He was the only child of a head clerk in a London Bank, his father had died recently, and now only the mother remained at home. She lived in Hampstead, and was rather well to do, having money left to her by a rich relative. She was very fond of her boy and would send him parcels twice a week.
"No cigarettes, though," said Reynolds. "She doesn't know that I smoke, and I daren't tell. It would hurt her.... I learned to smoke since I joined the Army; just about three cigarettes a day."
"I could smoke that many when drinking my tea," said Bubb.
Conversation ceased at that moment, for the whistle was blown in the street and the soldiers were forming up preparatory to moving off to the trenches.
The battalion set off and marched along the road by the river, company after company, with little connecting files in between. Not the slightestbreeze was awake, the river was silent, and the tall, graceful poplars which lined their route looked blacker and straighter than usual. They seemed to have gone to sleep even as they stood. The whole world was in repose, the battalion's movement was a sacrilege against the gods of the still night.
The very trenches were quiet now, the artillery riot had died down and only a few starshells rose into the mysterious heights of the eastern sky. The company in front set up a brisk pace which required long, quick strides to follow. Benners' section turned off from the river and marched up a steep incline to the top of a low hill opening out on a wide, far-reaching plain, which under the pale moonlight, looked more immense, and merged as it seemed into the distant sky.
Here and there a tall chimney stack stood high in air, dark shadows clinging to its base in startling contrast to the moonlight which rippled like molten silver over the top. A thin, white mist trailed across the meadows in long, formless streaks, bunching in the hollows and breaking away on the open. The air was full of the smell of water and mist and growing grass, in short, of the atmosphere of a summer night.
Smoking was not allowed. The enemy'strenches, miles away though they were, looked down on the road, and the glowing cigarette ends might be noticed. Then the road would be shelled....
Spudhole and Reynolds marched side by side, with Flanagan and Bowdy Benners immediately in front. From time to time they spoke of one thing and another, more especially about their hard luck in not getting a month's rest which had been promised to them for some time. They had expected to go back on the following morning, but instead it looked as if they were going to spend the morrow and a few other morrows in the trenches.
"Just our luck," said Flanagan. "It's always the same, always and eternally the same damned grind."
"Why do they send up green lights?" asked Reynolds in a whisper, and added, "They do look pretty."
"Pretty!" laughed Bubb. "If you was up in the trenches now you'd 'ear some pretty langwidge. They're signals for the artillery to bust up a dug-out or two, them green lights."
"Who's sending them up?" asked Reynolds.
"Us, maybe," said Bubb, "and again maybeit's not us. No one ever knows wot's wot in this 'ere job. It's always a muddle."
"But it's quiet enough now," said Reynolds. "How far are we from the trenches?"
"About three miles."
The battalion entered a village and marched up a wide street towards the full moon. The companies in front looked like dark, compact, heavy masses which did not seem to move but which could not be overtaken. A pump on the pavement was running and the water glittered like burnished silver as it fell to the cobbles. A shutter hung loose on a window and a woman came out and tried to fasten it, moving quietly as if afraid to make a noise. Reynolds was surprised to find a woman up so late; it was almost midnight now....
"This place is quiet enough," said Reynolds, speaking to Bubb. "One wouldn't think that the place was so near the trenches.... Do they ever fire at this village?"
"Sometimes," said Bubb, "at the other end. There!"
The deep, bass note of a bursting explosive swept through the village, awaking myriad long-drawn echoes, and died away.
"Shelling in front," said Flanagan in a trenchant whisper.
"I hope it's not the road," said Bubb.
"I don't think it's the road," said Bowdy Benners. "It sounded to the left a bit. But you can't tell with the echoes."
