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 différence! 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 Ségur, 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. Ségur 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.