Book: Contemptible

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The Subaltern was elated. He refused to question the likelihood of such
tales. He was hungry for just such cheering stories of success. And when
he got them, he devoured them with avidity, without ever looking at
them. The effect on him was bracing. It was glorious, he told himself,
to have taken part in such happenings. The only cloud on his horizon was
the fact that the chance to do distinguished acts had never come to him.
The Regimental Colours never required saving under heavy fire, for the
simple reason that they reposed safely at the depot. Neither did the
Colonel, a most profitable person to rescue, ever get wounded in the
open, and give an opportunity for gallant rescue work. He had never had
a chance to "stick a Bosch." He had never drawn his sword in a
triumphant charge, never blazed his revolver in a face, never twisted a
bayonet on a body. It would require courage, he told himself, to admit
these things when he was back again at home.

You must not laugh at the stories of the Machine-Gunner. He believed
what he wanted to believe. Remember, too, that the Allies were then at
the zenith of the greatest victory that was achieved in the first
eighteen months of the war. The strategical ideas of the Machine-Gunner
may have been faulty, but he has saved more lives with his guns than any
doctor in the land.

At about eight o'clock in the morning, the Subaltern saw the Company in
front twisting off the road, and forming up in "mass" in the open field.
They were then in the centre of a large plateau, which offered an
uninterrupted view of miles of flat country on every side. A rough
"outpost" disposition, with which he was fortunately not sent, was
detailed, and the news was spread that there was to be a halt of several
hours.

The business of drying clothes, and cleaning up, instantly began.
Ingrained soldierly cleanliness of the men was displayed. Without any
order, and in spite of their weariness, whenever they were halted over
an hour in the daylight--which had very seldom happened--they would
immediately set about shaving, and cleaning themselves and their rifles.
They shaved with the cold water, poured from their water-bottles into
the lids of their canteens. There was a vast rubbing of bolts, and
"pulling through" of barrels. An erstwhile barber in the Senior
Subaltern's Platoon did tremendous business with a pair of scissors and
a comb, his patrons being seated on an upturned ammunition-case.

They had not halted long before a "mail" came in. The Subaltern was not
among the lucky few who received letters or small parcels. Not that he
minded much. From whomever the letter might come, or in whatever vein it
had been written, he admitted to himself that he would feel savage with
it, and would have dismissed it as "hot air" if it were sympathetic, or
as "hard-hearted" if it were anything else.

He wrote home on the now famous postcards that inform the addressee
that, on such and such a date, the sender was alive and well. He felt
very relieved that at last he had an opportunity to relieve the anxiety
of the people at home.

The best part of the two hours was spent in "franking"--that is
censoring--his men's letters. It was a very unwelcome task, and although
he thoroughly appreciated the military necessity, he cordially hated
being forced, as it were, to pry into their private affairs.

Meanwhile the wind had dried them, and the sun was high in the heavens.
Rations arrived, and were distributed. The sun and the tea warmed them,
and in the afternoon a little sleep was possible.

The Subaltern was aroused at about four o'clock, and the march was
continued. The Senior Subaltern had received a box of Abdullas in the
post, which he kindly shared with his two juniors. The cigarettes seemed
enormously fat, and the tobacco extraordinarily pale. They had smoked
nothing but the little "Caporal" French cigarettes--and not many of
them--since their own supply had given out. They had said all along how
much they longed for "decent English" cigarettes, and now they had got
them they were not at all so sure that they liked them.

There was a Lance-Corporal in the Company who was not as generous to
his fellows as the Senior Subaltern had been. He smoked the cigarettes
he had been sent, persistently, and with obvious enjoyment. The men
around him were hungry for a "whiff"; the sight of him calmly lighting a
fresh "fag" at the stump of the old maddened them beyond endurance. At
length one man could bear it no longer.

"Look at '_im_, a'eatin' of 'em. Lor! give a thought to yer ruddy
comrades, can't yer?"

They seemed to miss tobacco more poignantly than any other luxury.

A little later, sounds of great artillery bombardments rose up in front
of them and on each side, but they could not yet see any signs of a
fight, as they had not yet reached the edge of the plateau.

Further on, the road descended slightly, and a very little way ahead the
Subaltern saw, for the first time, a Battery of heavy artillery at work.
The whole affair seemed to him to be singularly peaceful. The men went
to work in the same efficient and rapid way that they would have done in
a machine-room. Their targets were, of course, invisible, and there was
no attempt to cover the guns from sight, nor to protect them from
hostile shells. He was surprised to see how comparatively slowly the gun
recoiled after discharge. The noise was ear-splitting, terrific.

