REALITIES
I had finished breakfast half an hour, and now loafed by my funk-hole
while the colonel shaved. The corporal came over to me, dirty and very
tired. He looked at me, head on one side, until I wondered what he
wanted. At last he said: “Have you heard about Lewis?”
“What about Lewis?” I answered.
“Had his head blown off this morning.”
“My God!” I said. We looked at each other a little while. “How did it
happen?”
“He was Sands’s telephonist first shift. When Sands got to the other end
there was no sign of Lewis, and I was told to ask about him on my road.
An infantry bloke said there was a dead artilleryman round the corner. I
found Lewis there all right, covered with a sack. Half his head’s blown
off.” The corporal felt his chin, which badly wanted a shave.
“Damned bad luck for poor Lewis,” I said, after a silence. And what more
was there to say? The corporal shrugged his shoulders, lingered a moment,
and went off to his dug-out.
I sat down on the ground to wait for the colonel. It was early yet; but
already the sun menaced us. It was the start of another heartbreaking
day. The flies in their tens of thousands blackened every shady place,
and made ready to drowse and drone through the noon. For the thousandth
time since breakfast, I brushed them from my lips. While I sat there with
drooped head, thinking a little of Lewis and a good deal of nothing at
all, Sands climbed down the path towards me. I got up.
“Lake, the colonel won’t want you this morning. You are to wait here
for Bombardier Norris and the stretcher, and guide him to Lewis. You
know where Lewis is: in the communication trench leading to Clayton’s.
Afterwards you can go on to the B Battery observing station. The colonel
is going that way.”
I answered, “Yes, sir,” and he said nothing more, yet he did not go away,
but stayed on smiling vacantly and looking at his fingers. I think he had
a sneaking liking for me, as had I for him. And thinking of Lewis, at
last I said: “There won’t be any of the first lot left by the time this
is over. We joined too soon.”
He answered with a snort of appreciation. “Yes, it will be the hundredth
battalion which comes back. And the girls will hooray and the papers
will talk about heroes, and it will be forgotten we ever went.” He waved
the flies from his face, and then he said: “Well, you understand about
Lewis?” And away he went.
I sat down again and dozed as before. Norris did not turn up for a long
while, and I had no quarrel against him on that score. It was between ten
and eleven when he and the two stretcher-bearers came climbing up the
hill. The sun was high up, and very threatening. Sands sent the party
to me, and they came and dropped on to the ground to pant and perspire.
Then we lit cigarettes, and smoked a little while and talked wearily. I
exchanged my news for theirs, and at the finish of the cigarettes I said:
“How about it now?” Norris said, “Right-o,” and the other men picked up
the stretcher. We started to climb the hill.
The mail had arrived, and half-way up men sorted a heap of bags, and all
with nothing to do loafed round on the chance of spotting something of
their own. Letters were the one interest remaining to this drooping army.
A good or bad mail made or marred a fellow’s temper for the week. This
collection was for the infantry, and we passed it by without interest.
We climbed past the Infantry Headquarters, and up the next pinch to the
mouth of the communication trench where Lewis was said to be. The place
was quite deserted, except for hosts of flies. The trench was high and
narrow, with many turns, and safe enough from shrapnel fire. We tramped
along, panting and perspiring, and presently came on the body of Lewis on
its back on the ground, three parts covered over with sacks. Lying thus,
it looked no different from a sleeping man, for all covered themselves
after this manner for shade and to escape the flies. But the trench
walls told the truth. For a dozen yards the brains of Lewis clung to
them. They could be traced by the flies settled there. It was a sight
sickening to see. And on the trench floor were pieces of scalp and bits
of raw flesh.
We said nothing as we stopped, but we brushed the flies from our faces,
and somebody put down the stretcher. Out came cigarettes. The heat and
the stiffness of the hill forced a rest before beginning work. The
stretcher-bearers sat on the stretcher. I settled opposite, and Norris
crouched at the head of the body. The flies, which had been disturbed
by our coming, settled again at their task. We were at the straightest
part of the trench; it ran a dozen yards without a turning, and it was
because of this the shell had found a way in. It was a chance in fifty—in
a hundred; but the ballot had been against Lewis. Well, he had gone, and
we had stayed behind to sweat and curse the flies.
