THE SHELLING OF THE KEEP
A brazier fire at twilight,
And glow-worm fires ashine,
A searchlight sweeping heaven,
Above the firing-line.
The rifle bullet whistles
The message that it brings
Of death and desolation
To common folk and kings.
We went back from the trenches as reserves to the Keep. Broken down
though the place was when we entered it there was something restful in
the brown bricks, hidden in ivy, in the well-paved yard, and the
glorious riot of flowers. Most of the original furniture remained--the
beds, the chairs, and the pictures. All were delighted with the place,
Mervin particularly. "I'll make my country residence here after the
war," he said.
On the left was a church. Contrary to orders I spent an hour in the
dusk of the first evening in the ruined pile. The place had been
shelled for seven months, not a day had passed when it was not (p. 150)
struck in some part. The sacristy was a jumble of prayer books,
vestments, broken rosaries, crucifixes, and pictures. An ink pot and
pen lay on a broken table beside a blotting pad. A lamp which once
hung from the roof was beside them, smashed to atoms. In the church
the altar railing was twisted into shapeless bars of iron, bricks
littered the altar steps, the altar itself even, and bricks, tiles,
and beams were piled high in the body of the church.
Outside in the graveyard the graves lay open and the bones of the dead
were scattered broadcast over the green grass. Crosses were smashed or
wrenched out of the ground and flung to earth; near the Keep was the
soldiers' cemetery, the resting place of French, English, Indian, and
German soldiers. Many of the French had bottles of holy water placed
on their graves under the crosses. The English epitaphs were short and
concise, always the same in manner: "Private 999 J. Smith, 26th London
Battalion, killed in action 1st March, 1915." And under it stamped on
a bronze plate was the information, "Erected by the Mobile Unit
(B.R.C.S.) to preserve the record found on the spot." Often the dead
man's regiment left a token of remembrance, a bunch of flowers, the
dead man's cap or bayonet and rifle (these two latter only if (p. 151)
they had been badly damaged when the man died). Many crosses had been
taken from the churchyard and placed over these men. One of them read,
"A notre dévote fille," and another, "To my beloved mother."
Several Indians, men of the Bengal Mountain Battery, were buried here.
A woman it was stated, had disclosed their location to the enemy, and
the billet in which they were staying was struck fair by a high
explosive shell. Thirty-one were killed. They were now at
rest--Anaytullah, Lakhasingh, and other strange men with queer names
under the crosses fashioned from biscuit boxes. On the back of
Anaytullah's cross was the wording in black: "Biscuits, 50 lbs."
Thus the environment of the Keep: the enemy's trenches were about
eight hundred yards away. No fighting took place here, the men's
rifles stood loaded, but no shot was fired; only when the front line
was broken, if that ever took place, would the defenders of the Keep
come into play and hold the enemy back as long as that were possible.
Then when they could no longer hold out, when the foe pressed in (p. 152)
on all sides, there was something still to do, something vitally
important which would cost the enemy many lives, and, if a miracle did
not happen, something which would wipe out the defenders for ever.
This was the Keep.
The evening was very quiet; a few shells flew wide overhead, and now
and again stray bullets pattered against the masonry. We cooked our
food in the yard, and, sitting down amidst the flowers, we drank our
tea and ate our bread and jam. The first flies were busy, they flew
amidst the flower-beds and settled on our jam. Mervin told a story of
a country where he had been in, and where the flies were legion and
ate the eyes out of horses. The natives there wore corks hung by
strings from their caps, and these kept the flies away.
"How?" asked Bill.
"The corks kept swinging backwards and forwards as the men walked,"
said Mervin. "Whenever a cork struck a fly it dashed the insect's
brains out."
"Blimey!" cried Bill, then asked, "What was the most wonderful thing
you ever seen, Mervin?"
"The most wonderful thing," repeated Mervin. "Oh, I'll tell you. It
was the way they buried the dead out in Klondike. The snow lies (p. 153)
there for six months and it's impossible to dig, so when a man died
they sharpened his toes and drove him into the earth with a mallet."
