Ray Luard was having the time of his life out there, in the sodden
fields and soggy mud-holes which did duty for trenches in north-west
France.--The time of his life, but not in most respects as the term is
usually applied.
It was a perpetual amazement to him that anything human and
non-amphibious could stand it. That boys, brought up to the comforts
and amenities of life, could not only stand it but could and did
maintain exceeding cheerfulness under it, provoked his profoundest
admiration. And regarding himself aloofly, and from the outside as it
were, he shared in his own amazement at his own share in it, and took
no little credit to himself, for he certainly never would have believed
himself capable of it.
But they all kept in mind, and constantly chuckled over, the vehement
exhortation of a certain well-known General, who had inspected them
shortly after that ghastly-glorious night at Messines.
“Keep your billets clean! Keep your bodies clean! Cock your bonnets!
And, for God’s sake, smile!”--was what he asked of them; and there
had been no more-smiling faces or perkier fighters along that
sorely-pressed Western front than the boys with the bare knees and
swinging kilts since he said it.
They splashed and floundered along roads a foot deep in slime to get
to their advance trenches, where the mud and water were at times up to
their waists.
They sank and stuck bodily in affectionately glutinous mixtures which
would not let them go till at times they paid toll of shoes and almost
of the feet inside them.
For ten days at a time, on occasion, they never had their boots
off--unless the mud took them by force,--nor their sodden clothes.
They were plastered with mud from head to foot. Their kilts,
water-logged and frozen and tagged with mud, scored their bare legs.
They ate in mud, they slept in mud. And when their off-time came, if
they could find a blanket to wrap round their muddy bodies before
depositing them on a stony floor in the rear, they thanked God for it
and accounted themselves rich, and slept like troopers.
Circumstances rendered full compliance with the vehement General’s
exhortations impossible, but what they could they did,--they cocked
their bonnets, and for God’s sake and their country’s, they smiled.
It was the most wonderful and soul-bracing exhibition of the power of
mind over matter that Ray Luard had ever seen, and he would not have
missed his share in it for any money.
At times they had a few days’ rest in the rear,--for the time being no
longer actual targets for shells though an occasional one came closer
than was necessary to their comfort, but the sound of the guns was
never out of their ears, and at all times they were liable to sudden
urgent summons to stiffen the front against unexpected assault.
It snowed, and it sleeted, and it rained and froze, and the trampled
mud of the highways and byways got deeper and deeper and ever more
tenacious in its grip on them.
At the rear they slept off their first dog-tiredness and had hot baths
and an occasional impromptu concert. They ate and drank in peace and
comparative comfort, and always, for God’s sake and their country’s,
they smiled. And now and again,--impressive under such circumstances
even to the most frivolous,--they had Church Parade and Communion.
Then, rest-time over, away back to the water-logged trenches and all
the stress and strain, and the ever-present chance of sudden death.
Ray’s great time came about the end of January, when the Hodden-Grays
were sent to hold some trenches in a brickfield, and they had barely
taken possession when, in the early morning, the enemy made a dead
set all along that portion of the line and succeeded in denting it in
places. They had quietly sapped up close to the advance trench and
mined it. They fired their mines, threw in smoky bombs, and in the
confusion got in under cover of the smoke with the bayonet.
The Scots gave them a warm welcome, and there was some very pretty
fighting in the dark, and many a fine deed done of which none but the
doers and the done ever heard a word.
But, as it chanced, Ray’s doings stood out somewhat prominently.
When he raced with his company into the brickfield, floundering all of
them in the dark over piles of bricks and into shell-craters full of
water, they found the late occupants of the trench holding a brick-kiln
as a defensive work against the irrupting Huns who seemed all over the
place.
A Sergeant was in charge and gave Ray hasty word of what had happened.
Their officers were down, and the enemy’s onrush had been so sudden and
overwhelming that it had been impossible to bring in either them or the
machine-gun which was on a small platform at this end of the trench.
Ray saw his obvious work. He mustered his men behind the kiln, ordered
bayonets, explained in two words what was required of them, and then
with a cheery, “Strike sure, boys!”--they were off, with a Scottish
yell that told the Huns their time was up and their presence there no
longer desired.
