THE officer who’s going to relieve me has just arrived and gone forward to battalion headquarters with one of my linesmen. He’s poking round the Front just at present; as soon as he comes back, he’ll take over from me and I shall report to my Major at the guns.
Queer, the places men go to in this war and the circumstances under which they meet! This chap went to school with me in London, I discover. I remember him chiefly by one of those inconsequential incidents of childhood; he had a hoydenish sister who laid me out by throwing a snowball with a stone in it. She’s a married woman with children now—the wife of one of the props of the upper-middle-classes.
Her husband has a seat in Parliament; before the war she owned a Rolls Royce and everything else that was respectable. She’s been going up in the social scale ever since she threw that snowball. It’s by the snowball that she recalls me, her brother tells me, whenever my name is mentioned.
This chap’s been to the east; he was present at the taking of Bagdad. He speaks of all that magic country as though it were just as commonplace as this desolate plain of ruined villages on which I gaze.
Tonight we pull our guns out. Where we’re going nobody knows. Our infantry are already marching out in sections and the Imperials are taking over from us. Staff officers with their red tabs go up and down the trenches. Brass-hats pass down the sunken road and pop their heads in at my observation post to enquire their direction. There’s mystery and excitement in the air. They can’t be withdrawing us for a third time merely to go into training. It must be for the counter-stroke which we have so long expected. But when are we going to strike and where?
I’d like to see our Captain at this moment. The whole impatience of our corps through this summer seems to be summed up in his person. Like all of us, only more so, he has listened since the spring with a kind of agony for the galloping of the black horseman who rides alone. He himself is a man who rides solitarily. His eyes have a steady forward gaze, quiet and firm and unflinching. I shouldn’t say he was a good soldier—not in details or in the ordinary sense; he came into the war, as most of us did, too late in life for that. In peace times he was a painter and a dilletante, noted for many oddities which do not matter now. He was successful and courted and on the crest of the wave. When war broke out, he downed tools at once and offered himself for cannon-fodder. In August 1914 a new way of valuing men came into fashion. Death is the sincerest of all democrats. It did not matter who we were, what our attainments, wealth, position: the chimney-sweep and the genius were of equal worth. Kreisler’s bow-arm was only of service to his country for firing a rifle. A man might have the greatest singing voice in Europe; his voice would not help. We required of him his body; it would stop a bullet. When we reached the trenches, we learnt even more dramatically that nothing that we had been counted. Only the heart that was in us could raise us above our fellows—or to use the more colloquial army term, “the guts". Guts would enable a man to fight on when hope had retreated, until hope in very shame returned. A man who hadn’t guts was shot at the back of the line by his comrades as a deserter. A man who had was shot up front as a white man with his face towards the enemy. There was no appeal from these alternatives; birth, talents, money could not disturb the sentence. There was only one standard by which our worth was estimated—-the measure of our sacrificial courage.
Of course we were all inefficient. We had never dreamt of being soldiers till the deluge of brutality poured out of Germany and threatened to destroy the world. We were specialists in various small departments of human knowledge; our special knowledge, unless it was military, was no longer of service. That was the hard part of it—that many of us who had known the pride of being specialists, were now called upon to approve ourselves in an effort for which we were totally unfitted. Of all the qualities which we had cultivated so carefully the world asked for the one to which we had paid least attention—our courage. So the Captain laid down his brush, turned his canvases to the wall, joined as an artillery driver and went to grooming horses. When his training was ended and he was shot out to the Front, he learnt almost over-night the tremendous lesson that it’s the spirit that counts—the thing that a man is essentially inside himself and not the thing which his social advantages make him appear to other people. A man cannot camouflage under shell-fire; in the face of death his true worth becomes known to everybody. When war started, Judgment Day commenced in the world for every man who put on khaki. God estimated us in the front-line, and God’s eyes were the eyes of our fellows.
I believe the Captain had expected that he would prove himself a coward—most of us expected that for ourselves. When he found that he could be fearless, the relief was so triumphant that he became possessed by an immense elation. He took the wildest chances and was always trying to outdo in heroism his own last bravest act. Promotion came rapidly; at the end of eight months he was a sergeant and before the year was out had gained his commission. He joined our brigade as an officer in September of 1916, when we were waiting on the high ground behind Albert, preparatory to being flung into the cauldron of the Somme offensive. He was treated with suspicion at first; no one expected much from a chap who had been a painter. The Colonel sniffed contemptuously when he reported at the tent which was brigade headquarters.
“What were you before you became a soldier?”
“A painter, sir.”
“Of houses?”
“No. Of landscapes and portraits.”
