of Brigade Headquarters mess. But the diary contained the bald entry,
"At 9.30 P.M. the whisky ran out," in the space headed Aug. 28; and
none had come to us since. People at home are inclined to believe that
the whisky scarcity, and the shortage of cakes and biscuits, and
chocolate and tobacco, scarcely affected officers' messes in France.
It is true that recognised brands of whisky appeared on the
Expeditionary Force Canteens' price-list at from 76 to 80 francs a
dozen, but there were days and days when none was to be bought, and no
lime-juice and no bottled lemon-squash either. Many a fight in the
September-October push was waged by non-teetotal officers, who had
nothing with which to disguise the hideous taste of chlorinate of lime
in the drinking water. Ah well!
There was also the serious matter of Major Mallaby-Kelby's pipe. It
became a burning topic on Sept. 4. "I must have dropped it yesterday
when we tumbled into that gas," he told me dolefully. "I mustn't lose
that pipe. It was an original Dunhill, and is worth three or four
pounds.... I'll offer a reward for it.... Will you come with me to look
for it?" And he fixed his monocle and gazed at me compellingly.
"Does the offer of a reward refer to me, sir?" I inquired with all the
brightness at my command. For answer the major commenced putting on his
steel helmet and box-respirator.
It was fitting that I should go. I had accompanied the major on all his
excursions, and my appearance over the horizon had become a sure
warning to the batteries that the major was not far off. "Gunner Major
and Gunner Minor" some one had christened us.
The major conducted the search with great verve. We encountered a
gunner chopping wood, and he told him the story of the pipe. "I'll give
twenty-five francs to any one who brings it to me," he concluded. The
gunner saluted and continued to chop wood.
"Rather a big reward!" I remarked as we walked on.
"Do you think twenty-five too much? Shall I make it fifteen?"
"You've committed yourself now," I answered solemnly.
Our arrival at the trench in which we had sheltered the day before
coincided with the whizz-phutt of a 4.2 dud. "I shall be sorry if I get
you killed looking for my pipe," said the major cheerfully. We waited
for the next shell, which exploded well behind us, and then hastened to
the spot where our quest was really to commence. Four gunners belonging
to the --rd Brigade stood idly in the trench. The major stopped and
looked down upon them. He addressed himself directly to a wall-faced,
emotionless kind of man whose head and shoulders showed above the
trench top.
"I was down here yesterday," began the major, "and lost my pipe. It was
a very valuable pipe, a pipe I prize very much. I think it must be
somewhere in this trench...."
The wall-faced man remained stolidly silent.
"I want to get it back again," went on the major; "and if any of you
fellows find it and bring it to me--I'm Major Mallaby-Kelby, commanding
the --nd Brigade--I'll give a reward of twenty-five francs."
"Is this it, sir?" said the wall-faced man in matter-of-fact tones,
whipping out of his pocket a thin-stemmed pipe with a shapely,
beautifully-polished bowl.
"By Jove, that's it!" exclaimed the major, taken aback by the swift
unexpectedness of the recovery. "Yes, by Jove, that's it," he
continued, his face lighting up. He took the pipe and rubbed the bowl
affectionately with the palm of his hand.
"Twenty-five francs reward!" I murmured softly.
"Yes, that's right," he said briskly, and began turning out his
pockets. Three maps, a pocket-handkerchief, some ration biscuits, and a
note-case with nothing in it. "You must lend me twenty-five francs,"
he declared masterfully.
The wall-faced gunner accepted the money without any sign of repressed
emotion, and saluted smartly. The smiles of the other men broadened
into grins as the major and myself set our faces homewards.
There were more serious matters to consider when we got back. D Battery
had had two men killed by shell fire in the wood; the other batteries
had had to send away a dozen men between them, overcome by gas; the
Infantry brigadier wished to discuss fresh plans for hastening the
enemy's departure from the neighbourhood of the canal.
In the afternoon I accompanied the major on a round of the batteries.
