As I entered, a German officer looked up from some papers he had been examining, and saw us.
'What have you here?' he asked.
'English prisoners, sir.'
'Prisoners! what use have we for prisoners? Better put a bullet into their brains. They will mean only so many more mouths to feed.'
'One is an officer, sir,' and the soldier nodded toward me.
'Ah well, he may be useful. But I have no time to deal with him now.Himmel!what's that?'
It was the noise of a tremendous explosion, and the whole place shook as though there were an earthquake.
The captain gave some rapid instructions which I did not hear, and then hurried away.
Since then, I have been under some terrific bombardments, but up to that time I had never experienced anything so terrible. Evidently our big guns were turned on, and they had located the German trenches to a nicety. Moreover, I judged that something serious was on hand, for it continued hour after hour. Before long all lights went out, and I knew by the hoarse cries which the Germans were making that they were in a state of panic.
The bombardment had lasted perhaps an hour, when part of the roof of the cave fell in with a tremendous crash, and I imagined that several men were buried.
'We'll get out of this,' said the lieutenant who had been left in charge; 'there's a safer place further down.'
'Yes, sir,' replied the soldier, evidently glad of the order, 'but what about the prisoners?'
The young officer seemed in doubt about us, and then grumbled something about his captain's orders.
'Our numbers are up, sergeant,' I said, for Sergeant Smith and I were the only two who were left alive. 'Either we shall be killed by our own guns, or else we shall suffer worse than death at the hands of these fellows.'
'Never say die, sir,' replied Sergeant Smith, who was noted for his optimistic temperament; 'anyhow, these chaps are all in a blue funk.'
'There can be no doubt about that,' was my reply. 'If we live through it, and if this bombardment is but the preliminary to an attack, there's a sporting chance that we may get away.'
'About a hundred to one, sir.'
After this, I have no clear recollection as to what took place. I remember that we moved along a tunnel until we came to another dug-out,—after that everything became a blank to me. Either I had been stunned by my captors, or I had been hurt by fallingdébris.
When I came to my senses again, the guns were still booming, although they seemed at a greater distance, and I judged that our captors regarded us as in a safer place. Then, suddenly, I heard a voice which set my nerves tingling. It was an English voice, too, although he spoke in German.
'You chaps are in an awful hole,' I heard some one say, in quiet matter-of-fact tones, as though the situation were of a most ordinary nature. 'Do you know what I think of you? You are a lot of idiots.'
'We're better off than you, anyhow,' and this time it was a German who spoke. 'If we come alive out of this, we shall be all right; but you are our prisoners.'
'Prisoners if you like, my dear fellow, but what's the good of that to you?'
'Every English prisoner taken is one step nearer to German victory,' replied the soldier sententiously.
'Nonsense! There'll never be a German victory, and you know it. You've never been behind the British lines, have you? Why, man, there are mountains of guns and ammunition—every day is adding to the stock, and soon, mark you, very soon, all these places of yours will become so many death-traps.'
The German laughed incredulously.
'Do you know what'll happen soon?' went on the English voice, 'there will be bombing parties along here; you may be safe for the moment, but you can't get out,—not one of you dare try. If you did, it would be all up with you.'
'What are you getting at?' snarled the German. 'You are our prisoner, anyhow, and if we are killed, so will you be!'
'Just so. But then I don't want to get killed, neither do you.'
'I know it's a beastly business,' said the German, 'and I wish this cursed war would come to an end.'
'Yes, you see you were mistaken now, don't you?' and the Englishman with the quiet voice laughed. 'You were told it was all going to be over in a few weeks, and that it was going to be a picnic. "Bah!" you said, "what can the English do?" But, my dear fellow, the English have only just begun. You are just ramming your heads against a stone wall. You won't hurt the wall, but your heads will get mightily battered. Oh yes, we are your prisoners, there are just three of us left alive, and you are thirty. But what is the good of it?'
'What are you getting at, Tommy?' asked another, 'and why are you talking all this humbug?'
'Because I can get you out of this.'
'Get us out of it! How?'
'Ah, that is my secret, but I can.'
'What! Every one of us, unhurt?'
'Every one of you, unhurt.'
There was a general laugh of incredulity.
'You don't believe me, I know. But I swear to you I can do it.'
'How?'
'By taking you as prisoners to the British lines. I know a way by which it can be done.'
As may be imagined, I was not an uninterested listener to this conversation. Evidently another man had been taken prisoner; who I had no knowledge, but we had somehow been brought together. But it was not altogether the quiet confidence of the speaker which interested me, it was the sound of his voice. While it was not familiar to me, I felt sure I had heard it before. The light was so dim, that I could see neither his face nor any marks whereby I could discover his rank; but he spoke German so well that I judged him to be an officer. The Germans laughed aloud at his last remark.
'Your prisoners!' they shouted, 'and we ten to your one!'
'Why not,' he asked, 'if I take you to safety? Now just think, suppose you all get out of this, and we are lodged in one of your German prison camps; you remain here at the front, and be fodder for cannon. How many of you will come through this war alive, think you? Perhaps one out of ten. And the end of it will be that your country will be beaten. I am as sure of that as I am that the sun will rise to-morrow. Now supposing you adopt my plan, suppose you go with me as prisoners of war; I will take you to the British lines unhurt, and then you will be sent to the Isle of Wight, or some such place; you will be well housed, well clothed, well fed, until the war's over. Don't you think you are silly asses to stay here and play a losing game, amidst all this misery and suffering, when you can get away unhurt and enjoy yourselves?'
In spite of the madness of the proposal, he spoke in such a convincing way that he impressed them in spite of themselves. Indeed I, who am relating the conversation as nearly word for word as I can remember, cannot give anything like an idea of the subtle persuasion which accompanied his words. It might seem as though he were master of the situation, and they had to do his will; in fact, he seemed to hypnotize them by the persuasiveness of his voice, and by some magnetic charm of his presence.
'You may be safe here for the moment,' he went on, 'but I can tell you what'll happen. By this time your trenches are nearly level with the ground,—not a man in them will be alive. Your machine-gun emplacements will be all blown into smithereens, for this is no ordinary bombardment; it is tremendous, man, tremendous! In less than two hours from now, either the outlets of these dug-outs of yours will be stopped up, and you will die of foul air or starvation, or bombing parties will come, and then it'll be all up with you. I tell you, I know what I am talking about.'
'Yes, but if we are killed, so will you be!'