To a hustler who has flung railroads across continents, outwitting nature and abbreviating time, to have been a painter seemed a sorry occupation—an occupation which indicated long hair, innumerable cigarettes, artists’ models and silken ways of life. The Colonel himself had been in the North-West Mounted Police and had lived furiously, tracking outlaws and rounding up Indians.
“So you’ve been a painter, Heming,” he sniffed. “Out here we don’t do much that’s in your line. We deal in only two colours: the mud-brown of weariness and the scarlet of sacrifice. We don’t copy landscapes—we make them.”
Heming was attached to a battery whose Major was noted for his “guts". He either made or broke his officers in the first week that they were with him. He didn’t have to wait long to be put to the test. The whole of our brigade was crowded into the narrow valley, know as Mash Valley, which parallels the road which runs along the ridge from Albert to Pozihres. It was a direct enfilade for the Hun. The batteries were strung throughout the length of the valley at about two-hundred—yard intervals, so that when we weren’t being pounded by the enemy, we were being wounded by prematures from the friendly guns behind us. When a strafe was on, it was as though two contending gales had met above our heads and were pushing against each other breast to breast. In those days wemadelandscapes at a tremendous rate. There met at the Somme the most ingenious artists in the science of destruction which the world had seen till that date. They found a pleasant country of windmills, snuggling woods, villages with tall, clear spires, nests of embowered greenness upheld by hills against the sky, and they trampled it with shells into dust and mixed the dust with tire blood of men, till as far as eye could stretch it was a putrescent sea of mud.
In the first week of September 1916, when we crept into our positions under the heavy morning mist, the clay was baked to the brittle hardness of pottery; two months earlier the rains and carnage had washed away all signs of friendliness and greenness. Hands, heads and stockinged feet of the dead stuck out where the mud had dried up; one tripped over them and, at touching them, shrank back with a thrill of horror. It was a good place from many points of view to test a man’s capacity for “guts". It was especially good at night, for directly darkness had fallen the Hun drenched the length and breadth of the valley with gas-shells You could hear them coming over with a whistling sound, like an army of wild geese. You waited for the explosions and, when you heard nothing but stealthy thuds, you knew that it was time to run along the gun-pits and give the alarm for the wearing of gas-helmets. The helmets with which we were issued in those days were rather horrid affairs. They were like gray flannel shirts drenched in treacle and sewn up at the top so that you could not push your head through. You pulled them on and tucked the shirts in under the collar of your tunic. Then you shoved a rubber mouth-piece between your teeth, peered out through the goggles in the side of the gray flannel and slowly suffocated. Seeing that we were in a valley, all the gas from the shells drifted down to the low ground where the gun-pits had been dug and hung there ready to stifle your men directly the suffocation of their helmets became too much to bear. Mash Valley was most excellently chosen as a place in which to test one’s guts.
Heming had been with us two days when the Major took him up with him to make a reconnaissance of the front. At that time I was corporal of the B. C. party, so I went ahead to lay in wire in order that we might keep in touch with the battery should the Major wish to register the guns. At the head of Mash Valley there was an engineers’ dump, known as Kay, and it was at this point that the main trench-system began. We ran our wire in as far as Kay and were met there by the Major and Heming at three in the morning.
A Scotch mist was drifting across the desolation. The air was piercingly cold and a watery moon looked down, I think the first thing that impressed one about the trenches of the Somme was their desertion. The dead far outnumbered the living, and the dead were for the most part unburied. One wondered from where the men would spring up to fight should a Hun attack commence. The walls of the trenches were honey-combed with little scooped out holes. In those holes, with their knees drawn up to their chins and the mist soaking down on them, unshaven haggard men slept. They were polluted to the eyes and wearied to extinction. Sometimes their feet stuck out across the duck-board. You stumbled across them, but they did not waken; they only moaned. When they did not moan, you were puzzled; until a man made some motion or spoke, you were never certain whether he was living or dead. The slain defenders and those who had taken over from them huddled side by side, keeping guard together.
Here and there one of the kennels had been crushed in by a shell and the inmate had been killed while he slept. His putteed legs and heavy army boots were still thrust out across the duck-board; they were the only reminders of his sojourn there.
As one drew nearer to the front-line through the winding labyrinth of trenches, he noticed that the sides were walled up with the dead. Men’s bodies had proved cheaper than sandbags; moreover, they had saved labour in spots where no unnecessary men ought to be asked to jeopardize their lives. The bodies, where they showed through the mud, had flaked off white like plaster exposed to the wind and sun. Flies rose up in clouds as one passed; their wings filled the air with an incessant buzzing.
Horrors multiplied as the world grew grayer and the dawn began to break. We came to a ditch levelled nearly flat by the Hun barrage, in which Jocks and coloured troops had fought side by side. They were buried to the waist; in the process of decay the black men had turned white and the white black.
