Peter Pienaar Goes to the Wars
This chapter is the tale that Peter told me—long after, sitting beside
a stove in the hotel at Bergen, where we were waiting for our boat.
He climbed on the roof and shinned down the broken bricks of the outer
wall. The outbuilding we were lodged in abutted on a road, and was
outside the proper _enceinte_ of the house. At ordinary times I have no
doubt there were sentries, but Sandy and Hussin had probably managed to
clear them off this end for a little. Anyhow he saw nobody as he
crossed the road and dived into the snowy fields.
He knew very well that he must do the job in the twelve hours of
darkness ahead of him. The immediate front of a battle is a bit too
public for anyone to lie hidden in by day, especially when two or three
feet of snow make everything kenspeckle. Now hurry in a job of this
kind was abhorrent to Peter’s soul, for, like all Boers, his tastes
were for slowness and sureness, though he could hustle fast enough when
haste was needed. As he pushed through the winter fields he reckoned up
the things in his favour, and found the only one the dirty weather.
There was a high, gusty wind, blowing scuds of snow but never coming to
any great fall. The frost had gone, and the lying snow was as soft as
butter. That was all to the good, he thought, for a clear, hard night
would have been the devil.
The first bit was through farmlands, which were seamed with little
snow-filled water-furrows. Now and then would come a house and a patch
of fruit trees, but there was nobody abroad. The roads were crowded
enough, but Peter had no use for roads. I can picture him swinging
along with his bent back, stopping every now and then to sniff and
listen, alert for the foreknowledge of danger. When he chose he could
cover country like an antelope.
Soon he struck a big road full of transport. It was the road from
Erzerum to the Palantuken pass, and he waited his chance and crossed
it. After that the ground grew rough with boulders and patches of
thorn-trees, splendid cover where he could move fast without worrying.
Then he was pulled up suddenly on the bank of a river. The map had
warned him of it, but not that it would be so big.
It was a torrent swollen with melting snow and rains in the hills, and
it was running fifty yards wide. Peter thought he could have swum it,
but he was very averse to a drenching. “A wet man makes too much
noise,” he said, and besides, there was the off-chance that the current
would be too much for him. So he moved up stream to look for a bridge.
In ten minutes he found one, a new-made thing of trestles, broad enough
to take transport wagons. It was guarded, for he heard the tramp of a
sentry, and as he pulled himself up the bank he observed a couple of
long wooden huts, obviously some kind of billets. These were on the
near side of the stream, about a dozen yards from the bridge. A door
stood open and a light showed in it, and from within came the sound of
voices.... Peter had a sense of hearing like a wild animal, and he
could detect even from the confused gabble that the voices were German.
As he lay and listened someone came over the bridge. It was an officer,
for the sentry saluted. The man disappeared in one of the huts. Peter
had struck the billets and repairing shop of a squad of German sappers.
He was just going ruefully to retrace his steps and try to find a good
place to swim the stream when it struck him that the officer who had
passed him wore clothes very like his own. He, too, had had a grey
sweater and a Balaclava helmet, for even a German officer ceases to be
dressy on a mid-winter’s night in Anatolia. The idea came to Peter to
walk boldly across the bridge and trust to the sentry not seeing the
difference.
He slipped round a corner of the hut and marched down the road. The
sentry was now at the far end, which was lucky, for if the worst came
to the worst he could throttle him. Peter, mimicking the stiff German
walk, swung past him, his head down as if to protect him from the wind.
The man saluted. He did more, for he offered conversation. The officer
must have been a genial soul.
“It’s a rough night, Captain,” he said in German. “The wagons are late.
Pray God, Michael hasn’t got a shell in his lot. They’ve begun putting
over some big ones.”
Peter grunted good night in German and strode on. He was just leaving
the road when he heard a great halloo behind him.
The real officer must have appeared on his heels, and the sentry’s
doubts had been stirred. A whistle was blown, and, looking back, Peter
saw lanterns waving in the gale. They were coming out to look for the
duplicate.
He stood still for a second, and noticed the lights spreading out south
of the road. He was just about to dive off it on the north side when he
was aware of a difficulty. On that side a steep bank fell to a ditch,
and the bank beyond bounded a big flood. He could see the dull ruffle
of the water under the wind.
