Book: Contemptible

C >> Casualty >> Contemptible




The first day of trench life--if such it could be called--was not a
very trying experience. There was nothing to do except a little
improvement of the shelters. Their only duty was to "wait and see." It
was not cold, and they had their rations. The Subaltern dug, and slept,
and ate, and then dug again, and thus the day passed. Indeed, he even
began to write a long letter home in his notebook, but he lost the pages
almost as soon as they were written.

They were shelled twice during the day, but all one had to do was to lie
comfortably in one's "funk hole" and wait for the "hate" to die down.
After many experiences in the open, without a particle of cover, being
shelled in deep holes had few terrors.

"Of course," he said to himself, "if they get a direct hit on this hole
I'm done for, but otherwise I'm pretty safe."

Nevertheless, in spite of the holes, several men were carried away.

The greatest inconvenience to the place was the stench of decaying
horses. About twenty yards down the hill the horses belonging to a whole
Battery had been struck by a shell. About a dozen of them lay dead where
they had been standing. The story had been told of how one of the
Subalterns of the other Company had left his hole, rifle in hand, in the
middle of a bombardment, to put the wounded animals out of their agony.
He had succeeded in shooting them all, but on his way back had been
struck in the foot with a piece of shell casing. It was an heroic,
kindly act, typical of the brave man who did it. But it seemed a
pity....

It was, of course, impossible to bury the dead animals, and to drag them
further away was out of the question in the daylight. There was nothing
else to do but to sit tight and endure in silence.

Their second night in the trenches was merely a repetition of the first.
After a lively sunset fusillade had died down, the Germans lay quiet
until dawn. The German artillery were so regular in their habits that it
almost seemed as though they must be working by a printed programme,
which directed that at six o'clock precisely in the morning, every
battery was to fire off a certain number of rounds, absolutely
regardless of whatever targets they might have been offered, and, having
fired the requisite number of rounds, the battery was to lie quiet
until, say, eleven o'clock. Of course, the thing was ludicrous, but it
seemed to be the only explanation.

A mail was included in the rations. He himself drew blank, but the
Senior Subaltern was sent a box of chocolates. The sight of them, on
Active Service, was a farce. They were not the usual sort of chocolates
that one saw--"plain," useful, nourishing chocolates. They were frankly
fancy chocolates, creams with sugared tops, filled with nuts, marzipan,
or jellies, inseparable from a drawing-room, and therefore ten times
more acceptable and delightful.

He got not a single letter from home, not from any one. Not that he
minded much, at that time. Home, parents--any softness of any
description--would have seemed unreal.

The happiness of the following day was very much impaired by rain, which
fell intermittently throughout the whole day. After the first shower he
got up and began to look about him for some sort of protection. Rather
than have nothing, he picked up a waterproof sheet that had belonged to
a wounded man. It was covered with blood, but the next shower soon
washed all trace of it off, and it kept him dry.

The next night, just after rations had been distributed, an order came
to march off. Haste, it seemed, was imperative. And so, leaving behind
as few things as possible, he paraded his men, without knowing where
they were to go, and saw them set off behind the front Platoon. Just as
he was about to set off himself, he slipped down the side of one of the
holes, and as he fled, his sword slid from its scabbard, and vanished.
He knew the chances of returning to that particular spot were five to
one against, and he was determined to "hang on" to his sword, come what
might, so he let his Platoon go on, while he groped about in the
darkness for it. It seemed incredible that a sword could hide itself so
completely. He kicked about in the pitch-dark for what seemed to be
endless minutes before his foot knocked against it. He "pushed it home"
hurriedly, and started off in pursuit of the men.

But the darkness had swallowed them up. He followed the road right into
Poussey, but still there was no sign of them. No troops, he learned, had
passed through since the previous morning. Evidently they had not gone
that way. The only alternative was the "awkward" road over the canal
bridge which led into the next village on the line--Souvir.




CHAPTER XXVIII

IN RESERVE AT SOUVIR


He hurried on, for morning would break in half-an-hour, and he did not
wish to be caught in that unwholesome hundred yards the other side of
the canal bridge. He overtook his men sooner than he expected, and the
open space was passed without any resistance.

"They're probably expecting a big attack at dawn, and they've brought us
up in reserve again," some one said.