The blue smoke of our cigarettes curled into the air, for there was no
breeze to scatter it. The flies camped in black masses on the sacking,
the sacking lay wearily over the corpse, and the boots and leggings poked
from underneath. They were big boots: Lewis was a tall fellow, and his
feet had not been the least part of him. There was a shovel near, and I
got up and collected pieces of his head, and put them on the sacking by
his body, and covered them over. I took care not to explore underneath
the sack. I had no relish for what might be there.
So this was the end of Lewis, the beloved of his family, the fellow
whose face had been the face of a girl. The golden hair was blotted
with blood and dirt, and the worms were to make a bridal chamber of the
sockets which had held his blue eyes. Presently there would be tears
shed for him when the news went home, but he himself needed no pity. He
had done his guard, and now he was off duty till Gabriel’s réveillé. Our
cigarettes ended at the same time.
“What about it?” Norris said to the others.
“Right-o!” And the four of us got to our feet. I spoke next.
“I’ll give you a hand as far as the valley.”
We spread out the stretcher, and laid on it the body. This was done
without moving the sack. A last search was made for remains that might
have escaped us. And then began the tiresome journey to the beach.
We had stirred up a regular hornet’s nest, and we had ourselves to blame.
The colonel had said: “If you hit a man right and hit him left, and then
kick him in the behind, he is generally too surprised to do anything.
That’s our stunt for this afternoon.” And so we had fixed up this little
show. Our three batteries, two Scottish howitzer batteries and a New
Zealand battery, were agreed to engage the enemy at the same moment.
Directly he opened his mouth for the afternoon battle we were to slap at
him. We had extra ammunition to spend. The colonel was like a schoolboy
on holiday. He invited a couple of infantrymen, and we went away to a new
observing station connected by telephone with the old place. I sat by to
take messages in case of emergency.
The battle had opened well. Their guns no more than sniped at us, and
very soon we shut them up altogether. The colonel peered into his
periscope and chuckled to himself. Then all of a sudden they woke up
and answered with big shells along our first line of trenches. It was
our turn to be surprised. Our laughter lost its hearty ring. Our little
party, the engineers of this business, had chosen a safe place for the
present; but matters looked uncomfortable to the left hand, and the
blameless infantry suffered. I sat by the colonel’s feet, gathering
how matters went from his brief remarks, from the explosions, and from
the voices of our own shells tearing overhead. To and fro before me
men pushed past on some duty or other, with lively faces and lively
movements. The telephonist was crouched at my back, receiver strapped
to his head. He repeated the colonel’s orders In monotonous voice, and
called out the replies. I was sleeping partner in the fight. I crossed my
legs and put my chin in the cup of my hand, waiting what might happen.
The colonel’s face was crimson from the sun and from his feelings.
Something was going wrong, for he was losing patience. He shifted from
one leg to the other and frowned, and stared through the periscope, and
snapped out orders at the telephonist. Just now I took the cigarette from
my mouth, and looked at it. It was half-smoked.
“Why have the New Zealanders shut up shop?” the colonel burst out.
“What’s happened to them? Find out from Mr. Sands what’s happened to
them!”
The telephonist buzzed the call, but got no answer. He buzzed again with
like result. Alternately he buzzed and called for the next minute. Then
he said: “Can’t raise them, sir.” The colonel was too busy to hear, and
he went on calling.
“Have you got that through?” said the colonel, all of a sudden.
“No, sir. Can’t raise them.”
“What’s up?”
“Don’t know, sir. The line must be cut.”
“Oh, damn!” The colonel chewed his top lip. “Are you there, Lake?”
“Yes, sir.” I got up.
“Go along to Mr. Sands, and ask what’s happened to the New Zealanders.
Tell him the line is cut, and he must send someone along to mend it at
once. Hurry, man, there’s no time to lose!”
I knocked the ash from my cigarette, and put the butt into my mouth. Then
I turned to the left hand and hurried along the trench. Almost at once I
passed the traverse corner, and the group I had left were lost to sight.
I went at a trot wherever the trench was empty, but this was seldom, as
much of the way the men were wide awake and in places they stood to arms.
There was anxiety on most faces. Usually I progressed at a fast walk; but
there were times when I must elbow the way forward. The fellows talked
hard to one another, and those who knew me for an artilleryman called out
to know what we were up to. In good truth I was advancing into the danger
zone; the roar of the bursting shells was more terrible, and there were
frequent marks of damage. All at once I came on a wrecked machine-gun
emplacement where a shell had come in. The spot suggested the passage of
an earthquake, and drops of blood were spilled about in plenty. Two men
dug feverishly into the upheaved earth, and I saw the legs of a buried
body sticking out. A dead man lay farther down the trench where he had
been carried. He was plastered over with earth, his eyes and mouth were
filled up with it. I pushed past the gathering. One of the diggers called
after me, “The parapet’s down there, mate. Look slick as you pass the
open bit. The snipers are watching it.” I waved a hand to show I heard.
