THE FIRING SQUAD
A few days later I had orders to report back to Divisional
Headquarters, about thirty kilos behind the line. I reported to the A.
P. M. (Assistant Provost Marshal). He told me to report to billet No.
78 for quarters and rations.
It was about eight o'clock at night and I was tired and soon fell
asleep in the straw of the billet. It was a miserable night outside,
cold, and a drizzly rain was falling.
About two in the morning I was awakened by someone shaking me by the
shoulder. Opening my eyes I saw a Regimental Sergeant-Major bending
over me. He had a lighted lantern in his right hand. I started to ask
him what was the matter, when he put his finger to his lips for
silence and whispered:
"Get on your equipment, and, without any noise, come with me."
This greatly mystified me but I obeyed his order.
Outside of the billet, I asked him what was up, but he shut me up
with:
"Don't ask any questions, it's against orders. I don't know myself."
It was raining like the mischief.
We splashed along a muddy road for about fifteen minutes, finally
stopping at the entrance of what must have been an old barn. In the
darkness, I could hear pigs grunting, as if they had just been
disturbed. In front of the door stood an officer in a mack
(mackintosh). The R. S. M. went up to him, whispered something, and
then left. This officer called to me, asked my name, number and
regiment, at the same time, in the light of a lantern he was holding,
making a notation in a little book.
When he had finished writing, he whispered:
"Go into that billet and wait orders, and no talking. Understand?"
I stumbled into the barn and sat on the floor in the darkness. I could
see no one but could hear men breathing and moving; they seemed
nervous and restless. I know I was.
During my wait, three other men entered. Then the officer poked his
head in the door and ordered:
"Fall in, outside the billet, in single rank."
We fell in, standing at ease. Then he commanded.
"Squad-'Shun! Number!"
There were twelve of us.
"Right--Turn! Left--Wheel! Quick--March!" And away we went. The
rain was trickling down my back and I was shivering from the cold.
With the officer leading, we must have marched over an hour, plowing
through the mud and occasionally stumbling into a shell hole in the
road, when suddenly the officer made a left wheel and we found
ourselves in a sort of enclosed courtyard.
The dawn was breaking and the rain had ceased.
In front of us were four stacks of rifles, three to a stack.
The officer brought us to attention and gave the order to unpile arms.
We each took a rifle. Giving us "Stand at ease," in a nervous and
shaky voice, he informed:
"Men, you are here on a very solemn duty. You have been selected as a
firing squad for the execution of a soldier, who, having been found
guilty of a grievous crime against King and Country, has been
regularly and duly tried and sentenced to be shot at 3.28 A.M. this
date. This sentence has been approved by the reviewing authority and
ordered carried out. It is our duty to carry on with the sentence of
the court.
"There are twelve rifles, one of which contains a blank cartridge, the
other eleven containing ball cartridges. Every man is expected to do
his duty and fire to kill. Take your orders from me. Squad-'Shun!"
We came to attention. Then he left. My heart was of lead and my knees
shook.
After standing at "Attention" for what seemed a week, though in
reality it could not have been over five minutes, we heard a low
whispering in our rear and footsteps on the stone nagging of the
courtyard.
Our officer reappeared and in a low, but firm voice, ordered;
"About-Turn!"
We turned about. In the gray light of dawn, a few yards in front of
me, I could make out a brick wall. Against this wall was a dark form
with a white square pinned on its breast. We were supposed to aim at
this square. To the right of the form I noticed a white spot on the
wall. This would be my target.
"Ready! Aim! Fire!"
The dark form sank into a huddled heap. My bullet sped on its way, and
hit the whitish spot on the wall; I could see the splinters fly.
Someone else had received the rifle containing the blank cartridge,
but my mind was at ease, there was no blood of a Tommy on my hands.
"Order-Arms! About-Turn! Pile-Arms! Stand-Clear."
The stacks were re-formed.
"Quick-March! Right-Wheel'" and we left the scene of execution behind
us.