But further conversation was then impossible; the battalion formed into two files and plodded ahead.... Round the next corner Frank Reynolds came in touch with the war. A limber lay in the middle of the street shattered to pieces, the two ponies and the driver dead, and a sluggish trail of something dark crawling away from the scene of the wreck. Instinctively the boy knew that he was looking on blood and a queer sensation gripped the pit of his stomach. At the same moment he thought of the woman who was trying to close the shutters two hundred yards away and a feeling of shame swept through his heart.
"Am I afraid?" he asked himself. "And a woman going on with her work beside me just as if nothing was happening."
The R.A.M.C. were already at work, not in the vicinity of the limber, for there all help was useless, but on the pavement under the shadow of the poplars where four or five men were lying down, wounded and groaning.
Here the village had suffered, the houses were crumpled and shattered, the tiles had been flung off the rafters, the walls were smashed, the trees on the pavement were cut to splinters. Big holes showed in the streets and over all the ruin and destruction the moon shone calmly and the stars glimmered. But the atmosphere of the night had changed; a strange pungent odour filled the air, and Reynolds knew that he was smelling the battlefield.
"I must not tell mother about this," he said. "If she knew she couldn't sleep a wink at night.... I never thought.... I suppose there will be worse sights"
CHAPTER XVIIYOUNG BLOOD
Over the top is cold, matey;You lie on the field alone—Didn't I love you of old, matey,Dearer than blood of my own?You were my dearest chum, matey,(Gawd, but your face is white)And now, though reliefs have come, matey,I'm going alone to-night.(From "Soldier Songs.")
Over the top is cold, matey;You lie on the field alone—Didn't I love you of old, matey,Dearer than blood of my own?You were my dearest chum, matey,(Gawd, but your face is white)And now, though reliefs have come, matey,I'm going alone to-night.
(From "Soldier Songs.")
At one o'clock in the morning the London Irish were in occupation of the trenches; the battalion which they had relieved were just moving away. Reynolds' section were lucky enough to find a dug-out, and here they threw down their loaves and other luxuries which the Government had not supplied.
"Now we must make ourselves as comfortable as we can," said Flanagan as he lit a cigarette. "I'm for a sleep until it's my turn for sentry."
Snogger, who came to the dug-out door at that moment, heard the remark and chuckled. Having some work to do which needed volunteers,he saw scope for his peculiar type of humour.
"Goin' to 'ave a kip, Flanagan?" he asked in a gentle voice. "Turnin' in fer a spell?"
"Just for a while," said Flanagan; "an hour or two."
"Well ye're damned unlucky," said the sergeant with a chuckle. "We're goin' ter raid the henemy's trenches. We want to see what they're doin'. Indefication purposes ye know. They're too damned quiet 'ere. And you know when the German is keepin' quiet ye've got to oil yer hipe."
The section was up and alert in an instant; anticipation flushed every face.
"I'm in this 'ere game," said Bubb in a vehement voice. "Larst time I was out o' it."
"All's in it, that is, every man in this platoon 'cept them just out," said the sergeant. "They'll stay 'ere an' mind the 'ouse while we're away."
"I'm going out in the raid," said Reynolds in an eager voice. "I want to be in the fun."
"Yer do, do yer?" asked the sergeant, scratching his head. "Ye never do wot ye want in this 'ere crush, my boy," he bellowed. "Ye just do wot I tell you; an' you'll find that quite enuff, 'fore ye're 'ere very long. If ye do wot I tellyou and do it well ye're all right. I'll make it easy for you. That's me, Snogger."
Reynolds lay back against the wall of the dug-out, his fair, youthful face lit by the glow of the candle which Flanagan had just placed in a niche of the wall. The boy was bitterly disappointed; the others were going over the top and he was to be left alone. He opened his lips to say something and his voice faltered; he was on the verge of tears.
"Is there any means of getting out with you?" he asked. "Couldn't somebody stay back and let me go in his place?"
"The bloke as doesn't want ter go isn't in this 'ere regiment," said Bubb.
The sergeant, who had just gone outside, returned carrying a tin filled with a substance black and soft like soot.
