Book: Contemptible

C >> Casualty >> Contemptible




It was a blow. Officers were frowning over their note-books as if afraid
they had not heard correctly. The enemy here, in the western corner of
Belgium? The Major's orders petered out. They saluted, and returned to
their platoons, feeling puzzled and a little shaken.

The Subaltern had come to this campaign with such fresh hopes of
victory. This was not to have been a repetition of '70! France would not
have gone to war unless she had been strong and ready. Inspired with the
spirit of the First Republic, the French Armies, they had told
themselves, would surge forward in a wave of victory and beat
successfully against the crumbling sands of the Kaiser's military
monarchy--Victory, drenching Germany with the blood of her sons, and
adding a lustre to the Sun of Peace that should never be dimmed by the
black clouds of Militarism! And all this was not to be? He had never
even heard that Liege had fallen, let alone Brussels, and here were the
Germans apparently right round the Allied flank. It was astounding,
irritating. In a vague way he felt deceived and staggered. It was a
disillusionment! If the Germans were across the Sambre, the French could
scarcely launch their victorious attack on the Rhine.

The excitement dispelled his fatigue, but the men were openly
incredulous. "The ruddy 'Oolans 'ere a'ready! They're only tellin' us
that, to make us march!"

The first fight! How would it turn out? How would the men shape? Could
the ammunition supply be depended upon? But above all, what would he be
like? Would he feel afraid? If so, would he be able to hide it? Would
his men follow him well? Perhaps he might be wounded (parts of him
shrank from the thought), or killed. No, somehow he felt it was
impossible that he would be killed. These and a thousand more such
questions flashed through his brain as the march continued northwards.

The hourly halts were decreased from ten to about three minutes. The
excitement of the future dissolved the accumulating fatigue of the three
days. The very weight of his sword and haversack was forgotten.

It was Sunday morning. The bells of the village churches were ringing,
and the women and children, decked in their Sunday best, were going
calmly to church, just as if the greatest battle that, up to then,
history had ever seen were not about to be fought around their very
homesteads.

A waterworks was passed, and at last the crossroads were reached. There
was a wait while the Battalion in front of them deployed. Officers were
loading their revolvers, the men charging their magazines. One Company
left as advanced guard, and very soon the Battalion was on its way to
its appointed sector of the battlefield.

They threw aside a hastily improvised barricade of ploughshares, and
hurried on to the little village which was to be their especial care in
the impending battle, known rather inadequately as "Mons."




CHAPTER IV

MONS


Then came the village of Harmigne--just a few cottages on either side of
the road, and soon the companies debouched from the village to take up
the positions allotted to them.

In war it is well known that he who sees most is likely to take least
away. It was not the soldier's duty to gaze about him to see what was
happening. He must enlarge his bit of trench, and be ready to meet the
enemy when he himself is attacked. Therefore, if you ask a veteran of
Mons about the battle, all he will be able to tell you as likely as not
is, "Marching, and digging, and then marching mostly, sir."

The Company on the left was astride a railway embankment in front of a
large mine. The Subaltern's Company was directly in front of the village
itself; another Company to the right, the fourth in local reserve. The
work of entrenchment began immediately. There was not time to construct
a trench, as laid down in the Manual of Field Engineering. Each man had
to scrape with his entrenching tool as big a hole as he could before the
enemy came upon him.

The Subaltern had many things to arrange. The "field of fire" had to be
"cleared," any refuge behind which the enemy might lurk within two
hundred yards of the trenches had to be, if possible, cut down. Sheaves
of corn standing upright presented the first problem for the defence.
Should he burn as many of them as he could, or overturn them, or beat
them down? No, sheaves were not bullet-proof. A man could be shot behind
them just as easily as in the open. Moreover, they would serve to hide
from the enemy artillery the exact lie of his lines. The position of his
trenches, or rather holes, was about a hundred yards in front of the
village, as it would be the first thing that the German artillery would
"search." The Range-taker took the ranges from the trenches to all
prominent objects in front, with an instrument called the "Barr and
Stroud." He then made these figures known to the four section commanders
of the platoon, who in turn communicated them to their men.

