*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 73692 ***




WITH MY REGIMENT




  WITH MY REGIMENT

  FROM THE AISNE TO LA BASSÉE

  BY

  "PLATOON COMMANDER"




  LONDON
  WILLIAM HEINEMANN


_London: William Heinemann, 1915_




TO "PAT"


  _Who was killed in front of La Bassée on
  October 21, 1914, this book is
  affectionately dedicated
  by the author_




ACKNOWLEDGMENT


_The author desires to thank the Editors of_ The English Review, The
Evening Standard, _and_ The Westminster Gazette _for kind permission
to reproduce in this volume, articles which appeared in their various
columns_.




CONTENTS


  CHAP.                                           PAGE

  INTRODUCTION                                      1

  I. TAKING OUT A DRAFT                             8

  II. RAILHEAD AND BEYOND                          25

  III. EARLY DAYS ON THE AISNE                     40

  IV. IN BILLETS                                   58

  V. THE MOVE UP (1)                               71

  VI. THE MOVE UP (2)                              83

  VII. NEARING THE FIRING-LINE                     93

  VIII. GETTING INTO ACTION                       101

  IX. AN ATTACK AT DAWN                           111

  X. THE RESERVE COMPANY                          120

  XI. A NIGHT ATTACK                              129

  XII. THE FARM IN THE FIRING-LINE                138

  XIII. PUSHING FORWARD                           146

  XIV. IN FRONT OF LA BASSÉE                      156

  XV. A NIGHT PATROL                              166

  XVI. WITH THE SUPPORTS                          176

  XVII. BETWEEN ACTIONS                           187

  XVIII. "THE ----TH BRIGADE WILL ATTACK ----"    197

  XIX. BY THE SKIN OF OUR TEETH                   206

  XX. "AND THENCE TO BED"                         220




INTRODUCTION


"Report yourself to O.C. 1st Battalion at ---- immediately.--GROUP."

So the time had come. Of course I guessed what was going to be in the
wire before I opened it, but somehow the pink telegraph envelope, and
that little word Group at the end of the message, shook me out of an
exciting day-dream into reality. For years we had been brought up
on the word "GROUP," which was to come at the end of the order for
mobilization. Now it was being flashed over wires all over the country.
Our training was to bear fruit. The happy, careless--some people say,
rather useless--life of the army officer in peace time was over. The
country had gone to war.

I was staying at the time in a large house by the banks of the Thames.
My hostess was a mother of soldiers. She took the news calmly, as a
mother of soldiers should; said good-bye to her eldest boy, who was to
go with the first troops that left England, arranged for the outfit
of her two second sons, and sent for her baby from Eton, whom she saw
dispatched to the Royal Military College. It was a great house to be
in on the outbreak of war--a house whose sons to the third and fourth
generation had built up the British Empire, and which, now, when the
Empire was called upon to fight for its life, stood firm and undismayed.

I went up to London to my rooms to collect a few things. My landlady
was breathless with helping me pack, aghast at the National crisis, and
rather shocked at my levity. Levity--yes, I suppose I was flippant.
What else could one be when suddenly told one was going to war with
Germany? I was rather enjoying the packing and everything up to a
point, but as I ransacked drawers I came on a bundle of letters with
some absurd comic postcards. The letters had a faint scent of violet
about them. They had to be sealed up and left behind, with directions
for their disposal if I didn't come back. And there was a photograph to
be taken from the mantelpiece and put in a pocket-book, a photograph
which had been in many places with me. Well, now it must go on its
travels again. I got an aching in the back of my throat and hurried to
my club for a drink.

From the club I went to the station. There was a big crowd on the
platform of the boat-train. Many women had come to see their menfolk
off, and some to travel with them as far as they could. There were
also a great many people who were crossing over to Ireland under the
impression that it would be the last night of the Channel service for
civilian traffic. There were business men, and people whose homes were
in Ireland, and officials. All looked a little anxious, as much as to
say, "Well, it has begun!"

Our journey was uneventful until we came alongside the wharf at ----,
and here newsboys met us with placards, "ENGLAND DECLARES WAR ON
GERMANY."

At the camp I reported myself to the Adjutant. There was little in
his manner to show that he was getting a regiment ready to go to war,
except that he showed an indisposition to talk, and seemed trying to
keep his mind clear of everything except for the sequence of things
which had to be done.

After reporting to the Adjutant I went across to the mess. The mess
was in a state of packing. Cases, boxes, and litter of all descriptions
blocked the corridors; each officer's room was like the interior of a
furniture removal van, and the mess waiters were busy packing away all
the regimental silver and pictures. The only things which stood out
clearly from the jumble were the field-service kits of the different
officers.

These were for the most part all neatly rolled up in brown or green
valises ready to be thrown on the transport wagon at an instant's
notice. Now and again an officer would come to a pair of scales outside
the mess, weigh his kit, and then start frantically to undo it, pull
out a pair of boots or a blanket, and roll it up again. It took some
nice adjustment to get all that was wanted into the 35 lb. allowed.

The following morning we heard a band and cheering, and looking out of
the window saw some three hundred men marching up from the station. All
the regiment turned out to greet the new arrivals--they were fine men
in the prime of life, and swung along evidently well used to pack and
rifle. They were the old soldiers of the regiment--reservists who had
been called back to the Colours on mobilization from civil life.

They had been down to the depot, thrown off their civilian clothes, and
taken up their rifles once more. They had most of them served under
many of the officers who were still with the regiment. It put heart
into all, and strengthened the general feeling of confidence that we
should see the thing through, to see so many old faces coming back to
march with the regiment once more.

For a night or two before the regiment embarked we dined in mess thirty
strong. I used to wonder, as we sat round the table, looking at the
faces of my brother officers, what fate held in store for them, how
many would come back, how others would die. It was going to be "a hell
of a war." All were agreed on that. There was no feeling of going off
for a day's hunting about anyone. Men made their wills quietly, packed
their belongings, and wrote letters of good-bye to their friends.

One grey morning at six the regiment marched across the open plain
behind the barracks to the little siding. A few officers' wives and
those left behind came to see them off, but there was no cheering and
few tears. The train stole quietly out of the station, and the regiment
went to war.

"Well--see you out soon," Goyle called to me.

"Yes--I expect so," I answered, and said good-bye to him and the others.

Alas, there are few left now to read these words. The war continues.
Of the survivors a half have still to serve. For me, my fighting days
are done. I am not sorry. Whatever ideas I had as a cadet, this war has
taught me that fighting is too fierce and heart-racking to be a sport
or anything except a duty.

These sketches of war as I saw it I write once more by the banks of
the upper reaches of the Thames, calm and beautiful with her fringe of
browning leaves, as she was stately and magnificent in full midsummer a
year before. Now autumn has come and the dead leaves lie in the golden
sunlight.

Of my brother officers, who read these words, I ask only the kindly
tolerance they have always shown. Should they recognize themselves in
deeds described, and find fault with the accuracy of the account, will
they remember that it is difficult to give chapter and verse without
notes to refer to. And for notes, I think all will agree that to have
taken them for such a purpose while out there would have been a waste
of time.

  "PLATOON COMMANDER."




I. TAKING OUT A DRAFT


I was sitting drinking a gin-and-bitters in the lounge of the big hotel
facing the sea when Mulligan came dashing in.

"I say, you're wanted back at the barracks at once. You've got to come
out with me with the draft to-night."

"All right, old son, have a gin-and-bitters anyway. What time does the
train start?"

"In an hour's time--seven o'clock," said Mulligan, still much excited,
but not, however, making any attempt to move away as the waiter
approached.

"Well, here's to the enterprise and our handsome selves," he said a few
minutes later, raising his glass.

Mulligan was not handsome; he had a face the colour of boiled beetroot,
very blue eyes, and a humorous mouth. He was a Special Reserve
subaltern, who before the war had done a chequered month's training
with the battalion every year, and spent the other eleven months
interesting himself in aviation, theatrical life, and the motor
business. To go out to the Front with him as one's colleague in charge
of a draft of 180 men was a certain way of avoiding _ennui_.

We had been waiting some while with the reserve battalion for our turn
to go out, and now, just four weeks after the regiment sailed with the
vanguard of the Expeditionary Force, we were sent for at two hours'
notice.

We were ready, of course. There was not much to get ready, except
our 35 lb. kit, and that we always kept rolled up by our beds. Our
revolvers, field-glasses, water-bottles, and haversacks were hung on
our belts, and we had only to tell our servants to take our kits down
to the transport wagon and walk on to the square where the draft was
paraded, which we did.

The Colonel said a few words, the town band fell in at the head of the
column, the crowd waved good-bye, and the draft cheered and yelled and
sang their way to the station. The draft was in the best of spirits;
it cheered the colonel, adjutant, and any officers on sight; it leant
out of the carriage windows and waved beer bottles, and rifles, and
caps; and it greeted with such uproarious applause any attempt to give
orders on the part of Mulligan or myself that we thought it best to
remain in the corner of our first-class carriage. There were 180 men
of all ages from nineteen to forty, old soldiers and young soldiers,
militiamen, reservists, and a few regulars.

"We are going to have a jolly time with these," said Mulligan,
indicating the draft.

Our transport was a converted Blue Line boat, which the trip before had
brought over German prisoners, and the trip before that cattle from
America. She had been carpentered up to carry troops, and her hold
was a network of planks and scaffolding. She was to carry, besides
ourselves, drafts for five other regiments, and each of these had to
receive, on embarkation, rations to last for five days.

From the moment we got on board Mulligan began to prove invaluable. He
collected our full number of rations from the bewildered and suspicious
Army Service Corps official, he annexed an easily defended corner in
the hold, stored the rations there, and put a guard over them; he
frightened two other draft officers out of the only remaining officer's
cabin and put our kit on to their bunks, and finally, when all was
quiet, he led me to a hotel in the port where we could get a drink
after ten.

The transport sailed the next morning, and once under way there was
little or nothing for officers and men to do except lie about in the
sun. It was a glorious September morning as we steamed past the Isle of
Wight, with only two destroyers, one ahead and one to port, to remind
us we were at war. But as we sat smoking and talking on deck there was
a feeling in the air which dispelled the sense of being on a pleasure
trip.

I think that just for those few hours as we left the shores of England
there was heaviness in each man's heart. It was no holiday this we
were going on. There was an officer in a Highland regiment, who was
one of fifteen officers of the same regiment on their way out to
replace fifteen brother officers who had only crossed the sea four
weeks before: a splendid-looking fellow, with his kilt and gaily cocked
glengarry; there would be very few fellows in the regiment that he knew
out there now, he said to me. He had rather a serious expression. It
was grim work going out to fill the place of a friend who had been
killed. And there was another fellow whom I'd known well years ago and
who welcomed me with delight when he found we were to be on the same
transport. "You know, I don't like this a bit," he said, evidently much
relieved to find some one to whom he could speak his heart, instead of
keeping up the conventional mask of joy at having been ordered to the
Front. "As far as I can see, one is certain to be killed."

We talked over old days when we had been quartered near London and gone
off together to Covent Garden balls and other entertainments. "You
know, I'm married now," he told me. "You're _not_?" I said, laughing;
it seems so funny when one's bachelor friends get married; and he
looked just the same dog as ever.

"Yes, I've been married a year--got a brat too," he said with an
air of having conclusively reformed; then, returning to the subject
of the war, "absolutely certain to get hit, you know--it's all very
well--never even had time to say good-bye to my wife and kid."

A month or two afterwards I saw from the papers that his regiment had
been in action and lost fourteen officers--eleven wounded and three
killed. It seemed just the infernal luck of the thing that he should
have been one of the three killed.

The voyage lasted three days. By the middle of the second day quite
half the troops were sea-sick. It also came on to rain. The men had
therefore all to remain in the hold. Owing to the exigencies of war
they had to be packed like Chinese coolies, and there was no room for
them to walk about, barely enough for them to lie down. The boards on
which they lay soon became littered with bits of biscuit, cheese, clots
of jam, and fragments of bully beef. The rain found its way down to
the hold through the improvised companion ways, and not more than half
the men could keep dry. The stench in the hold soon became appalling.
The men themselves did not seem to worry much, but lay about, those
who were well enough smoking, those who were not, with the aggrieved
expression Tommy often wears when he is sorely tried, as much as to
say: "---- it, what next am I going to be asked to do?" But when Tommy
wears this expression it by no means follows he is not going to carry
out the command. He retreated from Mons in this fashion.

The sun was shining again as we arrived off the mouth of the Loire.
As we steamed slowly up the river we began to see the first signs of
war. There was a large concentration camp on the left bank. We were
passed and were vociferously cheered by another transport, lying off
the dock with her decks thick with men waiting to be disembarked. We
were eventually moored alongside a quay and told we must all remain on
board till to-morrow morning. This was a disappointment to the men, a
few of whom endeavoured to land on their own initiative by means of a
rope ladder. A guard was put over the ladder and most of the officers
retired to the saloon for drinks. We had various distractions during
the evening. First a visit from a wounded officer who had been sent
down from the base camp. He said his regiment had been badly cut
up. Some of the others asked him about individual officers in his
regiment. "The colonel--oh, the colonel has 'gone.' Chippendale--poor
Chippendale, he thought he'd been hit in the stomach and was dead.
'Curtes,' yes, Curtes had been alongside him in the trench and shot
through the head. There was a fellow in hospital with him who had had
eleven bullets in his leg. He was dying. He didn't know how long he'd
be at the base camp. They had tried to put him on a hospital boat for
England, but he had got off again. He thought he'd go back in a week.
It was awful up there."

He was the first wounded man we had seen, and we said one to another:
"By Jove, he has been through it."

Now I know that his funny way of saying everybody was dead, and the
shocked look on his face, combined with the wish to go back, and "we
are in for a bigger thing than we ever thought" attitude, were all
symptoms of nervous strain, which most men get after a certain time in
action.

Besides our visitor we saw something of the life of the town from the
sides of the boat. There were a good many men in khaki coming and going
along the streets and in cafés, apparently all rather the worse for
drink, and there was an officer's picket parading the streets putting
the more drunken under arrest. It was the first few days of the new
base camp, and the provost-marshal was just getting the town in order.

As Mulligan and I were turning in for the night an orderly reported
that a man had been drowned trying to get off the boat, and an officer
was wanted to go down to the quay. Mulligan was up immediately. It
seemed rather an unpleasant job for a boy like him, so I said there was
no need for him to go as the man might not belong to our draft.

He grinned and put on his cap. "I think I'll go and get a sight of my
first corpse," he said.

It was pouring with rain when we landed the next morning. We were
told to march to No. 7_a_ base camp, which we should find two miles
outside the town, shown the direction, and off we started. There were
the details of some five divisions quartered round the town, first
reinforcements, second reinforcements, artillery units, cavalry,
A.S.C., and Royal Flying Corps. As these were all divided into various
small settlements, which each guarded its domain jealously and denied
all knowledge of us when we offered ourselves for accommodation, it was
no easy matter to arrive at the right spot. It rained steadily during
our search; however, at last, after plodding through miles of tents and
across a half-dried swamp, we found a small camp in a field which had a
board by the guard-tent marked "7_a_."

The sergeant of the guard pointed out to me the Camp Adjutant's tent
and, leaving the draft in charge of Mulligan, I went across to it. The
men were by this time wet to the skin and, as clean sheets and pyjamas
were not included in their kit, or, as a matter of fact, any change of
clothing except a pair of socks and a clean shirt, it looked as though
they would most of them have pneumonia the next morning. However, one
thing about active service is that it eliminates most of the minor
worries of life. A man who may have a bullet through him before he is
many days older is not very much afraid of catching cold when he is
wet, and the men, when their tents were shown them, just shook the rain
off their caps and turned inside.

The Camp Adjutant was a very fierce individual, and when I inquired
about a tent for Mulligan and myself said he did not think there was
one; when I asked him what then it would be best for us to do, he was
first blasphemous and then completely indifferent. A tent standing by
itself behind the men's lines, he said, was a cavalry officer's tent,
in fact, the whole camp was really a cavalry camp, and he did not know
why the ---- we had been sent there.

After he had gone I decided to go and look at the cavalry officer's
tent. Pulling aside the flaps cautiously I peered inside and there saw,
sitting on his valise and eating a biscuit with jam, a very immaculate
young gentleman, with light, white-balled breeches and a large silver
eagle on his cap. His head was bent as I looked in, but as he looked up
I saw the pink and white, ingenious face of Herbert Beldhurst.

"Hullo!" I said.

"Hullo!" said Herbert, looking at me in polite perplexity, then,
remembering who I was: "Oh, hullo! Come inside."

I entered.

"Have a cigarette?"

He produced a huge new leather campaigning cigarette case. Everything
in his tent was new and designed, regardless of cost, to make
campaigning as comfortable as possible. He had a smart spare saddle
with two bright leather revolver holsters, a sandwich-case, a box of
Fortnum and Mason's groceries, a special Burberry, and a gorgeous
canary-yellow woollen waistcoat.

Hearing of our difficulty he at once offered me a share of his tent,
and I had my kit put inside. Mulligan I left to look after himself,
with implicit confidence in his power to do so.

Half an hour later Mulligan had billeted himself on two young officers
fresh from Sandhurst, combined their rations with ours, and constituted
himself president of a joint mess.

For the next few days we remained at the base camp waiting for
orders to go up to the Front. The time was passed in route marching,
inspecting arms and equipment, and trying to instil some sense of
discipline into the draft. This last duty took some performing, as the
draft resented being cooped up in the square acre of camp ground, and
showed a disposition individually to go off into the town and get drunk.

One evening, about 7.30, an order came for the drafts for the 5th
Division to entrain, and Mulligan and I and our 180 followers marched
to the station.

That journey up to the Front was for me a never-to-be-forgotten
experience. It lasted for three days, the train creeping along at ten
miles an hour. As on the boat, we were a mixed party, comprising drafts
for some eight regiments, and totalling about 1500 men. The train
was of immense length. The senior officer was an elderly ex-Militia
subaltern, completely incompetent. He made no regulations, posted no
guards at stations, gave none of the draft officers orders, and by the
end of the third day was firing his revolver wildly out of the window.
For this I do not blame him much, for the situation had by this time
reached a climax. The different drafts remained fairly quiet in their
carriages for the first night, but when the next morning broke fine
and sunny and we stopped at a station in the middle of a French town,
first one man and then another climbed down from the stuffy, crowded
carriages on to the platform. From the platform it was only a step
into the main street of the town, and this step was quickly taken.
When the train wanted to move on there were no drafts. The drafts were
all in cafés, cottages, and pie shops, receiving a hearty welcome from
the inhabitants. The elderly ex-Militia subaltern said they must be
collected and put back in the train, and set off with different draft
officers to do this, but as fast as the men were turned out of one
shop they went into another lower down the street. Eventually Mulligan
organized a drive from the lower end of the town up to the station, the
men were collected, and off we started again.

Warned by this experience, the ex-Militia subaltern ordered the driver
of the train on no account again to stop near a town. Our next halt
was, therefore, well in the middle of open country. Beside the line
there ran a peaceful stream. The noonday heat was by now at its height,
and after a glance out of the carriage windows we settled to sleep,
secure in our remoteness from trouble. Suddenly the ex-Militiaman,
putting his head out of the window, exclaimed:

"My God! Look at the ----s."

We looked, and saw several of the draft divesting themselves of their
clothes preparing to bathe. We jumped out to order them into the train
again, but while we were doing this every carriage was opened and the
different drafts, perhaps thinking a bathing parade had been ordered
and the officers were going down to superintend, all jumped out and
made for the river.

"I should start the train again," said Mulligan, looking coldly on the
scene of confusion. "They'll come back quick enough if they think they
are going to be left behind."

The order was given, and with a long, warning whistle the train started
slowly off. The effect was electrical. The men began to pour back at
once. The train was kept going at two miles an hour, and those dressed
were quickly on board again. One man, stark naked except for a pair
of trousers, was left racing after her down the line holding up his
trousers with one hand. He soon took a heavy toss over a switch wire,
and the train had to be stopped and a party sent back to fetch him.
While this was happening the ex-Militia subaltern in charge, who was
keeping an eagle look-out all along the train, spied another man making
off. He called to him to stop, but the man apparently did not hear and
continued. The distracted subaltern then called on a corporal in the
next carriage to fire at the culprit with his rifle, which he did.

The victim, suddenly alive to his position, gave a wild yell when the
shot was fired, and ran away as hard as he could. He disappeared into a
wood and was never seen again.

Nearing Paris we began to pass hospital trains going west, and outside
the city were halted alongside a train-load of German prisoners. They
were a miserable, abject-looking lot, huddled together on the floors
of the carriages, all in their muddy grey uniforms as they had been
captured. I do not think in those days there was much hate in the
heart of the British Tommy towards his foe, for our fellows threw them
biscuits which they devoured ravenously, and cigarettes which they lit
and passed round one to another with trembling hands.

The suburban trains were running into Paris with women, and men unfit
for service or over military age, much as though business was going
on as usual, but we were hardly beyond the outskirts before we were
passing through ground which we were told the Germans had held a few
weeks before, and the impression gathered was very different from any
which could be derived within fifteen miles of London.

Beyond Paris we passed through some beautiful, thickly wooded country,
and were told we were within thirty kilometres of the enemy. At one
point we halted by a field-ambulance station. Here the wounded were
brought down from behind the firing-line in motor ambulances, their
wounds dressed, and then put on to a train. It was a stern first sight
of war, that long barn strewn with straw and packed with groaning,
blood-stained, muddy men straight from the trenches.




II. RAILHEAD AND BEYOND


For the last stage of the journey the train crawled very slowly. Very
faintly in the distance we could hear the boom of guns. We looked at
one another, Mulligan and I and the two lads from Sandhurst.

"We're getting into it now," said one of the Sandhurst boys.

"Yes--maybe this time twenty-four hours we shall be dead," said
Mulligan with a grin.

In those days it did indeed happen that an officer only survived one
day after reaching railhead. Some had been killed literally on their
way to the trenches. However, Mulligan's cheery attitude of fatalism,
combined with the sound of the guns, did not infect me with any wild
good spirits, and I pulled out my pipe and filled it for the fifth time
since lunch.

The four of us had been living for three days in the first-class
carriage ever since we had entrained with our respective drafts at the
base. We had slept, eaten, smoked, and made ourselves as comfortable
as space would permit, and had also become very good friends. They
were splendid boys, the two cadets from Sandhurst--one eighteen, the
other nineteen. Theirs had been a short interval between the schoolboy
and the man. A month after leaving the Royal Military College they
had found themselves responsible officers sent out with a draft to
their regiment in France. It had been instructive to watch the perfect
self-possession of the boys and the way they handled their men. Now
as we neared our journey's end they sat calmly looking out of the
window, their ears pricked to catch the sound of the distant guns,
liking the thought of war perhaps no more than others do when they find
themselves very near to it, but perfectly self-possessed and prepared
to do whatever was required of them. They have both given their lives
for their country now, poor lads--such bits of life as they had to
give, having passed through only two stages of it, and never known "the
lover" or the full strength of man.

At railhead the train stopped about half a mile outside the station.
The railway transport officer came down the line to give us our
instructions. He said he proposed to leave us in a siding for the
night and we could have the train to ourselves, which would be better
than turning out in a field to sleep. The men could light fires by
the railway line for cooking, but they must not drink the water from
a stream which ran alongside the line as it was unsafe. There were
two wells from which water could be drawn for the troops a little way
beyond a level-crossing further up the line. If each draft would send
water-carrying parties they should be directed to the wells. He wished
a guard put at the level-crossing to prevent any man walking up the
line into the town. He was with us about four minutes giving his orders
concisely, and so that they could be clearly understood; then he went
back towards the station to attend to the multitude of duties which
fall to the lot of a railway transport officer. He spoke without flurry
or excitement and gave the impression, which every staff-officer should
give, of being a thoroughly capable man who knew exactly what he
wanted the troops he was handling to do.

When the R.T.O. had gone we went along the line to carry out the orders
we had received. Having been explicitly told that the stream was
poisoned and not fit to drink, and that all fires must be lit on the
right side of the line and not on the left, some of the men proceeded
to light fires on the wrong side of the railway and to fill their
bottles from the stream. Having put these matters right by standing
about and yelling at the offenders, and things having been put more or
less in shape for the night, Mulligan and I went off into the town.

