BACK FROM BATTLE
And as we left the trench to-night,
Each weary 'neath his load,
Grey silent ghosts as light as air
Came with us down the road.
And as we sat us down to drink,
They sat beside us too,
And drank red wine at Nouex les Mines,
As once they used to do.
(_From "Soldier Songs."_)
A soft rain was falling; a low wind swept across the levels, and the
leaves of a near birch copse rustled in the breeze, faltering timidly
as they shook the rain from their shining fringes. A soft, bluish haze
surrounded the tops of the birches, the trunks were engirt with a pale
mist which gave an eerie atmosphere to the whole wood.
The London Irish had just left the trenches and were following a sunken
road on their way back to billets and a month's rest. The men were in a
gay good humour, "Charlotte the Harlot," the Rabelaisian song was sung
with great gusto. The faces of sweet French maidens, almost forgotten,
were recalled again. The men's fancies rushed hither and thither,
painting rosy pictures of snug farmhouses and good cafés. A month's
rest away from the ructions of war; how splendid!
Where the wood grew thinner a brushwood screen had been improvised so
as to hide the road. In front lay an unlucky red brick village, one
which had suffered much from the guns of war. Every third house had
been hit by shell fire and many of the homes were levelled to the
ground. A heavy wall of cloud, ragged of front crawled across the sky;
the sun was overcast, but far up, shooting through the advancing layers
of black, a long, golden ray of sunshine streamed out and lit up the
firing line.
Save for the crunch of marching feet there was quiet. The shower went
by and the soft rustle of the rain falling on the grass by the roadside
had ceased. All around the country lay in ruins, the self-sown crops in
the wide meadows drooped abjectly to earth as if in mourning for the
reaper who visited the place no more. The men passed a house which
stood in the fields, a little red-brick cottage with its chimney thrown
down, its doors latchless and its windows broken. Once a home of
thrifty, toiling people; now the clear sun, which succeeded the shower,
saw no housewife at work, no children playing, no man out in the fields
storing up the harvest crops. Nothing there now save the guns which
lurked privily and kept for the moment a decorous silence. A big shell
was following the men along, bursting at intervals some five hundred
yards behind. The Germans were sweeping the road, trusting that the
projectile would drop on any troops who might be marching along there.
The shell followed steadily, keeping its distance and doing no harm.
But the range might be lengthened at any moment and then trouble would
ensue. The men marched rapidly, hardly daring to breathe.
"Gawd, I don't like that 'ere coal-box," said Bubb, as he heard an
explosion behind. "That blurry one was nearer, I fink."
"Further off, I should say," Bowdy Benners replied. "Light a fag,
Spudhole, it will do you all the good in the world."
He burst into song:--
"Give me a lucifer to light my fag, And laugh, boys, that's the style,
Pack up your troubles in your old kit-bag, And smile, boys, smile."
"Come, boys, sing up," he called. "Come on, let go!"
The chorus was repeated and the men joined in singing, roaring at the
tops of their voices. Bubb straightened his back, expanded his chest
and looked at his mate. Bowdy, with his cigarette in his mouth, was
bellowing out the chorus, the cigarette moving up and down as if
keeping time with the measure.
Spudhole swept into a fresh song, a well-known favourite. The men
joined in the singing:--
"There's a soldier out on picket
Over there,
There's a soldier out on picket
Over there,
There's a soldier out on picket,
And 'e wants 'is bloomin' ticket,
But the beggar's got to stick it
Over there.
'E don't mind the dug-outs' stenches
And the God-forsaken trenches
When 'e's thinkin' o' the wenches
Over there."
The voices died away as a shell burst in the road very close at hand.
"Nearer that time," said Bubb. "I wish we were in the trenches."
They sighted the village to find the shells bursting all through the
place and the buildings flying about the streets. The children were in
hiding, not a civilian was to be seen save a pale, thin woman of forty
who stood at the door of a ruined estaminet. This had no doubt been her
home; probably she was still living in the cellar.