Then he had to get in touch with the commanders on either side, and to
send off a small party to improve what natural obstacles--in this case
wire fences--lay in front. He next went to arrange for the methods of
effecting a retirement, if it should be necessary, breaking through one
or two fences so that this could be effected in perfect order. As some
of the houses were still occupied, he went to the owners, and not
knowing the French for pick and shovel, said: "Monsieur, voulez vous me
preter des choses pour faire des troux dans la terre?" illustrating it
with pantomime. "Ah, oui, Monsieur, des pioches!" As many of these as
possible were sent forward to the men, together with many pounds of
biscuits which he brought from a shop, and buckets of water for the
wounded.

So busy had he been that he had almost been unable to interest himself
in the battle which was already beginning to develop on the left. While
he was in the village a stretcher was carried through. The body on it
was covered with a mackintosh sheet, but the man's face was visible, and
if he had not been so busily occupied, the ashen face might have upset
him a little. It was absolutely calm, and its expression was contorted
neither by pain nor hate nor fear--the face of one who was indifferent,
and very, very weak.

With that he returned to the trenches. "'Ere yer are, sir, I've started
this 'un for yer," one man shouted. He threw off his equipment, and
began to dig as he had never dug before. Each spadeful was safety for
another inch of his body. It was fighting against time for protection of
life and limb. The work was engrossing, exhilarating. Some of the men
were too tired, too apathetic, too lazy to dig trenches as deep as they
might have done. They had to be urged, cajoled, enticed, ordered.

The day was beautiful, hotter a great deal than those the men were
accustomed to. The Senior Subaltern had been occupying a small hut as an
advanced post. The enemy came within his range in some force, but having
the presence of mind to restrain his men from firing, he managed to
withdraw without loss. All the while the cavalry were being rapidly
driven in.

This was about three o'clock, and the sound of a terrific bombardment
could be heard from some miles to the left. This puzzled them, as it was
naturally expected that the battle would develop from the north-east.
The regiment on the right had been occupying a small copse; this was set
alight to the rear of them, and they were forced to draw back through
it, which must have been a terrible operation.

Fresh meat, in the form of a stew, was brought out to the trenches at
about three o'clock. The bombardment on the left, like a terrific
thunderstorm, rolled on till dusk. A few aeroplanes flew overhead,
looking like huge birds in the blue sky. As yet the troops found it very
hard to distinguish the Germans from the English, although several
pamphlets had been issued on the subject.

As evening drew on, the trenches began to assume a more workmanlike
aspect, although when one got down deeper than three feet the ground was
like chalk and very difficult to cut.

Thus ended that memorable Sunday, when the English line, the last hope
of the French, was pierced at Mons, when the appearance of a huge force,
above all strong in cavalry, appeared on the left of the English line,
and rendered the whole strategic position of the Allies so dangerous,
that there was nothing for it but to fall back in order to avert a
terrible catastrophe.

To ensure against surprise, he posted three sentry groups to his front.
They had not been out more than half-an-hour before a huge fusillade
broke out along the whole line. The groups had the greatest difficulty
in crawling back to the trenches without being shot down in mistake for
the enemy. He saw that this "peace method" would have to be given up;
sentries in future would have to remain in the trenches.

Intermittently throughout the whole night firing continued. A
searchlight had been played continually on the lines, and if anything,
the artillery duel began before it was light.

This was his first opportunity to watch shell fire. The shells sailed
overhead so slowly that he half expected to see them in their flight.
The noise they made was very difficult to describe. They hurtled, they
whizzed, they shrieked, they sang. He could imagine the thing spinning
in its flight, creating a noise something like steam escaping jerkily
from an engine.

An English battery was firing from somewhere unseen on the right, to
meet an attack apparently launched on the left. Furious messages were
passed up the line that the artillery were firing on their own men, and
whether this was true or not, soon afterwards the attack ceased.

At about seven o'clock the Major gave orders to withdraw his Platoon
when the Company on his right should retire. This surprised him; for,
knowing nothing of the general situation, he had felt that they would
hang on, and fight the battle out then and there, to the last gasp. He
gave orders to his section commanders, and then lay down to await the
development of events.