The town which lay deep down in a valley was in pitch darkness. There
was no sign of life in the streets, except in the market square where
some wagons were parked and a group of soldiers were sitting round the
embers of a fire. Now and again large, silent motor-cars with officers
wrapped up to the chin in overcoats and mufflers glided through. One of
the men by the wagons told us that Sir John French had been in the town
half an hour ago, had a quick consultation with some general officers,
and passed on. In spite of the darkness, quiet, and absence of signs
of activity, one felt somehow, as one stood in that market square
with the shadowy wagons and group of men round the fire, that one had
crossed the border and come into the zone of war. Railways were done
with now and the infantry must take to their feet.

In view of certain reports we had heard about officers being picked off
by specially detailed snipers, Mulligan and I had decided that at the
first opportunity we would get rid of our brown leather belts and put
on the web equipment worn by the men. Accordingly, when we got to the
market square, we asked if there was any ordnance store in the town. A
soldier directed us to a house at the corner of the square. We knocked
on the door, and after a little difficulty roused the storeman, who
took us into a large room where a quantity of clothing, equipment,
and rifles collected from the dead, were piled on the floor. The
storeman was a Royal Field Artilleryman, and he told us he was one of
three survivors of a battery which had been left to fight a desperate
rearguard action in the retreat from Mons--it was the battery in which
all but one gun were put out of action. The man had a subdued manner
and was reluctant to speak much of the engagement. To us, who had not
yet seen a shell burst, this meeting with a man who had been through so
much fighting was significant. We took our web equipment and made our
way back to the train.

The morning broke fine and sunny, and we turned out along the line
quite ready to march. As we were putting on the web equipment we had
collected over night, the French driver of the train came along. He
stopped and looked at us curiously, then asked why we were discarding
our officer's belts and putting on men's equipment. We explained it was
because we did not want to be picked out as officers. He said: "With
our officers it is the same uniform in peace as in war." I could not
think of an adequate reply to this, but the natural and irritable one
would have been "more fools they," which Mulligan made without any
hesitation. However, the engine driver's remark rankled, and as the
R.T.O. said that most of the officers he had seen had gone up to the
front in their Sam Browne belts, we decided to do the same after all
and pack the web equipment in our kit.

We got our orders to march at noon. Mulligan and I with our draft and
the draft for another regiment were to start first; the two Sandhurst
lads, who were going to another brigade, were to wait till the
afternoon. We sorted out our different drafts, wished them good-bye,
and set off.

Part of the way from railhead to divisional headquarters lay over a
ridge which overlooked the valley of the Aisne. From this ridge we saw
our first shells bursting at a comfortable distance of some two mile
away. One wondered as one watched the little white puffs of smoke which
appeared suddenly and noiselessly, hovered for a minute a score of feet
above the earth, and blew away, what damage they had caused and what it
must be like for the men who formed the target beneath them.

The valley of the Aisne, as we saw it, except for those white puffs of
smoke and the occasional distant boom of a heavy gun, showed no signs
of war. The fields were quiet and empty as on a Sunday, with crops
growing tranquilly and here and there a stack of hay. At one point we
passed an artillery supply park with an imperturbable-looking gunner
subaltern, with an eyeglass, and a major in charge. The major had a
large scale-map of the area, and showed me from it where our lines and
the German's lines lay, pointing out the actual places on the horizon.

He was passing the time making out possible phases of battles to come
from the map. The subaltern told us that the word "Uhlan" (in the early
days of the war often heard) was extinct as a form of terrorism, for,
he said, they and their horses were half-starved, and turned and bolted
on sight.

After some five miles march we arrived at divisional headquarters,
which consisted of the principal house in a tiny village. Here I found
an officer in my regiment who was attached to the staff, and who asked
me to come in and have tea while he found out what I was to do with the
men I had brought out from England.

The general and his staff were having tea round a deal table in the
front room of the house when I went in and all greeted me kindly. Tea
consisted of bread, jam, and tea without milk. There was no butter,
only two or three plates, and some brown sugar in a paper bag. The
meal belied any impression I may have had of the luxury in which
generals and their staff were wont to live in war time.

There was a discussion among the staff officers as to what they were to
do with the draft and myself and Mulligan. One was for sending us down
to the trenches that night, another for keeping us back in reserve. I
personally hoped for a night in peace and quiet, and I could see that
the staff officer who was in favour of keeping us in reserve thought it
would be rather a severe experience for a draft to be sent down into
the trenches the first night they arrived at the front.

Eventually it was decided that we should go to our second line
transport which lay some two miles behind the firing-line, and with
directions as to the road we started off. It was by this time dark;
however, we had no difficulties until we came to the village where
our second line transport was supposed to be. This village was packed
with troops, and from no one could we get information about the
whereabouts of our second line transport. There followed an hour of
hopeless wandering and questioning, while Mulligan and I cursed the
army and everything to do with the army (with especial reference to the
staff) for fools and worse. At one point we came into collision with a
regiment marching out to take its turn in the trenches. The officers
all were wearing Burberrys and mufflers, and had greatcoats rolled
on their backs. The men were carrying little pots for cooking, extra
bandoliers of ammunition, and other things likely to be useful to them
in the trenches. All looked prepared to be thoroughly uncomfortable.

At last, after some further wandering, we struck boldly out on a road
along which we were told we should find our second line transport. I
was a little uneasy as we left the village behind us and marched out
into the darkness, for I knew we were going in the direction of the
enemy, and it would be a never-to-be-forgotten episode in an officer's
career to lead a draft of reinforcements fresh from England straight
into the hands of the enemy instead of to their regiment. However,
before we had gone far a voice greeted me cheerily and I discovered our
quartermaster.

"You come with me, I'll take you to the transport. Now then, lads,
close up there," he said, in the crisp, businesslike voice I had often
heard on the parade-ground in times of peace when he was regimental
sergeant-major.

Only those young officers who served in the days before the war, and
learnt to lean a little on the "backbone" of the army, can understand
the relief it was to me, after a fortnight's responsibility with the
180 rascals who formed my draft, to feel them gripped once again by the
voice of an old regular ex-non-commissioned officer.

Under Clay's guidance the draft followed like sheep into the courtyard
of a farm, and stood quietly in their ranks while we went into the
building. In the centre of the yard a fire was burning and the
sergeant-cook was busy preparing supper (this would have been too
much for the draft altogether if they had been alone with me). The
sergeant-cook shook my hand warmly in his huge red paw and wished me
luck on joining the regiment on active service. He then busied himself
preparing a dixie of tea for the men. Inside the farm I found Sergeant
Mace, the officers' mess sergeant, in khaki and shirt sleeves but just
as anxious that the officers should have everything they wanted as
he had been when his portly chest had been covered by a glossy white
shirt. He brought me a cup of tea, unearthed from the mess van a bottle
of rum, poured it liberally into the tea, and went out with some bread,
dripping, and eggs to fry some supper over the fire in the yard.

Of the welcomes I have had I shall always remember the first night when
I reached the second line transport of my regiment in France.

Thinking to remain with the transport that night, Mulligan and I had
found some straw for the draft and were sitting on biscuit boxes over
the fire drinking hot rum and water, and hearing the gossip of the
regiment from Clay and Mace before turning in, when an orderly arrived
with orders. We were to go down into the trenches that night.

Clay said it was rough luck we should not get one night's rest. He was
also extremely matter of fact. He roused the men from their slumbers
in a trice, cursed a man roundly who dropped his rifle, harangued the
draft in a hoarse whisper, telling them that they were going to be
sent across to the other side of the river into the firing-line, and
that if they made a noise they would get a German battery turned on
them, said a few words to Mulligan and myself aside, advising one of us
to keep at the head of the company and one behind, and to keep the men
well closed up, as if fire was suddenly opened at night on troops just
out of England it might be touch and go what would happen, and said
good-bye to us, without--as I thought, considering the occasion--much
tenderness.

It was pitch dark when we started off from the transport to go down to
the firing-line. The transport sergeant came with us to show the way
and marched with me at the head of the draft. He told me that he had to
take the supply-wagon down every night to the regiment, and that it was
a job he was glad to have over for the day. That morning he had been
late returning, and day was breaking as he crossed the river. Three
shells had been fired, two narrowly missing his wagon. I could see
he was rather shaken by his morning's experience and that he did not
particularly relish the task of piloting down the draft. However, never
having seen any shells burst, they had no terror for me, and I rather
enjoyed the quiet sense of adventure which hung over the expedition.

After half a mile we left the main road and crossed the pontoon bridge.
From this point onwards our way lay across the fields. In the darkness
we could see nothing and had no compass to give the direction. The
transport sergeant picked his way by keeping to a muddy track which had
been worn across the fields and stubble by troops passing to and fro
from the firing-line to the rear. Whenever our boots stopped squelching
and slipping back we knew we were off the track and groped about till
we were back in the mud and cart-ruts again.

A few months afterwards when I read that the French troops, who had
taken over our line when the British Army was moved up to Flanders,
had had to retire to the high ground south of the Aisne owing to the
impossibility of keeping up communication with their line across the
river when the winter rain came, I remembered that muddy, slippery walk
and understood their difficulties.

We had been going for what seemed quite an hour when we came to a large
hay shed. Here we halted as the sergeant said he was not quite sure
where we were wanted, but that the trenches were quite near. It was
late, the men tired, and the hay-shed presented at any rate a certainty
of shelter and some warmth, so I decided to remain there for the night.




III. EARLY DAYS ON THE AISNE


There was a big difference between the first and second occasions on
which I joined my regiment.

The first time was as a Sandhurst cadet and I joined a regiment at full
strength of officers and men. I remember we sat down to dinner that
night some twenty of us, and being bewildered by all the faces and
trying to make out which was the colonel and wondering if I should ever
learn the names of all the different subalterns and captains. The mess
table was laden with silver and outside a band in scarlet tunics played.

The second time was when I rejoined after a year's absence on the
outbreak of war, and went with Mulligan and the draft to join them in
the trenches on the Aisne. By then they had fought at Mons, Le Cateau,
and the Marne.

The Adjutant, who met me behind the lines to take me to the Commanding
Officer, prepared me a little for what to expect.

"Blain is commanding," he said, as we threaded our way single file down
a path through a wood. Blain, I knew, had been a very junior captain a
month before when war broke out.

The Adjutant proceeded to explain:

"The Colonel and Ames were hit at Mons." (Ames was the senior major.)
Johnson and Hewett (another major and a captain) had been hit on the
Marne. "Clark and Sergeant Johnson--you remember Johnson?" I nodded,
well remembering Clark's inimitable colour-sergeant--the pair had
been inseparable and the officer greatly dependent on the man for the
keeping of his company accounts, etc., in the days of peace--"were
killed the day before yesterday. They are buried together by that
farm." The Adjutant softened his voice from the tone of matter-of-fact
recital as he pointed to a farm building through the trees.

"Well, here we are," he said as we came to a little straw and earth
shelter in the wood. "Here's some fresh blood, sir," he said, to a
youthful looking captain sitting on a tree stump outside the shelter.
This was Blain, who through the accidents of war was now left in
command of the regiment. There were left, besides, one other captain
and some half-dozen subalterns. Of these the scout officer and
machine-gun officer were with Blain, the others out in command of their
companies in the trenches.

"Hullo!" said Blain, holding out his hand. "We are going to put you
with Goyle's company."

I grinned as unconcernedly as I could. So Goyle was one of the
survivors, then. Goyle was the regimental fire-eater. He had been
longing for this war for years and was more pleased than many others
I knew when it actually happened. To be Goyle's subaltern on active
service, I had always surmised, was to have guarantee of plenty of
fighting.

If ever a reluctant youth found himself holding out against
overwhelming odds in an impossible position it would be one of Goyle's
subalterns.

"Goyle has had bad luck with his subalterns," said Blain. "He has lost
four."

"I hope he doesn't lose me," I said with some sincerity.

Blain and the Adjutant laughed. "Well, we'll send you on up to him,"
said the former. "Let's see--I think he has got the forward trench
to-day."

"Yes, he has," said the Adjutant; then, turning to me, "You'll be near
enough to them for your first day in the trenches--two hundred yards."

I grinned again as genially as possible.

"Have some breakfast before you go up," said the C.O., handing me a
biscuit and a pot of jam and pointing to a pannikin of tea.

It was very damp in the wood. The trees were dripping. The tea
was cold. The party, with Blain as C.O., and the Adjutant and two
subalterns, were a forlorn little group to be left out of a regiment.
All had rather a strained air, and my good spirits and feeling of being
fresh out from England were evidently not infectious to men who had
been through what they had. They had had a shell near them already that
morning and were all frankly apprehensive of another. From that moment
any ideas I may have had about the pleasures and excitements of active
service left me, and I merely wondered what sort of a trench I was
going to and what Fate might have to bring me on my first day of active
service.

I had always imagined that trenches were only approached by night, and
then by crawling on one's belly along narrow communication passages.
But we set off in broad daylight, at eight in the morning, to go up to
our trench. The reason we were able to do this was because the trenches
on the Aisne were along the edges of woods, and it was possible to move
through the trees right up to within two hundred yards of the enemy
without being observed.

The advanced trench which Goyle was holding with his company lay in a
small wood, rather in advance of the main line of trenches. The path
which led to it twisted and twined and branched off into other paths
so confusedly that I wondered how the Adjutant could find his way. The
actual trench itself consisted in a bank along the edge of the wood
in which a chain of dug-outs had been excavated. We found Goyle in a
dug-out in the centre, which was distinguished from the others by some
straw and a couple of water-proof sheets; there was also a wooden box
without a lid, in which the officers' rations were kept. Goyle was
sitting in the dug-out with Evans, his remaining subaltern, and having
taken me thus far, the Adjutant returned to the C.O.

Evans was an old friend of mine and fellow-subaltern. We talked
together for a while and then he showed me cautiously how to creep
up to the top of the parapet and look through some long grass at
the enemy's trenches 200 yards away, and he told me the story of
the fight for the position we now held and where so-and-so, and
so-and-so--brother officers whom I'd seen leave England a month before
with a cheery wave of the hand for me and a joke about meeting "out
there" soon--had been killed the day before.

At nine o'clock we rummaged in our ration-box and made breakfast off
jam and biscuits and cheese. It was quite pleasant in the dug-out and
there was no sound of war. As we were making our breakfast a shot rang
out and there was a piercing yell.

"Hullo! they must have got one of the fellows I put on sentry at the
edge of the wood," said Goyle, helping himself to more jam.

"Is that one of our fellows?" he called to the sergeant.

"Yessir--hit in the buttocks, sir"; the sergeant slapped the portly
part of himself on which he sat.

We all laughed.

The yell gave way to groans--loud, long, and terrible.

I looked as unconcerned as possible and dipped my own biscuit into
the pot. "Tell that fellow to stop making such a noise," said Captain
Jones, angrily putting his head round the dug-out.

I felt myself that it was a pity the Germans should know the good
result of their shooting and that the fellow ought not to make such
a fuss. However, the groaning went on as loudly as ever, and at last
Jones got up exasperated to go and see what was the matter.

He came back with a grave face.

"Only hit in his 'sit-upon,' wasn't he?" My fellow-subaltern looked up
smiling.

"H'm, it's worse--went through and has lodged somewhere in his
intestines," and murmuring "in agony, poor fellow!" Captain Jones
looked to see if we had emptied the jam-pot while he was away.

It did not take more than an hour or two to pick up the rudiments of
trench life. We passed the morning sitting in the dug-out, reading a
few old papers and smoking and talking. By eleven the sun was high
enough to peep in over the top of the parapet and warm us, and it all
seemed to me a very pleasant, lazy sort of existence. There was no
firing except for an occasional "ping" from a sniper Goyle kept posted
at the corner of the trench, and an answering shot or two from the
German side. Rifle fire seemed a matter of tacit arrangement. When our
sniper was joined by a friend, or fired two or three times in a minute
instead of once every three or four, the German fire grew brisker and
life in the trench less tranquil. Our sniper was thereupon reproved by
Goyle and was silent, whereupon the German fire died down.

At midday Goyle suggested we should lunch, and Evans pulled the wooden
box towards him. He gave us out each two large square army biscuits
and opened a small tin of bully beef, which he turned out on a piece
of paper and cut into three portions. The beef and biscuits did not
make a bad meal at all, but the best was to follow. Goyle produced
from his haversack a tin cup, and from the box a wine-bottle about a
third full. He then mixed a tot of rum with the same quantity of water
in the cup and drank, passing on the emptied cup to Evans, who took
his share; after I had had mine there was just enough left for us each
to have half a cup more. How delicious that rum was! I rolled myself
a cigarette, lay back in the straw, and basked contentedly. I felt
comfortable and warm and drowsy.

Away in the distance one could hear the booming of big guns which
went on all day, but this was the only thing to remind one that one
was in the middle of the battle of the Aisne. I saw Evans opposite me
lean back and close his eyes, and remember thinking Goyle was rather
energetic to sit so bolt upright all the time.

It was a sound of firing that woke me. Phizz--Phizz--Phizz! through the
leaves above and some sharp cracks from our men. Goyle and Evans were
still sitting where they had lunched, listening intently. I sat up,
too, wondering what was going on. "Were we being attacked or what was
happening?" I asked Goyle, who replied briefly that he did not know.

"Just take No. 8 platoon and line that trench along the end there," he
said to Evans. Evans got up and crept out of the dug-out along towards
the sound of firing.

"Very exposed here," muttered Goyle to himself. "C.O. said if this
point went the whole line would go too."

"Um!" I thought to myself, now quite alive to being in the middle of a
battle.

"Are you all right?" a voice called. We looked out and saw the C.O.
standing in the wood behind us. He had come running up as soon as he
heard the firing. I have always remembered him running up like that to
see if all was well. Many commanding officers would have thought it
best to remain at their headquarters and let reports come in to them
from the different companies.

It gave one great confidence to see him standing there calmly. Then
suddenly the firing died down.

"Don't think it was anything," said Goyle, "but it is rather a nasty
place this; we could not do much if they tried to rush us. I'll keep
that platoon out along the flank there for a bit."

"You're going to be relieved to-night," said the C.O. "The Gloucesters
are taking over from us."

       *       *       *       *       *

At ten o'clock that night the company of the regiment which was
relieving us filed slowly into our trenches. As each of the new
platoons got into position the old platoon made its way out to the
place where it had been directed to halt. There could be no talking or
asking of questions as the enemy were two hundred yards away, but the
simple and explicit instructions which Goyle had given to the platoon
commanders in the afternoon enabled the whole movement to be carried
out correctly. The section-commander of the leading section of each
platoon had to keep in touch with the section commander of the rear
section of the platoon in front of him, and by this plan of following
my leader the whole company moved as one man in the darkness along the
intricate paths which intersected the wood.

By eleven o'clock we had arrived safely at our destination--a clearing
in the wood about half a mile behind the front trenches. There we
found a series of little straw houses made by the last regiment, wide
enough to hold six men laying down and high enough to allow a man to
sit up in them. We selected one of these bivouacs for ourselves and
distributed the men among the remainder. I so far had escaped having
to spend a night in the trenches, but to the men, who had been where I
joined them that morning for three days and nights, the bivouacs were a
great comfort. The mere relief of tension, which the extra six hundred
yards or so we had put between ourselves and the enemy afforded, was
appreciated by all, and being now well screened from view we could move
about as we liked. Evans told me that Goyle had hardly slept at all
any of the three nights, but spent the whole time going round seeing
that the sentries were alert and at their posts. After we had chosen
our bivouac and put down our haversacks and water-bottles to mark the
place where we proposed to sleep, the question arose of supper. We
had very little of our day's rations left--however, I saw a dim light
peeping from a bivouac which stood by itself, and guessing it meant a
party, went across to investigate. Here I found the other officers of
the regiment lying round on straw discussing a cold leg of mutton and
some bread which had been sent down from the transport. I claimed and
was given a share for Goyle, Evans, and myself, and also a small extra
tot of rum. Nothing tastes nicer than cold meat and bread when one is
hungry, and with the rum and mutton inside us and a few whiffs of a
pipe we were soon fast asleep.

We slept till well after six the next morning, and when we woke the sun
was breaking through the mist which always haunts the valley of the
Aisne at dawn. By nine a glorious autumn day had fully broken. We had
two canteens of steaming tea and cold bacon for breakfast. Goyle then
produced some cleaning traps and began a prodigious toilet. He shaved
himself, he washed his teeth, he soaped his head and plunged it into
a bucket of cold water; finally he took off his trousers and poured
the water over himself. Then he had a rub down with a tiny towel, put
on his trousers and shirt again, and sat down under a tree, saying he
felt better. Evans and I, unshaven, muddy, but feeling quite warm and
comfortable, watched all this rather cynically.

"Always wash when you get the chance," said Goyle, who, having been
through the South African War, played the role of old campaigner.

It seemed to me that it would be time enough to wash the next day
when we were to go back to billets. However, after half an hour Evans
sent for a bucket of water, washed himself, and declared he felt much
fresher. He then joined Goyle under the tree and combed his hair. I
began to feel a dirty fellow, and finally borrowing Goyle's soap and
towel, washed too.

We passed the day very happily sitting about and sleeping in the sun.
At dusk we got orders to move and go and improve some entrenchments.

       *       *       *       *       *

As soon as it was dark the regiment paraded and moved off, with orders
to dig till midnight and then rest and cross the Aisne an hour before
dawn.

The place assigned to my company for digging was a ditch running along
a fence facing the hills on the enemy's side of the river. The enemy
had their trenches on the slopes of these hills, and it seemed funny
to be digging under their noses, as it were, under cover of darkness.
Evidently the night was good enough cover, for not a shot was fired
to disturb us at our work. I noticed, however, that Goyle ran no
risks, but made each man lay his equipment and rifle exactly in front
of him so that the different working parties could be transformed
into a firing-line at an instant's notice. The men worked away with a
will as unconcerned as if they were digging a potato patch. The only
thing which worried them a little was a searchlight which the enemy
continually flashed across the front of their lines. At first the men
could not get used to this light, but threw themselves flat on the
ground whenever it appeared in their direction, but as the enemy never
fired, apparently the searchlight revealed nothing to them. Evans and I
studied this light for a little while and then discovered that a knoll
lay between it and us, and hid us from its direct rays so that we were
all perfectly safe. As a matter of fact Goyle explained that if a man
did come into the direct ray of a searchlight, he would only look like
the stump of a tree or a shrub to the observer if he stood still. It
was by movement alone that he betrayed himself. However, it requires
a certain amount of confidence to stand quite still when caught by
a searchlight and not try to move away or hide behind a tree. This
confidence the men who were not hidden by the knoll lacked at first; in
fact, they had a great dislike for the searchlight and were inclined to
be reproachful because we had no searchlights ourselves. Thomas Atkins
is a keen critic of the art of war, and such things as well-placed
searchlights and the superior number of the enemy's machine-guns do
not escape his notice. He likes to feel that he has been given as good
a start as the man he is fighting against, and it would have been
interesting to have heard the comments of our men in the trenches when
the Germans first started to employ gas.

At midnight we knocked off digging and retired to a field to sleep.
It is extremely cold in the Aisne valley on autumn nights, and the
dew-drenched ground did not look inviting. The men were told to lie
down where they were, and as it began to dawn on them that no further
arrangements were to be made for their comfort, they grinned rather
expressively in a way they have when they wish to be quite pleasant but
at the same time feel they have a lot to put up with.

I happened to have noticed the field as we passed it on our way to
entrench, and to remember that at the top there were several sheaves
of corn. Accordingly, when all was quiet, I sent the men of my platoon
up two at a time to fetch some of these sheaves down and also to bring
me three for myself. Spreading out one underneath me and the other
two over my feet and chest I soon was as warm as if I'd been between
blankets. It was a glorious night, and it was grand to be there in
the warm straw looking up at the stars. About four I was awoken by
a sound of stamping, and looking sideways saw the men who had no
straw stamping to keep themselves warm and looking reproachfully at
my platoon who were all lying snug and comfortable like a litter of
puppies. Soon after this the order came to move and we crossed back
over the Aisne as day was breaking. The slow-running, mist-hung river
was a peaceful-looking object to give a name to a battlefield, but the
putting up of the pontoon bridge by which we crossed had cost many men
their lives and brought to one the V.C.




