“A CERTAIN MAN DREW A BOW AT A VENTURE”
It was ten o’clock as I came in from the wiring-party in front of Rue
Albert, and at that moment our guns began. We were in Maple Redoubt.
The moon had just set, and it was a still summer night in early June.
“Come and have a look,” I called to Owen, who had just entered the
dug-out. I could see him standing with his back to the candlelight
reading a letter or something.
He came out, and together we looked across the valley at the shoulder
of down that was silhouetted by the continuous light of gun-flickers.
Our guns had commenced a two hours’ bombardment.
“No answer from the Boche yet,” I said.
“They’re firing on C 2, down by the cemetery.”
“Yes, I hardly noticed it; our guns make such a row. By Jove, it’s
magnificent.”
We gazed fascinated for a long time, and then went into the dug-out
where Edwards and Paul were snoring rhythmically. I read for half an
hour, but the dug-out was stuffy, and the smell of sand-bags and the
flickering of the candle annoyed me for some reason or other. Somehow
“Derelicts” by W. J. Locke failed to grip my attention. Owing to our
bombardment, there were no working-parties, in case the Germans should
take it into their head to retaliate vigorously. But at present there
was no sign of that.
I went outside again, and walked along Park Lane until I came to the
Lewis-gun position just this side of the corner of Watling Street. The
sentry was standing up, with his elbows on the ground level (there was
no parapet) gazing alert and interested at the continuous flicker of
our shells bursting along the enemy’s trenches. Lance-Corporal Allan
looked out of the dug-out, and, seeing me, came out and stood by us.
And together we watched, all three of us, in silence. Overhead was the
continual griding, screeching, whistling of the shells as they passed
over, without pause or cessation; behind was a chain of gun-flickers
the other side of the ridge; and in front was another chain of flashes,
and a succession of bump, bump, bumps, as the shells burst relentlessly
in the German trenches. And where we stood, under the noisy arch, was
a steady calm.
“This is all right, sir,” said Lance-Corporal Allan. He was the N.C.O.
in charge of this Lewis-gun team.
“Yes,” said I. “The artillery are not on short rations to-night.”
For always, through the last four months, the artillery had been more
or less confined to so many shells a day. The officers used to tell us
they had any amount of ammunition, yet no sooner were they given a free
hand to retaliate as much as we wanted, than an order came cancelling
this privilege. To-night at any rate there was no curtailment.
“I believe this is the beginning of a new order of things,” I said,
half musing, to myself; “that is, I believe the Boche is going to get
lots and lots of this now.”
“About time, sir,” said the sentry.
“Is there a push coming off?” said Lance-Corporal Allan.
“I don’t know,” I replied. “But I expect we shall be doing something
soon. It’s quite certain we’re going to get our three weeks’ rest after
this turn in. The Brigade Major told me so.”
Corporal Allan smiled, and as he did so the flashes lit up his face.
He was quite a boy, only eighteen, I believe, but an excellent N.C.O.
He had a very beautiful though sensuous face that used to remind
me sometimes of the “Satyr” of Praxiteles. His only fault was an
inclination to sulkiness at times, which was perhaps due to a little
streak of vanity. It was no wonder the maidens of Morlancourt made eyes
at him, and a little girl who lived next door to the Lewis-gunner’s
billet was said to have lost her heart long ago. To-night I felt a pang
as I saw him smile.
“We’ll see,” I said. “Anyway it’s going to be a good show giving the
Boche these sort of pleasant dreams. Better than those one-minute
stunts.”
I was referring to a one-minute bombardment of Fricourt Wood, that had
taken place last time we were in the line. It was a good spectacle to
see the wood alive with flames, hear our Vickers’ guns rattling hard
behind us from the supports, and see the Germans firing excited green
and red rockets into the air. But the retaliation had been unpleasant,
and the whole business seemed not worth while. This continuous pounding
was quite different.
I went back and visited the other gun position, and spent a few minutes
there also. At last I turned in reluctantly. I went out again at
half-past eleven, and still the shells were screaming over. It seemed
the token of an irresistible power. And there was no reply at all now
from the German lines.
* * * * *
The short summer nights made life easier in some respects. We “stood
to” earlier, and it was quite light by three. As I turned in again,
I paused for a moment to take in the scene. Davies had retired to a
small dug-out, that looked exactly like a dog-kennel, and was not much
larger. As Davies himself frequently reminded me of a very intelligent
sheepdog, the dog-kennel seemed most suitable. I heard him turning
about inside, as I stood at the door of our own dug-out.
