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BATTLEWRACK
by
F. BRITTEN AUSTIN
Author of "In Action," "The Shaping of Lavinia"
Hodder and Stoughton
London New York Toronto
TO
CHARLES F. GABB
IN HIS PRIVATE AFFECTIONS
THE PATTERN OF STINTLESS FRIENDSHIP
IN HIS SELFLESS PATRIOTISM
THE MODEL OF A TRUE ENGLISHMAN
THESE SKETCHES OF HUMANITY AT STRIFE
ARE DEDICATED
IN THE GRATITUDE OF A LONG MEMORY
CONTENTS
PAGE
The Battery (1914) 1
Pro Patria 27
Nerves! 48
The Air Scout (1914) 70
Kultur (1915) 91
The Magic of Muhammed Din 101
The Other Side 124
Na Nos! 151
Per la Più Grande Italia! 162
Panzerkraftwagen! 188
Nach Verdun! 214
The Châtelaine of Lysboisée 243
They Come Back 277
Practically all these stories have appeared in the _Strand Magazine_,
_Pearson's Magazine_, _Pall Mall Magazine_, or _The Sphere_. To the
Editors of these periodicals I tender my acknowledgments.
It is fair to state that some of these stories, in particular "The
Battery," "The Air Scout," "Pro Patria," "Nerves," were written and in
some cases appeared before the present War.
THE BATTERY (1914)
The sun hung in the mists of morning, swollen, blood-red, a symbol of
augury, as the artillery brigade pulled out of the village where it had
been billeted for the night. At the tail of its long line of slowly
moving vehicles marched a compact column of brown-clad infantry. In
front moved a squadron of cavalry. The lieutenant-colonel commanding
the brigade trotted smartly past the batteries with his staff. Fresh
from an interview with the divisional artillery commander, he tried
not to look preoccupied and anxious as he met the searching eyes of
his men. From an unknown distance a dull thud, irregularly repeated,
vibrated through the dense atmosphere. The colonel raised his head
sharply to listen. The men in the column exchanged glances full of
meaning.
The dull concussions continued, but the column did not increase its
pace. The long line of guns and wagons rolled onward at a steady walk,
amid a jangle of chains and harness. The gunners on the limbers smoked
and talked. Occasionally there was a burst of laughter. It seemed that
that ominous thudding was a summons which concerned them not at all.
In the fog which drifted in patches across the road its origin seemed
enormously remote.
The junior subaltern of the third and last battery in the column heard
the sound with less indifference. Each of those muffled shocks came
to him like a knock upon his heart. He listened for them anxiously
and shuddered, in spite of himself, as the air vibrated on his ears.
He needed none to tell him their meaning, novel though the sound was
to him. They were the first long shots of the opening battle. As he
listened, blindfold as it were in that fog, his animal tissues shrunk
at this menace of an untried experience, while at the same time another
part of him, the dominant, grew fretfully anxious lest the battery was
too far in rear, lest they should be too late. The conflict of these
opposing impulses in him made him nervous and fidgety. He wanted to
talk to someone, to discuss the situation, to exchange opinions upon a
host of possibilities. He looked longingly at the No. 1 of the leading
gun of his section as he walked his horse at the side of the leaders
and chatted quietly to the driver. The sergeant appeared so calm, so
strong with already acquired experience. He felt almost irresistibly
impelled to enter into conversation with him--opening phrases kept
coming to his tongue--but a shame at the weakness of his own nerve
restrained him. He braced himself with a thought of his rank and
responsibilities and remained silent. The subaltern was new to war and
new to the battery. He had come straight from the "Shop" with a draft
of men to replace the wastage of the last battle. He was very young
and, until that morning, very proud of himself.
Unexpectedly, the column halted. Why? The subaltern chafed. It was
intolerable to idle there upon the road with that urgent summons
momentarily shaking the air. The concussions followed one another
much more quickly now and came with a sharper sound. They seemed to
run all along a wide arc stretched far to right and left in front of
him. Occasionally they came in heavy salvos that swallowed the noise
of isolated shots. He could see nothing. The fog lay thick upon the
road, a white curtain against which danced black specks as he strained
his eyes at it. The column stood still and silent. Only a jingling
of chains arose as the horses nosed at each other. Presently, as the
passengers in a fog-bound train hear the rumble of the other train for
which they wait, a sound came to him out of the mist and explained the
halt. It was the hollow rhythmic tramp of infantry. The sound increased
and then maintained itself at a uniform pitch. In the distance the
artillery salvos followed one another ever more quickly, peal on peal
of thunder. Still the hollow beat of boots upon the road continued. The
subaltern swore to himself. Were they to wait there while the entire
army passed? At last the hollow sound diminished, died down, ceased. A
sharply uttered order ran down the column. The line of vehicles moved
on again.
For a long time they marched through the fog, drawing ever nearer
to the cannonade. There were no more halts. Nevertheless it seemed
to the subaltern that their progress was wilfully, culpably slow.
As a matter of fact, the column, responding to the magnetism of
battle, had involuntarily quickened pace. The physical anxiety of
the subaltern communicated itself to, and was misinterpreted by, his
brain. He imagined that he was concerned wholly for the fate of the
army if deprived of the valuable support of the brigade to which
he was attached. He conceived enormous disasters hinging on their
non-appearance. Suddenly he noticed, with surprise, that his knees were
trembling against the saddle, his hands shaking as they held the reins.