'And if we are, what good'll that do to any of us? We are young, we want to live.'
Just then we heard a terrific explosion, louder even than any which had preceded it. The ground shook; it seemed as though hell were let loose.
'Do you hear that?' he went on, when there was a moment's quiet. 'That's just a foretaste of what's coming. That's one of the big new guns, and there are hundreds of them, hundreds. Well, if you won't, you won't.'
'What do you want us to do?' and one of the Germans spoke excitedly.
'I tell you I know a way by which I can lead you out of this. I know the country round here, inch by inch; I have made it my business to study it; and I give you my word I will take you back to the British lines unhurt. And then your life as an English prisoner will be just a picnic.'
'Your word!' said one of them scornfully, 'what is it worth? You are only a Tommy.'
'Yes, my word,' and he spoke it in such a way that they felt him to be their master. It was one of those cases where one personality dominated thirty.
'Are you an officer?' said one of the Germans after a pause. 'You speak like a gentleman, but your uniform is that of a Tommy.'
'No matter what I am, I give you my promise, and I never broke my promise yet.'
Again it was not the words which affected them, it was the manner in which he spoke them. He might have been a king speaking to his subjects.
'Now then, which shall it be?' he went on; 'if we stay here, in all probability we shall every one of us be killed. Listen to that! There! there! don't you feel it?—the whole earth is trembling, I tell you, and all these fortifications of yours will be nothing but so much cardboard! And our men have mountains of munitions, man, mountains! I have seen them. It will be rather a horrible death, too, won't it? Whether we are buried alive, or blown up by bombs, it won't be pleasant. It seems such a pity, too, when in ten minutes from now we can be in safety.'
The man was working a miracle; he was accomplishing that which, according to every canon of common sense, was impossible. He was a prisoner in the power of thirty men, and yet he was persuading them to become his prisoners. Even Sergeant Smith, who could not understand a word of what was being said, knew it. He knew it by the tense atmosphere of the place, by the look on the faces of the German soldiers.
We had become so interested, that neither of us dared to move; we just sat and listened while the unknown man, with quiet, persuasive words, was working his will on them.
As I said, I could not see his face. For one thing, the light was dim, and for another his features were turned away from me; but I could hear every word he said. Even above the roar of the artillery, which sounded like distant thunder, and in spite of the trembling earth, every tone reached me, and I knew that his every word was sapping the Germans' resistance, just as a strong current of water frets away a foundation of sand. What at first I had felt like laughing at, became to me first a possibility, then a probability, then almost a certainty. So excited did I become that, more than once, I longed with an intense longing to join my persuasions to that of the stranger. But when I tried to speak, no words came. It might have been as though some magician were at work, or some powerful mesmerist, who mesmerized his hearers into obedience.
'I say, you fellows,' said one of the Germans to his companions, 'what do you say? Our life here is one prolonged hell,—what is the use of it? Our officers tell us to hold on, hold on. And why should we hold on? Just to become fodder for cannon? I had four brothers, and every one of them is killed. Who's to look after my mother, if I am dead?'
Three minutes later he had accomplished the impossible. He was leading the way out of the dug-out towards the open. Sergeant Smith and I went with him like men in a dream.
When we came out in the open air, the night had again fallen. More than twelve hours had elapsed since I had been taken prisoner; most likely I had been unconscious a great part of the time. I did not know where we were going. The guns were still booming, while the heavens were every now and then illuminated as if by some tremendous fireworks.
'Sergeant,' I whispered, 'the man's a magician.'
'Never heard of such a thing in my life, sir. I'm like a man dreaming. Who is he? He's got a Tommy's togs on, but he might be a field marshal.'
All this time I had not once caught sight of our deliverer's face, but the tones of his voice still haunted me like some half-forgotten dream. I had almost forgotten the wonder of our freedom in the excitement wrought by the way it was given to us.
When at length we entered the British trenches, and the German prisoners had been taken care of, I saw the face of the man who had wrought the miracle, and I recognized him as the stranger whom I had met at Plymouth Harbour many months before, and who had adopted the name of Paul Edgecumbe.[1]
[1] The incident related above is not an invention on the part of the author. It was told me by a British officer, and it took place as nearly as possible as I have described it.
'You!' I exclaimed.
He stood like a soldier on parade, and saluted me.
'Yes, Captain Luscombe. I hope you are well, sir.'
He spoke as though nothing out of the ordinary had taken place.
'But—but—this is great!' I gasped. 'Tell me, how did you do it?'
But he had no time to answer the question, as at that moment orders came for us to report ourselves.
Never had I seen a man so excited as the colonel was when the story was told to him. First of all he stared at us as though we were madmen, then laughter overcame his astonishment, and he fairly roared with merriment.
'The brigadier and the divisional general must hear of it at once!' he cried. 'Why, it is the greatest thing since the war began! And you did nothing, Luscombe?'
'Nothing,' I said; 'this man did it all.' And I enlarged upon the difficulties of the situation, and the way Paul Edgecumbe had overcome them.
'Well, Edgecumbe,' I said, when at length I had an opportunity of speaking to him alone, 'give me an account of yourself. Where have you been? what have you been doing? and how have things been going with you?'
'All right, sir. As to where I have been, and what I have been doing, it's not worth telling about.'
'You don't mind my asking you awkward questions, do you?'
'Not a bit. Ask what you like, sir.'
'Has your memory come back?'
A shadow passed over his face, and a suggestion of the old yearning look came into his eyes.
'No,—no, nothing. Strange, isn't it? Ever since that day when I found myself a good many miles away from Bombay, and realized that I was alive, everything stands out plainly in my memory; but before that,—nothing. I could describe to you in detail almost everything that has taken place since then. But there seems to be a great, black wall which hides everything that took place before. I shudder at it sometimes because it looks so impenetrable. Now and then I have dreams, the same old dreams of black, evil faces, and flashing knives, and cries of agony; but they are only dreams,—I remember nothing.'
'During the time you were in England training,' I said, 'you went to various parts of the country?'
'Yes, I was in Exeter, Swindon, Bramshott, Salisbury Plain.'
'And you recognized none of them, you'd no feeling that you had seen those places before?'
'No.'
'Faces, now,' I urged; 'do you ever see faces which suggest people you have known in the past?'
He was silent for two or three seconds.
'Yes, and no,' he replied. 'I see faces sometimes which, while they don't cause me to remember, give me strange fancies and incomprehensible longings. Sometimes I hear names which have the same effect upon me.'