It was now daylight. After marching about five minutes, we were
dismissed with the following instructions from the officer in command:
"Return, alone, to your respective companies, and remember, no talking
about this affair, or else it will go hard with the guilty ones."
We needed no urging to get away. I did not recognize any of the men on
the firing squad, even the officer was a stranger to me.
The victim's relations and friends in Blighty will never know that he
was executed; they will be under the impression that he died doing his
bit for King and Country.
In the public casualty lists his name will appear under the caption
"Accidentally Killed," or "Died."
The day after the execution I received orders to report back to the
line, and to keep a still tongue in my head.
Executions are a part of the day's work but the part we hated most of
all, I think certainly the saddest. The British War Department is
thought by many people to be composed of rigid regulations all wound
around with red tape. But it has a heart, and one of the evidences of
this is the considerate way in which an execution is concealed and
reported to the relative of the unfortunate man. They never know the
truth. He is listed in the bulletins as among the "accidentally
killed."
In the last ten years I have several times read stories in magazines
of cowards changing, in a charge, to heroes. I used to laugh at it. It
seemed easy for story-writers but I said, "Men aren't made that way."
But over in France I learned once that the streak of yellow can turn
all white. I picked up the story, bit by bit, from the Captain of the
Company, the sentries who guarded the poor fellow, as well as from my
own observations. At first I did not realize the whole of his story,
but after a week of investigation it stood out as clear in my mind as
the mountains of my native West in the spring sunshine. It impressed
me so much that I wrote it all down in rest billets on odd scraps of
paper. The incidents are, as I say, every bit true; the feelings of
the man are true,--I know from all I underwent in the fighting over
in France.
We will call him Albert Lloyd. That wasn't his name, but it will do;
Albert Lloyd was what the world terms a coward.
In London they called him a slacker.
His country had been at war nearly eighteen months, and still he was
not in khaki.
He had no good reason for not enlisting, being alone in the world,
having been educated in an Orphan Asylum, and there being no one
dependent upon him for support. He had no good position to lose, and
there was no sweetheart to tell him with her lips to go, while her
eyes pleaded for him to stay.
Every time he saw a recruiting sergeant, he'd slink around the corner
out of sight, with a terrible fear gnawing at his heart. When passing
the big recruiting posters, and on his way to business and back he
passed many, he would pull down his cap and look the other way, to get
away from that awful finger pointing at him, under the caption, "Your
King and Country Need You"; or the boring eyes of Kitchener, which
burned into his very soul, causing him to shudder.
Then the Zeppelin raids--during them, he used to crouch in a corner
of his boarding-house cellar, whimpering like a whipped puppy and
calling upon the Lord to protect him.
Even his landlady despised him, although she had to admit that he was
"good pay."
He very seldom read the papers, but one momentous morning, the
landlady put the morning paper at his place before he came down to
breakfast. Taking his seat, he read the flaring headline,
"Conscription Bill Passed," and nearly fainted. Excusing himself, he
stumbled upstairs to his bedroom, with the horror of it gnawing into
his vitals.
Having saved up a few pounds, he decided not to leave the house, and
to sham sickness, so he stayed in his room and had the landlady serve
his meals there.
Everytime there was a knock at the door, he trembled all over,
imagining it was a policeman who had come to take him away to the
army.
One morning his fears were realized. Sure enough there stood a
policeman with the fatal paper. Taking it in his trembling hand, he
read that he, Albert Lloyd, was ordered to report himself to the
nearest recruiting station for physical examination. He reported
immediately, because he was afraid to disobey.
The doctor looked with approval upon Lloyd's six feet of physical
perfection, and thought what a fine guardsman he would make, but
examined his heart twice before he passed him as "physically fit"; it
was beating so fast.
From the recruiting depot Lloyd was taken, with many others, in charge
of a sergeant, to the training depot at Aldershot, where he was given
an outfit of khaki, and drew his other equipment. He made a
fine-looking soldier, except for the slight shrinking in his
shoulders, and the haunted look in his eyes.
