"What madness there is in this arithmetic that counts men by the
millions like grains of corn in a bushel.... A newspaper has just
written about an encounter with the enemy: 'Our losses were
insignificant, one dead and five wounded.' It would be interesting
to know for whom these losses are insignificant? For the one who
was killed?... If he were to rise from his grave, would he think
the loss 'insignificant'? If only he could think of everything from
the very beginning, of his childhood, his family, his beloved wife,
and how he went to the war and how, seized by the most conflicting
thoughts and emotions, he felt afraid, and how it all ended in
death and horror.... But they try to convince us that 'our losses
are insignificant.' Think of it, godless writer! Go to your master
the Devil with your clever arithmetic.... How this man revolts
me--may the Devil take him!"
(ANDREYEFF.)
Throughout the winter one question above all others was discussed by the
few who took an interest in the war: "What were the Germans going to
do?" It was clear that they had been able to withdraw many divisions
from their Eastern Front. Would they be numerically equal or superior to
the Allies on the Western Front?
On the whole we were of opinion that, whatever happened, our positions
would prove impregnable, although we observed with some astonishment
that there were no extensive trench systems or fortified places behind
our lines. I doubted whether the Germans would even attempt to break
through--I thought they would merely hold the Western Front and throw
the Allies out of Macedonia, Palestine, and Mesopotamia.
The winter was over and the fine weather had set in. For several months
we had been working in a wood-yard and saw-mills. Our lives had become
unspeakably monotonous, but the coming of warm days banished much of our
dreariness. The hazy blue sky was an object of real delight. I often
contrived to slip away from my work and lean idly against a wall in the
mild sunshine. At times I was so filled with the sense of physical
well-being, and so penetrated by the sensuous enjoyment of warmth and
colour, that I even forgot the war.
At the bottom of the wood-yard was a little stream, and on the far bank
clusters of oxlips were in bloom. Here we would lie down during the
midday interval and surrender to the charm of the spring weather. It
seemed unnatural and almost uncanny that we should be happy, but there
were moments when we felt something very much like happiness. Moreover,
it was rumoured that leave was going to start. How glorious it would be
to spend a sunny May or June in England!
Once a fortnight we paraded for our pay outside one of the bigger sheds
of the yard. As a rule, I was filled with impatience and irritation at
having to wait in a long queue and move forward step by step, but now it
had become pleasant to tarry in the sunshine. One day, when we were
lined up between two large huts, a deep Yellow Brimstone butterfly came
floating idly past. It gave me inexpressible delight, a delight tempered
by sadness and a longing for better times. I drew my pay and saluted
perfunctorily, being unable and unwilling to think of anything but the
beauty of the sky, the sun, and the wonderful insect.
I held my three ten-franc notes in my hand and thought: "I _will_ enjoy
this lovely day to the full. When we get back to camp I will do without
the repulsive army fare, I will dine at the St. Martin and buy a bottle
of the best French wine, even if it costs me twenty francs. And then
I'll walk to the little wood on the hill-slope and there I'll lie all
the evening and dream or read a book."
The whistle sounded. It was time to go back to work. But I cursed the
work and decided to take the small risk and remain idle for an hour or
two. I went to an outlying part of the yard and sat down on a patch of
long grass and leant back against a shed. The air was hot and several
bees flew by. Their buzzing reminded me of summer holidays spent in
southern France before the war. I thought of vineyards and orchards, of
skies intensely blue, of scorching sunshine, of the tumultuous chirping
of cicadas and grasshoppers, and then of the tepid nights crowded with
glittering stars and hushed except for the piping of tree-frogs.
Before the war--before the war--I repeated the words to myself. They
conveyed a sense of immeasurable remoteness, of something gone and lost
for ever. But I _wouldn't_ think about it. I _would_ enjoy the present.
But the calm waters of happiness had been ruffled and it was beyond my
power to restore their tranquillity. I began to think of many things, of
the war itself, of the possible offensive, and soon the fretful
rebellious discontent, that obsessed all those of us who had not lost
their souls, began to reassert itself.
