It was a warm, sunny afternoon. About a dozen of us were pitching a
marquee in leisurely fashion, when suddenly there was a shout of "Fritz
up!"
We gazed at the sky, and, after searching for a while, saw a tiny white
speck moving slowly across the blue at an immense height. Then, at some
distance from it, a small white puff, like a little ball of cotton-wool,
appeared. A few seconds passed and we heard a faint pop. More puffs
appeared around the moving speck, each one followed by a pop. All at
once, behind us, a bright tongue of flame flashed out above a group of
bushes. There was a sharp report and a whizzing, rustling noise that
died down gradually. Then another puff and another pop. The bright
flames flashed out again in rapid succession. The little speck moved on
and on. Grouped closely round it were compact little balls of
cotton-wool, but trailing behind were thin wisps and semi-transparent
whitish blurs. Above a belt of trees in the distance we observed a
series of rapid flashes followed by an equal number of detonations. The
upper air was filled with a blending of high notes--a whizzing, droning,
and sibilant buzzing, and pipings that died down in faint wails. The
little white speck moved on. It entered a film of straggling cloud, but
soon re-emerged. It grew smaller and smaller. Our eyes lost it for a
moment and found it again. Then they lost it altogether and nothing
remained save the whitish blurs in the blue sky and a hardly audible
booming in the far distance.
"I bet 'e's took some photographs--'e'll be over to-night. I reckon
we're bloody lucky to be at a C.C.S."
"D'yer think 'e wouldn't bomb a C.C.S.?"
"Course 'e wouldn't--'e knows as well as what we do that there's some of
'is own wounded at C.C.S.'s."
"Yer've got some bleed'n' 'opes--do anythink, 'e would. Didn't yer see
it in the papers? 'E bombed a French C.C.S. at Verd'n an' knocked out
umpteen wounded."
"I bet that's all bloody lies--yer can't believe nothin' what's in the
papers."
"Can't yer! If yer don't it's because yer don't want ter. I believe yer
a bleed'n' Fritz yerself, always stickin' up fer the bastard. Everythink
what's in the papers is true--the Government wouldn't allow it if it
wasn't! That's got yer, ain't it?"
"Yer want ter look at it a bit more broad-minded. Course 'e makes
mistakes sometimes like anybody else--'ow do 'e know it's a C.C.S.--'e
can't see no Red Crorss at night?"
"Mistakes be blowed--'e knows what's what, you take my word for it ..."
We gathered idly round the disputants, glad of a distraction that would
help to pass the time. A third person joined in the argument:
"If 'e bombs 'orspitals an' C.C.S.'s it's our own bloody fault. Look at
our C.C.S. 'ere. There's a ordnance park and a R.E. dump up the road.
There's a railway in front an' a sidin' where troops is always
detrainin'. Then there's a gas dump over yonder. An' if we're bloody
fools an' leave the lights on at night, 'ow can 'e tell what's what when
everything's mixed up together? Why the bloody 'ell don't they put
C.C.S.'s away from dumps an' railways? Why don't they stick 'em right in
the fields somewhere? I bet we'll cop it one o' these nights, an' serve
us right too."
German aeroplanes had passed overhead almost every clear windless
night, but the buzz of propellers, that often went on for hours, and the
dull boom of bombs exploding far away had never caused anything more
than slight uneasiness and apprehension.
One night, after we had been at the C.C.S. for about a month, we heard
the uproar of a distant air-raid. Early the next morning a number of
motor-ambulances arrived with their loads of wounded men. A camp, a mile
or two from the station, had been bombed and fifty men had been killed
and many more wounded. One of the "cases" brought into the theatre had
been hit on the forehead. The bomb-fragment had not penetrated the
skull, but had passed along its surface. The scalp hung over the
forehead loosely like an enormous flap, the red, jagged edge nearly
touching the eyebrows. Since then I thought of this man every time there
was an air-raid.
The event increased our uneasiness. After each "bombing-stunt" we
thought: "We were lucky this time--it will be our turn next though."
Moreover, we began to realize our helplessness. We were compelled to
remain in our tents during a raid and there was no possibility of taking
shelter. We could have put on our steel helmets--they would at least
have afforded some head protection, but hardly any of us had the courage
to do anything that might be regarded by the others as a sign of fear.
