Produced by Chris Curnow, Barbara Kosker, Lindy Walsh and
the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net
WITH HAIG ON THE SOMME
WITH HAIG ON THE SOMME
BY
D. H. PARRY
_Author of "Gilbert the Outlaw"; "The Scarlet Scouts"; "The V.C.: Its
Heroes and their Valour," etc. etc._
WITH FOUR COLOUR PLATES BY
ARCHIBALD WEBB
CASSELL AND COMPANY, LTD
London, New York, Toronto and Melbourne
First Published 1917 [Illustration: "The Commandant threw up his arms
and pitched backward; Dennis dropped his weapon and caught him as he
fell"]
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
1. AN UNCENSORED LETTER READ ALOUD 1
2. OFF TO THE FRONT 14
3. "AT TEN O'CLOCK SHARP!" 22
4. HIS FIRST TIME UNDER FIRE 33
5. HOW DENNIS CAME IN FOR A TASTE OF DISPATCH RIDING 42
6. A TERRIBLE ADVENTURE AT DAWN 50
7. A FRIEND IN NEED 60
8. IN THE ENEMY TRENCHES 70
9. IN THE SNIPER'S LAIR 78
10. IN WHICH DENNIS MEETS CLAUDE LAVAL, PILOTE AVIATEUR 87
11. A DARING DASH 97
12. IN THE HANDS OF THE ENEMY 107
13. A MAD GAMBLE FOR LIBERTY 116
14. THE SING-SONG IN THE DUG-OUT 128
15. "REEDSHIRES!--GET OVER!" 136
16. THE SILENCING OF THE GUNS 146
17. THE EXPLOITS OF A COMPANY 155
18. WITH THE LEWIS GUN--AND AFTER 163
19. WHAT THEY LEARNED ON THE GERMAN TELEPHONE 173
20. THE LAST RUNG OF A BROKEN LADDER 183
21. VON DUSSEL'S REVENGE 191
22. THE ROW IN THE RESTAURANT 200
23. "GAS!" 210
24. THE CHATEAU AT THE TRENCH END 219
25. FROM KITE BALLOON TO SADDLE 229
26. UNDER THE GERMAN EAGLE 240
27. ON THE PART DENNIS PLAYED IN THE RECAPTURE OF BIACHES 247
28. THE EXCITING ADVENTURES OF "CARL HEFT" 255
29. AN OLD FRIEND--AND A BITTER ENEMY! 265
30. UNDER THE ENEMY WALL 275
31. WITH DASHWOOD'S BRIGADE 284
32. THE REWARDS OF VALOUR 295
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
"THE COMMANDANT THREW UP HIS ARMS AND PITCHED _Frontispiece_
BACKWARD; DENNIS DROPPED HIS WEAPON, CAUGHT HIM
AS HE FELL"
PAGE
"DENNIS FLUNG HIS BOMBS INTO THE SPACE AND
TREMENDOUS EXPLOSIONS ENSUED" 96
"BEFORE THE GERMANS REALISED WHAT WAS HAPPENING,
THERE WAS AN UGLY BIT OF BAYONET WORK" 150
"NOTHING COULD CHECK THE VICTORIOUS RUSH" 286
WITH HAIG ON THE SOMME
CHAPTER I
An Uncensored Letter Read Aloud
Private Harry Hawke, of the 2/12th Battalion Royal Reedshire Regiment
(T.F.), sat on the step of the fire trench, his back against the
parapet, busy with the bolt of his rifle.
There were two things he loved more than anything else in life, and that
rifle was one of them. The other was his platoon commander, Captain Bob
Dashwood, who chanced to be coming along the communication at the
moment, and the Cockney private's eyes lit up as he saw him.
"Hallo, Hawke! All quiet?" said Captain Dashwood with a jerk of his head
in the direction of the German lines, only one hundred and twenty yards
across the mangled strip of Dead Man's Land that intervened.
"Quiet as the bloomin' grave, sir," replied Harry Hawke with a grin,
though he had almost to shout to make himself heard.
A howitzer battery was shelling the enemy from the wood on the left, and
the Germans were replying with "crumps," which luckily all went wide.
"Seen anything more of that sniper that picked Marshall and Brown off
last night?" questioned the captain.
"Not likely, sir. I got 'im 'arf an hour after we took over the relief,"
grinned the marksman of A Company, pointing with an oily finger to a
fresh notch cut on the rifle stock. "He tumbled out of the willer tree
flat, same as if you chucked a kipper from the top of a bus."
Dashwood smiled, and the smile was reflected with interest in the
wizened, mahogany-coloured face that looked up at his own from under the
rim of the steel helmet.
"You're a terrible chap, Hawke," he said. "How many does that make?"