IV. IN BILLETS


The village where we were to billet lay a mile on the other side of the
river in a deep quiet valley. The Quartermaster and transport officer
met us half a mile from our destination. They were both unaffectedly
glad to see the regiment coming back into safety for a while, though,
alas, there were only two-thirds of the officers left who had crossed
the river a week before. It was a trying time for the Quartermaster and
transport subaltern, when the regiment went into action. They had to
stay behind, with only occasional fleeting visits to the firing-line,
often for as long as a week or ten days. When there was a big attack,
and the air for miles on either side was filled with one reverberating
crash of gun and rifle fire, they had to bear the strain which is
always more acute for those within sound but not in sight of fighting.

"I've got a fine breakfast for you," said the Quartermaster, "bacon and
eggs and sausages."

We were glad to hear it. Meals for the past week had been scrappy
affairs. Since we had parted company with our transport we had none
of us tasted a hot dish of any description. Cold bacon and bread for
breakfast, cold bully and cheese for lunch, cold bully and cheese again
for supper. Good enough nourishment, of course, for anyone, and nice
enough at the time to eat, but still a real steaming dish of bacon and
eggs did sound delicious.

We soon came to the village where the brigade was to be billeted in
reserve. It lay in a curve of a winding valley which ran down into the
main valley of the river. The billets were allotted by companies, so
much cottage and farm space being given to each company commander for
his company. To those who read these lines in England the quarters
allotted to men back for a few days rest from trenches may not
sound very grand. My company had, for instance, a stable, two farm
outbuildings, and a sort of underground cellar which was approached by
a narrow arch--to crawl through which the men had to go on hands and
knees--and which looked just like the kennels of a pack of foxhounds.
The stable, the cellar, and the outhouses were bare except for a layer
of straw. However, to the men these places seemed amply satisfying.
They meant warmth at night, shelter from rain, and soft dry lying. It
was the first rest the men had had for some while. Many of them had
lost their greatcoats, cardigans, and woollen underclothing, owing to
the exigencies of actual fighting, and had had nothing to add to their
scanty clothing as they lay out in the open during the cold nights.
They crowded joyfully into their billets as Goyle and I and Evans went
round allotting so much space to each platoon.

Having arranged for the men we now looked round for quarters for
ourselves. Goyle, whose natural inclinations for Spartan simplicity
were being rapidly fanned to a mania by active service, suggested that
he and Evans and I should share the stone-slabbed floor of the lower
room of a cottage which looked out on a manure yard. Evans, always
anxious to please, was quite agreeable to this, and set to work with a
broom to sweep out the yard, but I broke away from the arrangements and
went to look for quarters for myself.

After a short search I came on Mulligan, who had found some quite
good quarters in a cottage. He had got a small bedroom leading off the
owner's room, and suggested that the apple-loft on the same floor would
do for me if I had one of the mattresses from his bed. I therefore sent
Jenkins for my kit and set up house with him.

The 35-lb. kit which officers are allowed to keep with the transport
meets all requirements on active service. As first bought and taken
out from England it is a most immaculate and neatly arranged affair,
but after a fortnight's jolting around in the wagons and a few hurried
packings and unpackings it becomes a mere bundle containing a few
cherished necessities. My valise held a sleeping-bag, two shirts, two
pairs of socks, a pair of boots, a pair of trousers, some slippers,
a few sticks of chocolate and a tin of tobacco. However, as Jenkins
unpacked I watched it with the complacency of a man regarding his home.
A bucket of cold water and a canteen of hot were next produced, and
from the sleeping-bag my toilet set--razor, shaving brush, cake of
soap, comb, and toothbrush--wrapped in a towel; and removing my coat
and boots and puttees I sat down on the valise and shaved. A bath
followed in the bucket and then getting into clean socks and shirt and
putting on the slippers and trousers for greater comfort, I combed my
hair and surveyed myself with satisfaction in a small pocket mirror.
Burnt by the sun and hardened by outdoor life, I certainly have never
felt fitter in all my life.

It was now about noon, and Mulligan and I strolled across to the mess.
The mess consisted chiefly of "Black Maria," a small lumbering van
which the mess sergeant had bought for two pounds in Belgium at the
beginning of the war, and which carried all our provisions. We were
only able to gather round "Black Maria" at such times of comparative
peace as being in billets or on the march behind the firing-line, but
her presence on the scene always meant a scale of meals and comfort
undreamed of in the trenches. Bacon and eggs came from her inside, and
joints and vegetables, cocoa, tea, jam, bread, butter, biscuits, also
vermouth, whisky and other stimulating drinks. It was wonderful the
amount she held.

We found "Black Maria" had been drawn up in the yard of a farm. A long
trestle-table was set outside the front door of the farm, and several
officers were sitting round this untying parcels and reading letters
which had been sent out in a mail from England.

Over a fire on the far side of "Black Maria" the mess sergeant and his
assistants were cooking lunch.

With the parcels which had just arrived from England there was now a
plentiful supply of cigarettes, tobacco, socks, and underclothing for
everybody, and while we sat waiting for lunch various exchanges were
made between officers: a pair of socks for twenty-five cigarettes, an
electric torch for a new briar pipe, and so on. Others, who had more of
the same things sent than they wanted, put them into a box reserved for
general use, from which any officer could take anything that he wanted.
The parcels of officers who had been wounded and gone home were opened
unceremoniously and their contents divided among the survivors.

With letters from wives and sweethearts and friends in their pockets,
plenty of newspapers and parcels, and the thought of having nothing to
do for the next day or two, everybody was in the best of tempers at
luncheon. True, there were gaps now round the table, gaps which had not
been there a few days ago, and which each was causing its measure of
desolation to some English home, but by the men who had come through
and learnt to bow their heads to the laws of chance and feel thankful
that they too had not been taken, these gaps were not felt keenly--it
was all a part of war, just as being in billets was. A day or two
ago the men round the table had been in the woods across the river
fighting: then the gaps had been made: that had been no joke--now they
were sitting comfortably in the sun with food before them such as they
had not seen for a fortnight. It would be silly not to eat and be merry.

       *       *       *       *       *

My apple-loft proved a most comfortable chamber, and I lost no time
after dinner in throwing off my clothes, getting into pyjamas, and
rolling myself up in my sleeping-bag. In the middle of the night as
it seemed--or to be precise, at 4 A.M.--I was woken by Jenkins. He
bore the unwelcome news that the regiment was to be on the march in
a quarter of an hour. He added that he had heard a report that the
Germans had broken through our line somewhere, and that the whole
brigade was turning out. It was an affair of three minutes to get into
my clothes and equipment, which I kept ready laid out beside me. While
I was dressing, Jenkins deftly rolled and strapped my valise, and off
he went with it to the transport wagon while I hurried to my company.
The company had already turned out when I arrived, and the men were
standing outside their billets. Five minutes later we had formed fours
and were swinging out of the village. It was quick work at night to
turn a whole brigade out of billets at twenty minutes notice, for to
wake 4000 sleeping men, scattered all over a village, and get each in
his proper place complete with arms and equipment in that space of
time, is no easy task. In peace time the operation would have taken at
least three hours, for the men would not have exactly lent themselves
to the project, but in war all is vastly different. The alarm proved
false, and after marching for a mile we were halted and finally marched
home again, this time for five days of unbroken rest.

The days passed pleasantly enough. There were so many little luxuries
which could be indulged in in billets. It was good to go about feeling
washed, and delightful to wake up in the morning feeling one had had a
good night's rest, drink a cup of tea in bed, and then roll a cigarette
and smoke it as one shaved squatting on one's mattress. Breakfast would
follow at the table outside the farm--breakfast of eggs and bacon and
as much tea and bread and butter and jam as one wanted. Then a visit to
the company and an inspection of the men's rifles or their kit, perhaps
a journey to the Quartermaster to try and get a man another pair of
boots or a coat which he wanted. The men nearly all needed one thing
or another renewed, and from where we were we could get fresh supplies
up from the base. It was a pleasure to see the joy a man took in a
new cardigan waistcoat or a clean pair of socks and a shirt. He had
probably worn his old ragged things uncomplainingly for three weeks,
but now he strutted about round the billets patting his chest and
showing off the new waistcoat or boots to his pals.

At midday a mail often came in with packets of letters and parcels for
everybody, and the letters had to be answered and the parcels opened
and their contents shown round.

Then we did a little entertaining with the other regiments of the
brigade, and staff officers would come down with bits of gossip and
information about the general situation which we never got a chance
of learning in the trenches. There was one fellow, an intelligence
officer--heaven knows what has become of him now--who came to dine
with us one night before going on to the trenches. His was most
difficult and dangerous work, as he used to go out at nights, crawl
out beyond our trenches and find out the position of the enemy's wire
entanglements and advanced posts. It was the joke to tell him that a
place would be laid for him at breakfast on his way back to general
headquarters the next morning, and glad we all were when he came back
to fill it.

Sometimes after tea we would go for short excursions to the country
round. It was very beautiful country, and from the high ground on
either side of the valley it was possible to get a far-reaching view of
the battlefield.

Some evenings there seemed no sign of war, and one evening in
particular I remember when I had gone out with Mulligan to explore a
village on the hill above us. The village was built of grey stone hewn
from a quarry in the hillside. Most of the inhabitants had stayed in
their homes although the Germans had at one time been through their
village. They told us how the Uhlans had ridden through in a great
hurry, snatching what they wanted, but happily unable to stay to carry
out coarse threats, and how the British cavalry had followed hot on
their heels. But all this had been some while ago, and for the past
weeks the village had been in peace. The church had some beautiful
stained-glass windows which were all shivered by the explosion of
shells, but the building itself stood intact, and Mulligan and I went
inside and stepped softly up the aisle, unswept since war began, and
littered with fragments of plaster from the ceiling. There was a great
sense of calm and dignity about the little church, which had remained
so near the battlefield a quiet place of refuge for its people. The old
priest came across from his cottage and, bowing to us ceremoniously,
offered us each a pear. We walked with him through the village till we
came to a point beyond, from which we could see right down into the
valley where the two armies lay facing each other. The sun was just
setting at the further end of the valley and the evening mists were
curling low over the meadows and river. Somewhere away behind a bell
tolled for a service. For a few minutes as we stood there all was peace
and quiet, then from the hill opposite our guns opened fire. The shells
went screaming across the valley tearing their way through the soft
evening air. We watched, wondering what was their target. Then suddenly
flames broke out from a village lying across the valley within the
enemy's lines. Looking through our glasses we could see the flames came
from some stacks near a farm. _Crash--Crash--Crash!_ Shell after shell
fell among the cottages. Slowly the flames spread as one building after
another was set aflame. The sun had sunk now and the sky was darkening.
The whole village seemed one crackling bonfire. Still our guns hurled
shells into the flames. Their fire seemed merciless as they lashed the
little village with round after round. Suddenly the firing stopped. It
had grown dark. The village was blazing now fiercely, and the whole sky
was red. The work of the guns was done. We stood a moment watching the
lurid, glowing mass. Mulligan wondered if we had caught a nest full of
German troops. The old priest said nothing: it was war. Gradually the
flames grew less, and only here and there bright red patches reflected
themselves against heavy clouds of smoke. Saying good-night to the
priest we made our way slowly back to billets.




V. THE MOVE UP (1)


We had been in our billets in the village behind the Aisne a week
when the order came to move. It came suddenly one evening at seven
o'clock, as orders do at the Front, and by seven-thirty we were on the
march. Where to, why, or for how long no one had any idea. Perhaps we
were moving to a threatened point of the line, perhaps troops were
being concentrated for an attack, perhaps the whole division, which
had suffered heavily since the outbreak of war, was being replaced
by a fresh division and was being sent back to the base to refit,
reorganize, and fill its gaps.

As we marched along we attempted to make deductions from the direction
we were taking. One thing was plain, the road led directly back from
the line of the river and the enemy. It might be, of course, that
after going a mile or two we should swing right-handed and move along
parallel to the enemy but out of reach of their guns till we came
behind some point where we were wanted, and then be moved up again.
We climbed up out of the valley and crossed a high plateau of waste
land. Goyle told me that the German rearguard of horse artillery and
cavalry had dashed pell-mell across this plateau in their retreat from
the Marne, hotly pursued by our cavalry and guns, pausing at intervals
to exchange shots with their pursuers, crashing on down the valley and
across the Aisne, where they had made the stand they had maintained
ever since. It must have been a fine sight to have seen the pursuer and
pursued crossing the plateau.

Four or five miles back we passed some troops bivouacking by a farm.

"What are you?" called Goyle.

"The ----s," came a rather sullen answer.

It was the ---- Regiment--all that was left of it--perhaps a hundred
men. They had been badly cut up a few days before, and, no longer
existing as a regiment, had been withdrawn from the firing-line.

A mile or two further on we came to the end of our journey for that
day--a village where we were to billet. Our billeting officer had gone
ahead, and we had not long to wait in the road before he came to show
the company their billeting area. In the darkness it took a little time
to get the men settled. They naturally resented being put in pigsties,
which Edwards, who had no sense of smell and only felt the straw with
his feet, tried to do with his platoon. Then Mulligan, who was always a
bit hot on these occasions, annexed a barn, which was just within our
boundary, for A Company, and, successful in this, attempted to take
over a kitchen right in the heart of our area for the use of A Company
officers.

When I went to eject him from this he adopted the tone, "We must all
share in on service," and as I still preserved a stony countenance,
obtruded the nose of a bottle of rum from his haversack and said we
would have some hot toddy when all was quiet, whereupon, on striking
a bargain that I should have the bed and he a mattress from it on the
floor, I let him remain.

Some electric torches we had had sent out from England were of the
greatest use at times like this, as they enabled us to flash them into
the interior of barns and get the men properly settled in places where
there was room for them and where they could sleep in comfort. Also, as
we were well away from the firing-line, we could have "Black Maria,"
our mess van, with us, and hot meals when we got in and before we
started in the morning.

We remained in the village all the next day, moving off just before
nightfall the following evening. During the day I went to pay a visit
to some of the other units of the brigade. The Westshires were billeted
further down the village, and had passed the night as comfortably
as ourselves, but the Dorchesters had not been so fortunate, and
had had to sleep in a field, as there had been no billeting space
left for them. Greatly conscious of the warm bed I had just left, I
surveyed with a sympathy which they did not seem to appreciate the
little "boovey-hutches" and lairs of straw which they had made for
themselves. The artillery, too, had had to sleep out, to be near their
guns and horses, and were in a bad temper. One young artillery officer
was very sarcastic about the mystery which was being made of our
movements--the marching by night and hiding by day with no hint as to
destination--and said several unflattering things about red tape, brass
hat rims, and other insignia of staff. He was an amusing fellow with
his wit sharpened to the point of acidity by the cold cheerless night
he had spent in the open, and I stood listening to him for some time. I
could imagine him standing between his section of guns directing their
fire in the early days of the retreat, when the enemy pressed on us in
their masses and every gun had to fire while there was a man left to
work it. He would probably have been very witty and deliberate about
the objective of the last shell.

Our second night march was longer than the first, and we covered
eighteen miles. We appeared still to be going farther and farther away
from the enemy, but at one point, nearing the end of the march, we
heard faintly the sound of guns. They were the French guns, we were
told, so we gathered that we were somewhere behind the French lines.
A long climb down took us to a bridge over a river, guarded by a very
bored-looking French reservist who looked at us suspiciously, and was,
I felt sure, longing for the excuse for a row with somebody, just to
relieve the monotony of life. Crossing the bridge we left the main road
short of the town--to the keen disappointment of the men--and turned
up what looked like a private drive through woods. After going about a
mile and a half we came on a group of buildings which proved to be our
destination for the night. It was dark and not easy to see much, and
we accepted placidly a staff officer's information that the regiment's
billeting area lay on the right side of a small stream. "You will
find a farm--it was all I could do for you, but I expect you will all
be able to get into it," he said. Tired and footsore as we were, we
felt certain we should be able to fix ourselves up anywhere. The farm
comprised three cottages, a large building and a huge haystack with
a corrugated iron roof. We got most of the men on the hay under the
corrugated iron roof. Of course, as soon as they lay down they pulled
out cigarettes and pipes for a satisfying smoke after the long march.
This made Goyle dance with fury, and he sent me up on top of the stack
to have all the cigarettes put out. It seemed hard on the men, but he
was quite right, as they would certainly have set the stack on fire.

Having got the men settled I went off to find the officers' quarters.
These proved to be the two lower rooms of an empty house. There was no
furniture in the house at all, simply a thick layer of straw on the
floor. However, it had been a long march, and the straw looked inviting
enough. I got my valise off the transport, unrolled it in a corner,
took off my boots and coat and slid into my sleeping-bag. Others did
the same in different corners of the room. The room was not very well
lighted, and one or two late comers, who stepped on people's faces or
feet in their efforts to find a corner for themselves, came in for a
good deal of abuse. In a quarter of an hour we were all sound asleep.
When we woke in the morning we took stock of our quarters, and found
they were not so sumptuous as tired limbs and thankfulness to be able
to stretch ourselves out rolled up in blankets had led us to suppose.
For by daylight we could see by inscriptions scratched on the walls
that the last occupants of the place had been a company of the --th
Regiment of Turcos. We had been sleeping in what for a time had been
a barracks for native troops. On going outside the building and taking
a stroll we discovered a pretty little château which the officers of
another regiment had annexed for their use. They had all slept in beds,
washed in comfort, and were having breakfast on a smooth green lawn,
surrounded by flowers. We had nowhere to have breakfast except by the
side of a wall outside the Turcos' house, and we felt we had done badly
over our billets. However, the etiquette of billeting gave the château
to the other regiment who had first taken it, and we had to put up with
what we had got.

The next night we set out on the march again. The march was twenty
miles, and proved a severe task for the men after their long spell in
the trenches, coming as it did on top of the eighteen-mile march of
the night before. It is always the second or third march which tells
most on men, and after the first dozen of our twenty miles they began
to fall out, till there was a long string of stragglers behind the
brigade. In vain the company officers tried to keep their companies
together, nothing could make the weary, footsore men keep their fours.
Tired as some of the officers were themselves, it was a heavy strain
passing up and down the company, stopping to issue "falling out"
tickets and running on to catch up the column again. The hardest task
of all fell to the subaltern who was detailed to bring up the rear
party, and who was not allowed to come into billets until the last man
was in. To this unfortunate officer fell the task of trudging along at
half a mile an hour behind a group of dead-tired, limping, footsore
men. He got into billets four hours after everybody else.

The officers' billets on this occasion were better than those of the
night before, for we found a house which had been used by German
officers when the town was in the enemy's hands. The house was large
and comfortable, and belonged to the mayor of the town. It had been
cleared of all valuables, but whether the mayor had done this himself
before his departure, or the German officers had looted the place, I
cannot say. From the look of things I should imagine that the mayor
had taken away all he could and the Germans anything that was left.
They had evidently broken open a writing-desk and some drawers, and
scattered the contents all over the place. I was guilty of a little
looting on my own account, as I found a tattered paper-covered copy of
"Madame Bovary," and not having finished it when it was time to leave,
slipped it in my haversack.

We again spent the day around the billets, and as we had a mail with a
sack of parcels sent up with the ration convoy we had plenty to occupy
ourselves. On active service washing is not necessarily done before
breakfast. It is too elaborate a ceremony to be done in a hurry. First
a complete outfit has to be got together; one may have a razor but no
shaving-brush, or a piece of soap but no towel, or a hairbrush but no
comb; possibly one has nothing at all, in which case one is treated as
a general nuisance, and borrows from others with difficulty. But, as
a rule, with a depleted cleaning outfit of, say, a razor, a comb and
a bit of sponge, the rest can be collected and spread out on a towel.
The toilet is then a leisurely process, after which, feeling very clean
and fresh and superior, one strolls across to the mess van in one's
shirtsleeves for a glass of vermouth and a cigarette. After washing
there were the letters brought in by the mail to answer, and then lunch
and a couple of hours' sleep.

At dusk we moved off again, this time for a very short march, for four
miles brought us to our destination, and we were only moved on a little
way in order to make room for other troops following on behind.

A night in the village and off we started once more. At one point we
passed our Divisional General. From the cheery greeting one of his
staff officers gave me I surmised something was on foot, and this
conjecture proved right, for on reaching a town ten miles distant our
billeting orders were suddenly cancelled, and we were told to go on
another four miles and entrain. The remainder of the way led through
the forest of Compiègne. It was a bright moonlight night, and the
forest by night was incomparably lovely. With moonlight playing quietly
through the branches it was hard to believe that the forest had ever
held troops creeping from tree-trunk to tree-trunk seeking to take
each other's lives. In the earlier days of the war we could imagine
rival cavalry patrols stealing quietly towards each other along the
grass-turfed, shady side of the broad white road, and many a small,
bloody encounter must those old trees have seen.

We came on the siding where we were to entrain in a piece of open
common. It took some manipulation to get forty men into each truck, but
at last we all settled in, a bugle was blown, and we stole away towards
the north.




VI. THE MOVE UP (2)


Our train journey did not promise to be a comfortable one. We
were three aside on the seats of the first-class carriage and the
disposition of legs was not easy. However, we all slept without much
difficulty, and for six hours the train rumbled through the night to
the accompaniment of snores and grunts. The day broke gloriously, and
when we looked out of the windows we found ourselves going through a
lovely bit of France. Breakfast was the next question; we had in our
ration-box a tin of jam, a loaf and a half of bread, and two tins of
sardines, also a packet of cocoa. This last possession did not look
as though it was going to be particularly useful, as we had nothing
but cold water in our bottles. We ate the sardines and bread and jam
and took one or two unappetizing sips from our water-bottles. Then
the train stopped, and looking out of the window I saw one or two men
standing beside the engine with canteens in their hands. They handed
up their tins to the driver, who filled them with boiling water from
an exhaust pipe and they proceeded to make tea. Borrowing a couple of
canteens from the next carriage I took the packet of cocoa and followed
the men's example, so our breakfast was complete.

About noon we reached our destination, a pretty cathedral town in
Northern France. After waiting a little while in a siding we detrained
and marched off. The town was evidently not one of those which the
Germans had entered, for it looked prosperous and well filled. The
same sense of security pervaded the country through which we marched;
we were, in fact, outside the zone of war. After following a straight
white road out of the town for some four miles, we came to a village
where we were to billet for the night. The village priest came forward
to assist us in billeting, and the squire of the place sent over a
present of wine for the officers and put up the Colonel and Adjutant in
his house.

The next morning I borrowed a horse and rode in to ----, the town
at which we had detrained. I had got from the mess president a list
of things wanted for the officers' mess and proceeded to shop. Two
dozen eggs were among the items on the list, and I had an opportunity
of buying these from a farm cart in one of the streets leading to
the town. A passer-by happened to overhear me making the bargain and
upbraided the good woman selling me the eggs for charging too high a
price. I could not quite follow the conversation, which took place
in animated French, but I gathered that to ask a British soldier
so much for eggs was no way for an ally to behave to a guest and
brother-in-arms, and that the farmer's wife thought that passers-by
should mind their own business.

This sense of hospitality which the passer-by had shown pervaded all my
shopping transactions; the tradespeople were all cordial, obliging, and
most moderate in their charges.

I lunched at the main hotel of the town, which was filled with all
the nondescript and various personages who follow an army; there were
gentlemen chauffeurs, Red Cross workers, interpreters, and one or two
staff officials. At my table there was a clean-shaven, shrewd-looking
man wearing the red tabs of staff, who spoke with a strong cockney
accent, and did not give the impression of having been a soldier
all his life. He said he was attached to general headquarters as
spy officer, that is to say, he was responsible for discovering any
espionage which went on in our lines. In civil life he looked as
though he might be one of those private inquiry agents who advertise
in the columns of the Press that they are ready to undertake divorce,
financial, and other investigations of a confidential nature. I dare
say this is what he was, and I am sure he was a very capable man for
the position he held.