This discovery startled him. His anxiety for the army was obliterated
by another. Could he be sure of himself? A spasm of alarm shot through
him. Would that calm mysterious higher self in him lose control? He had
a glimpse of himself in a whirlwind of sensations, a maddened animal
dashing to escape. It must not be. He exercised his volition as an
athlete exercises a muscle, testing it. Desperately, he willed himself
to immobility. The tremor in his limbs did not cease. He agonised
lest someone should perceive it. Sweat broke out on his forehead.
Nevertheless his brain was clear. He held fast to that. Never mind
what his body did, at all costs his brain must be kept clear and cool.
Engaged in these introspections he forgot the fog, forgot the lagging
brigade, forgot the ever-swelling uproar in front of him.
Suddenly the mist broke, rolled away from a sunlit landscape. They
were at the summit of a slight elevation. About them was open country,
dotted with trees and farms. In front the road dropped and then
mounted. He looked over the heads of the artillery-men before him
and saw a long column of infantrymen ascending the further hill. It
was for that column that the brigade had waited. The recognition
of the fact reawakened perception through a linked memory. He heard
again the pealing thunder of the guns, to which for some minutes he
had been oblivious. Instantly an intense, anxious curiosity took
possession of him. Where were they fighting? In the fog his mind had
formed a picture of lines of guns coughing out flame and noise at
each other, desperately in conflict, just at the other side of the
curtain drawn before his eyes. Now, the veil dropped, he looked at
reality and only so much of the picture persisted as to puzzle him.
Save for the column marching ahead there was no sign of life in that
open countryside. Yet the air was full of sound. No longer was it a
series of dull concussions. It was one vast, continuous, ringing roar,
broken at intervals by the sound of violent fracture as a puff of wind
came to his cheek. Excitedly, he strained his eyes at the distances,
seeking some point where he could localise the conflict. There was
nothing. Yes! Far ahead of him, beyond the hill which the infantry were
climbing, a faint haze of smoke hung in the air. In that haze tiny
puffs sprang into being and spread lazily. There, then! Encouraged,
his gaze searched the landscape. Far to his left, over a little wood
that closed the view, hung another such haze, and, as his eyes ranged
over the country, he saw a line of smoke-puffs leap from nowhere above
a hill to his right. The line was constantly renewed until the smoke
trailed across the blue sky like a cloud. A thrill ran through him. He
forgot himself, lost all memory of his doubts. He quivered, but it was
with eagerness to rush into the fight. Oh, to mount that hill and see
what was happening! The infantry drew up over it, disappeared beyond
the summit like a snake drawing in its tail. The artillery crawled
onward.
He was calculating the minutes that must elapse before their arrival on
the crest when suddenly his hopes were dashed. The brigade was turning
off along a by-road to the left. Baulked of his desire, he swore
savagely, almost with tears. A man on the limber near him looked up in
sharp surprise. He desisted, clenching his teeth. Inwardly he raged.
As he too swung round the corner, his back to the direction of the
smoke-cloud he had so excitedly watched, it seemed that he was turning
out of the battle. The brigade moved for some distance along that road
and then halted, drawn close in to the hedge. Behind them swelled the
noise of tramping infantry, growing louder. The men who had followed
them were going to pass. They came, swinging along at a good pace,
steadily rhythmic. They passed, endlessly. The subaltern found himself
gazing curiously at the faces of men in the stream. Some were stern and
set, some laughed carelessly, some shouted jokes to the artillery-men,
many were strangely haggard and drawn. He noticed one man who gazed at
nothing with a rapt expression. His lips were moving. He was praying.
They were going into battle. The subaltern was again aware of the
thunder of the guns.
The brigade waited. The tramp of the infantry had long since ceased.
They seemed alone, forgotten, on the road. Suddenly an order was passed
down the column. The subaltern repeated it, almost before he was aware
that he had heard it. "No. 3 Section--Prepare for action!" Instantly
the gun detachments leaped to the ground. The breech and muzzle covers
were removed and strapped to the front of the gun shields. The breech,
the firing mechanism, the ranging gear, the sights were swiftly
examined. The men on the ammunition wagons tested the opening of the
lids, looked to the fuse indicator, saw that the fuses were at safety.
These things done, they resumed their seats. The subaltern's heart beat
fast. Now?
Minute after minute passed. The brigade waited in all readiness to
move. Presently the order came. "Walk!--March!--Trot!" They passed
quickly along the road. The subaltern looked ahead, saw his battery
leader turn through a gate into a broad meadow on the right. The other
batteries were turning into the field further up. He lost sight of one
of them. He arrived at the gate, wheeled into it. "By the left--Form
Battery Column!" The subsections of single guns drew out and up level
with the other gun of the section, each with its following wagon.
The first line or reserve wagons dropped behind. The battery trotted
smartly forward across the field. It was a large meadow, unintersected
by hedge or ditch, rising gently to the ridge whereto their original
road had climbed. At the summit was a small copse. Far in front the
subaltern saw a group of horsemen riding swiftly towards it. He knew
it for the colonel and his staff. Between him and them was a mounted
figure, halted, and, some distance further away, another figure. It was
the battery commander and the sergeant-major marking the position of
the battery and the line of fire. The battery went on. The ridge was
looming up close in front. "By the left--Form Line!" The guns wheeled
into a long line. Their accompanying wagons slackened speed, fell some
forty yards in rear. "Walk!--Halt!--Action Front!" The guns stopped.