'And your memory has been good for ordinary things?'
He laughed gaily. 'I think that whatever I went through has increased my powers of memory,—that is, those things that took place since I woke up. If you will ask the sub., or the drill sergeant who gave me my training, they will tell you that there was never any need to tell me anything twice. I forget nothing, I never have to make an effort to remember. When I hear a thing, or see a man's face, I never forget it. I worked hard, too. I have read a good deal. I found that I knew nothing of mathematics, and that my knowledge of German and French was very hazy. It is not so now. Things likethathave come to me in a miraculous way.'
'Have you tried for a commission?'
'No. I have been offered one, but I wouldn't have it. Something, I don't know what, told me not to. I wouldn't even have a corporal's stripe.'
'And you have no more idea of who you really are than you had when I saw you first?'
'No, not a bit.'
'Let me see if I can help your memory,' I said. 'Devonshire, think of that word, now, and what it represents,—does it bring back anything to you?'
'Nothing, except that yearning. I have a feeling that I know something about it,—a great longing to—to—I hardly know what.'
I tried him a little farther. 'Granitelands,—does that mean anything to you?'
Again he hesitated. 'No, nothing.'
'Can you ever recall any remembrance of, or has the name of Maurice St.Mabyn any interest for you?'
I asked this because, even in spite of what Captain Springfield had told me, vague fancies had come to me that perhaps there might be some mistake, and—and——but I dared not bring my thoughts to a conclusion.
'Maurice St. Mabyn,' he repeated, 'Maurice St. Mabyn. It might be a name I heard when I was a kiddy, but—no.'
'Norah Blackwater.' I uttered the name suddenly, impressively, and I thought I saw his lips tremble, and certainly his eyes had a far-away look. He was like a man trying to see in a great darkness, trying to outline objects which were invisible to the natural eye.
'That seems like a dream name. Who is she? Why do you ask about her?'
'I am trying to help you,' I said. 'She is a lady I met at the house of Sir Roger Granville. She must be about twenty-five, perhaps not quite so old, a tall, stylish-looking girl. I expect by this time she is engaged to a fellow called George St. Mabyn. He is a brother to Maurice, who was killed in Egypt.'
'Maurice killed in Egypt!' he repeated.
'Yes. I think Maurice had a friend called Springfield.'
'I remember that,—Springfield. Springfield,—Springfield.'
For a moment there was a change in his voice, a change, too, in the look of his eyes. At least I thought so. I could fancy I detected anger, contempt; but perhaps it was only fancy, and it was only for a moment.
'A tall, dark fellow. He has rather a receding forehead, black hair streaked with grey, a thin, somewhat cadaverous-looking face, deep-set eyes, a scar on his cheek, just below his right temple.'
He laughed again. 'By Jove, sir,' he said, 'you might be describing a man I know. I seem to see his face as plainly as I see yours. I don't think I like him, either, but—but—no, it has gone, gone! Have you any suspicions about me? Haveyoufound out anything?'
'No,' I said, 'I have found out nothing. But I have a hundred suspicions. You see, you interested me tremendously when I saw you first, and I wondered greatly about you. I was awfully disappointed when I could not find you.'
'Why should you want to find me?' he asked.
'Because I told some one about you, and she got tremendously interested. She got angry with me because I had lost sight of you.'
'Who was she, sir?'
'Her name is Lorna Bolivick, and, I say,—I have something to show you.' And I searched in my tunic until I had found the previous year's diary in which I had written the promise.
'There,' I said, and opened the diary at May 29.
'And this girl was interested in me, was she?'
Our conversation suddenly terminated at that moment, as an urgent message reached me that my colonel wanted to see me. A few minutes later I learnt that little short of a calamity had befallen us; that the Germans had broken into some trenches which had lately been taken, and that there was imminent danger of some of our best positions falling into their hands.
Twelve hours later, the danger was averted; but it was at a frightful cost. It was reported to me that a battalion was largely decimated, and the positions which we ought to have gained remained in the hands of the enemy.
I saw that the colonel looked very perturbed; indeed his face, which was usually ruddy and hopeful, was haggard and drawn.
'Anything serious the matter?' I asked.
'Serious!' he replied, 'it is calamitous!'
'But we've cleared them out, haven't we?'
'Cleared them out! Why, man!' and he walked to and fro like one demented. 'There's sure to be an inquiry,' he said at length, 'and there'll be no end of a row; there ought to be, too. But what could one do?'
'What is the trouble, then?' for the look in his eyes had made me very anxious.
He made no reply, but I could see that his mind was busily at work.
'You remember that chap who got you out of that hole the day before yesterday?' he asked.
'What, Edgecumbe? I should think I do!'
'I hear he is missing.'
'Edgecumbe missing? Taken prisoner, you mean?'
'I don't know. I have not heard particulars yet. I should not have heard anything about him at all, but for the way he brought himself into prominence over that affair. But it seems he was last seen fighting with two Huns, so I expect he is done for. Terrible pity, isn't it? I was going to recommend him for decoration, and—and other things.'
In a way I could not understand, my heart grew heavy; I felt as though I were responsible for it, and that I had failed in my duty. And I had a sort of feverish desire to know what had become of him.
'Good night, colonel,' I said suddenly, and I hurried away into the darkness. I felt that at all costs I must find out the truth about Paul Edgecumbe.
In spite of all my inquiries that night, I could discover nothing of a satisfactory nature. The reports I obtained were conflicting. One man had it that he was wounded badly, and left dying on No Man's Land; another told me he had seen him taken prisoner by two Germans; another, still, that he was seen to break away from them. But everything was confused and contradictory. The truth was, that there was a great deal of hand-to-hand fighting, and when that is the case it is ofttimes difficult to tell what becomes of a single individual. The fact remained, however, that he was missing, and no one knew anything definite about him.
As a battalion officer, moreover, I had many duties to perform, and in spite of my desires, I had to give up my inquiries about him, and attend to my work.
The following day I was sitting in my quarters, and was on the point of writing a letter to Lorna Bolivick, telling her what had taken place, when my orderly informed me that a soldier wished to see me.
'He gave me this, sir,' added Jenkins, handing me a slip of paper.
No sooner did I see it than, starting to my feet, I rushed to the door, and saw Paul Edgecumbe, pale and wan, but standing erect nevertheless.
I quickly got him into the room of the cottage where I was billeted, and then took a second look at him.