Nests of Boche machine-gunners were still checking the advance of our
infantry--they had fought heroically these fellows; but slowly,
methodically, implacably the work of rooting them out was going on. Our
farther advance was only a matter of hours now. "We're ordered not to
risk too many casualties on this front," the Infantry brigadier had
told the major. "The enemy will have to fall back when certain
movements north and south of us are completed.... But we mustn't let
him rest." Beale of A Battery had returned from the most crowded
glorious experience of his young life. He had taken a gun forward to
support two companies of the infantry who were striving to establish
posts on the eastern side of the canal. Their progress was stayed by
machine-guns and snipers, and the casualties were beginning to make the
company commanders doubt if the operation was worth while. Beale
reconnoitred with two platoon commanders and located the machine-guns,
returned and brought his gun up, and from an open position fired over
four hundred rounds; and afterwards went forward in front of the
advanced posts to make sure that the machine-guns had been definitely
put out of action. This brilliant effort enabled the infantry to move
forward afterwards without a casualty. Dusty, flushed with the thrill
of what he had been through, Beale knew that he had done fine work, and
was frankly pleased by the kind things said about him.
The following day produced fresh excitements. Major Simpson had gone
down to B Battery's waggon line to secure something like a night's
rest--although I might say that after the spring of 1917 the Boche
night-bombers saw to it that our waggon lines were no longer the havens
of peace they used to be. Disaster followed. The Boche drenched the
battery position with gas. Captain Denny, who had come up from the
waggon line to relieve the major, was caught while working out the
night-firing programme. Overbury, young Bushman, and another officer
were also gassed; and eight men besides. C Battery were victims as
well, and Henry and a number of the gunners had been removed to the
Casualty Clearing Station.
And before lunch-time a briefly-worded order was received directing
Major Mallaby-Kelby to report immediately to a Field Artillery Brigade
of another Division. Orders are apt to arrive in this sudden peremptory
fashion. Within an hour and a half the major had bidden good-bye to us
and ridden off, a mess cart following with his kit. And Major Veasey
came to reign in his stead.
Major Mallaby-Kelby left one souvenir, a bottle of the now famous white
wine which had got mislaid--at least the cook explained it that way.
The omission provided Brigade Headquarters with the wherewithal to
drink the major's health.
At nine o'clock that night I stood with Major Veasey outside our
headquarters dug-out. A mizzling rain descended. Five substantial fires
were burning beyond the heights where the Boche lay. "What's the odds
on the war ending by Christmas?" mused the major. "... I give it until
next autumn," he added.
A battery of 60-pounders had come up close by. Their horses, blowing
hard, had halted in front of our dug-out half an hour before, and the
drivers were waiting orders to pull the guns the final three hundred
yards into position. Two specks of lights showed that a couple of them
were smoking cigarettes. "Look at those drivers," I said. "They've been
here all this time and haven't dismounted yet."
The major stepped forward and spoke to one of the men. "Get off, lad,
and give the old horse a rest. He needs it."
"Some of these fellows will never learn horse management though the war
lasts ten years," he said resignedly as he went downstairs.
I remember our third and last night in that dug-out, because the air
below had got so vitiated that candles would only burn with the
feeblest of glimmers.
XIII. NURLU AND LIERAMONT
Sept. 6: The expected orders for the Brigade's farther advance arrived
at 2 P.M., and by eight o'clock Wilde and myself had selected a new
headquarters in a trench south of the wood. A tarpaulin and pit-prop
mess had been devised: I had finished the Brigade's official War Diary
for August; dinner was on the way; and we awaited the return of Major
Veasey from a conference with the Infantry brigadier.
The major came out of the darkness saying, "We'll have dinner at once
and then move immediately. There's a show to-morrow, and we must be
over the canal before daybreak.... Heard the splendid news?... We've
got right across the Drocourt Queant line.... That's one reason why we
are pushing here to-morrow."
We had a four-miles' march before us, and Manning and Meddings, our
mess waiter and cook, farther down the trench, could be heard grumbling
at the prospect of another packing-up, and a search in the dark for
fresh quarters. "We always lose knives and forks and crockery when we
move like this," Manning was saying in his heavy-dragoon voice.