Sure enough, the attack took place, but, like its predecessor, it
failed, and they naturally expected to be sent back to the trenches at
Poussey. In this, however, they were disappointed. Dawn having broken,
it was apparently thought to be needlessly imprudent to make the
Battalion run the gauntlet once again. So they were allowed to stay
where they were, with the caution that they were to be ready to move
within five minutes of the Colonel's receipt of the order. It may sound
a long time, but only a smart and efficient Battalion can do it. The
Adjutant has to open and acquaint the C.O. of the order. He has to rap
out his own orders. Sleeping men have to be roused, equipment thrown
on, arms taken up. The men have to "fall in" in their right sections;
have to be numbered, have to form fours. If there is any muddle
whatever, a Battalion cannot move off in five minutes.

They slept propped up against the bank for some hours; then they were
moved further up the road into the little village of Souvir. It appeared
that their new role was to act as Local Reserve, and that they could
amuse themselves how they liked as long as they were prepared "to move
off at fifteen minutes' notice."

The men broke into two big barns and made themselves tolerably
comfortable. They lit little fires in the road and began to cook their
breakfasts. The Officers of the Company billeted themselves on the hovel
nearest the barns and set about the same object.

"I think," mused the Senior Subaltern, "that it would be an excellent
idea if some of us went on a foraging expedition. I should not be at all
surprised if we did not have to stop here for weeks. And there may be
one or two things to be picked up--before the others."

So two of them went off on a tour of inspection. Noticing bee-hives
outside the house of the village priest, they went in and bought two
large jars of liquid honey. An estaminet yielded a couple of bottles of
Medoc, and a patisserie, most unexpectedly, some bread.

Having successfully settled their business, there was time to look
around. Souvir was a bigger village than Poussey, and seemed to be
teeming with troops, who looked as if they had been used to the place
for years, and were likely to remain in it longer. The first object of
interest was the church, which had been turned into a hospital for
Germans, many of whom were sitting about on benches in the stone-flagged
courtyard. The two Officers went in to have a closer look at them. The
majority were so greyish pale, their hair such unlovely stubble, their
temples so shrunken that the Subaltern pitied them in their morose
dejection and slow-witted taciturnity.

"I don't think we'd better go into the church," he said. "They'd
probably throw us out."

They passed through an archway in a huge medieval wall into the
graveyard, and thence, by a sudden and complete transformation in time,
colour and atmosphere, into a most delightful garden of magnificent
proportions, with smooth lawns and sweeping drives. The chateau itself
was scarcely in keeping with this stateliness. The impression it gave
one came as an anti-climax. The Subaltern was beginning to develop a
fine taste in French chateaux, but somehow this one did not rank with
the others, although his brain reeled at the thought of the cost of it
all. Probably that is why it failed as a work of art and beauty: it made
one wonder how much it must have cost.

A passer-by told them that it belonged to a certain woman whose name had
been on everybody's lips, just before the war, and the information
stimulated their interest. They wandered around, past silent fountains
and over velvet lawns, stone terraces and gravel drives. On their way
back they passed one of the big bay windows on the ground floor of the
chateau. It was open, and they caught the faint but distinctive aroma of
disinfectant. The erstwhile billiard-room had obviously been converted
into a hospital dressing-room. The place was deserted, and they turned
away without the intuition entering into either of their heads that they
themselves would before long be carried into that very room.

Souvir was apparently their headquarters for the time being, for if they
moved away by day or night, they always marched back into it. And as,
day by day, they saw the same sights and did the same things, the
passage of time did not leave such exact impressions on his mind as the
changing sights and actions of the moving battles had done.

Compared with the days that had gone before they were divinely
comfortable. Unless there was an alarm, they could sleep as long as they
liked. There was not sufficient accommodation in the little hut, so the
Officers commandeered a little shed at the side of it. Here there was
plenty of straw, and for several mornings they lay dozing until eight or
nine o'clock.

The men were quite happy in their barns, and would not begin to stir
before seven o'clock. Then they would hear in their sleep confused
sounds of tramping feet and shouts in the road outside.

The voice of the Quartermaster-Sergeant, distributing the rations, was
always the most insistent.

"'_Ere_, who's 'ad that there tea?"