At the training depot it does not take long to find out a man's
character, and Lloyd was promptly dubbed "Windy." In the English Army,
"windy" means cowardly.
The smallest recruit in the barracks looked on him with contempt, and
was not slow to show it in many ways.
Lloyd was a good soldier, learned quickly, obeyed every order
promptly, never groused at the hardest fatigues. He was afraid to. He
lived in deadly fear of the officers and "Non-Coms" over him. They
also despised him.
One morning about three months after his enlistment, Lloyd's company
was paraded, and the names picked for the next draft to France were
read. When his name was called, he did not step out smartly, two paces
to the front, and answer cheerfully, "Here, sir," as the others did.
He just fainted in ranks, and was carried to barracks amid the sneers
of the rest.
That night was an agony of misery to him. He could not sleep. Just
cried and whimpered in his bunk, because on the morrow the draft was
to sail for France, where he would see death on all sides, and perhaps
be killed himself. On the steamer, crossing the Channel, he would have
jumped overboard to escape, but was afraid of drowning.
Arriving in France, he and the rest were huddled into cattle cars. On
the side of each appeared in white letters, "Chevaux 8, Hommes 40."
After hours of bumping over the uneven French road beds they arrived
at the training base of Rouen.
At this place they were put through a week's rigid training in trench
warfare. On the morning of the eighth day, they paraded at ten
o'clock, and were inspected and passed by General H--, then were
marched to the Quartermaster's, to draw their gas helmets and trench
equipment.
At four in the afternoon, they were again hustled into cattle cars.
This time, the Journey lasted two days. They disembarked at the town
of Prevent, and could hear a distant dull booming. With knees shaking,
Lloyd asked the Sergeant what the noise was, and nearly dropped when
the Sergeant replied in a somewhat bored tone:
"Oh, them's the guns up the line. We'll be up there in a couple o'
days or so. Don't worry, my laddie, you'll see more of 'em than you
want before you get 'ome to Blighty again, that is, if you're lucky
enough to get back. Now lend a hand there unloadin' them cars, and
quit that everlastin' shakin'. I believe yer scared." The last with a
contemptuous sneer.
They marched ten kilos, full pack, to a little dilapidated village,
and the sound of the guns grew louder, constantly louder.
The village was full of soldiers who turned out to inspect the new
draft, the men who were shortly to be their mates in the trenches, for
they were going "up the line" on the morrow, to "take over" their
certain sector of trenches.
The draft was paraded in front of Battalion Headquarters, and the men
were assigned to companies.
Lloyd was the only man assigned to "D" Company. Perhaps the officer in
charge of the draft had something to do with it, for he called Lloyd
aside, and said:
"Lloyd, you are going to a new company. No one knows you. Your bed
will be as you make it, so for God's sake, brace up and be a man. I
think you have the stuff in you, my boy, so good-bye, and the best of
luck to you."
The next day the battalion took over their part of the trenches. It
happened to be a very quiet day. The artillery behind the lines was
still, except for an occasional shell sent over to let the Germans
know the gunners were not asleep.
In the darkness, in single file, the Company slowly wended their way
down the communication trench to the front line. No one noticed
Lloyd's white and drawn face.
After they had relieved the Company in the trenches, Lloyd, with two
of the old company men, was put on guard in one of the traverses. Not
a shot was fired from the German lines, and no one paid any attention
to him crouched on the firing step.
On the first time in, a new recruit is not required to stand with his
head "over the top." He only "sits it out," while the older men keep
watch.
At about ten o'clock, all of a sudden, he thought hell had broken
loose, and crouched and shivered up against the parapet. Shells
started bursting, as he imagined, right in their trench, when in fact
they were landing about a hundred yards in rear of them, in the second
lines.
One of the older men on guard, turning to his mate, said:
"There goes Fritz with those damned trench mortars again. It's about
time our artillery 'taped' them, and sent over a few. Well, I'll be
damned, where's that blighter of a draft man gone to? There's his
rifle leaning against the parapet. He must have legged it. Just keep
your eye peeled, Dick, while I report it to the Sergeant. I wonder if
the fool knows he can be shot for such tricks as leavin' his post."