"You and Wilde had better look for a headquarters somewhere near the
cross-roads at Nurlu," the major told me. "The adjutant and myself will
find where the batteries are and join you later."
There was a twenty minutes' delay because in the dark the G.S. waggon
had missed us and vanished round the corner of the wood. As we moved
off I felt a wet muzzle against my hand, and, stooping, perceived a dog
that looked like a cross between an Airedale and a Belgian sheep-dog.
"Hullo, little fellow!" I said, patting him. He wagged his tail and
followed me.
The German shelling had died down, and we hoped for an uneventful
journey. But night treks across ground that has been fought over
usually test one's coolness and common-sense. The Boche had blown up
the bridges over the canal, and descending the slope we had to leave
the road and follow a track that led to an Engineers' bridge, so well
hidden among trees that the enemy artillery had not discovered it. But
it was a long time before our little column completed the crossing. A
battery were ahead, and between them and us came a disjointed line of
infantry waggons--horses floundering in the mud, men with torches
searching for shell-holes and debris that had to be avoided. Only one
vehicle was allowed on the bridge at a time, and a quarter to eleven
came before the six mules scrambled the G.S. waggon over. The real
difficulty, however, was to decide upon the track to take the other
side of the canal. Maps were useless; these were tracks unknown to the
topographers. Not one of them followed the general direction in which I
believed Nurlu to be. I resolved to take the track that went
south-east, and hoped to come upon one that would turn due east. Heavy
shells, one every four minutes, rumbled high overhead, and crashed
violently somewhere south of us. "They are shooting into Moislains,"
said Wilde. We trudged along hopefully.
The dog was still with us, running in small circles round me. "That
must be the sheep-dog part of him," I said to Wilde. "He's a bit thin,
but he seems a wiry little chap."
The looked-for track due east came when I began to think that we were
drawing too near to where the big shells were falling. After half a
mile we reached a metalled road; the track we had passed along went
over and beyond it. The point to be decided now was whether to go
straight on or to turn left along the road. Not a soul, not a single
vehicle in sight; it was hard to believe that three Divisions were to
make a big attack on the morrow. I halted the waggons on the road, and
turned to Wilde. "Let's send Sergeant Starling (the signalling
sergeant) to find where this track leads to. We'll walk up the road and
find some one who can show it us on the map. There are bound to be
dug-outs in this bank."
We walked for half a mile, meeting no one. The dog and an orderly
accompanied us. In the distance my ear caught a familiar sound--the
clip-clop of horses trotting. It came nearer and nearer. Then we saw a
horseman, wearing the Artillery badge, leading a light draught horse.
"What battery do you belong to?" I asked, stopping him.
"B, sir."
"Where are you going now?"
"A shell came, sir, and hit our waggon. My traces were broke, and I'm
going back to the waggon line, sir."
"Where is B Battery?"
"Up this road, sir, and I think you take a turning on the left, but I
can't quite remember, sir; we had a bit of a mix-up."
"Bring up the waggons," I told the orderly. "We're on the right road.
If Sergeant Starling isn't back, leave some one behind to bring him
along."
Before long a jingling and a creaking told us that our carts were close
at hand. We walked on, and, reaching a cross-roads, waited to shout for
those behind to keep straight on. Half a minute afterwards I heard my
name called. A single light shone out from a dug-out in the bank.
It was Garstin of C Battery who had hailed me. "Major Veasey is here
with Major Bartlett," he said, coming towards us. The two majors were
sitting in a dug-out no bigger than a trench-slit. "What do you think
of my quarters?" smiled Major Bartlett. "Sorry I can't ask you to have
a drink. Our mess cart hasn't arrived yet."
"We've found B and C, so far," interposed Major Veasey, puffing at his
pipe, "and I must find the --th Infantry Brigade before I finish
to-night.... This road takes you direct to Nurlu, you know."
Wilde and I and the headquarters waggons resumed our march. We had
reached a sunken portion of the road, when above us began the deep
steady drone of Boche aeroplanes. We halted the waggons.
