THE JAWS OF DEATH
The next morning they learned that their turn of duty as Local Reserve
was over, and that they were "to take over" a line of trenches that
evening. The Captain went alone to be shown round in the morning.
They wrote letters all morning, had an early dinner, and retired early
to the outhouse to put in a few hours sound sleep in anticipation of
several "trying" nights.
At about five o'clock they awoke, and found that the Captain had
returned in the meantime. He explained the position to them as they
drank their tea.
"The trenches are just in the edge of a wood," he said. "It is
extraordinarily thick. It would be absolutely impossible to retire. The
field of fire is perfect. The skyline is only two hundred yards away,
and there wouldn't be an inch of cover for them, except a few dead
cows."
"I shouldn't think dead cows were bullet-proof, should you?" asked the
Senior Subaltern.
"There's one thing you will have to watch. There are any amount of spies
about, and they let the Germans know, somehow, when the reliefs are
coming up the road, and then the road gets searched. They don't know
exactly where you are, you see. They have the road on the map, and
plaster it on the off chance. If you see a shell burst on the road, the
only thing to do is to get clear of it. Give it about forty yards'
grace, and you will be safe enough."
Soon after they set out along a road that they had never travelled
before, leading directly up the hill in front of Souvir. About half-way
up, they almost stumbled into the holes that the German shells had eaten
deep into the road. Evidently, however, the spies in Souvir had not
succeeded in informing the enemy of their approach. There was perfect
quietness.
It was a stiff hill to climb, and they halted alongside of a battery of
artillery to take breath. There was a deep cave in the rock, which the
gunners had turned into a very comfortable "dug-out." The Subaltern
envied them very sincerely. He felt he would have given anything to have
been a "gunner." They had such comfortable dug-outs--horses to
ride--carriages to keep coats and things in. Above all, there could not
be that terrible strain of waiting--waiting.
The road curled sharply round the rock precipice, and plunged into a
thick forest. A guide had met them, and absolute silence was ordered.
They had breasted the rise, and were nearing the trenches. The road had
ceased abruptly, and the paths that they had laboured along were
nothing but narrow canals of mud. Here and there a few broken trees and
mangled branches showed where a shell had burst.
Hands were held up silently in front. A halt was ordered for a few
minutes, while the leading Platoon moved along into its allotted
trenches. They had arrived.
Nothing warned the Subaltern, when at length he was shown the line for
his own Platoon, that this night was to be any different from any of the
other nights he had spent in the face of the enemy.
It was not, strictly speaking, a line of trenches at all. As usual, each
man had dug a hole by himself, and each man was his own architect. Very
few holes had been connected by a rough sort of trench at the back. The
Captain had described the topography of the situation very exactly. The
holes were dug on the borders of the forest, but were concealed from
enemy artillery observation by the trees. The field of fire was
absolutely open. It stretched to the top of the hill, which formed their
horizon, a distance of rather less than two hundred yards. It was smooth
grass, and it struck the Subaltern as being exceptionally green. A few
dead cows, in the usual grotesque attitudes of animals in death, were
scattered over the green grass.
He selected his hole, and then began to take careful stock of his
surroundings. The fact that he could see no sign of the opposite
trenches perhaps lulled him into a sense of false security. Anyway,
after having disposed of his haversack, and the sacks he had brought up
with him, he got up from his hole, and began to walk along behind the
holes. On the extreme left he found his Sergeant.
"Well, this looks a pretty safe position," he said.
"Yes, sir. I've just had a shot at a man's head that I thought I saw out
there. I can't say whether or no I shot him. He disappeared quick
enough. I should put the range at two hundred and fifty, sir."
"I wonder what is on our left, here?" he asked.
"I don't know, sir. I haven't had time to look."
"I think I had better go and find out for myself."
He set off, pursuing his way through the thick undergrowth and trees. It
was longer than he thought. But all was still quiet, so the thought of
being "spotted" in the open did not occur to him.
He found the edge of the next trench. It was thrown forward in front of
the wood. After making the usual arrangements that are vaguely called
"establishing touch," he turned back out of the shelter of the parapet,
over the dangerous ground.
Twilight was deepening every second. He did not run; and he only
hurried, because he wanted to get really established in his "funk hole"
before it grew too dark to see what he was doing.
Then, almost simultaneously, the enemy and the regiment in the trenches
opened fire. He stopped short, and turned round to watch. He could see
nothing but thin red spurts of fire in the grey twilight. He turned
quickly on his heel, meaning to reach his own men before the attack
should develop on their front, where, as yet, all was quiet.
He almost reached the end of his trenches....
* * * * *
There was a crisp crash, a blinding light flew up like a circular sunset
around him, a dreadful twinge, as of hair and skin and skull being
jerked from his head with the strength of a giant! For the millionth
part of a second he was at a loss to understand what had happened. Then,
with sickening horror, he realised that he had been shot in the head.
It is impossible to convey with what speed impressions rushed through
his mind.
The flaring horizon tilted suddenly from horizontal nearly to
perpendicular. His head rushed through half a world of black,
fury-space. His toes and finger-tips were infinite miles behind. A sound
of rushing waters filled his ears, like deathly waterfalls stamping the
life from his bursting head. Black blurred figures, nebulous and
meaningless, loomed up before his face.
"Hit in the head--you're done for."
"Hit in the head--you're done for."
The inadequate thought chased through his brain.
"What a pity, what a shame; you might have been so happy, later on."
"What a pity, what a shame; you might have been so happy later on."
He was conscious that it was a foolishly futile thought at a supreme
moment.