'You are ill—wounded, man! You ought not to be here,' I said, scarcely realizing what I was saying.
'The wound's nothing, sir. I lost a little blood, that's all; and I got the M.O.'s consent to come and see you. I shall be right as ever in two or three days.'
'You are sure of that?' I asked eagerly.
'Certain, sir.'
I laughed aloud, I was so much relieved. I need not send my letter toLorna Bolivick after-all.
'I've wasted a lot of good sentiment over you, Edgecumbe,' I said.'I've heard all sorts of things about you.'
'I did have a curious experience,' he replied, 'and at one time I thought my number was up; still I got out of it.'
'Tell me about it,' I said.
'It's very difficult, sir. As I told you, my memory has been specially good since the time when——but you know. In these skirmishes, however, it's difficult to carry anything definite in your mind, things get mixed up so. You are fighting for your life, and that's all you know. Two German chaps did get hold of me, and then, I don't know how it was, but we found ourselves in No Man's Land. The Huns were two big, strong chaps, too, but I managed to get away from them.'
'How did you do it?'
'You see they were drugged,' he replied.
'Drugged?'
'Yes, drugged with ether, or something of that sort, and although they fought as though they were possessed with devils, their minds were not clear, they acted like men dazed. So I watched for my opportunity, and got it. I spent the whole day in a shell hole,—it wasn't pleasant, I can tell you. Still, it offered very good cover, and if my arm hadn't been bleeding, and if I wasn't so beastly faint and hungry, I shouldn't have minded. However, I tied up my arm as well as I could, and made up my mind to stay there. I got back under the cover of night, and—here I am.'
'I saw nothing of the affair,' I said. 'I had a job to do farther back, and so was out of it. I wish I had been in it.'
'I wish you had, sir.' There was a change in his voice, and he looked at me almost pathetically.
'What's the matter?'
'Of course I have no right to say anything,' he said. 'Discipline is discipline, and I am only a private soldier. Are you busy, sir? If you are, I will go away. But, owing to this scratch, I am at a loose end, and—and—I'd like a chat with you, sir, if you don't mind.'
'Say what you want to say.'
He was silent for a little while, and seemed to be in doubt how to express what he had in his mind. I saw the old, yearning, wistful look in his eyes, too, the look I had noticed when we were walking on The Hoe at Plymouth.
'Has your memory come back?' I asked eagerly. 'Has it anything to do with that?'
'No,' he replied, 'my memory has not come back. The old black wall stands still, and yet I think it has something to do with it. I am afraid I forget myself sometimes, sir, forget that you are an officer, and I am a private.'
'Never mind about that now. Tell me what you have to say.'
'This war has shaken me up a bit, it has made me think. I don't know what kind of a man I was before I lost my memory; but I have an idea that I look at things without prejudice. You see, I have no preconceived notions. I am a full-grown man starting life with a clean page, that's why I can't understand.'
'Understand what?'
'I don't think I am a religious man,' he went on, without seeming to heed me. 'When we were in England I went to Church parade and all that sort of thing, but it had no effect upon me; it seemed to mean nothing. Perhaps it will some day, I don't know. At present I look at things from the outside; I judge by face values. Forgive me if I am talking a great deal about myself, sir, and pardon me if I seem egotistical, I don't mean to be. But you are the only officer with whom I am friendly, and I was led to look upon you as a man of influence in England. The truth is, I am mystified, confused, bewildered. Either I am wrong, mad; or else we are waging this war in a wrong way.'
'Yes, how?'
'While I was in the training camps, I was so much influenced by that speech which you gave in Plymouth, that I determined to study the causes of this war carefully. I did so. I gave months to it. I read the whole German case from their own standpoint. I thought out the whole thing as clearly as I was able, and certainly I had no prejudices.'
'Well?' I asked.
'If ever a country ought to have gone to war, we ought. If ever a country had a righteous cause, we had, and have; if ever a Power needed crushing, it was German power. Prussianism is the devil. I tell you, I have been physically sick as I have read the story of what they did in Belgium and France. I have gone, as far as I have been able, to the tap-roots of the whole business. I have got at the philosophy of the German position. I have studied the resources of our country; I have tried to realize what we stand for. I fancy I must have been a fairly intelligent man before I lost my memory. Perhaps I was tolerably well educated, too. Anyhow, I think I have got a grasp of the whole position.'
I did not speak, but waited for him to proceed.
'I am saying this, sir, that you may see that I am not talking wildly, and my conviction is that Germany ought to have been beaten before now; but it's nowhere like beaten, the devil stalks about undaunted.'
'You forget that Germany is a great country,' I answered, 'and that she is supported by Austria, and Turkey, and Bulgaria. You forget, too, that she had all the advantages at the start, and that she had been preparing for this for forty years. You forget that she had the finest trained fighting machine in the world, the biggest and best-equipped army ever known. You forget, too, that she took the world practically unawares, and that all her successes, especially in the West, were gained at the beginning.'
'No, I do not forget,' he replied, and there was passion in his voice; 'I have gone through all that; I made allowance for it. All the same, they ought to have been beaten before now. Anyhow, their backs ought to have been broken, and we ought to be within sight of the end.'
'I am afraid I don't understand. The whole resources of the country have been strained to the utmost. Besides, see what we have done; see the army we have made; think of all the preparations in big guns and munitions!'
'Yes, yes,' he cried, 'but man-power is the final court of appeal, and we have been wasting our man-power, wasting it,—wasting it!'
'What do you mean by that? A finer lot of men never put on uniform than we had.'
'In a way you are right. No one could admire the heroism of our fellows more than I do. You have to get farther back.'
'How can we get farther back?'
'You have to get back to the Government. Look here, Luscombe,' and evidently he had forgotten the difference in our ranks, 'let me put the case into a nutshell. I was sent over here, to France, in a hurry. Never mind how I found out what I am going to tell you,—it is a fact. Two battalions of ours were urgently ordered here; our men here were hardly pressed, the Germans outnumbered us. Our chaps hadn't enough rest, and the slaughter was ghastly. So we were ordered over to relieve them, and the command was that we were to travel night and day, so urgent was the necessity.
