chalk-bank near a roughly-contrived tarpaulin and pit-prop shelter
revealed the infantry brigadier's headquarters. The Brigade signalling
officer hailed me from a dug-out that flew the blue and white of the
signalling company. Outside the brigade-major's hut I found Captain
Drysdale of D Battery, and two other gunner officers. "We are kicking
our heels, waiting for news like newspaper correspondents during a
Cabinet crisis," said Drysdale with a bored smile. "I can't see why
they want so many liaison officers.... I went without my dinner to get
here from the waggon line last night, and haven't had breakfast yet;
and these people haven't told us a scrap of news yet."
"You're doing liaison for Division, aren't you?" I said, "and I'm for
Brigade. They can't need us both."
"Except that the General told me he might require me to go forward with
him to look for targets," replied Drysdale.
"Well, if you like, you slip along to the battery for breakfast. I'll
hold the fort until you come back."
There was, indeed, until well on in the morning, surprisingly little
information to be telephoned to the Artillery. What news the Infantry
brigade-major did receive, however, was all to the good. The battalions
that went into Combles were going strong, and the mopping-up was being
done with the old-soldier thoroughness that so many of the young lads
who only learnt war during the summer advance seemed to acquire so
rapidly. One of the companies engaged in the turning movement had paid
the penalty of over-eagerness, and losing touch with a sister company
had been badly enfiladed by German machine-gunners; but another company
had rushed up to fill their place and the movement was progressing
towards its appointed end.
A dozen Boche prisoners were brought in, dirty, hollow-eyed, and
furtive. "This one speaks English, sir," said the dapper little private
of the East ----s, who had charge of the party, addressing an
intelligence officer.
I spoke afterwards to this prisoner, a dark pale-faced infantry man
with staring eyes. His English was fair, although he told me he had
only visited England once, for a fortnight--in London and Manchester.
He had been a telephone manufacturer's employee.
"You were in Combles when you were captured?" I asked.
"Yes."
"How long had you been in the line?"
"Four days; we went down to Combles yesterday morning."
"Did your rations get up last night?" I proceeded, thinking of our
all-night burst of fire on enemy cross-roads and approaches.
"We took ours with us, but none came for the others there. They had had
nothing for two days."
The marching away of the prisoners prevented further questions. Soon
the Divisional Commander with his attendant staff came up, and a
conference in the brigadier's headquarters was commenced. After half
an hour the G.O.C. came out. His demeanour betokened satisfaction. The
manner in which he turned to speak parting words to the brigadier
indicated further activities. A captain of the West ----s, who had been
in reserve, turned from watching him, and said to me, "I expect we
shall be performing this afternoon." Soon the phrase, "exploiting
initial success," ran from tongue to tongue.
This was the message that at noon I telephoned to our adjutant:--
7th ----s and East ----s will push forward fighting patrols to
exploit success in an easterly and north-easterly direction into
St Pierre Vaast Wood, and along the road to S----. Patrols will
not penetrate into squares X 120 and Z 130, as --th Division
will continue its advance in Y 140, a and c, under a barrage
very shortly.
Artillery have been given tasks of harassing fire east of St
Pierre Vaast Wood, and will not fire west of line eastern edge
of this wood to A 210, b 05.
Patrols must be pushed out without delay, as it is the intention
of the Divisional Commander to exploit initial success with
another brigade to-day.
"That's the stuff to give 'em," chortled the Brigade signalling
officer, who had been whipping round similar messages to various units.
More prisoners kept coming in; the brigade-major's telephone rang
furiously; a heavily-moustached infantry signaller, with a bar to his
Military Medal, just back from the eastern side of Combles, was telling
his pals how an officer and himself had stalked a Hun sniper. "He was
in a hole behind some trees," he said, "and we were walkin' along, when
he hit old Alf in the foot----"
"Is old Alf all right?" asked another signaller quickly.
"Yes"--nodding and grinning--"he's got a nice Blighty--he's all
right.... As I was sayin', he hit old Alf in the foot, and Mr Biles
says to me, 'We'll get that blighter.' So we dropped, and Mr Biles
crawled away to the right and I went to the left. He popped off again
after about five minutes, and I saw where the shot came from. He had
two other goes, and the second time I saw his head. The next time he
popped up I loosed off.... We went to have a look afterwards. I'd got
him right under the ear."
