Something was wrong. The shelling of the back-areas continued; air-raids
became more and more frequent. These were ominous signs.
Then the newspapers arrived. The Somme front had collapsed. The Fifth
Army was in full retreat. The Germans had taken Bapaume and Peronne and
were threatening Amiens.
* * * * *
Had I been living in Germany during the war I would have felt a powerful
tendency to defend the cause of the Allies, to excuse their misdeeds, to
overrate their ability, while being highly critical and censorious of
every German shortcoming.
A nation at war is a mob whose very blatancy, injustice and cruelty
drive one to hatred and opposition. The enemy mob seems less detestable
because it is out of sight and one thinks almost involuntarily: "It
cannot be as bad as our own."
I could not bear to hear a victory joyfully announced. The jubilation
and the self-glorification of the crowd filled me with loathing, and I
could only think of the intensified slaughter and misery that are the
price of every victory. They who pay the price, they alone have the
right to rejoice, but they do not rejoice. The German mob revealed its
depravity when it hung out flags in the streets to celebrate the first
German victories. And, when the first battle of Cambrai was won, London
jeered at the bereaved and mocked the dead by ringing the joy-bells.
Every genuine patriot is called a traitor in his own country. But
patriotism, however genuine, is a thing that must be surmounted. There
is only one good that war can bring to a nation--defeat. A patriot,
loving his own country, would therefore wish his country defeat in war.
But he who has surmounted his patriotism and has attained complete
impartiality would not selfishly claim the only benefit of war entirely
for his own country, but would desire all to share it alike, and would
therefore wish defeat for every warring nation.
If a horde of British and a horde of German soldiers engage in mutual
butchery, and if the maimed, broken remnants of the British horde have
just enough order left to drive back the remnants of the German horde,
leaving innumerable dead and wounded and for ever darkening the lives of
countless friends and wives--in other words, if the British army wins
what our infamous Press would call a "glorious victory"--then all that
is evil in the life of the nation is encouraged and justified. It is
then that the diplomatists who lied and schemed to bring on the
monstrous event, that all the politicians who exploit and foster the
nation's madness and misery to enhance their own reputations, that those
who batten on the slaughter, and that those who glorify the carnage at
a safe distance and fight the enemy with their lying tongues, are
justified. They all are justified. But if, instead of victory, there is
defeat, then they tremble lest they should be disgraced and lose their
places, lest they should be victims of a disillusioned people's anger,
lest they should forfeit their plunder, lest they should be called to
account for the lies with which they fooled the masses. Defeat is the
defeat of evil, victory is the victory of evil.
* * * * *
A second batch of papers arrived. The German advance was continuing. The
British reverse was becoming catastrophic. At first I felt a kind of
grimness, and then I was thrilled by the thought that perhaps the end of
the war might be near. We might not have a good peace, but peace of any
kind was preferable to war. The mendacious Press talked much about a
"dishonourable peace," as though any peace could be as dishonourable as
a prolonged war.
But the immediate reality became too overwhelming. Grey multitudes were
sweeping khaki multitudes before them. High-explosives, shrapnel,
grenades, bombs, bullets were rending, piercing, and shattering the
living flesh and muscle and bone. Towns and villages were being turned
into heaps of brick and wreckage. Hordes of old men, women, and children
were thronging the roads, and fleeing from approaching disaster.
We went to work as usual although we worked less than usual, for we now
had something to talk about. Would the Germans reach the coast? If they
did, then the northern armies would be cut off and destroyed. A general
retreat from our front might be ordered at any moment. We stood in
groups and discussed these problems hour by hour.
One day we were returning from work and passing through the village. A
crowd of civilians was standing round the window of the Mairie, where a
written notice was exposed. An old woman dressed in black was moaning,
"Mon Dieu, mon Dieu, mon Dieu." The '19, '20, and '21 classes had been
called up.
Then the German advance came to an end. A French army had arrived and
saved the situation. The shelling of the back areas had ceased. The
danger was over for a time.
Had the Germans assembled all their strength for one supreme attempt at
breaking through the Western Front? Or was it only the beginning of a
whole series of operations?