"There'll be some fun when the Transport comes along," said the Senior
Subaltern, with unholy glee.

He was right: there probably would be a great deal of "fun." The
Battery was not more than fifty yards from the road on the left, while
on the right there was a drop, at an angle of at least sixty degrees, of
twenty yards. He imagined the frightened horses careering madly down the
slope, the carts and wagons bumping and crashing down upon them--the
kicking, struggling heap below!

Then, just as it was growing dark, they reached the edge of the plateau,
and the huge rolling valley of the Aisne swam before them in the purple
twilight. The further heights were already wrapt up in darkness; and the
ground, glowing green at their feet, merged in the distance to rich
velvet patches of purple and brown. The river itself was hidden by the
trees clustering round its banks, but they could guess its course,
winding away for a score or so of miles to the east.

"What a beautiful scene," he said reverently.

The Senior Subaltern may, or may not, have appreciated the beauty of the
scene. His eye was on the further heights.

"This is where they will try to stand," he said.

And, as usual, he was right.

They looked across to where the dark heights opposite were thrown out
clearly against the pale sky, faintly yellow with the reflected glory of
the sunset at their backs. Lights momentarily twinkled, now here, now
there, intermittently along the whole line, as far as they could see. It
was just as if matches were being struck, and instantly blown out again.
But all the time the low, booming noise floated across to them. It was
the German heavy artillery, slinging over heavier projectiles than, so
far, it had been their bad fortune to meet.

Just as they were entering a little village, nestling half-way down the
slope, a tremendous explosion happened. There was a thunder-clap of
noise, and a perfect cloud of earth and stones and wood was thrown high
into the air. It was their introduction to the famous "Jack Johnson."

But, "Jack Johnson" or no "Jack Johnson," they marched on into the
village, and were allotted billets for the night. The men of the Company
were very comfortably accommodated in a barn half filled with dry hay,
which, of course, is a great deal more pleasant to sleep upon than
straw. The Officers went into a little cottage by the barn, and, having
intimated to the owner of it that they were willing to buy anything she
could sell them to eat or drink, flung off their equipment and went out
into the little farmyard.

The air was rosy with the sunset light; even the rising dust was golden.
The sky overhead was the palest of dusky whites. It was not a sky: it
was just Eternity. Out of it, infinitely far, yet comparatively close, a
few stars were beginning to wink.

The men in the yard were cooking their evening meal over a few little
fires, squatting over them, eyeing anxiously the brewing tea or
frizzling bacon. It was impossible to feel nervous or discontented. The
very atmosphere was benign. It seemed as if "God was in His Heaven," and
all was well with the World.




CHAPTER XXIV

SATURDAY NIGHT


Every picture wakened in the mind of the reader by the preceding
chapters should be bathed in the brightest of sunshine, under the bluest
of skies, and the horizons should quiver with the blue heat. From now
onwards he must imagine grey skies, often streaming rain, and always
muddy roads and sodden grass.

That day saw the inauguration of a new kind of misery for our troops.
Dust, heat and thirst, their previous tormentors, retired in favour of
mud, chill and an unappeasable hunger. Their overstrained nerves and
worn bodies rendered them very susceptible even to the first breath of
autumn.

The Subaltern had lost all his underwear except his shirt, and part of
his socks. His breeches were torn at the knee, and he felt the chill of
the wind very acutely. He could feel the damp mud through the flapping
toes of his boot.

Then it began to rain--no mere light summer shower, that cooled one's
face and clothes, and delightfully wet one's hands, but a real autumnal
downpour. Hastily he undid the straps which tied his Burberry, and
shuffled into it, as he marched along. It was caked with mud, and smelt
of the earth that he had so often grovelled in, but as he fastened the
hooks beneath his chin, he felt profoundly glad of it, elated that he
had something to keep off the chill and wet. He buttoned it down to his
knees and experienced the faint sensation of comfort that one feels when
drawing one's blinds to shut out a stormy night.

* * * * *

Then the guns began to rattle by; always an ominous sign, for it meant
that battle was imminent. It was a remarkable thing that neither
infantry nor artillery took much notice of each other as they met. The
guns and carriages would thunder and bump and clatter over the pave, the
thickset horses straining at their harness, the drivers urging them on.
But the infantry would plod along just the same, regardless of the noise
and bustle. The men would not even raise their eyes from the boots of
the preceding four.