At about nine o'clock a general retirement seemed to be taking place on
the right. It is a very difficult thing to pick upon exactly the right
moment to retire. If you retire too early, you allow the enemy to
advance without having inflicted sufficient loss, i.e. you allow him
to succeed too cheaply, to say nothing of rendering the position of
units on your flanks precarious. On the other hand, if you hang on to
your position too long, you become committed to a close fight, from
which it is almost impossible to withdraw without the most serious
losses.

There are no hedges in Belgium; the ground was perfectly open, and the
Subaltern could easily see what was happening on the right. It seemed to
him that some unit delayed too long, for the rest of the line showed
signs of envelopment. Eventually, however, the retirement to the village
was effected quietly, and without loss. He led his Platoon to a second
defensive position about a mile behind the village, but already shells
were beginning to drop around, and even beyond it.




CHAPTER V

THE BEGINNING OF THE RETREAT


It was from this point that the great "Retreat from Mons" really began.
The road in front of the Battalion was hit by one or two shells.
Apparently it was being "searched," and so the Battalion was hastily
moved into the open fields, assuming what is known as "Artillery
Formation," i.e. small collections of troops, moving on the same
objective, with "irregular distances and depths." By this means many
lives must have been saved. After about a mile of very hurried marching,
through turnip fields and stubble, the road was again reached, and the
Battalion was apparently out of the enemy's range.

The heat was beginning to be intense. The men had marched for the last
three days almost incessantly, and without sufficient sleep. Sunday
night in the firing-line had been full of excitement of battle, and all
Monday morning had been spent at digging trenches. Imagine the state of
the men! Dirty from digging, with a four days' growth of beard, bathed
in sweat, eyes half closed with want of sleep, "packs" missing, lurching
with the drunken torpor of fatigue, their own mothers would not have
known them! There was no time to rest and sleep, when rest and sleep
were the most desirable things on earth. Those men assuredly knew all
the agonies of a temptation to sell for a few moments' sleep their
liberty and lives.

During a halt the Subaltern threw himself so heavily in a cabbage patch,
that his revolver became unhitched from his belt, and when the halt was
over he lurched to his feet and on, without noticing its loss. Careless?
Perhaps, but one of his men lost his rifle and never noticed it, because
he was carrying a spade!

There was, however, one consolation. The Germans had for the time been
shaken off; although the noise of battle could still be heard
uncomfortably near on the left. But if one waits long enough, the
hottest sun must go to rest, and drag its horrible day with it. About
six o'clock the Battalion at last came up with its "Cookers" and
transport. Glory of glories, rest had at last been achieved! Never had
bacon been so welcome, never tea so desirable, so stimulating, so
wonderful.

The Quartermaster-Sergeant had some terrifying tales for the Company
Mess about disasters on less fortunate parts of the line; but there was
no time to go into the matter, for the Battalion was ordered to parade
immediately. This was the last straw! The men had been looking forward
to, and longing for a good sleep that night. Every aching limb of their
bodies cried out for rest, and here they were going to be put on outpost
duty for yet another night. Imagine their state of mind! Is there a
word to cope with the situation? Assuredly not, though great efforts
were made! Darkness fell so swiftly that the Officers had scarcely time
to "site" the position of their trenches. Then the weary business of
entrenching began again. Have you ever heard the tinkering, tapping,
thudding sounds made by entrenching implements or spades? None of the
men who heard it that night will ever forget it. It will give them a
memory of energy, promoted by the desire for safety, clogged by heat and
fatigue.

At about eleven or twelve at night a fair cover had been made, and the
long-sought rest became possible at last--not, however, the sleep that
the Subaltern had been longing for all day, not complete oblivion to
body and mind, for the fear of surprise was upon him even in his sleep,
and he knew that if his precautions should prove insufficient, he would
have to answer for sixty good lives. In addition there was the cold of
the cloudless night, and the clinging wetness of the dew. These things
would not have allowed him to sleep, even if he could.

A fresh day began very similar to the last. There were no signs of the
enemy to the immediate front, so the work of entrenching continued. A
"fatigue party" went to draw rations, which were distributed at about
seven o'clock. This was their first introduction to "bully" beef and
hard biscuits. Also, wonder of wonders, a "mail" was distributed.

