ARRIVAL ON THE SOMME
FEEDING THE GUNS. SEPTIMUS D'ARCY ARRIVES. A CURIOUS KIT
Late that evening orders came to move into the trenches on the far
slope of the Valley of Death. Trenches here, trenches there, trenches
everywhere, while we groped around without knowing where the trenches
led to, or the position of the German lines.
We spent an anxious night, the uncertainty of our position and mystery
of those massed guns, thundering their wrath into the darkness of the
night, caused a tension which defied any desire to sleep.
What was the meaning of it all? What was happening over yonder, where
the iron of England's anger was falling, bursting, tearing, killing?
What was happening over there? Would we receive a similar reply? The
signs were significant: we were at last on the Somme; we were in for
it with a vengeance.
The next morning broke bright and fair, and found us still awake with
eyes peering anxiously through the rising mist. We were evidently not
in the front line, but were there on the Somme; and that sea of
shell-holes which everywhere surrounded us told its own story of what
had been, and what was yet to be.
At about 11 o'clock all eyes were turned towards High Wood, on the
crest of the hill to the left. A burst of shells from the enemy's guns
told that a target had been found. We watched, and presently we could
faintly see a column slowly moving along the road through the wood.
Three ammunition wagons moved slowly towards our guns. Crash! A 5.9
fell in front of the leading horses; a cloud of dense, black smoke
arose and blotted the picture from view. The smoke cleared, and the
little column was still moving slowly forward, undisturbed and
indifferent. Crash! Crash! Two more shells burst by the side of the
second wagon; the smoke cleared; the horses were startled and giving
trouble, but once again the defiant little column moved slowly
forward, indifferent and undismayed.
We continued to watch the plucky little column, now obscured by the
black smoke of the bursting shells, then again emerging from the
smoke, heedless of danger.
Those men were human. How could they stand it with such calm and
determined indifference? The answer was the guns: the guns must be
fed; and British grit and discipline were unconquerable. The army is
wonderful.
At this moment I received a message calling me to headquarters, and I
at once went to find my C.O.
"Well, had a good rest?" he asked.
"Not much, sir."
"Stuff and nonsense; get your map out."
I spread my map out on my knees and took a note-book out of my pocket.
The C.O. pointed on the map with his pencil:
"We are here; the ---- Regiment is there."
"Front line, sir?"
"Right bang up in the front line."
"What are the trenches like, sir?"
"No time to dig trenches; they're hanging on to a few shell-holes,
though they may have connected them up by now. See, there's Combles,
and that's Leuze Wood. We shall be on the extreme right of the British
army. B Company will be on the right; C Company in the centre, and A
Company on the left with D Company in support. Headquarters will be
close by Falfemont Farm."
"Very good, sir."
"You won't find any farm left; been blown to dust. Men are to go in
battle order; packs are to be parked just outside here, by companies.
No. 5 platoon will move off at 7 P.M., the remainder following in
succession at fifty yards' interval."
I understood, and turned to go.
"By the way, I am not sure whether the Germans are in that trench or
the ---- Battalion, London Regiment. Anyhow, that's where we've got to
be to-night."
Half an hour later and the men were laying out their packs in long
rows, by companies. Strange sight, all these packs laid out in neat
rows. The reason did not need explaining. There was work at the other
end of that Valley of Death; there lay the pit of the Great Adventure.
Perhaps to-night we should look into it; but how many would come back
to claim their packs.
We are in the soup with a vengeance! Well, who cares?
Early that afternoon I went to my dugout, and was just trying to get a
little rest, when I was disturbed by a voice outside, which sounded
strangely familiar.
"Sergeant, excuse me, but is this the beastly hole where B Company is
to be found?"
"Yes, sir, this is B Company's line."
"'Pon me word, extraordinary place! Demned hot; walked nearly five
miles. Where's the captain?"
"In his dugout, sir, near that shell-hole."
"I've got to report to him; will you tell him I'm here?"
"Hadn't you better go to him, sir?"
"Oh! Is that the thing to do?"
At that moment, unable to restrain my curiosity, I came out of my
dugout, and there, sure enough, was none other than the irresistible
pattern of Bond Street, Septimus D'Arcy, by all that was wonderful!
There he was, with his monocle riveted in his right eye, between the
frown of his eyebrow and the chubby fatness of his cheek, with the
bored expression of one who saw no reason for the necessity of the
fatigue which caused the undignified beads of perspiration to assemble
on an otherwise unruffled countenance. A pair of kid gloves, buttoned
together, were hanging from the belt of his Sam Brown, and four inches
of a blue-bordered silk handkerchief dangled from his sleeve. As he
approached he half carried on his arm and half dragged along the
ground, the burden that was known as his full marching order.
"Hello, Septimus!" I said, as he came along, dragging his things
behind him.
"Ah! Hellow! Well, I'm demned! Never expected to find you here;
awfully glad to meet you again."
"What are you doing here?"
"I'll be demned if I know! Uninteresting spot this--what?"
"Well, what have you come here for?"
"Nothing much. I saw a fellow in that big dugout in the valley, and he
told me to report to you. The fact is, you know, you are attached to
me, or I'm attached to you, or something of that sort."
"Well, you are not in Havre now; there are snipers about, and if you
stand up there like that, you'll get hit."
"You don't mean to say so; that seems perfectly safe."
"Well, get down, and don't be a fool."
He carefully got down into the trench, leaving his equipment behind,
probably hoping it would get lost, and we entered the dugout.
"I must tell you, captain, I am horribly fatigued. I came through the
guns; very interesting and all that, but it's made my head ache."
"Have some water. It's rather muddy, but better than nothing these
days."
"No, thanks; doctor warned me against drinking dirty water; dysentery
and all that, don't you know. Any whisky and soda?"
"Look here, Septimus, now you are here, you must drop that nonsense."
"All right, old thing. I rather doubted the soda, but thank Heaven
I've got a flask; a sort of emergency ration. Help yourself and let's
drink it neat."
"How long have you been in the army, Septimus?"
"Three months. Why?"
"Like it?"
"Not bad. Saluting seems rather absurd; but it seems to please some. I
longed to come out; thought it would be interesting and all that sort
of thing. But so far I've had nothing to do but get from place to
place, carrying a beastly load with me."
"Probably your own fault. I have never seen a pack or haversack
crammed so full. What have you brought with you?"
"Necessaries; but not half what I shall need. Has my kit arrived?"
"My dear chap, you will never see your kit up here; and what is more,
you will have to leave most of those things you have brought with you
behind, before you go up the front line. Dump your things out here,
and I will tell you what to take."
We emptied his pack and haversack. I have never in all my life seen
such a lot of rubbish in the war kit of a soldier. There seemed to be
nothing there he would really need; but a curious mixture of strange
articles which would fill a fancy bazaar. There were hair-brushes with
ebony backs and silver monograms, silk handkerchiefs with fancy
borders, a pinky tooth-paste, oozing out of a leaden tube; and crushed
between a comb and a pair of silk socks, a large bottle of reddish
tooth-wash, sufficient to last him three years; and half of which had
leaked through the cork to the destruction of about a dozen silk
handkerchiefs, spotted and bordered in fanciful shades. There was a
box of cigars, a heavy china pot of massage-cream, a pot of
hair-pomade, a leather writing-case, a large ivory-backed mirror,
which had lost its usefulness for ever, a bottle of fountain-pen ink,
two suits of silk pajamas, one striped with pink and the other blue, a
huge bath-towel, a case containing seven razors, one for each day in
the week, and a sponge as big as his head. Poor Septimus! in his
simplicity and ignorance, for the first time in his life he had packed
his own kit.