One morning, as we woke up, we heard the roar and rumble of a
bombardment. We did not take much notice of it, for we had heard the
sound so often.
We paraded, and marched off to work. The continuous roar gradually gave
place to irregular, though frequent, outbursts of firing along the
entire front.
The next day the sound seemed to have come nearer. Rumours began to
circulate--it was said that Armentières had fallen, that the Portuguese
had been annihilated at Merville, that the British had counter-attacked
and taken Lille.
Rations, newspapers and letters were delayed. Large bodies of troops
passed through the village. We got no definite or official news, and
nobody had any clear notion of what was happening.
But the sound of firing grew louder and louder and our anxiety deepened.
There could no longer be any doubt about it--the Germans were advancing
on our front.
The sickening certainty transcended all other considerations. A few
miles from us thousands were being slaughtered. I ceased to ponder the
problems of failure and success. I forgot the politicians and was
conscious of only one despairing wish, that the terrible thing might
come to an end. Victory and defeat seemed irrelevant considerations. If
only the end would come quickly--nothing else really mattered.
I often wondered what was in the minds of the other men. Many of them
looked anxious, but on the whole they were normal in their behaviour.
They grumbled and quarrelled much as usual and talked rather more than
usual--but so did I, in spite of my intense mental agitation.
The sound of firing grew louder.
We marched to an extensive R.E. park and saw-mill near a railway siding.
We had to dismantle the machinery and load everything of any value on to
a train. For several hours five of us dragged a huge cylinder and piston
along the ground. We toiled and perspired. We made a ramp of heavy
wooden beams in front of the train and then we slowly pushed the iron
mass into a truck. We went back and, raising a big fly-wheel on its edge
and supporting it with a wooden beam under each axle, we rolled it
painfully along, swaying from side to side.
Then there came the long-drawn familiar whine, and the black smoke arose
behind some trees a hundred yards away and the thunder-clap followed. A
jagged piece of steel came whizzing by and lodged in a stack of timber
behind us.
We pushed the wheel up the ramp and returned to fetch heavy coils of
wire, bundles of picks and shovels, sacks and barrels of nails. Our
backs and shoulders ached, our hands and finger-tips were sore.
Another shell came whining over. It burst by a little cottage. Its
thunder made our ears sing. The fragments of flying metal made us duck
or scatter behind the stacks.
We worked until we almost dropped with sheer fatigue. Iron rods and bars
for reinforcing pill-boxes, bags of cement, boxes of tools, parts of
machinery, all went on to the train. Then we entered a big shed, where
a number of tar-barrels stood in a row. We rolled them out and placed
them by the timber stacks. We laid a pick beside each barrel so that it
could be broached, the tar set alight, and the entire park destroyed at
a moment's notice.
It was dark when we stopped work. We reached camp after an hour's
wearisome marching. We waited in a long queue outside the cook-house.
The cooks served out the greasy stew as quickly as they could, but we
were so tired and ill-tempered that we shouted abuse at them without
reason and without being provoked, and banged our plates and tins. The
war, the advance, the slaughter were forgotten. We were conscious of
nothing but weariness, stiffness, and petty irritation.
The following day we marched to a ration dump. The wooden cases of
rations were piled up in gigantic cubes, so that the entire dump looked
like a town of windowless, wooden buildings. We formed one long file
that circled slowly past the stacks, each man taking one case on to his
shoulder or back and carrying it to the train. And so we circled round
and round throughout the monotonous day.
In the evening I did not wait in the dinner queue, but went to the St.
Martin. It was kept by an old woman and her two daughters. They were
tortured by anxiety:
"Les Allemands vont venir ici--de Shermans come heer?" they asked. But I
knew no more than they did. I told them, against my own conviction, that
the German advance would be held up, but they remained anxious. The
uproar of the cannonade was louder than ever. All the windows of the
building shook and rattled. The old woman muttered: "'Tis niet goet,
'tis niet goet," and the elder daughter echoed: "Oh, 'tiss no bon, 'tiss
no bon."
