The light-railway engine pulled the trucks slowly along by winding
circuitous routes. It was a warm, sunny evening. Everything was green
and peaceful. The farms and cottages bore no signs of war. But soon we
saw a number of shell-holes grouped round cross-roads, and gradually, as
we proceeded, the fields came to be pitted more and more thickly. We
skirted a large village. It was deserted. The roof of the church had
three black holes. All the houses were damaged and we could see the
splintered rafters standing out darkly against the sky.
We passed by camouflaged shell dumps and guns of big calibre,
camouflaged and concealed amongst trees and bushes, so that often the
muzzle alone was visible. Shell-holes were dotted everywhere. Many of
the trees were scarred and their branches wrenched away.
We steamed into the terminal siding. Some distance in front of us was a
row of poplars, regular except for the gaps where branch or trunk had
been shattered. To the right was a patched-up road with several ruined
cottages on either side. To the left of the poplars was a wood in which
a large white château was half concealed. It looked very dreary with its
black, gaping windows. To our right was a big farmhouse. Most of the
tiles had been blown from the roof, showing the bare rafters. The door
was in splinters, and the walls were riddled. A little lane wound round
the farm in a loop and then lost itself in the wood.
Behind us was a hedge and a group of trees amongst which a gun was
hidden.
There was no sound of firing. No birds were singing, although it was
spring. All was quiet except for the frogs that uttered raucous musical
croaks in a pond near by and puffed out the bladders at the corners of
their mouths, so as to produce long-drawn shrill vibrations.
We shovelled the stones out of the trucks. Several of the men expressed
disappointment at the fact that there was no "excitement."
Soon after nightfall desultory firing broke out some distance off. Then
a gun began to fire a long way behind us. The shells passing high
overhead made a faint rustling noise, as though they were travelling
along in leisurely fashion.
Suddenly all the batteries in the entire neighbourhood joined in. The
uproar was like that of innumerable thunderstorms crashing together. The
guns bellowed and roared and pounded and deep reverberations filled the
night. From behind us there came flashes so dazzling that we could not
bear to look at them, and great blasts of air and thunder-claps that
seemed to strike our ears with colossal hammers and make them drone
intolerably. Thunder-clap followed thunder-clap, long jets of white
flame pierced the darkness, and now and again the very air seemed to
kindle, and brilliant sheets and shreds of flame blazed and crackled
round us. Above there was a noise as though thousands of devilish
creatures were rushing along, helter-skelter, with inconceivable
rapidity, howling, shrieking, screaming, wailing, laughing, exulting,
whistling and gibbering.
The shells burst over and beyond the belt of trees in front of us.
Vivid, multicoloured scintillations and innumerable glittering stars
flashed out and thronged the sky. At times the shells fell so thickly
that a white flame of dazzling brilliancy would dart writhing along the
tree-tops with lightning speed. The booming of the guns and the terrible
screeching of the shells continued unabated. We were blinded, deafened,
and all our senses were confused.
At last the tumult began to die down. I looked round, curious to see
the effect on the other men. Frequent flashes still lit up every detail
of our surroundings.
Everyone had stopped working. Most of us were gazing ahead, thoroughly
scared. Standing next to me was someone who said he had always wanted to
see a bombardment and now he was satisfied. He was not at all
frightened, being one of the few who realized that we had been in no
danger. By the light of the gun-flashes I saw, a few yards in front of
me, one of our men, a young nervous fellow, stretched out at full
length, trembling, and sobbing hysterically and clutching at the grass
with hands that opened and closed in mad spasms. Another man was
cowering down by one of the trucks, his face buried in his arms.
Our Sergeant approached. He was quite unafraid and had a rather bored
look on his face. Two men were walking beside him. One of them, a
Corporal, who a few hours before had complained that we were having no
excitement, was saying in a strained, halting voice, that he felt very
unwell, that he had hurt his knee, and would like to go back to camp.
The other, a small, broad-shouldered, full-chested, squat individual,
with a flat nose and a brutal face--the champion light-weight boxer of
our unit--implored the Sergeant in whining tones to let him go home. The
Sergeant, however, told him to shut up and go on with his work.
Gradually the firing became less and less frequent, until finally it
died down altogether. Soon the big yellow disc of the moon rose above
the tree-tops and all was silent except for the croaking of the frogs.
We finished emptying the trucks and then sat down inside them. The
engine came along, rattling and puffing. It was coupled to the train,
and the return journey began.