The detachments leaped down. Two men seized the gun-trail, unhooked it
from the limber, gave the order "Limber drive on!" The horses trotted
quickly round in a half-circle and went to the rear. The trail was
carried round, reversing the gun. A moment later the attendant wagon
came up, placing itself close on the left, its axle a little in rear
of the gun-axle. About each gun in the line there was a second or two
of busy movement. The No. 1 threw back the traversing lever, laid the
gun approximately in the true direction, noted the level of the wheels.
Others lowered the shield, put on the brakes, fixed the sights. Two
others opened the ammunition wagon and half withdrew a number of rounds
in readiness. The subaltern's horseholder came up. As he surrendered
his mount he felt that he was stepping into the arena.
He looked along the line of guns. The detachments of each were in
position, motionless--No. 1 kneeling on the left side of the trail, 2
on the seat on the right-hand side, 3 on the left, 4 kneeling behind 3,
5 and 6 kneeling in rear of the wagon by the gun. At the right-hand end
of the line was the battery commander. In front of him a wagon-limber
had been placed for his protection. Up the hill-side men were swiftly
paying out a telephone wire. A lieutenant and a couple of look-out men
were cantering up to join the party now halted at the side of the copse.
The subaltern turned to see the captain of the battery at his side. He
smiled and nodded. "How do you feel?" he asked. "Shivery?" The captain
was in command of the first-line wagons in reserve. He stood near the
battery to watch the expenditure of ammunition.
The subaltern placed himself behind the wagon of his gun nearest the
commander, and waited, stiffly erect. He felt himself tingling with
eagerness, yet he could scarcely bring himself to believe that this
was battle. It might have been parade. He forgot the all-swallowing
roar about him, remembered only that he was in command of those two
guns, was responsible that they dealt out death coolly, accurately,
scientifically.
The telephone was complete. A man knelt on the ground near the battery
commander, the receiver to his ear. Almost immediately there was a
sharp order. "Lines of Fire!" From each gun a man ran out quickly
towards the ridge with a couple of black and white posts. He planted
them in line and ran back. The angle of sight was passed down the
battery. The gun-barrels moved slightly, aiming at the invisible
enemy. Despite the ceaseless roar with which the air trembled, a
hush of expectancy seemed to lie over the line of guns. Other orders
came quickly down the battery from the commander. "Angle of sight
1·25´ elevation."--"Collective."--"Corrector 154."--"4100." No. 6 of
each gun called out the fuze. Five set it, passed the shell to 4 who
pushed it into the breech. Two closed the breech and adjusted the
range indicator. Three laid the gun and sat with his hand on the firing
lever. "Ready."
"Fire!" The No. 1 of the first gun repeated the order. Three pulled
the lever sharply upwards. A long tongue of flame spurted out of the
muzzle with a deafening report. The gun-barrel shot violently back
under its hydraulic buffer and was in place again ere the eye could
well note the movement. The other two guns of the right half-battery
fired successively at three seconds' interval. The men at the telephone
received a message. It was transmitted as orders to the battery. "No.
1--30 degrees more right. No. 2--20 degrees more right, No. 3--30
degrees more right." "Left half--30 degrees more right.--Corrector
162.--4300." The three shells already fired had gone too far to the
left. "Fire." The subaltern heard the order of the sergeant on his
right. "No. 4--Fire!" Then his own sergeants, "No. 5--Fire!" "No.
6--Fire!" He thrilled at the loud explosions. He was in action! He
was flattered to find how clear his mind was, how steady his nerve.
He supervised the laying of the guns as the next order came down the
line. "Corrector 158--4350.--One round battery fire." At five seconds'
interval the six guns fired one after the other. There was a wait. Had
they found the range? Yes! "Section Fire--10 seconds." He was engrossed
with his two guns as they were swiftly loaded and fired at the interval
ordered.
Away to his left the other two batteries of the brigade were firing
likewise. The rapid, violent reports of the line of guns overlapped,
merged into one long-drawn-out explosion that intensified spasmodically
as two or more fired at the same instant. The clamour of the general
battle was obscured, forgotten. The subaltern glanced at the bare
hill in front of him, over which the shells from the brigade were
streaming at the rate of one hundred and eight a minute. On what were
they falling, two and a half miles away? A straggling thought in him
found leisure for the question while yet the main forces of his mind
were concentrated on the busy detachments and the guns they served. He
had scarce noted it when an order was passed down the battery. "Stand
fast." Immediately there was silence. Only a faint haze spread and
thinned between the gun-muzzles and the ridge to show that they had
been at work. What of the distant, invisible target? The captain, who
had been standing by the battery commander, passed on his way to the
wagons. The subaltern stopped him.
"What was it?" he asked.
"Battery coming into action--just caught 'em--wiped out," answered the
captain laconically and hurried on.
The subaltern stared--horror-stricken involuntarily. Wiped out! He
tried to imagine the wreckage of that battery overwhelmed in a few
instants by a rain of shells coming from they knew not whence. He
failed. In that meadow, strangely quiet now despite a terrific din that
welled up from over the ridge, he could not picture it. The hill in
front was a wall across his vision.