Lloyd had gone. When the trench mortars opened up, a maddening terror
seized him and he wanted to run, to get away from that horrible din,
anywhere to safety. So quietly sneaking around the traverse, he came
to the entrance of a communication trench, and ran madly and blindly
down it, running into traverses, stumbling into muddy holes, and
falling full length over trench grids.
Groping blindly, with his arms stretched out in front of him, he at
last came out of the trench into the village, or what used to be a
village, before the German artillery razed it.
Mixed with his fear, he had a peculiar sort of cunning, which
whispered to him to avoid all sentries, because if they saw him he
would be sent back to that awful destruction in the front line, and
perhaps be killed or maimed. The thought made him shudder, the cold
sweat coming out in beads on his face.
On his left, in the darkness, he could make out the shadowy forms of
trees; crawling on his hands and knees, stopping and crouching with
fear at each shell-burst, he finally reached an old orchard, and
cowered at the base of a shot-scarred apple-tree.
He remained there all night, listening to the sound of the guns and
ever praying, praying that his useless life would be spared.
As dawn began to break, he could discern little dark objects
protruding from the ground all about him. Curiosity mastered his fear
and he crawled to one of the objects, and there, in the uncertain
light, he read on a little wooden cross:
"Pte. H. S. Wheaton, No. 1670, 1st London Regt. R. F. Killed in
action, April 25, 1916. R. I. P." (Rest in Peace).
When it dawned on him that he had been hiding all night in a cemetery,
his reason seemed to leave him, and a mad desire to be free from it
all made him rush madly away, falling over little wooden crosses,
smashing some and trampling others under his feet.
In his flight, he came to an old French dugout, half caved in, and
partially filled with slimy and filthy water.
Like a fox being chased by the hounds, he ducked into this hole, and
threw himself on a pile of old empty sandbags, wet and mildewed.
Then--unconsciousness.
On the next day, he came to; far distant voices sounded in his ears.
Opening his eyes, in the entrance of the dugout he saw a Corporal and
two men with fixed bayonets.
The Corporal was addressing him:
"Get up, you white-livered blighter! Curse you and the day you ever
joined 'D' Company, spoiling their fine record! It'll be you up
against the wall, and a good job too. Get a hold of him, men, and if
he makes a break, give him the bayonet, and send it home, the cowardly
sneak. Come on, you, move, we've been looking for you long enough."
Lloyd, trembling and weakened by his long fast, tottered out, assisted
by a soldier on each side of him.
They took him before the Captain, but could get nothing out of him
but:
"For God's sake, sir, don't have me shot, don't have me shot!"
The Captain, utterly disgusted with him, sent him under escort to
Division Headquarters for trial by court-martial, charged with
desertion under fire.
They shoot deserters in France.
During his trial, Lloyd sat as one dazed, and could put nothing
forward in his defence, only an occasional "Don't have me shot!"
His sentence was passed: "To be shot at 3:38 o'clock on the morning of
May 18, 1916." This meant that he had only one more day to live.
He did not realize the awfulness of his sentence, his brain seemed
paralyzed. He knew nothing of his trip, under guard, in a motor lorry
to the sand-bagged guardroom in the village, where he was dumped on
the floor and left, while a sentry with a fixed bayonet paced up and
down in front of the entrance.
Bully beef, water, and biscuits were left beside him for his supper.
The sentry, seeing that he ate nothing, came inside and shook him by
the shoulder, saying in a kind voice:
"Cheero, laddie, better eat something. You'll feel better. Don't give
up hope. You'll be pardoned before morning. I know the way they run
these things. They're only trying to scare you, that's all. Come now,
that's a good lad, eat something. It'll make the world look different
to you."
The good-hearted sentry knew he was lying about the pardon. He knew
nothing short of a miracle could save the poor lad.
Lloyd listened eagerly to his sentry's words, and believed them. A
look of hope came into his eyes, and he ravenously ate the meal beside
him.
