As soon as dawn broke—a dawn exceptionally cold and cheerless—the cavalry pushed forward to effect some sort of reconnaissance. Meanwhile the infantry had nothing better to do than to conceal themselves behind the copses that covered the slope, and await their turn. In about an hour's time they were deployed and moved cautiously forward to the attack, the Batteries being already placed in readiness for the beginning of the "show."
No army in the world can execute this movement as scientifically or as safely as the British Army. Memories of South Africa and Indian frontier fights have left us undoubtedly the finest scouting army in Europe. We were, of course, hopelessly outmatched in artillery and numbers. But artillery being equal, there was not a Brigade in any army in the world that could have held its own against a British Brigade. That, however, is by the way.
They pressed steadily forward, and, having breasted the slope, the valley of the Marne burst suddenly upon their view. It was at least three miles in breadth, and the opposite heights were screened by woods. A small town marked the bridge. The country was "open"—painfully open; there was not an atom of real cover between them and the heights opposite.
But no shells came whistling towards them. No doubt the enemy was holding his fire until they were within closer range. (Not a pleasant thought, this, by any means.) But no, they went on scrambling down the deep slope, and still no sound of firing disturbed the morning silence. As each moment fled by the Subaltern thought to himself, "Not yet! Well, the next minute will bring things about our heads!" But the next minute kept on passing as uneventfully as its predecessors.
At last they reached the bridge and found it absolutely undamaged. Even then the Subaltern could not repress the thought that all this was only a trick, and that they were being lured on to destruction. But his sanguinary forebodings were not justified, and the opposite heights were scaled without opposition.
He afterwards learnt, that, however much the Germans might have wanted to hold this magnificent line, the strategical situation had become so pressing that on this sector nothing could save them from disaster except a complete and hurried retreat. They were all but outflanked on their right, which was already very seriously bent back; while in the centre General Foch had driven in a wedge which bade fair to crumple up the whole line.
There was nothing in any way remarkable about the little town on the other side of the river. It had the air of a neglected gutter-child, dirty and disconsolate. There were the usual signs of German occupation—broken windows, ravaged shops, and, of course, the inevitable bottles.
Here it was that the Subaltern noticed for the first time that the Huns had a distinctive smell of their own. It was a curious smell, completely baffling description. If it is true that certain odours suggest certain colours, one would have described this as a brown smell, preferably a reddish-brown smell. Certain it was that the enemy left it behind him wherever he had been, as sure a clue to his passing as broken wine-bottles!
The Subaltern always associates the climbing of the opposite slope with pangs of a thirst so intense that he almost forgot to wonder why the Germans had evacuated so excellent a position without firing a single shot. But Headquarters were evidently not going to allow them to push forward into some previously arranged trap. Having by three o'clock in the afternoon firmly established themselves on the wooded crests of the slope, they were "pulled up" while a further reconnaissance was being made. Meanwhile, a sort of outpost position was taken up.
The Subaltern's Platoon was to guard the back edge of a wood, and as he established his supports in a farm, most of his men were able to fill their water-bottles, have a wash and brush up, and generally prepare themselves for whatever the next move might be. The farmer and his wife, who had remained in their home, did everything that was required of them; but he could not help noticing that the old couple did not seem as pleased at their Allies' success as one would have naturally expected. The reason was soon forthcoming. Following his usual plan of getting as much information as possible out of the French, he heard the old man, who seemed unaccountably shy and diffident, mutter casually—
"J'ai pensé que vous ètiez tous partis hier soir."
"Comment?" said he, "tous partis? Mais, Monsieur, nous sommes les premiers Anglais qui sont arrivés ici."
"Mais, Monsieur! Anglais? Ce n'est pas possible!"
"C'est vrai, assurément."
"Mais, L'Armée Anglaise porte toujours les habits rouges!"
The Subaltern laughed outright. This simple fellow actually believed that the English fought in scarlet. Even now he was not thoroughly convinced that they really were English. Ignorance goes hand in hand with obstinacy, and these simple old peasant folk defended their stupidity with a veritable wall of impenetrable incredulity.
The Subaltern was still laboriously engaged in explaining matters to the man, when part of the Headquarter's Staff trotted up the road with a clatter and a swing and scurry that looked as if they were wanted very urgently on the left. It was the first time during the campaign that he had seen the Corps Commander and the Chief of the General Staff on horseback.
It must have been about five o'clock when he received a message to concentrate on the main road. On the way he was accosted by a woman perfectly distraught with grief, who explained that two days ago her little son had disappeared into "ce bois là" never to come out again.
"Si votre fils vive encore, il reviendra, bien sûr, Madame. S'il est mort, moi, je ne peux pas vous aider." Terrible to relate, the sight of such grief annoyed rather than saddened him.
The advance was continued until it was quite dark, when the Battalion denuded the usual hayrick, and "dossed down" in the usual stubble field.
At about eleven o'clock the next morning his Company Commander—the Captain was leading as the Major was now second in command of the Battalion—told the Subaltern to ride back to the transport wagons and get some fresh maps and some chocolate which he had left in one of the carts. It was pleasant to get a ride, and to rest one's feet for awhile, so he took his time in getting back to the transport.
No sooner had he reached the wagons than a gun boomed. He thought nothing of that, however. Guns were always going off, at the oddest times, and without any apparent reason. Four seconds later another rolled out, followed closely by a third, fourth and fifth. Soon a regular cannonade broke out. There was obviously mischief in the air, so he crammed the maps hastily into his haversack and the chocolate into his pocket and regained the Battalion as soon as he could on the exhausted animal. Even as he was pressing forward, he heard the crackle of musketry somewhere out of sight on the left.
Of course, the very thing that he had feared had happened. His Company had been rapidly deployed and had already disappeared over the crest. He explained matters to the Major who was in command of the remainder during the Colonel's absence; dismounted, and set off on foot towards the sounds of the firing. He ran against the Company Sergeant-Major in charge of the ammunition, who told him where his Platoon was.
The next thing was to cross the fire-swept crest. Now, crossing fire-swept crests is manifestly unpleasant—especially if you are alone. If you are leading fifty men at least one and half times as old as you are, who look to you for guidance and control, it is not so bad. Bravery is very closely allied to "conspicuous gallantry," and "conspicuous gallantry" in the field is almost impossible when there is no one to look on. But he was too tired to worry much whether he was hit or not, and his Platoon had to be reached as soon as possible.
He found them lined up behind a small bank, waiting for orders to reinforce the first line. Taking his glasses out of their case, he crawled forward to have a look at the position for himself. The Platoon in front was established behind a mud bank, firing occasional shots at the enemy, who appeared to have dug himself in behind a railway cutting at least five hundred yards distant. Although bullets were humming pretty thickly through the air, the casualties on the British side so far were only two or three men slightly wounded. They had orders to "hang on" to that position until the centre and right should be sufficiently strengthened for the main attack to materialise, when they were to push on as best they might. Having learnt this, the Subaltern crawled back, and sent out three men "to establish touch" with the front Platoon.