"Fourty-two Smith took it down the street, Cooler Sawgint."

(When there is more than one man of the same name in a Battalion, the
last two figures of his regimental number, are, as it were, hyphenated
on to it. Brown's number was, say, 1965, so to prevent mistakes he was
always '65 Brown, to distinguish him from all the other Browns.)

"Where's the Orderly Cor'pril of No. 5 Platoon?"

"Comin', Cooler Sawgint!"

Then another voice raised in pained expostulation--

"'_Ere_, look at '_im_--a hackin' up the bacon. Who d'ju think's comin'
after you?"

"Go and see why there ain't no rum, Watkins!"

"There ain't '_arf_ enough sugar for all them!"

"'And over my firewood, will ye, or I'll ...!"

And so on, and so forth. It was the tune to which they finally awoke
every morning.

When it was impossible to maintain the pretence of being asleep any
longer, they would get up and shake themselves. They had passed the
stage of wanting to take clothes off. Their uprising in the morning was
as easy and simple as a dog's. Then, aided, perhaps, by one of their
servants, they would set about getting their breakfast ready in the
front room. The Subaltern discovered what a tremendous amount of trouble
is entailed in the preparation of even the simplest meals. Tables to be
moved, kettles to be filled, bread cut, jam and bully beef tins opened!
But each would have his own particular job, and they would soon be
seated round the dirty table, drinking their tea out of cups, or their
own mugs, and munching biscuits or bread.

Now that they were getting their rations each night with the regularity
of clockwork, they were beginning to appreciate properly the excellence
of their fare. "Seeing," as the Senior Subaltern would say, "that we are
on Active Service, I think the rations is an extraordinarily well
managed show."

The quality was good, and there was plenty of it. Personally, the
Subaltern never succeeded in getting on very good terms with the "bully
beef." He decided that it was "a bit too strong" for him; but the others
devoured large quantities, and seemed all the better for it.

The jam, at that time, and in that particular sector of the line, was
good and, moreover, varied. The Subaltern does not ever remember
suffering from the now notorious "plum and apple." There was even
marmalade.

He openly delighted in the biscuits, and would go about his work all day
munching them. The bacon, too, as some one said, was "better than what
we have in the Mess, sometimes." None of them posed as connoisseurs of
rum, but a Sergeant, who looked as if he knew what he was talking about,
praised it heartily; and, taken in hot tea, it banished all sorts of
cares....

Tea (without rum) and bacon, to be followed by ration bread and
marmalade (if possible) was the staple fare at breakfast. They would sit
around the fire and smoke--there was a tobacco allowance included in the
rations. The Subaltern, however, had lost his pipe, and attempts at
cigarette rolling were not particularly successful.

Every other day there used to be a mail, and with it, generally, papers
from home. This was the first definite news they had had from "home"
since leaving in mid-August. There was an enthralling interest in seeing
how the people at home "were taking things."

To be perfectly candid, before the war, the Army had placed very little
reliance upon the patriotism or integrity of the country. The Army was a
thing apart--detached from the swirl of conflicting ideas, and the
eddies of political strife. The Army was, so to speak, on the bank, and
it looked with stern disapproval at the river sweeping so swiftly by. It
neither understood the forces that were hurrying the waters along, nor
did it realise the goal that they were striving to reach. Perhaps it did
not take the trouble, perhaps it could not.

Then, when the war clouds began to blacken the horizon, the Army, having
so little sympathy with the vast and complex civilisation which it was
to defend, felt convinced that the national feelings and political sense
of the nation would be slumbering so soundly that no call of honour
could awaken it to the realisation of either its duty or its danger. But
the horse which all the expert trainers had dismissed as a
"non-starter" for the next great race, suddenly gathered his haunches
under him, and shot out on the long track to victory. The Army, with the
rest of the world, realised that, after all, the heart of the nation was
in the right place. Nevertheless, the tremendous wave of patriotism that
had swept so splendidly over Britain caused, at first, not a little
suspense.

"Good Heavens! he's asking for a million men," gasped the Subaltern.

"Well, if he doesn't get them, this Company will go over and fight for
Germany," said the Captain. "The country isn't worth fighting for if it
can't raise a million men."

