September was nearly at an end when Bob, alighting at a little station,
heard the booming of guns. The country-side seemed quiet and peaceful
but for this. There were evidences that fighting had been going on,
but at present no fighting was to be seen. The sky was a great dome of
blue, the air was pure and sweet. It was as though great Mother Nature
were defying the War God to disturb her tranquillity. Scarcely a
breath of wind stirred; bird and beast and flower were composing
themselves for their nightly sleep.
And yet to Bob the atmosphere was tense with excitement. The very calm
of the evening was unnatural. He felt as though lightnings should be
flashing, the wind roaring.
"Boom! Boom! Boom!"
The great War God was roaring, and from his mouth death came. With
every boom of the guns men were falling, souls were going home to God.
Bob felt a shiver to the centre of his being. It seemed to him as
though the foundations of his life were shaken. He had never
experienced such a feeling before. He did not think it was fear;
rather it was awesomeness. For a moment he regarded life, his own
life, from a new standpoint. He was only a pawn on a chess-board, one
of a million of human beings, none of whom had any personality, any
will. Life and death were nothing. Each had to fill his place, and to
do what was allotted to him, regardless of consequences.
He found himself thinking of lines from "The Charge of the Light
Brigade":
"Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die,
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred."
Suddenly he found himself alert. The men were forming into marching
order, and almost unconsciously he was performing the duties allotted
to him.
Bob saw that a large mass of men had gathered. Other trains had
arrived before the one by which he had come, and each had brought its
quota from England.
He realised, as he had never realised before, how efficiently, quietly,
and at the same time wonderfully, the forces at home were working. He,
like others, had read several weeks before, that something like a
hundred thousand men had landed on French soil without a casualty,
without a mishap. It had come to him, as it had come to us all, as a
kind of surprise, that such a mass of humanity, with horses,
accoutrements, and provisions, could have been sent to France with so
little noise, and without the nation's knowing anything about it. Yet
so it was. While we were wondering, the work was done.
But that was not all. While the country was asleep, or while it was
pursuing its usual avocations, tens of thousands of men were leaving
our shores, taking the places of those who had fallen or adding to the
force already there, while tens of thousands more were preparing to
leave. The heart of the Empire was moved, and her sons were offering
themselves, many thousands every day, to fight her battles.
"How many men have we at the front?" we often asked.
No one knew, although we hazarded many guesses. But we knew that we
were doing what we could, that a great river of humanity was flowing
into France, and that hundreds of thousands of our bravest hearts were
beating on foreign soil, and that no matter how many men fell wounded
or dead, ten times their number could and would be supplied.
Bob's heart thrilled as he thought of it. He was only an obscure
youth, who had first fought his battle on the solitary battlefield of
his own soul, and then, as a consequence, could no longer keep himself
from throwing himself into this great light against tyranny and
militarism.
They were marching towards the firing-line! The boom of the guns
sounded more and more near. Sometimes above the steady tramp, tramp of
the soldiers they thought they heard the ghastly whistle of the shells
as they went on their mission of death.
Bob looked on the faces of the men as they marched. Yes, it was easy
to see by the steely glitter of their eyes, the tightly compressed
lips, that every nerve was in tension, that they knew they were
entering the danger zone. Many were praying who had not prayed for
years, while others, careless of life or death, marched forward, with a
laugh on their lips.
It is not for me to describe what took place during the next few days.
Indeed, I could not if I would. First, the news which has reached me
concerning them is scanty--so scanty that even if I recorded every word
of it, it would add but little interest to the narrative I am writing.
More than that, I am utterly ignorant of the art of war, and if I tried
to describe in anything like detail the events which have been related
to me, I should, doubtless, fall into many mistakes, and convey
altogether wrong impressions. Besides, I am not so much writing the
story of the war, as the story of Robert Nancarrow, and of what has
befallen him these last few weeks.
For the first fortnight after Bob joined the British forces at the
front, he was disappointed at not being placed in the fighting-line.
Moreover, his duties seemed to him of an unimportant nature, such as
could have been performed by the most unintelligent. He saw others
take the places which he longed to occupy, while he had to attend to
merely mechanical duties.
Still he did not complain. The work he was doing had to be done, and
since some one must do it, why not he as well as another? The great
fact which cheered him was that little by little the Allies were slowly
gaining ground in this "Battle of the Rivers," even although he saw but
little of it. Neither, for that matter, did he know very much of the
progress which was being made generally. He was so situated that he
heard very little of what was being done. People in England were far
better informed of what was taking place than the soldiers, except in
some little corner of the great battlefield where they were
individually engaged.
