"Half-past two, and a cold morning, sir."
Thus Bobby Little's servant, rousing his employer from uneasy slumber
under the open sky, in a newly-constructed trench running parallel to
and in rear of the permanent trench line.
Bobby sat up, and peering at his luminous wrist-watch, morosely
acquiesced in his menial's gruesome statement. But he cheered up at
the next intimation.
"Breakfast is ready, sir."
Tea and bacon are always tea and bacon, even in the gross darkness and
mental tension which precede a Big Push. Presently various humped
figures in greatcoats, having gathered in the open ditch which did duty
for Officers' Mess, broke into spasmodic conversation--conversation
rendered even more spasmodic by the almost ceaseless roar of guns. There
were guns all round us--rank upon rank: to judge by the noise, you would
have said tier upon tier as well. Half a mile ahead, upon the face of a
gentle slope, a sequence of flames would spout from the ground, and a
storm of shells go whistling on their way. No sooner had this happened
than there would come a shattering roar from the ground beneath our
feet, and a heavy battery, concealed in a hedge fifty yards to our
front, would launch its contribution. Farther back lay heavier batteries
still, and beyond that batteries so powerful and so distant that one
heard the shell pass before the report arrived. One of these monsters,
coming apparently from infinity and bound for the back of beyond,
lumbered wearily over the heads of "A" Company, partaking of breakfast.
Private Mucklewame paused in the act of raising his canteen to his
lips.
"There's Wullie awa' for a walk!" he observed.
Considering that they were upon the eve of an epoch-making combat, the
regiment were disappointingly placid.
In the Officers' Mess the prevailing note was neither lust of battle
nor fear of death: it was merely that ordinary snappishness which is
induced by early rising and uncomfortable surroundings.
"It's going to rain, too," grumbled Major Kemp.
At this moment the Colonel arrived, with final instructions from the
Brigadier.
"We move off at a quarter to four," he said, "up Fountain Alley and
Scottish Trench, into Central Boyau"--"boyau" is the name which is
given to a communication-trench in trenches which, like those in front
of us, are of French extraction--"and so over the parapet. There we
extend, as arranged, into lines of half-companies, and go at 'em,
making Douvrin our objective, and keeping the Hohenzollern and Fosse
Eight upon our left."
Fosse Eight is a mighty waste-heap, such as you may behold anywhere
along the railway in the colliery districts between Glasgow and
Edinburgh. The official map calls such an eminence a Fosse; the Royal
Engineers call it a Dump; Operation Orders call it a Slag-Heap;
experts like Ogg and Hogg (who ought to know if any one does) call it
a Bing. From this distance, two miles away, the Fosse looks as big
as North Berwick Law. It is one of the many scattered about this
district, all carefully numbered by the Ordnance. There are others,
again, towards Hulluch and Loos. Number Eight has been the object
of pressing attentions on the part of our big guns ever since the
bombardment began, three weeks ago; but it still stands up--gaunt,
grim, and defiant--against the eastern sky. Whether any one is left
alive upon it, or in it, is another question. We shall have cause to
remember Fosse Eight before this fight is over.
The Hohenzollern Redoubt, on the other hand, is a most inconspicuous
object, but a very important factor in the present situation. It has
been thrust forward from the Bosche lines to within a hundred yards
of our own--a great promontory, a maze of trenches, machine-gun
emplacements, and barbed wire, all flush with or under the ground, and
terribly difficult to cripple by shell fire. It has been a source
of great exasperation to us--a starting-point for saps, mines, and
bombing parties. As already stated, this mighty fortress has been
christened by its constructors, the Hohenzollern. It is attached
to its parent trench-line by two communicating trenches, which the
British Army, not to be outdone in reverence to the most august of
dynasties, have named Big and Little Willie respectively.
A struggling dawn breaks, bringing with it promise of rain, and the
regiment begins to marshal in the trench called Fountain Alley, along
which it is to wind, snake-like, in the wake of the preceding troops,
until it debouches over the parapet, a full mile away, and extends
into line.
Presently the order is given to move off, and the snake begins to
writhe. Progress is steady, but not exhilarating. We have several
battalions of the Division in front of us (which Bobby Little resents
as a personal affront), but have been assured that we shall see all
the fighting we want. The situation appears to be that owing to the
terrific artillery bombardment the attacking force will meet with
little or no opposition in the German front-line trenches; or second
line, for that matter.
"The whole Division," explains Captain Wagstaffe to Bobby Little,
"should be able to get up into some sort of formation about the Bosche
third line before any real fighting begins; so it does not very much
matter whether we start first or fiftieth in the procession."
Captain Wagstaffe showed himself an accurate prophet.
We move on. At one point we pass through a howitzer battery, where
dishevelled gentlemen give us a friendly wave of the hand. Others, not
professionally engaged for the moment, sit unconcernedly in the ditch
with their backs to the proceedings, frying bacon. This is their busy
hour.
Presently the pace grows even slower, and finally we stop altogether.
Another battalion has cut in ahead of us, and we must perforce
wait, snapping our fingers with impatience, like theatre-goers in
a Piccadilly block, whose taxis have been held up by the traffic
debouching from Berkeley Street.
