Suddenly they heard voices whispering to the rear of the hole, some
distance away.
“There they are,” cried Reilly, eagerly. “That’s Shaw and Hurley with
the rations. Whist! Listen.”
They crouched against the bank, listening. The voices were a mumble.
The Corporal peered over the top. Although the night was quite bright,
he could distinguish nothing moving over the dun back of the uneven
earth. Here and there a pool of water gleamed, a coil of wire stood
out, a stake, a sheet of zinc. In the distance there was a mound,
running zig-zag: a trench. The earth was monotonously similar. All
holes, water and débris. Dead. An unroofed tomb.
The whispering went on. It stopped at moments and then there were
sounds of feet crawling over the hard earth. A Verey light was shot
by the enemy. The Corporal bowed his head and lay still. The voices
ceased. The air became as bright as by day while the streaming light
fell beyond the hole. Then the light withered, hissing. Darkness
returned. There was a rush of feet. A machine-gun began to rattle, the
bullets speeding past the hole on the right.
“They’ve copped them,” whispered McDonald.
“Hush!”
The firing stopped. Then there was a rapid rush of feet going to the
right. Then a body dropped to the earth, heavily. They could hear a
clank of metal striking the frost-bound earth. The machine-gun again
opened fire. Another Verey light came over. Brilliant light was
followed by darkness. A terrible silence.
“That was Hurley running, away to the right,” whispered McDonald.
“Where’s Shaw?”
Reilly swallowed his breath and muttered, “I’m going out to look for
him.”
“Wait a mo’,” said the Corporal. “Listen!”
They heard a groan.
“That’s Shaw,” said Reilly. “He’s hit. I’m going....”
“Wait,” said the Corporal. “Here he comes. He’s not hit.”
Peering, they saw Shaw, crawling along slowly, with a sack on his back.
He was hauling himself on his belly, using his hands and one leg. The
other leg dragged after him.
“He’s hit!” cried Reilly, jumping up to the top of the hole.
“Down!” cried the Corporal.
Another Verey light came over. Reilly dropped to the ground. The glare
of the light caught Shaw as he lay prone, like a snail, with his grub
sack on his back. His steel hat had fallen back on his neck. The
stocking cap which he wore beneath the hat covered half his skull. The
front of his skull, above his forehead, shone baldly in the light.
The light had scarcely died down when the firing began again. In spite
of that, Reilly jumped to his feet, ran to Shaw and lay down beside him.
“Are you hit, ’20?” he said.
“That you, ’48?” whispered Shaw. “Yes. Got it somewhere in the leg.
Hip, I think. Take these rations.”
Lying flat on the ground, Reilly took the sack. The machine-gun was
still firing, trying to find them. Being old soldiers they lay so flat
on the ground that their bodies hardly broke the surface, even though
they lay in an exposed place.
“I’ll pull you along,” said Reilly, “when this stops.”
Shaw ground his teeth. Then he whispered, “You go on. I’ll make my way
back. I think I got another one somewhere.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know. Somewhere in the back. I think I’m warned for parade the
other side. I just wanted to bring up the rations.”
Reilly swore at the enemy machine gunner in a long and obscene oath.
His voice was broken. The other casualties meant little to him. They
were only war soldiers. But Shaw was an old soldier, one of the
“regiment,” part of his life; joined to him in that close brotherhood
which is more binding even than blood relationship, the comradeship of
men who are bound by oath and ancient traditions to give their whole
lives to the service of a regiment.
Lying there together on the ground, while the machine hissed at
them, as if in conscious hatred, the two men clasped hands, and were
silent for a few moments; and without thinking of it actually, the
consciousness of their past associations welled gloriously through
their beings in a wave of romantic splendour; all the pride of a
soldier’s life, the rattle of drums, the thunderous music of brass
instruments, the applause of multitudes as the disciplined companies
march past with a swaying rhythm, the singing in taverns of war songs;
battles, and after them, the parade of the survivors before the
battalion commander, who, astride his horse, harangues his men in a
voice that is harsh with pride and sorrow for the dead; all the queer,
foolish romance of a soldier’s life that only a professional soldier
can understand.
Shaw made no complaint. Neither did he cry out at his wounds, but
calmly accepted them as part of his duty. And he had crawled three
hundred yards, badly wounded, with the rations, without even thinking
that he was doing anything brave or worthy of praise. He was merely
obeying an order. His voice was steady. Only by the grinding of his
teeth did he give any sign of the torture he was suffering.
It is such men who give glory to the foul horror of war.
“Half a mo’,” said Reilly. “I’ll just take the rations over and then
I’ll...”
“Don’t worry, ’48,” said Shaw. “Take the rations. I’ll get back.”
“No. Don’t stir. Are you bleeding much?”
“Don’t worry, ’48,” said Shaw. “Go on with the rations. I’m finished
soldiering.”
Reilly picked up the sack and plunged headlong towards the hole. He
threw himself down into it. They began to question him excitedly, but
he waved his hands and muttered, “Shaw’s wounded out there, Corporal.
Got any...?”
They hurriedly procured field dressings. He dashed out again, pursued
by bullets. He found that Shaw had crawled back about ten yards and now
lay with his head and chest in a small hole, while the remainder of his
body stuck up on level ground. Reilly slid into the hole, raised the
head and looked at the face. Shaw’s lips were moving but his eyes were
fixed.
“Say, mate,” said Reilly.
Shaw answered by vomiting a quantity of blood with a horrid sound.
Then he began to shudder. Reilly laid down the head quietly. He also
shuddered. Then he began to mutter, “It ain’t right. Something wrong
here. We’ll all be wiped out. Your time has come, ’48 Reilly. You’re
for it, lad.”