The brigade waited, but no further orders came. For the moment their
work was done. The guns stretched across the field, their muzzles
elevated, like a row of silent, expectant dogs. The lieutenant
commanding the adjacent section came up and asked the subaltern for a
cigarette. The subaltern gave it, repressing a smile. That lieutenant
never had any cigarettes.
As he relaxed from the strain of those few furious minutes the
subaltern felt suddenly hungry. He remembered that he had filled a
pocket with biscuits and munched at one as he gazed idly along the
battery. Fitfully his mind returned to the brief activity of his guns
and he contemplated the recollection with comfort. Never had he lost
mastery over himself. He was a man tried and proved.
With a vague dull curiosity he watched the group by the wood on the
hill above him. Members of it were moving to and fro. He noticed one
figure standing with both hands up to his face, his elbows sticking
out. He was examining something through his glasses. The subaltern
wondered whether it was the colonel and the thought came to him that on
a word from that man he and his fellows might be hurried to death as if
to execution. Every minute, orderlies rode at speed up to the group.
Presently an order came to the battery. It opened fire again, this time
deliberately, without haste, at 2500 yards and in a slightly different
direction. Again the subaltern appealed to the captain for information.
"Infantry advancing. We've only got a screen there. Sixth Corps coming
into action on our right. We're filling the gap between it and the
Second Corps. Enemy are trying to break through."
"Oh," said the subaltern, "we're in for a hot time, I suppose." He said
it carelessly, without any idea of what was coming.
"We most certainly are," said the captain. The emphasis of the reply
startled the subaltern, made him feel uneasy. He devoted himself to
his guns in an effort to banish the anxiety which threatened him. The
gun-squads were working with unhurried precision. A man kneeling behind
the wagon drew out the long projectile, set the fuze, passed the shell
to his fellow at the gun, the breech was closed, the lever pulled, and
the gun spoke with an exactly equal interval between rounds. They might
have been feeding a machine in a factory, so regular, so unemotional
was the operation. Behind the wagon the ground was littered with the
canvas cartridge clips. Behind the gun the flung-back brass cartridge
cases mounted to a heap. In front the air was blurry with gases.
Away to the right a new series of reports broke out. More batteries
had evidently come into action. Coalescing all individual sounds the
general clamour of the battle swelled in surges of hideous noise from
one deep-toned, continuous roar. The subaltern became habituated to it,
scarcely noticed it.
Happening to look round he saw a howitzer battery coming into the
field. A few minutes later the regular sequence of its detonations told
him it had got to work. It was evident that troops were being hurried
up to meet the threatened attack. Along the hill-side to the right a
line of infantry was strung out, advancing towards the wood. Another
followed it. When he turned again he saw more infantry entering the
field and deploying. He got a glimpse of the road filled with brown
caps that just showed above the hedges. Almost immediately the battery
ceased fire. Only the periodic discharges of the howitzers continued.
The battery commander was kneeling over a map spread upon the ground.
Up by the little wood a heliograph was flashing rapidly. A little
further on a couple of men were flag-wagging with vigour. Some crisis
was approaching. Behind him the infantry commenced to advance. On his
left front a couple of men spurred horses up the flank of the bare
hill-side.
The infantry passed the battery in their advance, the company that had
remained in column to avoid the guns deploying into the line. Another
line of supports followed and behind them another. They went steadily
up the hill, the two scouts from the battery passing through them as
they galloped back. The subaltern thrilled with a sense of imminent
danger. As yet he had seen no shell burst. Now it was going to begin.
The howitzer battery still fired over the heads of the advancing troops.
Up and up went the first line. The subaltern watched it with a
throbbing heart. It opened its files as it went, and, when nearly
to the crest, broke into a steady run. It reached the summit. For
a moment it showed black against the sky. Now? Nothing. The line
disappeared over the hill. The second line mounted, doubled, showed
against the sky and instantly a crowd of smoke-puffs leaped into the
air above it. He saw tiny figures knocked all ways to the ground and
immediately afterwards a run of sharp crashes came to his ears. The
line disappeared over the hill, leaving behind figures that lay still
and figures that tried to crawl out of the way of the third line. He
watched them, fascinated, through his glasses. The third line advanced,
undaunted. The crowd of smoke-puffs broke out again ere it reached the
summit and continued while it passed. When it had gone, the subaltern
noted an increase in the number of prostrate figures. Behind him more
infantry collected in the field but no more advanced. The hostile
shrapnel continued to burst over an empty hill-side. Presently it
ceased. From the other side of the hill arose a furious, feverish
crackling, noticeable even in the general uproar. The battery waited
for it knew not what.
Slightly wounded men began to trickle down the hill-side. One passed
close to the subaltern, lurching unsteadily. He was bleeding profusely
from a wound in the head. He stopped, swaying from side to side, and
looked at the lieutenant with a glare of idiocy. "Hell," he said with
sombre simplicity, "Hell," and then went on without waiting for a
reply. The lieutenant was inexpressibly shocked. It made him feel ill.
He turned and saw the wounded man walking like one blind, hands out,
across the field. The one word, "Hell," rang in his ears. He nibbled at
another biscuit to steady his stomach. "Pretty rotten that," he said
to himself, striving to get rid of the sensation by classifying it.
