THE LAST ADVANCE
While he was dreaming, the time slipped by almost unnoticed. It was not
until eleven o'clock that a halt was made. He could just discern in the
darkness the dim outlines of what appeared to be a large farm-house,
surrounded by barns and outhouses. Some transport had got jammed in the
yard. He could hear the creak of wheels, the stamping of hoofs, and
shouts. There was not a light anywhere, and they waited for half-an-hour
that seemed interminable, for they were drenched through, and tired, and
were longing for any cover out of the wet. Sounds of shuffling were
heard in front, and at last they found themselves on the move again.
Another fifty yards, as far as a gate in a wall, and then they stuck
again. More weary, exasperating minutes; then at last the bedraggled
figure of the Captain loomed out of the darkness.
"Is that you?" he asked.
"All right, lead round here!"
He led them to a large barn, and they turned in to sleep just as they
were. No supper, not a fire to dry their sodden clothes, not a blanket
to cover their chilled bodies.
As usual, they got to sleep somehow, and as usual dawn came about thirty
hours before they were ready for it.
They moved out immediately, and continued the course of the march. The
rain-laden clouds had rolled completely away. The sky looked hard and
was scarcely blue; the country was swept by a strong nipping wind, for
which they were very thankful, since it served to dry their clothes.
The Machine-gun Officer, passing down the Battalion, walked with them
while he told them two wonderful stories. It may have been crude, but in
another way it was almost as satisfying as breakfast.
He solemnly explained to them that the war was nearly over. The Germans,
lured into making this tremendous and unnecessary effort to capture
Paris, had left their eastern front dangerously weak. The Russians were
pouring into Germany in their millions. The Cossacks were already around
Posen. Nobody quite knew where Posen was, but it sounded deliciously
like Potsdam. Anyway, they would be there in a month.
A few surplus millions, who, presumably on account of the crush, could
not burst into Germany by the quickest route, had been despatched, _via_
Archangel, to the northern coast of Scotland. Their progress
thenceforwards is, of course, notorious. By now they had safely landed
at Antwerp, and had pursued a career that must have bored them as
monotonously victorious. Namur, "and all those places" had been
captured, and at that moment Maubeuge was being relieved. The Germans
were being sandwiched between the victorious Russian, French and British
Arms. They could only escape as through the neck of a bottle. And the
end of the war was so near, and so definite, that it almost lacked
interest.
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 depôt. 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.