ROUND LA BASSÉE.
It had been a melancholy day, full of rain and doubting news. Those of
us who were not "out" were strolling up and down the platform arranging
the order of cakes from home and trying to gather from the sound of the
gunning and intermittent visits to the Signal Office what was happening.
Someone had been told that the old 15th was being hard pressed. Each of
us regretted loudly that we had not been attached to it, though our
hearts spoke differently. Despatch riders have muddled thoughts. There
is a longing for the excitement of danger and a very earnest desire to
keep away from it.
The C.O. walked on to the platform hurriedly, and in a minute or two I
was off. It was lucky that the road was covered with unholy grease, that
the light was bad and there was transport on the road--for it is not
good for a despatch rider to think too much of what is before him. My
instructions were to report to the general and make myself useful. I was
also cheerfully informed that the H.Q. of the 15th were under a robust
shell-fire. Little parties of sad-looking wounded that I passed, the
noise of the guns, and the evil dusk heartened me.
I rode into Festubert, which was full of noise, and, very hastily
dismounting, put my motor-cycle under the cover of an arch and reported
to the general. He was sitting at a table in the stuffy room of a
particularly dirty tavern. At the far end a fat and frightened woman was
crooning to her child. Beside her sat a wrinkled, leathery old man with
bandaged head. He had wandered into the street, and he had been cut
about by shrapnel. The few wits he had ever possessed were gone, and he
gave every few seconds little croaks of hate. Three telephone operators
were working with strained faces at their highest speed. The windows had
been smashed by shrapnel, and bits of glass and things crunched under
foot. The room was full of noises--the crackle of the telephones, the
crooning of the woman, the croak of the wounded old man, the clear and
incisive tones of the general and his brigade-major, the rattle of not
too distant rifles, the booming of guns and occasionally the terrific,
overwhelming crash of a shell bursting in the village.
I was given a glass of wine. Cadell, the Brigade Signal Officer, and the
Veterinary Officer, came up to me and talked cheerfully in whispered
tones about our friends.
There was the sharp cry of shrapnel in the street and a sudden rattle
against the whole house. The woman and child fled somewhere through a
door, followed feebly by the old man. The brigade-major persuaded the
general to work in some less unhealthy place. The telephone operators
moved. A moment's delay as the general endeavoured to persuade the
brigade-major to go first, and we found ourselves under a stalwart arch
that led into the courtyard of the tavern. We lit pipes and cigarettes.
The crashes of bursting shells grew more frequent, and the general
remarked in a dry and injured tone--
"Their usual little evening shoot before putting up the shutters, I
suppose."
But first the Germans "searched" the village. Now to search a village
means to start at one end of the village and place shells at discreet
intervals until the other end of the village is reached. It is an
unpleasant process for those in the middle of the village, even though
they be standing, as we were, in comparatively good shelter.
We heard the Germans start at the other end of the village street. The
crashes came nearer and nearer, until a shell burst with a scream and a
thunderous roar just on our right. We puffed away at our cigarettes for
a second, and a certain despatch rider wished he were anywhere but in
the cursed village of Festubert by Béthune. There was another scream and
overwhelming relief. The next shell burst three houses away on our left.
I knocked my pipe out and filled another.
The Germans finished their little evening shoot. We marched back very
slowly in the darkness to 1910 Farm.
This farm was neither savoury nor safe. It was built round a courtyard
which consisted of a gigantic hole crammed with manure in all the stages
of unpleasant putrefaction. One side is a barn; two sides consist of
stables, and the third is the house inhabited not only by us but by an
incredibly filthy and stinking old woman who was continually troubling
the general because some months ago a French cuirassier took one of her
chickens. The day after we arrived at this farm I had few despatches to
take, so I wrote to Robert. Here is some of the letter and bits of
other letters I wrote during the following days. They will give you an
idea of our state of mind:[17]
If you want something of the dramatic--I am writing in a farm under
shrapnel fire, smoking a pipe that was broken by a shell. For true
effect I suppose I should not tell you that the shrapnel is bursting
about fifty yards the other side of the house, that I am in a room lying
on the floor, and consequently that, so long as they go on firing
shrapnel, I am perfectly safe.
It's the dismallest of places. Two miles farther back the heavies are
banging away over our heads. There are a couple of batteries near the
farm. Two miles along the road the four battalions of our brigade are
holding on for dear life in their trenches.