The discussion about the bombing of hospitals had made us all think of
air-raids. We had nearly finished our day's work when we noticed a few
clouds on the horizon. We felt relieved. Perhaps the sky would be
overcast and we would have an undisturbed night.
"I can't stick night raids," said one of our number. "They don't put my
wind up a bit, but they interfere with my sleep and make me feel tired
in the mornings."
A man who had been in the war from the beginning answered:
"I can see you haven't been out here long, and have never been in a
proper raid. I'll never forget the last time we were bombed. We were out
on rest about fifteen miles behind the line. Fritz came over and I had
the wind up so badly that I left the tent to go into the open fields.
(I'd had a taste of it before, you know, and that makes all the
difference.) Then he bombed us before I knew where I was. I ran for my
life. There was a hell of a crash behind me and a bit caught me in the
shoulder and knocked me down. When it was all over I got up and went
back, although my shoulder hurt like anything. A lot of our fellows were
running about and shouting. Where my tent used to be, there was a big
bomb-hole and my mates were lying dead all round--fourteen of them. I
didn't recognize most of them, they were so smashed up. Fritz had
dropped one right on the tent. I reckon I was lucky to get off with a
Blighty! I was in hospital six weeks and then I got ten days' sick leave
in London. Fritz came over one night--Christ, I didn't half have the
wind up! We were sitting in the kitchen, mother and father didn't seem
to mind much--they didn't know what it meant. Fritz had never dropped
any our way before. I never heard such a barrage, at least not for
aeroplanes. It wasn't so bad as out here all the same--you could take
shelter, anyhow. Air-raids are bloody awful things, they put my wind up
much more than shell-fire."
We finished our work as the sun was setting. The clouds on the horizon
had vanished. One by one the stars came out. It was "an ideal night for
a raid."
Soon after dark a man was brought into the station with a crushed knee.
Immediate operation was necessary. He was carried into the theatre and
laid on to one of the tables. He received an anæsthetic and became
unconscious. With his scalpel the surgeon made a deep cut in the
knee-joint and searched the cavity with his finger. There was a Sister
standing by. Also an orderly who had won the Military Medal for bravery
in an air-raid some months before. Suddenly there was an outburst of
anti-aircraft firing and a tumultuous whistling of shells overhead. It
lasted for several seconds and then with a deafening, reverberating
thunder-clap that shook the entire theatre, the first bomb fell. Before
our ears had ceased drumming another bomb exploded and then another. The
orderly, who had held his hands in front of his face, now gave way to
fear. He darted madly to and fro and then scuttled beneath a table. The
Sister, who had remained quite calm, said in an amused voice: "Pull
yourself together, it's all over now." The orderly got up trembling, his
face very white. The surgeon had not moved away. He had just grasped the
edge of the table tightly and had bent his head forward, while his
muscles seemed stiff with a violent but successful effort at
self-control. The anæsthetist, too, had remained on his stool, but was
leaning right over his patient. I had been conscious of a powerful
impulse to duck down, but I grasped the table and gave way to the
impulse so far as to lean slightly forward. This compromise saved me
from any violent expression of fear. The Sister was the only one of us
who showed no sign of fear at all.
The surgeon went on with his work and extracted several fragments of
bone from the injured limb. A few seconds passed and suddenly the
electric light went out in accordance with the orders that decreed that
all lights should be extinguished on the approach of hostile aeroplanes.
The surgeon cursed loudly and the Sister fetched an electric torch which
she held over the knee. The operation continued, but it was not long
before anti-aircraft fire broke out once more. Then there was a weird
bustling, rushing sound, followed by a roar that again shook the theatre
and rattled the windows. Six explosions followed in rapid succession.
This time the orderly controlled himself, for he knew the Sister was
watching. Nevertheless, his knees trembled violently. The Sister held
the torch steadily and the surgeon paused for a moment and went on with
the operation as soon as all was quiet.
In a few minutes it was finished. The wound was dressed and bandaged and
the patient carried away.
I stepped out into the clear night. The sky was thronged with glittering
stars. Everything seemed strangely peaceful. I walked round the station,
trying to find out where the bombs had fallen, but nobody knew. I went
to the marquee and found Private Trotter sitting there, breathless and
white. The neighbouring C.C.S. a few hundred yards away had been hit. A
Sister and an orderly had been killed and several patients wounded.