"Now boys," he said, as he placed the tin on the floor; "cover yer faces over with this an' be like niggers. A white face can be seen a good distance on a moonlight night, an' if ye're seen on this 'ere job, it'll be all up with the party—they'll be damned unlucky.
"An' when ye've done that, get arf a dozen bombs apiece and bring 'em wiv you," the sergeant continued. "Also, get some brushwood—ye'llfind it out 'ere ready for yer—and ye'll g'over disguised as a shrubbery. We'll crawl across, get up to the German trench and fling the bombs in. Then we'll come back again, the 'ole lot of us, if we're lucky.... What the devil's that?"
The stretcher-bearers brought him in from the trench, a rifleman with a wound showing in his shoulder, and placed him on the floor.
"One of the party that was to cross," said the sergeant; then asked: "Much 'urt, old man?"
"Not much wrong," was the reply of the wounded man. "I'm sorry I'm not in the raid.... I looked across and then my shoulder burned...."
"Well, I must get another man," said the sergeant. "You'll do, Reynolds. Get yer face blacked and get some bombs."
The men set to work in the dug-out and blackened their faces, procured their bombs and branches, and got into raiding order. In ten minutes' time they were out on the open, thirty men making towards the German trenches.
Flanagan lit a cigarette, put his hands in his trousers pockets and leant his back against the wall of the dug-out. Bubb looked at him.
"Yer bloomin' old phizz is sooty enough,Flan," he said; "but yer teeth don't arf look white; they'll be seen miles away."
"I suppose I should black them," said Flanagan. "It would be for my own good. Natural selection has not fashioned me for this war environment. Raiding by night is a job for chimney sweeps. They could walk over to the German trenches and they would not be seen in the darkness. Darwin would be very interested in these raids. If he saw one he would write a treatise on Artificial Selection and call it The Survival of the Fittest Disguised. We are disguised; we're one with the night. We accommodate ourselves to our environment like the fox that changes its coat to white when the snow comes."
"These 'ere branches ain't arf a barney," said Bubb, who understood only a little of what Flanagan was saying.
"Birnam Wood! Copied from Macbeth," said Flanagan with an air of scorn. "There's nothing new in the world. There were trenches and dug-outs at the siege of Sebastopol."
Sergeant Snogger came in at that moment, his body festooned with bombs, his face the colour of ebony. He looked at his men.
"Wot are yer waitin' for?" he asked. "Gawd,ye are slummicky. Come on, we've got to get across to-night. To-morrow won't do for this 'ere job."
The party went out, crossed the parapet into No Man's Land and advanced in open order, six yards' interval between each man and his neighbour. Reynolds near the centre of the line, had Flanagan on his right, Bowdy Benners on his left, whilst the sergeant, who led the party, moved warily along, a few yards in advance. From time to time he halted and waited for those who followed to come abreast and issued orders which were passed from the centre to the flanks in whispers. He used the words "damned unlucky" whenever he spoke.
"Spread out from the centre," he cautioned. "The whole party's bunchin' up. If the henemy flings some dirt across, yer'll be damned unlucky."
Again he gave the order "Close in in the centre! You're losing touch. Some of yer'll be goin' in to the German trench all alone; then yer'll be damned unlucky."
Whenever a star-shell rose in air, the raiders flung themselves flat to the ground and waited for the flare to die out. As they went down, they placed the branches over their heads and heldthem there until the order to advance was given. Lying thus, they were immune from discovery, for an enemy patrol ten yards away would mistake the prone bundles under their covering of branches for derelict bushes which the fury of incessant shell fire had spared.
Star-shells rose at frequent intervals from the enemy lines; the British sent up very few. This was the case all along the line. The enemy, in eternal dread of raids, kept up a continual watch over No Man's Land.
The party, now half way across, lay down, for a starshell rose from the German trench, stood high and lit the derelict levels with the brilliance of day. Then oscillating sleepily from side to side, it dropped a myriad petals of flame and sank lazily to earth.
