Book: Contemptible

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They did not have long to wait.

Another "Jack Johnson" landed in front of them. They could see the earth
as it flew upwards the other side of the hedge. Was it a chance shot, or
would the Germans land a direct "hit" next time? That was the question
that worried the Subaltern as he advanced to the hedge. He was also
puzzled as to what was really happening, or what he was expected to do.
Not another Officer was in sight.

In a few seconds the bank was reached. Here he made a temporary halt for
the men to recover their breath. Men cannot be expected to shoot well if
they cannot breathe.

Half a minute passed, and he began to consider the advisability of
sending out several scouts to reconnoitre, as the whole responsibility
of command in that part seemed to rest with him.

"'Ere's the Captain a-comin' up," said a man.

Sure enough, there he was, coming up behind the bank. The Subaltern
heaved a sigh of relief.

"D'you know what this is all about, sir?"

"No," said the Captain, as much as to say "How should I?"

"We had better hold on here, and wait and see what is to be done," he
added.

Arm-chair strategists may not know it, but a man who has not learned how
to "wait and see" is not much use in tactical warfare. War is not, as
some people seem to think, an excuse for a perfect orgy of recklessness.
But that is by the way.

"It would not be a bad idea if you went forward to see what is
happening. I think I can see some people coming up between the trees on
the left there."

The Subaltern set out, without loss of time. Yes, there certainly were
"people" advancing cautiously up the hill, from round the corner, but
there were not many of them. Still crouching, he began once more to
mount the hill. As he neared the top, he dropped on his hands and knees
in the long grass, as he feared that he might unwittingly appear over
the enemy's skyline, and be shot down where he stood.

He peered cautiously about him. The summit of the hill was round and
smooth. Not a particle of cover was offered, but about twenty yards down
the other side he saw the edge of a dense wood, which appeared to roll,
uninterrupted, half-way up the further slope. The top of this slope
formed the skyline, and seemed to be about three-quarters of a mile
away. Except for the men working their way up on his left, whom he had
already noticed, there was not a man in sight; but the shells were still
sailing overhead.

At length the party came up, and amongst them was the Colonel of one of
the Battalions in the Brigade. The Subaltern immediately asked him for
orders.

"As far as I can see," said the Colonel, "this hill is a sort of
salient in our line. The enemy are probably holding that ridge along
there," pointing to the skyline. "Anyway, we will hold on to this hill
until I have orders for a general attack."

The Subaltern walked down the hill to report what he had found out.

"All right," said the Captain; "you had better take your Platoon and all
these men round about here, and help to hold on to the hill."

He called for his Section Commanders, explained what was to be done, and
set off once more. As they were just about to cross the crest, he
signalled to them to "get down," and at length they took up a sort of
position along the edge of the wood on the other side.

The enemy had evidently not "spotted" them, and they were left in peace
for an hour. Then their troubles began.

It seemed as though the hill suddenly became a place of vast importance.
The Colonel arrived upon the scene, with reinforcements of over a
hundred men, and they immediately set to work putting the hill into a
state of defence. Then a battery of field guns were drawn up into
position on the "safe" side of the hill, and began without delay to
shell the enemy. Their arrival, however, was decidedly a mixed blessing.
So far, the troops had held the hill quite successfully, and had been
undisturbed by hostile artillery, for the simple reason that the enemy
was unaware of their positions. Now the artillery had come and "given
the whole show away," and no sooner did the enemy discover that the
hill was held, than he began forthwith to bombard them.

It was obviously impossible to continue "digging in." The only thing to
do was to squeeze one's self into the ground, and pray. It seemed as if
the titanic thunderbolts, that had hitherto been hurled aimlessly about,
were suddenly concentrated on that one spot. It seemed as if all the
gods in Olympus were hurling their rage upon it, determined to
obliterate it from the face of the earth. The most gigantic guns that
had ever been used in war were concentrating their fire upon it, and the
result was awful. Nothing they had experienced before was comparable to
it. It seemed as if the ground were being thrashed with whips of a
thousand leaden-loaded thongs. The smell of the lyddite was nauseating,
the uproar stupefying. Dust rose in the air; trees crashed to the
ground.