The country is open plough, with little clumps of trees, sparse hedges,
and isolated cottages giving a precarious cover. It's all very damp and
miserable, for it was raining hard last night and the day before.
I am in a little bare room with the floor covered with straw. Two
telegraph operators are making that infernal jerky clicking sound I have
begun so to hate. Half a dozen men of the signal staff are lying about
the floor looking at week-old papers. In the next room I can hear the
general, seated at a table and intent on his map, talking to an officer
that has just come from the firing line. Outside the window a gun is
making a fiendish row, shaking the whole house. Occasionally there is a
bit of a rattle--that's shrapnel bullets falling on the tiles of an
outhouse.
If you came out you might probably find this exhilarating. I have just
had a talk with our mutual friend Cadell, the Signal Officer of this
brigade, and we have decided that we are fed up with it. For one
thing--after two months' experience of shell fire the sound of a shell
bursting within measurable distance makes you start and shiver for a
moment--reflex action of the nerves. That is annoying. We both decided
we would willingly change places with you and take a turn at defending
your doubtless excellently executed trenches at Liberton.
The line to the ----[18] has just gone. It's almost certain death to
relay it in the day-time. Cadell and his men are discussing the chances
while somebody else has started a musical-box. A man has gone out; I
wonder if he will come back. The rest of the men have gone to sleep
again. That gun outside the window is getting on my nerves. Well, well!
The shrapnel fire appears to have stopped for the present. No, there's a
couple together. If they fire over this farm I hope they don't send me
back to D.H.Q.
Do you know what I long for more than anything else? A clean, unhurried
breakfast with spotless napery and shining silver and porridge and
kippers. I don't think these long, lazy after-breakfast hours at Oxford
were wasted. They are a memory and a hope out here. The shrapnel is
getting nearer and more frequent. We are all hoping it will kill some
chickens in the courtyard. The laws against looting are so strict.
What an excellent musical-box, playing quite a good imitation of
_Cavalleria Rusticana_. I guess we shall have to move soon. Too many
shells. Too dark to write any more----
After all, quite the most important things out here are a fine meal and
a good bath. If you consider the vast area of the war the facts that we
have lost two guns or advanced five miles are of very little importance.
War, making one realise the hopeless insignificance of the individual,
creates in one such an immense regard for self, that so long as one
does well it matters little if four officers have been killed
reconnoitring or some wounded have had to be left under an abandoned gun
all night. I started with an immense interest in tactics. This has
nearly all left me and I remain a more or less efficient
despatch-carrying animal--a part of a machine realising the hopeless,
enormous size of the machine.
The infantry officer after two months of modern war is a curious
phenomenon.[19] He is probably one of three survivors of an original
twenty-eight. He is not frightened of being killed; he has forgotten to
think about it. But there is a sort of reflex fright. He becomes either
cautious and liable to sudden panics, or very rash indeed, or absolutely
mechanical in his actions. The first state means the approach of a
nervous breakdown, the second a near death. There are very few, indeed,
who retain a nervous balance and a calm judgment. And all have a harsh
frightened voice. If you came suddenly out here, you would think they
were all mortally afraid. But it is only giving orders for hours
together under a heavy fire.
Battle noises are terrific. At the present moment a howitzer is going
strong behind this, and the concussion is tremendous. The noise is like
dropping a traction-engine on a huge tin tray. A shell passing away from
you over your head is like the loud crackling of a newspaper close to
your ear. It makes a sort of deep reverberating crackle in the air,
gradually lessening, until there is a dull boom, and a mile or so away
you see a thick little cloud of white smoke in the air or a pear-shaped
cloud of grey-black smoke on the ground. Coming towards you a shell
makes a cutting, swishing note, gradually getting higher and higher,
louder and louder. There is a longer note one instant and then it
ceases. Shrapnel bursting close to you has the worst sound.
It is almost funny in a village that is being shelled. Things simply
disappear. You are standing in an archway a little back from the road--a
shriek of shrapnel. The windows are broken and the tiles rush clattering
into the street, while little bullets and bits of shell jump like
red-hot devils from side to side of the street, ricochetting until their
force is spent. Or a deeper bang, a crash, and a whole house tumbles
down.