"The Government seem to be doing jolly well," some one volunteered.

"And so they darn well ought," said the Senior Subaltern. "But you wait
and see. If something wonderful does not happen in about six months'
time, all sorts of fools will be up on their hind legs, shouting out how
the show, as they would do it, should be run."

As events turned out, the Senior Subaltern was not far wrong.

At this time, too, the country was thrilled with its first feeling of
pride in the Army since Waterloo. The dramatic rush of events--Mons, the
Retreat, the dramatic rally when all seemed lost, and the splendid
victory of the Marne, the continued advance, the deadlock on the
Aisne--people were gasping at the magnificence of the success. They
realised that the swift and sudden victory which Germany had counted on
had been frustrated, and that owing to the French and the "contemptible
little Army" eventual victory had been assured.

Every one who had the ear of the "public" was raining praise upon this
contemptible little Army, and the contemptible little Army was
surprised; but although they classified the eloquent speeches and
dashing articles under the sweeping phrase of "hot air," these things
pleased them a good deal, although they never have admitted it. The
country, it appeared, had learned to appreciate them--a little late, it
is true; still, in the volatile imagination of the public, they had
arrived. They were quietly pleased, and awoke to the realisation of what
fine fellows they were.

"No more of the 'expensive, idle loafer' talk," said some one.

It was the vindication of the British Army.




CHAPTER XXIX

TO STRAIGHTEN THE LINE


Later in the morning there would probably be an inspection of arms. They
had always to be very careful that the rifles were in proper working
order. A few stiff bolts at a critical moment might make all the
difference.

The next function would be dinner. This generally consisted of bully
beef made into a sort of stew, and some potatoes, stolen from a field
near by. It must be confessed that the stews were not a great success,
and the Subaltern conceived a violent dislike to them. The sudden change
from "the move" to "reserve" perhaps upset his system. He confessed to
not "feeling very fit." The others, however, all seemed to have
insatiable appetites for food and sleep. Instead of marching twenty
miles a day on one or two meals, they now had their rations regularly
and got very little exercise. They slept as if sleeping sickness was
laying its hold upon them, and when not sleeping they were eating.

The wine store had not yet been exhausted in the village, and very often
they had a bottle with their suppers. The honey in the two jars seemed
inexhaustible--indeed, everybody grew tired of it in time; and in the
end the remnants were presented to another Company. The patisserie
continued to yield new bread, and they ate such quantities of it, still
hot from the oven, that many of them got "livers." They were notoriously
the first Company when it came to "looking after themselves." "Which,"
as the Senior Subaltern said, "shows sense."

Once, when they had just finished their midday meal, the usual order "to
stand to arms" came through, and they were hurried along the road that
ran parallel to the river, towards Soissons. The march was longer than
usual, and they were just beginning to entertain hopes that the deadlock
had been broken and that they were once more on the advance, when an
abrupt halt was called, and they were ordered to throw themselves
hastily behind the bank along the roadside.

They could see nothing, neither friend nor foe. The only sound of firing
was miles and miles down the line, in the direction of Poussey. The
Subaltern's Platoon happened to be the second in the leading Company.
Already there was movement in front, and, crawling forward to the end of
the line, he climbed up the bank to take stock of the position. To the
north was a little copse, the intervening ground a vegetable field.
Further off, to the east, there was a big hill, crowned with a
dense-looking forest which, as far as he could see, was deserted.

The Colonel, who was not to be deceived by a new appearance of quietude,
had somehow made his way to the little copse, and was examining the
hill with his glasses. The Adjutant, who had followed him, presently
rose to his feet.

"Bring ... your ... men ... over ... carefully ... in ... extended ...
order!"

The words floated across on the wind.

Feeling that he would like to see his men all safely across before he
left any of them, the Subaltern motioned to the Sergeant to lead them,
and they set off in a long, dotted and irregular line towards the
thicket.

"Hurry ... them ... up. Hurry!" shouted the Adjutant.

And just as the last man had left the bank, and he had started himself,
he realised what the Adjutant meant.

"Phwhizz ... phwizz ... phwizz."

Like malignant wasps the bullets hummed past him. There was a regularity
in the discharge and a similarity in the aim that left him no chance to
doubt that a machine-gun had been turned on them.