"I saw a more wonderful thing than that, and it was when we lay in the
barn at Richebourg," said Bill, who was referring to a comfortless
billet and a cold night which were ours a month earlier. "I woke up
about midnight 'arf asleep. I 'ad my boots off and I couldn't 'ardly
feel them I was so cold. 'Blimey!' I said, 'on goes my understandin's,
and I 'ad a devil of a job lacing my boots up. When I thought I 'ad
them on I could 'ear someone stirrin' on the left. It was my cotmate.
'Wot's yer gime?' he says. 'Wot gime?' I asks. 'Yer foolin' about
with my tootsies,' he says. Then after a minute 'e shouts, 'Damn it
ye've put on my boots,' So I 'ad, put on his blessed boots and laced
them mistaking 'is feet for my own."
"We never heard of this before," I said.
"No, cos 'twas ole Jersey as was lying aside me that night, next day
'e was almost done in with the bomb."
"It's jolly quiet here," said Goliath, sitting back in an armchair and
lighting a cigarette. "This will be a jolly holiday."
"I heard an artillery man I met outside, say that this place was (p. 154)
hot," Stoner remarked. "The Irish Guards were here, and they said they
preferred the trenches to the Keep."
"It will be a poor country house," said Mervin, "if it's going to be
as bad as you say."
On the following evening I was standing guard in a niche in the
building. Darkness was falling and the shadows sat at the base of the
walls east of the courtyard. My niche looked out on the road, along
which the wounded are carried from the trenches by night and sometimes
by day. The way is by no means safe. As I stood there four men came
down the road carrying a limp form on a stretcher. A waterproof
ground-sheet lay over the wounded soldier, his head was uncovered, and
it wobbled from side to side, a streak of blood ran down his face and
formed into clots on the ear and chin. There was something uncannily
helpless in the soldier, his shaking head, his boots caked brown with
mud, the heels close together, the toes pointing upwards and outwards
and swaying a little. Every quiver of the body betokened abject
helplessness. The limp, swaying figure, clinging weakly to life, was a
pathetic sight.
The bearers walked slowly, carefully, stepping over every (p. 155)
shell-hole and stone on the road. The sweat rolled down their faces
and arms, their coats were off and their shirt sleeves rolled up
almost to the shoulders. Down the road towards the village they
pursued their sober way, and my eyes followed them. Suddenly they came
to a pause, lowered the stretcher to the ground, and two of them bent
over the prostrate form. I could see them feel the soldier's pulse,
open his tunic, and listen for the beating of the man's heart, when
they raised the stretcher again there was something cruelly careless
in the action, they brought it up with a jolt and set off hurriedly,
stumbling over shell-hole and boulder. There was no doubt the man was
dead now; it was unwise to delay on the road, and the soldiers'
cemetery was in the village.
In the evening we stood to arms in the Keep; all our men were now out
in the open, and the officers were inspecting their rifles barely four
yards away from me. At that moment I saw the moon, a crescent of pale
smoke standing on end near the West. I felt in my pocket for money,
but found I had none to turn.
"Have you a ha'penny?" I asked Mervin who was passing.
"What for?" (p. 156)
"I want to turn it, you know the old custom."
"Oh, yes," answered Mervin, handing me a coin. "Long ago I used to
turn my money, but I found the oftener I saw the moon the less I had
to turn. However, I'll try it again for luck." So saying he turned a
penny.
"Do any of you fellows know Marie Redoubt?" an officer asked at that
moment.
"I know the place," said Mervin, "it's just behind the Keep."
"Will you lead me to the place?" said the officer.
"Right," said Mervin, and the two men went off.
They had just gone when a shell hit the building on my left barely
three yards away from my head. The explosion almost deafened me, a
pain shot through my ears and eyes, and a shower of fine lime and
crumpled bricks whizzed by my face. My first thought was, "Why did I
not put my hands over my eyes, I might have been struck blind." I had
a clear view of the scene in front, my mates were rushing hither and
thither in a shower of white flying lime; I could see dark forms
falling, clambering to their feet and falling again. One figure
detached itself from the rest and came rushing towards me, by my (p. 157)
side it tripped and fell, then rose again. I could now see it was
Stoner. He put his hands up as if in protest, looked at me vacantly,
and rushed round the corner of the building. I followed him and found
him once more on the ground.
