THE LONE ROAD
"I want to go 'ome,
I want to go 'ome,
I don't want to go to the trenches no more,
Where the bullets and shrapnel do whistle and roar,
I want to go over the sea,
Where the Alley man can't get at me;
Oh, my!
I don't want to die,
I want to go 'ome!"
(_A Trench Song._)
A strange glow overspread Fitzgerald's face and he rose from his seat
by the stove and sat down again on a bench in a corner and spread out
his hands timorously towards an imaginary fire. He bent his head
forward until it drooped almost to his knees and his whole attitude
took on a semblance of want and woe beset with an overpowering fear.
Benners gasped involuntarily as he waited for the song.
A long, drawn out, hardly audible note that wavered like a thread of
smoke quivered out into the evil atmosphere of the apartment, it was
followed by a second and a third. A strange effect was produced on all
the listeners by the trembling voice of the singer. Bubb gaped
stupidly, his eyes fixed on the roof, as he rubbed his chin with the
fingers of his right hand. The sergeant drew himself up and listened,
fascinated. Fitzgerald's song was the song of a soul condemned to
inevitable sorrow; there was not a relieving touch, not a glow of hope,
it was the song of a damned soul.
"Oh, the praties they are small
Over here.
Oh, the praties they are small
Over here.
The praties they are small
And we ate them skins and all,
Aye, and long afore the Fall,
Over here.
No help in hour of need
Over here.
And God won't pay much heed
Over here.
Then whisht! Or He'll take heed
And He'll rot the pratie seed
And send other mouths to feed
Over here.
I wish I was a duck
Over here.
To be eating clay and muck
Over here.
I'd sooner ... sooner ... I'd sooner...."
"My God, I've forgotten it, Benners, forgotten the rest of the song,"
Fitzgerald exclaimed, throwing his unlighted cigarette on the floor and
gripping his hair with both hands as if going to pull it out of his
head. Then, as if thinking better of it, he brought both his hands to
his sides and sat down on his original seat, his whole face betokening
extreme self-pity.
"My memory!" he exclaimed. "My memory! Why was I brought into being?"
A minute's silence followed, then an eager glow lit up Fitzgerald's
face. A happy inspiration seemed to have seized hold of him. "Benners!"
he exclaimed in an eager voice. "Have you a cigarette to spare,
Benners?"
"Gorblimey!" laughed Bubb. "Listen to 'im. 'E's always on the 'ear-'ole
for fags, an' 'e throws arf of 'em away. 'E's not arf a nib, ole Fitz."
"Good Heavens, how can I endure such remarks from a damned Sassenach!
(I beg your pardon, Bubb)" Fitzgerald exclaimed, gripping with both
fingers the cigarette which Benners had given him and breaking it in
two. "You don't understand me, Bubb, you can't. I don't bear you any
malice, but, heavens! you are trying at times.... By the way," he
added, "can you give us one of your songs?"
Bubb looked at Fitzgerald for a moment then lit a cigarette and got to
his feet.
"Wot about Ole Skiboo?" he asked, addressing the remark to all in the
room.
The soldiers knew that he was going to oblige and applauded with their
hands.
Bubb fixed his eyes on the patronne and started:
"Madame, 'ave yer any good wine?
Skiboo! Skiboo!
Madame, 'ave yer any good wine?
Skiboo!
Madame, 'ave yer any good wine
Fit for a rifleman o' the line?
Skiboo! Skiboo! Skiboolety bill skiboo!
"Madame, 'ave yer a daughter fair?
Skiboo! Skiboo!
Madame, 'ave yer a daughter fair?
Skiboo!
Madame, 'ave yer a daughter fair?
And I will take her under my care,
Skiboo! Skiboo! Skiboolety bill skiboo!
"Madame, I've got money to spend,
Cinq sous! Cinq sous!
Madame, I've got money to spend,
Cinq sous!
Madame, I've got money to spend,
Seldom the case with your daughter's friend,
Cinq sous! Cinq sous, cinq slummicky slop! Cinq sous!"
The song, an old one probably, but adapted to suit modern
circumstances, was lustily chorused by the soldiers in the room. Bubb
having finished sat down, but presently rose to his feet again.
"'Oo'l whistle the chorus of 'It's a long way to Tipperary'?" he asked.
"Everybody do it together and the one that does it froo I'll stand 'im
a drink. Nobody to laugh. And the one that's not able to do it will
stand me a drink. Is that a bargain? Nobody to laugh, mind."
The men agreed to Bubb's terms and started whistling. But they did not
get far. They had drunk quite a lot and Bubb's final injunction tickled
them. One smiled, then another. Bowdy Benners lay back and roared with
laughter. He tried to form his lips round a note but the effort was
futile. It was impossible to laugh and whistle at the same time.