An hour passed before anything further happened. During that time the Platoon Sergeant told him of the great difficulty they had had in reaching this advanced position at all, as they had been shelled from the front by the enemy, and from the left by their own batteries. Accidents such as this often happened, and the artillery were not really as culpable as would at first sight appear. Advanced-guard actions materialised so suddenly, and situations changed so quickly, that it was not always possible to circulate precise orders. The gunners' ideas of the relative positions seemed to be, during the opening stages of the attack, rather hazy—a fact that was very much resented by the men. "We ain't come out 'ere to be targets to them ruddy gunners," one fellow grumbled.
Soon, however, things straightened out, and in an hour's time the various movements preparatory to the attack had been completed. The enemy, seeing that he was almost surrounded, and that it would be impossible to extricate the greater part of his command from the battle, resolved at least to save his guns, which were accordingly withdrawn.
When at length the Subaltern's Platoon pushed forward in the wake of the leading Platoon, no less a personage appeared unaccountably on the scene than the Colonel. He had thrown off the worried look that had been growing on him of late. Some of the officers, too junior to understand how uneasy lies the head that is crowned with the responsibility for many lives, had been heard to say that the Colonel's manner and general outlook upon the campaign was tinged with unnecessary anxiety, and that he had no right to allow the Germans to disturb his peace of mind. If this were so, the presence of actual and tangible danger completely obliterated all traces of nerves. He stood up in the firing-line. He drew himself up to the full of his height, and seemed to inhale with pleasure the dangerous air. All the time bullets were humming overhead like swift and malignant insects, or striking the ground with a spatter of brown earth.
The Adjutant, following him, suddenly bent double as if he had been struck below the belt; but the Colonel merely straightened himself, and not a nerve in his phlegmatic face twitched.
"What's the matter?" asked the Colonel.
"Only a bullet struck my revolver hilt, sir," replied the Adjutant. It had splintered the woodwork and been deflected between his arm and ribs.
Near by a man rose on his knees to get a better shot at the enemy.
"What's that man doing? Get down there this moment!" roared the Colonel.
Then, as he recognised an old soldier of the regiment, "Atkins, how dare you expose yourself unnecessarily? Your wife used to do my washing in Tidshot. Me? Oh, I'm only an old bachelor. It doesn't matter about me. There's nobody to care what happens to me." And, well pleased with his joke, the Colonel passed down the line, proud of his magnificent bravery.
There is something about the rough-and-tumble of battle that lifts one above one's self. One's legs and arms are not the same listless limbs that were crying for rest only a short hour ago. One is envigoured; the excitement stimulates. One feels great, magnanimous, superb. The difficulty lies not in forcing oneself to be brave, but in curbing ridiculous impulses, and in forcing the brain to work slowly and smoothly. The smallest natures rise to great heights. An ordinary self-centred creature performs acts of dazzling generosity towards fellows he does not even know—with everything to lose and nothing to gain. He will rescue a wounded man under heavy fire, to whom an hour previously he would have refused to lend sixpence.
Why is it?
If the enemy were a roaring brazen beast, such as the knights of the fairy tales used to fight, one could understand it. But he is not. You cannot even see him. Three-quarters of a mile ahead there is a dark brown line, and that is all. Whence comes the love of battle? Is it roused by the little messengers of death that whizz invisibly by? No one can say; the whole feeling is most probably the result of imagination and desire to do great things.
On they swept. The leading Platoon was now covering the ground at such a pace that it was impossible to catch up with them. As the ground was open the whole line could be seen sweeping forward to engulf the enemy. The long dotted lines of brown advanced steadily and inexorably. Line upon line of them breasted the crest, and followed in the wake of the leading wave. It was scarcely a spectacular sight, yet it was the vindication of the British methods of attack.
The wild firing of the Germans had little effect. Curiously enough, the line that suffered least was the first, and even in the others the casualties were negligible. And all the time they were nearing the railway bank.
But the end was in sight, and the enemy realised that further resistance would be useless. They were caught. About half a dozen men sprang on to the railway bank and began furiously to wag white sheets of paper or rag—anything white. They must have been brave men to do such a thing. The British gunners either did not see their signs, or perhaps refused to accept them on account of various "jokes" that the enemy had at other times played with the white flag. Anyway the firing continued with unabated fury. They stood there to the end without flinching, and when they fell other men took their places. It is mean and untruthful to say that the Germans are cowards. Certain it was that their pathetic bravery—there is always something sad about bravery—so touched the British that they accepted the surrender without reserve or suspicion. Even the artillery ceased fire.
At this point the leading Platoon broke clean away. They could not be held in. The orderly advance degenerated into a wild dash. Men bent double and rushed. Determination was written on each flushed face. The Germans must have been terrified; it looked as if they were to be bayoneted as they stood, with their arms raised in surrender. It must have been a very trying moment for them, indeed, as the British raced towards them up the incline. The leading men were soon clambering up the embankment. What would happen? Was a disgraceful and bloody massacre about to begin? The excitement was intense. The Subaltern ran on harder than ever, with some vague idea of "stopping a scene," but he need not have bothered. The men were not out for blood or scalps. All they wanted was souvenirs or helmets! They got them with such success that there was little left for the other platoons.
When the Subaltern came up the "show" was over. There were a great many dead Germans lying, as they had died, behind the embankment. The thought of taking something which they had worn never occurred to him. If it had been he would have dismissed it on the grounds that there was no means of sending such things home, while to add to the weight and worry of his kit by carrying a "Pickelhaube" about, indefinitely, for the rest of the campaign, was, of course, unthinkable.
Then the "rally" sounded, and the companies that had taken part in the attack began to re-form. There was a considerable delay before two of the platoons appeared at the rallying point. The men did not come in a body but by driblets. He began to get nervous about the other two Subalterns, and in a few minutes went to see what had happened to them.
"Lord bless you, sir, 'e's all right," said a man in answer to the Subaltern's inquiry. "We wouldn't let no harm come to 'im." The man who spoke was an old soldier whom he knew well, tall, wiry, commanding—the sort of man that a young officer leans upon, and who, reciprocally, relies on his officer. In the old Peace days, if any special job that required intelligence or reliance were going, he always saw that this man got it. He had made a sort of pet of him; and now he was openly, frankly displaying a state of mind akin to worship towards another officer. It was defection, rank desertion. A ridiculous feeling of jealousy surged up in the Subaltern's mind, as he turned back towards the Company.
As he regained the road, many stretchers passed. They were no longer things of tragedy, to be passed by with a shudder and averted eyes—he was getting used to horror.
It was now midday, and the Officers of the two companies that had been deployed gathered round the mess-cart. The remaining companies, who had been kept in local reserve during the fight, were sent out to bury the dead. The rain began to fall in torrents, and somehow the memory of crouching under the mess-cart to get shelter has left a far more definite and indelible impression upon the Subaltern's mind than the actual moments of danger and excitement.
A large band of prisoners had been captured by our troops that day. Small detachments had from time to time been captured ever since the turn at Chaumes, but this was different. There were long lines of them, standing bolt upright, and weaponless. The Subaltern looked at them curiously. They struck him as on the whole taller than the English, and their faces were not brown, but grey. He admired their coats, there was a martial air in the long sweep of them. And he confessed that one looked far more of a soldier in a helmet. There is a ferocity about the things, a grimness well suited to a soldier.... Not that clothes make the man.