"Rotten."
Then the orders came. The gun-teams dashed up and in a few moments
the battery was moving at speed to its left across the meadows. Its
route was a diagonal directed on the ridge. It went in all haste. Its
half-depleted wagons had been replaced by full ones from the first
lines. The subaltern felt that he was rushing towards a crisis. He was
strangely exhilarated as he galloped on towards a line of trees that
rose to the ridge at right angles. A gate showed in the line of trees
and beyond the gate a road. The battery slackened speed, dashed through
the gate, vehicle after vehicle, and turned to the right towards the
ridge. The road was narrow, walled with high hedges and overhanging
elms. It mounted to a shrub-filled notch on the height. There the
battery was halted. The half-filled wagons now composing the first
line drew into cover. The battery-commander and several men rode on.
The battery waited, screened by the wooded crest of the hill. From the
unseen landscape in front arose an appalling tumult of sound. It was
like the noise of a colossal conflagration; the roar of flames, and the
crackle of burning woodwork enormously magnified.
Suddenly the battery moved on again. Quickly it mounted the crest and
dipped down on the other side. Again a gate on the right hand and in
a moment the battery was racing at full speed across a stubble-field.
A hundred yards ahead galloped the commander. To their left was open
country, full of sound. Above them, over the ridge upon their right,
a run of sharp explosions broke out. The subaltern heard them without
heeding. He shouted encouragement to his men as they dashed across the
field, though his voice was scarcely audible to himself. He was in a
whirl of excitement. Life hung on every second.
"Halt!" The guns stopped, were unlimbered and reversed in an instant.
The teams raced back to cover. The wagons dashed up beside their guns.
Around them one or two shells burst harmlessly upon the ground, like
the first heavy raindrops which precede the storm. It broke. Overhead
the sky collapsed with a fearful crash. The subaltern saw a myriad
spouts of dust leap up from the stubble, saw his most trusted sergeant
fall like a sack across the gun-trail. There was another riving crash
overhead. The subaltern turned to hear an order megaphoned from the
sergeant-major at the end of the line. "Guns in Action--Just below
Church." He whipped out his glasses, focussed quickly for the church,
saw a row of pin-points of flame flicker along a hedge. A moment later
the air in front of him was shaken by a group of crashes, followed on
the instant by a long, high-pitched drone. In the middle of it he heard
the megaphone. "3350 yards--Corrector 140." The men worked desperately
at the guns, like sailors in a blinding storm. The shrapnel beat down
among them like hail, ringing on the shields. "Section Control." The
subaltern gave the order. "Fire!" The whole battery fired swiftly, his
guns among the first. He watched the distant hedge below the church
through his glasses, saw a crowd of smoke-puffs burst over it even
as the flame-points flickered again. He shouted an alteration of the
corrector and his voice was swallowed by the crash of the hostile
shells. Again the shrapnel droned, flicked up the dust around him. He
heeded it not. He saw a man roll over with a shell in his hands. He
sprang to him, seized the shell, thrust it into the breech without
the loss of a second. Rapidly the guns fired. Away to his right he
heard the quick detonations of the other guns and again the crash
of bursting shrapnel. He gazed again at the distant hedge. It was a
duel between that battery and his. Extinction was the portion of the
one which failed in speed and accuracy. With a savage thrill he saw
a high shaft of flame spout up behind the hedge. A shell--he claimed
it as his--had plumped into an ammunition wagon and exploded. Wrought
to fever-pitch, the artillery-men loaded and fired. A cloud of dust
hung about each gun, obscuring the view, stabbed every few seconds
by a sharp thrust of flame. Down the hill-side the smoke of shrapnel
which had burst too low drifted close to the ground like steam from a
passing locomotive. Away in the distance, along that hedge--the men
in the battery saw only that, were oblivious to all else--a cloud of
smoke gathered, grew thicker every instant. Under it the pin-points of
flame flickered with ever longer intervals between the flashes. Over
the battery on the hill the shrapnel burst with less and less of noise,
less and less of accuracy. The subaltern exulted. They were getting
the upper hand. He yelled stimulation to his men. His two guns fired
faster even than before, raining shells at the hedge. Suddenly he was
aware that the hostile shrapnel had ceased. Behind the hedge he saw a
cloud of dust arise. Their enemy was retiring at speed. He altered the
range, flung shells into the dust-cloud until it disappeared. "Battery
Control--Stand fast." The guns ceased fire.
The subaltern turned to look at what he believed to be the wreckage
of his battery. It was littered with dead and dying men. A wagon lay
on its side, was being righted as he looked at it. Men pulled away
a body from underneath. Every vehicle in the line, guns and wagons,
was pock-marked with splashes of lead. The shield of one gun had
been neatly perforated by a shell and the crew of that gun lay about
it as they had been dispersed by the explosion. Their clothes were
still on fire. The subaltern was staring stupidly at them when the
lieutenant who never carried cigarettes approached. He opened his
mouth to speak--no doubt to ask for another cigarette--when suddenly
his expression changed to a sickly smile and he pitched forward. The
subaltern turned round in a flash of savage anger. This was murder.