At three o'clock the brigade-major complained to us that some 18-pdrs.
were shooting short. "They mustn't fire in that square," he said
excitedly, "we're still mopping up there."
I telephoned to our adjutant, who said he would speak to our batteries.
"We are not firing there at all," he informed me five minutes
afterwards, and I reported to the brigade-major.
Ten minutes later the brigade-major rushed angrily out of his hut.
"Look here!" he said, "that artillery fire has started again. They've
killed a subaltern and a sergeant of the East ----s. You must do
something!"
I rang up the adjutant again. "It isn't our people," he replied
tersely. "It might be the --th Division on our left," I suggested. "Can
you get on to them?"
"I'll get Division to speak to them," he replied.
By five o'clock the number of prisoners roped in by the Division was
not far short of a thousand; the Division on the left had gained the
Morval ridge, and this, combined with the turning movement from the
south, had brought about something like debacle among the enemy forces
opposed to us. "That's topping," said the brigade-major when receiving
one particular telephone report, and he looked up with a laugh. "The
----s have captured a Boche ambulance waggon, and they have sent it
down for receipt on delivery, with horses and driver complete."
Not long afterwards I met Major Veasey, hot and radiant after one of
the big adventures of the day. He had gone forward with Kelly, and
discovered that the infantry were held up by fierce machine-gun fire.
"I was afraid all the time that the major's white breeches would give
the show away," Kelly told me, "but we crawled on our bellies to about
a hundred yards from the machine-guns--there were two of 'em--and got
the exact spot. We went back and told the battery where to fire, and
then went forward for another look."
"By Jove, we did pepper 'em. And, hang me, if the major didn't say we
must go and make absolutely sure that we had outed 'em. There were
nineteen Boches in the trench, and they surrendered to the major....
Look at this pile of revolvers we took from them--fourteen altogether.
The major's promised to give this little beauty to the doctor."
And still the day's tale of triumph was not concluded. At seven o'clock
the infantry battalion that had been held in reserve made a combined
dash with troops of the Division on the left, and drove the tired
dispirited Huns out of Sailly-Saillisel, another 2000 yards on.
Our batteries fired harassing crashes all through the night, and were
warned to be ready to move first thing in the morning.
XI. ON THE HEELS OF THE BOCHE
Sept. 2: The side-spectacle that struck me most when I walked by myself
through Combles was that of a solitary Royal Engineer playing a grand
piano in the open street, with not a soul to listen to him. The house
from which the instrument had been dragged was smashed beyond repair;
save for some scrapes on the varnish the piano had suffered no harm,
and its tone was agreeable to the ear. The pianist possessed technique
and played with feeling and earnestness, and it seemed weirdly strange
to hear Schumann's "Slumber Song" in such surroundings. But the war has
produced more impressive incongruities than that.
The Brigade settled itself in the neighbourhood of Fregicourt. The --st
Infantry Brigade was already established there in a trench; and the
first job of work that fell to me was to answer the F.O.O. of another
Artillery brigade who had rung up Infantry Brigade Headquarters. "Huns
are moving along the road in X 429 b and c," said a voice. "Can you
turn one of my batteries on to them?" Our batteries were not yet in
position, but I saw, a couple of hundred yards away, two batteries
whose trails were lowered; so I hurried across and gave them the target
and the map spotting, and before long 18-pdr. shells were on their way
to ginger up the aforementioned unlucky Huns. An aeroplane fight
within decent observing distance aroused much more interest. No
decisive result was obtained, but the enemy airman was finally driven
away in full retreat towards his own lines. "Jerry isn't as cheeky as
he used to be in Flanders last year, is he?" said Wilde to me. "It must
be true that he's running short of 'planes."
The problem of the last few days had been the water supply for the
horses. Although the sappers were hard at work in Combles, there was as
yet no water within five miles of the batteries. The Boche by smashing
all the power-pumps had seen to that; and the waggon lines were too far
in rear for moving warfare. "We shall be all right when we get to the
canal," had been everybody's consolatory pronouncement. "The horses
won't be so hard worked then."