On the road itself he would soon be caught; south of it the search was
beginning; and the ditch itself was no place to hide, for he saw a
lantern moving up it. Peter dropped into it all the same and made a
plan. The side below the road was a little undercut and very steep. He
resolved to plaster himself against it, for he would be hidden from the
road, and a searcher in the ditch would not be likely to explore the
unbroken sides. It was always a maxim of Peter’s that the best
hiding-place was the worst, the least obvious to the minds of those who
were looking for you.
He waited until the lights both in the road and the ditch came nearer,
and then he gripped the edge with his left hand, where some stones gave
him purchase, dug the toes of his boots into the wet soil and stuck
like a limpet. It needed some strength to keep the position for long,
but the muscles of his arms and legs were like whipcord.
The searcher in the ditch soon got tired, for the place was very wet,
and joined his comrades on the road. They came along, running, flashing
the lanterns into the trench, and exploring all the immediate
countryside.
Then rose a noise of wheels and horses from the opposite direction.
Michael and the delayed wagons were approaching. They dashed up at a
great pace, driven wildly, and for one horrid second Peter thought they
were going to spill into the ditch at the very spot where he was
concealed. The wheels passed so close to the edge that they almost
grazed his fingers. Somebody shouted an order and they pulled up a yard
or two nearer the bridge. The others came up and there was a
consultation.
Michael swore he had passed no one on the road.
“That fool Hannus has seen a ghost,” said the officer testily. “It’s
too cold for this child’s play.”
Hannus, almost in tears, repeated his tale. “The man spoke to me in
good German,” he cried.
“Ghost or no ghost he is safe enough up the road,” said the officer.
“Kind God, that was a big one!” He stopped and stared at a shell-burst,
for the bombardment from the east was growing fiercer.
They stood discussing the fire for a minute and presently moved off.
Peter gave them two minutes’ law and then clambered back to the highway
and set off along it at a run. The noise of the shelling and the wind,
together with the thick darkness, made it safe to hurry.
He left the road at the first chance and took to the broken country.
The ground was now rising towards a spur of the Palantuken, on the far
slope of which were the Turkish trenches. The night had begun by being
pretty nearly as black as pitch; even the smoke from the shell
explosions, which is often visible in darkness, could not be seen. But
as the wind blew the snow-clouds athwart the sky patches of stars came
out. Peter had a compass, but he didn’t need to use it, for he had a
kind of “feel” for landscape, a special sense which is born in savages
and can only be acquired after long experience by the white man. I
believe he could smell where the north lay. He had settled roughly
which part of the line he would try, merely because of its nearness to
the enemy. But he might see reason to vary this, and as he moved he
began to think that the safest place was where the shelling was
hottest. He didn’t like the notion, but it sounded sense.
Suddenly he began to puzzle over queer things in the ground, and, as he
had never seen big guns before, it took him a moment to fix them.
Presently one went off at his elbow with a roar like the Last Day.
These were Austrian howitzers—nothing over eight-inch, I fancy, but to
Peter they looked like leviathans. Here, too, he saw for the first time
a big and quite recent shell-hole, for the Russian guns were searching
out the position. He was so interested in it all that he poked his nose
where he shouldn’t have been, and dropped plump into the pit behind a
gun-emplacement.
Gunners all the world over are the same—shy people, who hide themselves
in holes and hibernate and mortally dislike being detected.
A gruff voice cried “_Wer da_?” and a heavy hand seized his neck.
Peter was ready with his story. He belonged to Michael’s wagon-team and
had been left behind. He wanted to be told the way to the sappers’
camp. He was very apologetic, not to say obsequious.
“It is one of those Prussian swine from the Marta bridge,” said a
gunner. “Land him a kick to teach him sense. Bear to your right,
mannikin, and you will find a road. And have a care when you get there,
for the Russkoes are registering on it.”
Peter thanked them and bore off to the right. After that he kept a wary
eye on the howitzers, and was thankful when he got out of their area on
to the slopes up the hill. Here was the type of country that was
familiar to him, and he defied any Turk or Boche to spot him among the
scrub and boulders. He was getting on very well, when once more, close
to his ear, came a sound like the crack of doom.
