DEPARTURE FOR THE SOMME
CORBIE. HAPPY VALLEY. PASSING THROUGH THE GUNS
On Sunday, September 2, our so-called rest came to an abrupt finish,
and we entrained for an unknown destination. Destinations are always a
mystery until the train pulls up with a jerk, and peremptory orders
are given to get out.
The difference in travelling as a civilian and travelling as a soldier
is that in the former case you choose your time of departure or
arrival at a convenient hour; while in the latter case the most
unearthly hour is selected for you.
We arrived at Corbie at 2 A.M. Not that we knew it was Corbie at the
time, or cared; and even if we had known, we should have been little
the wiser. Still, I will say this about Corbie, that it is pronounced
in the way it is spelled, and that relieves one of a sense of
uneasiness. For, as a general rule, no matter how you pronounce the
names of a French town, you will find some one with an air of superior
knowledge, or gifted with a special twist of the tongue, who will find
a new pronunciation.
However, we detrained onto the line. The night was as black as pitch.
Sleepy soldiers, struggling with their equipments, dropped out of the
carriages; and after a great deal of shouting we got into some kind of
formation, and the long column slowly moved off into the night.
I dropped into position in the rear of the column, feeling very tired,
and wondering where I should find a place to sleep. The long column
wended its way through narrow streets and along cobbled roads, and
gradually seemed to melt into mysterious doorways under the guiding
influence of quartermaster sergeants.
This process went on until I suddenly realised that the whole column
had disappeared, and I was left alone in the streets of Corbie at 3
A.M. in a steady downpour of rain, without the faintest notion of
where I was, or where my billet was. I walked a little farther down
the street, and being very tired, wet, and sleepy, had almost decided
to lie in the street until the morning, when I tumbled across Farman,
Chislehirst, and Day following the faithful quartermaster-sergeant to
an unknown billet.
The billet consisted of a bathroom in one of the outbuildings of a
large estate. The door of the bathroom had been locked, and the water
had been turned off. However, we scrambled through the window. The
floor was hard, but we had a roof above our heads, and we were all
soon snoring on the floor, fast asleep.
Next morning I took a walk around the estate and found myself in a
lovely orchard. It was deserted. An abundance of most delicious fruit
met my gaze wherever I went. I wandered up and down, picking the
apples and the pears, biting the fruit and throwing it away. I felt
like a bad boy in an orchard; but the orchard was deserted and the
fruit was going to waste; so if I was looting, I consoled myself with
the thought that I was preventing waste.
It was about 1.30 in the afternoon, and I had just settled myself down
in a comfortable seat under an apple-tree, and had pulled a Sunday
newspaper out of my pocket; it was a hot September day, and I was
feeling lazy.
I was bound for the Somme. There was a mysterious air about the place
that seemed unnatural. These beautiful gardens were deserted, but the
sound of the guns could be heard in the distance.
I had settled myself comfortably, trying to imagine with the aid of
the Sunday paper and a cigar that I was really sitting in my own
gardens, when I noticed a man filling his water-bottle.
"What are you filling your water-bottle for?" I asked.
"We have got orders to parade at 2 o'clock, to move off."
"Good Lord! Who told you that?"
"Captain Wilkie, sir. The orders have just come down."
I never had such a scramble in my life. With an appetite oversatisfied
with apples; my kit spread all over the floor; my company half a mile
away in all sorts of holes and corners--to move out of the village in
twenty minutes.
It's the same old thing in the army; you say to yourself it can't be
done; but it is done. And at five minutes past two the whole brigade
was moving out of Corbie, and was once more facing towards the Somme.
Our destination was in Death Valley; but before going into the line we
rested a few days in Happy Valley. Happy Valley and Death
Valley--there is a touch of sarcasm about the names, but they are,
nevertheless, very appropriate.
Happy Valley is a peaceful spot where we would sit contentedly in the
afternoon puffing at our pipes, listening to the sound of the guns;
watching the shrapnel bursting in the air some two or three miles
away, and thanking our lucky stars that we were watching it from a
distance. But we were resting. It was a lull before the storm, and we
were soon to march towards the storm.
Death Valley was three miles away, and to-morrow the storm would break
upon us! We were thinking; men everywhere were writing. Why were they
biting their pencils and thinking so hard? The padre was a busy man.
Everything was so quiet and mysterious: there was no joking, no
laughing, men were thoughtful and pulled hard at their pipes.
To-morrow the storm would break! To-morrow! And what after?
The following afternoon, after struggling across a sea of shell-holes,
we arrived at Death Valley and halted by Trones Wood. Here hundreds of
our guns of all sizes were massed, wheel to wheel, and row upon row;
and every gun was being worked as hard as possible.
A bombardment was taking place. And in the midst of all these guns we
were halted for two hours until our trenches could be located. The
sight was wonderful. It was impressive. The might of Britain was
massed and belching forth its concentrated fury.
As darkness came on the roar of the guns was accentuated by the flash
of the discharge. We did not speak, for speaking was out of the
question; the noise was too terrific; and we lay on the ground
silenced by wonder and bewilderment.
What was happening over yonder where those shells were dropping? What
was that droning, whistling noise far overhead? They were the big
guns: the 15-inch, five miles back; 16-pounders, 4.9-inch, 6-inch,
9-inch, 12-inch, and 15-inch. Guns here, guns there, guns everywhere;
all belching and flashing; all concentrating in a stupendous effort
to pound some part of the German line into confusion.
Ammunitions workers in England, and those who should be munition
workers, come right over here; creep with us along the edge of Trones
Wood, and watch this amazing sight. You miners, you tramway men, you
boiler-makers! You, who would throw down your tools and strike, look
upon this sight!
This is the voice of England. This is the stupendous effort which is
protecting you. On your right, that dark, creepy, silent place, is
Trones Wood. Look across to your left, those sticks showing on the
sky-line, across the valley. In those woods, churned up in the soil,
lie the rotting bodies of your comrades, your brothers, your sons.
They have sacrificed all; they have suffered untold deaths.
The contrast between that thundering voice of England and the silent
mystery of those woods causes a shudder. Bring out those strikers and
let them get a glimpse of this and realise their danger, and the
horrors which will come upon them, their wives, their children, their
homes, if those guns fail.
What is their quarrel to this? Shall we stop those guns for a penny an
hour? Shall we leave unprotected those desperate men across the
valley, who are hanging on tooth and nail to those last trenches
gained? Shall we do these things for a penny an hour? Shall we do
these things so that we can stand up for these so-called rights in
England?
No! Our mines must be worked; our boilers must be made; and our
munition machinery must be run to its utmost capacity, or we are
traitors to those guns and our fighting men; our brothers, our own
sons, who are depending upon the might of England for victory and
their lives.
Throw down your tools, slacken your machinery, and High Wood and
Trones Wood will become blacker still with the mutilated bodies of a
thousand men. A penny an hour! You, who are being coddled under the
protection of these guns, what is your quarrel to this?
If those desperate fellows on the other side of the hill were to leave
their tasks, they would be called traitors. Yet, when men in England,
whom these fighters are dependent upon, and whose work is just as
necessary for the success of the war, throw down their tools, they
are only called strikers.
The crime is the same; the punishment should be the same.