We were still in the area of newly-erected Boche huts, and Headquarters
lay that night without considerable hardship. Manning, our mess waiter,
a fish-monger by trade, had discovered a large quantity of dried fish
left by the departing enemy, and the men enjoyed quite a feast; the
sudden appearance in new boots of ninety per cent of them could be
similarly explained. The modern soldier is not squeamish in these
matters. I overheard one man, who had accepted a pair of leggings from
a prisoner, reply to a comrade's mild sneer, "Why not?... I'd take
anything from these devils. There was a big brute this morning: I had a
good mind to take his false teeth--they had so much gold in 'em." Which
rather suggested that he was "telling the tale" to his unsympathetic
listener.
Late that night orders informed us that on the morrow we should come
under another Divisional Artillery. Our own infantry were being pulled
out of the line to bring themselves up to strength. The enemy were
still withdrawing, and fresh British troops had to push ahead so as to
allow him no respite. A Battery had already advanced their guns another
2000 yards, and through the night fired hotly on the road and
approaches east of the canal. Next morning Major Mallaby-Kelby was
instructed to reconnoitre positions within easy crossing distance of
the canal, but not to move the batteries until further orders came in.
Bicycle orderlies chased down to the waggon lines to tell the grooms to
bring up our horses. My groom, I remember, had trouble on the road, and
did not arrive soon enough for the impatient major; so I borrowed the
adjutant's second horse as well as his groom. A quarter of a mile on
the way I realised that I had forgotten my box-respirator; the only
solution of the difficulty was to take the groom's, and send him back
to remain in possession of mine until I returned; and all that morning
and afternoon I was haunted by the fear that I might perhaps be
compelled to put on the borrowed article.
The reconnoitring party consisted of Major Mallaby-Kelby, Major Veasey,
Major Bullivant, young Beale of A Battery, and Kelly and Wood of D
Battery, who loaded themselves with a No. 4 Director, the tripod
instrument with which lines of fire are laid out.
When we approached the highest point along the main road leading east,
Major Mallaby-Kelby sent back word that the road was under observation;
we must come along in couples, two hundred yards between each couple.
The Boche was sending over some of the high-bursting shells which he
uses so much for ranging purposes, but we were not greatly troubled. We
dipped into a slippery shell-scarred track that wound through a
hummocky copse, swung southwards along a sunken road, and then made due
east again, drawing nearer a dense forest of stubby firs that stretched
far as eye could see. This was the wood into which our infantry had
pushed fighting patrols on Sept. 1. Every few yards we met grim
reminders of the bloody fighting that had made the spot a memorable
battle-ground. My horse shied at two huddled grey forms lying by the
roadside--bayoneted Huns. I caught a glimpse of one dead German, half
covered by bushes; his face had been blown away. Abandoned heaps of
Boche ammunition; fresh gaping shell-holes; one ghastly litter of
mutilated horses and men, and a waggon rolled into the ditch, revealed
the hellish execution of our artillery. The major called a halt and
said we would leave our horses there.
We struck north-east, away from the forest, and, reaching the
cross-roads on top of the crest, gazed across the great wide valley
that from the canal sloped up to the blue haze of heights still held by
the enemy. Through the glasses one saw the yellows and greens of
bracken and moss and grass in the middle distances. "We're getting into
country now that hasn't seen much shelling," remarked the major with
satisfaction. But the glasses also showed slopes seared and seamed with
twisting trenches and tawny waggon tracks.
Our path lay along a road bordered by evenly-planted, broken and
lifeless poplars. The major called out for us to advance in single
file, at intervals of twenty-five yards. When high-velocity shells
struck the ground a hundred yards short of the road and a hundred yards
beyond it, we all of us dropped unquestioningly into the narrow
freshly-dug trench that ran at the foot of the poplars. About five
hundred yards on, to the left of the road, we passed a shell-blasted
grove that hung above a melancholy rubbish-heap of broken bricks and
shattered timber.
"Government Farm!" called Major Mallaby-Kelby, with an informative
gesture.
Government Farm was a datum point that batteries had mercilessly pasted
two days before.
"Government Farm!" repeated Major Bullivant, who walked behind
Mallaby-Kelby.
"Government Farm!" echoed Major Veasey, with out-stretched arm; and I,
in my turn, passed the word to Beale.
Young Beale was in exuberant spirits. He not only turned his head and
shouted "Government Farm!" with a parade-ground volume of voice; he
followed with the clarion demand of "Why don't you acknowledge orders?"
to Kelly, who was so surprised that he nearly dropped the Director
before responding with a grin, and thrusting out his arm in the way
laid down in the gun-drill book for sergeants to acknowledge gunnery
orders passed along the line of guns.