He sternly refused himself the pleasure of going to get a closer sight of them. He wanted very badly to see them, perhaps to talk French with them, but a feeling that it was perhapsinfra dignitatemdebarred him. The men, however, had no such scruples. They crowded round their captives, and slowly and silently surveyed them. They looked at them with the same sort of interest that one displays towards an animal in the Zoo, and the Germans paid just as much attention to their regard as Zoo animals do. Considering that only a short hour ago they had been trying to take each other's lives, there seemed to be an appalling lack of emotion in either party. Fully half an hour the Tommies inspected them thus. Then, with infinite deliberation, one man produced a packet of "Caporal" cigarettes and offered one, with an impassive countenance, to a German. As far as the Subaltern could see, not a single word was exchanged nor a gesture made. They did not move away until it was time to fall in.
The advance was continued until it was dark, and intermittent firing was heard throughout the afternoon on either flank. The German retreat, which had in its first stages been conducted with such masterly skill, was rapidly developing into a hurried and ill-conducted movement, that bade fair to lead to disaster. Reports of large quantities of prisoners were coming in more frequently than ever.
It was at this time that the Subaltern first heard the now notorious story of the German who had been at the Savoy, and who gave himself up to the Officer whom he recognised as an old habitué. One of the Officers in the Regiment said that this had happened to him, and was believed—for the moment. Later on, Officers out of every corps solemnly related similar experiences, with occasional variations in the name of the hotel. Usually it was the Savoy or the Ritz; less often the Carlton, or even the Cecil, but the "Pic" or the "Troc" were absolutely barred. The story multiplied so exceedingly that one began to suspect that the entire German corps in front was exclusively composed of ex-waiters of smart London hotels.
Another sign that the Germans were beginning to be thrust back more quickly than they liked was the frequent abandonment of transport. Whole trains of motor lorries that had been hastily burned and left by the roadside, and all sorts of vehicles with broken wheels, were constantly being passed. The Subaltern remembers seeing a governess cart, and wondering what use the Germans had found for it. Perhaps a German colonel had been driven gravely in it, at the head of his men. He wondered whether the solemn Huns would have been capable of seeing the humour of such a situation.
Horses, too, seemed to have been slaughtered by the score. They looked like toy horses, nursery things of wood. Their faces were so unreal, their expressions so glassy. They lay in such odd postures, with their hoofs sticking so stiffly in the air. It seemed as if they were toys, and were lying just as children had upset them. Even their dimensions seemed absurd. Their bodies had swollen to tremendous sizes, destroying the symmetry of life, confirming the illusion of unreality.
The sight of these carcases burning in the sun, with buzzing myriads of flies scintillating duskily over their unshod hides, excited a pity that was almost as deep as his pity for slain human beings. After all, men came to the war with few illusions, and a very complete knowledge of the price to be paid. They knew why they were there, what they were doing, and what they might expect. They could be buoyed up by victory, downcast by defeat. Above all, they had a Cause, something to fight for, and if Fate should so decree, something to die for. But these horses were different; they could neither know nor understand these things. Poor, dumb animals, a few weeks ago they had been drawing their carts, eating their oats, and grazing contentedly in their fields. And then suddenly they were seized by masters they did not know, raced away to places foreign to them, made to draw loads too great for them, tended irregularly, or not at all, and when their strength failed, and they could no longer do their work, a bullet through the brain ended their misery. Their lot was almost worse than the soldiers'!
To the Subaltern it seemed an added indictment of war that these wretched animals should be flung into that vortex of slaughter. He pitied them intensely, the sight of them hurt him; and the smell of them nauseated him. Every memory of the whole advance is saturated with that odour. It was pungent, vigorous, demoralising. It filled the air, and one's lungs shrank before it. Once, when a man drove his pick through the crisp, inflated side, a gas spurted out that was positively asphyxiating and intolerable.
However much transport the Germans abandoned, however severe the losses they sustained, they always found time to break open every estaminet they passed, and drain it dry. Wretched inns and broken bottles proved to be just as reliable a clue to their passing as the smell of them.
The next morning two companies were detached from the Battalion as escort to a brigade of artillery. The other two companies, who had returned during the night, did not seem to be greatly upset by their gruesome task of burying the dead.
They did not come in contact with the enemy, and no outstanding incident impressed itself upon the Subaltern's mind. The heat had abated with dramatic swiftness. A wind that was almost chilly swept the plains, driving grey clouds continually across the sun. The summer was over. That day they joined battle with the outposts of a foe that was to prove more hateful and persistent than the German winter.
The name of a village known as Suchy-le-Château figured on many of the signposts that they passed, but they never arrived there, and, branching off east of Braisne, they came upon the remainder of the Battalion, drawn up in a stubble field.
A driving rain had begun to fall early in the afternoon, and when at length the march was finished their condition was deplorable. Though tired out with a long day's march, they dared not rest, because to lie down in the sodden straw was to court sickness. Their boots, worn and unsoled, offered no resistance whatever to the damp. Very soon they could hear their sodden socks squelching with water as they walked. A night of veritable horror lay in front of them; they were appalled with the prospect of it. The rain seemed to mock at the completeness of their misery.
However, the Fates were kind, for the General, happening to pass, took pity on them and allowed them to be billeted in the outhouses of a farm near by. The sense of relief which this move gave to the Subaltern was too huge to describe. Contentment took possession of him utterly. The tension of his nerves and muscles relaxed: he thought that the worries and hardships of that day, at least, were over.
But he was wrong.
No sooner had his Platoon wearily thrown their rifles and equipment into the musty barn that was allotted to them, than the Colonel told him that he would have to sleep with his men, the reason being that the owner of the farm, on the approach of the Germans, had hidden a large stock of brandy beneath the straw in the very barn that his men had entered. The farmer had asked the Colonel to save his liquor from the troops, and the Colonel, with horrible visions of a regiment unmanageable and madly intoxicated before his eyes, replied that most assuredly he would see that the men did not get hold of the brandy. The Subaltern told his sergeant, but otherwise the proximity of bliss was kept a strict secret from the men.
Throughout the whole of that long day the Subaltern had been looking forward to, longing for, and idealising the rest which was to follow after the labours of the day. And now that it had at last been achieved, it proved to be a very poor imitation of the ideal rest and slumber that he had been yearning for. To begin with, the delays before quarters were settled upon were interminable. And then this news about the brandy. The evening meal was delayed almost a couple of hours, and every minute of the delay annoyed him, because it was so much precious time for sleep lost. Even when the meal arrived, it proved to be insufficient, and he was still hungry, cold and damp, when at last he hobbled across the yard to the barn.
The place had no ventilation. The air was foul with the smell of damp grain, and men, and wet boots. He hesitated at the door; he would rather have slept in the open air, but the yard was inches deep in mud and manure. He groped forward, and at every inch that he penetrated further into the place, the air seemed to become thicker, more humid, more foul. In the thick darkness his foot stumbled on the sleeping form of a man, who rolled over and swore drowsily. At last, after interminable feeling in the darkness, and balancing himself on sacks of grain, he attained the corner where the bottles lay buried, and threw himself down to sleep.