After lunch I had my hair cut and shampooed. It was delightful to
sit in a hairdresser's chair again and taste some of the luxuries
of civilization. I could not help envying the barber his peaceful
occupation, which I dare say he is still pursuing and which I knew he
would be doing long after I was out of reach of a machine brush and
hair oil; and I thought, too, how much pleasanter it would be to be
attached to headquarters staff as an espionage officer and have one's
lunch in the restaurant of a hotel instead of eating bully and biscuits
and dodging shells in a ditch. However, it was no good reflecting
and becoming discontented with one's lot, and after completing my
purchases I rode back to the village where the regiment was billeted.

Our last march was the longest of all, as we marched all through the
night and did not get into the billets where we were to sleep till dawn
the next morning. Evans and I shared a room in a cottage, and after
eating some breakfast with some delicious coffee, which the woman the
cottage belonged to made us, we flung ourselves down on mattresses on
the floor and slept. It was past two when I woke, and I hurried off
to the headquarters mess to see if there was any lunch left. Luckily
the mess sergeant had kept some of the stew he had made for lunch and
heated it up for me. After putting down this and half a bottle of wine,
I made my way back to the cottage. A stretch of mossy grass under a
shady tree looked inviting, and flinging myself down I was soon asleep
again.

Some providence must have been watching over me that day, for I woke
just ten minutes before the regiment marched off. No one had been able
to find me when the order came to move, and they had decided to go off
without me. I was glad I had just woken in time, for an officer does
not look at his best chasing after a regiment by himself down a road
because he has been asleep.

I joined up the group of officers who were sitting by the mess van
making a hasty tea and stuffing their haversacks with biscuits.

"I should advise you to take some food," said the Adjutant to me, "this
may be your last chance. We are going to march five miles, load up on
motor-buses, and the transport is to be left behind."

"_The transport to be left behind?_" some one echoed.

"Yes," the Adjutant answered a little grimly. "We're for it again."

When a regiment parts with its transport it generally means it is going
to fight. We had been with our transport for so many days now that it
came as quite a thrill to hear we were to leave it behind. A feeling
half of relief that we were going on with the business and half of
apprehension came over me.

We marched for an hour or so; at seven o'clock we reached the point
of rendezvous for the motor-buses, a long straight stretch of road
running through open country just beyond a village. Just before we got
to the point of rendezvous the regiment was divided up into parties
of thirty men, and a gap of twenty yards left between each party. We
did this on the march so that no time was lost in sorting out the
different parties. When the last division had been made and all the
proper distances between parties obtained, the leading party halted and
the others halted behind. The men were then cleared to the right side
of the road so that the fleet of motor-buses could come and each halt
opposite its party, load up, and move off again with the whole regiment
stowed away in no longer time than it took to load thirty men.

When we got to the rendezvous there were no motor-buses and we had
to wait. The nights were turning cold; however, not knowing when the
next chance might come, most of the men prepared to sleep. In the rush
to get off at the start, I had left my greatcoat with the transport
and had only a Burberry and a woollen waistcoat with me. I undid my
Burberry, unrolled it, pulled out the waistcoat and put both on. Then
I lay down by the side of the road, taking care to have a stout tree
between myself and any possible motor-cars--a very wise precaution if
one is sleeping by the roadside anywhere near the Front--slipped my
haversack under my head and went to sleep. A haversack makes quite a
good pillow, and when one is tired any piece of ground, which enables
one to lie on one's back and take the weight off one's feet, seems
soft, and I was soon asleep. Not for long though, as after half an hour
I woke with icy feet. I stamped about to warm them, but the thought of
going to sleep again and waking up in another half-hour for the same
reason was tiresome, so I cast my eye round in the night for some means
of keeping warm. I saw what looked like a stack and going up found it
was so. While I was busy pulling hay out of the side to make a bed, the
motor-buses arrived, and we proceeded to embark. Having got all the
men into my bus I was climbing up by the driver on his seat when he
shook his head and pointed to the interior of the vehicle, which was
a seething mass of Tommies. I shook my head over this and it looked
like an _impasse_, as the other officers were all being made to get
inside by the different drivers. However, a knowledge of French and
of the ready response of the Frenchman to geniality saved me. For,
while pretending to agree to go inside I stood talking with him while
we waited to start, offered him a cigarette, and asked him about his
wife and family, with the result that when we did set off he said,
"_Montez, monsieur_," and made room for me on the seat beside him. He
said that every night he was driving troops from one part of the line
or another--French troops generally, and it was interesting to hear
the way in which the French troops used the motor-buses. The warmth of
the engine having reached my feet I fell asleep and nodded and lurched
beside him on the seat blissfully unconscious for I don't know how many
hours and miles. Once on the journey we halted for a quarter of an
hour in a small village. The driver got off the bus and disappeared.
Presently he came back and beckoned to me to come with him. I followed
him into a cottage where he and several other drivers had had prepared
against their arrival hot coffee and rolls of bread and butter. It was
extremely kind of the man to have let me in for this feast, which was
quite a private affair, and I have seldom enjoyed a cup of coffee
more. On we went again and off I went to sleep once more. At last, as
day broke, we came to the village where we were to halt, climbed off
the buses, and sat down by the roadside watching them roll away the way
we had come to get more troops.

As we sat by the roadside we soon saw we were nearing more lively
parts, for streams of refugees poured by all the time, flying in front
of the advancing Germans who were pouring down in strength after the
fall of Antwerp. We sat watching the refugees in silence. So this,
then, was the reason for our leaving the Aisne and our long secretive
seven days move.




VII. NEARING THE FIRING-LINE


"We shall have a scrap to-day," said the Staff Captain.

"What makes you think so--heard anything?" I asked.

"No, but it is a Sunday, and a fresh batch of officers has arrived," he
answered.

Up till then the worst fights in which the regiment had been engaged
had always been on a Sunday or just after fresh officers had arrived
with reinforcements. The regiment was, at the moment when the Staff
Captain spoke to me, leading the brigade in column of route along a
road which we knew ran in the direction of Germany. More than that we
knew nothing. We had been on the move for the last few days. Where to
or for what purpose we had no idea. All we knew was that in the middle
of one night we had been roused from our billets where we were resting,
and marched off in a northerly direction. We had marched by night and
rested by day in different villages. Never once was any definite
information given us as to what was on foot.

Now, at last, if the Staff Captain's words were true, the move was
coming to an end, and we were going into action. Well, if it had to be
it had to be, and I think every man was ready to do what was required
of him. The officers and draft who had joined us fresh from England
were eager for their chance, but the others who had already had a good
measure of fighting, and some of whom had been at Mons and on the Marne
and Aisne, had not been sorry for the respite which the past fortnight
had given. It had been a rest to be away from the sound of gun and
rifle fire and go to sleep knowing the enemy was nowhere near, and that
one had anyhow the whole of the next day to live.

However, as we marched along there were certain signs which told us
that now this state of peace was over. Refugees began to pass us on the
road--old men, farmers, and their wives and serving women. They looked
scared, and had few possessions with them. We gathered from them that
the Germans were somewhere ahead, pressing forward in vast numbers.
Though we did not know it then, it was one of the fierce thrusts for
Calais we were being sent to meet.

Further along we were halted in the straggling street of a town. The
halt lasted more than the regulation ten minutes, and as we were
wondering what was the cause of the delay a troop of British cavalry
clattered through. A subaltern rode at the head of the troop, map in
hand, hat jauntily over one ear. Presently the remainder of a cavalry
brigade came by, and we knew then that the enemy must be somewhere near
and that the cavalry were being sent out to get in touch with them.

They made a brave sight, those cavalrymen, clattering out to pave the
way for the infantry, and I could not help envying them the excitement
and uncertainty of their job.

By the time we advanced the enemy's position would be known and we
should be just pawns pushed out at the will of a general to be taken or
take.

When the cavalry had gone by we continued our march until we reached a
point which was evidently as far as we were to go that evening. Here
the Colonel sent for officers commanding companies and told them that
his orders were to put out two companies on outpost duty along the
banks of a canal and keep two in reserve with him in a farm building.
It was the lot of my company to be one of the two on outpost duty.

Going out on outpost duty in the middle of a march is one of the
hardest lots that can fall on an infantryman. It means that instead of
being able to take his boots off, soap his feet (if they are sore),
change his socks, have a dinner of hot stew and a good cup of strong
tea, he has to spend the night out in the cold watching over the safety
of those who are doing these delightful things. He may get a bit of
sleep if he is not on group sentry, but it won't be with the same sense
of security, and he must lie down in his heavy equipment and have his
rifle under his arm.

Off we started with a regretful glance at the farm and others going
to billet there in a cosy barn and cook themselves dinner at the
kitchen fire. We soon came to the canal which was to form our outpost
line. It lay about half a mile away and looked a very good object
to have between ourselves and the enemy. There was one bridge, at
which Goyle placed his Maxim. The men he lined along a bank about ten
feet high which ran above the tow-path on our side of the canal. This
bank proved a blessing in many ways. It saved the men the trouble of
entrenching--one of the most irksome items of outpost duty after a long
day's march--and provided cover behind which they could walk about,
and even enabled them with great care to light small fires to cook tea
over until darkness set in. But the bank might also--as Goyle, who had
had experience of canal banks at Mons, pointed out--prove a death-trap
in the morning, for it would provide a fine mark for the enemy's guns
should they get on to it. He therefore insisted on each man scraping
himself out a small bomb-proof shelter from under the bank.

By great good fortune, just behind the section for which my platoon was
responsible, there was a cottage. The owners, an old man and his wife,
came to the door when I knocked. Like so many of the French peasants
they preferred to remain in their home in spite of the proximity of
war. They were quite pleased to see Evans, my fellow-subaltern, and
myself, and the old woman made us some most delicious coffee, boiled us
four eggs, and gave us a loaf of bread. She was delighted with the five
francs we were able to scrape up, and promised to get us breakfast in
the morning.

It was dark when we had finished, and after a look along the lines, I
rolled myself up in a quilt, which I had borrowed from the cottage, and
with some straw under me went sound asleep on top of the bank. Not a
shot was fired during the night or at dawn to disturb us, so that that
night on outpost duty was one of unusual peace and comfort.

In the morning we packed up and continued our march. As we marched
in fours along the road, I gathered that my suspicion that there had
been really nothing in front of us was correct. A mile or two from the
canal a regiment of Spahis passed us. Incredible as it may seem, these
fine little fellows go to war in the scarlet cloaks in which they are
dressed in time of peace. They are the most picturesque troops I have
ever seen, with their mettlesome Arab horses, turbans, and sweeping
scarlet cloaks fastened across the breast high up to the chin.

Farther on we passed a more forceful sight of war. It was a tiny
cavalry ambulance convoy. Just one hooded Red Cross wagon, driven by
a blue-coated cavalryman and followed by a cuirassier with bandaged
head, riding one horse and leading another with an empty saddle. What
a picture that little convoy would have made if some artist could have
caught it--the pathetic little wagon with its hidden load of pain, the
charger and empty saddle, and the splendid cuirassier with the bandaged
head sitting his horse for all the world to see, proud as a lover who
has fought for his mistress.

A mile more and our march was done. We were halted by a wayside inn
and told to eat our rations. I went into the inn to see if there was
any prospect of a drink, but they were sold out of everything except
coffee. That day was probably the briskest day's trade the little inn
ever did, and looking at it now it seems odd that the landlady and her
daughter should have been bustling about intent solely on business
within what proved to be actually half a mile of the firing-line. Two
hours later our guns were opening fire in a field by the inn on some
Germans in the next village.

As we sat there we now saw two regiments of Cuirassiers retiring over
the open ground towards us. They were part of a French cavalry division
which had been lent to co-operate with the British. Magnificent-looking
fellows they were, too, with their breastplates and long black plumes;
the officers actually had their breastplates burnished, and looked just
like our Life Guards at Whitehall.

When we had eaten our rations we fell in again and moved off, and a
few hundred yards down the road came on our cavalry, dismounted behind
some buildings. From them we learnt that the enemy had been located
about half a mile farther down the road. We were told from this point
to leave the road and move in sections across country, and in this
formation passed on beyond the cavalry. They had done their job and
found the enemy, and it was now for us to come and take up the line.




VIII. GETTING INTO ACTION


After the cavalry had withdrawn my regiment was lined out along a
road running at right angles to the road down which we had advanced.
From this time onwards for the next ten days I only knew what the
companies on my left and right were doing, and not always that. As a
platoon commander, I was responsible for the fifty men under me, and
all the information it was necessary for me to have was included in the
orders which Goyle, my company commander, gave for the movements of my
platoon. Therefore, for general knowledge of the battle, I had to rely
on such deductions as I could make from sound of firing on my right
and left and any gossip I could pick up when I went back to regimental
headquarters.

Advancing to attack in these days of modern warfare is a very slow
business. It is essential that platoons, companies, and regiments
should move forward together in one line and not allow gaps to come
between them, and what with one regiment waiting for another to
advance, and each waiting for orders from their respective colonels,
who in turn are waiting for the word from the Brigadier, there is often
considerable delay. This delay is to a certain extent mitigated by
the general policy of junior officers of pushing forward on their own
initiative until they are stopped.

As a platoon commander one works with the platoon commander on one's
left or right, leaving the platoon sergeant to keep in touch with the
platoon on the other flank. To have a fellow subaltern to talk to as
one lies in a ditch being shelled is a great comfort.

However, we were kept along the road we had first lined for about an
hour before any further move was made, and most of the officers of
the regiment congregated in a little group while we were waiting for
orders. I was much interested in watching the doings of some gunner
officers who had come up. Two of them were surveying the ground in
front through field-glasses. From where we were we could see nothing,
and as there had not been a shot fired that day we did not know how
many of the enemy there were in front of us or where they were.
However, the gunners were able to see something, for, after a bit,
they conferred with the battery commander. Acting on their information
he sent back a message for the guns to come up, and up they dashed,
wheeled into line in the field, and unlimbered.

I happened to be standing near the battery commander, and ventured to
ask him what he was going to do.

"I'm going to shell ----ville," he replied.

He was a squat, stumpy little major, who looked as though he had just
made a capital breakfast, and he spoke of his intentions with as much
complacency as if he was going out for a morning's partridge-shooting.
Two minutes later he had given a crisp order, and the six businesslike
grey nozzles had barked in sharp succession, and sent six shells
screaming over the quiet countryside. Poor ----ville! Many shells have
since crashed into the pretty little French village, but I shall never
forget seeing its baptism of fire or the complacent way in which the
tubby little major announced that he was going to shell the place.

Soon after this orders came for the infantry to advance, and Goyle sent
for his four platoon commanders and gave his orders. Our company was
responsible for keeping touch with the Dorchester Regiment on our left;
No. 5 platoon, under Evans, was immediately responsible for this, with
No 6 (mine) next, and 7 (under Edwards), and 8 (under Mayne), on the
right. This was to be the first day's fighting for Edwards and Mayne,
as they had only come out from England with reinforcements two days
before. Edwards had been a Sandhurst cadet a month ago, but Mayne was
a retired officer who had fought in South Africa; however, there was
nothing to choose in composure between the boy and the man.

Goyle took us to a point where we could see the ground we were to
move over, and showed us a ditch which he wished us to crawl along
until we reached another ditch at right angles to it which we were
to line. In this way we should be able to do the first part of the
advance without being seen at all. Evans took his platoon out first,
and when he had got a good start I followed with mine. He reached
the ditch without mishap, but here we had to remain some while, as
the Dorchester Regiment on our left had not got up in line with us.
Verbal messages then passed between Evans and the subaltern in command
of the right platoon of the Dorchester Regiment. Evans wanted to know
why the Dorchesters were not in line with him, and the subaltern of
the Dorchester's why he, Evans, had advanced so far. Up till now our
guns behind had been firing steadily over our heads, and not a sound
or sign had come from the enemy, but now suddenly, in the middle of
the argument between Evans and the Dorchester subaltern, there was a
different whistle in the air, a crash, and a white puff of smoke just
behind us.

"Hullo!" Evans looked round and slid quickly to the bottom of the ditch.

The enemy's first shell was followed by two others, which burst about
the same place, and then by three which fell farther over us.

"They are after our guns," said Evans.

This was my first taste of hostile shell-fire, but the shells passed so
harmlessly overhead that it hardly seemed as though we were under fire
at all. After a while orders came for us to continue our advance. This
time my platoon had to lead the way and advance up a ditch to another
parallel ditch about three hundred yards away. We gained the ditch
without incident, but it was a queer experience, pushing forward over
the empty fields, never knowing when we were coming on the enemy or
what lay ahead of us. When my platoon and the platoon under Evans were
safely in the ditch, No. 7 was told to follow. To reach our line No. 7
had to cross over some open ground, and this proved their undoing, for
midway across a shell burst just in front of them, followed by another
and another.

"By Jove," said Evans, "Edward's lot has been spotted."

We watched. Edwards, as soon as he came under fire, had halted his men
beneath a bit of bank, and from where we were we could see no sign
of a man above the surface of the ground. But the enemy battery had
evidently found their mark, for they plastered the little bank with
shrapnel. I watched, able to do nothing and sorry in my heart. It was a
very fierce baptism of fire for a Sandhurst cadet, and I wondered how
the boy was faring.

It was now well on towards dusk, and as the light failed the firing
stopped. Slowly, what was left of the exposed platoon began to creep
up to our ditch, and much to my delight Edwards himself came up unhurt
with the first man. He said he had had ten men hit, a man sitting
beside him killed, and a tree just above blown in half. The boy seemed
none the worse for his experience, and only a little anxious lest he
had exposed his men unnecessarily to fire.

It now looked as though we were to spend the night where we were. I
posted a patrol out in some bushes ahead and told the men to get to
work with their entrenching tools to improve their cover. As it grew
darker, the strain of looking out into the night for an enemy who never
appeared became oppressive. Evans reported from the left that he could
see no sign of the Dorchester Regiment, and we appeared to be in rather
an isolated position. Much to my relief Goyle came up soon and said he
intended to withdraw the company to the place whence we had started.
It was a great relief to be able to lie down close to our own guns and
near the Colonel and regimental headquarters. As soon as the men were
settled I went back to the first-line transport to get the officers'
rations for the next day. Goyle had given me the job of feeding the
five officers in the company, leaving it to me to make arrangements
for cooking where possible, and, when not, to see that each had a
parcel of food to last him through the day. I found the regimental
quartermaster-sergeant busy issuing rations to the different company
orderly corporals. The work was being done in a barn by the light of a
guttering candle. In a corner of the barn five of Edwards's platoon,
who had come under the shrapnel fire, lay stretched out stiff and cold.

The quartermaster-sergeant saluted me cheerily and packed my ration-box
with our rations, giving me a piece of bacon to divide between us, a
wedge of cheese, fifteen army biscuits, a tin of jam, and three small
tins of bully beef. With the box under one arm I started back for the
company. On the way, having learnt from a sentry where regimental
headquarters were, I just peeped in to see what was going on. After the
day's work, there is often something to be picked up at regimental
headquarters in the way of a tot of whisky from a bottle sent down
by the Brigadier, or a helping from a dixie of soup sent up by the
master-cook. Young subalterns are not supposed to hang about waiting
for these delicacies, but if they do push a hungry face round the door
and hastily withdraw it a kindly colonel or adjutant will often ask
them in. Having therefore located regimental headquarters as being in
the kitchen of a farm, I tapped on the door and asked if anyone had
seen Goyle.

"Yes, here he is", said the Colonel, and I saw my company commander's
nose emerge from a steaming cup of coffee. Round the fire were the
Colonel, Adjutant, scout and machine-gun officers, the doctor, Goyle,
and two other company commanders. These little informal gatherings are
held by most regiments when the day's work is done and the night is not
going to be busy, and a great relief it is, too, to be able to laugh
and see the funny side of things after the strain of an anxious day. At
the first sound of firing they melt.

I was given a cup of coffee and wheedled a cigarette out of a scout
officer, who had just had some sent out from England. After warming
myself for a quarter of an hour I said good-night and returned to the
company across the field, taking with me a bundle of straw from the
farmyard, which made a capital bed.




IX. AN ATTACK AT DAWN


I had not been sleeping long when I was awakened by a foot gently
feeling the small of my back.

Looking up, I saw Evans standing over me.

"Goyle wants you," he said; "he is just down there." Evans pointed to a
dark corner of the ditch in which the company was spending the night.

I got up from the pile of straw on which I was lying and followed him.
Goyle was squatting on the ground with a map and an electric torch
which he was shading under his greatcoat. He had just come back from
battalion headquarters, where he had been to receive orders.

"We are going to attack at dawn," he began, as soon as his four platoon
commanders were settled round him. "We are to gain the line ----," he
indicated the points on the map which marked the position we were to
capture. "The Dorchesters have orders to take ----ville"--he pointed
to a village on our left--"and the --th Brigade are to take ----"--he
pointed to another village marked on the right. "The attack begins as
soon as it is light, which will be 5 A.M. I want you to see now that
the platoons return their tools" (we had been digging earlier in the
night), "that each man has his rations, and that twenty-five bandoliers
of spare ammunition are carried per platoon. The mist will cover the
first part of our advance, and there must be no firing until the order
is given by me."

We went off to carry out the instructions given, and then lay down to
wait for the dawn.

Perhaps Evans and the other platoon commanders slept. I don't know.
I know only that for my part I did not. The thought that we were to
attack at dawn dispelled any lingering sleepiness. I looked at my
watch--3 A.M.--in an hour it would begin to grow light. How would the
day end? What would be the fate of the attack? I wondered if Goyle
was awake, and thought I would go down to him. I peeped down into
the corner of the ditch where I knew he was lying. A dark form lay
stretched at full length, and I heard a gentle snore. I lay down again.

After a while, looking out in the direction of the enemy, I saw a
faint flush low in the sky. I watched. The flush swelled to a vast
crimson glow. I woke Goyle. For a moment we looked at the day breaking
blood-red over the fields across which we were to fight our way. Than
we went, one either way along the ditch, rousing the men.

The men yawned, stretched themselves, and stood to arms. Their
bayonets, which they always kept fixed during the night, glittered
faintly in the early light. The crimson flush was broken now, and
streaks of yellow and pure white shot the sky.

Goyle caught my arm.

Low on the horizon the crest of a yellow ball just showed above the
trees. "The sun," he said.

_CRASH! bang! CRASH! bang! bang! bang!_

We listened as our guns behind opened the ceremony with a salvo. They
fired fast for five or ten minutes.

"The Dorchesters are advancing on our left, sir"--the message was
passed down to Goyle.

He signed for the company to advance. The men crawled up out of the
ditch and pushed over the country in a thin line. Evans was on my left,
with Edwards and No. 8 platoon commander on the right.

We advanced very slowly, with long pauses, lying flat on the ground
waiting for orders to continue. Now the officer commanding the company
on the right would send word to say he had reached such a point, and
would C Company come up in line with him? Now Evans passed along that
we were getting ahead of the Dorchesters. The attack is a very slow
and ticklish business in these days of modern firearms. All this while
steady firing could be heard on the right as the --th Brigade swung
round, and for about an hour there was sharp firing on the left, but in
front of us not a shot was heard.

At last we gained a group of cottages on a road which marked the point
we had been told to reach. There was still no sign of the enemy, and
had it not been for the firing on the right and left we should have
doubted his existence in the neighbourhood, so quiet and peaceful did
the cottages look.

However, we heard afterwards that the brigade on the right had suffered
heavily, and that the brisk firing on the left was the Dorchester
Regiment under machine-gun fire from the village they had been told to
take. It just happened to be our luck that day to have an uncontested
piece of frontage to advance over.

A road ran through the group of houses and beyond a ploughed field. At
the end of the ploughed field there was a hedge and ditch, which formed
a natural trench facing the enemy. In spite of the apparent absence
of the enemy Goyle refused to allow the men to loiter about along the
road or in the farms and cottages, but ordered the company to line this
ditch. As it turned out later it was well he did so.