I watched the effect of all this on Heming. The Major watched hun. Perhaps most closely of all the signallers watched him. When a new officer joins any unit, the men are overwhelmingly eager to find out whether he has guts. They know that the day is always coming when their chance of life may depend on his judgment and courage.
Heming’s face was the face of a dreamer. He never was nor could have been a man of action. He imagined too far ahead. He visualized and fought the horror which lurked behind each traverse before he came to it. A thousand times that morning he must have seen himself mutilated and dead. His expression was tense and excited, but an amused smile played about the edges of his mouth. His eyes beneath his steel-helmet were brilliant and forward-looking. He seemed to contemplate his inward struggle against terror with the unimpassioned aloofness of a spectator.
Trenches were becoming shallower. It was some time since we had passed any sentries or working-parties. A horrible, brooding silence was over everything, broken only by the secret dripping of rain and the scuttling of rats among corpses. The Major became more frequent in the examining of his map. At last he ordered us to crouch down while he stealthily peered over the lip of the trench in an effort to get his bearings. It began to dawn on us that we had come too far and were lost in No Man’s Land.
While we waited, behind the mist we heard talking. The mist parted and we saw, not fifty yards away, the smoke-gray uniforms and red-cross armlets of a party of Hun stretcher-bearers. The Major was standing up. The Huns dropped the stretcher they were carrying; at the same instant a rifle rang out. The Major toppled backward, tearing at his breast.
Then we learnt once and for all whether Heming had guts. His face leapt together—these are the only words in which to describe his sudden change of expression. The entire man became knit in one purpose, to out-daunt the challenge of the danger His eyes were merry when he turned to me. “There are just enough of you to carry the Major out. He may live if you get him to a dressing-station. Work your way back down this trench; you’ll strike our front-line somewhere in that direction.”
“But what about you, sir?” I asked.
He was examining his revolver to see whether it was clean and ready. “I’m going forward,” he answered. “If I can get in a few pot-shots, I’ll divert their attention and help you to make good your getaway.”
It was the damnedest bit of folly—one man with a revolver, going forward to stir up an unknown number of the enemy He was an officer, so we had to obey him; besides, there were only just enough of us to carry out the Major. Just as we had started, Heming came crawling back to me on his hands and knees.
“Corporal,” he said hurriedly, “if anything should happen to me, just drop a line to this address and let her know that I wasn’t yellow. I don’t suppose she’ll care, so you don’t need to be sentimental. Just state the fact, and say that I did everything that she might feel proud of—of our friendship.”
The address which he slipped into my hand bore the name of a married woman. I recognized her name, for I had seen her portrait often in the London Illustrateds. I wondered whether it was true what he had said, that she would not care.
There wasn’t much time for wondering; the mist was lifting. It was easy to see one’s direction now and easy to be seen by the enemy. The trench was shallow; it was exhausting work, crouching to take advantage of every bit of cover and dragging at the body of the wounded man. We hadn’t been gone ten minutes before a barrage came down on the spot where we had been discovered, setting up a wall of fire between ourselves and Heming. In the brief silences between the falling of the shells, I could hear the ping of rifle-bullets. They were passing far over to our left; I could picture how Heming was exposing himself to draw the fire away from us.
It took us two hours to get the Major back to our lines. The last part of the way we grew reckless and carried him overland. Our infantry saw us and came out with a stretcher to help. At the dressing-station the M. O. who attended to the wound broke the news abruptly, “He hasn’t an earthly.”
The Major’s eyes opened. He repeated the words, “Not an earthly.” And then, “Tell Heming he’s all right, and say—say I’m sorry I doubted.”
The Major went west one hour after that and we returned to the guns to report to Brigade what had happened. The report went in across the wire, but the Colonel at once sent for me to give him the details in person. When I had ended, he sat twisting his moustaches thoughtfully. Then, “That fool painter,” he said, talking more to himself than to me, “I suppose he knew I thought he was afraid.” And then to me, “But he’s all white, Corporal, and it’s up to us to get him out. D’you think you could find the way back?”
I told him I could by following the wire which we had laid to that point.
When we again reached Kay Dump and Tom’s Cut, which was the main trench leading to the frontline, we found that the usual morning “hate” was in progress. The wounded of the night before were being carried out; as the bearers, carrying the stretchers on their shoulders, reached the high ground, the Huns caught sight of them and started to mow them down with enfilade fire. Our guns opened up in retaliation; by the tine the strafe had died down the morning had become too clear for anyone to approach No Man’s Land without being observed. It was in the first dusk of evening that Heming came back. We were in the front-line waiting for him, when the Hun snipers opened up. We saw him come running in zig-zags through the rusty wire and shell-holes. When he jumped into the trench beside us, he was laughing. “I’ve had a simply ripping time, Corporal,” he commenced. Then, seeing the Colonel, he stood stiffly to attention and saluted.