His life seemed pouring out of his head, his vitality was running down
as a motor engine, suddenly cut off. He felt death descending upon him
with appalling swiftness. Where would the world go to? And what next?
He was afraid.
Then, with a tremendous effort he turned his thoughts on God, and waited
for death.
He was swimming in that black fury-sea that was neither wet nor
clinging. He was made of lead in a universe that weighed nothing. He was
sinking, sinking. In vain he struggled. The dark, dry waters closed over
him....
* * * * *
Still the waterfalls pounded in his ears, and still the dry waves reeled
before his eyes, and under his head a pool, sticky and warm.
What was that? This time surely something tangible and real moving
towards him. With a supreme effort he tried to jerk his body into
moving. His left leg moved. It moved wearily; but still it moved. His
left arm too.
What was this?
The right arm and leg were gone, gone.
The rest of him was flabbergasted at the horror of the discovery.
No, not gone! They were there. But they would not move. He could not
even _try_ to move them. He could not so much as _feel_ them.
Then he awoke to the horror of the thing.
His right side was dead!
* * * * *
The shape was really alive. It resolved itself into a man crawling in
the darkness to his rescue.
"You need not bother about me, I'm done for. Get back into the trench."
He had a feeling that though he meant his lips to frame these words, he
was in reality saying something quite different. It was an exhausting
effort to speak.
The form asked him questions in a fierce whisper. He had not the
strength to understand or answer.
Very slowly and cautiously he was dragged over the few yards of ground
that separated him from the first hole.
It was awful. His brain conceived the thought: "For God's sake let me
die in peace." But his lips were all twisted, and refused to move at the
bidding of his brain. He could only groan.
With wonderful gentleness the man placed his Officer's broken head over
the hole, and with the help of another man lowered him into it.
His next thought was: "Well, they can only hit my feet, now!" There had
not been room in the hole for all of him, so his feet had been left
protruding out of it. The thought fanned some smouldering ember of
humour in him. A moment later he discovered with a thrill--
"I'm going to live, I'm going to live. I _will_ live!"
The discovery, and the resolution which followed, by no means excited
him. He arrived quite quietly at the conclusion. And set his mind to
await the development of the next event.
The man who had dragged him in now tied the "first field dressing" over
his head, and fastened the strings beneath his chin. Interminable ages
passed slowly by, and yet the Doctor did not come. He regarded the
arrival of the Doctor, like the coming of the Last Day, as the end of
all difficulties, and the solution of many mysteries.
Needless to say he was disappointed. The Doctor could naturally do
little or nothing for him. With the aid of a match or two he "had a
look," replaced the dressing by some bandages, and moved him about a
little to ease his position. To carry him away that night, said the
Doctor, was absolutely impossible. And with that he went away.
The Senior Subaltern, who had come up with him, stayed a little longer,
and earned his eternal gratitude. He made further efforts to straighten
him out, assured him that the effects of the shock would wear off by
morning, and that he would once more be able to move. He collected a few
extra blankets and coats and spread them over him, for he was growing
terribly cold. Then with cheery words on his lips he left him.
Left alone in the silence of the night, the Subaltern felt the horror of
the situation take hold of him. He was alone with his pain and his
paralysis. There was no hope of alleviation until morning. What time was
it then? he asked himself. Seven, at the latest. That meant eight long
hours of agony, before anything _happened_! That is what the wounded
love and long for--something to happen--something to distract the
attention from the slow, insistent pain--something to liven drooping
spirits, and raise falling hopes.
Slowly and surely he began to take stock of the situation. First of all
came his head. The pain of the wound was an ache, a dull ache that
sharpened into shooting pains if he moved. Still, he told himself that
it might be worse. There was much worse pain in the world. It could not
be called unbearable or excruciating.
His spine seemed in some way twisted. It ached with an insistence and
annoyance only second to the wound. All his most determined efforts to
wriggle it straight failed lamentably. Indeed, he almost fancied that
they made matters worse.
As for the paralysed limbs, theirs was a negative trouble. He did not
know where his right hand was. He had to grope about with his left hand
under coats to find it. And when found, it was as if he had grasped
somebody else's hand. The situation was weird, and in an uncanny way it
amused and pleased him to take hold of the inert fingers. They were so
soft and cold. The hand of a dead man, heavy, heavy--impossible to
describe the dragging, inert weight of it.
But what frightened him more than anything was his face. One side was
drawn up, and was as impossible to move as the arm. The lower jaw seemed
clamped to the upper, and it, too, ached. A horrible fear crept into his
head.
"Tetanus!"
He recalled tales of the terrible end of those who were marked down by
this terrible disease. How they died in awful agony, the spine bent
backwards like a bridge!
In spite of the coats, the cold seemed to eat into his very heart.
He started the night bravely enough, and fought against his troubles
until his nerve collapsed hopelessly. The night was too long: it was too
much to bear. He groaned aloud in his agony, and discovered that it was
an immense relief.
The men near him began to open fire. If it were really an attack, it was
soon beaten down, and he began to shriek at them for wasting precious
ammunition that they might want when it was too late. He used words that
he never even knew that he knew. Great bursts of anger, he found,
distracted his attention from the pain, if only for a few moments. To
this end he worked himself into such a transport that the bleeding
re-commenced, and he was forced to cease, exhausted. In another hour
his nervous downfall was completed. He began to cry.
Each second of the interminable night dragged slowly by, as if it
gloated over his pain. In the end it became too much for him and he
fainted away, peacefully and thankfully.