Two British officers entered. They looked round and saw that private
soldiers were sitting at the tables. But the St. Martin was the biggest
estaminet in the village and provided the best wines and coffees, so
they stood in the doorway, undecided what to do. They asked one of the
girls if there was a restaurant for officers in the neighbourhood. She
answered: "No--no restaurant for officeerss--you come heer--privates,
zey no hurt you--privates, officeerss, all same."
Encouraged by these assurances, one of the newcomers said to the other:
"Come on, let's sit down here and have a coffee--we needn't stop long."
All the smaller tables were occupied, but there was one long table that
stretched across the room and only a few men were sitting at the far end
of it. The officers sat down at the near end and ordered coffee. They
seemed a little embarrassed at first, but they soon began to talk freely
to each other:
"I wonder if there's a war on in these parts--I hear the Huns have made
a bit of a push."
"Curse the blighters--they'll mess up my leave, it's due in a week's
time."
"Jolly good coffee, this! Here, Marie, bring us another two cups--der
coop der caffay--that's right, isn't it?"
"Dat's right," said the girl, "you speak goot French--vous avez tout a
fait l'accent parisien."
Suddenly her sister came running into the room, sobbing loudly:
"English soldier come round from Commandant--he tell us Shermans
come--ve got to go 'vay at once, ve got to leave everysing--ve go 'vay
and English troops steal everysing and shellss come and smash everysing
and ve looss everysing."
The civilians of the village had received orders to leave immediately.
Through the window we could see groups of people standing in the street
and talking together. They were greatly agitated.
The old woman sniffed and wiped her eyes. The elder daughter was
packing a few things in a bundle. One of the officers asked: "What about
our coffee?" but she took no notice. Her sister had gone out in search
of further information.
She soon returned. Yes, they would all have to leave at once, but, if
they liked to take the risk, they could come back to-morrow with a
wagon, if they could get one, and fetch their belongings.
They were comforted. They knew where they would be able to get a wagon.
They would cart their stock and their household property away on the
morrow. They would start another estaminet somewhere. They would suffer
loss and inconvenience, but they would not be ruined--their valuable
stock of wines would save them from that.
The bundle was made up and they prepared to leave. We paid our bill and
went out into the street. Numbers of soldiers were straggling past. They
looked wretched and exhausted. Their boots and puttees were caked with
mud. They had neither rifles nor packs. Three men were lying up against
a garden wall. We asked them for news. They could not tell us much,
except that the Germans were still advancing.
"We was at Dickebusch when 'e started slingin' stuff over--gorblimy, 'e
don't 'alf wallop yer--umpteen of our mates got bleed'n' well biffed. We
cleared out afore it got too 'ot."
Several famished "battle-stragglers" had entered our camp in order to
beg for food. They sat round the cook-house and ate in gloomy silence.
In the adjoining field a number of tents had sprung up. Blue figures
were moving in and out amongst them. The French had arrived.
The next morning, about breakfast time, the first shell burst near the
camp--a short rapid squeal followed by a sharp report. The second shell
burst a few minutes after, throwing up earth and smoke. A steel fragment
came sailing over in a wide parabola and struck the foot of a man
standing in the breakfast queue. He limped to the first-aid hut, looking
very pale. When he got there, he had some difficulty in finding his
wound, it was so slight.
We paraded and marched off. Several shells burst in the neighbouring
fields. We reached the ration dump and began to load the train. A
civilian arrived with the newspapers. Our N.C.O.'s were powerless to
stop the general stampede that surged towards the paper-vendor.
The Germans had advanced on a wide front ... Armentières had fallen. The
news was several days old and much might have happened since.
We went back to our work and discussed events. We were bullied and
threatened with arrest, but we talked in groups while we carried cases
of rations. Would we be involved in the advance? We might even be
captured--that would at least be an experience and a change.
In the evening a few of us went to the St. Martin to see if the old
woman and her daughter had been able to fetch their property away. We
observed that the windows, where tinned fruit, chocolate, cakes, soap,
postcards, and other articles used to be exhibited, had been cleared
completely. We entered and found one of the girls in tears:
"All gone--all gone--I show you--you come into de cellar--all de wine
gone--bottles all, all broken. English soldiers come in de night and
take everysing 'vay--ve nussing left--it's de soldiers in de camp over
zair in de field--zey plenty drunk dis morning--ve lose everysing--ve
poor now."