He was lying in the corn just beginning to eat a biscuit and read a
letter, when the voice of the Senior Subaltern called him from somewhere
up the line. Thinking that he had got another letter, or something of
that sort, he did not wait to put letters and rations in his haversack,
but went straight to his Senior. "A party of Uhlans, about 100 strong,
have broken through the line further up. We have got to prevent them
from taking us by surprise on this flank. So you had better take a
couple of sections to keep them off." Commands on the battlefield must
never be didactic and narrow. Tell a man what to do, give him his
mission, and how he will carry it out, the methods he will employ, are
for himself to determine.

He hurriedly collected his men and took up a position astride a road
that ran behind, parallel to the lines. In peace-time manoeuvres one
had generally been told the direction from which to expect the enemy,
hours before he actually came; now, when the great game was being played
in real earnest, he found that he had to guess. The Uhlans might have
come unsuspecting along the road, in which case the game would be his;
or they might come blundering along from somewhere in the rear and
enfilade him, in which case the game would most assuredly be theirs.
Fortunately, the Uhlans did not come at all.

Meanwhile a very rare and lucky circumstance was beginning to be
apparent. The enemy were actually attacking from the direction they
were expected! But this was only to be a rear-guard action, so he never
saw his rations or letters again, after all.

The Senior Subaltern was left to "hold out" in a small cottage in the
firing-line until the rest had "got away." With characteristic
forethought and presence of mind he not only got his men away without
loss, but seized all luxuries in the place!

As on the day before, in getting clear away from the enemy, the Company
had to pass a large stretch of ground which was being literally peppered
with shrapnel. The noise was louder than it had seemed on the previous
day. Thunder seemed muffled beside it. Moreover, thunder rolled--seemed
to spread itself into space--but not so with bursting shells. The clap
of sound caused by one is more confined, more localised, more intense.
The earth seems to quiver under it. It suggests splitting, a terrible
splitting. Only the nerves of the young and healthy can stand it. It
would not be so bad if one could see the thing whistling through the
air, or even when it bursts; but one cannot. After the crash a man may
scream or moan, totter and fall, but for all one can see he might have
been struck down by the wrath of God.

The road safely reached, the retreat was continued, but under very
trying circumstances for the Company. The Brigadier in charge of the
rear-guard action, not having sufficient cavalry at his disposal,
ordered the Company to take up the role of flank-guard to the retreating
column. The Company, extended over a long front, had to move across
rough country, intersected with all sorts of obstacles, at the same rate
as the infantry on the road, "which," as Euclid says, "is impossible."
In war, however, the logically "impossible" is not impossible really,
only very fatiguing.

Things grew from bad to worse. The men could no longer keep their places
in the ranks. If one had seen them and not known the spirit of the
British Army, one would have thought that they were a dispirited,
defeated rabble. Yet, in their own minds, the Officers and men had no
doubts about what was going to happen: they were going to fight even
though they might not sleep; and their determination was shaken not one
whit.

There was a very welcome halt for an hour in the town, for the men to
fill their water-bottles and rest.

The men's feet were beginning to suffer terribly, for the road along
which they were marching had been cobbled--cobbles, not as we know them
in England, but rounded on the surface--cobbles that turned one's
ankles, cobbles that the nails of one's boots slipped on, that were
metallic, that "gave" not the fraction of a millimetre. The hob-nails in
the Subaltern's boots began to press through the soles. To put his feet
to the ground was an agony, and they swelled with the pain and heat. The
bones of them ached with bearing his weight. They longed for air, to be
dangling in some cool, babbling stream. The mental strain of the
morning's action was as nothing compared to the physical pain of the
afternoon. The Colonel, seeing his plight, offered to lend him his
horse, but he thanked him and declined, as there is a sort of grim pride
in "sticking it." The men, too, took an unreasonable objection to seeing
their Officers avail themselves of these lifts. Then the heavens were
kind, and it rained; they turned faces to the clouds and let the drops
fall on their features, unshaven, glazed with the sun, and clammy with
sweat. They took off their hats and extended the palms of their hands.
It was refreshing, invigorating, a tonic.

