GRAVES
There is a certain grave near Peronne, and in it rests a German
machine gunner, and though the cross over the grave testifies to the
valour of the dead man it also is witness to the chivalry of the men
who buried him there. The men were Australian soldiers, brave Diggers
who advanced to the attack and after making rapid strides they were
held up by the fire of a solitary machine gun that stood immovable in
the rout as a rock in running water. Round it the retreating army was
withering like snow in a thaw, the whole line bending, cracking and
floating backwards.
Still this gun kept hurling its lead against the advancing Diggers,
cutting great gaps in their ranks. For a full hour it kept up its
murderous fire, staying the Australians and causing them to halt. In
vain they streaked out to the left or right, wormed their way along
folds in the ground or took cover in natural hollows and advanced
from there when the fire ceased for a space. But the moment a head
showed or a khaki clad body came into view the gun found voice and
swept its missiles of death across the field.
Suddenly it became silent. The advance was resumed and the gun was
located. Here was found a solitary German lying dead beside his
weapon with a bullet wound in his head.
"A brave man!" said the Australians, looking at the dead man who
alone and unaided held up their advance for an hour. "We'll bury him!"
And there and then in the emplacement which he had guarded till death
they buried the German soldier and on the cross over the man is
written "Erected by the ---- in admiration of a soldier."
The officer who conducted our party spoke of another grave which is
near the same place, and which bears on the headstone:
"_Here lie two Huns who met a Digger._"
And near it, in terse and forcible language is inscribed on a second
headstone:
"_Here lies the Digger._"
Whether this is true or not is impossible to say. The officer who
told me of it merely got the story of the affair from some other man
who had not seen the headstones, but who heard of them from a mate.
In this way is rumour carried from mouth to mouth on the field of
battle. But if the story is true, it shows the grim humour which is
the soldier's; if not true, it shows the same humour as it takes form
in the imagination and makes itself manifest in dug-out drollery and
war mentality.
The Somme is a land of ruins and graves. These graves are everywhere
by the Amiens-St. Quentin road, by the road from St. Quentin to
Cambrai and the road from Eitenham to Bray. Not alone by the roadside
are the brave resting, they sleep in folds of the earth, on little
hillocks, in the shade of broken spinneys, by the banks of canals and
on the verge of disbanded trenches. Over one heap of earth can be
seen a bayonet topped with a helmet or cap, over another a rifle with
its barrel stuck in the ground. Crosses stand to unknown soldiers,
British, French or German, crosses with names stand singly or in
clusters, telling of the men who have given up their life in the
great war. None of these are secure from the leprosy of time; the
wind, weather and rain turn them black or green, blotting out all
record or detail. The grass and weeds grow up around them, covering
them and hiding them from the eyes of men. The French graves have
their red rosettes, the British graves their black lettering, and
amongst these latter many Australians are buried far away from the
land that gave them birth.
In the churchyard of Peronne are several crosses telling of British
soldiers buried there. The inscriptions on the crosses are written in
German and all are couched in a similar manner:
"Here rests in God, Private ---- of the ---- Regiment."
"The only kindly thing I've ever seen done by the Germans," said an
Australian officer who was with us as we looked at the graves.
A SOLDIER'S PRAYER
Givenchy village lies a wreck, Givenchy church is bare--
No more the peasant maidens come to say their vespers there;
The altar rails are wrenched apart; with rubble littered o'er,
The sacred sanctuary lamp lies smashed upon the floor--
And mute upon the crucifix He looks upon it all,
The great white Christ, the shrapnel-scourged, upon the eastern wall.
He sees the churchyard delved by shells, the tombstones flung about,
The dead men's skulls and yellow bones the shells have shovelled out,
The trenches running line by line through meadow fields of green,
The bayonets on the parapets, the wasting flesh between--
Around Givenchy's ruined church the levels, poppy red,
Are set apart for silent hosts, the legions of the dead.
And when at night on sentry-go, with danger keeping tryst,
I see upon the crucifix the blood-stained form of Christ
Defiled and maimed, the Merciful, on vigil all the time,
Pitying His children's wrath, their passion and their crime--
Mute, mute He hangs upon His Cross, the symbol of His pain
And as men scourged Him long ago they scourge Him once again--
There in the lonely war-lit night to Christ, the Lord, I call
"Forgive the ones who work Thee harm. O Lord, forgive us all."