We came to another large wood that stretched down towards the canal,
and, once more in a party, moved along the southern edge of it. An
infantry captain, belonging to the Division we were now working under,
stepped from beneath the trees and saluted. "We're reconnoitring for
battery positions," said Major Mallaby-Kelby, answering the salute.
"Can you tell me how the front line runs now?"
"We're sending two patrols through the wood to the canal now," replied
the captain, "The Boche hadn't entirely cleared out three-quarters of
an hour ago."
"We may as well go on," said Major Mallaby-Kelby, after three or four
minutes further conversation. "The Boche must be over the canal by now
... and we have to select battery positions as soon as possible. We
don't want to bring the guns up in the dark." There was a general
feeling for revolvers, and we entered the wood and followed a
bridle-path. I could imagine that wood in the pleasant careless days of
peace, a proper wood for picnics and nutting expeditions. Ripening
blackberries even now loaded the bramble bushes, but the foul
noxiousness of gas shells had made them uneatable. The heavy sickly
smell of phosgene pervaded the close air; no birds fluttered and piped
among the upper branches. The heavy steel helmet caused rills of sweat
to run down the cheeks.
We forged ahead past a spacious glade where six tracks met. "There's a
hut we could use for a mess," said Major Veasey. "Mark it up, Kelly;
and look at that barrel, it would be big enough for you to sleep in."
Snapped-off branches, and holes torn in the leaf-strewn ground, showed
that the guns had not neglected this part of the wood; and in several
places we noted narrow ruts a yard or so in length, caused by
small-calibre projectiles. "Ricochet shots from whizz-bangs fired at
very close range," commented Major Bullivant.
After certain hesitations as to the right track to follow, we reached
the north-western edge of the wood. Major Mallaby-Kelby refused to
allow us to leave cover, and we knelt hidden among the prickly bushes.
"For heaven's sake don't show these white breeches, Veasey," laughed
Major Bullivant.
A village nestled at the foot of the slope. Not a sign of life in it
now, although the Boche was certainly in possession the day before.
"There are some Boches in that trench near the top of the slope," said
Major Veasey suddenly. "Can you see them? Eight degrees, two o'clock,
from the farm chimney near the quarry." I looked hard and counted three
steel helmets. "We could have some good shooting if we had the guns
up," added the major regretfully. A Boche 5.9 was firing consistently
and accurately into the valley beneath us. I say accurately, because
the shells fell round and about one particular spot. "Don't see what
he's aiming at," said Major Bullivant shortly. "He's doing no
damage.... He can't be observing his fire."
There was a discussion as to whether an 18-pdr. battery placed near a
long bank on the slope would be able to clear the wood at 3000 yards'
range, and Major Mallaby-Kelby and Major Bullivant slipped out to
inspect a possible position at the corner where the edge of the wood
curved north-east. Then Major Mallaby-Kelby decided that it was time to
return; and on the way back Major Veasey said he would be content to
bring his 4.5 how. battery into the glade where the six tracks met.
"Might as well make us trench mortars," growled Kelly to me. "We shan't
be more than a thousand yards from the Boche."
Just before we came out of the wood Major Mallaby-Kelby called to me to
chalk the sign of Brigade H.Q. on an elaborate hut that stood forty
yards off the track--a four-roomed hut, new and clean. It was not
pleasant, however, to find two dead Boche horses lying in the doorway.
An enemy bombardment started as we left the wood. Major Veasey and his
party went off immediately towards where the horses were waiting. The
other two majors, still seeking battery positions, bore away to the
south, and I followed them. A 4.2 battery suddenly switched its fire on
to the strip of ground we were crossing, and we ran hurriedly for
shelter to a trench that lay handy. Shells whistled over our heads,
and we panted and mopped our brows while taking a breather.
"No wonder he's shelling here," exclaimed Major Mallaby-Kelby. "The
--rd" [our companion Brigade] "have a battery here.... Look at those
dead horses ... three, five, seven--why, there are twelve of 'em."
"Yes, sir," I put in, "that happened yesterday when they were bringing
up ammunition."
We moved up the trench, but we seemed to draw fire as if we had
magnetic properties. "We'll move back again," remarked Major
Mallaby-Kelby with energy, and he started off, Major Bullivant
following.