Hell was let loose: Hell and Death were dashing around, converting that
normal sky and that sane earth into a Pandemonium. The wonder was that a
human life was spared. The Subaltern had a fleeting feeling that every
one except himself must be dead. When the storm seemed for a moment to
have abated, he looked around him and was surprised to see that very
little damage had been done to the men. An inexperienced eye would
possibly not have detected any casualties at all. From a Kipling point
of view, the scene was an artistic failure. Not a man was shrieking; not
a man "clawing up the ground." Here and there men had rolled over on
their sides, and were groaning quite softly to themselves. Here and
there a purple patch in the dusty khaki....

The instinct of men, like animals, is to crawl quietly away from their
fellows, and die in solitude.

The Colonel, very little perturbed by the bombardment, had sat
throughout with his back resting against a tree, writing messages, or
glaring at the map. Once, a large piece of shell casing had buried
itself in the ground a few inches from his leg. The jagged piece was hot
and heavy.

"Good Heavens," he said to himself, "what curious things Chance and Fate
are. If I had stretched my leg out! Why didn't I?" He smiled.

At length a few Stretcher Bearers began to arrive, and the worst cases
were carried off by them. Many of the less seriously wounded had to
hobble, or even crawl down the hill, as best they could. It was a
pitiable sight.

The Subaltern looked up, and caught the eye of an Officer being carried
off on a stretcher. His mutilated leg was covered by his Burberry. He
instantly recognised him as an Officer who had "brought out" a "draft"
some time previously.

If he were suffering great pain, he did not show it. He seemed annoyed,
and a little ashamed.

"Just the look," thought the Subaltern, "that a fellow wears when he's
out at Cricket--walking back to the Pavilion."

The comparison, though not happy, was apt. It was just like Cricket.
Some missed their catches; some never had any sent to them; and others
did brilliant things. A few had long innings, and compiled glorious
scores, but the majority "got out" pretty soon.

He pulled from his pocket a "Caporal" cigarette, and placed it in his
mouth, partly to show every one around how cool this inferno had left
him, and partly to steady his nerves. But just as he was striking the
match, a violent desire to laugh assailed him. He suppressed this
tendency towards hysterics, but he shook so much that it was impossible
to light the cigarette, and in the end he threw it away in disgust.

And so the day dragged on. They were shelled with varying ferocity all
the time. Once they attempted to launch an attack, but it failed, almost
before it had started. The enemy artillery observation seemed too acute,
the weight of his shells too heavy, and the wood in front too thick.

About three o'clock in the afternoon the General must have decided that
the holding of the hill was too costly a business. He therefore ordered
it to be evacuated, and the troops to retire on the village of Poussey.
Every one, from the Colonel down, was privately relieved by this order,
for every one felt that, if they had stayed there, by the end of the
next day there would have been no regiment left.

The behaviour of the men had been superb. They had entered into this new
phase of the war with that strange combination of recklessness and
reliability which had made our "contemptible little army" what it was.
Not a complaint had been uttered. They had joked all day--and there is
an especial relish to jokes that are made between the thunderclaps--but
they were worn out, not only by the terrors of that day, but by the
accumulated loss of sleep and lack of food.

A further advance was impossible. The Germans had checked the onrush by
the weight of their artillery. The victory of the Marne was over. The
phase of the deadlock had begun.




CHAPTER XXVI

THE CELLARS OF POUSSEY


The Subaltern was too dazed to realise the significance of the day's
fighting, but he brought his men back to the village without mishap, and
behind the shelter of its walls they lay down to sleep just as they
were.

In a little time the whole Battalion was rallied in the village, and
fresh reinforcements were sent forward to hold a line nearer the
village.

The night that followed was cold and windy. In spite of a fire that his
men lit in a little side street, and various sacks that they "lifted"
from barns, the cold caused extreme discomfort, and it was with a great
sigh of relief that at length dawn broke upon them.

The Subaltern stumbled to his feet before it was fully light, shook the
miserable sacks from his feet, and set out to explore the village.

Like most of its kind, it had only one central street, which was steep
and winding. Underfoot were the usual cobbles, and the walls had a queer
look of leaning inwards over the road with a protective air. He had not
gone many yards before he came upon the little village square. Half of
it was shut in by a huge, castle-like structure, which with its carved
stone fountain gave the place almost a medieval air.