I dodged by the open bit, and true enough two bullets chipped the earth
behind me. There seemed no shrapnel falling; but that was of little
account, the trenches were deep and safe enough for small stuff. But
these big howitzer shells were a different matter. Nothing was proof
against them. When one roared down in the neighbourhood, tearing to
pieces everything, the heart to fight left a man. It was war more fitting
gods. As I went along the pace shortened up my breath. I came on another
dead man laid on his back, and had to manœuvre to pass without treading
on him. I puffed at the cigarette end, for it was the last of the week’s
issue. It tasted what it was—cheap and nasty. As half the journey was
done, I heard the scream of a shell right atop of me: there was a thud
and then a dull roar which made my ears sing again, and the parapet a few
yards distant crashed in. The ground broke into a trembling, and a dead
man was thrown face up at my very feet. There came another scream hard
atop of the first: another thud, another roar, so that my head buzzed
again; the parapet nearer at hand toppled down, and the earth, flooding
up, trapped me round the ankles. The ground shook to its centre, and I
swear the dead man clapped his hands. I could have called out in sudden
terror. I kept my head and kicked myself free, jumped over the dead man,
and clambered across the mound of earth. Just then there was a noise of
footsteps, and three men with white, twitching faces ran up. I warrant
they thought the devil was at their heels. The sight of them pulled me
together. I put my arms on either side of the trench and faced them
coldly. The leading man was forced to come to a standstill. I said a few
things to them, and from the way I spoke they took me for an officer; and
in ten seconds I had them scuttling back to their posts like the cowardly
hounds they were. I ran on again.
Sands leaned from his funk-hole in a very bored manner. “Message, sir,
from the C.O.!” I called out. “Please find out why New Zealand Battery
has ceased fire.” Great sadness came into Sands’s face: he nodded his
head to himself. “Lake,” he said, “you are too slow to be in time for
your own funeral. I got that message two minutes ago over the ’phone.”
I sat down to get back breath. The butt of the cigarette was in my lips,
and I spat it out. The whole affair had taken place in the smoking of a
cigarette end.
* * * * *
The summer wore on and came to its height. All day long the sun stared
from a cloudless sky on to the baked earth. The midday heat was so fierce
that the flies died. Dysentery and typhus took hold in earnest of the
army. The hours were so many, it seemed the day would never end; the days
were so many, it seemed the summer must last for ever. Men woke in the
morning with the languor of despair. Even the zest for our evening battle
left us: days passed when the enemy went to bed in peace. Instead of
fighting, the colonel vanished to the dug-out of a friend, and left me to
stare over the desolate debatable land and watch for the flash of guns.
A keen haze shivered above the empty spaces, until the sun touched the
horizon edge in the form of a crimson ball. That was the signal for the
return home.
To be truthful, the nights were kinder than the days, and at sunset an
evening breeze moved from the sea. So one gathered energy for the morrow.
Often I sat on the balcony of my funk-hole, staring into the eye of the
setting sun. Many lovely sunsets have I watched spread over the bay,
and have fed on them my starved eyes. Next the sky faded, the sea grew
dim and shadowy, and overhead stars came out. The cool of night moved
abroad. It was drink to a thirsting man. The valley grew hushed, as now
the armies forgot to fire at night. Or may be sudden alarm woke the
echoes. Star shells scattered in the sky, a burst of rapid fire broke
from the trenches, and sometimes our guns opened their mouths, and sent
shells moving through the dark like red-hot Cinders. But more often, as I
have said, a hush fell on the valley. Most nights the fellows came over
for a visit. It was the hour when men sucked at their pipes and opened
their hearts. Many a strange love story was told under the eyes of the
waiting stars. You saw the red glow of the cigarettes and pipes, and
a face lit up for a moment. And after the stories—as silently as they
arrived—the men went off to their dug-outs. It remained for me to unroll
blankets and waterproof sheets, to undress and lie down. And sooner or
later care was forgotten in sleep.
In the course of time the enemy received considerable reinforcements of
big guns and ammunition, and while the papers were declaring Turkey was
on the verge of collapse, our trenches were knocked atop of us in right
good style.