“What doing?” the Colonel asked.
“Making landscapes,” said Heming, with a twinkle, “and letting daylight into Huns.”
So that was how our Captain proved that he had guts; he’s done nothing but add to the reputation which he then earned. It was on the way down to the battery that he asked me to give him back the address. “And you must never mention her name, Corporal. Promise me that.”
Today I am an officer with Heming in the same battery, and we have never referred to the matter. I am sure he is in love with her and I believe he was in love with her before she married. Why he missed her or what are their present relations, I cannot guess; all I know is that he is out here to die and that she is the inspiration of all his reckless courage. Now he knows that the counter-stroke is to be struck and that the big chance of death has come, his heart will be singing. The men as they go about their packing up will be following him with their eyes and whispering, “The Captain’s mighty cheerio. He’s all for it.” In watching him they will feel a thrill of excitement; they, too, will become “all for it.” They will go with him anywhere—if need be, to hell.
Mighty cheerio and all fur it!That’s the way the entire Canadian Corps must be feeling at this moment. All through the sunny days of spring and summer we have had to sit tight and watch while other men marched out to meet their death. Thank God, our turn to sacrifice has come. The indignity of not dying is at last removed from us.
IT was growing dusk before the observing-officer of the relieving battery returned from his reconnaissance of the Front to take over from me. The Hun planes had already come out like monstrous bats from their hiding-places, and were dipping their wings in the aquamarine and saffron of the fading sky. Our machine-gunners and riflemen for miles round were busy taking pot-shots at them, trying to drive them back so that they should not detect the unusual movement of troops behind our lines.
One may say what he likes about war, but it has moments which possess a surpassing and enthralling beauty. One such moment came this evening as I watched what is likely to prove to be my last sunset over the Vimy plain. I know it all—every charred tree, every hollow, every shattered ruin. I ought to know it for it has made me suffer; Death, mounted on his black stallion, has waited for me behind almost every bit of cover within sight. I have felt him when I could not see him; there have been times when across the distance I have caught the gleam of his shrouded eyes. Because of these things, because of the friends who have died here, because of the risks we have taken and shared, because of the ice-cold nights, the poker-games, the brief escapes into cleaner country, the letters from a certain girl and the home-sick dreams which have wiled away tedious hours in dug-outs—because of all these things, in an obstinate kind of way I love the scarred, forsaken horror of this country. “For the last time,” I told myself as I watched the sunset glow grow fainter upon the enemy domes and spires of Douai.
If I live through the war I may come back to this ridge which has been my home for over a year; but, if I come back, it will not look the same. All the challenge to one’s daring will have vanished. There will be no gassing, no shelling; one will be able to expose himself as much as he likes. Everything will be desperately and conventionally safe. Curious how one learns to admire danger!
While I watched and the light faded, men became symbols and shadows. They crept along the trenches, going up to die, as men have gone up to die through the ages. Even in peace times we were soldiers for one cause or another, and none of us were immune from dying. We are fighting from the day we draw breath till the day when our bodies, like beggars’ rags, drop from us and our spirits in their swift lean whiteness escape. Death! What is it but just that, the casting aside of tattered clothing!—and how tattered one’s body can become in the front-line!
The dance of destruction commenced as darkness settled. Like ropes of pearls flung up, the luminous tracer-bullets of machine-guns darted towards the sky. From somewhere in the clouds the Hun planes replied, flinging down similar ropes of ruin, Against the horizon, like lilies floating, Hun flares soared and swayed. While they lasted, Gavrelle sprang ghostly into sight and the contorted skeleton of what once was Oppy. The flares sink and die, everything is again swallowed up in obscurity. Down the sunken road to my left go the anonymous feet of marching men. Other feet have, trampled that mud, and they now are silent. There are feet among those who march tonight which will not make the return journey.
The phone rings sharply. “You’re wanted, sir.” The message is shouted up from the depths of the dug-out. I press the button of my flash-lamp and hurriedly slither down the innumerable greasy stairs. As I take the receiver, I tell the signaller to light another candle as there may be a message to pencil. He lights the candle and sticks it against the planked wall in the orthodox way, by warming the wall with the flame so that the heat may melt the wax.
“Hulloa! Hulloa!... Oh, it’s you sir!” It’s my Major.
“No, the friend who came to see me, this morning has not returned; he went somewhere.... Yes, I know; he ought to have taken over from me... O, here he is.... You’ll have horses for... all my party. Yes, sir, I understand. I won’t waste any time.”