He began to twist the ends of his moustache and gazed at Shaw’s dead
body, no longer feeling any emotion or sympathy. Shaw, the old soldier,
had ceased to be. That thing was only a corpse. He shook his head and
shuddered to banish a vague thought that had crawled into his mind. It
was a doubt as to the wisdom of his superiors, a doubt as to the use
of war. He brushed it aside and became thoughtless, without sympathy
for the dead, without emotion as regarded his own future. He began to
grumble in a soldierly manner about the cold.
He was getting to his feet to go back and report Shaw’s death to the
Corporal, when he heard sounds of a man approaching from the right. He
hailed the sounds. A voice answered, saying, “Corporal Wallace. Who are
you?”
Reilly answered. The Corporal crawled over.
“Who’s that?” he whispered, nodding towards Shaw’s corpse.
Reilly answered. Corporal Wallace’s strained expression only for a
moment showed signs of being concerned with the death of Shaw, by a
twitching of the nostrils. Then he looked sharply at Reilly and said,
“Tell Corporal Williams to come along with me. Where’s your post? You
blokes are going over on a raid.”
“Post’s over there,” said Reilly. “It’s only a couple of yards.”
“I’ve got to get back to my post,” said Corporal Wallace. “Tell him to
come along. See? It’s over there.”
He pointed. Then he crawled away to the right. Reilly crawled off to
the front. They crawled in different directions from the corpse of
Shaw, which had ceased to crawl and lay idle in death.
When Reilly got back, they had already opened the sack and begun to
share the rations.
“Shaw’s dead,” said Reilly.
“There’s no bread and no fags,” said McDonald.
“Is he dead?” said the Corporal.
“You’re to go over to Corporal Wallace’s post,” said Reilly. “There’s
going to be a raid. We’re for it.”
The Corporal jumped up. “Only lousy biscuits,” he said. “God! That’s
tough about Shaw. I’ve only four men now and look at them.”
“Warn the stretcher-bearers,” said Reilly. “We can’t leave him lying
out there.”
“Whereabouts is Wallace?”
Reilly pointed, showing him the direction.
“You take charge here,” said the Corporal, leaving the hole. “Don’t let
anybody touch the rations.”
He crawled out under heavy fire and twisted himself along the ground.
Gunn looked after him and swore under his breath. Reilly looked at Gunn
and suddenly got very angry with the fellow.
“I’m in charge here now, Bill,” he said. “Cut it out.”
“What?” said Gunn.
“Put a sock in it,” said Reilly. “A Corporal is a Corporal and what’s
more he’s a good soldier, even if he has his faults.”
Gunn stared at Reilly and then pointed to the huddled figure of Lamont.
“Look at my mate,” he whispered, fiercely.
Reilly looked. Lamont sat very still with his arms folded and his head
on his chest.
“Kid should have been...” began Reilly. Then he added, “What’s the
matter with him?”
“You go and touch him,” said Gunn. “See? Go and touch him. He doesn’t
know.”
“Who doesn’t know?”
“The Corporal.”
Reilly stepped back and looked at McDonald and saw the latter putting a
tin of bully beef into his haversack.
“What are you doing with those rations?”
“Aren’t they divided?” said McDonald. “I’m replacing my...”
“You go and touch him,” said Gunn, crouching towards Reilly.
There was a note of malignant joy in Gunn’s voice. Reilly began to
tremble. Then he shook himself and went over to Lamont.
“Hey, lad,” he whispered.
“He won’t hear you,” said Gunn, going on one knee. “Touch him, though.
Touch his face. Then you’ll see. I didn’t want to draw attention to him
while the Corporal was here. See? He’s better that way. Look at the
smile on his face. He was thinking of her. God only knows how he did
it or where he is now. But he’s not here. I knew he had a plan, but I
thought it was something else. He never said a word. He tipped my arm
there about an hour ago, but I didn’t spot anything. See?”
“Hey! lad,” said Reilly. “Good Christ! Is he...?”
“See that?” said Gunn excitedly. “Not a move. He can’t be touched. They
can shout as much as they like but they can’t waken him. Fire a shot
past his ear now to see can you waken him.”
“Good Christ!” said Reilly, kneeling beside the boy and putting his ear
to his chest.
“What’s up?” said McDonald, coming over.
“You touch him, then,” said Gunn arrogantly to McDonald. “Then you’ll
see. They terrified the life out of him. That’s it. It’s not the cold
that did it. It’s they did it.”
“He’s stone cold,” said Reilly. “Good God! That’s five.”
“You can’t touch him, though,” said Gunn, in an exalted voice. “She
wrote to me and said I was to look after him, not to let anybody touch
him. See? Nobody has laid a hand on him. He just sat down there and
went to sleep.”
McDonald went back to the rations and picked up a biscuit which he
began to chew.
“Leave those rations alone,” cried Reilly.
Gunn folded his arms and continued to talk rapidly. Reilly went over,
took the biscuit from McDonald and growled, “I’m in charge here.
Understand that?”
McDonald munched the piece of biscuit he had in his mouth and mumbled,
“Is he dead?”
“Every man has got his rights,” said Gunn. “And any man that takes his
rights from another man deserves to die. But who took them? A million
men can’t be killed by one man. But one man can. But may God, if there
is a God, curse and burn whoever is responsible for the pain in my
head.”
Then he sat down beside Lamont and said, “Hey! Reilly!”
“What do you want?” said Reilly.
“You can’t touch him,” said Gunn.
“Where the hell is the Corporal?” said Reilly.
The three of them were now sitting at a distance, one from the other.
McDonald’s teeth began to chatter. “Oh! My bones!” he mumbled. “Oh! my
bloody bones!”