ON THE MARCH
On this leave I most religiously visited relations and graciously
received guests. For one thing, I felt it my duty to dispel all this
ignorant pessimism that I found rolling about in large chunks, like the
thunder in _Alice in Wonderland_. I exacted apologies, humble apologies
from them. “How can we help it?” they pleaded. “We have no means of
knowing anything except through the papers.”
“No, I suppose you can’t help it,” I would reply, and forgive them from
my throne of optimism. Eight days passed easily enough.
After dinner sometimes comes indigestion: people enjoy the one and
not the other. So after leave comes the return from leave, the one
in Tommy-French _bon_, the other _no bon_. I hope I do not offend by
calling the state of the latter a mental indigestion! It was with a
kind of fierce joy that we threw out our bully and biscuits to the
crowds of French children who lined the railway banks crying out,
“Bullee-beef,” “Biskeet.” The custom of supplying these rations on the
leave train has long since been discontinued now, but in those days
the little beggars used to know the time of the train to a nicety, and
must have made a good trade of it.
As soon as I got back to Montagne I heard a “move” was in the air, and
I was delighted. I was fearfully keen to get back into the firing-line
again. I was full of life, and in the mood for adventure. I started a
diary. Here are some extracts.
“29th January, 1916. Lewis (my servant) brought in a bucket of water
this morning which contained 10% of mud. As the mud dribbled on to the
green canvas of my bath during the end of the pouring, he saw it for
the first time. Apparently the well is running dry.... He managed to
get some clean water at length and I had a great bath. Madame asked
me as I went in to breakfast why I whistled getting up that morning.
I tried to explain that I was in good spirits. It was an exhilarating
morning; outside was a great cawing of rooks, and the slant sunlight
lit up everything with a rich colour; the mouldy green on the twigs of
the apple trees was a joy to see. Later in the day I noticed how all
this delicious morning light had gone.
“7 p.m. Orders have just come in for the move to-morrow. Loading party
at 6.0 a.m. under Edwards, who is inwardly fed up but outwardly quite
pleased. Valises to be ready by 6.45 a.m. Dixon grouses as usual at
orders coming in late. These moves always try the tempers of all
concerned. O’Brien and Edwards are now on the rustle, collecting kit.
We have accumulated rather a lot of papers, books, tins of ration,
tobacco, etc.”
Madame was genuinely sorry to see us go. We gave her a large but
beautiful ornament for her mantelpiece, suitably inscribed. The dear
soul was overwhelmed, and drew cider from a cellar hitherto unknown to
us, which she pressed on our servants as well as on us. We made the
fellows drink it, though they were not very keen on it!
* * * * *
“30 Jan., 1916. Montagne--Vaux-en-Amienois. I found myself suddenly
detailed as O.C. rear party, in lieu of Edwards, who has to remain
in Montagne and hand over to the incoming battalion. At 9.30 three
A.S.C. lorries arrived, and we loaded up. I had about forty men for the
job. It was good to see these boys heaving up rolls of many-coloured
blankets, which filled nearly two lorries; the third was packed with
a mixture of boilers, dixies, brooms, spades, lamps, etc. The leather
and skin waistcoats had to be left behind for a second journey: I left
the shoemaker-sergeant and four men with these to await the return of
one of the lorries. As we worked a fog rolled up, which was to stay all
day. Edwards meanwhile saw to it that all the odd coal and wood left
at the transport was taken to our good Madame; this much annoyed the
groups of women who peered like vultures from the doorways, ready to
squabble over the pickings as soon as the last of us had departed.
Farewell to Montagne. All the fellows were dull. Even Sawyer the
smiling, who had been prominent with his cheery face in the loading-up,
was silent and dull. No life. No spirit. A mournful lot, save for the
plum-pudding dog that galloped ahead and on either flank, smelling and
pouncing and tossing his mongrel ears in delight. He belonged to one of
the men, a gift from a warm-hearted daughter of France.
A dull lot, I say. I rallied them. I persuaded. I whistled, hoping
to put a tune into their dull hearts; and as we swung downhill into
Riencourt they began to sing. It was but a sorry thin sort of singing
though, like a winter sunshine; there was no power behind it, no joy,
no spontaneity. Suddenly, however, as we came into the village, there
was a company of the Warwicks falling in, and everyone sang like fury.
Baker, one of the last draft, was the moving spirit. But he is young to
this life, and later on, when the fog had entered their souls again, he
said he could not well sing with a pack on. Yet is not that the very
time to sing, is not that the very virtue of singing, the conquest of
the poor old body by the indomitable spirit?