"Much hurt?" I asked, touching him on the shoulder.
"Yes," he muttered, rising slowly, "I got it there," he raised a
finger to his face which was bleeding, "and there," he put his hand
across his chest.
"Well, get into the dug-out," I said, and we hurried round the front
of the building. A pile of fallen masonry lay there and half a dozen
rifles, all the men were gone. We found them in the dug-out, a hole
under the floor heavily beamed, and strong enough to withstand a fair
sized shell. One or two were unconscious and all were bleeding more or
less severely. I found I was the only person who was not struck.
Goliath and Bill got little particles of grit in the face, and they
looked black as chimney sweeps. Bill was cut across the hand, Kore's
arm was bleeding.
"Where's Mervin?"
"He had just gone out," I said, "I was speaking to him, he went (p. 158)
with Lieut. ---- to Marie Redoubt."
I suddenly recollected that I should not have left my place outside,
so I went into my niche again. Had Mervin got clear, I wondered? The
courtyard was deserted, and it was rapidly growing darker, a drizzle
had begun, and the wet ran down my rifle.
"Any word of Mervin?" I called to Stoner when he came out from the
dug-out, and moved cautiously across the yard. There was a certain
unsteadiness in his gait, but he was regaining his nerve; he had
really been more surprised than hurt. He disappeared without answering
my question, probably he had not heard me.
"Stretcher-bearers at the double."
The cry, that call of broken life which I have so often heard,
faltered across the yard. From somewhere two men rushed out carrying a
stretcher, and hurried off in the direction taken by Stoner. Who had
been struck? Somebody had been wounded, maybe killed! Was it Mervin?
Stoner came round the corner, a sad look in his brown eyes.
"Mervin's copped it," he said, "in the head. It must have been (p. 159)
that shell that done it; a splinter, perhaps."
"Where is he?"
"He's gone away on the stretcher unconscious. The officer has been
wounded as well in the leg, the neck, and the face."
"Badly?"
"No, he's able to speak."
Fifteen minutes later I saw Mervin again. He was lying on the
stretcher and the bearers were just going off to the dressing station
with it. He was breathing heavily, round his head was a white bandage,
and his hands stretched out stiffly by his sides. He was borne into
the trench and carried round the first traverse. I never saw him
again; he died two days later without regaining consciousness.
On the following day two more men went: one got hit by a concussion
shell that ripped his stomach open, another, who was on sentry-go got
messed up in a bomb explosion that blew half of his side away. The
charm of the courtyard, with the flower-beds and floral designs, died
away; we were now pleased to keep indoors and allow the chairs outside
to stand idle. All day long the enemy shelled us, most of the shells
dropped outside and played havoc with the church; but the figure (p. 160)
on the crucifix still remained, a symbol of something great and
tragical, overlooking the area of destruction and death. Now and again
a shell dropped on the flower-beds and scattered splinters and showers
of earth against buildings and dug-outs. In the evening an orderly
came to the Keep.
"I want two volunteers," he said.
"For what?" I asked him.
"I don't know," was the answer, "they've got to report immediately to
Headquarters."
Stoner and I volunteered. The Headquarters, a large dug-out roofed
with many sandbags piled high over heavy wooden beams, was situated on
the fringe of the communication trench five hundred yards away from
the Keep. We took up our post in an adjacent dug-out and waited for
orders. Over our roof the German shells whizzed incessantly and tore
up the brick path. Suddenly we heard a crash, an ear-splitting
explosion from the fire line.
"What's that?" asked Stoner. "Will it be a mine blown up?"
"Perhaps it is," I ventured. "I wish they'd stop the shelling, suppose
one of these shells hit our dug-out."
"It would be all U.P. with us," said Stoner, trying to roll a (p. 161)
cigarette and failing hopelessly. "Confound it," he said, "I'm all a
bunch of nerves, I didn't sleep last night and very little the night
before."
His eyebrows were drawn tight together and wrinkles were forming
between his eyes; the old sparkle was almost entirely gone from them.
"Mervin," he said, "and the other two, the bloke with his side blown
away. It's terrible."