"It didn't 'alf put me wind up," said Trotter, excitedly. "When the
first'n drops I lays down flat on the duckboards and one bursts just
aside o' me an' smothers me with earth. Then another'n bursts an' I
'ears a man 'oller out--krikey, 'e didn't 'alf scream. I gets up and
another'n bursts, so I flops down agin, but it didn't come so near that
time. I waits a bit an' then I gets up an' goes to see what they done. I
couldn't see nothin' at first, but I sees some fellers runnin' about wi'
lights. There was a noise in one o' the wards, so I goes in. A bomb must
'a' burst on the roof--there was a big 'ole in the canvas. The bed
underneath was all twisted an' torn, but there wasn't nobody in it.
There was some wounded lyin' in beds at the fur end of the ward, an' one
of 'em was cryin' somethin' chronic. Then someone brings a light an' I
sees an orderly lyin' by the side o' the bed with a big 'ole in 'is face
an' the blood pourin' out. I goes roun' to the other side--gorblimy--an'
there I sees the Sister lyin' on the floor with 'er 'ead blown clean
off--I dunno where it was blown to, I couldn't see it nowhere. Krikey,
it wasn't 'alf a sight to see 'er body without a 'ead lyin' in a pool o'
blood. It made me feel sick, so I ran orf an' came 'ere."
Private Trotter was trembling in every limb. He was the pluckiest man I
ever knew and capable of any piece of foolhardy daring. But this time he
was near a nervous breakdown.
We went to bed full of anxiety. For a long while we lay awake, straining
our ears to catch the sound of firing or the drone of German propellers.
But no sound broke the stillness of the night, and one by one we dropped
off to sleep.
The next morning was clear and sunny. The sky remained blue all day. Not
a cloud could be seen. "Our turn next"--that was the thought in
everybody's mind.
The evening was starlit once again. As we lay on the floor of the
marquee, wrapped up in our blankets, we heard the sound of bombing and
firing in the distance.
Clear days and clear nights followed each other. Sometimes a train would
stop in front of the C.C.S., hissing and puffing, and throwing up a
great shaft of light. We would curse it, fearing that it would attract
German raiders.
If only the fine weather would come to an end! Give us wind and rain so
that we could lie in bed without being oppressed by anxiety! But the sun
continued to shine and the stars to glitter.
The disaster that had befallen the adjoining C.C.S., which had been
brilliantly lit up during the raid, had acted as a warning example to
us. At nightfall the windows of the theatre were screened with blankets
and no lights were allowed to show in the wards or on the duckboards.
If only the trains would halt somewhere else at night-time!
One day a number of Flemish peasants began to collect hop-refuse in the
surrounding fields. They made three great heaps of it and set fire to
them. In the evening the heaps were burning brightly, but no one took
any notice.
The canteen was crowded. All the benches were occupied and men who were
unable to find seats stood around in groups. There was noisy
conversation and singing and shouting. Nearly everyone was drinking
beer. Those who sat at the tables were playing cards. The air was thick
with tobacco-smoke. Two or three candles were burning on every table.
And all at once, without any warning, the thunder was loosened upon us.
There was an ear-splitting roar and in a moment candles were swept away,
benches and tables overturned, and the whole crowd of men was down on
the floor, trembling and panic-stricken. Another detonation, and then
another, shaking the ground and reverberating, and sending up showers of
stones and loose earth that came rattling down on to the canteen-roof,
while the huddled, sprawling mass of human bodies shook and squirmed
with terror. The droning of propellers could be plainly heard, then it
grew weaker and weaker, until it passed away. One by one the men got up.
Someone lit a candle. Tables, benches, and prostrate bodies had been
thrown into confusion. Cards and coins and overturned beer-mugs littered
the floor. The smell of spilt beer mingled with the smell of stale
tobacco. A few of us stepped out into the open air. We inhaled a
pungent, sulphurous stench. We were sure our camp had been bombed this
time and were fearful lest any of our friends had been hit. We walked
past the Church tent--it was full of rents and holes. And just beyond it
was a huge pit with fresh soil heaped up in a ring around it. Loose
earth and stones and sods were scattered everywhere. Then we saw
something move in the darkness--it was a man on all fours, dragging
himself painfully along and uttering a groan with every breath. Two
bearers arrived with a stretcher. They put it down by his side and
helped him on to it. Then they picked it up and disappeared in the
gloom. We had hardly walked a few yards further when we saw a light
approaching us. We went towards it. A man was staggering slowly along
and leaning on the shoulder of a comrade who was carrying a lantern. He
supported his right elbow with his left hand, down the back of which
two thin streams of blood were winding. His left sleeve was darkly
stained and the blood was dripping from it. His face was very pale and
the corners of his mouth were slightly turned down.