The landscape was plainly visible in the light of the rising moon.
Shell-holes, torn trees, and ruined houses decreased in number. We
passed a straw-thatched cottage nestling amid a group of bushes and
poplars. A light shone from the window, a dog barked. A bat flitted
silently past. It seemed as though the uproar of the cannonade had been
a dream.
The engine stopped at the siding. We jumped out of the trucks and
retired into our tents. Not a word was spoken by anyone.
The following day we again received orders to proceed to the terminal
siding by the light railway.
In the morning our champion boxer had reported sick in anticipation. He
looked convincingly pale and complained of the usual "pains all over."
The Medical Officer gave him "light duty" and he spent the day in camp,
picking up matches, bits of paper, and miscellaneous rubbish.
It seemed strange that the ruined houses, the belt of poplars, the
damaged farm, and the wood with the white château were still standing
there so peacefully after the bombardment of the previous night. The
frogs, charming creatures, were still croaking merrily.
When we had unloaded the trucks we sat down in the grass and awaited the
return of the engine.
The trees were dim in the warm haze. I gazed at the white château. It
fascinated me, for some inexplicable reason, and I felt an impulse to go
and explore it. I was seized by a mood such as I had rarely felt since
childhood, when almost every lonely and desolate building filled me with
a sense of awe and mystery, as though it were the home of ghosts or
fairies or witches. I was conscious of the absurdity of the emotion, but
I surrendered to it and even enjoyed its strangeness.
There was no sound of firing.
I obeyed the impulse and strolled down the little winding lane. It led
through a gap in the green hedge that surrounded the wood. Knowing that
the enchantment of the château would vanish as soon as I entered it, I
dawdled on the way so as to prolong my pleasure. Suddenly the bushes in
front of me caught fire and a bright sheet of flame shot upward and
almost simultaneously there was a sharp report. I was so thrilled by the
mysterious attraction of the château that I barely noticed the event. As
I passed a small ruined cottage, which I had not observed before, for it
was hidden amongst the trees, there was a short whizz on a high note,
and then a loud crash. Smoke issued from the windows and the riddled
roof, and bits of wood and débris hurtled through the air. Then there
was a loud wailing noise followed by a terrific detonation. The château
was blotted from view by a dense mass of black smoke that rose out of
the ground in front of me. The spell was broken. I hesitated whether to
go on or not, when I became aware of a voice behind me. I looked round
and saw one of our Corporals shouting and gesticulating. I turned back
and rejoined the others, though not before I had been called a "bloody
fool" and threatened with arrest for walking off without permission.
Suddenly the loud, rustling wail was repeated and a portion of the wood
was enveloped in a dark cloud. There was a deafening thunder-clap and
jagged shell fragments sailed over our heads or dropped in our midst.
Then shell followed shell in rapid succession, all bursting in the wood.
A piece of metal whizzed past the ear of a man standing a few yards
away. He became unnerved, dashed towards one of the trucks and cowered
down by the wheels, trembling in every muscle.
None of the others showed any sign of fear except anxious looks. We had
been in no danger at all during the previous night's bombardment, but
many of the men had been terrified. Now, when they were in considerable
danger, they felt nothing more than anxiety, simply because there was no
awe-inspiring display of flame and thunder.
Murky smoke clouds issued from the trees and hung above them in thin
streaks. Another sound was added to the uproar--a long-drawn whine--and
a sepia coloured puff appeared high up in the sky. A sharp ringing crack
followed. Then another puff appeared, and then another. High-explosive
and shrapnel shells continued to burst without intermission.
The frogs had ceased to croak, for one of our men, standing on the edge
of the pond, was throwing pellets of mud at them. All at once he dropped
like some inanimate object and lay on his side. At the same time a
motor-ambulance came rushing up and stopped at the cross-roads. Two
soldiers issued from the wood, carrying a stretcher. A wounded man was
lying on it. He did not move arms or legs, but he howled and screamed;,
his voice rising and falling in a weird inhuman manner. A little after,
two more wounded were carried out on stretchers. They were white, silent
and motionless.
A small crowd had gathered round the man who had fallen by the pond. He
was laid on to a stretcher. He seemed rather dazed but did not look
pale. A shrapnel ball had hit him in the back.
The human loads were pushed into the ambulance which disappeared in a
cloud of dust.