Fitzgerald was making a sound that reminded the listeners of an angry
cat spitting. His cheeks were puffed out and his nose was sinking out
of sight. The landlord rolled from side to side choking almost, even
the patronne was smiling. The little ragged girl came across the floor
and stood in front of Fitz, her hands behind her back. For a moment she
stood thus, then she ran away giggling and hid behind the counter.
Fitzgerald got to his feet.
"Bubb, Spudhole or whatever the devil they call you, you've won," he
said. "What a queer creature that child is, boys," he muttered, looking
at the youngster which was peeping slyly out from behind the counter.
"Is it a boy or a girl?"
Bubb approached the counter and drank the glass of vin rouge which
Benners had paid for; then he thrust his hands in his trouser pockets
and began to sing "Sam Hall."
"My name is Samuel Hall,
Tiddy fol lol, tiddy fol lol!"
"Bowdlerise it, you fool," Fitzgerald exclaimed sitting down again.
"Bowdlerise the song or stop singing. Bad taste, Bubb, bad taste. Drink
doesn't improve your morals."
Bubb ceased singing, not on Fitzgerald's behest, but because the
sergeant was standing him a drink. Old Jean Lacroix who was slowly
recovering from his fit of laughter turned to Fitzgerald.
"The Bosche broke through up by Souchez last night," he said, pointing
a fat thumb towards the locality of the firing line. "He broke through
in hundreds. He is unable to get back now and he is roving all over the
country."
"They haven't been captured?" said Fitzgerald.
"Some of them," said Jean. "Most of them perhaps, but not all. Last
night they were about here."
"Here?" enquired Fitzgerald. "Did you see them?"
"Have I seen them?" asked Jean, shivering with laughter. "They can't be
seen. They disguise themselves as turnips, as bushes, as English
soldiers.... Last night two of your countrymen, soldiers, left here at
nine o'clock; and got killed."
Jean paused.
"Where were they killed?" asked Fitzgerald.
"You are billeted at Y---- Farm, are you not?" enquired the innkeeper.
"You are. Then you came along the road to-night coming here. Did you
see a ruined cottage on your right, a little distance back from the
road?"
"A mile from here?" said Fitzgerald. "Yes, we saw it."
"That is where it happened," said Jean Lacroix. "The two soldiers were
found there this morning with their throats cut, lying on the floor."
Fitzgerald got to his feet and entered an outer room. There he found a
copy of an English magazine lying on a chair. He picked it up and
presently was deep in an article which tried to prove that war would be
a thing of the past if Prussia ceased to exist. When he had finished
reading he came back to the man by the stove and found him sitting
there all alone, his eyes fixed on the flames. Benners was not there,
he had left, accompanied by Spudhole and the sergeant. The farm in
which their company was billeted was some two miles off.
Fitzgerald looked at his watch and saw that it was nine o'clock.
"Nine o'clock," he said aloud, and something familiar in the words
struck him. Two soldiers left the wine shop the night previous at nine
o'clock and next morning they were discovered lying in a ruined cottage
with their throats cut. None of the men now in the inn were billeted at
Y---- Farm. Fitzgerald had to go home alone. He swung his bandolier
over his shoulder, lifted his rifle from the table and went out into
the night. The story which Jean Lacroix had told affected Fitzgerald
strongly. A stranger in a new locality he was ready to give credence to
any tale.
Fitzgerald had seen very little of trench warfare. True, he had come
out to France with his regiment in March of 1915 but then he got
wounded on his first journey to the trenches and was sent back to
England. He came out again in time to take part in the battle of Loos
and got gassed in the charge. Followed a few weeks in the hospital at
Versailles and then he was sent back to the trenches. He had seen a
fortnight's trench warfare, done turns in listening patrol and
sentry-go, before coming back with his battalion to Y---- Farm near the
town of Cassel. So now, although first battalion man, he was in many
ways a "rooky," one who was not as yet versed in the practices of
modern warfare. Now, on the way back to his billet he thought of Jean
Lacroix's story and a strange fit of nervousness laid hold of him. What
might happen in the darkness he could not tell, and he wished that his
mates had not gone leaving him to come back alone. They ought to have
looked him up. He was annoyed with them. He was angry.
The road stretched out in front a dull streak of grey, lined with
ghostly poplars, that lost itself in the darkness ahead. The night was
gloomy and chilly, a low weird wind crooned in the grass and a belated
night-bird shrieked painfully in the sky above. Far out in front the
carnage was in full swing, the red fury of war lit the line of battle
and darts of flame, ghastly red, pierced the clouds in a hasty
succession of short vicious stabs. Round Fitzgerald was the flat
dead country, black and limitless, and over it from time to time
swift flashes of light would rise and tremble in the gloom like
will-o'-the-wisps over a churchyard. The sharp penetrating odour of
dung was in the air, the night-breath of the low-lying land of
Flanders.