As soon as I had seen my platoon lined along their section of the ditch
I went back to a farm behind to explore. I found Jenkins, my soldier
servant, there before me, busy searching the farm for breakfast. He had
found half a dozen new-laid eggs in an outhouse, kindled a small fire
in the farmyard, and was boiling the eggs in his canteen. He was not,
strictly speaking, supposed to be doing this, but soldier servants
are a privileged class, and Jenkins was the most tactful of servants.
On my going up to him to see what he was doing he pointed to the eggs
triumphantly and said they were for me. So instead of telling him
to join the company at once in the ditch I stayed with him to watch
them boil. I had not been in the farmyard two minutes when suddenly
sharp firing broke out from the ditch. So we had found something in
front of us at last. I dashed across the ploughed field to my platoon,
leaving Jenkins, quite unperturbed, still watching the eggs. Reaching
the ditch I flung myself down beside Evans, who was lying against the
bank peering to the front through the hedge. We could see nothing;
however, our fellows continued to fire furiously. For the first minute
or two the firing was so hot that both Evans and I thought there must
be something ahead of us. As it continued, though we could still see
nothing, we crept along behind the men to try to find out what they
were firing at. My platoon sergeant informed me that he thought the
enemy were lining the corner of a wood 400 yards away. He had seen
one or two dodging in and out among the trees. However, as no reply
was made to our fire, I ordered that no man was to fire unless he saw
something, and gradually the line grew quiet again.

Suddenly there was a dull report from a distant point in front, and
a shell whistled overhead. Looking back, I saw it strike the roof of
the farm where I had left Jenkins. Poor Jenkins! I wondered if he
was still cooking those eggs! However, I had no time to speculate on
his fate, for the enemy, having located our position owing to our
own rather unnecessarily aggressive outburst of rifle fire, began to
shell us. Round after round they sent crashing into the cottages and
farms, and then, shortening their range, began to put shots just over
our ditch. Well it was that Matley had made all the men get into the
ditch from the beginning. It was a fine deep ditch, and few of the
many thousands of shrapnel bullets found their mark. Soon after the
shelling started it began to rain heavily. It was a weird experience
lying there in the ditch with the rain pouring down on us from above
and the shrapnel bullets crashing sideways like a leaden hailstorm
through the hedge. The men pulled their water-proof sheets from their
packs, and, spreading these over themselves, lay down in the ditch,
smoking unconcernedly. Now and again a wounded man whose cover had not
been sufficient would crawl by. One very fat lance-corporal I remember,
puffing along on his hands and knees as fast as his rifle and pack
would let him. He kept slipping, catching his pack in the branches, and
swearing profusely. He had been caught in the most fleshy part of his
body, and evidently was of the opinion that there was no place like
home, for from time to time he grunted, "Stretcher bearer! Stretcher
bearer! 'Ere! I've been 'it!" He was a most comic sight, and I couldn't
help laughing as he passed.

The firing went on intermittently throughout the day. At dusk we were
withdrawn, another company taking our place in the ditch. We were
formed up behind the shelter of a farm wall on the road behind, and
told we were going to be taken back into reserve for the night.

By the farm I found Mulligan, a brother subaltern. Taking me gently by
the elbow he led me into the farm kitchen, through a door beyond, and
down some cellar steps. I lit my torch to look around. The cellar floor
was heaped with broken and empty bottles and corks. On a shelf were
half-finished glasses of wine. A party of German soldiers had evidently
been in before us and helped themselves, breaking what they could
not drink. However, they had left one or two bottles intact amid the
debris, from which Mulligan and I each had a good glass of red wine,
for which I hope the owner, if he ever returns to his battered home,
will forgive us.

Coming out of the farm, much to my delight, I met Jenkins still alive,
in spite of the shell-fire. He pressed two cold, hard objects into my
hand.

"How did you get these?" I asked.

"They were them eggs I was cooking this morning," he replied; "I had to
quit when that first shell came--nearly went up, eggs and all, with it.
But I went back afterwards. The fire was out--but they was boiled all
right, if you don't mind 'em hard."




X. THE RESERVE COMPANY


After D Company had taken over our section of trench we remained on
the road behind for a time, while the authorities were deciding what
to do with us. Goyle said the question was whether we were required to
fill a gap between our right company and the Dorchesters on our left or
whether our right company and the Dorchesters between them could span
this gap and enable us to go back as reserve company into billets.

We waited in the rain for our orders. The men stood expectantly with
their rifles slung over their shoulders, their hands in their pockets,
and their greatcoat collars turned up to their ears. They said little.
Now and again one would say to another hopefully, "We're going back to
billets--ain't we, Bill?" One or two of my N.C.O.s came up and asked
me if I knew what was going to happen, and I told them the situation,
about which, like the dutiful fellows they were, they expressed no
opinion. He is a wonderful fellow on active service is Tommy Atkins.
However roughly his inclinations may be torn he never says a word, but
just does what is required of him so long as he can stand. Those men
would have gone off to fill the gap that night without a question or
thought except that it had to be done, and perhaps a "Gor blimey!" on
life in general and European warfare in particular.

However, it was to be billets that night. Goyle came up with the
order from battalion headquarters. The company fell-in in fours and
marched down the road. I don't know what it is, but there is a sort of
feeling about a body of men marching which conveys a lot to a trained
ear. In the ready click of the rifle to the shoulder and the steady
tramp of the fifty pairs of feet behind me I could read hearts full of
thankfulness as we headed down the lane towards the tiny village where
we were to billet.

It was by now nearly ten o'clock. The village itself consisted of two
farms and half a dozen cottages, and the Adjutant was disposed to say
that it was hardly worth billeting the men in view of the lateness of
the hour and the possibility of their having to turn out at short
notice. He suggested they should lie down in a field. However, Evans
and I guaranteed to have all the men in billets within a quarter of
an hour and to make ourselves personally responsible for knowing
where they all were and turning them out at short notice if required.
The Adjutant, who was merely taking up the point of view proper to
adjutants of not wanting to run the risk of any company being caught
napping, was agreeable to this, and off we started.

To be able to billet a company quickly is a question of practice. The
eye quickly gets trained to know what amount of men will go into what
space and the look of likely places. To stow away 200 men in a tiny
village of two farms and four cottages would at first seem a difficult
task, especially when a certain amount of the space has already been
taken up by different details attached to battalion headquarters. Barns
are the first things to look for, and we were lucky in finding two,
which each held fifty men. The French barns always have plenty of straw
in them, and make warm, snug lying. An empty stable took another fifty
men, and an outhouse twenty-five; the remaining twenty-five had to be
content with a sort of porch which ran along a wall. These last we were
subsequently able to transfer to the barn on finding there would just
be room for them. The process of billeting the men did not take more
than the quarter of an hour we had estimated, one of us going ahead to
explore, the other following with the men and standing at the entrance
to the barn or outhouse, counting them in and flashing his torch into
the interior to show the way.

Having got the men under cover, we looked about for a place for
ourselves. Goyle had been offered a mattress in the kitchen of the
farm where the Colonel and Adjutant were making their battalion
headquarters. He was also no doubt going to have some of the Colonel's
supper, and might be considered arranged for for the night. But there
was no room for four hungry subalterns at battalion headquarters.
We had received our day's rations and were expected to look after
ourselves. Four sergeants were using the kitchen of the other farm,
and of the cottagers only one, from a light in the window, looked as
though it was inhabited. Evans and I pushed our way into this but found
the kitchen already occupied. Six Tommies were sitting round the stove
watching a stew simmer in a pan. They did not belong to our company,
but were some of the headquarters details. The cottage was certainly
theirs by right of annexation, and Evans and I turned to go out.

"Beg pardin, sir," said one of the men; "but there's another room at
the back." This was extremely kind and hospitable of the man, as the
little class distinctions between officer and man are to a certain
extent preserved on active service, and the Tommy who has found a nook
likes to keep it to himself just as much as the officer.

Evans and I accepted the invitation and went to inspect the other room.
We found a comfortable cottage bedroom with two large four-post beds.
The old woman to whom the cottage belonged and her husband said we were
welcome to the use of the beds, and the sight of them was so tempting
that I am afraid we did not trouble to inquire where she and her old
man would sleep.

Jenkins, my servant, and the other two platoon commanders being then
found, we put a stew of bully beef and vegetables on the fire, and,
having eaten this, doubled up on the two beds.

Impossible to describe the joy of throwing off our wet boots and coats,
stretching ourselves on the mattresses, and pulling a blanket up to our
chins. We were soon all fast asleep.

After six hours real rest we woke feeling fit for anything. When we
went out into the lane we found Jenkins in the middle of preparations
for breakfast. He had dragged a table outside the cottage, discovered
two chairs and two packing-cases, and laid four places with a
miscellaneous assortment of knives and forks. For breakfast we had some
fried ration bacon, a small and carefully apportioned wedge of bread
each from the only loaf to be found in the village, coffee, and a tin
of marmalade.

The company passed the day in converting a ditch into a trench.
Although they were supposed to be resting in reserve, the men needed
no urging to dig. The day before they had come under shrapnel fire
when they were fortunately in a fine natural trench, but the memory
of the murderous hail of bullets which had swept over their heads
was sufficiently vivid to make them all anxious to provide themselves
with equally good cover against a second attack. Each man worked away
individually for himself, digging away into and under the ground
until he had scooped a little burrow in which he would be secure from
shrapnel, no matter how accurately it burst over the trench. As the
men finished their burrows to their satisfaction they lay down in
them, pulled out their pipes and cigarettes, and smoked, watching with
complacent interest the efforts of neighbours who had roots or rocks or
other difficulties in the soil to contend with.

The morning passed quietly, but at noon the enemy sent several shells
over the ground where we were. One of these shells struck one of the
cottages, crumpling it like a matchbox. I happened at the time to be
back in the cottage where we had slept, helping Jenkins to concoct a
stew for lunch. It was pitiful to see the terror of the old peasant
woman and her husband, who sat dumbly in their kitchen, waiting for
one of the great projectiles to come and wreck their home. As each
shell fell the old woman lifted her hands and gave a little pitiful
gasp. It was all more than she could understand, and no efforts of
Jenkins or myself could calm her. However, they were a brave old
couple, and as soon as the shelling was over busied themselves getting
us potatoes and carrots for our stew from a store they had in a loft.
They were delighted with a tin of army bully beef which we gave them
for themselves. Except for this old couple, the farms and cottages were
deserted, and I rather wondered why they had remained. Probably because
they were too frightened and bewildered to do anything else.

Just before dusk we heard the dull report of a heavy gun in the
distance. _R-rump_--CRASH--a shell burst a quarter of a mile to our
right. Again the gun boomed, and again the dull "_R-rump_," followed
by a loud explosion and cloud of mud and earth in the same place. The
men stirred uneasily in their dug-outs. They knew what it was--60 lb.
high-explosive melinite. It was no joke like shrapnel, this. If the
enemy happened to turn a few on to us we should be blown to bits. It
was an anxious time listening to the gun and waiting for the shells to
explode. But they did not seem to be swinging round in our direction,
and darkness found us all still safe. At eight the order came for the
company to go back into the firing-line.




XI. A NIGHT ATTACK


After twenty-four hours in reserve it was our turn to go back into the
firing-line and relieve A Company. We took over A Company's trenches at
dusk, Goyle going with each platoon commander, showing him his section,
and giving orders about the posting of groups and improvement of cover.

My section of trench had already been worked on by the company we took
over from. The officer before me had scooped out a dug-out for himself
at one end and lined it with straw. This I marked off for my own use,
and then went along the line to see that all the men were busy. By the
time I had inspected the trench and put out an advanced post it was
quite dark, and I settled myself down in my own dug-out with a pious
hope that the night would remain fine and we should all be able to pass
it comfortably. There was no sound from the front, and it looked as
though we should be undisturbed. One by one the stars came out, the
night grew colder, and I pulled on my greatcoat. It was weird lying
there in the darkness, hearing nothing, seeing nothing, with only the
dark shapes of the men on each side and the occasional tinkle of an
entrenching tool against a stone to remind one that one was taking part
in a great war. I wondered what my friends at home were doing, thought
of dances at the Ritz and the happy days when one dressed for dinner,
and smiled to think what a funny sight I must look tucked up for the
night in a ditch.

As I lay there I heard far away on the right the sound of rifle fire.
Were they our troops or the French? Perhaps it was one of our divisions
which we had been told was swinging round on our flank. So the division
had done its march and was fighting now. I was glad we were not. It was
much better to lie peacefully in a ditch. Fighting meant seeing one's
pals killed--crawling about, peering forward with tired eyes--worry,
anxiety, with, of course, always the fever of excitement. But we had
all had a full share of excitement, and were not sorry to lie still
until we were wanted. Hullo! The sound of firing was drawing nearer
and swelling in volume. That must be the brigade on our right engaged.
Ah! There were two sharp shots from the farm where the next company lay.

"Pass along the word for every man to stand to," I called, jumping to
my feet.

"Sergeant X," I said to the N.C.O. next to me, "go down the trench and
see that every man is awake."

Pht! pht! pht!

I ducked down into the trench. Half a dozen bullets came singing
through the edge. There was sharp firing now on our right. The next
company was evidently engaged. Away beyond the rifle fire had swelled
into one big crash of sound. Suddenly a hot fire broke out in front
of us. To the left I heard our two Maxims, like watchdogs, barking
viciously. It was a night attack, then--the enemy had come up to have a
go at us.

"Quick--get into the trench and line along to your left. Where do you
want me?"

I looked up and saw Mulligan hurrying his men into my trench. He had
been sent up with his platoon from the reserve company to strengthen
the line.

"Anywhere you like, old boy," I called back; "but I should get down out
of that quick." The bullets were literally singing round him.

Our men were now all standing up to the parapet, firing into the night.
I craned forward, trying to see in the darkness. A bullet lopped a
branch off my ear, and I withdrew my head hurriedly.

"They're all awake, sir," said Sergeant X, as he returned to his place
beside me.

"So it seems," I answered, as the din from our rifles swelled into a
deafening volume. "Here, mind where you are pointing that gun," I said
to the man on my left, as he brought down a bit of the hedge in front
of my nose in his effort to get off five rounds in as many seconds.

"No. 5 platoon are running short of ammunition," the word came down the
trench.

"Tell No. 6 to pass along any they have to spare and save their fire as
much as possible," I ordered.

It was going to be a tight business this, with the enemy's fire growing
hotter every minute and our ammunition supply running short.

Again the message came down, "No. 5 platoon are running short of
ammunition."

I looked at Sergeant X. We had already sent men back for fresh supplies.

"I'll go back, sir," said Sergeant X. It seemed impossible for him to
get out of the trench and cross the bullet-swept open ground. Still, it
was the only thing to be done. I nodded.

Grasping his rifle, he turned to clamber out of the trench. Just as he
was going a voice from behind called, "Where will you have this, sir?"

There was a thump behind, and two men rolled over into the trench
dragging a box of ammunition after them. They sat up and mopped
their foreheads. "Lord! it's like hail out there," said one of them
breathlessly, "and that stuff weighs about a ton," pointing to the box
of ammunition.

"Well, come on, mate," and back they went out of the trench to the rear
for more.

Sergeant X and I wrenched the lid off the box of ammunition and started
passing the bandoliers down the trench.

"Pass these right along to No. 5 platoon," I ordered.

A second box was brought up by two more panting men. I distributed the
contents among my own platoon. This put a better complexion on things.
With plenty of ammunition we had nothing to fear, but the anxiety had
been great. The sensation of running short of water in the desert is as
nothing compared to that of running short of ammunition in action.

"They're getting closer, aren't they?" I said to Sergeant X, listening
to the enemy's fire.

"I think they are, sir," He refilled his magazine and bent once more
over the rifle.

"By gad! did you see that flash--they are only a hundred yards off.
Here, give me that." I took the rifle from a man next me who had been
wounded, and laid it, with the bayonet fixed, on the parapet in front.
At the same time I drew my revolver and put it ready for use by my
other hand. It was getting exciting this--quite pleasantly so.

"What do we do if they charge--get out and meet 'em?" I asked. My
sergeant had had more experience of action than I, and I felt I could
well afford to ask his advice.

"Just stay where we are, sir," he answered; "but they won't do that;
they don't like these"--he tapped his bayonet. He was a splendidly
calm fellow, that sergeant, and it was good to feel him firm as a rock
beside me. All men, N.C.O.s, officers, and privates, instinctively lean
towards each other when the corner is tight.

For the next five hours the firing continued, sometimes dying down,
sometimes swelling to a sharp volley. Ammunition boxes arrived and
were emptied. There were moments of acute anxiety when the supply
seemed running short. Each man was told to keep fifteen rounds by
him at all costs to meet a charge. Sergeant X bent steadily over his
rifle, pumping lead into the dark patch where the enemy appeared to
be. Sometimes I could hear guttural voices and harsh words of command,
somewhere away there in the blackness the enemy were lying. I could see
clearly for about forty yards. Would masses of dark shapes suddenly
appear? They should have ten rounds from the rifle, then six from the
revolver, and then the bayonet would be left. Furtively under cover of
the parapet I lit a cigarette, and holding it well screened from the
front, puffed big satisfying gasps. All the while the rifles rattled
like the sharp ticking of a clock.

The firing grew quieter, and from the front there was now only an
occasional shot. I suddenly felt sleepy, as though lulled by the rattle
of the rifle fire. I sat down a moment on the edge of my dug-out.

"Mr. Mulligan's compliments, and could you tell him the time, sir?" I
pulled myself together with a start. By Jove, I had nearly been asleep.
"What's the time, sergeant?" I asked. There was no reply. Sergeant X
was nodding as he stood, arms folded over his rifle. He, too, as the
firing died down had been overcome by sleep. I sent back the time to
Mulligan, each man passing the message to the man next him.

"Mr. Mulligan's compliments, and would you like a biscuit, sir?" A
biscuit was pressed into my hand which had come the same way as the
message.

"Mr. ----'s compliments to Mr. Mulligan, and would he care for a piece
of cheese?" I wrapped a piece of cheese in a piece of paper and sent it
back.

So we kept passing messages to one another all through the night, and
no man slept. With the enemy a hundred yards away it was advisable
they should not; but, like Sergeant X and myself, each, once the
fierce strain of firing had passed, found the inclination wellnigh
irresistible.

At last the dawn broke, and we saw the ground clear in front of us.




XII. THE FARM IN THE FIRING-LINE


A farm lay behind our trench. Just in front of the farm there ran a
wooden fence. This fence had been loopholed and banked with earth, and
was now held by a platoon of infantry. Trenches ran to the right and
left in continuation of the fence, and were manned by the remaining
platoons of the company. For two days now the enemy had attacked the
farm, and all through the past night bullets had come smack-smack
against the walls, like heavy hailstones. It was a fair-sized farm
built round a yard, three sides grain lofts and cattle sheds and the
remaining side a dwelling-place. The company commander, the company
sergeant-major, the stretcher-bearers, and others who were attached to
company headquarters were standing about in the yard. One or two of
the men had their coats off and were shaving and washing in buckets of
water.

As there had been no firing since dawn, and the enemy had evidently
withdrawn after their unsuccessful attack during the night, Evans and I
left our platoons and came into the farm.

Goyle, like the wise company commander he was, made no comment on our
having left our trenches, relying on us to know when we ought to go
back, and said that there was a room in the farm which the farmer's
wife had set apart for the officers, and that we should find some food
inside. This room, which was evidently the best parlour, was approached
through the kitchen which opened on the front door.

Never shall I forget the sight as I opened the front door and looked
into the kitchen. The small stone-flagged room was filled with
civilians. These were evidently peasants from outlying cottages who
had left their homes when the fighting began and flocked to the farm
as a central place of refuge. At a wooden table sat a party of four
women, two with children. One woman was weeping bitterly. The others
were trying to console her. All were drinking from bowls of soup. The
farmer's wife was stirring a fresh pot of soup over the stove. She
was a fine-looking woman, with proud, sad eyes. Seeing Evans and me
standing at the door, she beckoned to us to come in, and gave us each
a cup of soup. Beside the stove sat an old, old man, his head resting
against his hand, staring fixedly before him.

Sometimes he moaned gently. He sat like this all day, refusing to talk
to anybody, or to eat anything, or to be comforted. The farmer's wife
told us that the day before a shell had hit his cottage and killed his
horse. He was the village carrier. The horse was perhaps as old as
himself--as horses' years are measured--still it had been his companion
and means of livelihood, and now it was taken from him. He could not
understand it all--why the shell had come to wreck his home and kill
his horse. He just sat there moaning and staring before him. We turned
away. Neither we nor the farmer's wife could do anything. But with
the weeping woman at the table it might be different. The farmer's
wife thought that we, being British officers, could do something. She
brought the woman up to us and she told us her tale. Her husband, it
seemed, had been hit by a bullet while working in his field. He now
lay out there wounded. She could not say she was sure if he was dead,
but could we go and get him in. They had fired at her when she tried
to go out to him. It was terrible to feel he was still lying there. We
asked where the field was and then looked at each other helplessly.
It lay in no man's land, between ours and the German lines. Perhaps
at night, but for the rest of the day, no--we could do nothing. While
we were drinking our soup two more refugees came in: a broken-looking
middle-aged peasant, with red-rimmed eyes and thin shambling legs, and
his wife. He was clinging round his wife's neck, tears pouring from
the red-rimmed eyes. He, too, like the old peasant by the stove, was
speechless; his wife told us that the Germans had taken him and made
him march in front of them for three days.

She repeated the words "_trois jours_," her voice shaking with passion.
The farmer's wife set the couple at the table and gave them soup from
the pot. I wondered that she, too, did not join in the general weeping;
but she went quietly and sadly about her work, saying little, giving
food and drink to the afflicted people who had come to her kitchen,
tending her pots and pans and fire. She asked no questions about the
enemy, where they were or when we should drive them from the farm. She
showed no signs of the night of terror she must have passed as the
fight raged about her house. It was as though she stood for the spirit
of France, proud to suffer for her country, confident in the prowess of
her men, and patient and undoubting that they would succeed.

Later, when Goyle came, she ushered us all into the parlour she had
reserved for our use. She watched us for a moment as we opened a tin
of bully beef and pulled some biscuits from our pockets, and then,
motioning to us to put these things away, began to dust the table and
lay a cloth. In a short while she had put before us a dainty lunch,
soup, boiled chicken, a stew of vegetables, coffee, and cheese. We
would have preferred our servants to have done the cooking and waited
on ourselves, so that she could look after her own people, but she
insisted on doing everything herself, bringing each dish in. We asked
her if we could do anything for her, and she drew up a methodical list
of things she wanted from a neighbouring village--coffee, rice, flour,
and oil for her lamp. I got up to get these things, and at the door
she stopped me and pressed her well-worn purse into my hand to buy the
things. I had difficulty in making her take the money back.

Outside the farm I found a party of men burying one of the company
who had been killed in the night. They had wrapped him in his coat,
and were digging a rough grave by the roadside. One of the men was at
work on a wooden cross made of two bits of board from the lid of a
ration-box. He had scrawled R.I.P. and the date in large letters, and
was laboriously tracing out the dead man's name and number.

The village where I was to get the provisions lay about half a
mile away along an open, desolate road. All along the road men lay
entrenched. The word had gone round that the enemy had withdrawn,
and most of the men were sleeping beside their rifles. Some of the
inhabitants of the village were coming back after the attack, and I
found a tiny store open where I could get the things the farmer's wife
required. On my way back I passed a wine shop, which was crowded with
peasants, all talking and drinking coffee and little glasses of rum.

I wondered what they thought of it all, and imagined they were too
bewildered to have any opinions. On all their faces were evident signs
of satisfaction at being able to return to the village. They thought
that the "_boches_" were by now probably running back hard to Germany,
and all would be over in a few days.

As I stood in the doorway three civilian youths approached, two of them
supporting a third between them. The lad in the middle looked white
and scarcely able to stand. I went up to see if I could do anything.
The two with him told me that they had found the boy lying in a field;
he had been hit in five places by shrapnel. They thought he must have
been lying there unattended for three days. The boy himself watched me
with dumb, pain-ridden eyes. Very weakly and slowly he raised his hand
to his mouth and pointed to his tongue, which was black and swollen.
"_Soif_," he whispered. Of course, he had had no water all the time.
I had him taken into a cottage and laid on a table. I got a glass of
water from a well and held it to his lips. He was too weak to raise
his head, but his friends supported him, and he drank the water slowly
and steadily. As he drank a little smile played about his lips, and
when the glass was empty, before they laid him down, he nodded his head
and smiled at me as only those smile for whom one has done some last
service and whose life is nearly done.