We had gone about fifty yards when Major Bullivant turned swiftly, gave
me a push, and muttered "Gas!" We ran back to where we had been before,
and looked round for Major Mallaby-Kelby. "Damn it," he said abruptly
when he came up, sneezing, "I forgot to bolt. I stood still getting my
box-respirator on."
When the shelling died down we walked farther along the trench, which
turned westwards. Excellent positions for the three 18-pdr. batteries
were found not far from the trench; and returning again towards the
wood for our horses, we chanced upon a deep dug-out that Major
Mallaby-Kelby sent me down to explore. "Don't touch any wires or pegs,"
he said warningly; "the Hun may have left some booby-traps." The
dug-out was thirty feet deep, and had only one entrance. But I found
recesses with good wire beds, and a place for the telephonists. "We'll
make that Headquarters," decided the major, and I chalked out our claim
accordingly.
When we got back to the batteries we found that orders for the move had
come in; the teams were up; and after a very welcome cup of tea the
journey to the new positions was started. Wilde, the signalling
officer, and myself led the way with the Headquarters' vehicles, and
followed a beautifully hidden track that ran through the wood and came
out a hundred yards from our selected dug-out. Three red glares lit up
the sky behind the heights held by the Boche. "By Jove," said Wilde,
"he must be going back; he's burning things."
My day's work was not yet ended. Our own infantry had been brought up
again, and it was imperative that we should be in early communication
with the --rd Brigade, the Brigade commanded by the forceful young
brigadier who had discussed artillery arrangements with the colonel for
the operation in which Judd and Pottinger had done so well with their
forward section. There was a shortage of telephone wire, and at 8.15
P.M. Wilde's line had not been laid. Major Mallaby-Kelby decided that
the only alternative was for me to go and report to the brigadier,
whose headquarters were not far from the road leading to Senate Farm.
It was very dark, and the fact that the whole way was under Boche
observation made it impossible for me to use my torch. Shells were
falling about the cross-roads--and I have undertaken more agreeable
walks. I went down into the Infantry brigade signal-hut first to find
whether we had at last got a line through. We hadn't. When I asked for
the General's mess, the signalling sergeant conducted me along a
passage that in places was not three feet high. Climbing up a steep
uneven stairway, I found myself at the top looking into the mess with
only my head and shoulders exposed to view. The General was examining a
map. His brigade-major, a V.C. captain with gentle eyes and a kindly
charming manner; his staff captain, a brisk hard-bitten soldier, with a
reputation for never letting the Brigade go hungry; the signal officer,
the intelligence officer, and other junior members of the staff, were
seated round the same table. "What about the --nd Brigade?" I heard the
General say, mentioning our Brigade.
"We haven't heard from them yet," observed the brigade-major.
"I'm from the --nd Brigade," I said loudly.
There were startled ejaculations and a general looking round to the
spot where the voice came from.
"Hallo, Jack-in-the-box!" exclaimed the brigadier, staring at my head
and shoulders, "where did you come from?"
I explained, and the General, laughing, said, "Well, you deserve a
drink for that.... Come out of your box and we'll give you some
targets.... I didn't know any one could get in that way."
Before I went away the tactical situation was explained to me. I was
given the points the Infantry would like us to fire upon during the
night. Also I got my drink.
The last thing Major Mallaby-Kelby said before going off to sleep was,
"Extraordinary long time since we met any civilians. Haven't seen any
since July."
XII. THE MAJOR'S LOST PIPE
Sept. 4: "A full mail-bag and a bottle of white wine are the best
spirit revivers for war-worn fighting-men," said Major Mallaby-Kelby
contentedly, gathering up his own big batch of letters from the one and
sipping a glass of the other.
During two days Brigade Headquarters and the four batteries had
received piles of belated letters and parcels, and there was joy in the
land. I remember noting the large number of little, local, weekly
papers--always a feature of the men's mail; and it struck me that here
the countryman was vouchsafed a joy unknown to the Londoner. Both could
read of world-doings and national affairs in the big London dailies;
but the man from the shires, from the little country towns, from the
far-off villages of the British Isles, could hug to himself the weekly
that was like another letter from home--with its intimate, sometimes
trivial, details of persons and places so familiar in the happy
uneventful days before the war.