I turn round to the officer who is to relieve me, “You took your time, old thing, I must say. I hope the dinner at battalion headquarters was a wet one. But you’ve rather crowded me; my battery hits the trail tonight.”
He starts a lengthy explanation, but I’m in a hurry to be gone. While I hand over to him my fighting maps, my linesmen are loading themselves with reels of wire and instruments.
“Well, so long,” I say.
“Good luck,” he replies.
How often I have spoken such words in this cramped death-trap; now I’m speaking them for the last time. I take a final look round; there’s the frame-work bunk, with the chicken-wire nailed over it, on which I have spent so many restless nights; there’s the ground-sheet tacked over the second exit through which the draught was so persistent in coming; there’s the penciled message on the wall to his sweetheart in the Argonne from the captured French soldier who slaved for the Hun—a message of deathless love, which I forwarded to her as directed. This place was a home of sorts, and now it is another’s.
We scramble up the steep, clammy stairs into the trench. The night air is soft and warm; stars are coming out. Round the traverse where the thirteen-pounder lies concealed, the gun-detachment is waiting for me. I raise the camouflage to take one last look at the brave little piece; then I’m tempted to enter and to place my hand upon the smooth cold breech-block, which shines like silver.
“We never got our chance to fire you, old girl,” is my thought: “but we’d have done our bit, if the Hun tanks had come, you and I. If the chance does come, you’ll have to play the game with some other chap now.”
We’re in the sunken road, climbing the ridge where the chalk gleams white as snow in the darkness. Some runners go past us, smoking cigarettes. They belong to the relieving troops; none of our men would do that. A cigarette shows up like a lamp from this point of vantage. I halt the men and order them to put out their cigarettes.
We’re on the crest now, where a sentry challenges. To the right and left shells are falling with a sullen crash. Our faces are turned towards the west, where the horizon is still faintly flame-coloured and evening has not yet sunk into night. To our right the splinted tower of Mount St. Eloi points a martyred finger at the clouds. Beneath our feet runs the Concrete Road, built at such sacrifice across the torn battlefield. All our transport comes up along this route, as the Hun knows well; he makes it the special target of his harassing fire. We note the new hits which the enemy has scored on it since last we made the journey. The ground is ploughed with shells on either side; here and there one finds black pools of blood, dead horses and broken limbers. From craters and places of concealment our forward guns belch fire. Their flash is hidden from the enemy by the ridge; but he has guessed their approximate locations, and searches and sweeps day and night in an effort to find and destroy them. Now and then, like the blast of a furnace, a torrent of flame shoots up where he has exploded an ammunition dump. Against the swift and momentary illumination one sees the shadowy figures of men running and dropping into shell-holes. The spectacle of death fails to move us. We have become too used to dying.
As we plod along under our heavy loads of instruments, kit, revolvers and reels of wire, we spread out so that one shell may not get the lot of us. My men are singing; from the words I gather an idea of what is happening in their minds:
I said “Good-bye” to the flowers
And “Good-bye” to the trees,
And the little church which sleeps so quietly,
I said “Good-bye” to on my knees;
I said “Good-bye” to my sister
And my dear old mammy, too;
But my heart was almost breaking
When I said “Good-bye” to you.
They’re conscious of something different and devastating approaching, and are singing their farewell to security.
Foch’s Pets! The hammer-head of the counterattack! If that’s the game, there won’t be many of us left to celebrate peace. It’s August now; how many of us will be above ground by Christmas?
WE found our horses waiting for us with the grooms and horse-holders in a trench about fifty yards off the road. They had had to take cover there on account of enemy shelling attracted by an anti-aircraft battery. The anti-aircraft battery being mounted on motor-lorries, had made a swift get-away the moment the retaliation, which they had called down, had started. Our boys couldn’t get away; they had received explicit orders to wait for me and my party with their horses at one specific point on the Concrete Road. Three horses had been slightly wounded and one of the men had been killed. A splinter of shell had cut his throat as completely as if a knife had been drawn across it.
Kneeling beside the body, I drew back the saddle-blanket which had been thrown over if and scanned the face with my flash-lamp. My groom touched me on the shoulder, “You won’t recognise him, sir; he’s a remount—only came to the Front for the first time yesterday evening.”
It was a young face, with scarcely any beard on it. Nineteen, at most. The eyes were blue, and filmed, and wide. They had a sudden expression of surprise and protest. Death doesn’t often disturb me now-a-days, but I couldn’t tear that scarlet mark across the throat.—One day at the wagon-lines being chaffed for having come into the army late—the next night dead! Poor laddie! I don’t know who you are or where you came from. If I could have prevented it, things shouldn’t have happened this way. They ought to have given you a better run for your money. I’m sorry.
The horses are snorting and jumping back against the reins, so I switch off my flashlight and cover up the face.