I made my way back to the farm with sickness in my heart. Not all
the fighting nor the strain of war had affected me as the sight of
those suffering, helpless people whose ground we were using for our
battlefield.

That night we said good-bye to the farmer's wife and pushed on beyond
the farm. We were all happy to feel we were leaving her behind the
security of our lines. As she stood at the door and watched us go there
was still the same look in her eyes as when we came--a look of sadness,
resignation, and infinite courage.




XIII. PUSHING FORWARD


An hour before dawn the men stood to their arms in the trenches, but as
the daylight grew and there was no sound or sight of the enemy, first
one man and then another got out of the trench. These being allowed to
walk about with impunity the others soon followed their example. Fires
were lit for cooking, and men spread themselves on the ground behind
the trench reading old copies of newspapers, or mending their clothes,
or cleaning their rifles. Here and there parties could be seen carrying
away corpses which had been stiff and cold behind the trench for the
last forty-eight hours. Goyle, my company commander, walked across from
his headquarters. The day before it had been impossible for him to get
to us, and messages were brought by orderlies, who crawled up on their
stomachs along a narrow ditch.

"Morning," said Goyle; "looks as though they had cleared."

"Yes, sir," I answered, "there has been no sign of anything ahead this
morning."

"I reckon that was their transport we heard, sir--they was rumbling
along a road there, sir, all the night," said my platoon-sergeant.

The man was probably right, for all through the night a rumbling of
wagons had been plainly audible along a road behind the enemy's lines.
The night before we had been attacked fiercely, but though they had
come very near us they had not been able to break through. During the
day the enemy had remained quiet, contenting themselves with sniping,
and now evidently, under cover of darkness, they had withdrawn to
another position.

"Well, I suppose we shall push on now," I said to Goyle.

"Yes, I expect so," he answered.

Our orders to advance came at four o'clock. Goyle came down to give the
necessary instructions to platoon commanders. We were to push forward
straight to our front, keeping under cover as much as possible. He said
he believed that the ground was all clear in front of us, but that it
would be as well to take precautions.

Evans and I therefore led our platoons down a ditch which led direct
to the front. We eventually came out by a large farm building which
a day or two ago had been in the hands of the Germans. It had been
known to the British troops as "the hospital," because the Germans had
hoisted a Red Cross flag on a pole on the roof. But "the hospital"
had also been used by the enemy as an observing station, and our guns
had been obliged to shell it on two or three occasions. We examined
the building with interest. The place was evidently a dairy farm on a
large scale, for three sides were cowsheds, and there was a big store
of hay. At the far end was the dwelling-house, over which the Red Cross
had been hoisted. The place had perhaps been used as a hospital, for
in the bottom room we found a long riding boot, which had been cut off
a wounded man, and a blood-soaked pair of the well-known blue-grey
breeches. However, on going up on to the roof we found the facilities
for seeing over our lines so remarkable that the shells from our guns
were evidently justly placed.

I made the tour of the farm with the doctor of the Dorchesters, who
was thinking of taking it over as a hospital himself. When we came down
from the roof we found two farm girls outside. They asked us anxiously
if it would be safe for them to stay there that night, and we assured
them it would. They said they had gone off a mile or two for two or
three days, but now they had come back to look after the cows. They
were a pair of very cool young ladies, who seemed to regard the German
occupation of their farm as no more than a heavy rainstorm, to be
avoided while it lasted, but not to be worried about once it was over.
The doctor and I went round to look at the cowsheds. The beasts were
all in their stalls, some evidently suffering a good deal from want
of milking. In the first shed we came to there was a most appalling
stench. The doctor sniffed and said he thought it was something dead.
We examined the cows that were lying down, but they were all alive.
Then the doctor made an orderly rake over all the straw. He said that
the Germans had a habit of hiding dead men under straw, if they were
vacating a place, just by way of providing a pleasant surprise for any
tired British soldiers who might make the straw their bed. However,
there were no corpses in the cowshed, and we never discovered the cause
of the smell, though it was strong and nasty enough to prevent my ever
forgetting it.

On coming out of the farm I found the Dorchester Regiment passing by.
After lying about in a trench, hardly seeing more than the men in one's
own platoon, it was quite a change to see another regiment and have
a talk to the officers about their experiences in the past few days.
It was interesting to hear how the next-door regiment had fared in
the night attack, and if they had met much opposition in gaining the
village they had been told to take. One subaltern, with a scrubby ten
days' growth of beard on his chin, grinned as though he thought he knew
me as he went by, and said: "Who'd have thought we were being brought
up to do this?"

I looked at him, and suddenly recognized a fellow who had been a cadet
with me at Sandhurst. It did, indeed, seem droll to look back on the
days when we had drilled in the same squad together and studied tactics
in the same class, without ever, I am afraid, any serious thoughts
of war. Well, anyway, now our learning was being put to the test, and
as I watched the boy now become a man march by with his company, all
muddy from the trenches, with his few worldly possessions slung from
his belt, I thought that he, at any rate, was a good advertisement for
Sandhurst.

"Where are you going--do you know?" I called.

He shrugged his shoulders and pointed away across the fields. It was
growing dusk, and I began to wonder where we were going. We had been
halted by the farm some time now. I turned back to my platoon, who
were lying on some straw against a wall. I thought I would go and find
some of the other platoon commanders and hear if there was any news.
But this plan was frustrated, Evans and the others were nowhere to be
found. I asked my sergeant if he knew where the rest of the company
was. He said he did not. It was my business, of course, not his, to
know, and he--wretched man--having been asleep, knew this perfectly
well. After a search round the farm I came to the conclusion that the
company had gone off somewhere and that I was left. Here was a pretty
kettle of fish. Goyle would not thank me for losing a whole platoon.
The company must be found again at once. The difficulty was they might
have gone off in any direction. I questioned the men. Some thought
they had seen the captain going back the way we had come; others had
seen nothing. To go back the way we had come would probably be putting
oneself too far back if wanted. I eventually decided to cut straight
across a field and reach a road which would take me to the same village
as the Dorchesters were going to. In this way I should have them
between myself and the enemy, and so eliminate the risk of being cut
off, and also should be moving along towards the enemy in the same
direction as presumably my company was moving.

It was by now quite dark, and, crossing the field, we nearly fell into
an empty trench which the Germans had held. The most noticeable thing
about the trench was the murderous field of fire it afforded. The
trench had evidently been sighted by a past master in the art of war.

On reaching the road I decided to stay there for a while until some
one came along from whom I could ask questions. It was rather jumpy
work to be isolated by oneself with a platoon without quite knowing
where one was. To my great relief, after a few minutes a company
from my regiment came along, followed by Goyle at the head of my own
company, and I was able to join up. It appeared that in the interval
since we had parted the company had been ordered to entrench themselves
in three different places, and then moved on again, and so, as Goyle
did not seem to mind once I had joined up again safely, I was very glad
I had missed all the unnecessary excitement. It was characteristic of
Goyle that he never found fault with anything his subalterns did unless
it led to trouble. As I had got there all right somehow, and not been
wanted in the meantime, he did not blame me for getting lost.

We marched along for a little way down the road, and then swung to
the right down another road, which led through a straggling village.
The cottages were all in darkness, but they looked very inviting, and
I think each man wished heartily that he was going to sleep in one
instead of marching on into the night.

After passing through the village we came out on to a straight road
flanked by two deep ditches. After going a few hundred yards along this
road we were told to halt, climb over the ditch, and entrench. This we
did.

When all was snug and compact for the night Goyle and I went back to
the village to let the Dorchesters know what we had done. We found
several of the officers in the kitchen of a small wine shop. They had
got a fire going, and were making coffee, and this, with a bottle of
rum found in the cellar, and the remains of the day's rations, promised
an excellent supper. I had some bread and cheese left in my haversack,
and shared this with Goyle; we were given a mug of coffee each, and
joined the others at the table. After the excitements of the evening
the coffee and rum were welcome. As we were having supper I heard some
groans, and suddenly noticed a huge Uhlan lying flat on his back in
the corner. He was breathing with difficulty, and every now and then
seemed to be trying to wriggle along the floor. One of the Dorchester
officers told me that the man had been found in a ditch and brought in
by our men. He was shot straight through the stomach. They had sent
up for the doctor, but the latter was unable to come down that night.
Supper proceeded smoothly, uninterrupted by the groans of the Uhlan,
who was only half-conscious, but at times evidently in great pain.

"I say," said one of the Dorchesters' officers, "I propose sleeping
here. I don't much fancy having that fellow in the room all night."

It was then decided to move the Uhlan to an empty house opposite, where
he died by himself, and was found on his knees, with his head contorted
between them in a last effort to rise, in the morning.




XIV. IN FRONT OF LA BASSÉE


At daybreak the order came to advance. A and C Companies were to form
the firing-line, B and D Companies were to be in support. We formed the
right of the brigade, and had to get in touch with the Westshires, who
were on the left of the --th Brigade, on our right. The initiative of
the attack rested with A and C Companies; our task was to follow behind
over the ground they had gained and be ready to come up into line with
them should they lose many men or find themselves hard pressed. The
enemy we knew to be holding a group of houses about 700 yards away.
The ground sloped gently back from these houses to the outskirts of
the town. My company, B Company, under Goyle, had been extended during
the night, in a field to the right of the road, and had thrown up a
low earthwork parapet. We now lay behind this while A and C Companies
pushed through us to the front. The parapet proved none too high,
for as soon as the men in front showed themselves a brisk fire came
from the enemy in the houses. We all lay flat on the ground, and the
bullets came phzz-phzz over us, missing us, as it seemed, by an inch
or two. There is an old military adage that the man who thinks each
bullet he hears is going to hit him is making active service a torture
to himself. Now, it is all very well to preach the value of being
philosophical in warfare and to recommend the man under fire not to
think about being hit, but that peculiar sharp little whistle which a
bullet makes as it passes one's ear takes a good deal of getting used
to, and one's first instinct as one hears it is to slide as deep and
far into the ground as possible. We all lay there with our noses flat
in the earth, wondering how the fellows in front were getting on and
when it would be our turn to get up. The opportunity came pretty soon,
for, as the company in front seemed to be held up by the enemy in the
houses, Goyle decided to send round a flanking party, and sent off No.
7 and 8 platoons to work their way round on the right. This plan proved
successful, and A Company was able to get ahead. Goyle now signalled
for the two platoons, which had remained with him, to advance. We rose
and moved forward in extended order for 300 yards and then lay down
again.

After a few minutes Goyle exclaimed:

"Hullo!--our fellows have reached the houses." Looking through my
glasses, I saw some of our men in the gardens of the houses, and as
there was no fighting going on the Germans had evidently withdrawn.
Goyle decided that we would push on, and told Evans and me to join up
by the houses with two platoons which had gone round by the flank. We
were to search the houses thoroughly, and take up a line on the other
side of them. On our way forward we came on the results of some work we
had heard going on during the night. Just before we reached the houses
we found three men from the Westshires in a ditch. One was dead, the
others too badly hit to crawl. It appears they had been sent out on
patrol the night before, and, coming on the German lines, had got shot
down. As I had been out on patrol myself on the other side of the road
the same night, I reflected that my patrol had been lucky to escape the
same fate.

The two wounded men had been lying there for some time, and were very
glad to be found. The worst side of patrol work is the risk of not
being found or it not being possible to bring wounded men in. We sent
the two wounded men back to the ambulance, and asked for a party to
be sent up to bury the other. I took the dead man's rifle myself. It
was very bloody and nasty, but I felt it would be a good companion,
as apart from a rifle and bayonet being twice as useful as a revolver
and sword (no one carries the latter), a rifle is also a very good
disguise for an officer. If he is holding his rifle, as the men always
do, at the trail in an advance, he is indistinguishable to the enemy.
Especially was this the case at one time, when the enemy had got
used to looking out for a gentleman with a revolver in one hand, a
walking-stick in the other, and a pair of field-glasses slung round
his neck, advancing slightly ahead of the line of men, and waving
instructions to them with the stick. Nowadays the wise officer keeps
well in a line with his men, and gives as few indications by hand
signals to halt or advance, etc., as possible.

I got most of the blood off the rifle with some grass, and, armed with
it and the bayonet, I felt much more secure as we made our way through
the houses. The Germans had evidently spent a day or two round the
houses, for just behind we found a straw-lined ditch, which they had
slept in and partially converted to a trench. We lined this ditch,
which gave good cover against stray bullets, and waited for further
orders. While we were waiting, Edwards, who had charge of the flanking
party, pushed out to the right to get in touch with the Westshires,
and Evans and I went back to have a look at the houses and see if the
enemy had left any souvenirs behind. One of the buildings was the
village wine shop, and a party of German officers had evidently used
it as their headquarters for the night. They appeared to have had a
rare time in the place. Half-emptied glasses of wine had been left on
the bar counter and on the table; bottles and glasses lay smashed on
the floor; every bottle from the shelves behind the bar had been taken
down and either drunk or broken and the contents spilt over the floor.
Two chairs lay broken, and all the pictures were smashed, presumably
by cockshies with bottles and glasses. From the look of things the
officers must have all been extremely drunk.

While we were in the wine shop the order came for us to close up on
A Company, who had pushed some distance forward. The ground at this
point sloped up to some more cottages and farm buildings which lay at
the top of the rise. A and C Companies had worked their way through
the cottages and lined out beyond them facing the outskirts of the
town. They were unable to go any farther, as the ground in front was
a dead flat stretch of root crops, which the Germans could sweep with
rifle and machine-gun fire. The cottages in front to a certain extent
covered the advance up to this point, but not completely, as Mulligan,
in charge of the right platoon of the next supporting company,
discovered to his cost. We were advancing in extended order up the
rise, my company being well protected by the cottages, but Mulligan
had a gap in the buildings in front of him. About half-way across the
field he evidently came into range of a German machine-gun. The gun
opened a brisk fire, and in as many seconds twenty of his men were
down, Mulligan himself getting a bullet through the shoulder, and his
servant, who was beside him, being killed. From an infantryman's point
of view a Maxim is like water to a mad dog. It will stop him when
nothing else will. There is something particularly deterring about the
sound of a Maxim, with its ping-ping-ping-ping as it sweeps down a line
of advancing troops, spurting lead like a hose-pipe. The great art from
an infantryman's point of view is to locate these guns, and avoid going
over ground they cover. It is, humanly speaking, hopeless to try to
advance straight against them. Word soon goes along a line, "They've
got a Maxim along that road," or "Machine-guns are on that corner of
the field or gap in the hedge," and the road, or corner of the field,
or gap in the hedge is avoided like a plague spot accordingly.

After we had lain behind the cottages on the rise for a little while,
the commander of A Company sent back to say he would like a platoon
from the supports sent up to him. Goyle told me to take up No. 6.
Hutson, who was commanding A Company, was a capital fellow to work
under, and was moving about behind his trenches giving directions
to the men as coolly as if he had been on manœuvres instead of only
separated by a root field from the first line of the German army.
He showed me the bit of trench he wanted my platoon to occupy, gave
some instructions about putting out an advanced post, and said the
officers of A Company were having a stew cooked in the kitchen of one
of the cottages, if I would care to come in when it was dark and all
was straight for the night. He said he did not think we should try to
advance any farther that night, but hold on where we were.

I lined my men out along the section of trench I was to occupy, which
had mostly still to be made, and got them to work. It was growing dusk,
and buildings along the outskirts of the town were standing out clearly
against the sky-line. Just in front of us was what appeared to be a
large factory. As I watched I saw a shell crash against the roof of the
factory, followed by another and another. Soon flames sprang from a
corner of the building, but still the shells were sent against it, and
in ten minutes the whole building was ablaze.

Our guns stopped firing when the smoke and fire showed they had done
their work. Dark figures could be seen running about from point to
point silhouetted against the flames. Our men fired at the figures, and
made jokes about the discomfiture of the enemy, who could not move now
without being shown up by the flames, while they themselves were secure
in the darkness.

Then as I watched I saw a very dashing piece of work on the part of
the enemy, for up galloped a section of horse artillery right into the
firing-line, unlimbered, and opened fire. Their target was soon plain:
a row of haystacks just behind our lines. In five minutes these stacks,
too, were blazing merrily, and our lines were lit up as clearly as the
Germans'.

The whole scene made a wonderful stage battle effect, with the two
rival lines of trenches and the flames behind each shooting luridly to
the sky.

Later Hutson came up to me.

"By Jove!" he said, "my young subaltern did a good bit of work just
now. You know when those German guns started on our stacks. Well, he
got three men with buckets, filled 'em at a pump, and dashed at the
first stack and tried to put it out. A bit of a fireman, to get to work
like that while the object he was trying to extinguish was still under
shell fire."

I am glad to say that the deed of the young subaltern referred to was
mentioned in dispatches and that he received the D.S.O. and the three
men with him the D.C.M.




XV. A NIGHT PATROL


The regiment was acting as advance guard to the brigade, so
considerable responsibility rested on Goyle, who was senior officer
of the three companies employed. Goyle had been through the war from
the beginning, and had learnt the difference between reckless dash and
careful handling of men. Goyle had had four of his subalterns killed
and most of his original company replaced by reinforcements. He had
held the canal bank at Mons and fought slowly backwards from house
to house at Le Cateau. What he did not know of the Germans and their
methods of fighting no general knew, nor staff officer with red-banded,
brass-rimmed cap. Perhaps the generals and their staff officers knew
as much theoretically and had learnt a good deal from the result of
actions in which the divisions and units under their command had been
engaged, but none knew more than Goyle, who was a plain regimental
officer and lived daily in the firing-line. Had many but he been in
command that night the advance guard would have been cut up.

We had covered the first part of our march uneventfully, and were now
moving along a stretch of open road which ran between two deep ditches
with ploughland on either side. The Dorchesters were following us,
and they, we knew, had reached a village about half a mile behind.
Goyle was from the first extremely anxious not to let the gap between
ourselves and the Dorchesters get too wide. Our orders were to halt on
a cross-road at some point farther down along the road on which we were
marching. It was quite dark, and we were proceeding very slowly, as we
were uncertain of the whereabouts or strength of the enemy. Goyle had
got all the men off the road, and was making them move single file by
companies along the ditches. We proceeded some distance in this way,
but no cross-roads could be found, and after a bit Goyle halted and
sent back for further instructions. He discovered at the same time
that communication had not been maintained with the brigade on the
right, and that the Dorchesters showed no inclination to leave the
village they had reached, but were disposed to billet there. In fact,
everything pointed to a slight muddle having arisen, as a result of
which the three companies of my regiment might be severe sufferers in
their isolated position if the enemy suddenly attacked. It was the sort
of occasion when many officers less experienced than Goyle might have
done something which would have led to a disaster. Many, for instance,
would have pushed boldly on until they found the cross-roads or met
the enemy. They would have said that those were their orders and that
it was not for them to wonder whether there was any mistake. However,
Goyle was not of this sort. He believed in using his own judgment and
acting as circumstances seemed to dictate. His first concern was for
the lives of his men, which he would throw away as lightly as his
own if necessary, but which he always guarded jealously against the
possible perils of tactical mistakes.

"I don't like this," he said once or twice, as we were standing there
waiting for the reply to the message he had sent back. "It is all very
well, you know, but if they came for us now in any strength we should
get scuppered." It was dark, and we seemed a long way out along the
road from the other troops. I understood what he meant, and saw the
danger. Presently the orderly returned with a written message from
the Commanding Officer: "You are to go on as far as the _R_ in ----,
and remain in the village for the night." Goyle pulled out his map,
and we bent over it. ---- was a village of a few cottages, apparently
about a quarter of a mile down the road. I could see Goyle did not like
the order. "It is all very well," he said; "probably the enemy are in
the village--a nice trap we shall be walking into. I shall send on a
patrol, and if the village is held I shan't move on till daylight, when
we have got some reinforcements up."

It was then decided that I should take out a patrol and go and scout
the village. "Take a lance-corporal and a man with you," said Goyle;
"and when you get to the village one of you go into the first house,
leaving the other two outside; if the one who goes into the house does
not come out, another is to follow him in, and if he stays too, the
third is to come back and tell me. If we hear shots and none of you
return we shall know the village is occupied."

"Very good, sir," I said; and, wishing I was anywhere else, I went off
to get the patrol. I called my platoon together, explained the work
on hand, and asked for volunteers. I got a N.C.O. without difficulty,
but there was no response when I asked for a man. Much disgusted at
the want of spirit in the men, I was preparing to go off alone with
the lance-corporal rather than force anyone to go with me, when a
man stepped out of the ranks and made the party complete. Afterwards
Jenkins, my soldier servant, from whom I used to get tips about
handling the men and various bits of barrack-room gossip, explained to
me why I had got an N.C.O. easily enough, but had had difficulty in
getting a man. It appeared that the men had a rooted dislike to patrols
composed of an officer, a non-commissioned officer, and a man, as they
considered the man was always made the victim of the enterprise, being
sent on when the danger point was reached to draw fire. He said that
had I asked for two men they would have come forward willingly, but,
having got the N.C.O., no one cared to offer himself to take the place
of the private.

I saw what Jenkins meant, and decided to remember the point for future
guidance. As a matter of fact, I had decided that we should all go
together, anyway until the occasion came for entering the houses, when
it would be time enough to arrange who should go first.

Having got my N.C.O. and man together, I explained to them the work
that was on foot, and said that at the first shot from the enemy each
was to run for himself, and that no one was to wait to reply to the
fire; all we had to do was to find out whether or not the place was
occupied. Liking the job less each minute, we started off down the
road. After going a little way it occurred to me that an old military
rule was to keep a Maxim on a road at night, and that we should get
rather in the way of this if the enemy had one and opened fire.
Accordingly I ordered the patrol off the road on to the ploughland
beside. This was a good manœuvre, as we were able to creep over the
soft soil noiselessly. We felt our way on for some distance, until I
saw two dark objects. These were the first of the houses we had to
explore. Praying fervently that they might be empty, I led the way
towards them. Suddenly there was a sharp burst of fire ahead along a
front of about fifty yards. The shots could not have been fired from
more than ten yards range. We had evidently all but walked into a
German trench. The enemy had heard us, and blazed into the night. The
effect of the shots suddenly fired out of nothing was most startling.
As one man we all three turned and bolted in the opposite direction.
The corporal dropped his rifle, I lost my cap; the private, being a
fine sprinter, got slightly ahead, and we all three ran like mad.
After a couple of hundred yards I went head over heels into a ditch.
The corporal paused a moment to see if I had been hit, but continued
as soon as I got up; the man kept an unchecked course for home,
looking neither to the right nor the left. In the fall I slightly
dislocated my knee, but this was as nothing, and, hardly hindered by
a limp, I followed at full speed in the wake of the rout, the man
now holding a good lead, the corporal lying second, and myself a bad
third. I bethought me as I ran that we should probably draw the fire
of our own men, who would think we were the enemy, and halloaed:
"Goyle--Goyle--this is the patrol returning."

"Shut up, you blithering idiot," I heard his voice from the road; "do
you want all Germany to know where we are?"

I flung myself on the ground beside him and breathlessly reported what
had happened. "H'm," said Goyle, "just what I thought. I shan't try to
occupy that village to-night."

Just then the Major commanding the regiment and Adjutant, who had been
back with the reserve company, came up. "Well, what is it, Goyle?" said
the Major testily; "why don't you push on into the village?"

The Major was a very gallant officer, with considerable war experience
behind him. To his mind "dash" was the great thing. But the Major's
experiences had been chiefly in savage warfare, and he had no knowledge
of German methods. He had only come out from England two days before to
take the place of our Colonel, who had been wounded.

Goyle pointed to me, said that he had sent out a patrol, and that the
village was occupied. "Oh," said the Adjutant, "probably only two or
three half-scared Uhlans. You ought to have tackled them and brought
back their helmets"--this to me.

I offered with acid politeness to indicate the position of the "Uhlans"
so that the Adjutant could go out himself and get their helmets.

"I think the enemy are entrenched, sir," said Goyle to the Major.