Suddenly the broad white beam of a searchlight swung across the
darkness. For a time it seemed to paw the sky in a hesitating fashion
and then it remained fixed on one spot.
"There 'e is! There 'e is!" someone shouted in an excited voice.
In the white track was a brilliant silver object travelling along at a
great speed. A number of anti-aircraft guns opened fire simultaneously,
and all around the shining fugitive innumerable stars of pale, liquid
gold flashed out and melted away again.
"I bet they're puttin' 'is bloody wind up! Rotten bastard, bombin' a lot
o' wounded! If I get 'old of a Fritz up the line, I'll murder 'im. Yer
won't catch me takin' no more pris'ners, I tell yer."
A flashing star suddenly seemed to envelop the aeroplane.
"Got 'im that time--bloody good shot--'e's comin' down, look, look, 'e's
comin' down! Look, 'e's all in flames!"
But the aeroplane sped on, growing smaller and smaller. Then the white
beam swung back and was extinguished, while the guns ceased firing.
"Fine lot o' gunners we got--couldn't 'it a Zep 'alf a yard orf! They
ain't worth the grub they get!"
We returned to our marquee and sat down on our kits. My friend Private
Black came in after us, smiling ruefully. I asked him what was the
matter.
"I was playing the piano in the Sergeants' Mess when the first one
dropped. We all jumped up together and rushed out. Then the second one
burst and I lost my head and didn't know where I was going. I darted to
and fro, tripping over tent-ropes and dashing up against revetments. I
never had the wind up so much in all my life. I couldn't get my breath,
there was a kind of weight on my stomach and a tightness round my chest
and throat, and my knees kept on giving way all the time. The third one
burst and I fell down and crawled under some ropes and lay flat against
some sand-bags, trembling all over and feeling as though I was going to
choke. I waited for a long time, but nothing happened, so I got up and
looked round. Lucky escape for us! There's a terrific hole by the Red
Cross and another one behind the bath-house. The third's in the next
field. Only two men hit. O'Neil's got it in the elbow--he's all right
for Blighty. Poor old Hartog's badly hurt--a frightful gash in the thigh
with the piece still in it. I hope he won't have to lose his leg.
Christ, I'm glad it's all over--I wouldn't like to go through that
again."
There was silence for a while, but soon the silence was broken by the
distant muttering of anti-aircraft fire.
"Jesus Christ Almighty--'e's comin' again--O God, why can't 'e leave us
alone."
We stood outside the marquee and anxiously watched the horizon. We heard
a faint humming noise. It grew louder and louder until it became a deep,
droning buzz that rose and fell in regular pulsation. Then
boom--boom--boom--three times the sullen roar of distant explosions
sounded. Then there came the familiar rushing, whistling noise of a
descending bomb. We flung ourselves down in the wet grass. I felt every
muscle in my body contract as though I were trying to make myself as
small as a pin point in expectation of the terrible moment. There was a
dull thud close by and I felt the earth vibrate. The bomb had fallen a
few yards away, but had merely buried itself in the earth without
exploding.