“Have any arrangements been made?” I ask.
They tell me “None”—the accident only happened within the last half-hour.
“Then one of you will have to mount it in front of you. Hand it over to the Captain of the relieving battery. He’ll have to see to its burial: we march within the next three hours.... Where’s the Major?”
I learn that he’s still at the guns, so I tell my groom to lead on down the road to the battery-position and I order the rest of the party to get mounted. As I turn to take a short-cut through the rusty wire of old defenses and the water-logged craters of unrecorded fights, I glance back to catch the silhouettes of the horsemen as they ride towards the red lip of the horizon, with the drooping body hanging sack-like in front of the last rider’s saddle. An inconspicuous ending to one lad’s dreams of glory! He won’t be here for the counter-stroke. Letters from home will arrive full of anxiety and affection. They’ll have to be returned unread and unopened. The old, sad story! And yet, who knows! Perhaps he’s lucky.
Ahead of me in the misty vagueness of the chalk lies a ray of light like a golden dagger. I slide down into a trench, which was the Hun front-line. Poppies and cornflowers grow in tufts along its sides. Beneath my feet I feel the slats of duckboard. Dug back into the wall is a six-foot square room, with anti-gas blankets hung before it. The curtain which they form has not been properly adjusted; from between its edges light escapes. I lift the curtain and enter.
About a trench-made table a group of officers are seated. All of them are strangers to me except my Major; they’re the new chaps who are taking over from us. On the table there are two whiskey bottles, one empty and one just broached There’s a tin jug of water, a medley of glasses, piles of matches which are bring used as poker-chips and a dealt-out hand of cards.
My Major’s face, which is usually pale, is flushed tonight. His eyes are wrinkled and red about the edges; but the eyes themselves are like two blue pools of fire. As he catches sight of me, he raises his glass, “We don’t know where we’re going, Chris. Everything’s secret. All we know is that we march tonight and that they’ve get a labour battalion digging graves for us somewhere behind the line. Oh yes, and a special lorry of Victoria Crosses has arrived at Corps. We’re storm-troops, my boy, and going to be in it right up to the neck. Wherever we march and whenever we fight, here’s the old toast, ‘Success to crime.’.rdquo;
I manage to let him know that our horses are outside and hint that it’s about time we were going.
“Time! There’s heaps of time,” he says. “We pulled our guns out early this evening. The battery is all packed and back at the wagon-lines. Heming will have it standing to when we arrive. Sit down and take a hand. God knows when we’ll get a chance of a round of poker again.”
My mind is not on the game. I’m losing steadily, but I don’t worry. The candles drip away in wax; others take their places. I scarcely see the cards; I watch only one face through the wreaths of tobacco-smoke—my gallant little Major’s. I would never have known him in peace life; neither of us would have considered the other quite his sort. He looks like a cross between a clown and an ostler. He’s very small and slight; his legs are bowed with too much riding. If one were to see him in civilian dress, it would seem right that he should be chewing a straw. His face is white as death and terribly worn. His hair is sandy and thin in places. His teeth are filled with chunks of gold and not very regular. His uniforms are never smart; after he’s had them a week, they’re always torn and stained. He’s like a bantam cock; he makes up in spirit what he misses in height. He says “Good-bye” to his temper on the first provocation and is always most handsomely sorry afterwards. He’s adored and dreaded by his men. He’s the best field-gunner for open warfare in the whole Canadian Corps. His superior officers twit and admire him. He has an extraordinary talent for collaring affection. One trusts his judgment absolutely and yet follows him with a feeling that he must be protected. Life hasn’t been very good to him; he’s not particular as to whether or no he survives the fighting! There used to be a girl in the background—Well, there’s no harm in telling. He would write ten letters to every one that he received from her. He was fearfully humble about her. “You wouldn’t expect a girl,” he used to say “to write very often to such an ugly pup as I am.” When he spoke like that he would grin self-derisively and purposely show all his gold stoppings. He went home on leave to England six months ago determined to make sure of her and to bring matters to a crisis. She met him with the news that she was going to be married to an officer whom we all knew to be a quitter. She begged him to be present at the wedding so that people might not talk. He went to the wedding and returned to the Front six days ahead of time. Since then he’s seemed to be more white and small and bow-legged than ever.
I’m the only man who knows what lies behind his life. We’re the best of friends and, when we’re in the line, we always sleep in the same dug-out—which occasions a certain amount of jealousy among the other officers. When we’re on the march, he has to follow the routine etiquette and share his billets with the Captain. I hate to see him go up front for fear he should die. He shares the same fear for me, and is continually inventing excuses for getting me on the wire when I’m forward. God created him a caricature—the potter’s thumb slipped in the moulding of his clay; but to make amends God gave him the heart of a lion. You love him, protect him, declare him “quaint,” but never for a moment do you cease to admire him with a strangely simple and passionate loyalty. He’s as straight as John the Baptist; it would be impossible to tell him a lie.