"They're getting the wind up," said Bowdy Benners, whispering across to Reynolds. "We'll have some dirty work 'fore we come back."
The boy made no answer. Lying prone, he listened to the silence. How calm it was under the great, glorious moon. The levels were in a dream, a dream of Fairyland, and everything save the starshells and the glint of light that played on his rifle barrel was as motionless as though in a realm of frozen enchantment. Thenight drew closer to the boy; it seemed caressing his young head and body. He even felt sleepy. It would be good to lie there and rest.
His eyes looked out in front on a dead man who lay there, scarcely a yard away. The boy did not feel afraid. That a dead soldier should be there seemed quite natural, in keeping with the new life which the youth had entered.
"I suppose he was killed on a raid," he thought. "I wonder if he was going out or coming back.... What would mother...." He looked at the dead soldier with a fresh interest and his eyes filled with tears.
He saw that the man was dressed in khaki and he lay on his back, his knees up and his bayonet pointing in air. From the bayonet standard to the man's head stretched an unfinished cobweb on which the spider was still busily working, fashioning circle and line. Under the moonlight the web was a brilliant and beautiful dream....
"Come out o' it, Reynold," said the sergeant, who was annoyed because the boy had not heard the first order to advance. "Spread out a little on both sides, for we've got to keep a look-out for a henemy patrol. We're not out on a six months' tour now," he added. "If yer —— think so, ye're damned unlucky."
The men spread out at the double and lay down again, leaving an interval of some twelve yards between each man and his neighbour. Reynolds lay flat, his hand gripping his rifle. Now and then a breeze rustled across the levels, set the poppy flowers nodding to one another, and died away again. The smell of the wet grasses and the damp earth was in his nostrils, and the narcotic odour of the soil almost lulled him into slumber.
A mouse rustled along the ground in front, in and out amongst the nodding poppy flowers and disappeared. Near him somebody stifled a cough, but the sound struck harshly on his ears. Apart from that, silence and suspense.
He lay flat, his face on his hands, his legs stretched out to their full extent, and listened. Well to the left a mate whistled; something had aroused his suspicions, probably the enemy patrol. A bird rose from the grass, shrieking as if in pain, and flew away. The lights died out; the level fields looked deathlike.
A starshell rose up to the sky and settled over Reynolds' head. Under its light the country seemed to become more immense, it stretched out on all sides into endless distances.... He lost consciousness for an instant.
"Well, the night is very long in passing," he said in an audible voice, opening his eyes for a moment. "I am very sleepy, but if I doze off something may happen."
He had a desire for something exciting to take place, something that would keep him awake. He even felt hungry, and did not particularly want to fight. Even a sleepy boy does not like fighting at two o'clock in the morning on an empty stomach when there was so much to eat near at hand.... How strange that he had not noticed it before. Probably he had been looking in the wrong direction. But there out in front in the midst of the poppies stood a house with the windows brilliantly lighted up and a girl standing at the door. From the way she laughed when he approached he knew that she was glad to see him. She made way and he entered the dining-room, where the table was spread out for dinner. The food was not laid yet, but on a table in the corner he could see a grand array of steaming dishes.
"It's splendid," he said. "Not like army stuff. It's...."
The girl whom he met at the door came into the room, approached the table in the corner, and brought over a plate of soup, which she placed infront of him. He looked for a spoon, but could not find one.
"You've forgotten," he said to the girl. "I haven't got a spoon."
"How stupid of me," she replied. "I'm awfully sorry. I was thinking of something else. But now I'll get a spoon. I always carry a spoon no matter where I go."
"So do I," was Reynolds' answer. "I always carry a knife, fork and spoon in my pack. They're gone now."
The girl disappeared for a moment. When she came into the boy's world again she carried a spoon in her hand.