In about an hour's time, the Chaplain came to see him, but Lloyd would
have none of him. He wanted no parson; he was to be pardoned.
The artillery behind the lines suddenly opened up with everything they
had. An intense bombardment of the enemy's lines had commenced. The
roar of the guns was deafening. Lloyd's fears came back with a rush,
and he cowered on the earthen floor with his hands over his face.
The sentry, seeing his position, came in and tried to cheer him by
talking to him:
"Never mind them guns, boy, they won't hurt you. They are ours. We are
giving the Boches a dose of their own medicine. Our boys are going
over the top at dawn of the morning to take their trenches. We'll give
'em a taste of cold steel with their sausages and beer. You just sit
tight now until they relieve you. I'll have to go now, lad, as it's
nearly time for my relief, and I don't want them to see me a-talkin'
with you. So long, laddie, cheero."
With this, the sentry resumed the pacing of his post. In about ten
minutes' time he was relieved, and a "D" Company man took his place.
Looking into the guardhouse, the sentry noticed the cowering attitude
of Lloyd, and, with a sneer, said to him:
"Instead of whimpering in that corner, you ought to be saying your
prayers. It's bally conscripts like you what's spoilin' our record.
We've been out here nigh onto eighteen months, and you're the first
man to desert his post. The whole Battalion is laughin' and pokin' fun
at 'D' Company, bad luck to you I bet you won't get another chance to
disgrace us. They'll put your lights out in the mornin'."
After listening to this tirade, Lloyd, in a faltering voice, asked:
"They are not going to shoot me, are they? Why, the other sentry said
they'd pardon me. For God's sake--don't tell me I'm to be shot!" and
his voice died away in a sob.
"Of course, they're going to shoot you. The other sentry was jest
a-kiddin' you. Jest like old Smith. Always a-tryin' to cheer some one.
You ain't got no more chance o' bein' pardoned than I have of gettin'
to be Colonel of my 'Batt.'"
When the fact that all hope was gone finally entered Lloyd's brain, a
calm seemed to settle over him, and rising to his knees, with his arms
stretched out to heaven, he prayed, and all of his soul entered into
the prayer:
"Oh, good and merciful God, give me strength to die like a man!
Deliver me from this coward's death. Give me a chance to die like my
mates in the fighting line, to die fighting for my country. I ask this
of thee."
A peace, hitherto unknown, came to him, and he crouched and cowered no
more, but calmly waited the dawn, ready to go to his death. The shells
were bursting all around the guardroom, but he hardly noticed them.
While waiting there, the voice of the sentry, singing in a low tone,
came to him. He was singing the chorus of the popular trench ditty:
"I want to go home, I want to go home.
I don't want to go to the trenches no more.
Where the 'whizzbangs' and 'sausages' roar galore.
Take me over the sea, where the Allemand can't get at me.
Oh my, I don't want to die! I want to go home."
Lloyd listened to the words with a strange interest, and wondered what
kind of a home he would go to across the Great Divide. It would be the
only home he had ever known.
Suddenly there came a great rushing through the air, a blinding flash,
a deafening report, and the sandbag walls of the guardroom toppled
over, and then--blackness.
When Lloyd recovered consciousness, he was lying on his right side,
facing what used to be the entrance of the guardroom. Now, it was only
a jumble of rent and torn sandbags. His head seemed bursting. He
slowly rose on his elbow, and there in the east the dawn was breaking.
But what was that mangled shape lying over there among the sandbags?
Slowly dragging himself to it, he saw the body of the sentry. One look
was enough to know that he was dead. The soldier's head was missing.
The sentry had had his wish gratified. He had "gone home." He was safe
at last from the "whizzbangs" and the Allemand.
Like a flash it came to Lloyd that he was free. Free to go "over the
top" with his Company. Free to die like a true Briton fighting for his
King and Country. A great gladness and warmth came over him. Carefully
stepping over the body of the sentry, he started on a mad race down
the ruined street of the village, amid the bursting shells, minding
them not, dodging through or around hurrying platoons on their way to
also go "over the top." Coming to a communication trench he could not
get through. It was blocked with laughing, cheering, and cursing
soldiers. Climbing out of the trench, he ran wildly along the top,
never heeding the rain of machine-gun bullets and shells, not even
hearing the shouts of the officers, telling him to get back into the
trench. He was going to join his Company who were in the front line.