But sleep was impossible. In spite of the insupportable atmosphere he remained cold. Every second some one was moving! One instant a man would shuffle and cough in one corner, then some one would grunt and groan as he turned restlessly in his sleep, and the happier few who had achieved slumber would snore laboriously. Now and then a man would rise shakily to his feet and thread his way unsteadily to the door, kicking up against recumbent forms as he went, and evoking language as murky as the atmosphere. The Subaltern felt a savage joy in the recriminations and expletives that filled the air. Like lightning, they relieved the thunder-pressure of the air.
Dawn found them already paraded in the farmyard, shivering, and not much better rested than when they had entered the barn of dreadful memory the night before. Each day the accumulation of fatigue and nerve-strain became greater; each day it grew harder to drag the weary body to its feet, and trudge onwards. Though the tide of victory had turned, though every yard they covered was precious ground re-won, they longed very intensely for a lull. The Subaltern felt in a dim way that the point beyond which flesh and blood could not endure was not very far ahead. As it was, he marvelled at himself.
During the course of the morning the Captain returned to the Company, with a little map, and a great deal of information concerning the strategy of the war, about which everybody knew so little.
To begin at the beginning, he said that the Allies had begun the campaign under two great disadvantages. The first was their very serious numerical inferiority in forces that could be immediately used. If numbers alone counted, the Germans were bound to win until the French were fully mobilised.
The other disadvantage was the pre-conceived notion that the German Government would keep its word with regard to the violation of Belgian neutrality. If this had been observed, it would have been almost a strategical impossibility to turn the Allied left flank. The attack in force was expected to be made in the Lorraine area. Consequently, when it became evident that the main German effort was to be launched through Belgium, all pre-conceived plans of French concentration had either to be abandoned, or, at any rate, greatly modified in order to meet the enemy offensive from an unexpected quarter.
After their unexpected set-back at Liège, the invaders met with little resistance from the Belgian army, which was, of course, hopelessly outnumbered, and their armies were rapidly forming up on a line north of the Sambre, which roughly extended south-east by east to north-west by west. Meanwhile, the initial French offensive which had been launched in the region of the Vosges had resulted in the temporary capture of Mülhouse, and had then been abandoned in order to face the threatening disaster from the north.
It was thought advisable to wait until the concentration of the English Army was completed, then, to comply with an obvious rule of strategy which says, "Always close with your enemy when and wherever he shows himself, in order to discover and hold him to his dispositions," a general advance was made along the whole centre and left of the Allied line. The line swung forward, and perhaps some day one of the handful of men who know will tell exactly what was the object of this movement. Was it meant to join battle in all seriousness with the enemy, and to drive him from Belgium, or was it just a precautionary measure to hold and delay him? Probably the latter. The Allied Generalissimo had probably made up his mind to the fact that the first battle—the battle in Belgium—was already lost by the Allies' lateness in concentration. Regarded in this light the battle in Belgium was undoubtedly the greatest rear-guard action in History.
On account of a possible under-estimation of the enemy's strength, and of the completeness of his dispositions, the Allies found themselves, when the lines first clashed, in a more serious position than they probably anticipated. The enemy gained two initial successes that decided, past doubt, the fate of the battle which was now raging along the whole front from Mons to Mülhouse. Namur, the fortress which had enjoyed a reputation as the Port Arthur of Europe, fell before the weight of the German siege howitzer in a few days. The magnitude of the disaster appalled the whole world, for indirectly the piercing of these forts laid open the road to Paris. Nor was this all. The enemy forced the passage of the Sambre at Charleroi, and threatened to cut the Allied centre from the left. The British Army, on the extreme left, found itself confronted by a numerical superiority of nearly three to one, while its left flank and lines of communication with Havre were seriously menaced by a huge body of Uhlan cavalry. In a word, the positions taken up by the whole of the Allied centre and left were no longer tenable. To hang on would have been to court disaster. There was nothing for it but to cut and go.
But the Allies did not meet with the same ill luck along the whole line. The small successes gained on the right, in Alsace, had apparently been consolidated. The German tide through Luxembourg was stemmed, and, even though the Kaiser himself witnessed its bombardment, Nancy held out. But the trump card in the Allies' hand was Verdun. De Castlenau clung resolutely to the chain of forts crowning the heights in front of the town, and his successful defence saved Paris. Whatever might happen to the centre and left, the right, at any rate, seemed safe.
The Allied Generalissimo was forced to give way before the fury of the German onslaught in Belgium. He withdrew his armies while there was yet time, thus averting irrevocable disaster. According to all the rules of the game, he should have retired his whole line southwards, in order to ensure the safety of Paris. But he did not throw his highest trump: he clung to Verdun, and left Paris exposed. His armies retreated, not on the Capital, but in a sweeping movement that was hinged upon Verdun. He realised that the fate of Paris depended not upon its being covered by the Allies, but upon the fate of the second great battle of the war.
Meanwhile, the great retreat—this hinging movement—continued, very slowly near Verdun, very, very swiftly on the left. Days passed; no attempt was made to check the enemy's advance, and the passing of each day left Paris more exposed. The world gasped at the breathless swiftness with which disaster seemed to be swooping down upon the Capital. But every day de Castlenau was consolidating his defence of Verdun, in face of tremendous odds; and every day the ferocity of the German onrush waned. The line continued to swing resolutely back, until such time as a completed mobilisation should allow the Allies to turn upon the enemy in greater force, in their own time, and on chosen ground. A premature effort would have spoiled all. They had to wait for their chance.
Meanwhile, rapid concentrations of reserves were taking place behind the line, the most famous instance of which was the Reserve Army moved out of Paris by General Galliéni in taxis, fiacres, and any vehicle the authorities could commandeer to ensure that the Army should be in its place in time. It was in its place. Just as the world was beginning to say that the war was over, General Joffre decided that the iron was hot, that the time to strike had arrived. "The moment has come," he wrote, "to die where you stand, rather than give way."
The outlook changed from black to rose with the completeness and ease of a pantomime transformation scene. The Verdun heights remained impregnable. The whole line turned and fought where it stood. The enemy, worn out by his exertions, stretched his line of communications to breaking-point, and it was said that his supplies of food and munitions had come temporarily very near to collapse. The Allies checked him. He could not even hold his own. In two days he was moving back, away from Paris.
The economic reasons were not the only factors in his downfall. He was beaten by the Allied morale, and also by the Allied strategy. Von Kluck, the Commander of the German right, hurrying on in an abortive pursuit of the British Army, found that he was outflanked by the army of Galliéni, which, stronger than his own, threatened his line of communications. To press on towards Paris would have been suicidal. To linger in his present position would have been to court capture. He, therefore, began the famous march across the French front, by which he hoped to gain touch with the army on his left, and as he turned, the British and French fell upon him simultaneously, as in a vice. For a day the line wavered irresolutely, then Von Kluck realised that the pendulum of success was beginning to swing the other way. He had to retire or face irretrievable disaster.
Thus Paris was saved. The tremendous blow aimed at it was parried, and it seemed as if the striker tottered, as if he had overreached his strength. The treachery with which the Germans had inaugurated the movement, the brutality and cruelty with which they had carried it through, were brought to nothing before the superior morale of the Allied troops, and the matchless strategy of their Commander.