"This is for you," she laughed. "It's silver-plated with a monogram—your own monogram."
As she spoke she lifted his soup and rushed off with it.
"Come back with the plate," cried Reynolds, rising to his feet. "I haven't eaten yet."
"Don't get excited," she called back over her shoulder, "I'll pass it along in a moment. I'll pass it along, pass it along."
A strange harshness had crept into her voice, and the youth swept back into reality. The man on his right was calling to him.
"Pass it along," he called out in a loud whisper. "Pass it along."
"What's the message?" Reynolds asked.
"The right flank reports seeing an enemy patrol," was the answer.
The boy passed the message to the left but got no acknowledgment.
"I suppose the man there is asleep," he muttered. "I'll go along and see him."
He lifted his rifle and stumbled along through the gloom. When a light went up he stood still and waited for the darkness to resume his journey.
"Yes, here he is," he said, when a flare lit up the night and showed him a figure in khaki lying flat on the ground. "Asleep, of course."
"Wake up, man," he shouted, when he reached the motionless figure, bringing his hand down with a smack on the man's back. The shoulders gave way beneath the force of the blow. His hand seemed to sink into the soldier.
"Good God!" he gasped. "It's a dead man."
He left the poor thing hurriedly, found a man asleep, woke him up, delivered the message and made his way back to his post.
The strange experience had unnerved him and he lay down again, feeling that a huge dark formwas standing behind him watching every movement on his part. A breeze had risen and the waving grasses wailed a dirge in dismal unison. From somewhere far away a dog whined mournfully.... The order to advance was given.
The men went forward at the double for a space and flung themselves down flat when they reached the enemy's barbed wire entanglements. Those in the centre of the party could not get across; the wires in front of them stood sturdily, untouched by artillery fire.
"Lie low," the sergeant whispered to Bowdy Benners, "and pass the word along to the left. Ask them if there's an openin'. The same message to the right."
The seconds crawled by until the answer came back from the left. "Opening here. Shall we go through?"
"Pass the message to the right and tell them to close up," said the sergeant to Benners. "Also, those on the left, get through and lie down on the other side of the wires until we join them. Pass it along."
The message went its way and the men in the centre followed it, stumbling and crouching low to avoid the eyes of the enemy sentinels. Reaching the opening, they lay down, their heads underthe branches, and waited for the party to close in.
Reynolds had a good view of the enemy's trench as he lay on the ground a dozen yards away from the reverse slope of the parapet. He saw the sandbags tilted at strange angles looking for all the world like dead men huddled together in heaps. Immediately in front lay an unexploded shell perched on the rim of a small crater, and near it was a wooden box and a heap of tins. Somebody in the trench was singing a song in a low but clear voice. The night was full of the smell of burning wood; probably the Germans were cooking a meal.... Bowdy Benners and the sergeant lay in front of Reynolds, immovable as statues,—both might have been dead.... Benners turned slowly round and crawled back again with a message.
"When the sergeant lifts his branch and holds it over his head, prepare to advance," he whispered. "Get your bombs ready to throw.... Pass it along to right and left."
Fascinated Reynolds watched the sergeant, saw him lie still as ever for a full minute, then he raised the branch and held it over his head for an instant, brought it down again and got to his feet. As one man the party rushed forward to the rimof the trench and began to fling their bombs in on the occupants. There was one explosion, then a second, a third and a fourth.... The Germans, taken unawares, raced from one bay to another, but the bombers waited for them at every turning. In their eyes the attack might have been delivered by an army corps. Death had crept up in the night out of the unknown. Men fell, yelled in agony, and became silent, their white faces showing ghastly on the floor of the trench when the smoke of the explosions died away.
"Damned good work! Keep at it, boys!" yelled the sergeant, standing on the parapet and drawing a pin from the shoulders of a bomb. "They're damned unlucky this 'ere time."
He threw his missile at a German who was trying to enter the door of a dug-out, and stepped back to avoid the explosion.
