Kaiser or no Kaiser, Major Wagstaffe's extravagant analogy held good.
As Christmas drew nearer, the band played louder and faster; the
chorus swelled higher and shriller; and it became finally apparent
that something (or somebody) of portentous importance was directing
the storm.
Between six and seven next morning, the Battalion, which had stood
to arms all night, lifted up its heavy head and sniffed the misty
dawn-wind--an east wind--dubiously. Next moment gongs were clanging
up and down the trench, and men were tearing open the satchels which
contained their anti-gas helmets.
Major Wagstaffe, who had been sent up from Battalion Headquarters to
take general charge of affairs in the firing-trench, buttoned the
bottom edge of his helmet well inside his collar and clambered up on
the firing-step to take stock of the position. He crouched low, for a
terrific bombardment was in progress, and shells were almost grazing
the parapet.
Presently he was joined by a slim young officer similarly disguised.
It was the Commander of "A" Company. Wagstaffe placed his head close
to Bobby's left ear, and shouted through the cloth--
"We shan't feel this gas much. They're letting it off higher up the
line. Look!"
Bobby, laboriously inhaling the tainted air inside his helmet,--being
preserved from a gas attack is only one degree less unpleasant than
being gassed,--turned his goggles northward.
In the dim light of the breaking day he could discern a
greenish-yellow cloud rolling across from the Boche trenches on his
left.
"Will they attack?" he bellowed.
Wagstaffe nodded his head, and then cautiously unbuttoned his collar
and rolled up the front of his helmet. Then, after delicately sampling
the atmosphere by a cautious sniff, he removed his helmet altogether.
Bobby followed his example. The air was not by any means so pure as
might have been desired, but it was infinitely preferable to that
inside a gas-helmet.
"Nothing to signify," pronounced Wagstaffe. "We're only getting the
edge of it. Sergeant, pass down that men may roll up their helmets,
but must keep them on their heads. Now, Bobby, things are getting
interesting. Will they attack, or will they not?"
"What do you think?" asked Bobby.
"They are certainly going to attack farther north. The Boche does not
waste gas as a rule--not this sort of gas! And I think he'll attack
here too. The only reason why he has not switched on our anaesthetic
is that the wind isn't quite right for this bit of the line. I think
it is going to be a general push. Bobby, have a look through this
sniper's loophole. Can you see any bayonets twinkling in the Boche
trenches?"
Bobby applied an eye to the loophole.
"Yes," he said, "I can see them. Those trenches must be packed with
men."
"Absolutely stiff with them," agreed Wagstaffe, getting out his
revolver. "We shall be in for it presently. Are your fellows all
ready, Bobby?"
The youthful Captain ran his eye along the trench, where his Company,
with magazines loaded and bayonets fixed, were grimly awaiting the
onset. There had been an onset similar to this, with the same green,
nauseous accompaniment, in precisely the same spot eight months
before, which had broken the line and penetrated for four miles.
There it had been stayed by a forlorn hope of cooks, brakesmen, and
officers' servants, and disaster had been most gloriously retrieved.
What was going to happen this time? One thing was certain: the day of
stink-pots was over.
"When do you think they'll attack?" shouted Bobby to Wagstaffe,
battling against the noise of bursting shells.
"Quite soon--in a minute or two. Their guns will stop directly--to
lift their sights and set up a barrage behind us. Then, perhaps the
Boche will step over his parapet. Perhaps not!"
The last sentence rang out with uncanny distinctness, for the German
guns with one accord had ceased firing. For a full two minutes there
was absolute silence, while the bayonets in the opposite trenches
twinkled with tenfold intent.
Then, from every point in the great Salient of Ypres, the British guns
replied.
Possibly the Imperial General Staff at Berlin had been misinformed as
to the exact strength of the British Artillery. Possibly they had been
informed by their Intelligence Department that Trades Unionism, had
ensured that a thoroughly inadequate supply of shells was to hand in
the Salient. Or possibly they had merely decided, after the playful
habit of General Staffs, to let the infantry in the trenches take
their chance of any retaliation that might be forthcoming.
Whatever these great men were expecting, it is highly improbable that
they expected that which arrived. Suddenly the British batteries spoke
out, and they all spoke together. In the space of four minutes they
deposited _thirty thousand_ high-explosive shells in the Boche
front-line trenches--yea, distributed the same accurately and evenly
along all that crowded arc. Then they paused, as suddenly as they
began, while British riflemen and machine-gunners bent to their work.
But few received the order to fire. Here and there a wave of men broke
over the German parapet and rolled towards the British lines--only to
be rolled back crumpled up by machine-guns. Never once was the goal
reached. The great Christmas attack was over. After months of weary
waiting and foolish recrimination, that exasperating race of bad
starters but great stayers, the British people, had delivered "the
goods," and made it possible for their soldiers to speak with the
enemy in the gate upon equal--nay, superior, terms.
"Is that all?" asked Bobby Little, peering out over the parapet, a
little awe-struck, at the devastation over the way.
"That is all," said Wagstaffe, "or I'm a Boche! There will be much
noise and some irregular scrapping for days, but the tin lid has been
placed upon the grand attack. The great Christmas Victory is off!"
Then he added, thoughtfully, referring apparently to the star
performer:--
"We _have_ been and spoiled his entrance for him, haven't we?"
V