'What happened? The boat by which I came was held up in the harbour for twenty-four hours. Why? I am not talking without my book,—I know, I have made investigations, and I will tell you why. The firemen were in public-houses, and would not come away. And the Government allowed those public-houses to be open; the Government allowed those firemen to drink until they were in an unfit condition to take us across. The Government allowed the stuff that robbed them of their manhood, and of their sense of responsibility, to be manufactured. The Government allowed private individuals to make fortunes out of that stuff! Just think of it! There we were, all waiting, but we could not go. Why could not we go? Why were we held up, when the lives of thousands of others depended upon us? when the success of the war probably depended upon it? Drink! there is your answer in one word.
'Here's this affair of the last two or three days; it didn't come off. Ammunition was wasted, men's lives were wasted, hearts were broken; but it didn't come off. Why was it?
'What are we fighting? We are fighting devilry, inhumanity, Prussian barbarism. Search your dictionary, and you can't find names too bad to describe what we are fighting. But in order to do it, we use one of the devil's chief weapons, which is robbing us of victory.
There was a strange intensity in his voice, and I think he forgot all about himself in what he said.
'Look here,' he went on, 'you remember how some time ago we were crying out for munitions. "Let us have more guns, more munitions," we said. The Germans, who had been preparing for war for so many years, had mountains of it, and as some one has said, thousands of our men were blown into bloody rags each day. And we could not answer back. We had neither guns nor shells. Why?'
'Because we were not properly organized. You see——'
'Yes, it was partly that, but more because our power was wasted, in the gun factories and the munition factories. You know as well as I do that it was on the continual and persistent work of the people in those factories that our supplies depended. What happened? Hundreds, thousands of them left work at noon on Saturdays, and then started drinking, and did not appear at their work until the Tuesday or Wednesday following, and when they came they were inefficient, muddled. Work that required skilled hands and clear brains had to be done by trembling hands and muddled brains. The War Minister told us that there was a wastage of 10 per cent. of our munition-making power. He told us, too, that between thirty and forty days of the whole working force of the country were lost every year,—what by? Drink.
'And meanwhile our chaps out here were killed by the thousand, because of shortage of munitions. Is it any wonder that the war drags on? Is it any wonder that we are not gaining ground? We were told months ago that we should shorten the war by blockading Germany, by keeping food from the nation. Now I hear rumours that there is going to be a shortage of food in our own country. Whether that will be the case or not, I don't know. If there is a shortage, it will be our own fault. I see by the English newspapers that bread is becoming dearer every day, and people say that there'll soon be a scarcity, and all the time millions upon millions of bushels of grain intended for man's food is being wasted in breweries and distilleries. Hundreds of thousands of tons of sugar, which are almost essential to human life, are utilized for man's damnation; and all by the consent of the Government.
'When the war broke out, the King signed the pledge, so did Lord Kitchener, so did the Chancellor of the Exchequer. Did the people follow? They only laughed. I tell you, Luscombe, every distillery and every brewery is lengthening the war, and I sometimes doubt whether we shall ever win it,—until the nation is purged of this crime! Yes, we are making vast preparations, and we have raised a fine Army. But all the time, we are like a man trying to put out a fire by pouring water on it with one hand, and oil with the other.'
'But, my dear chap,' I said, 'these brewers and distillers have put their fortunes into their business, and they employ thousands of hands. Would you rob them of their properties, and would you throw all these people out of work?'
'Great God! man,' was his reply, 'but the country's at stake, the Empire's at stake! Truth, righteousness, liberty are at stake! If we don't win in this war, German devilry will rule the world, and shall the country allow the Trade, as it calls itself, to batten upon the vitals of the nation? That's why I am bewildered. I told you just now that perhaps I look at things differently from what I ought to look at them. I have lost all memory of my past life, and I judge these things by their face value, without any preconceived notions or prejudices. I have to beginde novo, and perhaps can't take into account all the forces which have been growing up through the ages. But, Heavens! man, this is a crisis! and if we are going to win this war, not only must every one do his bit, but all that weakens and all that destroys the resources of the nation must be annihilated!'
Our conversation came abruptly to an end at that moment, caused by the entrance of my orderly, who told me that a gentleman wished to see me.
'Who is it, Jenkins?' I asked.
'Major St. Mabyn, sir.'
He had scarcely spoken when, with a lack of ceremony common at the front, George St. Mabyn entered.
'Ah, there you are, Luscombe! Did you know that both Springfield and I have had a remove? We got here last night. I fancy there are going to be busy times. I was awfully glad when I heard you were here too.'
'No, I never heard of your coming,' I replied, 'but this is really a great piece of luck.'
I had scarcely uttered the words, when I turned towards Paul Edgecumbe, who was looking steadily at St. Mabyn. There was no suggestion of recognition in his eyes, but I noticed that far-away wistful look, as though he were trying to remember something.
Instinctively I turned towards George St. Mabyn, who at that moment first gave a glance at Edgecumbe. Then I felt sure that although Edgecumbe knew nothing of St. Mabyn, his presence startled the other very considerably. There was a look in George St. Mabyn's eyes difficult to describe; doubt, wonder, fear, astonishment, were all there. His ruddy cheeks became pale, too, and I was sure his lips quivered.
'Who—who have you got here?' he asked.
'It's a chap who has got knocked about in a scrap,' I replied.
St. Mabyn gave Edgecumbe a second look, and then I thought his face somewhat cleared. His colour came back; his lips ceased twitching.
'What did you say your name was, my man?'
'Edgecumbe, sir.'
'D.C.L.I., I see.'
'Yes, sir.' He saluted as he spoke, and left the room, while GeorgeSt. Mabyn stood looking after him.
For some seconds he was silent, while I, with a score of conflicting thoughts in my mind, stood watching him. I had often wondered how I could bring these two men together, for, while I had but little reason to believe that they were in any way connected, I was constantly haunted by the idea that had been born in my mind on the night I had first met George St. Mabyn. I had imagined that if they could suddenly be brought together, my suspicions could be tested, and now, as it seemed to me, by sheer good fortune, my wishes had been gratified; but they had led to nothing definite.
'Who is that fellow, Luscombe?' he asked presently.
'Don't you remember?' I replied. 'He is the man whom I met at PlymouthHarbour, the man who had lost his memory.'
'Oh, yes. Funny-looking fellow; he—he almost startled me,' and he laughed nervously.
'Do you know him? Did you ever see him before?' I asked.
'No, I never saw him before.'
'I thought you looked as though you—you recognized him.'
'No, I never saw him before.'
He spoke quite naturally, and in spite of everything I could not help being convinced that he and Paul Edgecumbe had met for the first time.
'Have you heard from Devonshire lately?'
'No,' I replied.
