“WHOM THE GODS LOVE”--(_continued_)
As I write I feel inclined to throw the whole book in the fire. It
seems a desecration to tell of these things. Do I not seem to be
exulting in the tragedy? Should not he who feels deeply keep silent?
Sometimes I think so. And yet it is the truth, word for word the truth;
so I must write it.
In the Straw Palace next morning Davidson and I were sitting discussing
last night, when the doctor looked in. He started talking about
Vermorel sprayers (the portable tins shaped like large oval milk-cans,
filled with a solution useful for clearing dug-outs after a gas
attack). One of these was damaged, and I had sent down a note to the
M.O. about it.
“How’s Robertson?” I asked at once.
“He died this morning, Bill--three o’clock this morning.”
“Good God,” I said.
“Pretty ghastly, isn’t it? Two officers like that in one night. The
C.O. is awfully cut up about it.”
“Robertson dead?” said Davidson.
And so we talked for some minutes. The old doctor was used to these
things. He had seen so many officers fall out of line. But to us this
was new, and we had not gauged it yet. You might have thought from his
quiet jerky sentences that the doctor was almost callous. You would
have been wrong.
“Well, I must get on,” he said at last. “So long, Bill. Send that
Vermorel sprayer down, will you, and I’ll see to it, and you’ll have it
back to-night, probably.”
“Righto.” And the doctor and his orderly disappeared down the Old Kent
Road.
Davidson and I talked alone.
“It must be pretty rotten being an M.O.,” he remarked.
Then the “F.L.O.” came in. He is the “Forward liaison officer,” an
artillery officer who lives up with the infantry and facilitates
co-operation between the two. At the same moment came a cheery Scotch
voice outside, and Macfarlane, the “football” officer, looked in.
“Come oot a’ that!” he cried. “Sittin’ indoors on a fine mornin’.”
“Come in,” we said.
But his will prevailed, and we all came out into the sunshine. I had
not seen him since last night’s little show. Now he was being relieved
by another officer for six days, and I was anxious to know what sort
of a man was his successor. But Macfarlane did not know much about him
yet.
“Anyway,” said I, “if he’ll only fire like you, we don’t mind.”
“Och!” grunted Macfarlane. “What’s the use of havin’ a gun, and no
firin’ it? So long as I get ma footballs up, I’ll plunk them over aw
recht.”
“Yes,” I added. “The Boche doesn’t approve of your sort.”
For there were other sorts. There was the trench-mortar officer who
was never to be found, but who left a sergeant with instructions not
to fire without his orders; there was the trench-mortar officer who
“could not fire except by Brigade orders”; there was the trench-mortar
officer who was “afraid of giving his position away”; there was the
trench-mortar officer who “couldn’t get any ammunition up, you know;
they won’t give it me; only too pleased to fire, if only ...”; there
was the trench-mortar officer who started firing on his own, without
consulting the company commander, just when you had a big working-party
in the front trenches; and lastly there were trench-mortar officers
like Davidson and Macfarlane.
“Cheero, then,” we said, as Macfarlane went off. “Look us up. You know
our billet? We’ll be out to-morrow.”
Then we finished our consultation and divided off to our different jobs.
All that day I felt that there was in me something which by all
rights should have “given”: these two deaths should have made me feel
different: and yet I was just the same. As I went round the trench,
with Davies at my heels, talking to platoon-sergeants, examining wire
through my periscope, all in the ordinary way exactly as before, I
forgot all about Tommy and Robertson. Even when I came to the place
where Robertson had been hit, and saw the blood on the fire-step, and
some scraps of cotton wool lying about, I looked at it as you might
look at a smashed egg on the pavement, curiously, and then passed on.
“Am I indifferent to these things, then?” I asked myself. I had not
realised yet that violent emotion very rarely comes close upon the
heels of death, that there is a numbness, a blunting of the spirit,
that is an anodyne to pain. I was ashamed of my indifference; yet I
soon saw that it was no uncommon thing. Besides, one had to “carry on”
just the same. There was always a silence among the men, when a pal
“goes west”; so now Edwards and I did not talk much, except to discuss
the ordinary routine.