There was no anti-aircraft fire, but the droning noise continued loudly,
rising and falling. Private Trotter, who was lying beside me, was
drawing his breath in sharply between his lips. Our fear of impending
disaster was prolonged intolerably. The droning propeller seemed to be
directly above us. I tried to analyse my feelings. If one finger is held
close to the middle of the forehead a curious sensation of strain seems
to gather in that spot. That was precisely the sensation I had at the
back of my head and neck, only with far greater intensity. It was the
concentrated, agonizing consciousness of the swift descent of a huge
iron mass that will strike the base of the head and blow the whole body
to pieces. In the region of the solar-plexus I had a feeling of
oppression such as one often has before an examination, before jumping
into an icy river, before opening a letter that may contain bad news. I
also breathed more heavily than usual. I made no attempt to master these
sensations. It occurred to me that fear is merely a physical reaction
that cannot be avoided. If a man reacts so violently that he is overcome
and rushes about as though he were demented, it is no more his fault
than if he shivers with cold. A man can stop shivering by an effort of
the will, but only to a certain extent. And no effort of the will can
prevent him from feeling cold. In the same way, no effort of the will
can prevent him from feeling fear, and only to a limited extent can the
will control the outward manifestations of fear. Nevertheless, some
distraction may enable a man to forget his fear for a while, just as it
may enable him to forget the cold. I was so intent upon self-analysis
that I lost consciousness of everything except my mental concentration,
even of those sensations I was trying to analyse, for the very act of
analysis was destroying them. As they grew weaker, the effort of my will
increased. It became so great that I grew conscious of great mental
tension and at the same time I realized that my fear had vanished
altogether. For a brief space I had a sensation of vacuity as though I
could neither think nor feel. Then my mental effort suddenly collapsed,
I once more became aware of the droning overhead, and with a rush my
former fears were upon me again. I pressed myself flat to earth. I heard
the descent of a bomb. I trembled and tried to shrink to nothing. There
was a deafening thunder-clap and the ground shook. A quantity of loose
earth came down upon us. Another bomb descended--every muscle in my body
tightened and I stopped breathing altogether. But the explosion that
followed was fainter than the last. Then there was another, still
further off. All my muscles gradually relaxed and a delicious feeling of
relief pervaded my whole being. The buzzing noise became more and more
feeble. I got up and walked back to the marquee, trembling and weak at
the knees. The others followed.
Most of us went to bed, but a few continued to pace up and down in great
agitation. One man picked up his blankets in a bundle and went off in
order to sleep in the open fields, far away from the camp.
An hour had hardly passed before distant anti-aircraft fire broke out
again. Anxiety began to renew its tortures. We heard the dull, sullen
roar of bombs exploding at intervals. Then fourteen burst in rapid
succession as though a gigantic ball of solid iron had bounced fourteen
times with thundering reverberations on a resonant surface. But the
sound of firing died down and soon all was quiet. And then sleep came
upon us and our troubles were over for a time.
The next morning was windless and clear. All day we kept looking at the
sky, but not a cloud was to be seen.
The evening approached, darkness fell, and the stars shone. "Lights Out"
was sounded and we extinguished our candles. None of us said a word, but
everybody knew what everybody else was thinking of. And soon we heard
the familiar buzz. At first it only came from one propeller, but others
arrived and the sound multiplied and increased in volume, and at the
same time it rose and fell in irregular gusts and regular pulsations.
Anti-aircraft firing burst out suddenly and for a few minutes there was
a blending of whining, whistling, rushing sounds overhead punctuated by
faint reports. The firing ceased, but the droning noises continued
louder than ever. The German aeroplanes seemed to be above us like a
swarm of angry wasps, and above us they seemed to remain, hovering and
circling. We awaited the downward rush and the deafening thunder-clap
that would destroy us all. One man was groaning loudly. Another
shivered. I could hear the chattering of many teeth. My neighbour
trembled violently and cowered beneath his blankets. But his fear grew
so strong that he could not bear it any longer. He got up and said in a
strained voice, trying to appear calm, "I'm goin' to 'ave a look at
'em." He ran out of the marquee and disappeared. I found my powers of
resistance ebbing. I was unable to control my imagination. I saw my
comrades and myself blown to pieces. I saw the clerk in the office of
the C.C.S. write out the death-intimations on a buff slip and filling in
a form. I saw a telegraph boy taking the telegram to my home. He stopped
on the way in order to talk to a friend. Then he whistled and threw a
stone at a dog. He sauntered through the garden gate and knocked at the
front door. The door opened ... but I could not face the rest, and with
a tremendous mental impulse I turned my mind away to other things. But
my terrible thoughts lay in wait for me like tigers ready to rush upon
me as soon as my will relaxed its efforts. I tried to compromise, and I
imagined myself killed and invented all the details of a post-mortem
examination and burial. I found some relief in these imaginings, but
soon that implacable telegram claimed my attention once more and drew me
on to what I dared not face. I sought distraction by muttering some
verses of poetry to myself. They had no meaning to me, they were just
empty sound and their rhythm had a hideous pulsation like that other
pulsation overhead:
"He above the rest
In shape and gesture proudly eminent
Stood like a tower...."
and so on, line after line. The dreariness of the verses grew so intense
as to be almost intolerable. At the same time I was dimly conscious of
the fact that at one time I thought this passage beautiful. But the beat
of the blank verse carried me on. Sometimes it seemed to blend with the
buzzing of those angry wasps above and sometimes the two rhythms would
vie with each other for speed, so that they hurried along each
alternately ahead of the other. I came to a line where my memory failed
me. I faltered for a moment, but the droning sound seemed to grow into
an enormous roar, and I leapt back to the beginning:
"He above the rest...."
and then on and on a second time until my head throbbed with the double
pulsation.