It was the field-guns now, and the sound of a field-gun close at hand
is bad for the nerves if you aren’t expecting it. Peter thought he had
been hit, and lay flat for a little to consider. Then he found the
right explanation, and crawled forward very warily.
Presently he saw his first Russian shell. It dropped half a dozen yards
to his right, making a great hole in the snow and sending up a mass of
mixed earth, snow, and broken stones. Peter spat out the dirt and felt
very solemn. You must remember that never in his life had he seen big
shelling, and was now being landed in the thick of a first-class show
without any preparation. He said he felt cold in his stomach, and very
wishful to run away, if there had been anywhere to run to. But he kept
on to the crest of the ridge, over which a big glow was broadening like
sunrise. He tripped once over a wire, which he took for some kind of
snare, and after that went very warily. By and by he got his face
between two boulders and looked over into the true battle-field.
He told me it was exactly what the predikant used to say that Hell
would be like. About fifty yards down the slope lay the Turkish
trenches—they were dark against the snow, and now and then a black
figure like a devil showed for an instant and disappeared. The Turks
clearly expected an infantry attack, for they were sending up calcium
rockets and Very flares. The Russians were battering their line and
spraying all the hinterland, not with shrapnel, but with good, solid
high-explosives. The place would be as bright as day for a moment, all
smothered in a scurry of smoke and snow and debris, and then a black
pall would fall on it, when only the thunder of the guns told of the
battle.
Peter felt very sick. He had not believed there could be so much noise
in the world, and the drums of his ears were splitting. Now, for a man
to whom courage is habitual, the taste of fear—naked, utter fear—is a
horrible thing. It seems to wash away all his manhood. Peter lay on the
crest, watching the shells burst, and confident that any moment he
might be a shattered remnant. He lay and reasoned with himself, calling
himself every name he could think of, but conscious that nothing would
get rid of that lump of ice below his heart.
Then he could stand it no longer. He got up and ran for his life.
But he ran forward.
It was the craziest performance. He went hell-for-leather over a piece
of ground which was being watered with H.E., but by the mercy of heaven
nothing hit him. He took some fearsome tosses in shell-holes, but
partly erect and partly on all fours he did the fifty yards and tumbled
into a Turkish trench right on top of a dead man.
The contact with that body brought him to his senses. That men could
die at all seemed a comforting, homely thing after that unnatural
pandemonium. The next moment a crump took the parapet of the trench
some yards to his left, and he was half buried in an avalanche.
He crawled out of that, pretty badly cut about the head. He was quite
cool now and thinking hard about his next step. There were men all
around him, sullen dark faces as he saw them when the flares went up.
They were manning the parapets and waiting tensely for something else
than the shelling. They paid no attention to him, for I fancy in that
trench units were pretty well mixed up, and under a bad bombardment no
one bothers about his neighbour. He found himself free to move as he
pleased. The ground of the trench was littered with empty
cartridge-cases, and there were many dead bodies.
The last shell, as I have said, had played havoc with the parapet. In
the next spell of darkness Peter crawled through the gap and twisted
among some snowy hillocks. He was no longer afraid of shells, any more
than he was afraid of a veld thunderstorm. But he was wondering very
hard how he should ever get to the Russians. The Turks were behind him
now, but there was the biggest danger in front.
Then the artillery ceased. It was so sudden that he thought he had gone
deaf, and could hardly realize the blessed relief of it. The wind, too,
seemed to have fallen, or perhaps he was sheltered by the lee of the
hill. There were a lot of dead here also, and that he couldn’t
understand, for they were new dead. Had the Turks attacked and been
driven back? When he had gone about thirty yards he stopped to take his
bearings. On the right were the ruins of a large building set on fire
by the guns. There was a blur of woods and the debris of walls round
it. Away to the left another hill ran out farther to the east, and the
place he was in seemed to be a kind of cup between the spurs. Just
before him was a little ruined building, with the sky seen through its
rafters, for the smouldering ruin on the right gave a certain light. He
wondered if the Russian firing-line lay there.