We have a race-horse in our battery which the Major uses as his charger—a dainty, fine-boned aristocrat of a fellow, red and lean as a rusty sword. When our little Major rides him, leading his battery down the long white roads of France, strangers halt to gaze at the almost childish figure with the short bowed legs, wondering how he ever contrived to climb up so high. At the head of his battery, where he ought to appear most imposing, he looks more like a jockey than a field-officer. It doesn’t matter what strangers wonder or what he looks like, now that we’re bound on a death and glory adventure there’s no man to whom we would sooner entrust or for whom we would sooner lay down our lives. We forget the carelessness of the putter’s thumb and remember only the stoutness of heart which the feeble body hides. His name is Wraith—Charlie Wraith; and his age—. I should guess him to be thirty, though three and a half years of war have so battered his body that he looks forty-five.
At last the game ends. It’s eleven o’clock; we march at midnight and can just reach the wagonlines by short-cuts and hard riding. The Major has been in luck; he’s pocketing all the winnings. The glasses are filled for a final toast. The new Major who is taking over from us, raises his glass, “Here’s to Hell with the Kaiser and, if you’ve got to die, may you all die smiling.”
We laugh as we make a no heeler of it; dying might be the merriest of sports. But to me—I can’t help thinking of that laddie, a single day at the Front, lying beneath a saddle-blanket with his throat cut and that amazed expression of protest in his staring eyes.
We’ve climbed out of the trench and stand looking down at the faces clustered in the angle formed by the lifted curtain. A few paces to my left a cross shows plainly, upon which is written, “Here lies an Unknown British Soldier.” Unknown! A hundred years from now we shall all be unknown. We shall be massed together in an anonymous glory as “the heroes who stormed the Vimy Ridge.” It won’t mean any more to be remembered as John Smith than merely as “An Unknown British Soldier” who did his duty faithfully.
“Good-luck,” the faces in the candle-light cry.
“Cheerio,” we answer. But the words which are in all our minds are, “Those about to die, salute thee.”
Waving our hands, we turn away. The old racehorse, Fury, from a hundred yards has recognised his master’s voice and whinnies. With a pat on the neck and some coaxing words we get mounted, and walk carefully through the pit-falls of craters till we strike the road, when we grip with our knees and set off at the gallop.
Beneath the moonlight the chalk of the shell-ploughed battlefield creates the illusion of a country under snow, spreading beneath the velvet darkness for miles. The horses are impatient and refuse to be reined in. They need no guiding. With Fury in the lead, they leap trenches and take short-cuts where we would hesitate.
Ahead of us through the shadows we discover the battery drawn up in line, not a light or so much as a cigarette showing for fear our doings should be betrayed to the enemy planes. Heming rides out as we approach. He salutes the Major smartly. “Just in the nick of time, sir; our battery leads and we march as a brigade. There are no route orders. Everything’s secret. The Colonel alone knows where we’re going; even he doesn’t know beyond tonight.”
The adjutant gallops up and reins in importantly. “The Colonel’s compliments, and he’s waiting for you, sir. He wants to know what’s the delay.”
“No delay,” says the Major curtly, and wheels about to face the battery.
“Stand to your horses,” he orders. “Gunners and drivers prepare to mount.... Mount.” There’s a jingling of stirrups and the sound of men leaping to their places. As they sit to attention on the limbers and in the saddles, all grows silent.
“Column of route from the right. Walk. March,” the Major commands.
The horses of A Sub-section gun-team throw their weight into the collars. There’s a commotion of prancing in the darkness and the merciless sound of the cracking of whips: then through the shadows the big bays of A Sub strain forward and take shape; the B. C. party gallops to the head of the column and we’re off on our mysterious march in pursuit of the greatest of high adventures.
THERE’. no end of a thrill in night-marching, if one doesn’t get too much of it. One feels curiously winged when mounted in the darkness, as though the limitations to speed, space and possibility had broken down. The present merges with the past and with eternity. Doors open in the night, giving entrance to previous incarnations. The mounted men are a robber-band; the guns are wagons piled with loot. The villages, lying flattened by shell-fire, are walled towns which hide medieval palaces. The country through which we pass, takes on a hundred exquisite and grotesque shapes, the one melting into the other at the bidding of the imagination. Everything is unusual, everything is shifting, everything is distorted and capable of being changed at will. One has an extraordinary sense of timelessness and an overwhelming certainty that he has done all this before, marching to the sack of cities, and suffering weariness and death for unremembered causes. The ghosts of those forgotten tragedies and triumphs throng about him, bewildering him with a faint familiarity which he fails to associate with any land or clime.