The scene was one of the most perfect peace. The sun was not up, but
by now the light was firm and strong; night had melted away. I went
back and walked a little way along Park Lane until I came to a gap in
the newly erected sand-bag parados. I went through the gap and into a
little graveyard that had not been used now for several months. And
there I stood in the open, completely hidden from the enemy, on the
reverse slope of the hill. Below me were the dug-outs of 71 North,
and away to the left those of the Citadel. Already I could see smoke
curling up from the cookers. There was a faint mist still hanging about
over the road there, that the strong light would soon dispel. On the
hill-side opposite lay the familiar tracery of Redoubt A, and the white
zigzag mark of Maidstone Avenue climbing up well to the left of it,
until it disappeared over the ridge. Close to my feet the meadow was
full of buttercups and blue veronica, with occasional daisies starring
the grass. And below, above, everywhere, it seemed, was the tremulous
song of countless larks, rising, growing, swelling, till the air seemed
full to breaking-point.
And there was not a sound of war. Who could desecrate such a perfect
June morning? I felt a mad impulse to run up and across into No Man’s
Land and cry out that such a day was made for lovers; that we were all
enmeshed in a mad nightmare, that needed but a bold man’s laugh to free
us from its clutches! Surely this most exquisite morning could not be
the birth of another day of pain? Yet I felt how vain and hopeless
was the longing, as I turned at last and saw the first slant rays of
sunlight touch the white sand-bags into life.
* * * * *
“What time’s this working-party?” asked Paul at four o’clock that
afternoon.
“I told the sergeant-major to get the men out as soon as they’d
finished tea,” I replied. “About a quarter to five they ought to be
ready. He will let you know all right.”
“Hullo!” said Paul.
“What are you ‘hulloing’ about?” I asked.
Paul did not answer. Faintly I heard a “wheeoo, wheeoo, wheeoo,” that
grew louder and louder and ended in a swishing roar like a big wave
breaking against an esplanade--and then “wump--wump--wump--wump” four
4·2’s exploded beyond the parados of Park Lane.
“Well over,” said Edwards.
“I expected this,” I answered. “They’ve been too d--d quiet all
day--especially after the pounding we gave them last night.”
“There they are again,” I added. This time I had heard the four distant
thuds, and we all waited.
“Wump, wump--CRUMP.” There was a colossal din, the two candles went
out, and there was a shaking and jarring in the blackness. Then
followed the sound of falling stuff, and I felt a few patters of earth
all over me. Gradually it got lighter, and through the smoke-filled
doorway the square of daylight reappeared.
“Je ne l’aime pas,” said I, as we all waited, without speaking. Then
Edwards struck a match and lit the candles; all the table, floor, and
beds were sprinkled with dust and earth. Then Davies burst in.
“Are you all right?” we asked.
“Yessir. Are you?”
“Oh, we’re all right, Davies,” said I. “But there’s a job for Lewis
cleaning this butter up.”
At length we went outside, stepping over a heap of loose yielding
earth, mixed up with lumps of chalk and bits of frayed sand-bags.
Outside, the trench was blocked with débris of a similar kind. Already
two men had crossed it, and several men were about to do so. It was old
already. There was still a smell of gunpowder in the air, and a lot of
chalk dust that irritated your nose.
“I think I’ll tell the sergeant-major not to get the working-party out
just yet,” I said to Paul. “They often start like that and then put
lots more over about a quarter of an hour later.” And I sped along Park
Lane quickly.
As I returned I heard footsteps behind me. I looked round, but the men
were hidden by a traverse. And then came tragedy, sudden, and terrible.
I have seen many bad sights--every man killed is a tragedy--but one
avoids and hides away the hideousness as soon as possible. But never,
save once perhaps, have I seen the thing so vile as now.
“Look out!” I heard a voice from behind. And as I heard the shell
screaming down, I tumbled into the nearest dug-out. The shell burst
with a huge “crump,” but not so close as the one that had darkened
our dug-out ten minutes before. Then again another four shells burst
together, but some forty or fifty yards away. I waited one, two
minutes. _And then I heard men running in the trench._
As I sprang up the dug-out steps, I saw two stretcher-bearers standing
looking round the traverse. And then there was the faint whistling
overhead and they pushed me back as they almost fell down the dug-out
steps.
“Is there a man hurt?” I asked. “We can’t leave him.”
“He’s dead,” said one. And as he spoke there were three more explosions
a little to the left.
“Are you sure?”
“Aye,” said the stretcher-bearer and closed his eyes tight.
“He’s past our help,” said the other man.
At last, after a minute’s calm, we stepped out into the sunshine. I
went round the traverse, following the two stretcher-bearers. And
looking between them, as they stood gazing, this is what I saw.
