DEATH AND THE BATTERY
We had yarned outside the cookhouse since the midday meal. Oxbridge was
there, and Stone, and Prince; and one or two others, I think. We sat in
the open on biscuit tins or stones, or whatever was handy; for the day
was sunny and quite mild. There was nothing to do, and we talked on and
on.
The tireless musketry fire rolled from the valley head, and enemy shells
still burst haphazard along the beach and over the sea. But for an hour
or more headquarters had been free from such attention, and that was all
that concerned us. Instead of pondering over shells, old Sam Oxbridge
had grown homesick again, and was holding forth now on a theory of his
own—that after six months’ active service, the Government would send
home all men wanting to go. His reasoning seemed a bit faulty; but he
convinced himself.
In spite of the lazy shelling, the beach was thick with the usual crowds.
And the bay was full of vessels. Old Sam stood up at last, tall and
with a stoop, and remarked all this with unappreciative eye. I went
on stirring Welsh rabbit in a mess-tin lid, all my hopes fixed on it.
The fire was nearly done, and called for new wood, and the cheese was
simmering. It was a toss up which would win.
Sam’s arguments had not impressed us much, but somehow or other we
stopped talking, and one looked out to sea, and one cleaned his pipe, and
I went on cooking. We were all sick of the business, that was the truth.
Men climbed up and down the hillside, moving to their dug-outs and that
sort of thing; fragile clouds passed across the sun and darkened its
face a few moments; the breeze rustled over the few bushes spared by the
cook’s axe: such things I saw while I knelt and watched the Welsh rabbit
through critical moments. Old Sam still stared into the distance, I
noticed that too, and just then a gust of wind filled my eyes with smoke,
and with an oath I sprang up behind him. As my eyes cleared he turned to
move away, and that instant something struck him with a hard, dull sound,
and he breathed out a long-drawn “Oh!” and threw his hands forward and
fell upon the ground. He got up again and fell down once more. A shell
had burst along the hill.
The doctor, who saw it happen, ran up, and we carried Sam under shelter
of the cookhouse and laid him on his back. His eyes were shut, and his
breathing was loud and difficult, and already he was turning a horrid
grey. The Red Cross orderlies joined us.
We, who could not help, drew back out of the way under the shelter of
the cookhouse walls. The doctor leaned forward and pulled up Sam’s shirt,
baring his chest. Below the heart was a small red mark. A second shell
burst upon the hill, and a third farther along. They were ranging for us
again.
None of us said a word, and only one man moved: the doctor was taking
a syringe from its case. First he held it against the light, and next
pushed it into the dying man’s arm.
A fresh burst of fire swept the hillside, and each man looked to himself
wondering if he were next. Shells began to fall about us. They began to
fall fast and to burst close around us. Soon I was looking at the sea
through a wall of red dust. We huddled back against the cookhouse, and
Stone’s heart went thump, thump, against my chest, and he lay as still as
a mouse. Prince, on the other side of him, had lost his head altogether,
and, as the shells burst, threw his arms out to push them off. The dust
rose thicker and thicker, and finally the sun shone through it in the
form of a sullen red ball.
We watched the coming of Death. Sam never moved again, except once when
he turned his head slightly; but the unnatural breathing went on, went on
and grew more feeble. The doctor sat with his back to us, and his head
bowed between his shoulders. He moved seldom; seldom, I think, lifted his
eyes from the dying man. By him the orderlies knelt, huddled together to
get what cover they could; and the shells would swoop down with a roar
and a scattering of the dust. Nobody said anything that I can remember,
but time passed and left us watching the still figure, and listening to
the horrible breaths.
At last the firing passed farther along the slope, and the dust settled
once more. The adjutant came down from his dug-out. “Is he badly hit?” he
said, looking down and jerking his head.
“The bullet went in below the heart. He is still alive, and that is about
all.”
The adjutant raised his eyebrows, nodded, and went away. We became silent
again.
Hawkins came back from the valley next, and passed by us. I thought he
was staring at Sam, but he never saw him. The doctor spoke at once. “You
had better get under cover, Hawkins. They have been dusting things up
round here just now.” “Yes, I saw that,” Hawkins said, with a laugh. And
he curled up in his dug-out.
Presently the waiting was over. Death had won—the last trench was taken,
the final fortress stormed. Captain Lawler got to his feet, and spoke to
the orderlies. “Is the stretcher here?”
I looked into Sam’s face and an old thought came back to me. Death is
not often beautiful. Here was no heroic end; here was no bold gaze,
which told of past duties well done. Nothing of that kind, nothing. But,
instead, a silly smile where the mouth dropped, and a little blood upon
the palate, and a skin turning yellow and blue. Not heroic, my friends;
not beautiful!
I stared down at Sam while they covered him with a blanket. Thoughts I
would have put aside at that place and at that hour came to me.
Friend Sam, you were rather “a rotter”—weak and easy to lead. Life owed
you more years; but they would have been years without profit. Now you
have died at the start of life, and others following will remember your
sacrifice and take heart. You could have done no better thing. Methinks
you will sleep soundest here, where the cliffs climb up by Sari Bahr.
If you should step it out afar
To the pebbly beach of Sari Bahr,
Full many rude graves you’ll find there are,
By the road the sappers drove there.
Crooked the cross, and brief the prayer,
Close they lie by the hillside bare,
Captain and private, pair by pair,
Looking back on the days they strove there.
Aye, still they lie, their work all done,
Resting at ease in the soil well won;
And listening hard for Gabriel’s gun,
To spring up and salute as behove there.