Very soon after the last gun-carriage had rattled past, sounds of a
bombardment would be heard--the bangs and whizz of shells. The Column
would probably be halted, while a reconnaissance was made to ascertain
in what force the enemy was holding his position. As a rule, deployments
were not necessary, for the artillery generally succeeded in dislodging
the enemy off their own bat. Such affairs as this happened no less than
three times before it was dark, and in each case the Germans had had to
leave their dead and wounded behind them.

One poor fellow lay with his head propped up against a heap of stones
by the wayside. His chin and mouth had been torn from his face, and the
ragged flesh hung in tatters, red and bleeding, as it had been torn.
Almost before their eyes the man was passing away. It was awful.

"Poor devil, all this 'ere wasn't 'is fault, yer know," a man muttered.

As far as the Subaltern could hear, no one answered him. Perhaps some of
them were wondering where that dying man's soul was going to. One was a
Christian, of course, but one wanted to know more. One wanted, very
badly, a little precise, definite knowledge of What Happens--after. At
that moment he hated _Hamlet_. Yet the words kept surging through his
brain: "To die ... to sleep ... in that sleep of death, what dreams may
come?... puzzles the will ... makes us rather bear the ills we have,
than fly to others that we know not of!"

Not that conscience had "made a coward" of him, nor of any other man or
boy he had ever seen, a great deal nearer to death and vital, elementary
things than Shakespeare had ever been. He felt a little foolish for it,
but all the same he was thrilled by a sensation of triumphant
superiority to the Bard of Avon.

All the time the rain was streaming down, and all the time their clothes
grew wetter and wetter. Just before dusk a halt was made by the
roadside, and at last the booming of the guns died down to a silence
that was only broken by the incessant patter of the rain upon the sodden
earth.

There was not much to eat, only biscuits, whose freshness and crispness
had been lost in moist pockets. Nobody was thirsty: there was too much
water externally!

It was quite dark when they moved on. Somehow the darkness used to come
to them as a tremendous relief, as an armistice. They felt, in a subtle
way, more at home in it, for it shut out from their eyes the strange
sights and horrors of a land quite foreign to them. After the wearing
day, it brought a freshness that was exhilarating, a refreshing coolness
to the cheeks and hands that was gratifying and soothing. In spite of
everything their spirits rose.

As they passed over a little railway station, innocent, as usual, of any
suspicion of a platform, with a box set up as waiting-room, one of the
men in the section of fours behind him stumbled heavily over the single
lines.

"Nah then, Bill, wotcher doing to New Street Station?" New Street
Station, with its smoke, and hurrying crowds, and shrieking steam to be
compared to this clean, open, deserted spot! The daring of such a
comparison was stupendous. It appealed instantly to the men's sense of
the ridiculous. They roared with laughter.

The rain fell with depressing regularity, the wind blew gustily, but the
ice had been broken, an example had been set, and they all vied with
each other in forgetting their troubles in laughter.

"Blessed if it ain't Saturday night!" said one. It was impossible to say
offhand what day it was, but after a slight argument they arrived at
the astounding discovery that it was indeed Saturday. The discovery was
astounding, because it was almost incredible to them that such misery
could happen on a Saturday night--_the_ night of the week--the night of
marketing, of toothsome dishes, of melodrama and music halls.

"If my missus could see me now," roared a Reservist, "wouldn't her
laff!" He was, perhaps, a great deal more amused than she would have
been, poor woman.

"I ain't agoing to Church to-morrer," said another, with assumed
languor. "I'll lay a'bed, an' smoke me baccy, an' read me Sunday papers"
(derisive groans).

"Me and Sam's goin' on 'Midnight Pass' ter-night, ain't we, Sam?"
inquired a young "timeserving" fellow. "Who's on at the Hipper-drome?"

"Oh! Mah-rie Lloyd."

"Get urt, you'm too young to see our Mah-rie." Roars of laughter, that
almost shut out the wind with their heartiness!

The Subaltern could tell very accurately how their thoughts were flying
homewards, and he could see the very same pictures in front of their
eyes, because he lived near to where most of them lived, and knew the
sights that most of them knew. Their homes on Saturday night! The warm
red tiles of their kitchen floors; the "scrap" mats (laboriously hand
sewn) in front of the bright fires in their "grates." The walls of
their "parlours," bedecked with gorgeous lithographs, calendars and
framed texts!