Besides the windows, the till and the shelves had been cleared, and
empty drawers and boxes had been thrown on to the floor. We went down
into the cellar. All the cases had been opened and the stone floor was
littered with empty and broken bottles. The girl began to sob again when
she saw the ruin that had been inflicted:
"All gone, all gone--ve poor now."
"Why don't you complain to the Town Major?" one of us suggested.
"Complain?--vat's de use complain?--de Town Major, he nice man, he kind
to us, but he no find de soldiers dat come, and if he find zem he punish
zem but ve get nussing. Vat's de use punish zem if ve get nussing? All
gone, ve poor now--oh, dis var, dis var--dis de second time ve
refugeess--ve lose eversing 1914, ve come here from Zandvoorde and ve
start again--ve do business vis soldiers, soldiers plenty money, ve do
goot business, and now ve refugeess again and ve novair to go. If de
Shermans come, ve do business vis de Shermans--but de shells come first
and ve all killed--ah, dis var, dis var! Vat's de use fighting? All for
nussing! Var over, me plenty dance!"
We ascended the cellar stairs. The mother was in the main room, wiping
her eyes. We said good-bye to her and her daughter, feeling ashamed of
our uniforms, and walked out into the street.
A mass of French cavalry were galloping past. It was growing dark. The
cannonade had become deafening. Over the town a few miles off there was
a crimson glare in the sky.
A horde of civilians was thronging the main street of the village. Old
men and women were carrying all that was left to them of their property
on their backs. Others were pushing wheelbarrows heaped up with clothes
and household utensils. Girls were carrying heavy bundles under their
arms and dragging tired, tearful children along. White-faced, sorrowful
mothers were carrying peevish babies. Great wagons, loaded with
furniture and bedding, and whole families sitting on top, were drawn by
lank and bony horses. A little cart, with a pallid, aged woman cowering
inside, was drawn painfully along by a white-haired man. They passed by
us in the gathering gloom, and there seemed to be no end to these
straggling multitudes of ruined, homeless people who were wandering
westwards to escape the disaster that threatened to engulf us all.
The eastern sky flickered with vivid gun-flashes and scintillated with
brilliant shell-bursts. The night was full of rustling noises and sullen
thunder-claps, while a more distant roaring and rumbling seemed to break
against some invisible shore like the breakers of a stormy sea.
We retired to our huts and tents. Soon after lights-out the Police
Corporal came round and shouted:
"Parade at 4.45 to-morrow morning in marching order."
The tumult increased as though the surge were coming nearer and nearer.
Shells of small calibre passed overhead with a prolonged whistle and
burst with a hardly audible report. The thunder of bigger explosions
shook the huts and caused the ground to tremble.
As I woke the next morning the din of the cannonade broke in upon my
senses with a sudden impact. Rumbling, thundering, bellowing, rushing,
whistling, and whining, the tumult seemed all around and above us.
Sudden flashes lit up the whole camp so that for fractions of seconds
every hut and tent was brilliantly illuminated. Multitudes of dazzling
stars appeared and disappeared.
We drew our breakfast and packed up our belongings. All was confusion in
the hut.
We paraded, the roll was called, and as the day began to dawn we marched
off.
We passed down the main road in long, swaying columns of fours. We left
the woodyard behind us and hoped it would be destroyed--how we hated the
place for the dreary months we had spent there! The westward stream of
refugees had ceased, but an eastward stream of French infantry and field
artillery thronged the roads. The artillerymen were mostly tall and
powerfully built. The infantry were nearly all elderly men of poor
physique. They looked desperately miserable. We exchanged greetings:
"It's a good war!"
"C'est une bonne guerre!"
And then we broke into song:
"Oh, Oh, Oh, Oh, _Oh_ it's a lovely war!"
The French did not sing, but we, who were escaping destruction, passed
from one song to another:
"I don't want to fight the Germans,
I don't want to go to war,
I'd sooner be in London,
Dear old dirty London."