Just then he heard voices—smothered voices—not a yard away and
apparently below the ground. He instantly jumped to what this must
mean. It was a Turkish trench—a communication trench. Peter didn’t know
much about modern warfare, but he had read in the papers, or heard from
me, enough to make him draw the right moral. The fresh dead pointed to
the same conclusion. What he had got through were the Turkish support
trenches, not their firing-line. That was still before him.
He didn’t despair, for the rebound from panic had made him extra
courageous. He crawled forward, an inch at a time, taking no sort of
risk, and presently found himself looking at the parados of a trench.
Then he lay quiet to think out the next step.
The shelling had stopped, and there was that queer kind of peace which
falls sometimes on two armies not a quarter of a mile distant. Peter
said he could hear nothing but the far-off sighing of the wind. There
seemed to be no movement of any kind in the trench before him, which
ran through the ruined building. The light of the burning was dying,
and he could just make out the mound of earth a yard in front. He began
to feel hungry, and got out his packet of food and had a swig at the
brandy flask. That comforted him, and he felt a master of his fate
again. But the next step was not so easy. He must find out what lay
behind that mound of earth.
Suddenly a curious sound fell on his ears. It was so faint that at
first he doubted the evidence of his senses. Then as the wind fell it
came louder. It was exactly like some hollow piece of metal being
struck by a stick, musical and oddly resonant.
He concluded it was the wind blowing a branch of a tree against an old
boiler in the ruin before him. The trouble was that there was scarcely
enough wind now for that in this sheltered cup.
But as he listened he caught the note again. It was a bell, a fallen
bell, and the place before him must have been a chapel. He remembered
that an Armenian monastery had been marked on the big map, and he
guessed it was the burned building on his right.
The thought of a chapel and a bell gave him the notion of some human
agency. And then suddenly the notion was confirmed. The sound was
regular and concerted—dot, dash, dot—dash, dot, dot. The branch of a
tree and the wind may play strange pranks, but they do not produce the
longs and shorts of the Morse Code.
This was where Peter’s intelligence work in the Boer War helped him. He
knew the Morse, he could read it, but he could make nothing of the
signalling. It was either in some special code or in a strange
language.
He lay still and did some calm thinking. There was a man in front of
him, a Turkish soldier, who was in the enemy’s pay. Therefore he could
fraternize with him, for they were on the same side. But how was he to
approach him without getting shot in the process? Again, how could a
man send signals to the enemy from a firing-line without being
detected? Peter found an answer in the strange configuration of the
ground. He had not heard a sound until he was a few yards from the
place, and they would be inaudible to men in the reserve trenches and
even in the communication trenches. If somebody moving up the latter
caught the noise, it would be easy to explain it naturally. But the
wind blowing down the cup would carry it far in the enemy’s direction.
There remained the risk of being heard by those parallel with the bell
in the firing trenches. Peter concluded that that trench must be very
thinly held, probably only by a few observers, and the nearest might be
a dozen yards off. He had read about that being the French fashion
under a big bombardment.
The next thing was to find out how to make himself known to this ally.
He decided that the only way was to surprise him. He might get shot,
but he trusted to his strength and agility against a man who was almost
certainly wearied. When he had got him safe, explanations might follow.
Peter was now enjoying himself hugely. If only those infernal guns kept
silent he would play out the game in the sober, decorous way he loved.
So very delicately he began to wriggle forward to where the sound was.
The night was now as black as ink around him, and very quiet, too,
except for soughings of the dying gale. The snow had drifted a little
in the lee of the ruined walls, and Peter’s progress was naturally very
slow. He could not afford to dislodge one ounce of snow. Still the
tinkling went on, now in greater volume. Peter was in terror lest it
should cease before he got his man.
Presently his hand clutched at empty space. He was on the lip of the
front trench. The sound was now a yard to his right, and with infinite
care he shifted his position. Now the bell was just below him, and he
felt the big rafter of the woodwork from which it had fallen. He felt
something else—a stretch of wire fixed in the ground with the far end
hanging in the void. That would be the spy’s explanation if anyone
heard the sound and came seeking the cause.