The last time I saw Sands, he wandered over at sunset to squat down by my
dug-out. He had done this same thing once or twice before: the habit was
growing on him. May be melancholy had overcome at last his imperturbable
spirit. We sat side by side staring at the sea. This evening my visitor
was strangely depressed.
“Lake,” he said, “what do you think of it?”
I shrugged my shoulders. When he got no answer he turned his head, and,
our eyes meeting, he laughed. It was one of his short choky affairs. That
ended our conversation. A great many fellows were going down to the sea
with towels about their necks, and I wanted to join them. But Sands sat
where he was, and I must wait for him to make a move. I spoke next.
“Their artillery is too much of a good thing now: it’s over the odds
being plugged at with six- and eight-inch shells. There ought to be a
rule, nothing bigger than three-inch allowed, anyhow from the other
side.” He chuckled. I went on. “A fellow’s not safe anywhere. A man has
got to sit and chance having the whole place blown in on him. It comes
hard on a fellow’s nerves waiting to be blown up. You have a bad time
every night where you are. It’s the worst place in the line.”
“Yes,” Sands said, “it’s pretty unhealthy about five o’clock. They have
got our range properly. This evening they started to lob six-inch shells
beside me. I had been relieved, but I thought I would see how many I
could stand. I waited for three, and then I left. The next one came into
the observing station, and blew the place to blazes. It was as well I had
shifted.” He gave a series of chuckles.
Soon afterwards he went off, and I picked up a towel and joined the
throng moving to the beach. Half the army bathed at sundown, and on the
way home men lined up and filled water-bottles for the next day. About
sunset hour the beach was filled with naked men treading over the
treacherous pebbles to the water, and with others drying and dressing.
The piers overflowed divers, and the waves were dotted with the heads
of swimmers, and there was more laughter and shouting than through all
the rest of the day. But a false note jarred this harmony. Day and night
waited Beachy Bill with devilish patience. There would come a whistle, a
bang, and a great spluttering on the waves or woodwork of the piers, and
the divers raced for cover, and the swimmers struck out for land. Beneath
the cliffs men looked into each other’s eyes and laughed nervously. And
may be rose the cry for stretcher-bearers.
At breakfast-time one morning a man gathering firewood climbed too high
up the opposite hill. We watched him, saying he took a risk. A sniper’s
bullet hit him through the chest, and he began to roll down the hill,
and as he rolled he screamed like a wounded hare. I never heard a man
scream that way before. He was tangled up in a root before he had rolled
many yards, and then the stretcher-bearers took charge. I don’t know what
became of him; but my appetite for breakfast had lost its edge.
I was scratched myself about this time. I sat at sunset in the dug-out
yarning with one of the fellows. The enemy shelled us in a happy-go-lucky
way, and a piece of casing from a high-explosive shell grazed me on the
side of the head. I came off with a headache and a little blood drawn;
but it was a close touch.
Summer wore on. We on the Peninsula seemed no nearer victory; and the
news from France and Russia was depressing. This was the time of the
Russian retreat. Wisely, we were given good and bad news impartially,
which made us believe the good news when it arrived. The information came
by Reuter’s telegrams, which were posted daily on the biscuit boxes by
the beach and on notice boards at different headquarters. Men coming down
to fill water-bottles, or to bathe, crowded the announcements and read
with brief comment. The reading over, they cursed the heat, the flies,
and their misfortunes, and tramped uphill again. There was no heart in
affairs. The old fierceness had left the enemy equally with ourselves. At
long intervals one or other goaded himself into wrath; but more generally
there were to be heard only the crack of snipers’ bullets, and the
occasional voice of a gun.
Then were born some more rumours of reinforcements and a fresh advance;
and there seemed truth in the matter when ammunition and guns appeared.
Batteries of five-inch and six-inch howitzers arrived, and with them came
barge loads of shells. Provision depots were formed in sheltered places
in anticipation of the reinforcements. A gleam of hope lit the future.
Says the colonel to me one day as we pass the fork where Shrapnel
and Monash Valleys join—“I can send you down to the Column as acting
bombardier.”
“Sir,” I answer, “acting bombardier is a thankless job. The men know an
acting bombardier draws no extra pay, and they value him accordingly.”
“Well,” says the colonel, “a man has got to make a beginning.”
That is all our speech, but next day I am ordered down to the Column, and
I go as full bombardier.