But why not desert? Why not escape to the south of France? Why not enjoy
a week, a fortnight, a month of freedom? I would be caught in the end--I
would be punished. I would receive Number 1 Field Punishment, and I
would be tied to a wheel or post, but nevertheless it would be worth
it! I imagined myself slipping out of camp at night and walking until
dawn. Then I would sleep in some wood or copse and then walk on again,
calling at remote farms to buy bread and eggs and milk. I would reach
the little village, the main street winding between white houses and
flooded with brilliant moonlight. I would climb the wall and drop into
the familiar garden and await the morning. Then I would knock at the
door and I would be welcomed by an old peasant woman, and she would ask:
"Tu viens en perme?" How could I answer that question? It worried me, I
felt it was spoiling my dream. But I dreamt on and at the same time
battled against increasing depression. Even a few days of freedom would
be a break, a change from routine. And would the little village be the
same as when I saw it last? No, it would be different, it would be at
war. I might escape from the army, but I could never escape from the
war. My dream had vanished.
But I _would_ make the best of things. I _would_ enjoy the immediate
present--was I not losing hours of sheer pleasure by harbouring these
thoughts and ignoring the beauty of the day?
Some distance ahead was a farm of the usual Flemish type--a thatched
roof, whitewashed walls, and green shutters. Near by was a little pond
with willows growing round it. In the field beyond, a cow was grazing
peacefully. The sky seemed a deeper blue through the willow-branches.
The tender green of the grass was wonderfully refreshing to the eyes.
The cow had a beautiful coat of glossy brown that shone in the sunlight.
I abandoned myself to the charm of the little idyll that was spread out
before me and forgot the war once again.
And then all at once a gigantic, plume-shaped, sepia coloured mass rose
towering out of the ground. There was a rending, deafening, double
thunder-clap that seemed to split my head. For a moment I was dazed and
my ears sang. Then I looked up--the black mass was thinning and
collapsing. The cow had disappeared.
I walked into the yard full of rage and bitterness. All the men had left
the sheds and were flocking into the road. Some were strolling along in
leisurely fashion, some were walking with hurried steps, some were
running, some were laughing and talking, some looked startled, some
looked anxious, and some were very pale.
We crossed the road and the railway. Then, traversing several fields, we
came to a halt and waited. We waited for nearly an hour, but nothing
happened and we gradually straggled back to the yard.
Some of us walked to the spot where the shell had burst. There was a
huge hole, edged by a ring of heaped-up earth, and loose mould and
grassy sods lay scattered all round. Here and there lay big lumps of
bleeding flesh. The cow had been blown to bits. The larger pieces had
already been collected by the farmer, who had covered them with a
tarpaulin sheet from which a hoof protruded.
The next day, at about the same hour, the dark cloud again rose from the
ground and the double explosion followed. We again abandoned the yard
and waited in the field. But this time there were several further
shell-bursts. No dull boom in the distance followed by a long-drawn
whine, but only the earth and smoke thrown darkly up and then the
deafening double detonation.
The next day more shells came over, and the next day also.
The big holes with their earthen rims began to dot the fields in many
places. No damage of "military importance" had been done. Not even a
soldier had been killed, but only an inoffensive cow.
At night the sky was alive with the whirr of propellers, and shells
whistled overhead and burst a long way off.
One Sunday, toward the end of March, when we had a half-holiday, I
walked up the hill that was crowned by a large monastery and sat down
on the slope by a group of sallows. They were in full bloom. A swarm of
bees and flies were buzzing round. Peacock and Tortoiseshell butterflies
were flitting to and fro. The sunlight filtered down through the bluish
haze. I rested and let an hour or two slip by. Then I got up and crossed
a little brook and strolled along a narrow path that wound its way
through a copse. The ground was starred with wood-anemones, oxlips,
violets, cuckoo-flowers, and in damp places with green-golden saxifrage.
I came to a small cottage that had pots of flowers in every window. I
sat down while a hospitable old woman made coffee and chattered volubly
in Flemish. Another soldier arrived soon after. Had I heard the news?
The Germans had broken through on the Somme and had captured Bapaume. I
asked him if he had seen it in print. No, he had heard it from an A.S.C.
driver. He hoped it wasn't true, but he feared it was.