A volley as they ran, and then quick work with the bayonet, and they
were at the trench and across it, and that section was momentarily
cleared.
Hasty search with electric torches--the wounded, including
two officers, picked up and sent back,--the machine-gun and
ammunition-boxes lifted and carried to the kiln, and as supports for
the enemy came piling up and massed in front for another assault, they
raced back to cover to prepare his welcome.
Ray, strung to concert pitch, flung his orders sharply.
“Wounded, down under!--Take those other kilns some of you,--lie
flat,--make cover with the bricks! Don’t fire till they’re at the
trench. Some of you up here! The rest where you can, and lie low! Up
with that Maxim, Mac, and build a bit of a screen! Hand up those boxes,
there!”
They toiled desperately, piling up little heaps of bricks on top of
the kiln, and on the ground bricks, clay, mud, anything for cover, and
then they lay flat, with their eyes glued to the parapet of the trench
beyond.
“Here they come! Now, boys, give them blazes!” and rapider fire than
the Hodden-Grays had ever produced in their lives before poured
point-blank into the solid dark masses in front.
They went down in heaps before the pitiless hail. The rest came
floundering over them and went down in turn.
On top of the kiln, Ray, with Mac’s good help, kept the Maxim going
full blast. He pressed hard on the double button so that the trigger
was held back out of the tumbler, and while Mac fed in the feed-belts
for dear life, he slowly turned the muzzle from side to side so that
the ceaseless stream of bullets met the stumbling line in front like a
fiery fan. Nothing human could possibly stand so deadly a flailing. The
floundering line yelled and cursed and withered away. That little fight
was won.
Some of the boys, overstrung and mad with the blood-thirst, were for
leaping out after them with the bayonet. But Ray sternly called them
back.
They had won and he would take no risks.
Stretcher-bearers came hurrying up from the rear. The wounded were
picked up and carried back, and Ray and Mac set the rest to work to
strengthen their kiln-forts in case any further attempt should be made.
Later, if the enemy’s guns found them out they would have to take to
their trench again, but, for the time being, fairly dry bricks were
better than eighteen inches of mud and water.
Before dawn a field kitchen came up to the rear within reach, and they
got hot coffee and bread and bully beef, and ate with the gusto of men
who have fought a good fight and won.
As soon as they could distinguish anything in the glimmering light,
they crept out to pick up any of their wounded who might have been
overlooked in the mêlée. And then they turned their attention to their
fallen foes.
They lay in heaps, piled two and three on top of one another,--grim
enough by reason of their numbers but, shot mostly in the body, not so
ghastly as if they had been ripped to fragments by shell-fire.
Ray and his trusty Sergeant were prowling about when they came on an
officer, buried all but his head under a pile of bodies. His eyes,
straining and bloodshot with impotent fury, showed still plenty of life
and ill-feeling in him, however sore his wounding.
Ray called up a couple of bearers and they all set to work to free him
from his lugubrious load, and all the while he scowled at them like a
vicious dog and said no word of thanks.
As they lifted off the last body, and bent to raise him, he drew his
hand out of the breast of his unbuttoned greatcoat, and, before they
knew what he was at, let fly with a large automatic pistol full at
Ray. One bullet took off the lobe of his ear, the rest went crashing
into his left shoulder. Before the vicious wretch could do any more
mischief, Sergeant Mac brained him with a rifle-butt and hissed as
requiem, “Ye dirrrty snake!” and then turned his attention to Ray.
“I’ll have to get back, Mac,” he said quietly, and started off at a
quick walk.
“Ye’ll no!” and caught him as he reeled, and laid him gently on the
stretcher.
“Look to things, Mac,” as he felt suddenly very tired and inclined to
sleep.
“Go quick, boys!” ordered Mac. “His shoulder’s in rags and he’ll bleed
out unless you get him tied up.”
One of them pulled out bandages and hastily padded and bound the
ragged shoulder, and then they set off as fast as the broken ground
would let them.
“During the night the enemy made a violent assault on our
advanced trenches. It was repulsed with loss. Our positions are
maintained,”--said the despatches.