"Seventeen with the rifle, sir, but I've kept no tally of all I've done
in wiv the bayonet," and he caressed his beloved weapon.
"Don't get up, Hawke," said his officer, moving along the trench. "I'm
only going to take a squint at the beggars," and as the private dropped
back into his seat again, Bob Dashwood put his foot on the fire step and
raised his head above the parapet.
He looked across a broken waste, full of shell holes and mine craters,
with a line of barbed wire fencing that followed the curve of the white
enemy trench capped by sandbags.
The marksman, having got rid of an imaginary speck of rust that had
troubled his soul, replaced the bolt, and was putting away the oil rag,
when there was a sharp stifled gasp, followed by a slithering fall, and
Captain Dashwood lay in a heap among the white wet mud at the bottom of
the trench. His cap had spun round and dropped into a sump, and the
blood was pouring down his face and neck as Hawke reached him.
"'Strewth, he's dead, and it's my fault!" he moaned, as a sergeant and
several other men ran up.
"It was nobody's fault but his own," said the sergeant savagely. "I've
warned him a dozen times--and he's not dead, either. Pass the word
there. We must get him down to the aid post sharp."
While Hawke supported the battered head upon his knee the sergeant
hastily applied a field dressing, and when a couple of bearers came
running along the communication trench they laid the wounded man
carefully on the stretcher, Hawke watching the receding figures with a
dazed look until the angle hid them from view.
"Now, you rotter, I've got to get you set!" he muttered, bending down
and peering into the periscope with his rifle gripped tightly in his
hands.
Two or three days later news came up that the captain, still
unconscious, had been sent to London straightway from the base hospital,
and then for several weeks they heard no more of him, and a fresh notch
cut on the stock of the Mark III. gave Private Harry Hawke very little
satisfaction.
"If I hadn't told him that all was clear he'd never have shoved his 'ead
over the blinkin' sandbags," he kept muttering to himself. "Home ain't
like home without a mother, and I reckon 'e was father and mother to us
all art 'ere. Wish I was dead--I'm fed up!"
* * * * *
"By Jove, mater, this is good news indeed. Fancy Dennis being gazetted
to our battalion after all!" and Captain Bob's face lit up as he looked
across the breakfast table with the telegram that had just arrived in
his hand. "Only got a week's kit leave too, which means that he's to
join at once. I'll put him through his facings and show him just what to
get and what not to get, and if the Medical Board will only pass me fit
for service again we can go over together. He will be here this morning
too!"
A chorus of delight went up from the four youngsters on one side of the
table, and Master Billy Dashwood, aged eight, clapped his hands and
overturned the milk jug.
"Billy, Billy!" said his mother reprovingly. "When will you learn to
behave yourself and to take care?"
"When will you let me join the Boy Scouts?" retorted her youngest born,
gazing up at the ceiling with the face of an innocent cherub, and Mrs.
Dashwood was obliged to smile as she looked at her eldest son.
"Your father will be very pleased, Bob," she said. "There have been
Dashwoods in the regiment for generations, and it is nice to feel that
both my boys will be in a battalion in their father's brigade."
"You should be very proud, madame, that yours is such a military
family," said a young man who sat opposite to the children with his back
to the tall windows. "Let me see, you will now have four members serving
at this great crisis?"
"Yes, it is an honour of which I am indeed more than proud, Monsieur Van
Drissel," said his hostess.
"But Uncle Eric doesn't count--he's only at the War Office, and they do
nothing there," interposed the irrepressible Billy.
"I shall send you out of the room if you're rude," said his mother. "The
War Office is a most important branch."
It was a pleasant room in a charming house, whose grounds sloped down to
the ornamental water in Regent's Park, and if one had not known it, one
might have imagined it to be one of those countless English homes into
which the war had not penetrated.
Captain Bob, looking very different now from the crumpled figure at the
bottom of the trench, had escaped death from the sniper's bullet by a
fraction of an inch, but he had made quick recovery, and before his
month's sick furlough was at an end he was already secretly yearning to
get back again. He knew that there was a great push in contemplation,
and his only fear was that he might not be in it.
Everything in that room spoke of comfort and money, and everything was
very English, except the young man with his back to the windows, and the
young woman with the dark eyes on the opposite side of the table.
Lieutenant Van Drissel, of the Belgian army, whose wound, received in
the fighting outside Dixmude long months before, obstinately refused to
heal, found himself in very pleasant quarters, thanks to the hospitality
of Mrs. Dashwood, who had also given his sister an asylum as French
governess to the small fry.
Like Captain Bob, he was in khaki, but the contrast between the two
officers was very striking. The one was lean and athletic in every line
of his figure, with laughing grey eyes in a handsome face; the other, a
stolid, fair-haired Fleming, whose square visage would have been rather
colourless and commonplace but for the pleasant smile which showed his
white teeth.