It was a fifteen-mile march. At the third halt I gave half an hour for
the eating of bread and cheese. Then was the hour of the plum-pudding
hound; also appeared a sort of Newfoundland collie, very big in the
hind-quarters, and very dirty as well as ill-bred. Between them they
made rich harvest of crusts and cheese. We sat on a bank along the
road, but after half an hour we were all getting cold in the raw air,
and I fell them in again, and we got on our way. Soon they warmed up
and whistled and sang for a quarter of an hour; then silence returned,
and eyes turned to the ground again. This march began to tell on the
older men. Halford fell out, and I sent Corporal Dewey to bring him
along, hastily scribbling the name of our destination on a slip torn
from my field-message book, and giving it to him. Then Riley fell out,
and Flynn. I began to dread the appearance of Sergeant Hayman from
the rear, to tell me of some one else. They were men, these, who had
been employed on various jobs; the older and weaker men. There was no
skrim-shanking, for there was no Red Cross cart behind us. But no one
else fell out; the pace was steady and they were as fit as anything,
these fellows. Then happened an incident. We had just turned off the
main Amiens road, and come to a forked road. I halted a moment to
make sure of the way by the map, and while I did so apparently some
sergeant from a regiment billeted in the village there told Sergeant
Hayman that the battalion had taken the left road. The way was to the
right, and as I struck up a steep hill, Sergeant Hayman ran up and told
me the battalion (which had started nearly two hours before us) had
gone to the left. ‘I’m going to the right, sergeant,’ said I. And the
sergeant returned to the rear. Up, up, up. Grind, grind, grind. I began
to hear signs of doubt behind. ‘Did you hear that? Said the battalion
went t’other way,’ and so on. ‘Ain’t ’e got a map all right?’ from a
believer. ‘Three kilos more,’ I said at the next stop. But some of the
fellows had got it into their heads, I could see, that we were wrong.
I studied the map; there was no doubt we were all right. Yet a mistake
would be calamitous, as the men were very done. Ah! a kilo-stone! ‘Two
kilos to ----,’ a place not named on the map at all. This gave me a
qualm; and behind came the usual mispronunciations of this annoying
village on the stone. But lo! on the left came a turning as per map.
Round we swung, downhill, and suddenly we were in a village. Another
qualm as I saw it full of Jocks. The doubters were just beginning to
realise this fact, when we turned another corner, and almost fell on
top of the C.O.! In five minutes we were in billets....”
* * * * *
The next day we marched to the village of Querrieux. There I heard the
guns again after two months.
* * * * *
“31st January. This evening was full of the walking tour spirit, the
spirit of good company. We were billeted at a farmhouse, and the
farmer showed Captain Dixon and me all round his farm. He was full of
pride in everything; of his horses first of all. There were three in
the first stable, sleek and strong; then we saw _la mère_, a beautiful
mare in foal; then lastly there was ‘Piccaninny,’ a yearling. All the
stables were spotlessly clean, and the animals well kept. But to see
him with his lambs was best of all. The ewes were feeding from racks
that ran all along both sides of the sheds, and his lantern showed
two long rows of level backs, solid and uniform and dull; while in
the middle of the shed was a jocund company of close-cropped lambs,
frisking, pushing, jostling, or pulling at their dams; as lively and
naughty a crew as you could imagine. ‘Ah! _voleur_,’ cried our friend,
picking up a lamb that was stealing a drink from the wrong tap, and
pointing to its dam at the other end of the shed; he fondled and
stroked it like a puppy, making us hold it, and assuring us it was not
_méchant_!
At 7.0 we had our dinner in the kitchen. The farmer, his wife, and the
_domestique_ (a manservant, whose history I will tell in a few minutes)
had just finished, and were going to clear off; but we asked them to
stay and let us drink their health in whiskey and soda. The farmer said
this was wont to make the _domestique_ go ‘zigzag’; for himself, he
would drink, not for the inherent pleasure of the whiskey, which was
a strong drink to which he was unused, he being of the land of light
wines, but to give us pleasure! So the usual healths were given in Old
Orkney and Perrier. Then we were told the history of the _domestique_,
which brought one very close to the spirit in which France is fighting.
He had eight children in Peronne, barely ten miles the other side of
the line. Called up in September, 1914, he was in the trenches until
March, 1915, when he was released on account of his eight children.
But by then the living line had set between them in steel and blood,
and never a word yet has he heard of his wife and eight children, the
youngest of whom he left nine days old! There are times when our cause
seems clouded with false motives; but there seemed no doubt on this
score to-night, as we watched this man in his own land, creeping up,
as it were, as near as possible to his wife and children and home,
and yet barred from his own village, and without the knowledge even
that his own dear ones were alive. The farmer told us he had gone half
crazed. Yet he had a fine face, though furrowed with deep lines down
his forehead. ‘Ten minutes in the yard with the Germans--ah! what would
he do!’ And vividly he drew his hand across his throat. But the Germans
would never go back: that was another of his opinions. No wonder he
told us he doubted the _bon Dieu_: no wonder he sometimes went zigzag.
The farmer was well educated, and had very intelligent views on
the war; one son was a captain; the other was also serving in some
capacity. The wife made us good coffee, but got very sleepy. I learnt
she rose every morning at 4.0 a.m. to milk the cows.
To-night we can hear the guns. There seems a considerable liveliness at
several parts of the line, and strange rumours of the Germans breaking
through, which I do not believe. To-morrow we shall be within the
shell-zone again.”
“Feb. 1st. To-day we marched to Morlancourt and are spending the night
in huts. It is very cold, and we have a brazier made out of a biscuit
tin, but it smokes abominably. We are busy getting trench-kit ready
for the next day. From outside the hut I can see star-lights, and hear
machine-guns tapping. It thrills like the turning up of the footlights.”
* * * * *
And it was a long act. The curtain did not fall till June.