Somebody had heard the General say that they should have a rest, a real
rest, that night. High hopes filled weary hearts. It got about that they
were to be billeted in that suburb of Landrecies through which they had
passed, Maroilles.




CHAPTER VI

DARKNESS


At about five o'clock on that aching day, Maroilles was reached. All
through the streets there were halts and delays, intolerable to those in
whom the want of rest had become a positive passion. At last the members
of the billeting party were sighted--here at last was rest and sleep....

Many a slip 'twixt cup and lip! The General, followed by the
Brigade-Major and an orderly, came trotting down the road. A few hasty
commands were thrown at the Adjutant, accompanied by gesticulations
towards the road leading out of the town. Assuredly some fresh devilment
was rife, and for the moment, anyway, the cup had slipped. An attack on
the town was expected by a large detachment of cavalry. The wretched men
had to be hurried out, to line a row of hedges to the west of the town.
They waited about half-an-hour, but saw not a sign of the famous
square-crested Uhlan helmet. It appeared that the enemy had been content
with destroying the canal bridge, which formed the communication between
Maroilles and Landrecies, and had then withdrawn. There was a whole
brigade in Maroilles, which was therefore cut off from the rest of the
division, and from its natural line of retreat. That, however, did not
greatly upset the rank and file, and billets were at last achieved.

The Subaltern found that he was billeted in the same house as the
Headquarters of the Battalion--Colonel, Second in Command, Adjutant,
etc. His servant brought him his valise from the Regimental Transport,
and he began to change the offending boots for a fresh pair, without
nails.

Some one procured a footbath, and ablutions began.

The Medical Officer came in to say that the Colonel seemed to be very
ill. The Subaltern was glad he had declined the offer of his horse. He
then began to shave and wash. Just as he was in the middle of this, with
his boots and puttees off, his Captain came in to say that his Platoon
was being sent off as infantry escort to a battery of artillery. By the
time he had redressed himself, the Battery and his Platoon had both
gone. The streets were filled by French peasants, as usual excited and
garrulous, and by men settling down to their billets. The Subaltern
failed absolutely to discover what route his Platoon had taken, but
pursuing the road along which they had come, he soon left the town.

It was raining and blowing most fiercely; the darkness was intense,
otherwise absolute silence reigned. Suddenly, excitedly, a voice,
saturated with fear, cried out from the darkness, "Who goes there?" A
face, with a bayonet in front of it, loomed up from the side of the
road. "Friend!" this tersely. "Sentry, have you seen a battery of
artillery and a platoon of ----shires pass here?"

"No, sir; you're nearly in the outpost line. There's only Royal
Blankshires in front, sir."

So they had evidently not come this way. Where next? They must be found.
He felt that to lose his men would be a sort of dishonour. Even while he
was thinking, a shout was wafted on the wind out of the darkness and
chasing it, overtaking it almost, a rifle shot. It was as if a match had
been applied to the whole line. With the rapidity of wind the crackling
spread to either side.

Soon the whole line in front was blazing away into the darkness. Should
the Subaltern stop and try to lend assistance where he was, or hurry
back to his own unit? Before long a couple of men rushed along the road
crying out for Stretcher Bearers, and he learnt from one of them that in
the darkness and confusion of the retreat, British had been fighting
with British. The pitch darkness shrouded every action with a ghastly
uncertainty.

Then news came through that another bridge had been captured. A fresh
company arrived in reinforcement. There was nothing for it but to effect
a retreat before the morning light could betray their weakness to the
Germans. Apparently, however, the capture of the bridge had only been a
precautionary measure, for the enemy did not press his attack home.

The Subaltern saw that the best thing he could do would be to return to
the remainder of his Battalion at Maroilles. If he were to grope about
the countryside in the dark, looking for "that battery," he would most
likely be shot down for a spy; moreover, in a little over two hours the
morning would dawn. So he trudged back to Maroilles.

He felt that he ought to have been on the verge of exhaustion from lack
of food and from fatigue, and he vaguely wondered why he was not. The
truth was that the excitement of the attack, coupled with the chill of
the night, had restored him in mind and body, although he had marched
over twenty miles on the previous day, had had no sleep that night, and
no meal since the evening of the battle of Mons.

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