The gate in the wall was unlocked, and through the aperture he caught a
glimpse of a trim garden and a comfortable-looking house.

"This," said the Subaltern to himself, "is just the sort of place that
the Captain would choose for his headquarters."

He slipped into the garden and peeped through one of the windows. Sure
enough, there were the Captain, the Senior Subaltern and the Doctor.
They had already risen and were trying to boil a kettle on the ashes of
last night's fire. It was not an inviting scene, by any means, but he
pushed open the door, and started in the search for food.

The room in which he found them was a typical French kitchen, with a
dirty grey ceiling, walls, and stone floor. The furniture consisted of a
table, a couple of forms, and a chair or two. Otherwise there was
absolutely no attempt at either comfort or adornment. Ransacking a dirty
cupboard, the Subaltern drew forth in triumph a promising-looking
bottle, and having pulled the cork, smelt at the contents with caution.
It contained a curious sort of liquor, apparently home made, which saved
their lives that morning. Then the Doctor, after many amusing efforts to
clean himself in a bucket, went off to the improvised hospital that had
been set up in the village.

The early part of the morning passed peacefully enough; but the
bombardment was renewed at about seven o'clock, and was followed by a
hasty evacuation of the village to reinforce the front line. The
Captain's Company, however, and one other, were ordered to stand by in
reserve, but to be prepared to move at a moment's notice. The
bombardment rolled on as usual for about an hour. Then came a tremendous
crash, which made every wall and roof tremble, and gave warning that
something worse than ordinary had happened.

Everybody rushed into the street, but there was no longer a square. One
of the "Jack Johnsons" had alighted in the centre of it. The first
glance at the scene disclosed the fact that the fountain had been blown
sky high, and the cobbles torn up like pebbles, but it was not until
afterwards that one realised that there had been men in that square.
None was left alive in it now. One poor fellow had been struck by a
piece of shell and had died before his head had crashed against the
ground. The colour of the dead face reminded the Subaltern hauntingly of
the grey walls of the kitchen. Fortunately, the eyes were closed, but
the horror of the thing--the shattered skull, the protruding,
blood-smeared brains, bit into the Subaltern's soul. He gazed at it for
a moment, spellbound, and then turned in towards the kitchen, feeling
broken and humiliated.

"We must get them into better shelter than this," said the Captain.
"That might happen again."

The owners of the house came out to meet them. The old man and his wife
seemed strangely unperturbed by the noise and the sights around them.
He was a fine old man, with a yellow skin, long, flowing beard, and a
bald head. He explained that he was the local Mayor, and there was more
natural dignity about him than many a Lord Mayor of a huge city. He told
them that underneath his house was a cellar large enough to hide the
whole Company, and led the Captain away to see it.

In a few moments they returned.

"Just the very place," said the Captain; "we'll get the Company down
there right away, before the next big one comes over."

He led them down a flight of steps, opened a door, and stepped gingerly
into pitch darkness. When their eyes became accustomed to the gloom, it
was just possible to make out the dimensions of the place, and very
gradually the men filed in, and lay down wherever they could. By the
time the last man had pushed his way in, there was scarcely an
unoccupied foot of room in the whole cellar.

After a time the talk died down, and sounds of slumber filled the
darkness. Probably the only men in the whole Company who did not spend
the rest of that day in sleep were the "look-out" men, one posted in the
road to intercept messages, and the other at the head of the steps to
give warning.

As soon as it was dark they could leave the cellar with perfect
safety--a thing they were glad to do, for the atmosphere was not as
fresh as it might have been, and the place was very crowded. Only about
half of the men, however, availed themselves of the opportunity. The
others were too tired and just went on sleeping.

Some time in the middle of the night they were awakened by the Mess
Sergeant, who had successfully arrived with rations. The only possible
way, it seemed, was to get supplies over the bridges under cover of
darkness, as the enemy had got their range to a yard. He left their
share of food, and then hurriedly left.

"If I don't get well over by the morning, I don't get over at all," he
explained.