On that first night-march we had to keep our column closed up to prevent straggling, since on a secret march to an unknown destination a straggler inevitably gets lost. If a vehicle had to halt to refit harness, to have a horse shod or for any other cause, we had to leave out-riders at every cross-road to guide it back to the main body.
The first part of our journey was through country we had fought over, every contour of which, despite the darkness, was pictured vividly in our minds. We passed the narrow valley behind the Maison Blanche, in which our battery had lain hidden up to the time when the Ridge was captured. We passed the cross-roads at the Ariane Dump, where we used to assemble midnight after midnight to build the artillery road up to the Front-line, that our guns might pass forward across No Man’s Land within four hours of the start of the offensive. Many spots were memorable to us because of men who had died. It was over there to the right that the Hun sniper got our signalling sergeant, when we were observing from behind the Five Hundred Crater. It was over there to the left that a Hun shell scored a direct hit on B. Sub’s gun-pit and sent all the gun-detachment west. Though we were to forget these homes that we have had in the mud, our horses remember and remind us; each time they pass one of their old wagon-lines, they try to turn in off the road from force of habit.
Through the mist and moonlight we can just make out the twin towers, blunted and splintered, of Mount St. Eloi. They look like the thumb and index-finger of a solemn hand, pointing heavenward.
One tower is tall and defiant: the other has been shorn by shell-fire. The Huns commenced their work of destruction during the Franco-Prussian war; since this war started, they have done their utmost to complete it, even sending over bombing-planes for that purpose. They have a good military reason, for the towers command a panoramic view of forty miles of country. But still the towers stand, exclaiming in a valiant gesture of architectural oratory that God still dwells beyond the clouds.
In the hollow, between Mount St. Eloi and the road which we travel, lies God’s Acre, with its endless forest of white crosses. It is there that very many of the pals who have served with us are taking their last rest. They are wrapped in the army blankets which made so many journeys with them. Each has a little scooped out hole, three feet beneath the ground and only just big enough to take his body. The blanket is pulled up over the face and hurriedly sewn into place for fear the sleeper should stir and be cold beneath the sod. As I gaze through the darkness towards the hollow, I can feel the wounds of the sleeping men. There’s Rennet with a bullet through the centre of his forehead: that happened when we were observing from Sap 29 in front of Ecurie. There’s Gordon, who came bark from a gay leave in Paris to have his leg shattered at the entrance to the Bentata Tunnel. How he made us laugh the night before he died with his account of “ze lady wiz ze vite furs,” who tried to make him pay for her dinner at the Cafi de la Paix! And there’s Athol, who was Brigade medical officer when we occupied the railroad in front of Farbus. Brigade headquarters were on the Ridge and the batteries were in the plain. The moment he saw that we were being strafed, he would come racing down through the shell-fire to our assistance. He got smashed to atoms when he was binding up some of our chaps in a blown-in dug-out; there was nothing but his face left undamaged. I wonder why it is that I still walk the earth while they sleep there so quietly. We all took the same risks. We all dreamt of the same adventure—the adventure on which we now are bound—of the day when trench-warfare would end and we should break the German line, and take our guns into action at the gallop. Do they strain their ears where they lie so narrowly as they catch the rumble of our departing guns? Do they push back the earth from their sunken eyes, raising themselves on their elbows to listen? Dick Dirk is there by now—he who returned ahead of time from Blighty because he wanted to “go straight for her.” His house underground is newer than the others. Does he wish us luck, or does he pay us no attention?———No, they do not stir. They lie heedless and silent. Having done their bit, they are contented, for they were very tired. As the hollow is swallowed up in the all-surrounding pool of night, I look back just once to where my dead companions rest, and again the words take shape in my mind, “Those about to die, salute thee.”
We wheel out on to the straight pavi road which runs like an arrow’s flight from Arras to St. Pol. In a long and regular line on either side stand pollarded trees, marking its direction for miles. They seem gigantic sentinels, silent and impassive. From all directions, from main-roads and bye-roads, comes the muffled roar of transport pouring along every artery of travel to the same unknown bourne to which we journey. A tremendous movement of troops is taking place—taking place under cover of darkness, anonymously, timed absolutely and without hurry. If we doubted that a big offensive was on foot, we do not doubt it now. But whose is the controlling brain? Rumour says that even our Corps Commander has had no warning as to our ultimate destination. The Sergeant-Major rides back to tell me that the Major wants me at the head of the column. I trot forward and find that he is walking, while his groom leads Fury a few paces behind. I salute, dismount and hand over my horse to a signaller.