"Blimey, it's a barney!" said Bubb, looking down in the trench. He had come to his last bomb, and wanting to "make it tell," he threw it into a dug-out door which showed in the wall of the parados. Followed an explosion accompanied by agonised yelling....
Twenty yards away Reynolds stood on a sandbag, a bomb in his hand, his eyes fixed upon a boy about his own age who, crouching against thewall of the trench, was looking up at him. Reynolds, full of military ardour, had rushed up to the attack when the order was given, and was on the point of flinging the bomb into the trench when he noticed the young German standing motionless, paralysed with fear. Reynolds raised the bomb with the intention of throwing it, then brought it down again. The terrified foe frightened him. In the heat of passion, Reynolds would have killed him, but to take away the life of that shivering, terrified creature was not a job for the youngish newly-out. He gazed at the German, the German returned the gaze, perplexity looked at dread and became horrified. Killing was not an easy matter.
Reynolds drew back a pace, his eyes still fixed on the foe. The battle raged around him; the flash of the bursting bombs almost blinded him, the explosions shook the ground ... the flying splinters sang through the air.
Suddenly the order to retire came down the line; a brown figure rushed up to Reynolds shouting something about "getting out o't," seized the bomb which the youngster held and flung it into the trench on the youthful German.
The party retired hurriedly; their work was completed. "The sooner back the safer," thesergeant yelled. "They'll open up a machine gun now and we'll be damned unlucky if we don't grease back."
Already the enemy's rifles were speaking and bullets swept by with a vicious hiss. The men stumbled through the opening in the barbed wires and rushed into the levels. Benners and Reynolds ran out together chuckling, pleased, no doubt, at the success of their enterprise. Bubb and Flanagan followed; the latter had lost his rifle and vowed that he was always unlucky.
Suddenly Reynolds fell headlong to the ground. He was on his feet immediately and rushing forward again.
"It's the damned wires," said Flanagan. "They're scattered all over the place."
As he spoke, Reynolds went down for the second time, but did not rise again. Benners came to a halt and stooped over him.
"Are you hit, chummy?" he asked.
"I got it through the breast," the boy replied. "It was that which brought me down the last time, not the wires."
Reynolds was surrounded now by his comrades. He was sitting half upright, his head sinking towards his knees, the martial elation of a few minutes ago utterly gone.
"Well, chummy, you'll be all right in time for breakfast," said Bubb, who expected that these words would buoy up the youngster's courage. But Reynolds seemed to pay no heed, a cold and sorrowful expression settled on his white face, which looked strange and unearthly in the light of the moon. The sergeant cut open the youth's tunic and looked at the wound, which showed red over the heart. There was very little bleeding.
"Oh! you'll be all right in no time," said the sergeant in a voice which was strangely soft and kind.
"No, no," said the boy, in a scarcely audible whisper. "Leave me to myself, please.... I'll not live very long.... It's too near the heart."
These were the last words which the men heard him speak. Ten minutes later he had passed away.
"I knowed it would pan out that way," said Bubb, as he sat in his dug-out two hours later drinking hot tea from his sooty messtin.
It was dawn, the sun came up red in the east and the dewdrops glittered like diamonds on the levels.
"'Twas the same wiv old Stumpy. 'E was the third man to light 'is fag wiv the same match," said Bill. "Then 'e went up to the trenches an' 'e was shot dead."
"It's all damned rot," said Flanagan. "I knew men getting killed who never smoked a fag."
"I had a feeling that Reynolds was going under, anyway," said Benners. "And he was such a good boy, too."
"I liked him better than I cared to say," said Flanagan. "He was as eager as hell. And he's dead. He didn't have much of a run for his money."
"Takin' it all in all, we're not so blurry badly off," said Bubb. "I wunner if we're goin' ter get relieved soon. I 'ope so, anyway."
CHAPTER XVIIIBATHING