Suddenly a man who had been lying on the far side of the marquee got up
and said:
"I've had enough of this, I'm going to sleep in a ditch."
He went off. The wasps were still buzzing, but the interruption had
broken the spell. I felt a sense of relief. I became conscious of
intense weariness and felt ashamed of my fears. I cursed the German
aeroplanes and thought, "Let them do their worst, I don't care." I made
up my mind to go to sleep and resolutely buried my face in my pillow.
Then it occurred to me that I would never be able to enjoy _Paradise
Lost_ again, and I was half-amused and agreeably distracted by the
trivial thought.
But the wasps were still buzzing. Another man began to groan loudly:
"Gawd--this is bloody awful--why the bloody 'ell can't they leave us
alone!"
Thereupon his neighbour tried to create an impression by appearing calm
and philosophical. He said in a strained, breaking voice:
"Think of all the waste in life and treasure this frightful war
involves. Think of the moral degradation. Think of the widows and
orphans. Think of the...." He was unequal to the effort and his voice
trailed away and then seemed to catch in his throat. But he recovered
and with a kind of gasp he squeezed out a few more words: "Bill, forgive
me for insulting you to-day--I didn't mean it, Bill. Forget it, Bill,
forget it! If you get killed without forgiving me, my conscience will
always torture...."
"For Christ's sake shut up, yer bleed'n' 'ypocrite," interrupted the
gruff voice of "Bill" somewhere out of the darkness. "Yer always
bleed'n' well preachin'--it's bad enough 'avin' Fritz over us without
you bloody well rubbin' it in. If yer don't shut yer mouth, I'll come
over an' shut it for yer, 'struth I will."
The philosopher said no more, but another voice made itself heard, that
of a good-natured, elderly bachelor, who said with melancholy
resignation:
"It's jolly hard, all the same, to be knocked out like this. You're so
helpless--no dug-outs, no shelters anywhere...."
"It's doubly hard when you're married," said another. "I haven't got the
wind up about myself at all, but I can't help thinking about my wife....
They're going away now, thank the Lord. You never know when they won't
be coming back though--that's just the worst of it."
The noise of the propellers was indeed dying away.
Several voices muttered "Thank God," but one man's teeth were still
chattering as though he was so absorbed by his own fear that he had not
noticed the disappearance of its cause. Soon there was complete silence
and one by one we fell asleep.
Another clear day and another clear night. We lay awake listening
anxiously to the bursting of bombs and the muttering of anti-aircraft
fire. But we went to sleep in the end and felt drowsy all the following
day--a clear day. Casualties came in from a camp that had been bombed
overnight, and we saw shattered limbs, smashed heads, and lacerated
flesh. Several of our men were looking pale through lack of sleep and
had dark rings round their eyes.
Another clear night. The agonizing vigil began again, but I was so weary
that I went to sleep a few minutes after lights out. Sullen thunders
mingled with my dreams and did not wake me up.
Another clear day. Would the fine weather never end? Late in the
afternoon, however, a few clouds collected on the horizon. In the
evening the entire sky was overcast and not a star was to be seen. And
as we went to bed we heard the rain swishing down upon the canvas roof.
The unspeakable joy we all felt at the prospect of an untroubled night!
"Bloody fine, this rain: we'll get some proper sleep now, thank God. I
never had the wind up so much in all my life, and I've been out here
since '15 and in some pretty hot places too."