He saw enough, however, to realise the horror all around him, and to
become inured to the life he was living.
"Oh, to be in the thick of it!" he cried again and again, as day after
day passed, and he was continually delegated to what seemed to him
unimportant duties. He little realised that his time was coming, and
that he was to be baptized with a baptism of fire more terrible than
befell many, even in that time of horrible carnage.
It was on a Sunday morning in October, in this year of our Lord, 1914,
that the events which I have now to describe, began. In England I
remember it was like a summer day, while in France it was even warmer,
and more cloudless. The night had been comparatively still, and the
enemies' guns had scarcely been heard since sunset.
The sentries had reported all well, and when the morning came, it
seemed to be generally believed that it would be a quiet day. On the
distant hills, several miles away, the German hordes were entrenched
and alert. The day previous the Allies had been less harried, and tens
of thousands who had been well-nigh worn out by continuous fighting had
gained some measure of respite.
Bob awoke just before dawn. All along the lines were watchful
sentinels; but many thousands, assured by the reports of those on
outpost duty that all was well, were asleep. Presently the _réveillé_
sounded, and then, what had seemed an uninhabited tract of country, was
peopled by a great armed host. Men in khaki were everywhere. On every
hand were preparations for breakfast; laughter and shouts were heard on
every hand. As the light increased, Bob saw thousands upon thousands
of men. They literally swarmed everywhere.
"Colonel Sapsworth wants you, sir."
Bob turned and saw a soldier saluting him as delivered his message.
"I wonder what that means," thought Bob, as he found his way towards
the spot where the Colonel was. A minute later his heart was beating
high with joy and excitement. He was informed that he was appointed to
a post of responsibility, which might be of importance. A number of
men were to be placed under his command, and great events might be
taking place in a few hours.
"I shall know definitely soon," Colonel Sapsworth said, when he had
given him some general directions. "Meanwhile you know what to do."
He had scarcely spoken, when a man came to the a tent and asked for
admission; a second later he had entered, bearing a despatch.
Colonel Sapsworth read it hastily.
"By God!" he muttered under his breath; "but I expected it!"
It was a despatch sent from the General of the Division telling him
that an attack on his forces would possibly be made that day--that men
in the Flying Corps had been able to see the general movements of the
enemy, and had brought the news that before long great masses of men
would be upon them.
A few minutes later everything was in order. The officers had each
received his instructions, and were on the _qui vive_.
It was only half an hour past daylight, and the dewdrops were still
glistening on the grass and shining on the tree-tops. It seemed as if
some occult influences were at work, and that the men were conscious of
the fact that the atmosphere was laden with tragedy, for instead of
laughter and merry jest, a strange silence prevailed.
Only one sound broke the great stillness which had fallen on the camp.
It was the sound of a body of men singing:
"O God, our help in ages past,
Our hope for years to come,
Our shelter from the stormy blast,
And our eternal home."
Bob had heard both hymn and tune a hundred times in St. Ia. He
thought, too, from the intonation of the men's voices, that they were
Cornish lads who sang. For the moment he forgot where he was, and was
oblivious to the fact that he was in the midst of a great armed host,
and that tens of thousands of men were all around him, each armed with
implements of death. He was in Cornwall again, and he was breathing
the Sabbath morning air. He heard the church bells ringing in the
distance, while the hymn he heard came from some humble Meeting House
where simple people met together for prayer and praise.
"A thousand ages in Thy sight
Are like an evening----"
"Some religious swabs," laughed one.
"Boom! boom! Crack, crack, boom!"
The hymn was broken off in the middle. The sound of guns was nearer
than Bob had ever heard it before. The enemy had evidently decided
upon a surprise attack.
A horrible screech rent the air, and, looking up, Bob saw an explosion.
It was as though a bouquet of fire were falling on them; and then he
heard noises such as he had never heard before. It was the groans of
the wounded; the cries of men pierced by arrows of fire; the moaning of
brave fellows torn and mutilated for life.
The British guns answered the fire of the enemy, while all around
quick, decisive commands were given.
For some hours after this Bob had only a vague remembrance of what took
place. He knew that the position they now occupied had been captured
from the enemy, who had receded only with the idea of endeavouring to
take it again. Evidently they had kept the secret of their plans well,
for from all the reports given on the previous night there had been no
likelihood of an early attack. But for the Flying Corps they would
have been utterly surprised, and even as it was their preparations had
to be hurriedly made.
"Boom! boom!" bellowed forth the big guns.
"Crack! crack!" said the voices of a thousand rifles.