"Try and have a sleep," I said, "nobody seems to need us yet."
He lay down on the empty sandbags which littered the floor, and
presently he was asleep. I tried to read Montaigne, but could not, the
words seemed to be running up and down over the page; the firing
seemed to have doubled in intensity, and the shells swept low almost
touching the roof of the dug-out.
"Orderly!"
I stumbled out into the open, and a sharp penetrating rain, and made
my way to the Headquarters. The adjutant was inside at the telephone
speaking to the firing line.
"Hello! that the Irish?" he said. "Anything to report? The mine has done
no damage? No, fifteen yards back, lucky! Only three casualties (p. 162)
so far."
The adjutant turned to an orderly officer: "The mine exploded fifteen
yards in front, three wounded. Are you the orderly?" he asked, turning
to me.
"Yes, sir."
"Find out where the sergeant-major is and ask him if to-morrow's
rations have come in yet."
"Where is the sergeant-major?" I asked.
"I'm not sure where he stays," said the adjutant. "Enquire at the
Keep."
The trench was wet and slobbery, every hole was a pitfall to trap the
unwary; boulders and sandbags which had fallen in waited to trip the
careless foot. I met a party of soldiers, a corporal at their head.
"This the way to the firing line?" he asked.
"You're coming from it!" I told him.
"That's done it!" he muttered. "We've gone astray, there's some fun up
there!"
"A mine blown up?" I asked.
"'Twas a blow up," was the answer. "It almost deafened us, someone
must have copped it. What's the way back?"
"Go past Gunner Siding and Marie Redoubt, then touch left and (p. 163)
you'll get through."
"God! it's some rain," he said. "Ta, ta."
"Ta, ta, old man."
I turned into the trench leading to the Keep. The rain was pelting
with a merciless vigour, and loose earth was falling from the sides to
the floor of the trench. A star-light flared up and threw a brilliant
light on the entrance of the Keep as I came up. The place bristled
with brilliant steel, half a dozen men stood there with fixed
bayonets, the water dripping from their caps on to their equipment.
"Halt! who goes there!" Pryor yelled out, raising his bayonet to the
"on guard" position.
"A friend," I replied. "What's wrong here?"
"Oh, it's Pat," Pryor answered. "Did you not hear it?" he continued,
"the Germans have broken through and there'll be fun. The whole Keep
is manned ready."
"Is the pantomime parapet manned?" I asked. I alluded to the flat roof
of the stable in which our Section slept. It had been damaged by shell
fire, and was holed in several places, a sandbag parapet with (p. 164)
loop-holes opened out on the enemy's front.
"Kore, Bill, Goliath, they're all up there," said Pryor, "and the
place is getting shelled too, in the last five minutes twenty shells
have missed the place, just missed it."
"Where does the sergeant-major stick?" I asked.
"Oh, I don't know, not here I think."
The courtyard was tense with excitement. Half a dozen new soldiers
were called to take up posts on the parapet, and they were rushing to
the crazy stairs which led to the roof. On their way they overturned a
brazier and showers of fine sparks rioted into the air. By the flare
it was possible to see the rain falling slanting to the ground in fine
lines that glistened in the flickering light. Shells were bursting
overhead, flashing out into spiteful red and white stars of flame, and
hurling their bullets to the ground beneath. Shell splinters flew over
the courtyard humming like bees and seeming to fall everywhere. What a
miracle that anybody could escape them!
I met our platoon sergeant at the foot of the stairs.
"Where does the sergeant-major hold out?"
"Down at Givenchy somewhere," he told me. "The Germans have broken (p. 165)
through," he said. "It looks as if we're in for a rough night."
"It will be interesting," I replied, "I haven't seen a German yet."
Over the parapet a round head, black amidst a line of bayonets
appeared, and a voice called down, "Sergeant!"
"Right oh!" said the sergeant, and rushed upstairs. At that moment a
shell struck a wall at the back somewhere, and pieces of brick whizzed
into the courtyard and clattered down the stair. When the row subsided
Kore was helped down, his face bleeding and an ugly gash showing above
his left eye.
"Much hurt, old man?" I asked.