Our anxiety had deepened. Many of us were walking up and down in
agitation. Nevertheless, there was no hysteria and no ignominious
expression of fear as there had been on the previous night.
At last the railway engine appeared, to the immense relief of everyone.
We climbed into the trucks and the return journey began. The shelling
continued unabated. Above the belt of poplars a little black speck was
moving along at great speed. Around it and trailing behind it were
numerous black puffs. The frogs had resumed their concert.
When we reached our destination we were met by several others of our
unit who had arrived during the afternoon and were quartered in the
town. Two of my friends were amongst them and together we walked over to
their billet.
We entered a huge bare room and sat down on some of the kits that were
arranged neatly round the floor.
"What sort of a time have you had?" I asked.
"Bloody awful.... The S.M. and the C.O. have been making our lives a
misery. We've had umpteen extra drills and parades and kit inspections.
There've been at least a dozen orderly-room cases and several court
martials since you left. You know Deacon? He got fourteen days. Fritz
has been over a good bit lately and we have to put out our lights as
soon as it gets dark, else we'd cop out for sure. Well, one of our
Sergeants had a candle burning in his tent and the flap wide open--you
could have seen it a mile off, you've no idea how a candle shows at
night-time! We heard the archies firing in the distance and we yelled,
'Put out that light!' The Sergeant didn't take any notice though--he was
reading a book. So Deacon, who's got a decent bit of pluck, walked
across and asked him to blow out his candle. The Sergeant told him to
mind his own bloody business. So Deacon said he'd blow the candle out
himself. The Sergeant flew into a rage and swore at him and told him to
sling his bloody hook. Deacon got wild too--he's one of those fellows
who won't stand any nonsense--and blew out the candle. The Sergeant went
off the deep end properly and had him placed under arrest. Deacon got a
District Court Martial and was charged with insubordination. They gave
him fourteen days' Number 1. He's serving it in camp. There's no gun or
wagon there, so they can't crucify him on a wheel in the ordinary way.
They've been tying him to a post instead, one hour in the morning and
one in the afternoon. That blackguard of a Police Corporal won't let
him be in the shade where the trees are, but has him tied up in the full
glare of the sun.
"The C.O.'s been down on people writing things in letters too. Lewis
wrote home he'd starve on the rations we get if it weren't for the
parcels his people send him. The C.O. had him up. He told him to make
complaints through the proper channels in future and gave him seven days
Number 2. He has to collect and empty the latrine buckets every morning
before breakfast. When he gets back from work in the afternoon he has to
chop wood with that swine of a Police Corporal standing over him. Of
course, he's a bloody fool to write in that strain--our rations aren't
so bad, considering. Thompson was up for the same sort of thing. He
wrote he'd seen a thing or two out here and when he got back home he'd
open people's eyes a bit about the war and the army. All bluff, of
course, for the truth about the war and the army could never be
published. He got five days for his trouble. I nearly got into hot water
myself. Luckily for me I was the first one to be on the peg for writing
things in my letters, else I'd have got a stiff sentence. I wrote:
'Being in the army is just like being back at school; the only
difference is that whereas at school your superiors generally know a
little bit more about things than you do, in the army that is not the
case.' The C.O. told me off properly. He said it was most serious, a
court martial offence, in fact. The charge would be one of 'Conduct
prejudicial to good order and military discipline.' He let me off,
though, because it was my first transgression. Old Peter Cowan was
nearly run by the S.M. a couple of days ago. He was inspecting us and
when he came to Peter he shouted, 'Why haven't you cleaned your
boottons?' Peter answered with a perfectly solemn countenance, 'I
omitted to do so, sir.' The S.M. glared at him, but he wasn't quite sure
about the meaning of the word 'omitted,' and being afraid of making a
fool of himself he passed on. Fletcher, who was standing only a few
numbers away, smiled at Peter's remark. The S.M. spotted him, and
shouted, 'What are you grinning at--anything foonny?' Fletcher said,
'No, sir,' and straightened his face with a wry contortion. The S.M.
shouted to the Orderly Sergeant: 'Take this man's name.' Fletcher was up
before the C.O. in the evening and got three days for laughing in the
ranks. I'm sure Peter'll get into trouble before long. He did the same
sort of thing yesterday. Sergeant Hyndman was in charge of us and we
were standing to attention. Peter started talking--you could hear him as
loud as anything. Hyndman got his rag out and yelled, 'Stop talkin'
there, will yer?' Peter dropped his voice and went on in a whisper.