The enemy was checked along the whole line, but the Allies were not satisfied with that. The French flung themselves upon the invader with a ferocity and heroism that was positively reminiscent of the Napoleonic legends. General Foch, in command of the General Reserve, achieved the culminating success in this victory, known as the Battle of the Marne. He broke the enemy's line: he thrust into the gap a wedge so powerful that the enemy was forced to give way on either side of it, because his centre was broken. The victory of the Marne was assured.
Slowly at first, latterly with increasing speed, the Allies were hurling the enemy northwards. He was becoming more demoralised every day. A victory even greater than the Marne was in sight.
"And that," said the Captain, "is where we are at present."
"They'll turn on us in a day or two, and then there'll be the devil of a fight," said the Senior Subaltern.
Everybody laughed at him, but they had an uneasy feeling that he would be right.
While he was dreaming, the time slipped by almost unnoticed. It was not until eleven o'clock that a halt was made. He could just discern in the darkness the dim outlines of what appeared to be a large farm-house, surrounded by barns and outhouses. Some transport had got jammed in the yard. He could hear the creak of wheels, the stamping of hoofs, and shouts. There was not a light anywhere, and they waited for half-an-hour that seemed interminable, for they were drenched through, and tired, and were longing for any cover out of the wet. Sounds of shuffling were heard in front, and at last they found themselves on the move again. Another fifty yards, as far as a gate in a wall, and then they stuck again. More weary, exasperating minutes; then at last the bedraggled figure of the Captain loomed out of the darkness.
"Is that you?" he asked.
"All right, lead round here!"
He led them to a large barn, and they turned in to sleep just as they were. No supper, not a fire to dry their sodden clothes, not a blanket to cover their chilled bodies.
As usual, they got to sleep somehow, and as usual dawn came about thirty hours before they were ready for it.
They moved out immediately, and continued the course of the march. The rain-laden clouds had rolled completely away. The sky looked hard and was scarcely blue; the country was swept by a strong nipping wind, for which they were very thankful, since it served to dry their clothes.
The Machine-gun Officer, passing down the Battalion, walked with them while he told them two wonderful stories. It may have been crude, but in another way it was almost as satisfying as breakfast.
He solemnly explained to them that the war was nearly over. The Germans, lured into making this tremendous and unnecessary effort to capture Paris, had left their eastern front dangerously weak. The Russians were pouring into Germany in their millions. The Cossacks were already around Posen. Nobody quite knew where Posen was, but it sounded deliciously like Potsdam. Anyway, they would be there in a month.
A few surplus millions, who, presumably on account of the crush, could not burst into Germany by the quickest route, had been despatched,viaArchangel, to the northern coast of Scotland. Their progress thenceforwards is, of course, notorious. By now they had safely landed at Antwerp, and had pursued a career that must have bored them as monotonously victorious. Namur, "and all those places" had been captured, and at that moment Maubeuge was being relieved. The Germans were being sandwiched between the victorious Russian, French and British Arms. They could only escape as through the neck of a bottle. And the end of the war was so near, and so definite, that it almost lacked interest.
The Subaltern was elated. He refused to question the likelihood of such tales. He was hungry for just such cheering stories of success. And when he got them, he devoured them with avidity, without ever looking at them. The effect on him was bracing. It was glorious, he told himself, to have taken part in such happenings. The only cloud on his horizon was the fact that the chance to do distinguished acts had never come to him. The Regimental Colours never required saving under heavy fire, for the simple reason that they reposed safely at the depôt. Neither did the Colonel, a most profitable person to rescue, ever get wounded in the open, and give an opportunity for gallant rescue work. He had never had a chance to "stick a Bosch." He had never drawn his sword in a triumphant charge, never blazed his revolver in a face, never twisted a bayonet on a body. It would require courage, he told himself, to admit these things when he was back again at home.
You must not laugh at the stories of the Machine-Gunner. He believed what he wanted to believe. Remember, too, that the Allies were then at the zenith of the greatest victory that was achieved in the first eighteen months of the war. The strategical ideas of the Machine-Gunner may have been faulty, but he has saved more lives with his guns than any doctor in the land.
At about eight o'clock in the morning, the Subaltern saw the Company in front twisting off the road, and forming up in "mass" in the open field. They were then in the centre of a large plateau, which offered an uninterrupted view of miles of flat country on every side. A rough "outpost" disposition, with which he was fortunately not sent, was detailed, and the news was spread that there was to be a halt of several hours.
The business of drying clothes, and cleaning up, instantly began. Ingrained soldierly cleanliness of the men was displayed. Without any order, and in spite of their weariness, whenever they were halted over an hour in the daylight—which had very seldom happened—they would immediately set about shaving, and cleaning themselves and their rifles. They shaved with the cold water, poured from their water-bottles into the lids of their canteens. There was a vast rubbing of bolts, and "pulling through" of barrels. An erstwhile barber in the Senior Subaltern's Platoon did tremendous business with a pair of scissors and a comb, his patrons being seated on an upturned ammunition-case.
They had not halted long before a "mail" came in. The Subaltern was not among the lucky few who received letters or small parcels. Not that he minded much. From whomever the letter might come, or in whatever vein it had been written, he admitted to himself that he would feel savage with it, and would have dismissed it as "hot air" if it were sympathetic, or as "hard-hearted" if it were anything else.
He wrote home on the now famous postcards that inform the addressee that, on such and such a date, the sender was alive and well. He felt very relieved that at last he had an opportunity to relieve the anxiety of the people at home.
The best part of the two hours was spent in "franking"—that is censoring—his men's letters. It was a very unwelcome task, and although he thoroughly appreciated the military necessity, he cordially hated being forced, as it were, to pry into their private affairs.
Meanwhile the wind had dried them, and the sun was high in the heavens. Rations arrived, and were distributed. The sun and the tea warmed them, and in the afternoon a little sleep was possible.
The Subaltern was aroused at about four o'clock, and the march was continued. The Senior Subaltern had received a box of Abdullas in the post, which he kindly shared with his two juniors. The cigarettes seemed enormously fat, and the tobacco extraordinarily pale. They had smoked nothing but the little "Caporal" French cigarettes—and not many of them—since their own supply had given out. They had said all along how much they longed for "decent English" cigarettes, and now they had got them they were not at all so sure that they liked them.
There was a Lance-Corporal in the Company who was not as generous to his fellows as the Senior Subaltern had been. He smoked the cigarettes he had been sent, persistently, and with obvious enjoyment. The men around him were hungry for a "whiff"; the sight of him calmly lighting a fresh "fag" at the stump of the old maddened them beyond endurance. At length one man could bear it no longer.
"Look at 'im, a'eatin' of 'em. Lor! give a thought to yer ruddy comrades, can't yer?"
They seemed to miss tobacco more poignantly than any other luxury.
A little later, sounds of great artillery bombardments rose up in front of them and on each side, but they could not yet see any signs of a fight, as they had not yet reached the edge of the plateau.