"I was a bit of a fool not to have gone first," he said to himself.

But the bullets hummed harmlessly by his head and shoulders, and the
thought that struck him most forcibly, as he plunged through the
cabbages, was the impossibility of realising the consequences if any one
of them had been a few inches nearer his head. It momentarily occurred
to him to lie down and crawl through the cabbages, trusting to luck that
the machine-gun would lose him; but, of course, the only thing was to
run for it, and so he ploughed along. Whether the journey occupied more
than a minute or not he is unable to say, but it seemed an incredible
lapse of time before he reached the copse--and safety.

"We shall have some artillery turned on to us in a minute," said the
Colonel; "we had better get on with the operation."

They debouched from the copse in open order, and advanced in the usual
lines of platoons, to attack the hill.

The Subaltern loosened his sword in his scabbard, so that when the time
came he could draw it more easily. He had already picked up a rifle from
some unfortunate.

There seemed to be a certainty of a hand-to-hand fight. He did not feel
at all eager to kill; on the other hand, he scarcely felt afraid. He
just felt as if he grudged the passing of the yards under his feet which
separated him from the edge of the wood. The idea of being "stuck"
himself never occurred to him.

The bullets flew about rather thickly for the first few minutes, but no
harm was done, and then the enemy's resistance seemed to die down. There
was complete silence for several minutes as our men plodded steadily on.
Then, away on the right, the Colonel's whistle sounded, and a halt was
called.

The enemy had taken fright and had retired, machine-guns and all, before
their advance.

This little affair, although too small to figure in the communiques at
home, was a great personal triumph for the Colonel. The enemy, having
broken through the line and pushed his way almost to the banks of the
river, had been driven back and the line straightened out, without, as
far as the Subaltern could see, any loss whatever.

They were not allowed to follow up this easy success, and consequently
the enemy was still left in possession of a small salient. The
Subaltern's own Company was then sent to prolong the right of the
Battalion, and to get in touch with the "people" on the right.

This was eventually done; the "people" proving to be a regiment of
cavalry, employed as infantry.

In this particular part of the line the situation was, to say the least
of it, a little muddled. The cavalry did not seem to be altogether at
home in their new role. Their trenches seemed too small and detached.
The front was covered with copses, which were continually changing
hands. The whole line seemed to be dangerously weak, and the facilities
for communication too precarious. The Subaltern regarded the whole
affair as a sort of nightmare, and prayed fervently that they would not
be made to stop permanently in that quarter.

It appeared that they had been told off to hold in check the side of the
salient. They took up their position along the edge of a wood, three or
four yards in it.

"We'll be shelled in about twenty minutes, so dig all you know," said
the Captain.

How they dug can be easily understood. They had only their entrenching
implements, but in ten minutes most of them had very fair "lying down"
cover. Ten minutes was all they were allowed. There was no artillery
fire by the end of that time, but the bullets began to whizz past, or
flatten themselves in the tree trunks. It was rather hard to see
precisely what was happening. Black dots emerged from the wood, and
quickly flitted back again. The enemy seemed rather half-hearted.

When the attack, if attack it could really be called, had subsided, a
Sergeant got up from somewhere down the line, and continued work on his
hole. There was a whizz overhead, and he dropped back abruptly. The
Subaltern thought that he had realised the danger and had naturally
bobbed down for safety, but word was passed up "to keep down, as
Sergeant Simkins had been shot dead--through the heart." He never
uttered a sound, and must have met his death instantly.

Work was continued, but with the utmost caution. Meanwhile the afternoon
was drawing rapidly to a close, and the prospect of holding such a
position appalled the Subaltern when he thought of it. The Sergeant had
been killed by enfilade fire. It was quite obvious that their line was
thrown out, as it were, between the two general lines. Consequently they
were enfiladed by the enemy, threatened very seriously on their front,
on account of the proximity of the copses, and if forced to retire there
was absolute certainty of being mown down by their own cavalry. The
Senior Subaltern succeeded in clearing one copse, after firing a few
shots and making a bold advance, but had not sufficient men to retain
it. Then, just as darkness was closing down on the hopeless tangle, a
message was passed up to "close on the road."

Copyright (c) 2007. knowncrafts.net. All rights reserved.