"Well, have at them and drive them out," the latter answered.

"We are rather isolated here, sir, and we are too weak to attack the
village by ourselves."

"Maybe--maybe--I should push on, though," the Major answered.

"If you will excuse me, sir, I feel the responsibility rather too
great--if you would take command of the attack, sir." This was a
master-stroke on Goyle's part, as it brought home to the Major the
responsibility of throwing his men without proper support against
a position of unknown strength in the dark. He hummed and hawed,
and finally decided to leave things as they were till daylight, and
returned with the Adjutant to the reserve company.

As things turned out, it was lucky for all of us that Goyle had been
firm about advancing farther; for, so far from there only being a few
half-scared Uhlans ahead of us, we discovered afterwards that the
Germans were in force and strongly entrenched, and any attempt at
attack by the three companies must have failed disastrously.

When the Major had gone Goyle decided to move back, so as to get in
closer touch with the Dorchesters. We withdrew, therefore, to the
outskirts of the village, lined out on the ploughland on either side of
the road, and set the men to entrench.




XVI. WITH THE SUPPORTS


The Support trenches lay along a road about fifty yards behind the
firing-line. The trenches themselves were made partly from a ditch by
the side of the road, and partly excavated from a ploughed field which
ran out in the direction of the enemy. The firing-line trenches were
beyond in the ploughed field itself; beyond the ploughland again came a
stretch of root crop, and at the end of this the enemy.

The Westshires were holding the firing-line, and we were close up
behind them in support. In spite of the narrow margin between the
supports and firing-line life was a good deal easier for the supports.
Indeed, we felt ourselves onlookers compared to the Westshires in
front. The ground sloped gently down from their trenches to the road.
They could not move without showing up against the sky-line, while we,
by crouching, could move about our trenches with comparative freedom.

But the chief blessing of being in support lay in the fact that we
were not directly responsible for giving the first alarm. The onus of
waiting and watching for the German attack lay on the Westshires, and
our men felt themselves to be more or less onlookers for the day, and
lay about reading the newspapers and smoking. Evans and I found plenty
to occupy ourselves during the afternoon. There was a small farm just
by the side of our trench, protected from view by a row of cottages.
The owners of the farm had gone the day before, when there had been
an attack on the village, and left their home just as it was. We took
over the farm for our own use, got a fire going in the kitchen, and set
our servants to work to prepare dinner. Jenkins, my servant, had been
a chauffeur valet before the war, and had great ideas how things ought
to be done. These ideas had on occasion been reduced to making tea
during a halt by the roadside in a small black and dirty pot, which he
kept fastened to his pack, but with a kitchen stove to cook over and an
unlimited supply of crockery he was in his element.

Having annexed the farm as an officers' mess and installed Jenkins in
the kitchen we made a tour of the yard. Here we found several things
which wanted doing. First there was the farm dog, who had been left
behind chained to his kennel. The dog had had nothing to eat for two
days, and was ravenous. We got him a large bone and loosed him, so that
if we had to scurry he would not have to stay behind. Then we found
some cows in a shed in great pain from want of milking. There was a
man in my platoon who had been a dairyman, and I set him to work on
them. In a barn we found a quantity of straw, which we sent down to the
trenches. Finally we got soap and towels from a bedroom, and repaired
to the pump for a much-needed cleaning.

After washing ourselves we went out for a stroll before dinner. We
found a little group standing in the lee of the cottage across the
road--the Adjutant of the Westshires, the regimental doctor, two
stretcher-bearers, and an N.C.O. A man had been hit in the trench just
ahead of us, and the doctor had been sent for to come up from the
field-ambulance. The doctor had just sent word up to the trench to find
out the nature of the man's injuries. If he was severely wounded and
required immediate attention, the doctor was prepared to send up his
stretcher-bearers to have him brought down, but it would be a difficult
job and exposing men's lives, and the doctor wanted, if possible, to
leave the man there till dark. Doctors attached to regiments have many
difficult points to settle, and occasions like this often arise when it
is hard for them to decide whether to risk more lives to save one. They
are called upon sometimes to go up and attend to cases in all sorts of
impossible places, and in the firing-line the old cry of "Send for the
doctor" is not quite so easily answered as in other places.

We left the group by the cottage waiting for the reply about the nature
of the wounded man's injuries. Not a head showed from the trench where
he was lying. The trench itself, though only twenty yards or so away,
was hardly visible in the field. Glad it was not our turn to lie like
logs in it all the day, we went on down the village street. Nearly all
the cottages were empty, but in one we came on a group of inhabitants
who had remained. They had all collected in a kitchen and were having
a last meal round their table. They had got a little bread and some
coffee, which they were sharing with three private soldiers, who in
exchange had contributed a tin of bully beef. It made a strange sight
to see the weeping, frightened women and the tired dusty soldiers who
had come to defend them. The women had given the men a place round the
fire, and were waiting on them attentively. The privates could speak no
French and the peasants no English, so conversation was impossible, but
an interchange of thought could be read in the eyes of both parties;
the women looking on the men sadly and devoutedly, realizing they had
come there perhaps to give their lives for them, and across the men's
faces would come a look of appreciation for the hot comforting coffee,
and at other times a look of inscrutable purposefulness, which is
hard to describe, but which all our men wear in France, and which is
symbolic of the spirit which is carrying them through the campaign.

Seeing officers outside, one of the women came out. I said
"good-morning" to her in French, and with a delighted "_Ah, Monsieur,
vous parlez Français_," she addressed herself to me excitedly. It
appeared that her husband had been missing since the day before. She
was very anxious about him. Two officers had come to the cottage, asked
him some questions, and then taken him away with them. She had not seen
the man since. What did I think could have become of him? I asked her
some questions about the officers who had taken her husband away, and
from her description gathered that they were a captain and subaltern
in the British Army. As the Westshire Regiment was the only regiment
that I knew had been in the village since the Germans left it, I felt
sure the officers the woman referred to must be from that regiment.
Accordingly I went back to ask the adjutant of the Westshires if he
could give any information on the subject. He told me that when the
regiment had got up to the village the day before they had searched
the cottages and found a man in one of the upper rooms behaving
suspiciously with a lamp by a window which looked on the German lines.
They had taken the man off with them and sent him back to the rear,
where he would probably be tried for his life for a spy. This put me
in an awkward position, as I did not know what to tell the poor woman,
who, whatever her husband had done, was herself innocent of any evil
intentions. I contended myself with telling her that her husband was
in British hands, and that she might rest assured he would be fairly
treated.

Another difficulty then presented itself. The little party of women
in the cottage all wished to leave the village. They had collected
their few most cherished possessions together in a cart and proposed
to go off as soon as it was dark. But this could not be permitted, as
the noise of the cart, which would have to go along a road that ran
through our lines, would have attracted the enemy's attention and drawn
their fire on our men. The women refused to leave the cart with their
treasures behind and the situation seemed to have reached an _impasse_.
Finally, after interviewing the colonel of the Westshires, I was able
to get permission for them to take their cart, provided they kept it
along the grassy side of the road.

I shall never forget the little procession as it moved off after dark.
First the cart, drawn by an old horse with a woman leading it, followed
by a sorrowful little procession of women and children with quick,
frightened steps and bowed heads. They were leaving their village,
their homes, nearly all their belongings, and the little plots of
garden and weaving looms which were their livelihood, to go out to the
country beyond--which had always appeared in the little hemisphere of
their lives as a strange land dealing hardly with wandering strangers.
They were going away and would, perhaps, never see their village again.
(Alas, indeed, they never did.) Well may they have wondered what they
had done to bring such misery about their heads--misery embodied in the
Scriptural curse of old: War, rape, desolation, and famine.

However, there is little sentiment in war, and as we watched them go we
had not more than a passing thought for them. We were chiefly conscious
of having a farm to ourselves, and the prospect of a night of unusual
comfort for the firing-line.

Jenkins had made great preparations while we were away, and had a
two-course dinner ready for us--roast chickens and stewed apples. We
fell to on this heartily, and then sat round the kitchen stove drinking
hot rum and water. We turned in early, two of us using two beds and
the other two mattresses on the floor. With the Westshires in front of
us we were care-free for the night. An hour before dawn we were called,
and went back to the trenches to rouse the men to stand to arms. Then
we went to bed again and slept till eight.

We pulled the kitchen table out to the garden for breakfast, and made
a capital meal of fried eggs and bread and marmalade. We sat over
breakfast smoking cigarettes and drinking last cups of tea. It seemed
odd to be living such a leisurely life 700 yards from the enemy, but
the cottages in front secured us as long as they did not use artillery.
However, this was to come later. An artillery observing officer came to
fix up a field telephone just by our breakfast table. He expressed his
opinion that the enemy had got their guns up, and that the day would be
lively.

"Well," said Goyle, "perhaps we had better get back to the trench
for a bit anyway." Our trench was only ten yards off, just the other
side of the garden, and we stepped into it. Scarcely had we done so
than--crash!--a black Maria fell fair and square on the farm where we
had been sleeping. It was a matter of seconds, and what happened to
the artillery observing officer, whom we had left behind adjusting
his telephone, I do not know. Perhaps he lived. Artillery observing
officers have a knack of living in places where any other man would
be killed. However, we had no time to speculate on his fate, for a
minute later another high-explosive shell burst fifty yards over the
trench, followed by a second twenty-five yards over us. The enemy were
shortening their range. The men stirred uneasily in their dug-outs. No
rat in a trap could feel worse than an infantryman in a trench when
a big gun is searching for him with high explosive. BANG! A shell
burst on the other side of the road--ten yards from us. The next would
undoubtedly do it.

"Here," I called to Goyle, "what about this? They are getting our
range."

"We had better quit," he said. "Don't let the men run--file out slowly
to the right, and lie down behind that bank there. The other platoon
must stay; they are not being molested at present."

With as much dignity as possible, considering I expected a black Maria
in the back at any moment, I led the men out of the trench, and we
threaded our way gingerly back to the bank indicated, from which we
watched the vicious demolition of our empty trench.




XVII. BETWEEN ACTIONS


Just before dusk I was sent up with my platoon to join D Company, who
had more line than the number of men in the company could safely hold.
After being shown the section of ground where my men were wanted, I
went off to join the other officers of the company, who were having a
bit of dinner in a cottage, leaving the men to improve the trench, and
telling Jenkins, my soldier-servant, to make a good big dug-out for us
both.

It is interesting now to record that the officer commanding the
company to which I was lent was a man I had known in times of peace
and loathed to the point which drives a man to homicide. He was a fine
great fellow, but a bit rough with subalterns, and had, as he no doubt
thought for my own good, made my life a burden to me when I joined
the regiment. I often used to say to myself, when discipline and mess
etiquette prevented my replying to his remarks to me in the anteroom
in days of peace: "My sainted aunt--if ever I get alone with you in the
desert, my friend, I'll shoot." For two or three years we never spoke
to each other, and then suddenly I found myself sent up to serve under
him in the firing-line in front of La Bassée. How circumstances alter
cases. He had me in his hands then. Had he been the bully I thought
him, there were a hundred dirty jobs he could have made me do. He could
have sent me out on patrol or with messages to the next regiment.
There were many nasty things which had to be done that night. But all
he said, when I came up and reported myself as having been sent up to
reinforce him with a platoon, was: "Hullo, old chap. Look here, I just
want you to put your men along here, do you see?"--indicating the gap
he wanted filled--"and when you've done that, come into the cottage and
have a bit of dinner."

It was hospitable at a time when each man carried his own rations for
the day, and I had none left. The putting out of patrols and walking up
and down the line he did himself rather than ask me, whose job it was
as his subaltern for the time being. A few days later, when I was hit,
he was one of the first people to come up to me, and he was himself
killed five minutes later, gallantly leading a charge to drive the
Germans back from the spot where the wounded were dying.

While we were having dinner, the other subalterns and myself compared
notes about the different quarters we had for the night; one saying
he had not room to lie down in his dug-out; another that he had found
a lot of hay and made a fine lair; and the machine-gun officer saying
that he was best off of all, as he had his guns peeping from the window
of a bedroom above, and proposed to spend the night in bed by the side
of them.

When the meal was over and we had had a smoke, we dispersed to the
different sections of the defence we were holding. I found that Jenkins
had made a beautiful dug-out, lined it with straw, and roofed it with
some V-shaped pieces of thatch which the peasants in that part of
France use to protect their fruit. He had allowed just the right space
for me to lie down, and done everything he could think of that would
enable us to spend the night comfortably. Jenkins in private life was
a chauffeur-valet, of a fastidious, easily ruffled, and slightly
grasping disposition. However, though he would have died rather than
wear some of my old clothes, he was so well able to adapt himself to
the war that he won the D.C.M.

Having looked along the trench and moved the group sentry to a point
just near the dug-out, I settled down beside Jenkins on the straw.
Jenkins and I shared a little rum I had left over in my flask from the
day's rations, and, feeling very warm and good inside, closed our eyes.
My guardian angel was with me that evening, for I could not sleep, and
Jenkins, who could, kept grunting, which got on my nerves so near my
ear, so I decided to take some of the straw and lie down behind the
trench outside.

It was very dark, and the outline of the group sentry could just be
seen against the parapet. From where I had been in the dug-out I could
not see either of the sentries. As we were in the front line, with
nothing but a stretch of ploughland between ourselves and the Germans
and all the men in the trench were asleep, those two sentries were
pretty important. I lay there watching them with half-closed eyes. One
was resting with his head on the parapet (which is permissible as long
as the other keeps a sharp watch), but to my horror I saw the other,
after about ten minutes, turn round, sit against the parapet with his
back to the enemy, and deliberately drop his head on his arms and go to
sleep. We now had no one keeping watch over us at all, and there was
nothing to stop the Germans creeping over and bayoneting a trench full
of sleeping men. My first instinct was to march the sentry straight off
under arrest, then I remembered the penalty, and that he was only a
boy, and that it was many days and nights since the men had had proper
sleep. So I crept towards him, gave him a crack under the jaw with my
fist, which would effectively keep him awake for the rest of his turn
of duty, said, "You dare to turn round with your back to the enemy,"
and lay down again. I remember waking up uneasily every quarter of an
hour through the night and looking to see if the sentry was keeping
awake, and being reassured by a plaintive snuffling as the boy looked
ahead and rubbed his chin.

At 4 A.M. a regiment came to take over our lines, and we were sent
back in reserve. We marched back about a mile to a big empty farm,
where we were told we were going to spend the day. I had rejoined my
own company, and, as caterer for the company officers' mess, set about
getting breakfast for the five officers.

One of the latter, Edwards, was fresh out to the Front, and had not
quite got out of the way of being waited on by mess waiters. We had
sat down to the meal, which I had got ready on a table in the garden.
Edwards came up late, and found there was no tea left, so I sent him
to the kitchen to get some. Later we all wanted another cup, and I
dispatched him again, as he was the junior of the party, and I did not
see why I should do all the work. He came back and said there was no
one there; what was he to do about the tea? I said, "Make it." He said
he did not know how to. I took him gently by the arm and led him to
the kitchen to show him. When we had finished breakfast, Goyle and the
senior platoon commanders lit their pipes, while I cleared away the
things. Edwards pulled out his pipe too. But I said, "No, my boy; you
help here." I had an armful of crockery as I spoke, which I was taking
to wash up. Looking rather hurt, he followed me into the kitchen,
carrying a teaspoon. "I don't see why I should do all this," he said,
as we were washing up. "Don't you, my boy?" I said, sharply. "And do
you see any reason for me doing it?" He did not answer. "It may not
be one of the things you learnt at Sandhurst," I continued, "but when
you've been engaged in this campaign a little longer, you'll discover
that if you don't bally well shift for yourself you'll starve."

He was a good boy all the same, and got a bullet through the knee
leading his men at ----, and is a guest of the Kaiser now.

For lunch we had a Mc'Conochie. Mc'Conochie is a form of tinned stew,
and very succulent if properly cooked, as vegetables and a rich gravy
are contained in the tin. The usual way is to put the tin in a saucepan
of boiling water, let it boil for a while, and then take it out and
open it. However, that day as we were in a hurry--we had had orders to
take over the Westshires' trenches at midnight--I put the tin straight
on the fire, thinking to warm it up quicker. We were sitting round
talking when Evans suddenly exclaimed, "Gad, look at that tin!"

We looked and saw it swelling itself out. The gravy had turned to
steam, and the thing was on the point of bursting. I seized the tongs
and snatched it from the fire, placing it on the table. The thing still
seemed to be swelling gently.

"Quick," said Goyle, "prick it--it will go off."

I opened my clasp knife and gave it a jab. There was a sound like an
engine-whistle, and a jet of gravy steam shot into Goyle's eye.

"Oh, oh, you blithering idiot," he shouted, dancing about the room with
his hand clapped to his eye.

I watched the tin, wondering if all the stew had turned to steam.
However, happily it had not, and we had a good meal.

After lunch I strolled across to have a look at the field-dressing
station, which was in one of the farm outbuildings.

The doctor was attending to one or two wounded who came in, but not
having a very busy time. I watched him at work for a little while. He
was wonderfully thorough considering that his ward consisted of an open
yard and his material a box of dressings, a pair of scissors, and a
bottle of iodine. He stripped off the field bandages of each man that
came in and put on fresh dressings. One fellow walked in with a bullet
straight through his chest. He was deathly pale, but he stood up while
they took off his jacket and cut his shirt away, and looked down quite
unconcerned at the blood pouring from the hole through him.

At four o'clock we were told we were wanted in the firing-line again.
Goyle made the men take off their greatcoats and advised the officers
to put away their mackintoshes.

This last piece of advice was very sound. An officer wearing a
mackintosh is a conspicuous target in a line of men, and many have met
their death through doing it. Officers will carry rifles, cover their
field-glasses with khaki cloth, wear web equipment, and take all sorts
of precautions to make themselves as like the men as possible, and
then the first time a shower of rain comes put on their mackintoshes
and forget to take them off again when they advance. They might just as
well wear surplices.




XVIII. "THE --TH BRIGADE WILL ATTACK ----"


We thought we should have to attack that day, as we knew the powers
that be were most anxious for ---- to be taken.

The regiment had been, so to speak, in the forefront of the battle for
the past two or three days; that is to say, we had not had any troops
between ourselves and the enemy, and, though the fighting had never
been of a brisk nature, nevertheless the men were feeling the strain
of constant watchfulness and going without sleep. Even if there is not
much firing it is not a restful feeling to have nothing but a stretch
of open ploughland between oneself and the enemy, and to feel one may
be called upon to advance over the ploughland at any minute. It was a
nasty stretch of open country, swept and raked from every corner by the
enemy's machine-guns, and to lie there waiting for the order to get up
and cross it was rather like sitting inspecting a stiff fence.

Greatly to our relief the Westshire Regiment had been sent up to
relieve us at 4 A.M. and we had gone back in support. We had handed
over the trenches to them without much reluctance, and with an easy
prescience that we had had our share of work, and that it was the turn
for a regiment fresh from reserve to come up and take our place.

After being relieved we were marched back to a sugar refinery a mile
behind, and here we fully expected to spend the day. The men were
issued out rations, and the officers made preparations for breakfast.
There was a nice house belonging to the manager of the sugar refinery,
and in a kitchen we found some crockery and a fire, also the caretaker
of the manager's house and his wife. The latter made us a pot of tea,
and with our morning issue of cold bacon, a tin of marmalade, and a
loaf of bread there were the materials for a good breakfast for the
five of us--Goyle, Evans, myself, and the other two platoon commanders.

Our dream of lolling round the sugar refinery all day in reserve was
early dispelled. We had barely finished breakfast when the order came
that we were to pack up and march off. We went back the way we had come
towards the line we had been holding overnight.

As we were marching along the rumour spread that we were going back
in support of the Westshires, and that there was an attack impending.
We halted in some dead ground, and lined a ditch four or five hundred
yards behind the line the Westshires were holding. As we were lying
there an orderly came up with a message which Goyle was to read and
pass on. Goyle showed me the bit of paper before folding it up again.
The message ran: "The --th Brigade will attack ---- at 10 A.M. in
support of the French attack on ---- on their right."

It was then nine o'clock, so we had an hour to wait. Goyle was much
excited by the message, and said we were certain to be sent up to swell
the Westshires' line. The men were still wearing the greatcoats they
had had on during the night, and he ordered them to be taken off and
put away in the packs. He also advised the platoon commanders to take
off their mackintoshes, which show up an officer clearly.

While these preparations were going on I took a stroll down the ditch
to battalion headquarters, hoping to find somewhere to leave my
greatcoat instead of having to carry it. Battalion headquarters were
behind a small house at the junction of a cross-roads. Here other
people had collected--the stout officer, the doctor, and an artillery
observing officer. The artillery observing officer was in telephonic
communication with a heavy battery about two miles back, to which he
was sending back messages about possible targets and the effect of
fire. Outside the scout officer was making an early lunch off a piece
of ham which he had found in the mess-box. I joined him, contributing a
biscuit.

"The Major is an ass, you know," he said; "he will go showing himself."

He pointed to our senior major, a very gallant officer indeed, but
a man who had, as the scout officer said, an unfortunate tendency
to expose himself to fire. He was at the moment standing at the
cross-roads, beyond the shelter of the cottage, looking through his
field-glasses in the direction of the enemy's lines. The cross-roads at
which he was standing was a most exposed place. The Major was a smart,
dapper-looking man, and he stood with his legs apart, one hand holding
the glasses, the other brushing his moustache. Suddenly there was a
sharp ping; he dropped the glasses, raised his right foot sharply, and
swore. Then he came limping in.

"Curse the brutes--curse the brutes," he said, sitting on the ground
and nursing his foot; "they have shot me through the big toe."

The doctor went to the Major's assistance and the scout officer peered
round the corner of the house to see if he could make out where the
shot had come from. Presently he came back.

"I think they have got a Maxim up in that church tower, sir," he said.

There was a fine church in the town the enemy were holding, and the
tower stood high up above the other buildings.

"Have they, by Gad--the brutes," said the Major, still nursing his
injured foot, which was causing him acute pain. "Here, let me look"
he limped to the corner. A Maxim could plainly be heard firing from
somewhere in front, ping-ping-ping--ping-ping-ping.

"By Jove, I believe you are right," said the Major. "Here, just send
that gunnery officer to me."

The artillery observing subaltern came up.

"Look here, they've got a Maxim in that church tower--see, over
there--thing hit me in the foot just now. Can you telephone back and
get your guns to it?"

"Yes, sir," said the gunnery subaltern.

Soon four heavy guns were playing on the church tower, and the tower
crumbled. So are churches and other things destroyed in war time.

It was now nearly ten, and we returned to our trench. Soon bullets
came whistling overhead, and we knew the attack had been launched.
We lay low in the dug-outs waiting till we were wanted. Knowing the
ground, I could picture clearly what was going on in front, and I did
not envy the Westshires their task. I could imagine them getting out
of their trenches and advancing in line over that murderous stretch of
ploughland. When we had been in the trenches they were then leaving
we had hardly dared show our noses above them; but now the Westshires
had the order, and out they had to go, and forward. Phzz-phzz-phzz.
The bullets began to come over more quickly, and we could hear the
answering fire of the Westshires. It may have been half an hour that we
lay there, and then a hot, dusty figure crawled round the corner of the
trench.

"Is the Captain of B Company there?"

"Yes, I'm here," Goyle answered.

The new arrival squatted down in the trench. It was the Adjutant of the
Westshires. He pulled out his pouch and started to fill his pipe. His
hands shook so that he could hardly get the tobacco into the bowl. I
shall never forget the way he breathed--hard, noisy gasps. The man was
evidently at breaking-point.

"How is it going?" Goyle asked.

"Oh, it's hell," the Adjutant of the Westshires answered.

"It is impossible to expect men to advance over such ground. We have
only got about twenty yards. We have had a hundred down already--Leary
and Blake are gone--Jones and Barty wounded. It is no good--they can't
carry on. Look here; what I came back for was, would you send an
officer with me, so that I can show him where we want your men? Our
fellows are rather shaken. I think it would be a good thing if they
would close up behind. One never knows what might happen."