Further on, the road descended slightly, and a very little way ahead the Subaltern saw, for the first time, a Battery of heavy artillery at work. The whole affair seemed to him to be singularly peaceful. The men went to work in the same efficient and rapid way that they would have done in a machine-room. Their targets were, of course, invisible, and there was no attempt to cover the guns from sight, nor to protect them from hostile shells. He was surprised to see how comparatively slowly the gun recoiled after discharge. The noise was ear-splitting, terrific.
"There'll be some fun when the Transport comes along," said the Senior Subaltern, with unholy glee.
He was right: there probably would be a great deal of "fun." The Battery was not more than fifty yards from the road on the left, while on the right there was a drop, at an angle of at least sixty degrees, of twenty yards. He imagined the frightened horses careering madly down the slope, the carts and wagons bumping and crashing down upon them—the kicking, struggling heap below!
Then, just as it was growing dark, they reached the edge of the plateau, and the huge rolling valley of the Aisne swam before them in the purple twilight. The further heights were already wrapt up in darkness; and the ground, glowing green at their feet, merged in the distance to rich velvet patches of purple and brown. The river itself was hidden by the trees clustering round its banks, but they could guess its course, winding away for a score or so of miles to the east.
"What a beautiful scene," he said reverently.
The Senior Subaltern may, or may not, have appreciated the beauty of the scene. His eye was on the further heights.
"This is where they will try to stand," he said.
And, as usual, he was right.
They looked across to where the dark heights opposite were thrown out clearly against the pale sky, faintly yellow with the reflected glory of the sunset at their backs. Lights momentarily twinkled, now here, now there, intermittently along the whole line, as far as they could see. It was just as if matches were being struck, and instantly blown out again. But all the time the low, booming noise floated across to them. It was the German heavy artillery, slinging over heavier projectiles than, so far, it had been their bad fortune to meet.
Just as they were entering a little village, nestling half-way down the slope, a tremendous explosion happened. There was a thunder-clap of noise, and a perfect cloud of earth and stones and wood was thrown high into the air. It was their introduction to the famous "Jack Johnson."
But, "Jack Johnson" or no "Jack Johnson," they marched on into the village, and were allotted billets for the night. The men of the Company were very comfortably accommodated in a barn half filled with dry hay, which, of course, is a great deal more pleasant to sleep upon than straw. The Officers went into a little cottage by the barn, and, having intimated to the owner of it that they were willing to buy anything she could sell them to eat or drink, flung off their equipment and went out into the little farmyard.
The air was rosy with the sunset light; even the rising dust was golden. The sky overhead was the palest of dusky whites. It was not a sky: it was just Eternity. Out of it, infinitely far, yet comparatively close, a few stars were beginning to wink.
The men in the yard were cooking their evening meal over a few little fires, squatting over them, eyeing anxiously the brewing tea or frizzling bacon. It was impossible to feel nervous or discontented. The very atmosphere was benign. It seemed as if "God was in His Heaven," and all was well with the World.
Every picture wakened in the mind of the reader by the preceding chapters should be bathed in the brightest of sunshine, under the bluest of skies, and the horizons should quiver with the blue heat. From now onwards he must imagine grey skies, often streaming rain, and always muddy roads and sodden grass.
That day saw the inauguration of a new kind of misery for our troops. Dust, heat and thirst, their previous tormentors, retired in favour of mud, chill and an unappeasable hunger. Their overstrained nerves and worn bodies rendered them very susceptible even to the first breath of autumn.
The Subaltern had lost all his underwear except his shirt, and part of his socks. His breeches were torn at the knee, and he felt the chill of the wind very acutely. He could feel the damp mud through the flapping toes of his boot.
Then it began to rain—no mere light summer shower, that cooled one's face and clothes, and delightfully wet one's hands, but a real autumnal downpour. Hastily he undid the straps which tied his Burberry, and shuffled into it, as he marched along. It was caked with mud, and smelt of the earth that he had so often grovelled in, but as he fastened the hooks beneath his chin, he felt profoundly glad of it, elated that he had something to keep off the chill and wet. He buttoned it down to his knees and experienced the faint sensation of comfort that one feels when drawing one's blinds to shut out a stormy night.
Then the guns began to rattle by; always an ominous sign, for it meant that battle was imminent. It was a remarkable thing that neither infantry nor artillery took much notice of each other as they met. The guns and carriages would thunder and bump and clatter over the pavé, the thickset horses straining at their harness, the drivers urging them on. But the infantry would plod along just the same, regardless of the noise and bustle. The men would not even raise their eyes from the boots of the preceding four.
Very soon after the last gun-carriage had rattled past, sounds of a bombardment would be heard—the bangs and whizz of shells. The Column would probably be halted, while a reconnaissance was made to ascertain in what force the enemy was holding his position. As a rule, deployments were not necessary, for the artillery generally succeeded in dislodging the enemy off their own bat. Such affairs as this happened no less than three times before it was dark, and in each case the Germans had had to leave their dead and wounded behind them.
One poor fellow lay with his head propped up against a heap of stones by the wayside. His chin and mouth had been torn from his face, and the ragged flesh hung in tatters, red and bleeding, as it had been torn. Almost before their eyes the man was passing away. It was awful.
"Poor devil, all this 'ere wasn't 'is fault, yer know," a man muttered.
As far as the Subaltern could hear, no one answered him. Perhaps some of them were wondering where that dying man's soul was going to. One was a Christian, of course, but one wanted to know more. One wanted, very badly, a little precise, definite knowledge of What Happens—after. At that moment he hatedHamlet. Yet the words kept surging through his brain: "To die ... to sleep ... in that sleep of death, what dreams may come?... puzzles the will ... makes us rather bear the ills we have, than fly to others that we know not of!"
Not that conscience had "made a coward" of him, nor of any other man or boy he had ever seen, a great deal nearer to death and vital, elementary things than Shakespeare had ever been. He felt a little foolish for it, but all the same he was thrilled by a sensation of triumphant superiority to the Bard of Avon.
All the time the rain was streaming down, and all the time their clothes grew wetter and wetter. Just before dusk a halt was made by the roadside, and at last the booming of the guns died down to a silence that was only broken by the incessant patter of the rain upon the sodden earth.
There was not much to eat, only biscuits, whose freshness and crispness had been lost in moist pockets. Nobody was thirsty: there was too much water externally!
It was quite dark when they moved on. Somehow the darkness used to come to them as a tremendous relief, as an armistice. They felt, in a subtle way, more at home in it, for it shut out from their eyes the strange sights and horrors of a land quite foreign to them. After the wearing day, it brought a freshness that was exhilarating, a refreshing coolness to the cheeks and hands that was gratifying and soothing. In spite of everything their spirits rose.
As they passed over a little railway station, innocent, as usual, of any suspicion of a platform, with a box set up as waiting-room, one of the men in the section of fours behind him stumbled heavily over the single lines.
"Nah then, Bill, wotcher doing to New Street Station?" New Street Station, with its smoke, and hurrying crowds, and shrieking steam to be compared to this clean, open, deserted spot! The daring of such a comparison was stupendous. It appealed instantly to the men's sense of the ridiculous. They roared with laughter.
The rain fell with depressing regularity, the wind blew gustily, but the ice had been broken, an example had been set, and they all vied with each other in forgetting their troubles in laughter.