All the things they loved so much to do on Saturday nights. The humming
market street, entirely blocked with its double rows of booths. How
pleasant it must have seemed to them! At the top of the street the
church stared impassively into space; at the bottom, the trams clanged
and grinded as they rounded the corner and swung triumphantly into the
square. The stalls, brightly lit by flaring gas-jets, laden with meat,
fish, fruit, sweets, music, flowers, all that the Soul could long for
throughout a restful Sunday day. Their womenfolk, with their heads
covered in the ubiquitous shawl of many colours, buzzing busily from
booth to booth, with a purse clutched in one hand, and an open "string"
bag, filled with bulky newspaper-covered parcels, in the other. The men
looking on with hands in pockets, English-wise, indefinably
self-conscious in the face of the delicate business of shopping. Then
perhaps an hour or two's excitement in a shag-scented picture palace, or
a crowded music hall with some big star at the top of the bill, a small
one at the bottom, and the between turns lamentable. And, of course, a
visit to some busy "saloon bar" redolent of "beer and 'baccy." Then home
on the electric tram.

The thought of it all did not, as might be expected, make them sad. In
fact, the home memories seemed to warm their hearts, and the humour of
this "Saturday night," which might have left more delicately cultured
natures untouched, appealed to them irresistibly.

That night the Subaltern, too, had his dreams. They did not fly
homewards: he would have hated to have been surrounded and overwhelmed
by his family: he shrank at the thought of congratulations: he shuddered
at the idea of explanations. To-night he would have wished to be quite
alone. And in London!

First of all would come a hot bath at the hotel--a tremendous scrubbing,
and a "rub down," with a big towel--haircuttings, and shaving, and nail
cleanings! Then he would get into mufti. He chose, after a careful
review, a lounge suit of a grey-blue colour that had been fashionable
that summer. It was light, and he had always liked the feel of it on his
shoulders. He chose the shirt, collar and tie to go with it. He imagined
himself completely dressed, and he looked with pleasure down at the
straight creases in his trousers, at his neat patent leather boots with
their suede tops. It pleased him tremendously to imagine himself once
more properly "clothed and in his right mind."

The next thing would be a feed. He reminded himself of his hunger, and
argued that he did not want anything "fancy." He would go to a grill and
order just what he liked, and a lot of it. The "Trocerdilli" was just
the place. First of all would come a "short one"--not that he needed an
appetiser! He imagined himself seated at a table, the cloth startlingly
white, the cutlery and glasses reflecting a thousand points of light.
He could hear the band, above the whirr of conversation, playing
something he knew. He was glancing down the menu card, and the waiter
was at his side. A soup that was succulent, thick and hot--his mouth
watered! Whitebait, perhaps. He saw their round little eyes and stiff
tails as he squeezed his slice of lemon over them. He felt the
wafer-slice of brown bread and butter in his fingers. A whisky-and-soda,
and a double one at that, to drink--he was tired of these French wines.
_A steak_ "from the grill"--undoubtedly a steak--tender, juicy, red,
with "chipped" potatoes, lying in long gold-and-brown fingers around it.
His teeth clashed at the thought of it! What would he have "to follow"?
Something rich and cold! A _meringue glacee_ was not good enough for the
occasion. A cream _bombe glacee_, or, better still, a _Peche Melba_. He
saw the red syrup stuff in the little glass plate that it would be
served on. And the peach--like the cheeks of a lovely child! At last, if
he could manage it--which he did not at the moment doubt--something in
the savoury omelette line. And to finish up with, the Egyptian should
bring him some coffee. He saw the Egyptian very clearly, with his little
red cap and his dusky cheeks. Then, last of all, the man with the cigars
and liqueurs wheeled his tray. A good cigar from the top tray, clipped
and lit by the man's lamp. Then to choose from the half score of bottles
on the lower tray. Chartreuse, Benedictine, better still, Grand
Marmier.

That really was all. Nothing to do now but lean back in his chair, and
between his sips gaze contentedly through his cigar smoke at the lights,
the mirrors, the palms, and whirring electric fans and the happy,
flushed diners, with that curious, strained, puzzled and amused look
that creeps into the backs of people's eyes at such times.

Then he pictured himself leaving the restaurant, climbing the stairs.
The glass door was thrown open for him to pass through, with a gesture
that was positively grandiloquent.