I did not get much rest that day. In the afternoon came up a message
from the adjutant that we were exploding a mine opposite the Matterhorn
at 6.30; our trench was to be cleared from 80 A to the bombing-post on
the left of the Loop inclusive. Edwards and I were the only officers in
the company, so while he arranged matters with the Lewis-gun teams, I
went off to see about getting the trench cleared. I had just sent off
the “daily summary,” my copy of which is reproduced on page 179. As I
came back along 78 Street, I met Davidson again. He was looking for a
new site for his gun, so as to be able to get a good fire to bear on
the German lines opposite the Matterhorn. I went with him, and together
we found a place behind the big mine-dump to the left of 78 Street, and
close to one of our rifle-grenade batteries. As he went off to get his
corporal and team to bring the gun over and fix it in position, he said
something in a rather low voice.
“What?” I shouted. “Couldn’t hear.”
He came back and repeated it.
“Oh,” I said. “Sorry. Yes, all right. I expect I’ll hear from the
Adjutant. Thanks.”
What he said was that there would be a funeral that night at nine
o’clock. Thompson and Robertson were being buried together. He thought
I would like to know.
It was close on half-past six, and getting dark. The trenches were
cleared, and I was waiting at the head of two platoons that strung out
along 78 Street and behind the Loop. Rifles had been inspected; the men
had the S.A.A. (small arms ammunition) and bomb boxes with them, ready
to take back into the trench as soon as the mine had gone up. I looked
at my watch.
“Another minute,” I said.
Then, as I spoke, the earth shook; there was a pause, and a great black
cloud burst into the air, followed by a roar of flames. I got up on the
fire-step to see it better. It is a good show, a mine. There was the
sound of falling earth, and then silence.
“Come on,” I said, and we hurried back into the trench. Weird and
eerie it looked in the half-light; its emptiness might have been years
old. It was undamaged, as we had expected; only there was loose earth
scattered all over the parapet and fire-step.
Then hell broke loose, a crashing, banging, flashing hell that
concentrated on the German front line directly opposite. It seemed like
stirring up an ant’s nest, and then spraying them with boiling water as
they ran about in confusion!
“Bang--bang--bang--bang--bang,” barked Davidson’s gun.
“Thud,” muttered the football-thrower.
“Wheep! Wee-oo, wee-oo, wee-oo,” went the rifle grenades. And all this
splendid rain burst with a glorious splash just over the new crater.
It was magnificent shooting, and half of us were up on the fire-step
watching the fireworks.
Then the Boche retaliated, with canisters and whizz-bangs, and
“heavies” for Maple Redoubt; and then our guns joined the concert. It
was “hot shop” for half an hour, but at last it died down and there was
a great calm. Some of the men were in the trenches for the first time,
and had not relished the proceedings overmuch! They were relieved to
get the order “Stand down!”
There were several things to be done, working-parties to be arranged,
final instructions given to a patrol, Lewis gunners to be detailed to
rake the German parapet opposite the Matterhorn all night. A platoon
sergeant was worried about his sentries; he had not enough men, having
had one or two casualties; and I had to lend him men from a more
fortunate platoon. It was quite dark, and nearly half-past seven by the
time I got back to Trafalgar Square. Edwards had started dinner, as he
was on trench duty at eight o’clock. The sergeant-major was on duty
until then.
Davidson looked in on his way down to Maple Redoubt.
“I say, your Stokes were bursting top-hole. We had a splendid view.”
“They weren’t going short, were they?” he asked.
“No. Just right. The fellows were awfully bucked with it.”
“Oh, good. You can’t see a bit from where we are, and the corporal said
he thought they were going short. But I’d worked out the range and was
firing well over 120, so I carried on. I’m going down to have dinner
with O’Brien. I think we’ve done enough to-night.”
Then I saw that he was tired out.
“Rather a hot shop?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said in his casual way. “They were all round us. Well,
cheero! I shan’t be up till about ten, I expect, unless there’s
anything wanted.”