"Blessed if it ain't Saturday night!" said one. It was impossible to say offhand what day it was, but after a slight argument they arrived at the astounding discovery that it was indeed Saturday. The discovery was astounding, because it was almost incredible to them that such misery could happen on a Saturday night—thenight of the week—the night of marketing, of toothsome dishes, of melodrama and music halls.
"If my missus could see me now," roared a Reservist, "wouldn't her laff!" He was, perhaps, a great deal more amused than she would have been, poor woman.
"I ain't agoing to Church to-morrer," said another, with assumed languor. "I'll lay a'bed, an' smoke me baccy, an' read me Sunday papers" (derisive groans).
"Me and Sam's goin' on 'Midnight Pass' ter-night, ain't we, Sam?" inquired a young "timeserving" fellow. "Who's on at the Hipper-drome?"
"Oh! Mah-rie Lloyd."
"Get urt, you'm too young to see our Mah-rie." Roars of laughter, that almost shut out the wind with their heartiness!
The Subaltern could tell very accurately how their thoughts were flying homewards, and he could see the very same pictures in front of their eyes, because he lived near to where most of them lived, and knew the sights that most of them knew. Their homes on Saturday night! The warm red tiles of their kitchen floors; the "scrap" mats (laboriously hand sewn) in front of the bright fires in their "grates." The walls of their "parlours," bedecked with gorgeous lithographs, calendars and framed texts!
All the things they loved so much to do on Saturday nights. The humming market street, entirely blocked with its double rows of booths. How pleasant it must have seemed to them! At the top of the street the church stared impassively into space; at the bottom, the trams clanged and grinded as they rounded the corner and swung triumphantly into the square. The stalls, brightly lit by flaring gas-jets, laden with meat, fish, fruit, sweets, music, flowers, all that the Soul could long for throughout a restful Sunday day. Their womenfolk, with their heads covered in the ubiquitous shawl of many colours, buzzing busily from booth to booth, with a purse clutched in one hand, and an open "string" bag, filled with bulky newspaper-covered parcels, in the other. The men looking on with hands in pockets, English-wise, indefinably self-conscious in the face of the delicate business of shopping. Then perhaps an hour or two's excitement in a shag-scented picture palace, or a crowded music hall with some big star at the top of the bill, a small one at the bottom, and the between turns lamentable. And, of course, a visit to some busy "saloon bar" redolent of "beer and 'baccy." Then home on the electric tram.
The thought of it all did not, as might be expected, make them sad. In fact, the home memories seemed to warm their hearts, and the humour of this "Saturday night," which might have left more delicately cultured natures untouched, appealed to them irresistibly.
That night the Subaltern, too, had his dreams. They did not fly homewards: he would have hated to have been surrounded and overwhelmed by his family: he shrank at the thought of congratulations: he shuddered at the idea of explanations. To-night he would have wished to be quite alone. And in London!
First of all would come a hot bath at the hotel—a tremendous scrubbing, and a "rub down," with a big towel—haircuttings, and shaving, and nail cleanings! Then he would get into mufti. He chose, after a careful review, a lounge suit of a grey-blue colour that had been fashionable that summer. It was light, and he had always liked the feel of it on his shoulders. He chose the shirt, collar and tie to go with it. He imagined himself completely dressed, and he looked with pleasure down at the straight creases in his trousers, at his neat patent leather boots with their suède tops. It pleased him tremendously to imagine himself once more properly "clothed and in his right mind."
The next thing would be a feed. He reminded himself of his hunger, and argued that he did not want anything "fancy." He would go to a grill and order just what he liked, and a lot of it. The "Trocerdilli" was just the place. First of all would come a "short one"—not that he needed an appetiser! He imagined himself seated at a table, the cloth startlingly white, the cutlery and glasses reflecting a thousand points of light. He could hear the band, above the whirr of conversation, playing something he knew. He was glancing down the menu card, and the waiter was at his side. A soup that was succulent, thick and hot—his mouth watered! Whitebait, perhaps. He saw their round little eyes and stiff tails as he squeezed his slice of lemon over them. He felt the wafer-slice of brown bread and butter in his fingers. A whisky-and-soda, and a double one at that, to drink—he was tired of these French wines.A steak"from the grill"—undoubtedly a steak—tender, juicy, red, with "chipped" potatoes, lying in long gold-and-brown fingers around it. His teeth clashed at the thought of it! What would he have "to follow"? Something rich and cold! Ameringue glacéewas not good enough for the occasion. A creambombe glacée, or, better still, aPêche Melba. He saw the red syrup stuff in the little glass plate that it would be served on. And the peach—like the cheeks of a lovely child! At last, if he could manage it—which he did not at the moment doubt—something in the savoury omelette line. And to finish up with, the Egyptian should bring him some coffee. He saw the Egyptian very clearly, with his little red cap and his dusky cheeks. Then, last of all, the man with the cigars and liqueurs wheeled his tray. A good cigar from the top tray, clipped and lit by the man's lamp. Then to choose from the half score of bottles on the lower tray. Chartreuse, Benedictine, better still, Grand Marmier.
That really was all. Nothing to do now but lean back in his chair, and between his sips gaze contentedly through his cigar smoke at the lights, the mirrors, the palms, and whirring electric fans and the happy, flushed diners, with that curious, strained, puzzled and amused look that creeps into the backs of people's eyes at such times.
Then he pictured himself leaving the restaurant, climbing the stairs. The glass door was thrown open for him to pass through, with a gesture that was positively grandiloquent.
The cold air of the street was fanning his heated cheek. People were sweeping by him as he walked down Coventry Street. Ships that passed in the night! Passionate eyes stabbed him. Strange scents momentarily swept over him....
There was a completeness of detail in all these pictures that wrung from him a very grim smile. Would he remember the war as vividly as he then remembered all that?
He saw himself pause in the gutter of Wardour Street while a taxi slid by. He saw himself survive the lure of the Empire, saw himself deciding not to cross the road, and go down to the Alhambra.
Eventually he reached a music hall. He was going in now. He was taking his place that moment in the plush stall. On the stage a little pseudo nigger was joking privately with the conductor. He laughed at one of the jokes he remembered. Then a woman came on. She was tragic, stately. He was thrilled by her slimness, her weirdness, her vitality. The whole atmosphere of the theatre was electrified by her personality. She was singing a song in a way that he had never heard before. He remembered it still. It was a Tango song. "His Tango girl!" His thoughts flew off at a tangent....
They spent a delectable night, with their boots off, between real blankets, after a real wash. Very early, before it was really light, they joined on to the Battalion, and slid down the hill.
The Subaltern had a few moments' talk with a friend who had commanded the "Divisional Guard" during the night.
"Scarcely got any sleep," he said. "But I took a peep at their room. It was laid out for a pucca breakfast. Jove, I could have done with some!"
At the door of the house he had been guarding, quite alone, and leaning heavily on his thick stick, stood the Divisional Commander. No doubt he knew of the struggle that lay before them, and was taking the opportunity of reviewing his battalions as they went in to battle. His face was red, his hair was iron grey, and rather long. He was a fine big man, there was a presence to him, a rugged and determined look.
