BLACK, WHITE, AND--GREY
Four weeks after his board Jim Denver once again found himself in
France.
Having reported his arrival, he sat down to await orders. Boulogne is
not a wildly exhilarating place; though there is always the hotel where
one may consume cocktails and potato chips, and hear strange truths
about the war from people of great knowledge and understanding.
Moreover--though this is by the way--in Boulogne you get the first sniff
of that atmosphere which England lacks; that subtle, indefinable
something which war _in_ a country produces in the spirit of its
people....
Gone is the stout lady of doubtful charm engaged in mastering the
fox-trot, what time a band wails dismally in an alcove; gone is the
wild-eyed flapper who bumps madly up and down the roads on the carrier
of a motor-cycle. It has an atmosphere of its own this fair land of
France to-day. It is laughing through its tears, and the laughter has an
ugly sound--for the Huns. They will hear that laughter soon, and the
sound will give them to think fearfully.
But at the moment when Jim landed it was all very boring. The R.T.O. at
Boulogne was bored; the A.S.C. officers at railhead were bored; the
quartermaster guarding the regimental penates in a field west of Ypres
was bored.
"Cheer up, old son," Jim remarked, slapping the last-named worthy
heavily on the back. "You look peevish."
"Confound you," he gasped, when he'd recovered from choking. "This is my
last bottle of whisky."
"Where's the battalion?" laughed Denver.
"Where d'you think? In a Turkish bath surrounded by beauteous houris?"
the quartermaster snorted. "Still in the same damn mud-hole near Hooge."
"Good! I'll trot along up shortly. You know, I'm beginning to be glad I
came back. I didn't want to particularly, at first: I was enjoying
myself at home--but I felt I ought to, and now--'pon my soul---- How are
you, Jones?"
A passing sergeant stopped and saluted. "Grand, sir. How's yourself? The
boys will be glad you've come back."
Denver stood chatting with him for a few moments and then rejoined the
pessimistic quartermaster.
"Don't rhapsodise," begged that worthy--"don't rhapsodise; eat your
lunch. If you tell me it will be good to see your men again, I shall
assault you with the remnants of the tinned lobster. I know it will be
good--no less than fifteen officers have told me so in the last six
weeks. But I don't care--it leaves me quite, quite cold. If you're in
France, you pine for England; when you're in England, you pine for
France; and I sit in this damn field and get giddy."
Which might be described as to-day's great thought.
* * * * *
Thus did Jim Denver come back to his regiment. Once again the life of
the moles claimed him--the life of the underworld: that strange
existence of which so much has been written, and so little has been
really grasped by those who have not been there. A life of incredible
dreariness--yet possessing a certain "grip" of its own. A life of
peculiar contrasts--where the suddenness--the abruptness of things
strikes a man forcibly: the extraordinary contrasts of black and white.
Sometimes they stand out stark and menacing, gleaming and brilliant;
more often do they merge into grey. But always are they there....
As I said before, my object is not to give a diary of my hero's life. I
am not concerned with his daily vegetation in his particular hole, with
Hooge on his right front and a battered farm close to. Sleep, eat, read,
look through a periscope and then repeat the performance. Occasionally
an aerial torpedo, frequently bombs, at all times pessimistic sappers
desiring working parties. But it was very much the "grey" of trench life
during the three days that Jim sat in the front line by the wood that is
called "Railway."
One episode is perhaps worthy of note. It was just one of those harmless
little jests which give one an appetite for a hunk of bully washed down
by a glass of tepid whisky and water. Now be it known to those who do
not dabble in explosives, there are in the army two types of fuze which
are used for firing charges. Each type is flexible, and about the
thickness of a stout and well-nourished worm. Each, moreover, consists
of an inner core which burns, protected by an outer covering--the idea
being that on lighting one end a flame should pass along the burning
inner core and explode in due course whatever is at the other end.