"I reckon the longer yer out 'ere the windier yer get. I joined up in
'14 like a bloody fool. At first I didn't care a damn for anything. Then
I was wounded on the Somme an' sent across to Blighty. I dreaded comin'
back agin. I only 'ad a little wound in me 'and, an' I used ter plug it
wi' dubbin' an' boot-polish ter keep it raw. It didn't 'alf 'urt, but it
gave me a extra week or two in 'orspittle. I 'ad to go in the end
though--the M.O. didn't 'alf give me a tellin' orf. Jesus Christ, didn't
I 'ave the wind up when we went up the line! An' now I'm scared at the
slightest sound, an' I sometimes wake up out o' me sleep shiverin' all
over. When I was on leave a motor-car backfired in the street--it didn't
'alf make me jump; me mate 'oo was with me said I looked as white as a
sheet. The longer yer out 'ere the worse yer get--it's yer nerves, yer
know, they can't stand it. In the line it's always the new men what's
the most reliable...."
"That's a bloody fact. When we first come out, I thought all the Belgian
civvies a lot o' bloody cowards takin' cover whenever Fritz came over.
_We_ used to stand an' look at 'im. They wasn't cowards, it was us who
was bloody fools. They knew summat about it, we didn't. All the same, I
know one or two old reg'lars 'oo was in it from the first an' never 'ad
the wind up any time--there's not many like that though, generally it's
the old soldiers what's the worst o' the lot for wanglin' out o' risky
jobs."
"Napoleon was right," observed a small, red-haired lance-corporal, whose
remarks generally had a sardonic touch, "when he said the worse the man
the better the soldier. It's only people who have no imagination and no
intelligence who are courageous in modern war. Nobody with any sense
would expose himself unnecessarily and rush a machine-gun position or do
the sort of thing they give you a V.C. for. Of course, there are a few
cases where it's deserved, and it isn't always the one who deserves it
that gets it. I'm quite certain the refined, sensitive, imaginative kind
of man is no good as a soldier. He may be able to control himself better
than the others at first--educated people are used to self-control--but
in the long run his nerves will give way sooner. Moral courage is a
thing I admire more than anything, but there's no use for it in the
army, in fact it's worse than useless in the army. The man who's too
servile to be capable of feeling humiliation and too stupid to
understand what danger is--that's the man who makes a good, steady
soldier. We've seen men so horribly smashed up by bombs that it makes
you sick to look at them, and then people expect us not to be afraid of
air-raids. The civvies haven't seen that sort of thing, so they may well
show plenty of pluck, although I believe there are a good many with
enough imagination to have the wind up when there's an air-raid on."
"Bloody true. You know, if there was a lot o' civvies an' a lot of
Tommies in a Blighty air-raid, I reckon the civvies'd show more pluck
than the Tommies. My mate who's workin' on munitions told me 'e saw
'underds o' soldiers rushin' to take shelter in the last raid on London.
O' course there was crowds o' civvies doin' the same, but 'e says there
was a lot what didn't seem to care a damn. The other day we 'ad a bloody
parson spoutin' to us--'e said war brings out a man's pluck an' makes an
'ero of 'im. I reckon that's all bloody tosh! War makes cowards of yer,
that's the 'ole truth o' the matter, I don't care what yer say. I didn't
know what fear was afore I joined the army. I know now, you bet! I'm a
bloody coward now--I don't mind admittin' it. There's things I used ter
do what I wouldn't dare do now. When we go up the line I'm in a blue
funk from the time I 'ears the first shell burst to the time we goes
over the top. An' when we goes over I forgets everythink an' don't know
what I'm doin'. P'raps I'll get a V.C. some day wi'out knowin' what I
done ter get it. And I'm not the only one like that. Anyone 'oo's bin
out 'ere a few months an' says 'e ain't windy up the line's a bloody
liar, there now...."
"By the way," I interrupted, "how did that orderly who works in the
theatre get his Military Medal--he had the wind up more than any of us
the other night?"
"I know whom you mean," answered a private of the R.A.M.C. "He got it
that bombing-stunt a few months ago. It was bloody awful too--the worst
thing I've ever been in. I was standing next to him when the first one
exploded. He flopped down and lay flat on the ground, but I rushed away
into the fields with a lot of others. When it was all over we went back
and heard the wounded crying out in a way that was dreadful to hear.
This fellow was still lying on the ground by the duckboards, trembling
all over and paralysed with fear. We went to help the wounded, but he
was in such a state that he could not come with us, so we left him
behind. There was an inquiry afterwards and _we_ got into a frightful
row for running away. He got the M.M. for sticking to his post!"