He was going to fight with them. He, the despised coward, had come
into his own.
While he was racing along, jumping over trenches crowded with
soldiers, a ringing cheer broke out all along the front line, and his
heart sank. He knew he was too late. His Company had gone over. But
still he ran madly. He would catch them. He would die with them.
Meanwhile his Company had gone "over." They, with the other companies
had taken the first and second German trenches, and had pushed
steadily on to the third line. "D" Company, led by their Captain, the
one who had sent Lloyd to Division Headquarters for trial, charged
with desertion, had pushed steadily forward until they found
themselves far in advance of the rest of the attacking force. "Bombing
out" trench after trench, and using their bayonets, they came to a
German communication trench, which ended in a blindsap, and then the
Captain, and what was left of his men, knew they were in a trap. They
would not retire. "D" Company never retired, and they were "D"
Company. Right in front of them they could see hundreds of Germans
preparing to rush them with bomb and bayonet. They would have some
chance if ammunition and bombs could reach them from the rear. Their
supply was exhausted, and the men realized it would be a case of dying
as bravely as possible, or making a run for it. But "D" Company would
not run. It was against their traditions and principles.
The Germans would have to advance across an open space of three to
four hundred yards before they could get within bombing distance of
the trench, and then it would be all their own way. Turning to his
Company, the Captain said:
"Men, it's a case of going West for us. We are out of ammunition and
bombs, and the 'Boches' have us in a trap. They will bomb us out. Our
bayonets are useless here. We will have to go over and meet them, and
it's a case of thirty to one, so send every thrust home, and die like
the men of 'D' Company should. When I give the word, follow me, and up
and at them. Give them hell! God, if we only had a machine gun, we
could wipe them out! Here they come, get ready, men."
Just as he finished speaking, the welcome "pup-pup" of a machine gun
in their rear rang out, and the front line of the onrushing German
seemed to melt away. They wavered, but once again came rushing onward.
Down went their second line. The machine gun was taking an awful toll
of lives. Then again they tried to advance, but the machine gun mowed
them down. Dropping their rifles and bombs, they broke and fled in a
wild rush back to their trench, amid the cheers of "D" Company. They
were forming again for another attempt, when in the rear of "D"
Company came a mighty cheer. The ammunition had arrived and with it a
battalion of Scotch to reinforce them. They were saved. The unknown
machine gunner had come to the rescue in the nick of time.
With the reinforcements, it was an easy task to take the third German
line.
After the attack was over, the Captain and three of his
non-commissioned officers, wended their way back to the position where
the machine gun had done its deadly work. He wanted to thank the
gunner in the name of "D" Company for his magnificent deed. They
arrived at the gun, and an awful sight met their eyes.
Lloyd had reached the front line trench, after his Company had left
it. A strange company was nimbly crawling up the trench ladders. They
were reinforcements going over. They were Scotties, and they made a
magnificent sight in their brightly colored kilts and bare knees.
Jumping over the trench, Lloyd raced across "No Man's Land," unheeding
the rain of bullets, leaping over dark forms on the ground, some of
which lay still, while others called out to him as he speeded past.
He came to the German front line, but it was deserted, except for
heaps of dead and wounded--a grim tribute to the work of his
Company, good old "D" Company. Leaping trenches, and gasping for
breath, Lloyd could see right ahead of him his Company in a dead-ended
sap of a communication trench, and across the open, away in front of
them, a mass of Germans preparing for a charge. Why didn't "D" Company
fire on them? Why were they so strangely silent? What were they
waiting for? Then he knew--their ammunition was exhausted.