He followed Mrs. Dashwood's every movement with the expression of a
grateful dog, and waited upon her hand and foot, doing his best to
justify his presence there.
"Ah, you have better luck than I, Dashwood," he said in perfect English,
with a doleful shrug of his shoulders.
"Don't worry, Van Drissel; keep smiling, as my fellows sing," laughed
Captain Bob encouragingly. "Your turn will come, and we shall both march
into Berlin one of these days."
"It is a long time," said the Belgian lieutenant gravely. "Even Ottilie
here loses heart," and he looked across the table at his sister.
Mademoiselle Ottilie, as dark as her brother was fair, heaved a deep
sigh and made a funny little gesture with her hands. "For myself, I
dread to go back to poor Belgium," she murmured in broken English. "I
wish it might be possible that perhaps I might stay here for evaire--you
are all to me so kind."
"Mamma," said Billy with a perfectly grave face as he mimicked her
accent, "I wish it might be possible that perhaps I could have that last
piece of toast, eh?"
"Billy, go out of the room," said Mrs. Dashwood severely, but
Mademoiselle Ottilie threw an impulsive arm round the young monkey's
neck, and looked appealingly at his mother.
"Oh, no, please not, madame. He is so young," she interposed.
"Well," said Captain Bob, rising, "I think it's the weather that has
given you the hump, old chap. Still raining," and he glanced at the
windows. "What do you say to a game of billiards? I'll play you three
hundred up if you like."
"With all my heart," replied Van Drissel, getting up with a limp and
opening the door for Mrs. Dashwood, and the two officers went into the
billiard-room, whence they were no more seen for a couple of hours.
"Hard luck," said Bob Dashwood at last, as the Belgian missed an easy
shot. "And you've left them for me, too. I'm afraid your leg is worrying
you."
"Oh, that is nothing," replied his companion with a wry smile, as he
limped towards the scoring board. "You only want five to win."
"And there they are," said Bob apologetically, as the white ball
followed the red into a pocket. "But, you know, you're playing a very
good game."
"It is nice of you to say so," replied the Belgian. "Unhappily, I have
so much time for practice these days," and he lit a cigarette. "There is
not much news in the papers this morning."
"The calm before the storm, my boy," smiled the captain with a twinkle
of his grey eyes. "There will be some big news directly. By Jove! you
ought to see the munitions they're piling up behind us. It is
incredible! The worst of it is, our sector simply swarms with spies, and
the beggars get to know everything almost as soon as we know it
ourselves; in fact, sometimes before.
"They're very slick," the captain went on. "As a matter of fact, Germans
often come over into our lines in British uniforms, and they are so
thundering clever that you can't tell the difference. Why, not long ago,
I yarned for half an hour with a major of the R.E., as I thought--didn't
tell him much, luckily, but we hadn't parted five minutes when he was
'wanted,' and there was no end of a hunt, but he managed to get clear,
and a genuine English major was within an ace of being shot in mistake
for him if he hadn't been recognised by one of the staff in time."
"Ah, there you are," said Van Drissel. "When do you think Sir Douglas
Haig will make a move?"
"Almost directly," said Captain Bob. "The day before I was wounded I had
it on first-rate authority that---- Hallo! here's my young brother.
Excuse me, Van Drissel," and without further ceremony he darted into the
hall as a lad in the uniform of the O.T.C., who had just got out of a
taxi, flew up the steps three at a time and dashed in with a shout.
"Why, Bob, old boy!"
"Dennis, dear old man! This is a bit of luck! How are you?"
"Top-hole!" laughed the new-comer, beaming all over his face, which was
a clean-shaven, boyish reproduction of his brother's, brown as a berry
from the arduous training he had undergone with the Artists', and,
breaking loose from Bob's grip, he kissed his mother tenderly.
"You got my wire, dear little mater, but you didn't expect me so soon.
It is good to be home again, even if it's only 'How d'you do?' and
'Bye-bye.' But isn't it fine putting me in Bob's battalion? How are the
kids? And, I say, mater, is there any grub going? I didn't wait for
breakfast before I left, and I'm hungry as a hunter."
The wounded Belgian lieutenant in the adjoining room bit his lips as he
overheard the joyful greetings. The rain had cleared, and as he stood
looking out where the trim lawn sloped down to the water, he saw a
couple of English Tommies in hospital blue sculling round one of the
tufted islets.
"Dennis, let me introduce you to Lieutenant Van Drissel, of the Belgian
army," said Bob, coming in as Van Drissel turned round. "This is my
brother whom we have been talking about," and the two shook hands.
"Glad to meet you," said Dennis frankly.
"Lucky bargee," smiled Van Drissel. "Isn't that right?"
"Ah, you speak English? Yes, it is quite right. I am," laughed Dennis.