The next day was in every way similar to the previous one. No order to
move was received, and sleep was the most popular occupation. Now and
then, in intervals between the artillery duels, they would dash up the
steps and air themselves as best as they could. In one of his rambles
the Subaltern alighted upon a peach tree, which was greatly appreciated.
When the familiar sounds began again, they would troop once more down
the steps and fall asleep in the cellar, until peace was restored.

On one occasion, following his men after he had seen them all safely
down, a piece of high explosive shell-dust bounced from the wall, and
embedded itself in the skin of his temple.

"By Jove!" he said, when he was safely in the cellar; "this is all very
well, but if a big one did happen to drop on this house above here, we
shouldn't stand the ghost of a chance. It would be better to be out in
the open. We might be buried by the falling bricks."

Fate was kind. But once, on regaining the open, some one noticed that a
weathercock had been struck off one of the gables.

"It just wanted to be twenty feet lower," said some one speculatively.

The Subaltern enjoyed very much his short stay in Poussey. The old Mayor
and his wife were a charming couple, and as usual did everything in
their power to make their Allies comfortable. On the other hand, it must
be admitted that the British Officers, with their unfailing politeness
and good spirits, made no small impression on them. The Subaltern once
heard the old lady say to her husband--

"Eh! Mon vieux, quelle difference! Ils sont si gentils, si polis ... et
les autres.... Ach! Les cochons!"

"What an impertinence," he thought, "to compare us!"

His coat was badly rent in the back, and once, while he was asleep, the
old lady took it, and mended it with thick red twine.

Of course they had the inevitable sons or nephews at the front, and they
had received no news of them. One had to listen with great attention,
and an air of solicitude, and murmur some little consolations.

One morning, the Subaltern forgets whether it was the first or second
day of their stay, the old man took him into his library. It was a long,
low room, fragrant with the smell of old books, and it looked out upon
the leafy orchard. All the volumes were beautifully bound and nearly
all were standard classics. He was surprised at the culture of this
little spot, tucked away in the intellectual desert of rural France, and
at the refinement of this man, who had been a farmer all his life. All
the while a great battle was being fought outside; one could not be sure
of life for a consecutive hour; at such a time it was amazing to be
fingering fine old books, in the quiet, sombre library, by the side of
an old man in a black velvet skullcap.

Eventually the Subaltern picked out a volume by Segur, not because he
wanted to read about war, but because he feared that the Voltaires, the
Rousseaux, and the Hugos would be too difficult for him. Segur was easy:
one could skip whole phrases without losing his gist: one was not
worried by the words one did not know. He read of Napoleon's retreat on
Paris--in its time accounted the most scientific retreat in history.
Soissons! Montmirail! Why, they had almost passed into both these
places! How everything that had ever happened would shrink before
this--which was going on now, half a mile away.




CHAPTER XXVII

THE FIRST TRENCHES


Whether it was the second or third day of their stay in Poussey that the
march began again the Subaltern does not know. The only thing he
remembers is being awakened from a peaceful afternoon nap, hurrying
rather confusedly on parade, and marching off, out of the village.
Turning sharply to the left, the troops descended the hill, and at
length crossed the canal, which had evidently parted company with the
Aisne. All was quiet, and he was making his way drowsily along the dusty
road, when a whizz and a whistle brought him sharply to his senses.
There could be no mistake about it, the shell was coming right at them.

"Oh, damn," he said; "we've been spotted."

The shell burst short of them.

There was a space of about two hundred yards that would obviously be
shell swept, and the road offered not the slightest cover. Two hundred
yards ahead there appeared to be a good stout bank, which would shield
them very effectually. The only thing to be done was to rush on as fast
as they could, and thus suffer as few casualties as possible.

The men, however, did not quite realise the situation. By long training
and a great deal of actual experience they had learned that the best
thing to do when you are under fire is to tear for the nearest cover,
and, failing that, flop down on your faces where you stand, and take
your chance. As a general rule this proved sound enough, but in this
especial case it was obvious to the Officers that the longer they
delayed, the heavier would be the casualty list, a fact which the men
did not understand. The British soldier is a sportsman, and understands
the game as well as his Officer. He only wants to be led; and in battle,
scarcely that. Driving is an Art absolutely unknown in the British Army.

