Going up to Kemmel one day I had to wait in battalion headquarters
for the officer I had gone to see. He was attending a court martial.
Presently he came into the wooden hut, with a flushed face.
“Sorry I had to keep you,” he said. “Tomorrow there will be one swine
less in the world.”
“A death sentence?”
He nodded.
“A damned coward. Said he didn't mind rifle-fire, but couldn't stand
shells. Admitted he left his post. He doesn't mind rifle-fire!... Well,
tomorrow morning.”
The officer laughed grimly, and then listened for a second.
There were some heavy crumps falling over Kemmel Hill, rather close, it
seemed, to our wooden hut.
“Damn those German gunners” said the officer. “Why can't they give us a
little peace?”
He turned to his papers, but several times while I talked with him he
jerked his head up and listened to a heavy crash.
On the way back I saw a man on foot, walking in front of a mounted man,
past the old hill of the Scherpenberg, toward the village of Locre.
There was something in the way he walked, in his attitude--the head
hunched forward a little, and his arms behind his back--which made me
turn to look at him. He was manacled, and tied by a rope to the mounted
man. I caught one glimpse of his face, and then turned away, cold and
sick. There was doom written on his face, and in his eyes a captured
look. He was walking to his wall.