I am not going to tell you all about that attack, only so much of it as
affects this history, which is the history of a man and not of the war.
It was a one-battalion affair, and eventually a failure. D Company was
in reserve, and our only immediate task was to provide a small
digging-party, forty men under an officer, to dig some sort of
communication ditch to the new line when taken. Burnett was told off for
this job; we took these things more or less in turn, and it was his
turn. And Burnett did not like it. We sat round a single candle under a
waterproof sheet in a sort of open recess at the back of the front line,
while Egerton gave him his orders. And there ran in my head the old bit
about 'they all began with one accord to make excuse.' Burnett made no
actual excuse; he could not. But he asked aggressive questions about the
arrangements which plainly said that he considered this task too
dangerous and too difficult for Burnett. He wanted more men, he wanted
another officer--but no more could be spared from an already small
reserve. He was full of 'the high ground on the right' from which his
party would 'obviously' be enfiladed and shot down to a man. However, he
went. And we sat listening to the rapid fire or the dull thud of bombs,
until in front a strange quiet fell, but to right and left were the
sounds of many machine-guns. As usual, no one knew what had happened,
but we expected a summons at any moment. We were all restless and jumpy,
particularly Harry. For a man who has doubts of himself or too much
imagination, to be in reserve is the worst thing possible. Harry was
talkative again, and held forth about the absurdity of the whole attack,
as to which he was perfectly right. But I felt that all the time he was
thinking, 'Shall I do the right thing? shall I do the right thing? shall
I make a mess of it?'
I went out and looked over the parapet, but could make nothing out. Then
I saw two figures loom through the dark and scramble into the trench.
And after them came others all along the line, coming in anyhow, in
disorder. Then Burnett came along the trench, and crawled in under the
waterproof sheet. I followed. 'It's no good,' he was saying, 'the men
won't stick it. It's just what I told you ... enfiladed from that high
ground over there--two machine-guns....'
'How many casualties have you had?' said Egerton.
'One killed, and two wounded.'
There was silence, but it was charged with eloquent thoughts. It was
clear what had happened. The machine-guns were firing blindly from the
right, probably over the heads of the party. The small casualties showed
that. Casualties are the test. No doubt the men had not liked the stream
of bullets overhead; at any moment the gun might lower. But there was
nothing to prevent the digging being done, given an officer who would
assert himself and keep the men together. That was what an officer was
for. And Burnett had failed. He had let the company down.
Egerton, I knew, was considering what to do. The job had to be done. But
should he send Burnett again, with orders not to return until he had
finished, as he deserved, or should he send a more reliable officer and
make sure?
Then Harry burst in: 'Let me take my platoon,' he said, 'they'll stick
it all right.' And his tone was full of contempt for Burnett, full of
determination. No doubts about him now.
* * * * *
Well, we sent him out with his platoon. And all night they dug and
sweated in the dark. The machine-gun did lower at times, and there were
many casualties, but Harry moved up and down in the open, cheerful and
encouraging, getting away the wounded, and there were no signs of the
men not sticking it. I went out and stayed with him for an hour or so,
and thought him wonderful. Curious from what strange springs inspiration
comes. For Harry, for the second time, had been genuinely inspired by
the evil example of his enemy. Probably, in the first place, he had
welcomed the chance of doing something at last, of putting his doubts to
the test, but I am sure that what chiefly carried him through that
night, weak and exhausted as he was, was the thought, 'Burnett let them
down; Burnett let them down; I'm not going to let them down.' Anyhow he
did very well.
But in the morning he was carried down to the beach in a high fever. And
perhaps it was just as well, for I think Burnett would have done him a
mischief.