In the trench, half buried in rags of sand-bag and loose chalk, lay
what had been a man. His head was nearest to me, and at that I gazed
fascinated; for the shell had cut it clean in half, and the face lay
like a mask, its features unmarred at all, a full foot away from the
rest of the head. The flesh was grey, that was all; the open eyes, the
nose, the mouth were not even twisted awry. It was like the fragment of
a sculpture. All the rest of the body was a mangled mass of flesh and
khaki.
“Who is it?” whispered a stretcher-bearer, bending his head down to
look sideways at that mask.
“Find his identity-disc,” said the other.
“It is Lance-Corporal Allan,” said I.
Then up came the regimental sergeant-major, and Owen followed him. They
too gazed in horror for a moment. The sergeant-major was the first to
recover.
“Hi! you fellows,” he called to two men. “Get a waterproof sheet.”
“Come away, old man,” said I to Owen.
* * * * *
In silence we walked back to the dug-out. But my brain was whirling. “A
certain man drew a bow at a venture,” I thought again. That was how it
was possible. No man could keep on killing, if he could see the men he
killed. Who had fired that howitzer shell? A German gunner somewhere
right away in Mametz Wood probably. He would never see his handiwork,
never know what he had done to-day. He would never _see_; that was
the point. Had he known, he would have rejoiced that there was one
Englishman less in the world. It was not his fault. We were just the
same. What of last night’s bombardment? (The memory of Lance-Corporal
Allan up by his gun-position gave me a quick sharp pang.) Had we not
watched with glittering eyes the magnificent shooting of our own
gunners? This afternoon’s strafe was but a puny retaliation.
Slowly it came back to me, the half-formed picture that had arisen in
my mind the night of Davidson’s death. “A certain man drew a bow at a
venture,” expressed it perfectly. It was splendid twanging the bow,
feeling the fingers grip the polished wood, watching the bow-string
stretch and strain, and then letting the arrow fly. That was the
fascinating, the deadly fascinating side of war. That was what made it
possible to “carry on.” I remembered my joy in calling up the artillery
in revenge for Thompson’s death. And then again, whenever we put a mine
up, how exhilarating was the spectacle! Throwing a bomb, firing a Lewis
gun, all these things were pleasant. It was like the joy of throwing
stones over a barn and hearing them splash into a pond; like driving a
cricket ball out of the field.
But the arrows fell somewhere. That was the other side of war. The
dying king leant on his chariot, propped up until the sun went down.
The man who had fired the bolt never knew he had killed a king. That
was the other side of war; that was the side that counted. What I had
just seen was war.
I leaned my face on my arm against the parados. Oh, this unutterable
tragedy! Had there ever been such a thing before? Why was this thing
so terrible? Why did I have this feeling of battering against some
relentless power? Death. There were worse things than death. There were
sights, such as I had just come from, as terrible in everyday life, in
any factory explosion or railway accident. There was nothing new in
death. Vaguely my mind felt out for something to express this thing so
far more terrible than mere death. And then I saw it. Vividly I saw the
secret of war.
What made war so cruel, was the force that compelled you to go on.
After a factory explosion you cleared up things and then took every
precaution to prevent its recurrence; but in war you did the opposite,
you used all your energies to make more explosions. You killed and went
on killing; you saw men die around you, and you deliberately went on
with the thing that would cause more of your friends to die. You were
placed in an arena, and made to fight the beasts; and if you killed one
beast, there were more waiting, and more and more. And above the arena,
out of it, secure, looked down the glittering eyes of the men who had
placed you there; cruel, relentless eyes, that went on glittering
while the mouths expressed admiration for your impossible struggles,
and pity for your fate!
“Oh God! I shall go mad!” I thought, in the agony of my mind. I saw
into that strange empty chamber which is called madness: I knew what it
would be like to go mad. And even as I saw, came the thought again of
those glittering eyes, and the ruthless answer to my soul’s cry: “The
war is utterly indifferent whether you go mad or not.”
Owen was standing waiting for me. I grew calm again, and turned and put
my hand on his shoulder. Together we reached the door of the dug-out.
“Oh, Bill,” he said, “have you ever seen anything more awful?”
“Only once. No, not more awful: more beastly. Nothing could be more
awful.”
We told the others.
“Not Allan?” said Edwards. He was Lewis-gun officer, and Allan was his
best man.
“Not Allan?” he repeated. “Oh, how will they tell his little girl in
Morlancourt? What will she say when she learns she will never see him
again?”
“Thank God she never saw him as we saw him just now,” I said, “and
thank God his mother never saw him.”
“If women were in this war, there would be no war,” said Edwards.
“I wonder,” said I.