"Not a blighty, I'm afraid," he answered.
A "blighty" is a much desired wound; one that sends a soldier back to
England. A man with a "blighty" is a much envied person. Kore was
followed by another fellow struck in the leg, and drawing himself
wearily along. He assured us that he wasn't hurt much, but now and
again he groaned with pain.
"Get into the dug-outs," the sergeant told them. "In the morning you
can go to the village, to-night it's too dangerous."
About midnight I went out on the brick pathway, the way we had (p. 166)
come up a few nights earlier. I should have taken Stoner with me, but
he slept and I did not like to waken him. The enemy's shells were
flying overhead, one following fast on another, all bursting in the
brick path and the village. I could see the bright hard light of
shrapnel shells exploding in the air, and the signal-red flash of
concussion shells bursting ahead. Splinters flew back buzzing like
angry bees about my ears. I would have given a lot to be back with
Stoner in the dug-out; it was a good strong structure, shrapnel and
bullet proof, only a concussion shell falling on top would work him
any harm.
The rain still fell and the moon--there was a bit of it somewhere--never
showed itself through the close-packed clouds. For a while I struggled
bravely to keep to the tight-rope path, but it was useless, I fell
over first one side, then the other. Eventually I kept clear of it,
and walked in the slush of the field. Half way along a newly dug
trench, some three feet in depth, ran across my road; an attack was
feared at dawn, and a first line of reserves were in occupation. I
stumbled upon the men. They were sitting well down, their heads lower
than the parapet, and all seemed to be smoking if I could form (p. 167)
judgment by the line of little glow-worm fires, the lighted cigarette
ends that extended out on either hand. Somebody was humming a music-hall
song, while two or three of his mates helped him with the chorus.
"Halt! who goes there?"
The challenge was almost a whisper, and a bayonet slid out from the
trench and paused irresolutely near my stomach.
"A London Irish orderly going down to the village," I answered.
A voice other than that which challenged me spoke: "Why are you alone,
there should be two."
"I wasn't aware of that."
"Pass on," said the second voice, "and be careful, it's not altogether
healthy about here."
Somewhere in the proximity of the village I lost the brick path and
could not find it again. For a full hour I wandered over the sodden
fields under shell fire, discovering the village, a bulk of shadows
thinning into a jagged line of chimneys against the black sky when the
shells exploded, and losing it again when the darkness settled down
around me. Eventually I stumbled across the road and breathed freely
for a second.
But the enemy's fire would not allow me a very long breathing (p. 168)
space, it seemed bent on battering the village to pieces. In front of
me ran a broken-down wall, behind it were a number of houses and not a
light showing. The road was deserted.
A shell exploded in mid-air straight above, and bullets sang down and
shot into the ground round me. Following it came the casing splinters
humming like bees, then a second explosion, the whizzing bullets and
the bees, another explosion....
"Come along and get out of it," I whispered to myself, and looked
along the road; a little distance off I fancied I saw a block of
buildings.
"Run!"
I ran, "stampeded!" is a better word, and presently found myself
opposite an open door. I flung myself in, tripped, and went prostrate
to the floor.
Boom! I almost chuckled, thinking myself secure from the shells that
burst overhead. It was only when the bees bounced on the floor that I
looked up to discover that the house was roofless.
I made certain that the next building had a roof before I entered. It
also had a door, this I shoved open and found myself amongst a (p. 169)
number of horses and warm penetrating odour of dung.
"Now, 3008, you may smoke," I said, addressing myself, and drew out my
cigarette case. My matches were quite dry; I lit one and was just
putting it to my cigarette when one of the horses began prancing at
the other end of the building. I just had a view of the animal coming
towards me when the match went out and left me in the total darkness.
I did not like the look of the horse, and I wished that it had been
better bound when its master left it. It was coming nearer and now
pawing the floor with its hoof. I edged closer to the door; if it were
not for the shells I would go outside. Why was that horse allowed to
remain loose in the stable? I tried to light another match, but it
snapped in my fingers. The horse was very near me now; I could feel
its presence, it made no noise, it seemed to be shod with velvet. The
moment was tense, I shouted: "Whoa there, whoa!"