The men stared at the woman, saw her bowed head, her ragged clothes,
her queer, weedy form. In her eyes was a look such as the men had
seldom seen. The poor creature reminded Bowdy of a dog which he once
had seen prowling round a pond in which its young had been drowned.
"Wot's she doin' standin' out in the street like that?" said Bubb.
"She'll stop a packet if she's not careful."
"Eyes right," came an order from an officer in front, and the men
turned their eyes towards the woman at the door.
"Salutin' 'er. I wonder wot for," said Bubb.
"'Er four children were killed yesterday by a shell," said somebody in
the ranks.
The woman raised her head and looked stolidly at the soldiers. Her
expression did not change; perhaps feeling was dead within her.
At the other end of the village stood a ruined convent from which the
nuns had not yet departed. They educated the village children. The
little ones went to school daily, their books and respirators under
their arms. The classroom was in the cellar of the Convent. As the men
passed the Convent, they saw a nun, dressed in blue homespun, white
frontlet and black veil, standing at the door throwing crumbs to the
doves which fluttered about her feet. In one hand she held a rosary; no
doubt she was saying her prayers. There was France personified, France
great and fearless, a martyr unsubdued! The sight was a tonic to the
men. Unable to resist the impulse, they gave vent to a rousing cheer. A
look of perplexity overspread the woman's face, she gazed at the
soldiers for a moment, then throwing the remaining crumbs to the birds
she retreated hurriedly into the Convent.
"Wot a fine woman that one is," said Spudhole. "Gawd, there's somefin'
in 'em, you know. An' they don't do it for show, neither. Well, we'll
'ave another song now, one respectable like. Not one that we wouldn't
want good people to 'ear. 'Ow about 'Little Grey 'Ome in the West'?"
In the late afternoon the men arrived at the village in which they were
to billet. The battalion marched down the main street dog-tired and
glad that the march was at an end. The wineshops were open and soldiers
could be seen sitting on the wine barrels, smoking and drinking. At the
corner of one side street, a cook was washing his face at a pump and
half-a-dozen merry little children were flinging pebbles at him. When a
pebble hit him, he would bend down, raise a mess-tin of water and fling
it at the mischievous rascals. A party of soldiers came out from an
alley, bearing between them three dixies of hot, steaming tea. They
were indulging in idle banter and seemed very pleased with
themselves--their eyes glowed with happiness.
At the door of an estaminet stood the patronne gossiping with a
neighbour and laughing heartily over something. Another party of
children were hopping over lines marked with chalk on the pavement and
chanting in unison a song of which Bowdy could catch a few lines:--
"A l'école dans le ville,
A l'école dans le ville,
A l'école,
A l'école,
A l'école dans le ville."
Bowdy's platoon came to a halt in the square, the company cook who came
there long in advance of the battalion, was pouring fistfuls of tea in
a dixie which stood on a field kitchen. He was red of face as a
lobster, and a smile of satisfaction lit up his genial countenance when
he saw the men.
"You look pleased with yourself," Bowdy said.
"So will you be pleased," said the man, "when you get your tea after a
little. I've made it well, extra strong, and Spudhole has just received
a parcel from home."
"The post is up?" Bubb asked.
"There's a letter for you, as well as a parcel," said the cook. "And we
are going back for a rest to-morrow night, for a month or six weeks."
"Are we really?" Bowdy enquired.
"Of course we are," was the answer. "And we're going to get paid, too,
this evening...."
They were going back for a rest, probably to Cassel, and they knew such
a delightful billet there, the Y---- Farm....
Bowdy breathed in the fresh air. Away behind the firing line the sun
was sinking and a soft, luminous glow settled on the roofs of the
houses near.
"We should have a bit of a spree to-night," said the cook, raising the
dixie of the waggon, placing it on the ground, and stirring it with a
long ladle. "At the café round the corner. A champagne supper, a song,
and an all-round entertainment. Are you game for it?"
"Blimey, of course we're game for it," said Spudhole. "Wot time will it
start?"
"'Arf past seven."
"Righto," said Bubb and Bowdy in one voice. "We'll be there."