Somewhere in the darkness before him and below was the man, not a yard
off. Peter remained very still, studying the situation. He could not
see, but he could feel the presence, and he was trying to decide the
relative position of the man and bell and their exact distance from
him. The thing was not so easy as it looked, for if he jumped for where
he believed the figure was, he might miss it and get a bullet in the
stomach. A man who played so risky a game was probably handy with his
firearms. Besides, if he should hit the bell, he would make a hideous
row and alarm the whole front.
Fate suddenly gave him the right chance. The unseen figure stood up and
moved a step, till his back was against the parados. He actually
brushed against Peter’s elbow, who held his breath.
There is a catch that the Kaffirs have which would need several
diagrams to explain. It is partly a neck hold, and partly a paralysing
backward twist of the right arm, but if it is practised on a man from
behind, it locks him as sure as if he were handcuffed. Peter slowly got
his body raised and his knees drawn under him, and reached for his
prey.
He got him. A head was pulled backward over the edge of the trench, and
he felt in the air the motion of the left arm pawing feebly but unable
to reach behind.
“Be still,” whispered Peter in German; “I mean you no harm. We are
friends of the same purpose. Do you speak German?”
“_Nein_,” said a muffled voice.
“English?”
“Yes,” said the voice.
“Thank God,” said Peter. “Then we can understand each other. I’ve
watched your notion of signalling, and a very good one it is. I’ve got
to get through to the Russian lines somehow before morning, and I want
you to help me. I’m English—a kind of English, so we’re on the same
side. If I let go your neck, will you be good and talk reasonably?”
The voice assented. Peter let go, and in the same instant slipped to
the side. The man wheeled round and flung out an arm but gripped
vacancy.
“Steady, friend,” said Peter; “you mustn’t play tricks with me or I’ll
be angry.”
“Who are you? Who sent you?” asked the puzzled voice.
Peter had a happy thought. “The Companions of the Rosy Hours,” he said.
“Then are we friends indeed,” said the voice. “Come out of the
darkness, friend, and I will do you no harm. I am a good Turk, and I
fought beside the English in Kordofan and learned their tongue. I live
only to see the ruin of Enver, who has beggared my family and slain my
twin brother. Therefore I serve the _Muscov ghiaours_.”
“I don’t know what the Musky Jaws are, but if you mean the Russians I’m
with you. I’ve got news for them which will make Enver green. The
question is, how I’m to get to them, and that is where you shall help
me, my friend.”
“How?”
“By playing that little tune of yours again. Tell them to expect within
the next half-hour a deserter with an important message. Tell them, for
God’s sake, not to fire at anybody till they’ve made certain it isn’t
me.”
The man took the blunt end of his bayonet and squatted beside the bell.
The first stroke brought out a clear, searching note which floated down
the valley. He struck three notes at slow intervals. For all the world,
Peter said, he was like a telegraph operator calling up a station.
“Send the message in English,” said Peter.
“They may not understand it,” said the man.
“Then send it any way you like. I trust you, for we are brothers.”
After ten minutes the man ceased and listened. From far away came the
sound of a trench-gong, the kind of thing they used on the Western
Front to give the gas-alarm.
“They say they will be ready,” he said. “I cannot take down messages in
the darkness, but they have given me the signal which means ‘Consent’.”
“Come, that is pretty good,” said Peter. “And now I must be moving. You
take a hint from me. When you hear big firing up to the north get ready
to beat a quick retreat, for it will be all up with that city of yours.
And tell your folk, too, that they’re making a bad mistake letting
those fool Germans rule their land. Let them hang Enver and his little
friends, and we’ll be happy once more.”
“May Satan receive his soul!” said the Turk. “There is wire before us,
but I will show you a way through. The guns this evening made many
rents in it. But haste, for a working party may be here presently to
repair it. Remember there is much wire before the other lines.”
Peter, with certain directions, found it pretty easy to make his way
through the entanglement. There was one bit which scraped a hole in his
back, but very soon he had come to the last posts and found himself in
open country. The place, he said, was a graveyard of the unburied dead
that smelt horribly as he crawled among them. He had no inducements to
delay, for he thought he could hear behind him the movement of the
Turkish working party, and was in terror that a flare might reveal him
and a volley accompany his retreat.