They had finished fighting----
"Infantry advancing across stream--1800 yards," came the stentorian
voice of the sergeant-major. The subaltern understood as he ran back
to his guns. It was to repel the infantry that they were there. The
duel with the other battery was merely an episode. He looked down into
the valley below him, saw that it was filled with little grey figures.
A stream bisected the mass. They were advancing quickly, in rushes,
apparently without opposition. Some of the foremost were lying down,
firing at the height. Below him, from origins that were hidden by a
fold of the ground, rose the noise of a fierce and sustained rifle
fire. The battery got to work again. Methodically, evenly, it sprayed
that advancing horde with shrapnel. Other batteries, invisible to them,
were helping, for a larger number of shells burst over the foe than
they accounted for. The vicious little puffs of smoke multiplied. The
subaltern watched their effect with cool, unemotional interest. It was
like striking into a mass of ants. Numbers sprawled; the multitude was
undiminished. He hurled his thunderbolts upon them like a god, himself
serenely unassailable. A half-contemptuous pity for them arose in him
but did not interfere with the exact performance of his duties. The men
at the guns laughed.
Suddenly, without warning, the air above him was riven with a triple
crash. The familiar drone followed, was blotted out by a second
violent detonation. Gusts of smoke blew across the sky. A hail of
shrapnel bullets kicked up the dust, pattered on the guns. His cap was
knocked from his head by an invisible hand. A man at the gun sprang
up, performed a grotesque parody of a dervish-dance, twirled with
outstretched arms, and collapsed. Another sat for a second with both
hands to his head and fell back. For a moment the service of the guns
was suspended. The subaltern ran towards it, shouting. The diminished
crew bent grimly to their task. The overhead crashes of the shrapnel
came down in one continuous detonation. The bullets rained down upon
them in heavy showers. The hostile artillery had got their range
exactly. Where were they? The subaltern searched the distance for
gun-flashes. He saw none. Their enemy was invisible, snugly tucked
away somewhere. It would have profited little to have discovered them.
His orders were to fire at the infantry and at the infantry his two
guns fired, as fast as depleted squads could serve them. The rest of
the battery fired likewise. He did not see how many guns were still in
action, could not spare a moment to look. His attention was held by the
swarm of advancing figures. The hail of shrapnel was an agony at the
back of his consciousness; he ignored it, resolutely.
Suddenly a horse pitched and rolled, kicking violently, at his feet. It
startled him. He had not seen it arrive. A man disengaged himself from
the struggling animal, stood up and shot it dead with his revolver. It
was the captain.
"In--command--at the infantry--section control--carry on," he panted,
and ran to his place at the end of the line.
The battery commander was killed then! The thought flashed across his
mind, was lost in the urgent business of the moment. He shortened
the range, altered the corrector, aiming at the nearer edge of the
approaching infantry. A moment later three or four men arrived at a
sprint and reported themselves. The subaltern heard without emotion
that more had started, would never arrive. He detailed them. The
discharges of the guns followed faster.
How long this phase lasted the subaltern never knew. Ordinary standards
of time could not measure that nightmare where he constantly shortened
the range, hurled unavailing thunders at an inexorably advancing
flood. He remembered the moment of agony when he saw that they were
running out of ammunition, the joyous relief when the first-line
ammunition-wagons raced up and stopped at the right hand of the
guns. Under a pall of smoke from the bursting shells he saw his
gun-crews dwindling, each man doing the work of two, of three. Once
a heavy explosion on the ground attracted his attention. It was the
commencement of a series. Choking fumes, now black, now yellowish,
drifted over him. A howitzer battery had joined their assailants, was
firing high explosive. Exasperated, he searched the distances for a
glimpse of the hostile guns. He saw no sign of them. They were being
overwhelmed, as they themselves had overwhelmed the battery he had not
seen, by foes whose concealment he could not even guess at.
Suddenly--how, he knew not--the word was passed to him: "In command."
He ran to the end of the line, found the sergeant-major crouching
behind the wagon-limber. Blood was running from a diagonal bullet-score
across his face. Close by were the bodies of his predecessors in
command.
"Four guns in action, sir," said the sergeant-major. "Brigade
commander's orders: 'Hold our ground.'"
"How long ago?" queried the subaltern.
"Some time," was the reply. "Not sure--but think the colonel and staff
are killed, sir."
The subaltern looked along the line of guns, frowned at the tiny groups
of gunners.
"Where's the observing party?"
"At the guns, sir."
"Rangetakers? Horseholders?" He had to shout to be heard in the
continuous crashing of the shells.
"At the guns. Every man in action, sir, except with the horses under
cover."
The subaltern took in the situation, glanced at the advancing infantry.
Despite the efforts of the battery the nearer of them had got close,
were now hidden by a fold in the ground. From that fold of ground came
a frenzy of rifle-fire and, he fancied, shouts and cries. With despair
in his heart, he determined to "hold his ground." Veiled in dust and
smoke his four guns fired irregularly but rapidly.
A tumult of noise broke out to his right, almost behind him.
"Outflanked?" he queried at the top of his voice. The sergeant-major
nodded.
At the same moment he saw a swarm of brown infantry come over the fold
of ground in front of him. Disaster followed disaster. A high-explosive
shell swallowed one of his precious guns with an awful explosion of
flame and smoke. A soot-faced man ran up and shouted to him that the
wagon-supply was all but exhausted. Only the gun-limbers remained. The
subaltern glanced at the defeated infantry surging towards them. His
jaw set hard with a fierce resolve.
