THE REACTION
We are marching back from the battle,
Where we've all left mates behind,
And our officers are gloomy,
And the N.C.O.'s are kind,
When a Jew's harp breaks the silence,
Purring out an old refrain;
And we thunder through the village
Roaring "Here we are again."
Four days later we were relieved by the Canadians. They came in about
nine o'clock in the evening when we stood to-arms in the trenches in
full marching order under a sky where colour wrestled with colour in a
blazing flare of star-shells. We went out gladly and left behind the
dug-out in which we cooked our food but never slept, the old crazy
sandbag construction, weather-worn and shrapnel-scarred, that stooped
forward like a crone on crutches on the wooden posts that supported
it.
"How many casualties have we had?" I asked Stoner as we passed out of
the village and halted for a moment on the verge of a wood, (p. 210)
waiting until the men formed up at rear.
"I don't know," he answered gloomily. "See the crosses there," he said
pointing to the soldiers' cemetery near the trees. "Seven of the boys
have their graves in that spot; then the wounded and those who went
dotty. Did you see X. of ---- Company coming out?"
"No," I said.
"I saw him last night when I went out to the Quartermaster's stores
for rations," Stoner told me. "They were carrying him out on their
shoulders, and he sat there very quiet like looking at the moon.
"Over there in the corner all by themselves they are," Stoner went on,
alluding to the graves towards which my eyes were directed. "You can
see the crosses, white wood----"
"The same as other crosses?"
"Just the same," said my mate. "Printed in black. Number something or
another, Rifleman So and So, London Irish Rifles, killed in action on
a certain date. That's all."
"Why do you say 'Chummy' when talking to a wounded man, Stoner?" I
asked. "Speaking to a healthy pal you just say 'mate.'"
"Is that so?" (p. 211)
"That's so. Why do you say it?"
"I don't know."
"I suppose because it's more motherly."
"That may be," said Stoner and laughed.
Quick march! The moon came out, ghostly, in a cloudy sky; a light,
pale as water, slid over the shoulders of the men in front and rippled
down the creases of their trousers. The bayonets wobbled wearily on
the hips, those bayonets that once, burnished as we knew how to
burnish them, were the glory and delight of many a long and strict
general inspection at St. Albans; they were now coated with mud and
thick with rust, a disgrace to the battalion!
When the last stray bullet ceased whistling over our heads, and we
were well beyond the range of rifle fire, leave to smoke was granted.
To most of us it meant permission to smoke openly. Cigarettes had been
burned for quite a quarter of an hour before and we had raised them at
intervals to our lips, concealing the glow of their lighted ends under
our curved fingers. We drew the smoke in swiftly, treasured it
lovingly in our mouths for some time then exhaled it slowly and
grudgingly.
The sky cleared a little, but at times drifts of grey cloud swept (p. 212)
over the moon and blotted out the stars. On either side of the road
lone poplars stood up like silent sentinels, immovable, and the soft
warm breeze that touched us like a breath shook none of their branches.
Here and there lime-washed cottages, roofed with patches of straw
where the enemy's shells had dislodged the terra-cotta tiles, showed
lights in the windows. The natives had gone away and soldiers were
billeted in their places. Marching had made us hot; we perspired
freely and the sweat ran down our arms and legs; it trickled down our
temples and dropped from our eyebrows to our cheeks.
"Hang on to the step! Quick march! As you were! About turn!" some one
shouted imitating our sergeant-major's voice. We had marched in
comparative silence up to now, but the mimicked order was like a match
applied to a powder magazine. We had had eighteen days in the trenches,
we were worn down, very weary and very sick of it all; now we were out
and would be out for some days; we were glad, madly glad. All began to
make noises at the same time, to sing, to shout, to yell; in the night,
on the road with its lines of poplars we became madly delirious, we
broke free like a confused torrent from a broken dam. Everybody (p. 213)
had something to say or sing, senseless chatter and sentimental songs
ran riot; all uttered something for the mere pleasure of utterance; we
were out of the trenches and free for the time being from danger.
Stoner marched on my right, hanging on his knees a little, singing a
music hall song and smoking. A little flutter of ash fell from his
cigarette, which seemed to be stuck to his lower lip as it rose and
fell with the notes of the song. When he came to the chorus he looked
round as if defying somebody, then raised his right hand over his head
and gripping his rifle, held the weapon there until the last word of
the chorus trembled on his lips; then he brought it down with the last
word and looked round as if to see that everybody was admiring his
action. Bill played his Jew's harp, strummed countless sentimental,
music-hall ditties on its sensitive tongue, his being was flooded with
exuberant song, he was transported by his trumpery toy. Bill lived,
his whole person surged with a vitality impossible to stem.
We came in line with a row of cottages, soldiers' billets for the most
part, and the boys were not yet in bed. It was a place to sing something
great, something in sympathy with our own mood. The song when it (p. 214)
came was appropriate, it came from one voice, and hundreds took it up
furiously as if they intended to tear it to pieces.
Here we are, here we are, here we are again.
The soldiers not in bed came out to look at us; it made us feel noble;
but to me, with that feeling of nobility there came something
pathetic, an influence of sorrow that caused my song to dissolve in a
vague yearning that still had no separate existence of its own. It was
as yet one with the night, with my mood and the whole spin of things.
The song rolled on:--
Fit and well and feeling as right as rain,
Now we're all together; never mind the weather,
Since here we are again,
When there's trouble brewing; when there's something doing,
Are we downhearted. No! let them all come!
Here we are, here we are, here we are again!
As the song died away I felt very lonely, a being isolated. True there
was a barn with cobwebs on its rafters down the road, a snug farm where
they made fresh butter and sold new laid eggs. But there was something
in the night, in the ghostly moonshine, in the bushes out in the (p. 215)
fields nodding together as if in consultation, in the tall poplars, in
the straight road, in the sound of rifle firing to rear and in the song
sung by the tired boys coming back from battle, that filled me with
infinite pathos and a feeling of being alone in a shelterless world.
"Here we are; here we are again." I thought of Mervin, and six others
dead, of their white crosses, and I found myself weeping silently like
a child....