From one shell-hole to another he wormed his way, till he struck an old
ruinous communication trench which led in the right direction. The
Turks must have been forced back in the past week, and the Russians
were now in the evacuated trenches. The thing was half full of water,
but it gave Peter a feeling of safety, for it enabled him to get his
head below the level of the ground. Then it came to an end and he found
before him a forest of wire.
The Turk in his signal had mentioned half an hour, but Peter thought it
was nearer two hours before he got through that noxious entanglement.
Shelling had made little difference to it. The uprights were all there,
and the barbed strands seemed to touch the ground. Remember, he had no
wire-cutter; nothing but his bare hands. Once again fear got hold of
him. He felt caught in a net, with monstrous vultures waiting to pounce
on him from above. At any moment a flare might go up and a dozen rifles
find their mark. He had altogether forgotten about the message which
had been sent, for no message could dissuade the ever-present death he
felt around him. It was, he said, like following an old lion into bush
when there was but one narrow way in, and no road out.
The guns began again—the Turkish guns from behind the ridge—and a shell
tore up the wire a short way before him. Under cover of the burst he
made good a few yards, leaving large portions of his clothing in the
strands. Then, quite suddenly, when hope had almost died in his heart,
he felt the ground rise steeply. He lay very still, a star-rocket from
the Turkish side lit up the place, and there in front was a rampart
with the points of bayonets showing beyond it. It was the Russian hour
for stand-to.
He raised his cramped limbs from the ground and shouted “Friend!
English!”
A face looked down at him, and then the darkness again descended.
“Friend,” he said hoarsely. “English.”
He heard speech behind the parapet. An electric torch was flashed on
him for a second. A voice spoke, a friendly voice, and the sound of it
seemed to be telling him to come over.
He was now standing up, and as he got his hands on the parapet he
seemed to feel bayonets very near him. But the voice that spoke was
kindly, so with a heave he scrambled over and flopped into the trench.
Once more the electric torch was flashed, and revealed to the eyes of
the onlookers an indescribably dirty, lean, middle-aged man with a
bloody head, and scarcely a rag of shirt on his back. The said man,
seeing friendly faces around him, grinned cheerfully.
“That was a rough trek, friends,” he said; “I want to see your general
pretty quick, for I’ve got a present for him.”
He was taken to an officer in a dug-out, who addressed him in French,
which he did not understand. But the sight of Stumm’s plan worked
wonders. After that he was fairly bundled down communication trenches
and then over swampy fields to a farm among trees. There he found staff
officers, who looked at him and looked at his map, and then put him on
a horse and hurried him eastwards. At last he came to a big ruined
house, and was taken into a room which seemed to be full of maps and
generals.
The conclusion must be told in Peter’s words.
“There was a big man sitting at a table drinking coffee, and when I saw
him my heart jumped out of my skin. For it was the man I hunted with on
the Pungwe in ’98—him whom the Kaffirs called ‘Buck’s Horn’, because of
his long curled moustaches. He was a prince even then, and now he is a
very great general. When I saw him, I ran forward and gripped his hand
and cried, ‘_Hoe gat het, Mynheer_?’ and he knew me and shouted in
Dutch, ‘Damn, if it isn’t old Peter Pienaar!’ Then he gave me coffee
and ham and good bread, and he looked at my map.
“‘What is this?’ he cried, growing red in the face.
“‘It is the staff-map of one Stumm, a German _skellum_ who commands in
yon city,’ I said.
“He looked at it close and read the markings, and then he read the
other paper which you gave me, Dick. And then he flung up his arms and
laughed. He took a loaf and tossed it into the air so that it fell on
the head of another general. He spoke to them in their own tongue, and
they, too, laughed, and one or two ran out as if on some errand. I have
never seen such merrymaking. They were clever men, and knew the worth
of what you gave me.
“Then he got to his feet and hugged me, all dirty as I was, and kissed
me on both cheeks.
“‘Before God, Peter,’ he said, ‘you’re the mightiest hunter since
Nimrod. You’ve often found me game, but never game so big as this!’”