There, however, their similarity ends; and their difference becomes so
marked that the kindly powers that be have taken great precautions
against the two being confused.
The first of these fuzes is called Safety--and the outer covering is
black. In this type the inner core burns quite slowly at the rate of two
or three feet to the minute. This is the fuze which is used in the
preparation of the jam-tin bomb: an instrument of destruction which has
caused much amusement to the frivolous. A jam tin is taken and is
filled with gun cotton, nails, and scraps of iron. Into the gun cotton
is inserted a detonator; and into the detonator is inserted two inches
of safety-fuze. The end of the safety-fuze is then lit, and the jam tin
is presented to the Hun. It will readily be seen by those who are
profound mathematicians, that if three feet of safety-fuze burn in a
minute, two inches will burn in about three seconds--and three seconds
is just long enough for the presentation ceremony. This in fact is the
principal of all bombs both great and small.
The second of these fuzes is called Instantaneous--and the outer
covering is orange. In this type the inner core burns quite quickly, at
the rate of some thirty yards to the second, or eighteen hundred times
as fast as the first. Should, therefore, an unwary person place two
inches of this second fuze in his jam tin by mistake, and light it, it
will take exactly one-600th of a second before he gets to the motto.
Which is "movement with a meaning quite its own."
To Jim then came an idea. Why not with care and great cunning remove
from the inner core of Instantaneous fuze its vulgar orange covering,
and substitute instead a garb of sober black--and thus disguised present
several bombs of great potency _unlighted_ to the Hun.
The afternoon before they left for the reserve trenches he staged his
comedy in one act and an epilogue. A shower of bombs was propelled in
the direction of the opposing cave-dwellers to the accompaniment of loud
cries, cat calls, and other strange noises. The true artist never
exaggerates, and quite half the bombs had genuine safety-fuze in them
and were lit before being thrown. The remainder were not lit, it is
perhaps superfluous to add.
The lazy peace of the afternoon was rudely shattered for the Huns. Quite
a number of genuine bombs had exploded dangerously near their
trench--while some had even taken effect in the trench. Then they
perceived several unlit ones lying about--evidently propelled by nervous
men who had got rid of them before lighting them properly. And there was
much laughter in that German trench as they decided to give the epilogue
by lighting them and throwing them back. Shortly after a series of
explosions, followed by howls and groans, announced the carrying out of
that decision. And once again the Hymn of Hate came faintly through the
drowsy stillness....
Those are the little things which occasionally paint the grey with a dab
of white; the prowls at night--the joys of the sniper who has just
bagged a winner and won the bag of nuts--all help to keep the spirits up
when the pattern of earth in your particular hole causes a rush of blood
to the head.
Incidentally this little comedy was destined to be Jim Denver's last
experience of the Hun at close quarters for many weeks to come. The grey
settled down like a pall, to lift in the fulness of time, to _the_ black
and white day of his life. But for the present--peace. And yet only
peace as far as he was concerned personally. That very night, close to
him so that he saw it all, some other battalions had a chequered hour or
so--which is all in the luck of the game. To-day it's the man over the
road--to-morrow it's you....
They occurred about 2 a.m.--the worries of the men over the road. Denver
had moved to his other hole, courteously known as the reserve trenches,
and there seated in his dug-out he discussed prospects generally with
the Major. There were rumours that the division was moving from Ypres,
and not returning there--a thought which would kindle hope in the most
pessimistic.
"Don't you believe it," answered the Major gloomily. "Those rumours are
an absolute frost."
"Cheer up! cully, we'll soon be dead." Denver laughed. "Have some rum."
He poured some out into a mug and passed the water. "Quiet
to-night--isn't it? I was reading to-day that the Italians----"
"You aren't going to quote any war expert at me, are you?"
"Well--er--I was: why not?"
"Because I have a blood-feud with war experts. I loathe and detest the
breed. Before I came out here their reiterated statement made monthly
that we should be on the Rhine by Tuesday fortnight was a real comfort.