'Then you don't know the news?'
'What news?' I asked eagerly.
'Miss Blackwater and I are engaged.'
'Congratulations,' I said; 'you'll be the envy of all the marriageable men in Devonshire.'
'Shan't I just! Yes, I'm the happiest man in the British Army, and that's saying a great deal.'
'I suppose it is publicly announced?' I said.
'No, not yet. Norah wants to wait a bit. I would like to have got married before I came out this time, but—but there's no understanding women. Still, if I live through this business, it'll come off in due time.'
'Where do you hang out, exactly?' I asked.
'At a village about two miles up the line. You can't miss the house I am billeted in; it's the first decent house on your right-hand side, at the entrance to the place. Springfield is with me. We are a bit quiet just now, but there'll be gay doings in a week or so. You must look me up, Luscombe, when you have a few hours to spare. By the way, you remember that Miss Bolivick you saw at the Granville's? She's out here in France somewhere.'
'What, nursing?'
'Yes, I suppose so.'
'A remarkably fine girl,' I ventured; 'if I am a judge of character, she's capable of doing anything.'
'Is she? Lorna and I never hit it off somehow. She was great pals with my brother Maurice, although she was only a kid at the time. She—she didn't congratulate me on my engagement. You'll be sure to look me up down at St. Pinto, won't you, Luscombe?'
When he had gone, I sat a long time thinking. It is true I no longer believed that Paul Edgecumbe could be his brother; but it set me wondering more than ever as to who Edgecumbe could be. I wondered if the poor fellow's memory would ever come back, and if the dark veil which hid his past life would be removed.
Before going out, I scribbled a line to Lorna Bolivick, telling her of my meeting with Edgecumbe, and of the wonderful way he had helped me to escape from the German trenches. It was true that, according to St. Mabyn, she was in France, but I imagined that her letters would be forwarded to her.
After that, several days elapsed before I had opportunity to pay my promised visit to St. George Mabyn. It was a case of every man to the wheel, for we were making huge preparations for the great Somme push which took place immediately afterwards. Still, I did at length find time to go, and one evening I started to walk there just as the day was beginning to die. It had been very hot and sultry, I remember, and I was very tired.
St. Pinto was well behind the lines, but I could hear the booming of the big guns away in the distance. I had no difficulty in finding the house where St. Mabyn was billeted, for, as he said, it was the first house of importance that I came across on the outskirts of the village.
I was disappointed, however, in finding that neither he nor Springfield was in. I could not complain of this, as I had not sent word that I was coming. But being tired, and having decided to walk, I did not relish the thought of my tramp back, especially as I had not taken the trouble to change my heavy field boots.
Not a breath of wind blew, and the air was heavy and turgid. On my way back, I had to pass a little copse which lay in a dell, and having noticed a little stream of water, I climbed over the fence in order to get a drink. Then, feeling deadly tired, I stretched myself at full length on the undergrowth, and determined to rest for an hour before completing my journey.
I think I must have fallen asleep, for presently I suddenly realized that it was quite dark, and that everything had become wonderfully still. The guns no longer boomed, and it might seem as though the conflicting armies had agreed upon a truce. I imagine that even then I was scarcely awake, for I had little consciousness of anything save a kind of dreamy restfulness, and the thought that I needn't hurry back.
Suddenly, however, I was wholly awake, for I heard voices close by, and I judged that some one was standing close to where I was. I was about to get up, and make my way back to my billet, but I remained quite still. I was arrested by a word, and that word was 'Edgecumbe.'
I did not realize that I was playing the part of an eaves-dropper, and even if I had, I doubt if I should have made my presence known. Anything to do with Edgecumbe had a strong interest for me.
The murmur of voices continued for some seconds without my being able to detect another word. Then some one said distinctly:
'You say he has been down at our place to-night?'
'Yes,' was the reply, and I recognized St. Mabyn's voice; 'he called about an hour before I got back.'
'What did he come for?' It was Springfield who spoke.
'Oh, that's all right. I asked him to look us up, and I expect that he, being off duty, came down to smoke a pipe with us.'
'I don't like the fellow.'
'Neither do I.'
Again there was low murmuring for several seconds, not a word of which reached me. Then I heard Springfield say: 'I shan't sleep soundly till I'm sure.'
'You weren't convinced, then?'
'I didn't see him plainly,' was Springfield's reply. 'You see, I had no business there, and we can't afford to arouse suspicions.'
'I tell you, Springfield,' and George St. Mabyn spoke as though he were much perturbed, 'I don't like it. I was a fool to listen to you in the first place. If you hadn't told me you were certain about it, and that——'
'Come that won't do, George. We are both in it together; if I have benefited, so have you, and neither of us can afford to have the affair spoilt now. You are squire, and I am your friend, and you are going to remain squire, whatever turns up, unless,' he added with a laugh, 'you are potted in this show.'
'What do you mean by that?'
'I mean that if it is he, he must never go back to England alive. It wouldn't do, my dear fellow.'
'But he remembers nothing. He doesn't even know his own name. He doesn't know where he came from; he doesn't know what he did.'
'Yes, but if it is he, what would happen, if his memory suddenly came back? Where should we be then? It won't bear thinking about!'
'But he knows nothing. Besides, who would take his word?'
'Are you sure Luscombe has no suspicions?' and Springfield asked the question sharply.
'How can he have? and yet—oh hang it all, Springfield, it hangs like a millstone round one's neck! But mind you, I am going to have no foul play.'
Springfield gave an unpleasant laugh. 'Foul play, my son?' he said, 'we are both too deep in this business to stick at trifles. You can't afford it, neither can I.'
A few seconds later, I heard them trudging back towards St. Pinto, still talking eagerly.
I lay on the thick undergrowth for some minutes without moving. The scraps of conversation which I had heard, and which I have set down here, gave me enough food for reflection for a long time. I was not yet quite clear as to the purport of it all, but I was clear that villainy was on foot, and that not only was Paul Edgecumbe's life in danger, but my own as well, and if the truth must be told, I feared Springfield's threat more than I feared the danger which I had to meet every day as a soldier at the front in war time.
The next day I received the following note:—
'I was awfully disappointed to learn, on my return to-night, that you had looked us up in our show here, and had not found us. Why didn't you, like a decent chap, let us know you were coming? We would then have made it a point to be in. Springfield was even more disappointed than I at our absence. Can't you come over on Thursday night and have a bit of grub with us? We will both make it a point to have the entire evening at liberty, always supposing that the Boches don't pay us special attention. Let me have a line by bearer.