The shadows gathered round the man silently. One rushed in from the
fields and took on an almost definite form on the roadway in front. He
could not help gazing round from time to time and staring back along
the road. What might be following! He was all alone, apart from his
kind, isolated. One hand gripped tightly on his rifle and the fingers
of the other fumbled at his bandolier. He ran his hand over the
cartridges, counting them aloud. Fifty rounds. But he had none in the
magazine of his rifle. He should have five there. But he would not put
them in now. He would make too much noise.
He walked at a good steady pace; and hummed a tune under his breath,
trying thus to keep down any disposition to shiver. His eyes becoming
accustomed to the darkness could now take stock of the roadway, the
grassy verge and the ditch on either side. The poplars rose high and
became one with the sombre darkness of the sky. Shadows lurked in the
ditches, bundled together and plotting some mischief towards him. His
imagination conceived ghastly pictures of men lying flat in the shadows
staring at the heavens with glazed, unseeing eyes, their throats cut
across from ear to ear.... What a row his footsteps created! The noise
he kicked up must have echoed across the world. He hummed a tune
viciously and stared intensely into the remoter darkness of the
unknown.
The breeze whimpered amidst the poplar leaves and its sigh was carried
ever so far away. Again a shadow swept up from the fields and took
shape on the road in front. Fitzgerald advanced towards it quickly and
collided with a solid mass, a living form.
"I am sorry," he muttered.
"Good evening," said a voice with a queer strange note in it. "You are
out late."
"I am going back to my billet now," Fitzgerald said, and asked: "Where
are you going?" There was a moment's hesitation before the stranger
replied, saying: "I'm going to the next village."
Fitzgerald could now see that the man was dressed as an English soldier
in a khaki uniform, a rifle over his shoulder and a bandolier round his
chest. Germans often disguise themselves as British soldiers, Jean
Lacroix said....
"What do you belong to?" Fitzgerald asked, stepping off after the
momentary halt. The man accompanied him.
"The Army Service Corps," he answered readily enough, but his accent
struck Fitzgerald as being strangely unfamiliar; in his low guttural
tones there was something foreign. English could not have been his
mother tongue. For a while there was silence, but suddenly as if
overcome by a sense of embarrassment due to the silence, the man spoke.
"Have you been long in France?" he asked.
"I have been here for some time," Fitzgerald answered.
"What is your regiment?"
Being warned against giving any information to strangers, Fitzgerald
gave an evasive reply.
"Oh, a line regiment," he said.
The man chuckled. "Looks like it," he said. "Are you billeted here?"
"I'm billeted at...." Fitzgerald stopped and asked "Where are you
billeted?"
"Oh, at the next village," said the man. "A number of the A.S.C. are
billeted there."
Again a long silence. Their boots crunched angrily on the roadway and
ahead the lights of war lit up the horizon.
"They're fighting like hell up there," said the man. "There's a big
battle on now. Has your regiment been called up?"
As he spoke he pulled his rifle forward across his chest and fumbled
with the bolt. Fitzgerald stared at him fascinated, his nerves strained
to an acute pitch.
"What are you doing with your rifle?" he asked.
"Oh, nothing," the stranger answered and slung the weapon over his left
shoulder. Had the man a round in the breech? Fitzgerald wondered. For
himself he had not even a cartridge in the magazine. What a fool he had
been not to take the precaution of being prepared for emergencies....
The stranger came close to his side and his shoulder almost touched
Fitzgerald's. The Rifleman moved to the left, close to the verge of the
road and his hand slipped towards his bandolier.
"It's very dark to-night," he said as his fingers closed on a
cartridge.
"Very dark," said the man.
"There's no moon," Fitzgerald remarked as he slipped the bolt of his
rifle back. Then with due caution he pressed the cartridge into the
mouth of the magazine. As far as he could judge the stranger had not
noticed the action.
"No, there's no moon," he said in answer to Fitzgerald's remark.
"How far is it to the next village?" asked Fitzgerald and shoved the
rounds into the magazine. The cartridge-clip clattered on to the
cobbles.
"You've dropped something," said the stranger. "What was it?"
"I've dropped nothing," the Irishman replied. "I must have hit my boot
against something."
He glanced at the stranger's face. White and ghostly it looked, with a
protruding jowl and a dark moustache that drooped over the lips. As
Fitzgerald spoke he pressed the bolt home and now felt a certain
confidence enter his being. There was the round snug in the breech of
his rifle. One touch of the trigger....
"Did you think I dropped a shilling?" he laughed. "Wish I had one to
throw away."