"Luckily the curtain doesn't rise till five-fifty," observes Captain
Wagstaffe.
We move on again at last, and find ourselves in Central Boyau, getting
near the heart of things. Suddenly we are conscious of an overpowering
sense of relief. Our guns have ceased firing. For the first time for
three days and nights there is peace.
Captain Wagstaffe looks at his watch.
"That means that our first line are going over the parapet," he says.
"Punctual, too! The gunners have stopped to put up their sights and
lengthen their fuses. We ought to be fairly in it in half an hour."
But this proves to be an under-estimate. There are mysterious and
maddening stoppages--maddening, because in communication-trench
stoppages it is quite impossible to find out what is the matter.
Furious messages begin to arrive from the rear. The original form of
inquiry was probably something like this: "Major Kemp would like to
know the cause of the delay." As transmitted sonorously from mouth to
mouth by the rank and file it finally arrives (if it ever arrives at
all) in some such words as: "Pass doon; what for is this (asterisk,
obelus) wait?" But as no answer is ever passed back it does not much
matter.
The righteous indignation of Major Kemp, who is situated somewhere
about the middle of the procession, reaches its culminating point
when, with much struggling and pushing and hopeless jamming, a
stretcher carrying a wounded man is borne down the crowded trench on
its way to the rear. The Major delivers himself.
"This is perfectly monstrous! You stretcher-bearers will kill that
poor chap if you try to drag him down here. There is a specially
constructed road to the dressing-station over there--Bart's Alley, it
is called. We cannot have up-and-down traffic jumbled together like
this. For heaven's sake, Waddell, pass up word to the C.O. that it is
mistaken kindness to allow these fellows down here. He _must_ send
them back."
Waddell volunteers to climb out of the trench and go forward with a
message. But this the Major will not allow. "Your platoon will require
a leader presently," he mentions. "We'll try the effect of a note."
The note is passed up, and anon an answer comes back to the effect
that no wounded have been allowed down from the head of the column.
They must be getting in by a sidetrack somewhere. The Major groans,
but can do nothing.
Presently there is a fresh block.
"What is it this time?" inquires the afflicted Kemp. "More wounded, or
are we being photographed?"
The answer races joyously down the line--"Gairman prisoners,
sirr--seeventy of them!"
This time the Major acts with promptness and decision.
"Prisoners? No, they _don't!_ Pass up word from me that the whole
boiling are to be hoisted on to the parapet, with their escort, and
made to walk above ground."
The order goes forward. Presently our hearts are rejoiced by an
exhilarating sight. Across the field through which our trench winds
comes a body of men, running rapidly, encouraged to further fleetness
of foot by desultory shrapnel and stray bullets. They wear grey-green
uniform, and flat, muffin-shaped caps. They have no arms or equipment:
some are slightly wounded. In front of this contingent, running even
more rapidly, are their escort--some dozen brawny Highlanders, armed
to the teeth. But the prisoners exhibit no desire to take advantage of
this unusual order of things. Their one ambition in life appears to be
to put as large a space as possible between themselves and their late
comrades-in-arms, and, if possible, overtake their captors.
Some of them find time to grin, and wave their hands to us. One
addresses the scandalised M'Slattery as "Kamarad!" "No more dis war
for me!" cries another, with unfeigned satisfaction.
After this our progress is more rapid. As we near the front line, the
enemy's shrapnel reaps its harvest even in our deep trench. More than
once we pass a wounded man, hoisted on to the parapet to wait for
first-aid. More than once we step over some poor fellow for whom no
first-aid will avail.
Five minutes later we reach the parapet--that immovable rampart
over which we have peeped so often and so cautiously with our
periscopes--and clamber up a sandbag staircase on to the summit. We
note that our barbed wire has all been cut away, and that another
battalion, already extended into line, is advancing fifty yards ahead
of us. Bullets are pinging through the air, but the guns are once more
silent. Possibly they are altering their position. Dotted about upon
the flat ground before us lie many kilted figures, strangely still, in
uncomfortable attitudes.
A mile or so upon our right we can see two towers--pit-head
towers--standing side by side. They mark the village of Loos, where
another Scottish Division is leading the attack. To the right of Loos
again, for miles and miles and miles, we know that wave upon wave of
impetuous French soldiers is breaking in a tempest over the shattered
German trenches. Indeed, we conjecture that down there, upon our
right, is where the Biggest Push of all is taking place. Our duty is
to get forward if we can, but before everything to engage as many
German troops and guns as possible. Even if we fight for a week or
more, and only hold our own, we shall have done the greater part of
what was required of us. But we hope to do more than that.
Upon our left lies the Hohenzollern. It is silent; so we know that
it has been captured. Beyond that, upon our left front, looms Fosse
Eight, still surmounted by its battered shaft-tower. Right ahead,
peeping over a low ridge, is a church steeple, with a clock-face in
it. That is our objective.
Next moment we have deployed into extended order, and step out, to
play our little part in the great Battle of the Slag-Heaps.