We always got to Tuesday fortnight--but we've never actually paddled in
the bally river."
"To err is human; to get paid for it is divine," murmured Jim.
"Bah!" the Major filled his pipe aggressively. "What about the
steam-roller, what about the Germans being reduced to incurable
epileptics in the third line trenches--what about that drivelling ass
who said the possession of heavy guns was a disadvantage to an army
owing to their immobility?"
"Have some more rum, sir?" remarked Jim soothingly.
"But I could have stood all that--they were trifles." The Major was
getting warmed up to it. "This is what finished me." He pulled a piece
of paper out of his pocket. "Read that, my boy--read that and ponder."
Jim took the paper and glanced at it.
"I carry that as my talisman. In the event of my death I've given orders
for it to be sent to the author."
"But what's it all about?" asked Denver.
"'At the risk of repeating myself, I wish again to asseverate what I
drew especial attention to last week, and the week before, and the one
before that; as a firm grasp of this essential fact is imperative to an
undistorted view of the situation. Whatever minor facts may now or again
crop up in this titanic conflict, we must not shut our eyes to the rules
of war. They are unchangeable, immutable; the rules of Caesar were the
rules of Napoleon, and are in fact the rules that I myself have
consistently laid down in these columns. They cannot change: this war
will be decided by them as surely as night follows day; and those
ignorant persons who are permitted to express their opinions elsewhere
would do well to remember that simple fact.'"
"What the devil is this essential fact?"
"Would you like to know? I got to it after two columns like that."
"What was it?" laughed Jim.
"'An obstacle in an army's path is that which obstructs the path of the
army in question.'"
"After that--more rum." Jim solemnly decanted the liquid. "You deserve
it. You...."
"Stand to." A shout from the trench outside--repeated all along until it
died away in the distance. The Major gulped his rum and dived for the
door--while Jim groped for his cap. Suddenly out of the still night
there came a burst of firing, sudden and furious. The firing was taken
up all along the line, and then the guns started and a rain of shrapnel
came down behind the British lines.
Away--a bit in front on the other side of the road to Jim's trench there
were woods--woods of unenviable reputation. Hence the name of
"Sanctuary." In the middle of them, on the road, lay the ruined chateau
and village of Hooge--also of unenviable reputation.
And towards these woods the eyes of all were turned.
"What the devil is it?" shouted the man beside Jim. "Look at them lights
in the trees."
The devil it was. Dancing through the darkness of the trees were flames
and flickering lights, like will-o'-the-wisps playing over an Irish bog.
And men, looking at one another, muttered sullenly. They remembered the
gas; what new devilry was this?
Up in the woods things were moving. Hardly had the relieving regiments
taken over their trenches, when from the ground in front there seemed to
leap a wall of flame. It rushed towards them and, falling into the
trenches and on to the men's clothes, burnt furiously like brandy round
a plum pudding. The woods were full of hurrying figures dashing blindly
about, cursing and raving. For a space pandemonium reigned. The Germans
came on, and it looked as if there might be trouble. The regiments who
had just been relieved came back, and after a while things straightened
out a little. But our front trenches in those woods, when morning broke,
were not where they had been the previous night....
Liquid fire--yet one more invention of "Kultur"; gas; the moat at Ypres
poisoned with arsenic; crucifixion; burning death squirted from the
black night--suddenly, without warning: truly a great array of Kultured
triumphs.... And with it all--failure. To fight as a sportsman fights
and lose has many compensations; to fight as the German fights and lose
must be to taste of the dregs of hell.
But that is how they _do_ fight, whatever interesting surmises one may
make of their motives and feelings. And that is how it goes on over the
water--the funny mixture of the commonplace of everyday with the great
crude, cruel realities of life and death.
* * * * *
But as I said, for the next few weeks the grey screen cloaked those
crude realities as far as Jim was concerned. Rumour for once had proved
true; the division was pulled out, and his battalion found itself near
Poperinghe.