"Many a one would wish the same," said the man gruffly.
Then he whistled a tune through his teeth, a contemplative whistle as
if he were considering something.
"You're at Y---- Farm, of course," he suddenly remarked. "There are a
number of soldiers billeted there. You know the way to it?"
"I know the way," Fitzgerald answered.
"You leave the road at a ruined cottage along here and cross the
fields," said the man. "I'm going that way myself."
"I leave the road further along," the Irishman said hastily.
"Nonsense," said the man. "Past the ruined cottage is the best way."
"I'm not going that way," Fitzgerald said.
"Not going that way," repeated his companion. "Why not?"
"I don't know the road through the fields there."
"But I know the way."
"I prefer to go further along," said Fitzgerald. "Two of my mates are
just ahead."
"Where are they?" asked the stranger in a tone of surprise. "I thought
you were all alone."
"They are just a few hundred yards on in front," was the answer. "Not
so far away."
"Oh!" said the man. "Then that is why you're in such a hurry."
"I'm in no particular hurry," said Fitzgerald. "But it is wise to be
back before 'Lights out.'"
He could see the ruined cottage in front now, a black blur against the
night. The limitless levels stretched out on either side, frogs croaked
in the ponds, now and then a light shot up from the fields, trembled in
air for a moment and died away. The breezes of the night, the "unseen
multitude," as the ancients called them, capered by, crooning wearily.
In front, far ahead, the artillery fire redoubled in intensity and the
sky was lit by the brilliance of day.
"Hell's loose out there," said the stranger. "It's not good to be
there; it's not good to die."
The stranger turned off the road and walked a few yards down a lane in
the direction of the cottage.
"I'm not going that way," said Fitzgerald coming to a halt. His
companion stopped.
"Afraid?" he said.
"Afraid! H'm! I'm not afraid," the Irishman answered, nettled at the
word. "All right, you go ahead. I'll follow."
The man did not move. He fumbled in his pocket and brought something
out, something dark, small and tipped at the points as if with silver.
Fitzgerald imagined it to be a revolver and he slid his rifle forward
so that its muzzle pointed at the man's body.
"Hold your weapon up, you fool," said the stranger, and a note of
concern was in his voice. "I've a pocket lamp here. We'll get off into
the fields now and I'll light the way with this. The place is full of
ponds and drains. Last night I fell into a hole somewhere about this
place ... you get off in front."
"I'll follow," said Fitzgerald. "You lead the way."
"All right," the man meekly responded. "Now we get off the road."
He slipped into the field and the Irishman followed. Both were now near
the cottage and they could see its bare rafters and ruined walls
clearly. It looked gloomy and forbidding.... As Fitzgerald gazed at the
cottage he saw a light close to the dark ground; a tremulous flame
gleamed for a moment and was gone.
"Did you see that?" asked the Irishman. "A light near the cottage?"
"I saw nothing," said his companion.
"You didn't see the flame. There's somebody in front. Friends of yours
maybe."
"I've no friends here.... You saw a light?... Nonsense!"
"There, what is that?" asked the Irishman as he heard a thud as of
somebody falling over a hurdle. "Did you not hear it?"
"Yes, what is it?" asked the stranger extinguishing his torch. "I heard
something. Shall I shout?"
"Why?"
"Why?" exclaimed the man. "Only to find out who's there. Hallo!" he
yelled.
Somebody answered with a loud "hallo!" and again a light gleamed in the
darkness.
"Who's there?" shouted the stranger.
"It's us," came the answer. "Blurry well lost in this blurry 'ole. 'Oo
are yer?"
"Spudhole!" Fitzgerald shouted in a glad voice for he recognised the
voice of his mate. "Is Bowdy and the sergeant with you?"
"Oh! It's old Fitz," Spudhole exclaimed. "We're lost, the three o' us,
and we don't know where we are. D'you know the way to the farm?"
"We'll soon get there," Fitzgerald replied. "I've somebody with me who
knows the way."
"Bring 'im along 'ere then," said Bubb.
Fitzgerald turned to his companion who had just moved to one side, but
now he could not see him. On his right a dark form became one with the
night and lost itself.
"Hi!" Fitzgerald shouted. But there was no reply.
"Hi there!" he cried in a louder voice, but no answer came back.
"There was somebody with me but he's gone now," he said to Bubb when he
reached him where he stood along with Benners and the sergeant beside a
dark pond near the ruined cottage.
"Well, we had better try and get back to our billet," the sergeant
remarked. "Damn these beastly fields! We'll be damned unlucky if we
don't get out o' 'em."
They got into the farmhouse at eleven o'clock. All their mates were in
bed and the watch-dog at the gate bit Bubb in the upper part of the
thigh as he came in.