'Yours, with the best of regards'GEORGE ST. MABYN.'
'Yes,' I reflected, 'I will go. But I'll have another talk withEdgecumbe first.'
On the following Thursday I again made my way to St. Pinto, where I received an almost effusive welcome from St. Mabyn and Springfield. Both expressed great vexation at being away when I had called before, and seemed to vie with each other in being friendly. In fact they overdid it. After all, I had barely known them in England, and there seemed no reason why they should act as though I were a long lost brother in France.
'By the way, Luscombe,' said St. Mabyn after dinner, 'Springfield is awfully interested in that experience of yours. He says it's one of the greatest jokes of the war.'
'By Jove, that's true,' added Springfield. 'That fellow,—what do you call him?—must be a great chap. I should like to hear more about him.'
'He is a great chap,' I replied. 'I don't believe he knows what fear means, and the way he talked over those Boches was nothing short of a miracle.'
Almost before I realized it, I found myself submitted to a keen examination as to what I knew about Edgecumbe. As I reflect on it now, I can see that Springfield's methods were very clever. He asked no direct questions, but he led the conversation into channels which led me, almost in spite of myself, to divulge my thoughts about him. Still I do not think I committed any grave error, and when at length I left them, I felt fairly satisfied with the interview.
During my walk back to my billet I felt sure I was being followed and watched. It was true I neither heard nor saw anything out of the ordinary, but I seemed to be possessed of a sixth sense, and that sixth sense made me conscious of an unfriendly presence. But nothing happened, and presently when I reached my quarters without molestation or happening of any sort, I laughed at myself for harbouring baseless impressions.
I found Edgecumbe awaiting me, as I had previously arranged.
'Been here long?' I asked.
'About an hour,' and then he looked at me eagerly.
'No,' I said, noting his glance, 'I've nothing to tell you—-yet.'
I could see he was disappointed. I had aroused his curiosity and he had been wondering what I had in my mind.
'Then I may as well be going,' he said, after a few seconds' silence.
'No, not yet.'
I could see the eager questions in his eyes, so I went on. 'I can't tell you anything yet, Edgecumbe; it would not be fair to you, and it might not be fair to others. It may be I'm only following the will-o'-the-wisp of my fancies; all the same I want you to stay with me at least an hour. I think it will be the safest plan. I will send a note with you that will answer all questions, and meanwhile I'll get these shutters closed.'
It was quite midnight when he left me, and I watched him as he walked away from my billet. He had not gone more than two minutes when I heard the sound of angry voices, and as far as I could judge they came from the spot where he was likely to be. Then coming from the same locality there was the sound of a pistol shot.
Without hesitating a second, I ran towards the spot from which I thought the sound came. It was not a very dark night, but there was not light enough to discern anything very plainly. For half an hour I searched and listened, but I could discover nothing.
I tried to persuade myself that what I had heard was only fancy, nevertheless I did not sleep well that night. As soon as morning dawned I hurried to the spot again, but if there had been a struggle the rain which had fallen had washed the traces away. Neither was there anything suspicious to be seen.
Later in the day, however, news came to me that Private Edgecumbe was missing, and as he had last been to my billet, I was to be questioned as to whether I knew anything of his whereabouts.
As may be imagined when these questions were asked I could give no satisfactory answers. I could not say that I suspected foul play without giving my reasons, and those reasons were not good enough to give. I could only say that he had come to me bringing a message from Captain Wilkins, that he had left me about midnight bearing my reply. That about two minutes after he had left I heard the sound of angry voices, as well as a pistol shot, but beyond that nothing.
'Have you no idea where he is?' I asked anxiously.
'Not the slightest. I have made every inquiry—in vain. The fellow has disappeared as though he had deserted.'
'He hasn't done that,' I replied. 'He's not that sort.'
'Then what's become of him?'
I shook my head. I was very anxious, but I could say nothing. I dared not impugn two brother officers on such evidence as I had. Nevertheless, as may be imagined, I thought a great deal about what had taken place.
The events I have been writing about took place towards the end of May, 1916, and, as I have before stated, we were at this time making huge preparations for the Great Advance. As fortune would have it, moreover, I was, two days after my parting with Edgecumbe, given a job five miles further south, and then life became such a rush, that to make anything like satisfactory inquiries about a missing soldier was absolutely impossible. I imagine that few newspaper readers at home, when they read the first accounts of the battle of the Somme, and noted that we took a few villages and a few thousand prisoners on the first days of the battle, little realized the tremendous preparations which had to be made. So hardly were we kept at it, that oftimes we had scarce time for food or rest.
During the month of June, I received a letter from Lorna Bolivick, in reply to the one I had sent her informing her of my meeting with Paul Edgecumbe. It was so characteristic of her that I will insert it here.
'Now please confess at once,' she wrote, 'that it was because I witnessed your promise to tell me all about him, that you sent that letter, otherwise you wouldn't have thought of writing to a poor silly girl. And wasn't it interesting! I told you he was a wonderful man, and you see how he has paid you already for the little kindness you showed him. Why, in all probability he saved your life! And now I want you to do something else for me; I want you to send me his photograph. I have conjured up a picture of what I think he is like, and I am anxious to see if I am right. Aren't I taking a lot of liberties with you! But you see I like you,—I do really. I fell in love with you when you came to Granitelands with Sir Roger Granville that day. Oh, no, there's nothing romantic about it, I can assure you! But you looked so kind, and trustworthy, and strong, that I took to you from the very first moment. Father tells me I am wrong to take violent likes and dislikes to people at a first meeting; but I can't help it, I am made that way. Of course you are not a bit attractive in the ordinary way. You don't say sharp, clever things, and you don't flatter. Besides, you're old. Now don't be angry. Every girl looks upon a man who is getting on for forty as old. But I am fond of you all the same. There's a sense of security about you; I am sure I could trust you, just the same as I trust my father.
'Send me that photograph of your friend as soon as you can, I am anxious to get it. I am awfully busy here in this hospital, and there are such a lot of wounded men, many of them with a limb shot off. Do you know, I am tremendously interested in a poor Tommy who has lost both his legs. Horrible, isn't it! But he's the most cheerful man in the place, and keeps us laughing all day long.
'He wrote a letter to his mother yesterday, and told her to get him a pair of patent-leather dancing shoes.