But what was that on his right? A machine gun. Why didn't it open fire
and save them? He would make that gun's crew do their duty. Rushing
over to the gun, he saw why it had not opened fire. Scattered around
its base lay six still forms. They had brought their gun to
consolidate the captured position, but a German machine gun had
decreed they would never fire again.
Lloyd rushed to the gun, and grasping the traversing handles, trained
it, on the Germans. He pressed the thumb piece, but only a sharp click
was the result. The gun was unloaded. Then he realized his
helplessness. He did not know how to load the gun. Oh, why hadn't he
attended the machine-gun course in England? He'd been offered the
chance, but with a blush of shame he remembered that he had been
afraid. The nickname of the machine gunners had frightened him. They
were called the "Suicide Club." Now, because of this fear, his Company
would be destroyed, the men of "D" Company would have to die, because
he, Albert Lloyd, had been afraid of a name. In his shame he cried
like a baby. Anyway he could die with them, and, rising to his feet,
he stumbled over the body, one of the gunners, who emitted a faint
moan. A gleam of hope flashed through him. Perhaps this man could tell
him how to load the gun. Stooping over the body, he gently shook it,
and the soldier opened his eyes. Seeing Lloyd, he closed them again,
and in a faint voice said:
"Get away, you blighter, leave me alone. I don't want any coward
around me."
The words cut Lloyd like a knife, but he was desperate. Taking the
revolver out of the holster of the dying man, he pressed the cold
muzzle to the soldier's head, and replied:
"Yes, it is Lloyd, the coward of Company 'D,' but so help me God, if
you don't tell me how to load that gun, I'll put a bullet through your
brain!"
A sunny smile came over the countenance of the dying man, and he said
in a faint whisper:
"Good old boy! I knew you wouldn't disgrace our Company--"
Lloyd interposed, "For God's sake, if you want to save that Company
you are so proud of, tell me how to load that damned gun!"
As if reciting a lesson in school, the soldier replied in a weak,
singsong voice: "Insert tag end of belt in feed block, with left hand
pull belt left front. Pull crank handle back on roller, let go, and
repeat motion. Gun is now loaded. To fire, raise automatic safety
latch, and press thumb piece. Gun is now firing. If gun stops,
ascertain position of crank handle--"
But Lloyd waited for no more. With wild joy at his heart, he took a
belt from one of the ammunition boxes lying beside the gun, and
followed the dying man's instructions. Then he pressed the thumb
piece, and a burst of fire rewarded his efforts. The gun was working.
Training it on the Germans, he shouted for joy as their front rank
went down.
Traversing the gun back and forth along the mass of Germans, he saw
them break and run back to the cover of their trench, leaving their
dead and wounded behind. He had saved his Company, he, Lloyd, the
coward, had "done his bit." Releasing the thumb piece, he looked at
the watch on his wrist. He was still alive, and the hands pointed to
"3:38," the time set for his death by the court.
"Ping!"--a bullet sang through the air, and Lloyd fell forward
across the gun. A thin trickle of blood ran down his face from a
little, black round hole in his forehead.
The sentence of the court had been "duly carried out."
The Captain slowly raised the limp form drooping over the gun, and,
wiping the blood from the white face, recognized it as Lloyd, the
coward of "B" Company. Reverently covering the face with his
handkerchief, he turned to his "non-coms," and in a voice husky with
emotion, addressed them:
"Boys, it's Lloyd the deserter. He has redeemed himself, died the
death of a hero. Died that his mates might live."
That afternoon, a solemn procession wended its way toward the cemetery.
In the front a stretcher was carried by two Sergeants. Across the
stretcher the Union Jack was carefully spread. Behind the stretcher
came a Captain and forty-three men, all that were left of "D" Company.
Arriving at the cemetery, they halted in front of an open grave. All
about them, wooden crosses were broken and trampled into the ground.
A grizzled old Sergeant, noting this destruction, muttered under his
breath: "Curse the cowardly blighter who wrecked those crosses! If I
could only get these two hands around his neck, his trip West would be
a short one."
The corpse on the stretcher seemed to move, or it might have been the
wind blowing the folds of the Union Jack.