A few minutes later they had plunged into the depths of a thick morning mist, that rolled like a lake between the heights. The steep road led them at length to the banks of the Aisne. The Germans had naturally blown up the bridge behind them, but the Sappers had erected a temporary structure by the side of the ruined one. It quivered under their weight, and as the Subaltern looked at the water swirling so swiftly beneath, he wondered what would happen if one of those huge shells were to blow it sky high....
Running parallel to the river, and about thirty yards away, was a canal. This was likewise successfully passed, and so the Aisne was crossed without a shot being fired.
The Battalion was concentrated while the rest of the Brigade crossed the river. And all the time the sun was chasing away the light clouds of river vapour. Soon the enemy would see them, and they would be caught in this difficult and dangerous movement, and the results would be disastrous.
But the minutes passed, and the mist melted almost entirely away, and still the guns were silent. At last they moved off, and began to ascend the slope. They were only just clear of the place when there was a whistle, a shriek, a bang and a roar. The explosion was two or three times greater than anything they had heard before. The very noise was intimidating, paralysing, and before they had had time to rally their nerves and collect themselves, before the awakened echoes had died away in the woods above, a second shell, as mighty as the first, sailed over their heads and exploded as titanically as it had done. This was the first occasion on which the British Armies had been brought face to face with the German super-heavy artillery. Naturally the result was a little disconcerting.
Tons of death-dealing metal and explosive were being hurled through the air as if Atlas were hurling stars about. There was something elemental, and superhuman about such colossal force. One felt like a pygmy in a Battle of the Gods.
They were profoundly ignorant of anything that was happening. Everything was normal, except the roar of guns. There was not even a sign of the cavalry being driven in. The only thing to do was to keep on until an order came, or something definite happened.
The road had turned into a village called Moussy, and was now running parallel to the river, along the side of the slope. An order was passed along to "keep down under cover of the right bank," so they advanced, half crouching, about half a mile.
Then, with a suddenness that amazed him, the Subaltern saw the Platoon in front begin to scramble hastily over the bank, and run off directly up the hill. No order was given, he could see no explanation for such a move. He hesitated for a second, wondering whether it would not be better to find out what was happening before he moved his Platoon. But battles are sometimes lost by just such pauses, so he waved his arm, signalling to deploy and extend to the right. A second or so later his men were in line with the other Platoon, advancing over a green field towards a bank. Their rifles were loaded, bayonets fixed, bodies bent forward—ready for anything.
They did not have long to wait.
Another "Jack Johnson" landed in front of them. They could see the earth as it flew upwards the other side of the hedge. Was it a chance shot, or would the Germans land a direct "hit" next time? That was the question that worried the Subaltern as he advanced to the hedge. He was also puzzled as to what was really happening, or what he was expected to do. Not another Officer was in sight.
In a few seconds the bank was reached. Here he made a temporary halt for the men to recover their breath. Men cannot be expected to shoot well if they cannot breathe.
Half a minute passed, and he began to consider the advisability of sending out several scouts to reconnoitre, as the whole responsibility of command in that part seemed to rest with him.
"'Ere's the Captain a-comin' up," said a man.
Sure enough, there he was, coming up behind the bank. The Subaltern heaved a sigh of relief.
"D'you know what this is all about, sir?"
"No," said the Captain, as much as to say "How should I?"
"We had better hold on here, and wait and see what is to be done," he added.
Arm-chair strategists may not know it, but a man who has not learned how to "wait and see" is not much use in tactical warfare. War is not, as some people seem to think, an excuse for a perfect orgy of recklessness. But that is by the way.
"It would not be a bad idea if you went forward to see what is happening. I think I can see some people coming up between the trees on the left there."
The Subaltern set out, without loss of time. Yes, there certainly were "people" advancing cautiously up the hill, from round the corner, but there were not many of them. Still crouching, he began once more to mount the hill. As he neared the top, he dropped on his hands and knees in the long grass, as he feared that he might unwittingly appear over the enemy's skyline, and be shot down where he stood.
He peered cautiously about him. The summit of the hill was round and smooth. Not a particle of cover was offered, but about twenty yards down the other side he saw the edge of a dense wood, which appeared to roll, uninterrupted, half-way up the further slope. The top of this slope formed the skyline, and seemed to be about three-quarters of a mile away. Except for the men working their way up on his left, whom he had already noticed, there was not a man in sight; but the shells were still sailing overhead.
At length the party came up, and amongst them was the Colonel of one of the Battalions in the Brigade. The Subaltern immediately asked him for orders.
"As far as I can see," said the Colonel, "this hill is a sort of salient in our line. The enemy are probably holding that ridge along there," pointing to the skyline. "Anyway, we will hold on to this hill until I have orders for a general attack."
The Subaltern walked down the hill to report what he had found out.
"All right," said the Captain; "you had better take your Platoon and all these men round about here, and help to hold on to the hill."
He called for his Section Commanders, explained what was to be done, and set off once more. As they were just about to cross the crest, he signalled to them to "get down," and at length they took up a sort of position along the edge of the wood on the other side.
The enemy had evidently not "spotted" them, and they were left in peace for an hour. Then their troubles began.
It seemed as though the hill suddenly became a place of vast importance. The Colonel arrived upon the scene, with reinforcements of over a hundred men, and they immediately set to work putting the hill into a state of defence. Then a battery of field guns were drawn up into position on the "safe" side of the hill, and began without delay to shell the enemy. Their arrival, however, was decidedly a mixed blessing. So far, the troops had held the hill quite successfully, and had been undisturbed by hostile artillery, for the simple reason that the enemy was unaware of their positions. Now the artillery had come and "given the whole show away," and no sooner did the enemy discover that the hill was held, than he began forthwith to bombard them.
It was obviously impossible to continue "digging in." The only thing to do was to squeeze one's self into the ground, and pray. It seemed as if the titanic thunderbolts, that had hitherto been hurled aimlessly about, were suddenly concentrated on that one spot. It seemed as if all the gods in Olympus were hurling their rage upon it, determined to obliterate it from the face of the earth. The most gigantic guns that had ever been used in war were concentrating their fire upon it, and the result was awful. Nothing they had experienced before was comparable to it. It seemed as if the ground were being thrashed with whips of a thousand leaden-loaded thongs. The smell of the lyddite was nauseating, the uproar stupefying. Dust rose in the air; trees crashed to the ground.
Hell was let loose: Hell and Death were dashing around, converting that normal sky and that sane earth into a Pandemonium. The wonder was that a human life was spared. The Subaltern had a fleeting feeling that every one except himself must be dead. When the storm seemed for a moment to have abated, he looked around him and was surprised to see that very little damage had been done to the men. An inexperienced eye would possibly not have detected any casualties at all. From a Kipling point of view, the scene was an artistic failure. Not a man was shrieking; not a man "clawing up the ground." Here and there men had rolled over on their sides, and were groaning quite softly to themselves. Here and there a purple patch in the dusty khaki....
The instinct of men, like animals, is to crawl quietly away from their fellows, and die in solitude.
The Colonel, very little perturbed by the bombardment, had sat throughout with his back resting against a tree, writing messages, or glaring at the map. Once, a large piece of shell casing had buried itself in the ground a few inches from his leg. The jagged piece was hot and heavy.