In the stress of the tense moments that followed, the Subaltern owned to
himself that as a driver he was not much good. The German artillery had
got their range to a yard, and it was very trying to have to stand up in
the open and spend precious seconds in urging on men who ought to have
known better. He was strongly tempted to run for it, but a sense of duty
prevailed, and he stayed there dashing about in a futile effort to speed
matters up. He shouted, he shrieked, he swore, he has a dim recollection
of even kicking at his men in the effort to get on out of the terrible
danger zone. But perhaps to his overwrought nerves the delay seemed
longer than perhaps it really was, or perhaps force of numbers from
behind succeeded where he had failed; anyhow, he got his Platoon into
safety, and only sustained the loss of five or six men.

His Platoon Sergeant behaved with an intrepid bravery that gave him a
moral right to the Victoria Cross. He stayed in the fire-swept area to
carry two wounded men into safety, and tended several others as they
lay. He received no recognition--but those who were near him will never
forget.

The bank reached, safety was achieved for the moment, at any rate. They
pushed on for another half-mile or so, and were then halted under cover
of the bank. They had not long to wait before the purpose of the whole
manoeuvre was revealed to them. In their capacity of Local Reserve
they had been hurried to the point of the line where the next attack in
force was expected.

The whole thing was ridiculous in its mechanical exactitude. In about
five minutes the artillery bombardment died down. Hard upon its heels
arose a most lively rifle-fire, which showed clearly enough that the
preparatory bombardment was over, and the real attack about to begin.
Higher and higher rose the note struck by the rifle-fire, as the contest
thickened. Never had they heard such intensity of concentration before.
Now up, now down, it rocked on in one sweeping, continuous note for
nearly half-an-hour. Then it died down, almost to silence. The attack
had failed, and the Local Reserve would not be needed.

It does not require much imagination to picture the state of mind of the
men in reserve--cowering behind the bank. They could almost see the
whole thing--the grey dots crawling over the crest of the hill, the
shots that announced their detection, the uprising of them in a solid
mass, sweeping towards the trenches; the withering fire, reaping in its
victims like a scythe. They were wondering every second of the time,
"How far have the Germans got? Have they pushed us out?" But no order
came to advance to re-capture the trenches, so they presumed all was
well.

As the crossing of the open ground had been so rough, they were allowed
to postpone their return journey until it was dark. But even then they
were not safe.

The Colonel led the Battalion a clear two hundred yards away from the
road. The darkness was so intense that they could not be seen, but in
the silence of the night they were sure to be heard, and, on hearing
them, the Germans would certainly plaster the road with shells in the
hope of "getting" them as they returned.

The Colonel was right. The German observation-posts must have heard
them, for the old, familiar whizz came whistling through the darkness.
The first shells seemed incredibly long in the air. One's heart was in
one's mouth, as one listened to hear if they were going "to fall short,"
or "go over." Then the crash came, in front, on the road, and they knew
that the Colonel had saved them once more. Even as it was, their Company
Quartermaster-Sergeant was hit in the foot.

The shelling in the darkness must have affected the nerves of the
leading Company. They struck out at a tremendous pace. The Subaltern
was dropping further and further behind. He could not keep up, and the
prospect of losing touch in the darkness was extremely serious.

At last the canal bridge was reached and the bombardment ceased, but
instead of being allowed to turn in towards Poussey, they were told to
relieve the other two companies in the trenches.

They found the line, and "took over" the trenches without mishap. Of
course, in those days trenches were not built as they were later. To
begin with, the men had no tools, except their "entrenching implements,"
so naturally the work could not be very elaborate. Moreover, the thought
that such works would be wanted for longer than a day or two never
entered their heads. Each man dug a shelter for himself, according to
his skill, ingenuity and perseverance. There was little or no attempt at
digging a long, consecutive trench. A series of holes had been dug, that
was all.

The monotony of the night was broken by the arrival and distribution of
rations. An hour or so after this had been accomplished the east began
to grow grey, and they were soon able to take stock of their
surroundings.

The trenches, or rather holes, were dug on the side of the road. Behind
them the ground sloped straight down to the canal. They could not
actually see the enemy trenches; and there was no attempt made by either
side to "snipe."

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