“Cheero!”
“It’s no joke firing that gun with the Boche potting at you hard with
canisters,” I said to Edwards, as Davidson’s footsteps died away.
“He’s the bravest fellow in the regiment,” said Edwards, and we talked
of the time when the gun burst in his face as he was firing it, and
he told his men that it had been hit by a canister, to prevent their
losing confidence in it. I saw him just afterwards: his face was
bleeding. It was no joke being Stokes officer; the Germans hated those
vicious snapping bolts that spat upon them “One, two, three, four,
five,” and always concentrated their fire against his gun. But they had
not got him.
“No, he’s inside,” I heard Edwards saying. “Bill. Telephone message.”
The telephone orderly handed me a pink form. Edwards was outside, just
about to go on trench duty. It was eight. I went outside. It was bright
moonlight again. Grimly, I thought of last night.
“Look here,” I said. “There’s this funeral at nine o’clock. I’ve just
got this message. One officer from each company may go. Will you go? I
can’t very well go as O.C. Company.” And I handed him the pink form to
see.
So we rearranged the night duties, and Edwards went off till half-past
eight, while I finished my dinner. Lewis was hovering about with
toasted cheese and _café au lait_. As I swallowed these glutinous
concoctions, the candle flickered and went out. I pushed open the door:
the moonlight flooded in, and I did not trouble to call for another
candle. Then I heard the sergeant-major’s voice, and went out. We stood
talking at Trafalgar Square.
“Shan’t be sorry to get relieved to-morrow,” I said. I was tired, and
I wondered how long the night would take to pass.
Suddenly, up the Old Kent Road I heard a man running. My heart stopped.
I hate the sound of running in a trench, and last night they had
run for stretcher-bearers when Robertson was hit. I looked at the
sergeant-major, who was biting his lip, his ears cocked. Round the
corner a man bolted, out of breath, excited. I stopped him; he nearly
knocked into us.
“Hang you,” said I. “Stop! Where the devil...?”
“Mr. Davidson, sir ... Mr. Davidson is killed.”
“Rot!” I said, impatiently. “Pull yourself together, man. He’s all
right. I saw him only half an hour ago.”
But as I spoke, something broke inside me. It was as if I were
straining, beating against something relentless. As though by words, by
the cry “impossible” I could beat back the flood of conviction that the
man’s words brought over me. Dead! I _knew_ he was dead.
“Impossible, corporal,” I said. “What do you mean?” For I saw now that
it was Davidson’s corporal who stood gazing at me with fright in his
eyes.
He pulled himself together at last.
“Killed, sir. It came between us as we were talking. A whizz-bang, sir.”
“My God!” I cried. “Where?”
“Just at the bottom, sir”--the man jerked his hand back down Old Kent
Road. “We were just talking, sir. My leave has come through, and he was
joking, and saying his would be through soon, when ... oh, Jesus ... I
was half blinded.... I’ve not got over it yet, sir.” And the man was
all trembling as he spoke.
“He was killed instantly?”
“Ach!” said the man. He made a gesture with his hands. “It burst right
on him.”
“Poor fellow,” I said. God knows what I meant. “Send a man with him,
sergeant-major,” I added, and plunged up 76 Street.
“Davidson,” I cried. “Davidson dead!”
* * * * *
It was close on midnight, as I stood outside the Straw Palace. Lewis
brought me a cup of cocoa. I drank it in silence, and ate a piece of
cake. I told the man to go to bed. Then, when he had disappeared, I
climbed up out of the trench, and sat, my legs dangling down into it.
Down in the trench the moon cast deep black shadows. I looked around.
All was bathed in pale, shimmery moonlight. There was a great silence,
save for distant machine-gun popping down in the Fricourt valley, and
the very distant sound of guns, guns, guns--the sound that never stops
day and night. I pressed on my right hand and with a quick turn was up
on my feet out of the trench, on the hill-side; for I was just over the
brow, on the reverse slope, and out of sight of the enemy lines. I took
off my steel helmet and put it on the ground, while I stretched out my
arms and clenched my hands.