'You will be sure to be careful, won't you?—I can't bear the idea of anything happening to you; and although I know you are old enough to be cautious, and not to take foolish risks,—that is, in the ordinary way,—I am sure you are one of those men who forget everything like caution when you are aroused. This is awfully silly, isn't it? so I'll stop. I command you, write me at once, and do as I tell you.
'Yours obediently,
I answered this letter at once. I was in a dug-out at the time, and I remember a lump of mud falling on the writing-pad and making a huge smear, and explaining to her what the smear meant. As it happened, too, I was able to send her Paul Edgecumbe's photograph. It was not a very good one; it had been produced by one of his comrades who was an amateur photographer. But it gave a fair idea of him. I obtained it from him the last evening we were together. I did not tell her that he was missing, even although my fears concerning him were very grave; I thought it better not;—why, I don't know.
At length the great first of July arrived, and it was impossible to think of anything clearly. For days there had been a cannonade such as the world had never witnessed before; the whole countryside shook, the air was thick with shrieking shells, the ground trembled with bursting bombs. Every breath one drew was poison; the acrid smells of high explosives were everywhere. Then, after days of bombardment, which I will not try to describe, for it beggars all the language I ever learnt, the attack commenced.
I have been sitting here trying to conjure up a picture of all I saw that day, trying to find words in order to give some general impression of what took place; but I simply can't. As I look back now, it only seems a combination of a vast mad-house and a vast charnel-house. I have confused memories of bodies of men creeping up behind deadly barrages; I can see shells tearing up great holes in the earth, and scattering mud and stones around them. I can see, too, where trenches were levelled, just as I have seen pits which children make on the seashore levelled by the incoming tide. Now and then there come back to my mind dim, weird pictures of Germans crawling out of their dug-outs, holding up their hands, and piteously crying, 'Kamerad! Kamerad!'
I have recollections, too, of the great awkward tanks toiling along their cumbersome way, smashing down whatever opposed them, and spitting out flame and death on every hand. But I can record nothing. Men talk about the history of this war being written some day; it never will be,—the whole thing is too tremendous, too ghastly.
Personally, there are only a few incidents which I can recall clearly. In the main, the struggle comes back to me as a series of bewildering, chaotic, and incomplete events. Scraps of conversation come back to me, too, and those scraps have neither sequence nor meaning.
'Fricourt taken, is it?'
'Yes, and La Boisselle.'
'No, La Boisselle is not taken.'
'Yes, it is, and Contalmaison too.'
'Nonsense, you fool! that's miles on.'
'The French are doing very well, too. Fritz is having a hot time.We'll be in Bapaume in no time.' And so on.
My general impression was that our men were doing very well south of the Ancre, up as far as Thiepval, but north of the Ancre we were not so successful. The Germans were putting up a tremendous resistance, and I, unfortunately, was north of the Ancre. I will not give the exact locality, nor the name of the village which was our objective; but this village had been, as we thought, bombarded with such intensity that our work ought to be easy. Our casualties were very heavy, and I shall never forget the heartaches I had when I knew that many of my men whom I had learned to know and to love were lying in nameless graves, torn, battered and unrecognizable, while many more would linger for a few hours in agony, and presently a little mound would cover them, and a little wooden cross would indicate their last resting-place.
I never saw braver men. Even now my heart thrills at the abandon with which they rushed into every kind of danger, not grimly and doggedly, so much, as gaily, and with a laugh. They mocked at danger. I have seen men crossing No Man's Land, with machine-gun bullets flying all round them, stop coolly to light their cigarettes, and then go on again humming a song.
The advance had been in progress some days, at least I think so, but I am not sure,—one day seemed just like another. We had been at it for many hours, I remember, and we were all dead tired. I could see that some of the poor lads were half asleep, and ready to drop, through sheer weariness. We had taken a difficult position, but we were assured before we took it that our success would mean certainty to the accomplishment of the larger plan. Our objective was the taking of a fortified village a little farther on.
Heavy-eyed and heavy-limbed, the boys still stuck to it, and looked eagerly forward towards the accomplishment of their work. It is true our ranks were terribly decimated, but the enemy had suffered far worse than we, and therefore we were confident. Then the news came that we were to be relieved. Fresh battalions had come up to take our places, and we were told that we might get back and rest.
Our boys were disappointed at this, although they were glad of the reprieve.
'Anyhow, we've done our bit,' said one.
'A dirty bit, too,' said another. 'Still, the job's easy now, and a fresh lot of men should take it in a couple of hours.'
'I'd rather go on with it,' said a third. 'I don't see why these other blokes should have the easy job, and we have the hard one.'
'Cheer up, old sport,' said another, 'what do we care who does the job, as long as it's done? We're not here for a picnic.'
And so on, while we retired. How far we went back, I don't know. I have a confused remembrance of the fellows throwing themselves down on the ground, almost sleeping as they fell, and not waiting for the food which was provided for them, while others ate ravenously.
'Anyhow, we've given Fritz a twisting up to-day, and we've left the other blokes a soft job,' were the last words I heard as I dragged my weary legs to the place where I promised myself a good long sleep.
How long I slept I don't know, but it did not seem to me two minutes, although it might have been as many hours.
'The Boches have broken through!' Those were the words that came to my stupefied brain.
'What!' I exclaimed, 'it is impossible!'
'Yes, back at once!'
There was no time to ask questions, no time to argue. The poor fellows who had been fighting so long and bravely were with difficulty roused out of their sleep, and all had to retrace their weary steps towards the positions for which we had fought, and which we had won.
'Why is it? why is it?'—'There must be a mistake!'—'Why, we had got 'em on toast.'—'I tell you, we left 'em nothing but a picnic!'
The men were angry, discontented, grumbling, but they went back to their job determined to see it through nevertheless.
After that, I have but a dim recollection of what took place, except that it was grim, hard, stern fighting. The air was sulphurous, the ground hideous with filth, and blood, and dead bodies.
I don't know how it came about, but the Germans were more numerous than we. It was not we who were taking prisoners, but they, and then suddenly I found myself alone, with three Germans before me. One, I remember, had a rag saturated with blood tied round his head. He had a great gash in his cheek, too, and was nearly beaten; but there was the look of a devil in his eye. Had I been a private soldier, I expect I should have been killed without ado, but they called upon me to surrender. I was mad at the idea. What, surrender after we had won the position! Surrender to the men whom we had sworn to conquer! The Army which had set out to make an advance must not surrender!