It shot out its hind legs and a pair of hoofs clattered on the wall
beside me.
"Whoa, there! whoa there! confound you!" I growled, and was outside in
a twinkling and into the arms of a transport sergeant.
"What the devil--'oo are yer?" he blurted out. (p. 170)
"Did you think I was a shell?" I couldn't help asking. "I'm sorry," I
continued, "I came in here out of that beastly shelling."
"Very wise," said the sergeant, getting quickly into the stable.
"One of your horses is loose," I said. "Do you know where the London
Irish is put up here?"
"Down the road on the right," he told me, "you come to a large gate
there on the left and you cross a garden. It's a big buildin'."
"Thank you. Good night."
"Good night, sonny."
I went in by the wrong gate; there were so many on the left, and found
myself in a dark spinney where the rain was dripping heavily from the
branches of the trees. I was just on the point of turning back to the
road when one of our batteries concealed in the place opened fire, and
a perfect hell of flame burst out around me. I flopped to earth with
graceless precipitancy, and wallowed in mud. "It's all up 3008, you've
done it now," I muttered, and wondered vaguely whether I was partly or
wholly dead. The sharp smell of cordite filled the air and caused (p. 171)
a tickling sensation in my throat that almost choked me. When I
scrambled to my feet again and found myself uninjured, a strange
dexterity had entered my legs; I was outside the gate in the space of
a second.
Ten minutes later I found the sergeant-major, who rose from a blanket
on the ground-floor of a pretentious villa with a shell splintered
door, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. The rations had not arrived;
they would probably be in by dawn. Had I seen the mine explode? I
belonged to the company holding the Keep, did I not? The rumour about
the Germans breaking through was a cock-and-bull story. Had I any
cigarettes? Turkish! Not bad for a change. Good luck, sonny! Take care
of yourself going back.
I came in line with the rear trench on my way back.
"Who's there?" came a voice from the line of little cigarette lights.
"A London Irish orderly--going home!" I answered, and a laugh rewarded
my ironical humour.
"Jolly luck to be able to return home," I said to myself when I got
past. "3008, you weren't very brave to-night. By Jove, you did (p. 172)
hop into that roofless house and scamper out of that spinney! In fact,
you did not shine as a soldier at all. You've not been particularly
afraid of shell fire before, but to-night! Was it because you were
alone you felt so very frightened? You've found out you've been posing
a little before. Alone you're really a coward."
I felt a strange delight in saying these things; the firing had
ceased; it was still raining heavily.
"Remember the bridge at Suicide Corner," I said, alluding to a recent
incident when I had walked upright across a bridge, exposed to the
enemy's rifle fire. My mates hurried across almost bent double whilst
I sauntered slowly over in front of them. "You had somebody to look at
you then; 'twas vanity that did it, but to-night! You were afraid,
terribly funky. If there had been somebody to look on, you'd have been
defiantly careless. It's rather nerve-racking to be shelled when
you're out alone at midnight and nobody looking at you!"
Dawn was breaking when I found myself at the Keep. The place in some
manner fascinated me and I wanted to know what had happened there. (p. 173)
I found that a few shells were still coming that way and most of the
party were in their dug-outs. I peered down the one which was under my
old sleeping place; at present all stayed in their dug-outs when off
duty. They were ordered to do so, but none of the party were sleeping
now, the night had been too exciting.
"'Oo's there?" Bill called up out of the darkness, and when I spoke he
muttered:
"Oh, it's ole Pat! Where were yer?"
"I've been out for a walk," I replied.
"When that shellin' was goin' on?"
"Yes."
"You're a cool beggar, you are!" said Bill. "I was warm here I tell
yer!"
"Have the Germans come this way?" I asked.
"Germans!" ejaculated Bill. "They come 'ere and me with ten rounds in
the magazine and one in the breech! They knows better!"
Stoner was awake when I returned to the dug-out by Headquarters.
"Up already?" I asked.
"Up! I've been up almost since you went away," he answered. "My! the
shells didn't half fly over here. And I thought you'd never get (p. 174)
back."
"That's due to lack of imagination," I told him. "What's for
breakfast?"