On the following day the Brigadier moved to a farm farther north. It
was the job of Huggie and myself to keep up communication between this
farm and the brigade headquarters at the farm with the forgettable
name. To ride four miles or so along country lanes from one farm to
another does not sound particularly strenuous. It was. In the first
place, the neighbourhood of the advanced farm was not healthy. The
front gate was marked down by a sniper who fired not infrequently but
a little high. Between the back gate and the main road was impassable
mud. Again, the farm was only three-quarters of a mile behind our
trenches, and "overs" went zipping through the farm buildings at all
sorts of unexpected angles. There were German aeroplanes about, so we
covered our stationary motor-cycles with straw.
Starting from brigade headquarters the despatch rider in half a mile
was forced to pass the transport of a Field Ambulance. The men seemed
to take a perverted delight in wandering aimlessly across the road,
and in leaving anything on the road which could conceivably obstruct
or annoy a motor-cyclist. Then came two and a half miles of winding
country lanes. They were covered with grease. Every corner was blind.
A particularly sharp turn to the right and the despatch rider rode
a couple of hundred yards in front of a battery in action that the
Germans were trying to find. A "hairpin" corner round a house followed.
This he would take with remarkable skill and alacrity, because at this
corner he was always sniped. The German's rifle was trained a trifle
high. Coming into the final straight the despatch rider rode for all he
was worth. It was unpleasant to find new shell-holes just off the road
each time you passed, or, as you came into the straight, to hear the
shriek of shrapnel between you and the farm.
Huggie once arrived at the house of the "hairpin" bend simultaneously
with a shell. The shell hit the house, the house did not hit Huggie,
and the sniper forgot to snipe. So every one was pleased.
On my last journey I passed a bunch of wounded Sikhs. They were
clinging to all their kit. One man was wounded in both his feet. He was
being carried by two of his fellows. In his hands he clutched his boots.
The men did not know where to go or what to do. I could not make them
understand, but I tried by gestures to show them where the ambulance
was.
I saw two others--they were slightly wounded--talking fiercely
together. At last they grasped their rifles firmly, and swinging round,
limped back towards the line.
Huggie did most of the work that day, because during the greater part
of the afternoon I was kept back at brigade headquarters.
In the evening I went out in the car to fetch the general. The car,
which was old but stout, had been left behind by the Germans. The
driver of it was a reservist who had been taken from the battalion. Day
and night he tended and coaxed that car. He tied it together when it
fell to pieces. At all times and all places he drove that car, for he
had no wish at all to return to the trenches.
On the following day Huggie and I were relieved. When we returned to
our good old musty quarters at Beuvry men talked of a move. There were
rumours of hard fighting in Ypres. Soon the Lahore Division came down
towards our line and began to take over from us. The 14th Brigade was
left to strengthen them. The 15th and 13th began to move north.
Early on the morning of October 29 we started, riding first along the
canal by Béthune. As for Festubert, Givenchy, Violaines, Rue de Marais,
Quinque Rue, and La Bassée, we never want to see them again.
* * * * *
(This despatch rider's stories are dedicated "To the Perfect Mother--My
Own." He describes "Enlisting"; "The Journey to the Front"; "The Battle
of Mons"; "The Great Retreat"; "Over the Marne to the Aisne"--and many
other adventures.)