Hyndman could still hear him, so he walked up to him and shouted, 'What
the bloody 'ell's the matter wi' yer?' As cool as you like old Peter
replied, '_Cacoethes loquendi_.' Of course Hyndman hadn't the remotest
idea what that meant and said, 'None o' yer bleed'n' impudence, else
I'll land yer inter trouble.' He didn't run him though.
"I tell you, I'm jolly glad to be away from headquarters. We've got old
Rusty in charge of us. He's been a bit of a worry-guts about having
cleaned boots and buttons ever since he got his second pip, but he's
quite a decent old stick taking him all round. He gets drunk every
evening, so that he's generally too far gone to trouble about lights
out. He doesn't make a fuss over our letters either--I believe he can
only read a very plain hand and has to skip the longer words. A good
job, too, for that's one thing I absolutely cannot stick, the way all
our letters are read....
"I hear you've had some excitement? It put my wind up a bit when I heard
about it. Still, I'm glad in a way--the monotony of our lives was
becoming unbearable. I'd rather have shell-bursts than blasts of the
S.M.'s whistle. Have many been dropping in the town recently?"
"A good few--I daresay you'll have some to-night if you're lucky. Yes,
the S.M.'s whistle got on my nerves too. I was longing for a change and
frightfully keen on seeing a bit of the war. I confess I wasn't
particularly scared by the shells we had--of course, none of them came
very near. But I don't want to have any more, not after seeing those
wounded carried along on stretchers to-day. You're right in the town
here and it's quite likely that you'll make a closer acquaintance with
high-explosive shells than I've been able to make...."
I had hardly spoken when there was a faint muffled boom in the distance
and a long, deepening howl, and then a loud explosion that shook the
building.
A few minutes after a second shell passed overhead and exploded
somewhere in the town.
Then, without the usual warning, there was a roar that seemed to split
our heads and an impact that sent us reeling backwards against the wall.
The room was filled with dense, pungent smoke and dust that choked and
blinded us. Above the violent droning in our ears we could hear the
clatter of falling bits of plaster and masonry. A whistle blew and there
was a shout of "Clear Billet." We thronged the doorway and poured down
the stairs, panic stricken, but before we had left the building there
was another reverberating crash and once again we were enveloped by
smoke and dust while the bits of plaster showered down upon us from the
ceiling. I bowed my head and held my arm up to protect my face.
Something whizzed closely by, and a man dropped heavily with a groan in
front of me. He lay on his face with one arm doubled up underneath,
quite motionless. Two men went up to him and crossed their hands under
his chest to raise him. His blood was gushing out and forming a pool on
the floor. As we dashed out into the road I saw an artilleryman standing
alone on the cobbles and looking around in a scared fashion. There was
another deafening explosion and dense clouds of smoke issued from a
building forty or fifty yards away. Suddenly the artilleryman clutched
his face with his hand. The blood began to stream through his fingers
and down his wrist into his sleeve. He hurried away with staggering
steps.
We left the town behind us and waited near a barn in the open fields. We
were joined by the two men who had remained behind to help our wounded
fellow soldier.
"Is it serious?" we asked.
"Serious?--He's done for, poor chap! A big bit of shell caught him right
in the chest--it didn't half make a hole. We carried him away from the
billet and sat him up against a wall. We couldn't stop the blood from
flowing. He came to for a few seconds though, and moaned, 'O my poor
mother! O my poor mother!' enough to break your heart. And then he
seemed to lose consciousness again. The ambulance arrived and we laid
him on a stretcher. I expect he died before he got to the hospital."
"Anybody else hit?"
"Two of our fellows--one of them pretty seriously. They could both walk
though. A lot of men from other units have been killed. The last shell
dropped into a mess-room and laid out a dozen or more, and just as we
were coming along we saw an artilleryman lying in the road with a big
hole right in the middle of his face. He was still warm but his heart
had stopped beating. It's a bloody awful feeling to lose one of your
mates, though."
"I can't make it out, some'ow. 'E was talkin' an' jokin' to me only a
few minutes back, an' now 'e's dead. The way 'e said 'O me poor mother!'
nearly set me cryin'. Poor old chap, 'e was one o' the best--it's allus
the best as gets killed an' the rotters left alive."
No more shells dropped into the town that day, but instead of going back
to the billet, the men made their beds in the barn at nightfall. I
returned to camp, thinking of the man who was dead and wondering whose
turn would come next.