"He speaks everything under the sun," said his brother. "And, by the
way, Dennis is a great stunt on languages. You two will be able to make
us feel thoroughly ashamed of ourselves. My regular verbs are as rusty
as a trench button."
"Will you smoke?" said the Belgian, producing a silver cigarette-case.
"Not just now, thanks. I'm going to have some grub first, and if you
don't mind I'll bunk upstairs and get a sluice."
"That boy is one of the best in the world, although he's my own
brother," explained Bob Dashwood when Dennis had gone.
"How old?"
"Eighteen and a half," replied Bob.
"It is young to be killed," said Van Drissel gravely.
"But he isn't killed yet. Never knew such a fellow for falling on his
feet. Of course, we all have to take our chances out there, but I don't
mind betting you he comes off with a D.S.O. or a Military Cross, or
something or other. You will hear of him yet, mark my words."
Thanks to Bob's experience, the kit buying did not take long, and in
three days the boy sported his service uniform, to the rather oppressive
admiration of Billy and the huge delight of his sisters. The Medical
Board, too, had passed Bob as fit for service again, and the kit leave
went like a flash.
Altogether, it had been a great week, with Dennis like a sea breeze
filling the house with his wonderful spirits. There were people to
dinner almost every evening, among them Uncle Eric, who was a staff
captain at the War Office.
And then it all came to an end, and the last night arrived, and the
mother and her two soldier sons sat down to dinner alone.
Mademoiselle Ottilie pleaded a headache, and her brother also invented
an excuse for being absent.
"You would like to be together," he had said confidentially in Bob's
ear.
"They are very charming and considerate," said Mrs. Dashwood when Bob
told her. "I do not care very much for Belgians, as a rule, but the Van
Drissels are exceptionally nice people."
Dennis said nothing, but he had his own thoughts. He did not like
mademoiselle's bright black eyes, and the lieutenant's perpetual smile
had begun to get on his nerves.
Mrs. Dashwood had kept up very bravely, though her heart was sad enough
in all conscience, and when eleven o'clock struck, and Dennis, who had
been living at high pressure, suddenly yawned and said: "Would you mind,
mater, if I turned in? I'm as tired as a dog." Mrs. Dashwood made no
demur, but signed to her eldest son to remain a little longer.
"Come into the drawing-room, Bob," she said, when they heard Dennis
close his bedroom door with a bang. "I have a letter from your father
which I want you to read. I did not show it to Dennis because he is
excited enough already."
"Any news, dear?" questioned the captain as they seated themselves on
the great padded settee, into which one sank so luxuriously that one
never wanted to get out of it again.
"Yes, there is news. I suppose he has really told me more than he ought
to have done. The date of the Great Push is fixed. But here is the
letter; it only came this evening, and you can read it aloud to me."
As he did so, Captain Bob's eyebrows lifted, for the brigadier had been
remarkably outspoken.
* * * * *
"We are going to make a simultaneous advance, we and the French on our
right," he wrote in one place. "Our sector will bear the brunt of it.
The thing has been kept wonderfully quiet, and so far the enemy knows
nothing. All their attention is turned on the 'Clown' Prince's insane
operations against Verdun, and the German General Staff seem to have
forgotten the Somme region altogether, and to underrate the British as
usual. But there will be a big surprise for them.
"My fellows are in fine fettle; in fact, so is the whole army corps in
this region," he continued. "You should see the artillery we have massed
ready for the preliminary bombardment, which promises to be the biggest
in history. I hope Bob will be out in time, but I have no news of
Dennis, and, between ourselves, I am not really sorry."
* * * * *
"By Jove! the governor's let himself go for once in his life," said Bob,
when he had finished the letter. "Half a minute, mater, I'll show you
all these places on the map, and then when the thing comes off you will
be able to follow it," and, going out into the hall where his brother's
kit was ready for the morning and his own simple outfit with it, he
returned with a chart of that sector of the British line where it joined
up with the French.
The ormolu clock on the mantelpiece struck half-past twelve before he
had finished his lecture, which Mrs. Dashwood followed with the keenest
interest, and when at last they got up, the brave little mother clung to
him for a moment, very near to the breaking point.
"You will look after Dennis, Bob, as far as you can?" she said in a
hushed voice. "He is very young and very impetuous, and regards the
whole thing as a glorious game to be played as keenly as he plays
rugger."
"You know I will do all I can, darling," he said, taking her face in his
hands and kissing it, and then she passed out, and he switched off the
lights.
When the drawing-room door closed a figure rose from behind the settee,
where he had crouched all the time, and Anton Van Drissel dusted the
knees of his khaki trousers.
"Ach Himmel!" he muttered in German. "It is worth a stiff back to have
heard what I have heard to-night!"