The cold air of the street was fanning his heated cheek. People were
sweeping by him as he walked down Coventry Street. Ships that passed in
the night! Passionate eyes stabbed him. Strange scents momentarily swept
over him....

There was a completeness of detail in all these pictures that wrung from
him a very grim smile. Would he remember the war as vividly as he then
remembered all that?

He saw himself pause in the gutter of Wardour Street while a taxi slid
by. He saw himself survive the lure of the Empire, saw himself deciding
not to cross the road, and go down to the Alhambra.

Eventually he reached a music hall. He was going in now. He was taking
his place that moment in the plush stall. On the stage a little pseudo
nigger was joking privately with the conductor. He laughed at one of the
jokes he remembered. Then a woman came on. She was tragic, stately. He
was thrilled by her slimness, her weirdness, her vitality. The whole
atmosphere of the theatre was electrified by her personality. She was
singing a song in a way that he had never heard before. He remembered it
still. It was a Tango song. "His Tango girl!" His thoughts flew off at a
tangent....




CHAPTER XXV

THE CROSSING OF THE AISNE


They spent a delectable night, with their boots off, between real
blankets, after a real wash. Very early, before it was really light,
they joined on to the Battalion, and slid down the hill.

The Subaltern had a few moments' talk with a friend who had commanded
the "Divisional Guard" during the night.

"Scarcely got any sleep," he said. "But I took a peep at their room. It
was laid out for a pucca breakfast. Jove, I could have done with some!"

At the door of the house he had been guarding, quite alone, and leaning
heavily on his thick stick, stood the Divisional Commander. No doubt he
knew of the struggle that lay before them, and was taking the
opportunity of reviewing his battalions as they went in to battle. His
face was red, his hair was iron grey, and rather long. He was a fine big
man, there was a presence to him, a rugged and determined look.

A few minutes later they had plunged into the depths of a thick morning
mist, that rolled like a lake between the heights. The steep road led
them at length to the banks of the Aisne. The Germans had naturally
blown up the bridge behind them, but the Sappers had erected a temporary
structure by the side of the ruined one. It quivered under their weight,
and as the Subaltern looked at the water swirling so swiftly beneath, he
wondered what would happen if one of those huge shells were to blow it
sky high....

Running parallel to the river, and about thirty yards away, was a canal.
This was likewise successfully passed, and so the Aisne was crossed
without a shot being fired.

The Battalion was concentrated while the rest of the Brigade crossed the
river. And all the time the sun was chasing away the light clouds of
river vapour. Soon the enemy would see them, and they would be caught in
this difficult and dangerous movement, and the results would be
disastrous.

But the minutes passed, and the mist melted almost entirely away, and
still the guns were silent. At last they moved off, and began to ascend
the slope. They were only just clear of the place when there was a
whistle, a shriek, a bang and a roar. The explosion was two or three
times greater than anything they had heard before. The very noise was
intimidating, paralysing, and before they had had time to rally their
nerves and collect themselves, before the awakened echoes had died away
in the woods above, a second shell, as mighty as the first, sailed over
their heads and exploded as titanically as it had done. This was the
first occasion on which the British Armies had been brought face to
face with the German super-heavy artillery. Naturally the result was a
little disconcerting.

Tons of death-dealing metal and explosive were being hurled through the
air as if Atlas were hurling stars about. There was something elemental,
and superhuman about such colossal force. One felt like a pygmy in a
Battle of the Gods.

They were profoundly ignorant of anything that was happening. Everything
was normal, except the roar of guns. There was not even a sign of the
cavalry being driven in. The only thing to do was to keep on until an
order came, or something definite happened.

The road had turned into a village called Moussy, and was now running
parallel to the river, along the side of the slope. An order was passed
along to "keep down under cover of the right bank," so they advanced,
half crouching, about half a mile.

Then, with a suddenness that amazed him, the Subaltern saw the Platoon
in front begin to scramble hastily over the bank, and run off directly
up the hill. No order was given, he could see no explanation for such a
move. He hesitated for a second, wondering whether it would not be
better to find out what was happening before he moved his Platoon. But
battles are sometimes lost by just such pauses, so he waved his arm,
signalling to deploy and extend to the right. A second or so later his
men were in line with the other Platoon, advancing over a green field
towards a bank. Their rifles were loaded, bayonets fixed, bodies bent
forward--ready for anything.

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