"Months of boredom punctuated by moments of intense fright" is a
definition of war which undoubtedly Noah would have regarded as a
chestnut. And I should think it doubtful if there has ever been a war
in which this definition was more correct.
Jim route marched: he trained bombers: he dined in Poperinghe and went
to the Follies. Also, he allowed other men to talk to him of their plans
for leave: than which no more beautiful form of unselfishness is laid
down anywhere in the Law or the Prophets.
On the whole the time did not drag. There is much of interest for those
who have eyes to see in that country which fringes the Cock Pit of
Europe. Hacking round quietly most afternoons on a horse borrowed from
someone, the spirit of the land got into him, that blood-soaked, quiet,
uncomplaining country, whose soul rises unconquerable from the battered
ruins.
Horses exercising, lorries crashing and lurching over the pave roads.
G.S. wagons at the walk, staff motors--all the necessary wherewithal to
preserve the safety of the mud holes up in front--came and went in a
ceaseless procession; while every now and then a local cart with
mattresses and bedsteads, tables and crockery, tied on perilously with
bits of string, would come creaking past--going into the unknown,
leaving the home of years.
Ypres, that tragic charnel house, with the great jagged holes torn out
of the pave; with the few remaining walls of the Cathedral and Cloth
Hall cracked and leaning outwards; with the strange symbolical touch of
the black hearse which stood untouched in one of the arches. Rats
everywhere, in the sewers and broken walls; in the crumbling belfry
above birds, cawing discordantly. The statue of the old gentleman which
used to stand serene and calm amidst the wreckage, now lay broken on its
face. But the stench was gone--the dreadful stench of death which had
clothed it during the second battle; it was just a dead town--dead and
decently buried in great heaps of broken brick....
Vlamertinghe, with the little plot of wooden crosses by the cross roads;
Elverdinghe, where the gas first came, and the organ pipes lay twisted
in the wreckage of the unroofed church; where the long row of French
graves rest against the chateau wall, graves covered with long
grass--each with an empty bottle upside down at their head.
And when Thyself with shining Foot shall pass
Among the Guests star-scatter'd on the Grass,
... turn down an empty Glass.
* * * * *
And in the family archives are some excellent reproductions--not
photographs of course, for the penalty for carrying a camera is death at
dawn--of ruined churches and shell-battered chateaux. Perhaps the most
interesting one, at any rate the most human, is a "reproduction" of a
group of cavalry men. They had been digging in a little village a mile
behind the firing-line--a village battered and dead from which the
inhabitants had long since fled. Working in the garden of the local
doctor, they were digging a trench which ran back to the cellar of the
house, when on the scene of operations had suddenly appeared the doctor
himself. By signs he possessed himself of a shovel, and, pacing five
steps from the kitchen door and three from the tomato frame, he too
started to dig.
"His wife's portrait, probably," confided the cavalry officer to Jim, as
they watched the proceeding. "Or possibly an urn with her ashes."
It was a sergeant who first gave a choking cry and fainted; he was
nearest the hole.
"Yes," remarked Jim, "he's found the urn."
With frozen stares they watched the last of twelve dozen of light beer
go into the doctor's cart. With pallid lips the officer saw three dozen
of good champagne snatched from under his nose.
"Heavens! man," he croaked, "it was _dry_ too. If our trench had been a
yard that way...." He leant heavily on his stick, and groaned.
The moment was undoubtedly pregnant with emotion.
"'E'ad a nasty face, that man--a nasty face. Oh, 'orrible."
Hushed voices came from the group of leaners. The "reproduction" depicts
the psychological moment when the doctor with a joyous wave of the hand
wished them "_Bonjour, messieurs,_" and drove off.
"Not one--not one ruddy bottle--not the smell of a perishing cork.
Stung!"
But Jim had left.
Which very silly and frivolous story is topsy-turvy land up to date, or
at any rate typical of a large bit of it.