I could read the Adjutant's thoughts. He dreaded lest his men should
break. He knew if they had to advance farther they would be shot down
like rabbits. Poor man, he as Adjutant of the regiment was responsible
for the men's lives and conduct. The regiment was in danger of being
wiped out. No wonder his hand shook, and he breathed in great gasps.
Never have I seen a man so cruelly strained. He grew calmer as he sat
there, and presently Goyle sent me back with him.

The Adjutant of the Westshires was quite calm as we returned to the
firing-line. We found the Colonel of the regiment sitting on the ground
behind a wall. He held a message in his hands. "Look there!" He read
out the message to the Adjutant.

"The --th Brigade will continue their attack on ---- at 11.30 A.M. The
attack will be pressed home at all costs."

Both men looked at each other. They knew they had received the
regiment's death warrant. No attack could succeed over such ground.
The Colonel looked at his watch. I looked at the little iron-grey man
sitting there waiting for the hour when he was to send his regiment to
their doom. Then the Adjutant took me quietly, and showed me the places
where he wished our men to come up. He was quite calm now as we peeped
round the corner of a house at the lines which had to be taken at all
costs. The firing had stopped now. The Westshires were lying out in
the ploughland at the point they had reached. The Germans lined their
trenches waiting for them to move.

But the time never came. Ten minutes later a staff officer had come up,
inspected the ground, and cancelled the second order for the attack.




XIX. BY THE SKIN OF OUR TEETH


We were moved to the village very suddenly. There was no reason that we
could see for the move. However, this transpired later. It was getting
dusk when we reached the village. A and C Companies were sent at once
up to the firing-line, and B and D Companies were lined along a ditch
in support. The ditch had been prepared for habitation by the regiment
who had held it before. At one point they had thrown some boards across
the ditch and made a house underneath. This proved a very welcome
shelter when later it came on to rain. We lay in the ditch for an hour
or two listening to the last shells before nightfall, from one of our
heavy batteries, singing overhead. The shells were sent in groups of
three, and we could plainly hear each, whizz-whizz-whizz, chasing each
other through the air, perhaps not more than twenty yards apart. We
were comfortable enough where we were, and idly speculated on what
errand of destruction the shells were bent. They sounded nasty great
things to have coming in the wrong direction, and we wished the Germans
joy of them.

About eight I felt hungry, and got out of the trench to have a look
round. I had two tins of Mc'Conochie in my haversack, which I put in
a pan of boiling water. Across a field to the front I saw a farm, and
decided to go over and explore. In the field there were two or three
curious heaps of straw, which proved to be the burial piles of dead
cows, killed by shell fire, and covered over by the farmer in this
rather ineffective fashion. The cows were getting smelly, and I did not
stay long looking at them. I found the farm occupied by two old men and
an old woman. One of the old men, over eighty, they told me, had taken
to his bed and lain there with the shutters up for three days. He was
half-dead from fright, and could not be induced to move. The old woman
said they had had Germans billeted in the farm a week before. They had
treated her and her old husband none too gently, driving them out of
the house while they made soup in her cauldron. She had managed to
hide one or two little bits of bread, and was making supper off a crust
and some coffee. She put the fire at my disposal for getting supper
ready for Goyle and the other officers in the company. They all came
across a quarter of an hour later, Evans with a great possession--a tin
of cocoa. There was plenty of milk to be had from the farm--indeed, it
was a godsend to the old people to get a man to milk their cows--and
we soon had a beautiful jug of thick, steaming cocoa. We then prepared
the Mc'Conochie, and what proved to be our last meal all together was a
good one.

It was getting late when we had finished, and we had to hurry back to
the support trench. On the way, as I was going along at a quick trot,
I came head over heels over a big object and nearly impaled myself on
a spike. Apart from the smell of the cow, it was really most dangerous
lying out there at night-time, and I sent a party of men back to bury
it.

The trenches we were to take over lay just beyond the village along the
crest of a slope. The section my company was responsible for ran just
in front of three haystacks. A company extended away to our right, and
the Dorchester Regiment continued the line to our left. The officer of
the regiment we were relieving said to me: "You see those stacks--well,
I should keep clear of them; the enemy have them set." I nodded, very
tired at finding myself back in the firing-line, where we had been
almost continuously for ten days, and not particularly interested in
what the enemy had set or what they had not. In fact, as soon as I had
seen the men distributed along the trench, and had given one or two
orders about its improvement, I made straight for the centre stack,
pulled as much hay as I could out of the side of it, rolled myself up,
and went to sleep.

I was awakened by a sharp blow in the back. Looking up I saw Evans
drawing his foot back to give me a second and harder kick.

"Get up, you blithering fool," he said; "your men are out all over the
place."

I jumped to my feet, and, fastening my belt as I ran, dashed for the
trench. I owed a lot to Evans for waking me. As Evans said, the men
were all walking about outside the trench. I got them in immediately,
and was preparing to follow when I thought of my bed, and went off to
fetch it. One never knew when the next chance of leaving the trench
might come. I was bending down, gathering a good armful of hay, when
there was a report, a sensation like red-hot iron running through one,
followed by acute pain, and I pitched head-forward into the hay. I
had been hit. Very frightened and hurt, I crawled as fast as I could
round to the side farthest from the enemy and sat down. I examined my
wounds--a bullet through each leg. The shots were low down and did
not look very serious. They hurt infernally, and I made a mental note
to call the next man who said he never noticed he had been hit in the
heat of an action a liar. I examined the wounds. Were they serious
enough to warrant a visit to the field-dressing station and a possible
return to England? I hoped devoutly they were. An attempt to stand
soon satisfied me, and I fell down again, much relieved. All these
thoughts were a matter of seconds; in the meanwhile there was a good
deal going on round the stack. An enemy battery was playing round it
with high-explosive shrapnel. The shells burst first one side, then the
other, in front, behind, in all directions. The noise was deafening,
and the lead in the air was just like a hailstorm; however, it was
a stout stack, and kept me dry, though I confess I doubted getting
away alive. After a few minutes the firing stopped, and, throwing
myself on my side, I rolled as fast as I could for a support trench.
I pitched head-first into the trench and landed on the top of two
privates who were sheltering in the bottom expecting more shrapnel
over at any minute. They were not expecting me, and thought their
last hour had come when I fell on top of them. Getting our breath,
we all three cursed each other. Then, seeing I was an officer, they
became respectful. I explained I was wounded, and they helped me off
with my puttees and bound up the wounds with the first-aid bandage
which I ripped from my coat. In the meanwhile word was sent back for
stretcher-bearers. As the firing had stopped these came up immediately,
lifted me out of the trench, put me on a stretcher, and started off
with me. We had to go down a road in full view of the enemy. For some
providential reason they never fired at us, though I was about the last
wounded man to be brought down that road. Halfway down the road the
stretcher-bearers began to show signs of feeling my weight. I coaxed
them on a few more yards, but when they came to the lee of a cottage
they put me down and shook their heads; another bearer came to the
rescue, and with the extra help the party proceeded. A hundred yards
more brought us to a cottage which was being used as a field-dressing
station. The cottage was beginning to fill, and wounded men lay about
all over the floor.

"Oh, Gawd! Oh--! ----ooh!!"

"Shut up, can't yer?" a man shouted from the far corner of the room.

"I've got a 'ole in me big enough to put yer 'and in," the sufferer
explained, and began again to groan and swear.

"Got a cigarette, mate?" A man deathly pale on a stretcher held out his
hand to a comrade who was slightly wounded and standing beside him.
The latter extricated a Woodbine from a crumpled packet and passed
it down. The man on the stretcher lit the cigarette and puffed at it
phlegmatically. It was doubtful whether he would live, and though he
did not know this, he knew he must not have anything to eat or drink
for many hours.

About fifteen or twenty of us were lying on the floor of a cottage.
Outside, four or five hundred yards up the street, a lively fight was
in progress for the possession of the village. After the firing-line
the cottage seemed a haven of peace and safety.

"Hullo, they've got you."

"Morning, Doctor."

A young fellow, fresh from his training at a hospital, was standing
beside me. He was our regimental doctor, and I'd always thought of him
as a lucky fellow who rode on a horse when we were on the march, got
his rations regularly at all times, and during a scrap enjoyed the
security of the extra few hundred yards which he was supposed to have
between his dressing-station and the firing-line. Well, here he was to
look after me, anyhow.

"Got a bit of work to do to-day, Doctor," I said as he bound me up.

"Yes," he answered, adjusting a blanket as a pad under me, "there, just
keep in that position and the bleeding will soon stop." He turned to
the man next me.

"I've got some across the way, too," he said, as the orderly handed him
fresh bandages. "They've been shelling the poor beggars, knocking all
the slates off the roof."

As he spoke some shrapnel crashed against the roof of our cottage,
sending a few tiles rattling to the ground. The doctor looked up.

"I think we're all right here," he said. "We've got a double roof. I
always try to pick a cottage with a double roof. But those poor devils
over the way are getting awful scared; I think I'll slip across to
them."

The bit of road he had to "slip across" was catching most of the shells
which the cottage did not, and was also the channel for a steady stream
of rifle and machine-gun fire. I began to see there wasn't much in it,
whether one was a doctor or a platoon commander.

More especially did I realize a doctor's difficulties when, later in
the day, just as our doctor had finished looking at my dressings, a
message came that the field-dressing station belonging to the regiment
on our left had been set alight by a shell. He hastily organized a
party of stretcher-bearers and orderlies and went off at once. Later
he came back. He said it had been terrible to see the wounded lying
helpless in the barn waiting for the flames, but somehow they had
managed to rescue all and move them to a safer place, though the whole
operation had to be carried out under rifle and shell fire. Each time a
regiment is seriously engaged with the enemy at least 100 men are hit,
often four times the number. The regimental doctor is supposed to bind
up each one of these, and often when times are slack and a stray man
here or there gets hit he will be sent for to come up to the trenches.

"'Allo, Jock," loud greetings were shouted by every one in the room to
a little man standing in the doorway with a bandolier across his chest
and rifle with bayonet still fixed. He was a grubby little fellow, with
blood and mud caked all down his cheek, ragged clothes, and--as I had
seen as he came up the cottage steps--a pronounced limp. It was Private
Mutton, scallawag, humorist, and well-known character in the regiment.

"Yus, they got me," he said in answer to inquiries, "fro' me calf," he
pointed to his leg, "and right acrost the top of me 'ead"--he raised
his cap and showed where a bullet had parted his hair, grazing the
scalp. "But I give the bloke somethink what did it." Private Mutton
grinned at his bayonet. "Got 'im fair, right fro' 'is stomick."

I could not help feeling delighted, for I recognized in the muddy,
gory, highly-pleased-with-himself little man the original of Thomas
Atkins, of whose doings along the Indian frontier I had read thrilling
accounts by Mr. Kipling, and whose quaint mannerisms I had often
laughed at as represented on the stage of music-halls at home....

At 9 P.M. the ambulances came up.

The doctor went round quickly attending to each man. He bound up my
wounds afresh and had me carried into an inner room. I lay there all
day, and never shall I forget the experience. I could see nothing
except a bit of the wall on the opposite side of the street. But I
could hear. Just after I had been brought in fresh firing broke out.
Rifle fire this time, sharp and insistent. Then there was a sound of
stamping feet, and I heard an officer rallying the men at the corner
of the street. The firing continued all day and sometimes seemed to
rage almost at the door of the cottage. I gathered that the Germans
were attacking the village in masses, and that it was touch-and-go
whether we could hold out. Sometimes there would be a rush of men
outside the window, and I would look to see if the pale grey uniform
was there or if khaki still held the place. Every now and then a shower
of shrapnel struck the roof of the cottage, and tiles went rattling to
the road. All the while a section of our artillery fired incessantly.
How gallant those guns of ours sound--Boom-boom-boom. They were
fighting to their last shell. If the village went, they went with it.
No horses could be brought up to draw them away in such an inferno.
The doctor worked on quietly. His work extended now to houses on the
left and right. He said it was terrible to see the fear of death on the
faces of men shot through the stomach. He found time once to have a cup
of tea with me and smoke a cigarette. Night began to fall and the room
grew dark. I was glad of his company for five minutes. We were in the
same boat, he told me--if the Germans got the village he was going to
stay behind with the wounded.

At half-past five Evans came in with a smashed arm.

"Goyle has gone," he said. "He was hit twice before during the day.
He was holding out with a few men there and got a third through the
chest which did him. Edwards was shot through the knee, and we had
to leave him. All the company officers are down. A company has been
surrounded and cut off. Whew! you can't live out there." As he spoke
the firing swelled to a din unequalled through the day. We heard shouts
and curses. The Germans were making a final tremendous effort to break
through.

"Our boys may do it," said Evans, "but there are not many left." I
lay back against the wall, pulled out a cigarette, and threw one to
Evans. We could only wait. Suddenly outside we heard a stamp of feet, a
hoarsely yelled order, "Fix bayonets!" another word of command, and a
mass of men rushed past the window up the street, cheering madly.

"That's the ----s," cried a stretcher-bearer, who came in excitedly.
"They have been sent up from the reserve."

The doctor came in. "We've got two more regiments up; we shall be all
right now," he said.

For a moment the firing continued, then died down. Night came and found
us still holding the village, and at ten o'clock the ambulance took us
away.




XX. "AND THENCE TO BED"


The horse ambulance took us back some three miles to the field
ambulance, where we spent the night after being given some food and
tea and having our wounds dressed. The accommodation was rough, just
some straw on the floor, but to feel there were three miles between
ourselves and the enemy gave one quite a feeling of being rested.
At these field ambulances the work of dressing the wounded goes on
incessantly day and night, and it is here that many a case of lockjaw
or gangrene is prevented by the timely application of antitetanus
injection or iodine. Among the wounded was a young German boy, not more
than eighteen years old. The other wounded Tommies and the orderlies
were very good to him, making quite a pet of the boy and giving him tea
and cigarettes and asking him what he thought about the war. He had
only had six weeks' training before being sent into the firing-line,
and was a gentle enough creature bewildered by the fierce struggle
into which he had been thrown.

In the morning a fleet of motor ambulances came to take us to the
clearing hospital at railhead. Most of these ambulances were private
cars fitted up at their owners' expense and driven in many cases by
the owners too. Only those who have been wounded and travelled in a
Government horse ambulance can appreciate the good work done by these
volunteer Red Cross workers and their cars. After the lumbering horse
vehicle rubber tyres and the well-hung body of a private car are an
unspeakable relief to broken bones. Our driver was a young fellow who
looked as though he had just left Oxford or Cambridge. He drove us very
slowly and carefully over the twelve miles of bumpy road, and took us
straight to the station in time to have us put on a hospital train
which was leaving that morning for the base. How often at the beginning
of the war on my way up to the Front had I seen these hospital trains
go by and wondered--with a very pious hope that it might be so--if it
would ever be my lot to take a passage in one. In those days as now
every one knew that it was only a question of time before they were
killed or wounded--few last long enough to become diseased--and to be
stowed safely away in a hospital train labelled for England was the
best fate that could befall anyone.

It was, then, with a feeling of supreme contentment that I allowed
myself to be laid along the seat of a first-class carriage and
propped up behind with a greatcoat and a pillow. On the opposite
seat was a young gentleman not nearly so contented. He had been hit
in the shoulder. He said his wound was hurting him; that he was not
comfortable on the seat of the carriage; and that he considered tinned
stew (which had just been brought us) a very nasty luncheon. I thought
him a peevish and graceless cub and, when he snapped at the orderly who
came to clear away lunch, rebuked him.

I said that he ought to be thankful for being where he was at all;
that his wound was nothing compared to those of others in the train;
that his whining and peevishness brought discredit on his uniform and
regiment; and that he ought to be ashamed of himself for making such a
fuss. As he was a second lieutenant just fresh from Sandhurst and I was
an elderly subaltern of several years' service he did not argue with
me, but looked at the floor, while I scowled at him from time to time
across the carriage.

Eventually the train started and we began our journey to Boulogne. We
had been told it would take about nine hours, and so prepared to make
ourselves as comfortable as possible and sleep. Except for a visit
from the doctor to ask if we wanted anything, and from a hospital
nurse, nothing much happened for the rest of the day. The visit from
the hospital nurse is one of the things I remember most clearly from
an otherwise clouded period. It was the first taste of the infinite
sympathy and solicitude which women give to men returned from the war.
All who have experienced it--as every wounded man has in abundant
measure--must have felt that anything he has suffered was worth such a
reward.

After the visit from the hospital nurse we had some dinner and settled
down for the night. About this time I began to notice that the blanket
which had been folded in four and placed under my injured leg was
slightly rucked at the corner. I could not reach it to adjust it
myself and after the scene with my stable mate did not like to ask his
assistance. Presently an orderly came by and I called him in to put it
right. Half an hour later the same thing happened again and I had to
call in another orderly. The little subaltern, who was dozing, opened
one eye and looked at me reproachfully, but said nothing. Later, when
the train pulled up with a jerk which nearly threw us off our seats,
we both groaned softly, and when it did the same thing again I swore,
and received a grateful look from the rebuked grumbler. In fact, to
shorten the story, by noon the next day, when we were finally taken out
of the train, I was half hysterical with pain, discomfort, and fatigue,
and the little subaltern had nearly forgotten his troubles in his
efforts to adjust my blankets with his sound arm and running to and fro
fetching the orderly: the moral of this story needs no pointing....

At Boulogne we were taken by motor ambulance to one of the base
hospitals. The hospital was a marvellous example of efficient emergency
organization. Three days before it had been a hotel; and in this space
of time--_i.e._ three days--the entire building had been converted
into a thoroughly modern hospital with wards and operating-theatre.
Most of the work had been done by the members of the hospital staff
themselves, and, as we were taken in, the last bits of hotel furniture
were still standing in the hall waiting to be removed.

By this time I was rather exhausted, and I cannot remember more than
a matron in a dark silk dress with a very gentle, pretty face bending
over me and asking me if I was comfortable, and my replying in a
voice that was little above a whisper that it was good to be in bed.
I think she said, too, something to the nurse about "not putting him
to bed like that." I had been in the same clothes for a fortnight and
they were very muddy, and I remember having my breeches cut off and
being helped into a flannel night-shirt. I woke later to find a nurse
beside me with a basin of water. "Would you like to wash?" she asked.
I gazed at her apathetically. "Come on then, I'll do it for you," she
said kindly. She dipped a piece of flannel in the basin and rubbed it
gently over my face. Then she took one of my hands and rubbed that;
then streaks of white appeared down my fingers as the caked mud was
cleared. "There, I think that is all we'll do for the present," she
said, and feeling beautifully clean--though in reality with ten days'
beard and looking perfectly filthy--I lay back on the pillow.

After tea I sat up, accepted a cigarette from my neighbour, and took
stock of the rest of the ward.

In the bed on my right was a man with a bandaged head; he had an
orderly beside him and was dictating a letter. He was evidently feeling
very weak, for he spoke with an obvious effort. The letter was about
some lost baggage, and dictated with the utmost precision and detail.
He ended by saying, "Signed James Brown, Captain and Adjutant"; and
I couldn't help smiling, for it was so like an Adjutant to dictate a
precise letter about some lost baggage, but it seemed so funny for him,
weakened by his wounds as he was, to be lying there in bed doing it,
and I felt sure it was more from force of habit than anything else.

At eight o'clock the day-sister made a round of the wards with the
night-sister, handing over her patients till the next day. The
night-sister was followed by a sort of understudy who, I remember,
was tall and thin with rather a long nose. This understudy, who was
referred to as "nurse" by the other two, was, I gathered, a sort of
probationer, and not allowed to take much responsibility on herself.

By ten the ward was in darkness except for one green-shaded light, and
I think I must have dozed a little, for I remember looking up suddenly
to see the night-sister's understudy standing at the foot of my bed
and gazing at me with a puzzled expression. Seeing me open my eyes she
stretched out her arm and pulled towards her a glass-topped table with
a bowl of dressings on it. Then she studied me again. I was still half
asleep and watched her with half-closed eyes.

"Is it your _feet_?" she asked.

I nodded.

She lifted the bedclothes back from the foot of the bed and surveyed
my bandaged feet for a minute or two. Then with a sudden air of
determination she bent down and, catching my right foot by the big toe,
lifted it deftly off the pillow on which it was resting. I gave one
piercing scream which woke the whole ward and brought the night-sister
running in. For the rest of the night I lay with one eye peeping over
the sheet prepared to yell for help at the top of my voice if the young
lady assistant came near my bed. The next day she returned to England
for further instruction.

The following afternoon I was operated on and the bullet extracted from
my ankle. A sergeant brought it me wrapped in cotton-wool and left me
feeling quite reassured about the success of the operation....

I remember very well on the way up to the Front seeing a hospital
ship leave one of the base ports. She was a beautiful looking vessel,
painted white, with a great red cross painted on either side amidships.
That hospital ship certainly looked comfortable, and I don't mind
admitting that, at the time, I wished most heartily I was on board her
with my job done instead of having to go up to the firing-line and do
it. The wounded men on board all looked so happy and comfortable.

However, everything comes to him who waits--nothing more quickly
than a bullet in these sanguinary days--and after a week at the base
hospital at Boulogne I was given a ticket marked "cot case" and told
I was going to be put on board a hospital ship for England. I smiled
gratefully at the doctor, tied the ticket round my neck, put on a
woollen waistcoat, muffler, and dressing-gown (all presented to me
by the hospital) over my pyjamas, and waited my turn to be carried
downstairs. In due course, with three others, I was taken in a motor
ambulance to the ship, and from thenceforward was in the charge of the
naval authorities.

We were carried up the gangway on our stretchers and placed on a sort
of luggage lift which in the twinkling of an eye transported us below,
where we were lifted on to swinging cots arranged in a large saloon.
The quick, handy way in which everything was done was typical of the
Navy, and having once spent six weeks on board a battleship, I felt
quite at home again. Dinner was brought round soon after getting on
board, and I ate soup, fish, roast mutton, and apple tart with the
heartiest of appetites. Unfortunately, also, in the happiness of the
moment, I drank a large bottle of Bass which seriously affected my
slumbers during the night.

We did not leave until the following night, arriving at Plymouth at
nine o'clock the next morning. However, it was no hardship to be aboard
the hospital ship.

The cots were just as comfortable as beds; there was every appliance
for dressing our wounds, and the nurses and doctors looked after us
indefatigably. In such surroundings aspects of the war which are taken
more seriously elsewhere are made light of. The patients made jokes
about each other's wounds and their own, and all were so glad to be
alive that pain and suffering were almost forgotten. There was one
fellow in the cot next to mine who in the middle of a silence suddenly
uttered an exclamation of annoyance. Asked what was the matter, he said
he wanted to know the time and had just discovered he had lost his
watch. It was a wrist watch, he explained, and must have been left on
the arm they had amputated at the field ambulance.

At Plymouth we were taken on board a launch and landed at a quay close
by the naval hospital. The ingenious cots devised by the Navy enable
a wounded man to be moved bodily in his bed, all wrapped up and warm,
to the bed in the hospital. They are so made that they can either
be carried as stretchers, or slung from a ship's side, or put on
hand-trolleys and wheeled. The Naval Hospital at Plymouth is a model
of neatness and smartness, each patient in the officers' quarters gets
a small room to himself which is called a cabin; the orderlies are all
ex-sailors and handy and obliging as only sailors can be; and the naval
nurses in their smart blue uniforms are a pleasure to watch.

I stayed at Plymouth for five days, when I was allowed to travel to
London.


  PRINTED AT
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  LONDON & EDINBURGH




SOLDIERS' TALES OF THE GREAT WAR

Each Volume Crown 8vo, Cloth, 3s 6d net


I

WITH MY REGIMENT

  By "PLATOON COMMANDER"

  [_Ready_

_To be followed by_


II

DIXMUDE

 A chapter in the History of the Naval Brigade, Oct.-Nov. 1914

  By CHARLES LE GOFFIC

  _Illustrated_


III

IN THE FIELD (1914-15)

 The Impressions of an Officer of Light Cavalry


IV

IN THE DARDANELLES AND SERBIA

 Notes of a French Army Doctor

  _Illustrated_


  LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN
  21 Bedford Street, W.C.



*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 73692 ***