A wait, during which Lizzie, the big mare, whinnied, and we looked up
and strained our ears to follow the path of the 'planes. Then, farther
away than the whirring in the skies had led us to expect, came the
ear-stabbing crack of the bombs. One!--two!--three!--four!--five!--six!
in as quick succession as rifle-shots. "Damn 'em," said Wilde
apprehensively. "I hope they don't get any of our horses."
We were quite near Nurlu now, and, leaving the waggons in the shelter
of the sunken road, Wilde and I again forged ahead. An Army Field
Brigade was forming its waggon lines in a field off the roadside amid
sharp angry cries of "Keep those lights out!" Soon we approached
another sunken road leading into the village. Through the hedge that
rose above the bank I saw a black oblong hut. "Let's look at this
place," I said.
In the darkness we made out a number of huts. A ring of sandbags showed
where a tent had been pitched. Pushing away the blanket that covered
the opening to a huge mined dug-out, we looked upon a row of sleeping
engineers. "There are plenty of empty huts here," a corporal,
half-awake, told us. It was past midnight. "This will do us for
to-night," I said to Wilde.
A humming overhead reminded us that Boche 'planes still hovered near.
As we came out of the dug-out a string of red lights floated downwards.
A machine-gun spluttered, and a bullet pinged close to us. "What's he
up to?" said Wilde, his eyes gleaming. We drew back. A bomb fell three
hundred yards away; then another, and another. The ground shook; we
thought of our waggons and horses in the road. The dog had dashed
outside.
When the 'planes had passed, I sent the orderly to bring up the
waggons. The horses went back to the other side of the canal; the men
soon found cover for the night. Wilde and I made for the hut that we
had noticed first of all. It was not very spacious--nor very clean: but
it contained four wire beds to accommodate the major, the adjutant,
Wilde, and myself. "Why, it's a guard-room," I called, shining my torch
on a painted board affixed to the door.
So, for once in our lives, we slept in a guard-room. The little dog had
curled himself up in a corner.
Sept. 7: Zero hour for the launching of the attack was 8 A.M., much
later than usual. The village of Lieramont was the first objective, and
afterwards the infantry were to push on and oust the Boche from
Guyencourt and Saulcourt. It was to be an attack on the grand scale,
for the enemy had brought up one fresh Division and two others of known
fighting capacity. He was likely to hold very stoutly to the high
ground at Epehy. Our A Battery was under orders to follow close on the
heels of the infantry, to assist in wiping out machine-gun nests.
The camp in which we had settled overnight possessed at least three
empty Nissen huts in good condition. The place had been captured from
the British during the March retreat, and retaken not more than three
days ago. Our guard-room sleeping quarters were not roomy enough for
four simultaneous morning toilets; so I had my tin bowl and shaving
articles taken over to one of the Nissen huts, and I stripped and
managed a "bowl-bath" before breakfast. The dog, who had quite taken
possession of me, stretched himself on the floor and kept an eye upon
me.
The wily Boche had improved our Nissen huts. Trap-doors in the wooden
floors and "funk-holes" down below showed how he feared our
night-bombers. Jagged holes in the semicircular iron roofing proved the
wisdom of his precautions.
By half-past eight a German 5.9 was planking shells over the camp, near
enough for flying fragments to rattle against the roof and walls of the
huts. Fifty rounds were fired in twenty minutes. The Boche gunners
varied neither range nor direction; and no one was hurt. The shelling
brought to light, however, a peculiarity of the dog. He chased away in
the direction of each exploding shell, and tried also to pursue the
pieces of metal that whizzed through the air. Nothing would hold him.
When he returned, panting, it was to search for water; but after a
short rest the shells lured him out again in vain excited quest.
Round his neck was a leather collar with a brass plate. The plate bore
the name of a brigadier-general commanding an infantry brigade of a
Division that had gone north. "No wonder he follows you," grinned
Wilde. "He thinks you are a General.... It must be your voice, or the
way you walk."
"More likely that I use the same polish for my leggings as the
General," I retorted.
Major Veasey called me, and we started forth to see how the battle was
progressing. The village of Lieramont had fallen very quickly, and
Major Bullivant had already reported by mounted orderly that his
battery had moved through the village, and come into action near the
sugar factory.