"Call up the teams," he shouted.
The sergeant-major signalled to the hill. A moment later the limbers
were racing over the shell-swept field. The survivors of the battery
sighed with relief as they fired away their last shells.
* * * * *
Far off upon a height the divisional artillery commander was watching
them through his glasses. "Why isn't that battery withdrawn?" he asked
irritably. He turned to give an order, then checked himself. "No, it's
too late," he said. He continued to watch them.
* * * * *
The guns were limbered up in a storm of shells. The subaltern threw
himself upon a horse that came handy. The detachments waited for the
order to retire.
"The battery will _advance_--in line!--Gallop!" he yelled.
He spurred his horse straight for the infantry. Behind him his three
guns bumped and leaped over the inequalities of the stubble-field.
Onward they raced. They tore through the approaching infantry as
though they were mere phantoms, regardless of those that fell before
their rush. Overhead the shrapnel burst less frequently. They hurled
themselves down into a depression and up again on the rise of a little
ridge. One or two brown soldiers were lying prone on it and firing
rapidly.
"Halt!--Action front!--At the infantry!--Point blank!" yelled the
subaltern.
In front were the grey-uniformed soldiers, swarms of them, not a
hundred yards away, rushing on them with gleaming bayonets. Working
like madmen, the artillery-men reversed the guns, loaded, aimed,
fired. Again and again the guns spoke. The squads worked like men
doomed, anxious only to take toll for their own lives. The shells, set
to zero, burst almost at the muzzles of the guns. Their bullets tore
through the groups of infantrymen, mowed them down. They seemed to melt
away. Behind him the subaltern heard a loud cheer. The beaten infantry
were being rallied, led again to the attack.
In front of his guns the enemy surged forward, only to be swept away.
Hesitation was manifest among them. Men turned and ran back. The
rearward movement spread. He exulted in their confusion. As his guns
fired their last rounds, a line of brown infantry rushed past them
with a mighty shout, their bayonets levelled at the charge. The grey
infantry broke and fled.
The subaltern looked round, wiping the acrid smoke-grit from his eyes.
Behind him, down the hill-side where his battery had fought, masses of
brown infantry were advancing. The tide had turned.
* * * * *
Far away, the divisional artillery commander took his glasses from his
eyes. "By G--d! that chap's saved 'em!" he said. He wrote out an order
and despatched it.
* * * * *
The subaltern stood by his line of silent guns, watching the fight
roll away from him. He felt atrociously hungry and thirsty. His
water-bottle was empty. He felt for the biscuits in his pocket.
There was not one. He wiped his hand across his mouth and there
was biscuit-dust upon the back of it. Then he cursed in bitter
disappointment. He could not forgive himself for having eaten those
biscuits, as it were in his sleep.
Presently an order came and he drew the remnant of his battery out of
action.
PRO PATRIA
In the dark of the autumn evening the rearguard drew itself wearily
through the silent village. To a column of infantrymen, dusty,
dejected, haggard, with rifles held indifferently on the shoulder,
at the trail, or tucked under the arm, succeeded a procession of
miscellaneous vehicles--ambulances, army-wagons, brick-carts, gigs,
anything that would roll on wheels it seemed. Some of these vehicles
were loaded high with goods whose nature was hidden by the bulging
tarpaulins stretched tightly over them, but the majority held only
men who sat up listlessly, swaying with every jolt of the vehicle,
dull-eyed, mournful, and silent. The faces of most of them were
partially masked by bandages that passed at varying angles across their
heads. Others nursed an arm in a sling; some were apparently undamaged.
These were the slightly hurt. Here and there in the long train, a head,
swathed like that of an antique corpse, raised itself from the depths
of a wagon and peered over the side, striking a note of suffering
which found no repercussion in the men, fatigued beyond sensibility,
who marched by the wheels. After a longer or shorter space those
heads relapsed again out of sight, sinking without murmur or gesture,
in hopeless resignation. These vehicles bore the wreckage of the
army, swept up by the retreating rearguard which cleared the road of
everything that could afford an indication to the enemy of the nature
of the force in front.
Behind the lugubrious procession a battery moved at the walk. The
animals that drew the guns were lean and spiritless; many were lame,
and the coats of all were dull with dust and sweat. Most of the teams
were short of their proper tale of horses. The guns, limbers, and
wagons were likewise thick with dust, and where this dust was not
it could be seen that they were scored and pock-marked by shrapnel
bullets. A professional eye looking at those guns as they passed would
have remarked that the breech and muzzle covers had been removed, were
strapped to the front of the shields. They were ready for instant
action, yet many of the men who served them swayed in sleep upon their
seats on limber or wagon. The countenances of all were grimed with
dirt, channelled by dried rivulets of sweat and moisture from eyes
irritated by acrid fumes. They looked like men who had been fighting
a conflagration. They passed, guns and wagons, and after them came a
squadron of cavalrymen sitting limply upon wearied horses. Another
long column of infantry followed, and, immediately upon its heels, an
endless cavalcade of horsemen. All, infantry, convoy, artillery, and
cavalry, moved onwards steadily, without hurry and without halts, at a
pace that had evidently long ago become automatic.