“So this is War,” I thought. I realised that my teeth were set, and
my mouth hard, and my eyes, though full of sleep, wide open: silently
I took in the great experience, the death of those well-loved. For of
all men in the battalion I loved Davidson best. Not that I knew him so
wonderfully well--but ... well, one always had to smile when he came
in; he was so good-natured, so young, so delightfully imperturbable. He
used to come in and stroke your hair if you were bad-tempered. Somehow
he reminded me of a cat purring; and perhaps his hair and his smile had
something to do with it? Oh, who can define what they love in those
they love?
And then my mind went back over all the incidents of the last few
hours. Together we had been through it all: together we had discussed
death: and last of all I thought how he had told me of the funeral that
was to be at 9 o’clock. And now he lay beside them. All three had been
buried at nine o’clock.
“Dead. Dead,” said a voice within me. And still I did not move. Still
that numbness, that dulness, that tightening across the brain and
senses. This, too, was something new. Then I looked around me, across
the moorland. I walked along until I could see down over Maple Redoubt
and across the valley, where there seemed a slight white mist; or was
it only moonshine?
Suddenly, “Strength.” I answered the voice. “Strong. I am strong.”
Every muscle in my body was tingling at my bidding. I felt an iron
strength. All this tautness, this numbness, was strength. I remembered
last night, the feeling of irresistible will-power, and my eyes glowed.
I thought of Davidson, and my eyes glistened: the very pain was the
birth of new strength.
Then, even as the strength came, I heard a thud, and away on the left
a canister blazed into the air, climbed, swooped, and rushed. And the
vulgar din of its bursting rent all the stillness of the night. A
second followed suit. And as it, too, burst, it seemed a clumsy mocking
at me, a mocking that ran in echoes all along the still valley.
“Strength,” it sneered. “Strength.”
And all my iron will seemed beating against a wall of steel, that must
in the end wear me down in a useless battering.
“War,” I cried. “How can my will batter against war?” I thought
of Davidson’s smiling face; and then I thought of the blind clumsy
canister. And I felt unutterably weak and powerless. What did it
matter what I thought or did, whether I was weak or strong? What power
had I against this irresistible impersonal machine; this war? And I
remembered how an hour or so ago the trench-mortar officer had asked me
whether I wanted him to fire or not, and I had answered, “Good God! Do
as you d--d well like.” What did it matter what he did? Yet, last night
it had seemed to matter everything.
Slowly there came into my mind that picture that later has come to
mean to me the true expression of war. Only slowly it came now, a
half-formed image of what my spirit alone understood.
“A certain man drew a bow at a venture,” I thought. What of those
shells that I had called down last night at my bidding, standing like a
god, intoxicated with power, and crying “Retaliate. More retaliation.”
Where did they fall? Were other men lying as Davidson lay to-night? Had
I called down death? Had I stricken families? Probably. Nay, more than
probably. Certainly. Death. Blind death. That was it. Blind death.
And all the time above me was the white moon. I looked at the shadows
of my arms as I held them out. Such shadows belonged to summer nights
in England ... in Kent.... Oh! why was everything so silent? Could
nothing stop this utter folly, this cruel madness, this clumsy death?
And then, at last, the strain gave a little, and my muscles relaxed. I
went back and took up my helmet.
“Dead,” the voice repeated within me. And this time my spirit found
utterance:
“Damn!” I said. “Oh damn! damn! Damn!”
[_Copy_]
SPECIAL REPORT--C 1 SECTION (LEFT COMPANY)
The mine exploded by us opposite 80 A at 6.30 p.m. last night has
exposed about 20 yards of German parapet. A working-party attempting
to work there about 12.30 a.m. and again at 2 a.m. was dispersed at
once by our rifle and Lewis-gun fire. The parapet has been built up
sufficiently to prevent our seeing over it, sand-bags having been put
up from inside the trench. Our snipers are closely watching this spot.
J. B. P. ADAMS, Lieut.
O.C. “B” Coy.
6.30 a.m. 20.3.16.