"Oh, the leetle dawg!" said Major Veasey in wheedling tones, fondling
the dog who frisked about him. Then he got his pipe going, and we
strode through desolated Nurlu and made across rolling prairie land,
broken by earthworks and shell-holes. A couple of heavy hows. were
dropping shells on the grassy ridge that rose on our left--wasted
shots, because no batteries were anywhere near. We stuck to the valley,
and, passing a dressing station where a batch of walking cases were
receiving attention, drew near to the conglomeration of tin huts,
broken walls, and tumbled red roofs that stood for Lieramont. We
stopped to talk to two wounded infantry officers on their way to a
casualty clearing station. The advance had gone well, they said,
except at Saulcourt, which was not yet cleared. They were young and
fresh-coloured, imperturbable in manner, clear in their way of
expressing themselves. One of them, jacketless, had his left forearm
bandaged. Through a tear in his shirt sleeve I noticed the ugly purple
scar of an old wound above the elbow. Odd parties of infantry and
engineers stood about the streets. Plenty of wounded were coming
through. I ran in to examine a house that looked like a possible
headquarters of the future, and looked casually at a well that the
Boche had blown in. The dog was still at my heels.
"Now we want to find the sugar factory to see how Bullivant is getting
on," said the major, refilling his pipe. We pulled out maps and saw the
factory plainly marked; and then followed a hard good-conditioned road
that led over a hill.
We were getting now to a region where shells fell more freely. A mile
to the north-east machine-gun duels were in progress. When we saw the
wrecked factory with its queer-looking machinery--something like giant
canisters--we pressed forward. No sign whatever of A Battery! I looked
inside some tin huts: one had been used as a German mess, another as an
officers' bath-house; flies swarmed upon old jam and meat tins; filth
and empty bottles and stumps of candles, a discarded German uniform,
torn Boche prints, and scattered picture periodicals. "There's no one
here," mused Major Veasey. "I suppose the battery has moved forward
again."
Beyond a tangled heap of broken machinery, that included a huge
fly-wheel, bent and cracked, stood a big water-tank, raised aloft on
massive iron standards. "We might be able to see something from up
there," said the major. There was a certain amount of swarming to be
done, and the major, giving up the contest, aided me to clamber up. Out
of breath I stood up in the dusty waterless tank, and got out my
binoculars. Towards where the crackle of machine-guns had been heard, I
saw a bush-clad bank. Tucked up against it were horses and guns. Big
Boche shells kept falling near, and the landscape was wreathed in
smoke.
Before we got to the battery we met Major Bullivant, whose gestures
alone were eloquent enough to describe most war scenes. A rippling
sweep of his left arm indicated where two machine-gun nests on the
bosky western slopes of Saulcourt held up our infantry; a swan-like
curl of the right wrist, raised to the level of the shoulder, told
where A Battery had been situated, less than a thousand yards from the
enemy. "A company of the ---- were faltering because of the deadliness
of the machine-guns," he said. "... I got hold of a platoon commander
and he took me far enough forward to detect their whereabouts.... We
fired 200 rounds when I got back to the battery. My gunners popped them
off in find style, although the Boche retaliated.... The infantry have
gone on now.... I found two broken machine-guns and six dead Germans at
the spots we fired at.... It's been quite a good morning's work."
He smiled an adieu and went off to join a company commander he had
arranged to meet. When we reached the bank A Battery were about to move
to a sunken road farther forward. Smallman, from South Africa,
nicknamed "Buller," was in charge, and he pointed joyously to an
abandoned Boche Red Cross waggon that the battery had "commandeered."
Four mules had been harnessed to it; the battery waggon line was its
destination.
"Gee-ho! they went off in a hurry from here," remarked Major Veasey,
looking at a light engine and three trucks loaded with ammunition and
corrugated iron that the enemy had failed to get away on the
narrow-gauge line running past Saulcourt. "What we ought to do is to
have a railway ride back. The line goes to Nurlu. That would be a new
experience--and I'm tired enough."
"Yes, that would be better than the four-in-hand in the G.S. waggon
that you took to the sports meeting," I added.