Bob's remembrance was that he was calmly fulfilling the orders that had
been given to him, and that he was strangely oblivious of danger.
Event after event seemed to follow each other, like so many pictures in
a cinema performance.
He remembered his men in their trenches coolly firing, while shot and
shell fell thick around them.
Later, they moved forward, and took cover under some raised ground,
where they lay silently and warily watching.
He was watching too. In his eagerness he had risen to his feet, and
thus exposed himself to the sight of the enemy. The ground was torn up
at his feet, and he felt something burning hot graze his arm, as if
some one had touched him with a burning knife.
But he was unhurt! He knew that a bullet had only touched his arm. An
inch to the right, and it would have missed him altogether; two inches
to the left, and his arm would have been shattered; a foot to the left,
and he would, in all probability, have been killed.
He saw a body of men in German uniform moving nearer to them. It was a
great mass of soldiers, who came on in great blocks of sixty or eighty,
four deep. The British waited silently, awaiting the word of command.
Eagerly they longed for the word, "Fire!"
At last it came, and almost as if by magic a thousand rifles went off
at the same moment, leaving great gaps in the German ranks which had a
few seconds before been filled with a living, breathing humanity.
Again the crack of rifles, and again gaps were made. But still the
enemy came forward. Bob even thought he heard the cry of "_Vorwärts!
Vorwärts!_"
Now and then above the din he heard what seemed like the sound of
singing. It sounded like the tune he had heard early in the morning.
Meanwhile the cannonade continued to rage. The heavens were full of
bursting shells, even the very skies seemed like hell.
Hour after hour the fusillade continued, and presently there was a halt
in the enemies' progress. They were falling back.
"Now at them! Give 'em ----"
There was a wild rush forward. How long it continued Bob could not
tell. Behind them the big English guns were booming, and he knew that
our artillery was pounding at the German trenches a long distance away.
Forward! forward!
Shot and shell were dropping thickly around, while on the right and
left men were falling. In the distance lay the German trenches. Could
they be reached? Yes, a few minutes later our men were in them. For a
time at all events Bob's company was in comparative safety.
Panting aloud the hardy lads threw themselves into position. They had
gained their immediate object, but could they hold it?
Suddenly amid the din a musical note rang out; it pierced the very
heavens, it was more penetrating than the boom of the big guns, the
screech of shells, or the crack of rifles.
From the distant heather, perhaps half a mile away, men with clear
sight could see great masses of humanity in grey rise, seemingly out of
the earth, and Bob heard the distant sound of fifes and drums.
"They are going to charge us!"
Who said this no one knew, but it did not matter. All knew it was
true. Strong stalwart men they were who rushed madly forward. They
were commanded to do so, and they must not disobey. Every step meant
death to many, but Germany was careless about her losses. They must
win the victory, they must get back the position they had lost, no
matter what it might cost.
"We are lost!" thought Bob: "what are we against so many?"
But even before the thought had passed his mind, out from their cover
came the British--sections, companies, battalions.
Then, almost before Bob realised what was taking place, a great
hand-to-hand carnage began. Shrieks, groans, cries filled the heavens.
From that time Bob ceased to be the quiet student who had aspirations
after a serene scholastic life. He was an Englishman doing battle with
a huge fighting machine. He was one of the many who determined to cut
out the great cancer of Europe. England and all she stood for was at
stake. Honour, faithfulness to promise, liberty, religion, all must be
maintained!
He found himself facing a huge German. The German hesitated a second,
and rushed on him. It was that moment's hesitation to which Bob owed
his life. With all the strength of his right arm he parried the
fearful lunge of the German, who rushed on him with fixed bayonet. A
second later the man fell.
Bob shuddered as he saw him fall. What had he against the man he had
killed? Nothing. Even at that moment he would gladly have helped him
had he been able. Possibly, probably he had a wife or sweetheart
somewhere, probably too he was a quiet, inoffensive fellow who had no
desire to harm any one. In spite of the war fever which raged, the
English had no personal animus against the Germans. But then they were
not fighting against Germans, they were fighting against the War God
which dominated Germany, they were fighting a system which threatened
the liberty, the peace, the religion of Europe--the world.
All this killing was hellish, but the cancer had to be cut out. If it
were allowed to remain it would poison the life of the world.
"At 'em! at 'em!"
Blood and carnage everywhere; earth made hell at the bidding of a
bully, a madman who declared himself to be the vicegerent of God. Yes,
the horrors of war could not be described in human language, but it had
to be waged in order to destroy the hellish doctrine that might was
right, the hideous creed of "blood and iron."