The houses between which they passed were silent, deserted, for the
most part boarded up. No face looked out of any window, no light
glimmered in any interior, no smoke came from any chimney. At the door
of the only inn a couple of cavalrymen stood by their horses, sentries
posted to deter the thirsty straggler. Some of the men in the column
looked yearningly at the houses as they passed, imagining the joys
of sleep and food; the majority plodded onwards mechanically in the
failing light. All, perhaps, seeing the village, had dallied with the
idea of bivouac. To their disappointment had succeeded a despair of
ever halting. The officers by the side of their companies urged them
forward with monotonous voices, aware themselves of the uselessness of
their efforts. The infantry was marching at its best pace. Nevertheless
as the column drew out of the village its speed spontaneously
increased. A rumour had spread along it from end to end. They had given
the enemy the slip.
The last cavalrymen, left at the entrance of the village until the
column should have cleared it, passed along the street, turning in
their saddles to look at the empty road behind them. The sentries at
the inn mounted and trotted quickly forward to rejoin their ranks.
The last man passed out of sight. The village street seemed strangely
empty in the absence of the floods of men that had been pouring through
it, with but little interruption, for many hours. Only the rhythmic
tramp of the infantry upon the road, pulsating through the air like
the audible systole and diastole of some mighty heart, and fading with
every moment, remained like a reminiscence of the army. Presently that,
too, ceased. Silence brooded over the houses whose outlines were
rapidly blurring with the oncoming night, a silence broken only by the
melancholy ululations of an owl that ventured to scour the deserted
street.
That owl was baulked of its stoop by a sudden human utterance in a
Cockney voice.
"It's all right, Bill--they've gone."
The figure of a man was dimly defined in the doorway of one of the
cottages. He turned to answer a question.
"Yus. The 'ole bloomin' lot. Rearguard an' all."
The figure in the doorway was joined by another from the dark interior
of the cottage, and the pair slunk cautiously into the street and
looked up and down.
"We've done it, Sam," said the man addressed as Bill.
"Yus," replied Sam, peering around him under a frown from heavy brows.
"Now for that public--me ole Gawd-lummy ain't 'ad nothin' in it fer a
week."
"'Struth!" said Bill, stretching himself. "I ain't 'arf stiff wiv
standin' in that poky little cupboard."
"Not so stiff as those poor blighters 'll be to-night," said Sam, with
a thought of his marching comrades. "Now--right wheel! March! An'
see that you've got a cartridge in yer rifle," he added in a tone of
authority. It was evident that he was the leading spirit.
There was the metallic click of a cartridge inserted into the breech
and then both men crept furtively in the shadow of the cottages towards
the inn. The hanging sign of the house was silhouetted black against
the sky just above their heads, when Sam stopped suddenly, pointing his
rifle into the gloom.
"'Alt! 'Oo goes there?" he cried; under his breath he blasphemed
rapidly, ferociously; the blasphemy of a man whose nerves are chaos,
his speech-centres out of control. A shadowy figure moved in the
darkness. "'Ands up--or I fire!" shouted Sam, the menace rising harshly
out of his muttered vituperation.
A pitiful voice replied from the obscurity. Its panic expressed itself
in a thin rising inflection that became almost a squeal.
"Don't shoot!--don't shoot!"
"Come out into the road," commanded Sam. "Cover 'im, Bill," he added.
The figure obeyed, was now slightly more visible against the light
reflected from the white road.
"What are you doin' 'ere?" asked Sam.
The voice became rapid in nervous explanation.
"I'm lame--got lamed miles back there--I was 'urryin' to rejoin my
regiment----"
"I _don't_ think," said Sam sternly. "You're a bloomin' deserter,
that's wot you are."
"Oh, chuck it, Sam!" said Bill suddenly. "More the merrier! Let's get
into this bloomin' public--I'm fair parched for a drink. Come along,
matey--don't take no notice of 'im. You didn't 'arf give us a scare,
though, my word!" he added, as he moved towards the door of the inn.
The third man, however, persisted in justifying himself in a querulous,
tearful voice.
"I tell yer I got lamed--I ain't no deserter--I just couldn't keep
up--there's a piece of skin off my foot as big as yer 'and--I'll show
it yer if yer don't believe me----"
"Oh, chuck it," said Sam irritably, giving him an uninviting
march-route for his foot. "'Elp us to knock this blighted door in!"
The three of them kicked and shouldered against the inn door without
result. The locks held firm.
"'Ere, stand clear," said Sam, grasping his rifle by the muzzle. He
swung it about his head and brought it down against the door with a
heavy crash. Bill imitated him, swinging his reversed rifle like a
sledgehammer in a manner that bespoke the ex-navvy. The third man's
efforts were swifter if less effective. The noise of their blows
sounded terribly loud in the hush of that dead village, so loud that
once or twice they paused, frightened, their ears alert for answering
sound. None came and they resumed their attack. The door commenced to
splinter and to crack upon its hinges. Collectively they threw their
whole weight against it in sudden impact. It gave way and the three of
them followed it in a heap.
They struggled to their feet, cursing, and someone struck a match. It
was Sam. The others followed the dim illumination into the interior.
There was an exclamation of joyful surprise and then the match went
out. The exclamation was renewed as Sam struck another and lit a
hanging oil-lamp.
"Gawd blimy if they ain't left it for us!"