_3/4-hour later._--Curious life this. Just after I had finished the last
sentence, I was called out to take a message to a battery telling them
to shell a certain village. Here am I wandering out, taking orders for
the complete destruction of a village and probably for the death of a
couple of hundred men[20] without a thought, except that the roads are
very greasy and that lunch time is near.
Again, yesterday, I put our Heavies in action, and in a quarter of an
hour a fine old church, with what appeared from the distance a
magnificent tower, was nothing but a grotesque heap of ruins. The
Germans were loopholing it for defence.
Oh the waste, the utter damnable waste of everything out here--men,
horses, buildings, cars, everything. Those who talk about war being a
salutary discipline are those who remain at home. In a modern war there
is little room for picturesque gallantry or picture-book heroism. We are
all either animals or machines, with little gained except our emotions
dulled and brutalised and nightmare flashes of scenes that cannot be
written about because they are unbelievable. I wonder what difference
you will find in us when we come home----
Do you know what a night scare is? In our last H.Q. we were all dining
when suddenly there was a terrific outburst of rifle-fire from our
lines. We went out into the road that passes the farm and stood there
in the pitch darkness, wondering. The fire increased in intensity until
every soldier within five miles seemed to be revelling in a lunatic
succession of "mad minutes." Was it a heavy attack on our lines? Soon
pom-poms joined in sharp, heavy taps--and machine guns. The lines to the
battalions were at the moment working feebly, and what the operators
could get through was scarcely intelligible. Ammunition limbers were
hurried up, and I stood ready to dart anywhere. For twenty minutes the
rifle-fire seemed to grow wilder and wilder. At last stretcher-bearers
came in with a few wounded and reported that we seemed to be holding our
own. Satisfactory so far. Then there were great flashes of shrapnel over
our lines; that comforted us, for if your troops are advancing you don't
fire shrapnel over the enemy's lines. You never know how soon they may
be yours. The firing soon died down until we heard nothing but little
desultory bursts. Finally an orderly came--the Germans had
half-heartedly charged our trenches but had been driven off with loss.
We returned to the farm and found that in the few minutes we had been
outside everything had been packed and half-frightened men were standing
about for orders.
The explanation of it all came later and was simple enough. The French,
without letting us know, had attacked the Germans on our right, and the
Germans to keep us engaged had made a feint attack upon us. So we went
back to dinner.
In modern war the infantryman hasn't much of a chance. Strategy nowadays
consists in arranging for the mutual slaughter of infantry by the
opposing guns, each general trusting that his guns will do the greater
slaughter. And half gunnery is luck. The day before yesterday we had a
little afternoon shoot at where we thought the German trenches might be.
The Germans unaccountably retreated, and yesterday when we advanced we
found the trenches crammed full of dead. By a combination of intelligent
anticipation and good luck we had hit them exactly----
From these letters you will be able to gather what mood we were in and
something of what the brigade despatch rider was doing. After the first
day the Germans ceased shrapnelling the fields round the farm and left
us nearly in peace. There I met Major Ballard, commanding the 15th
Artillery Brigade, one of the finest officers of my acquaintance, and
Captain Frost, the sole remaining officer of the Cheshires. He was
charming to me; I was particularly grateful for the loan of a razor,
for my own had disappeared and there were no despatch riders handy from
whom I could borrow.
Talking of the Cheshires reminds me of a story illustrating the troubles
of a brigadier. The general was dining calmly one night after having
arranged an attack. All orders had been sent out. Everything was
complete and ready. Suddenly there was a knock at the door and in walked
Captain M----, who reported his arrival with 200 reinforcements for the
Cheshires, a pleasant but irritating addition. The situation was further
complicated by the general's discovery that M---- was senior to the
officer then in command of the Cheshires. Poor M---- was not left long
in command. A fortnight later the Germans broke through and over the
Cheshires, and M---- died where a commanding officer should.
From 1910 Farm I had one good ride to the battalions, through Festubert
and along to the Cuinchy bridge. For me it was interesting because it
was one of the few times I had ridden just behind our trenches, which at
the moment were just north of the road and were occupied by the
Bedfords.
In a day or two we returned to Festubert, and Cadell gave me a
shake-down on a mattress in his billet--gloriously comfortable. The room
was a little draughty because the fuse of a shrapnel had gone right
through the door and the fireplace opposite. Except for a peppering on
the walls and some broken glass the house was not damaged; we almost
laughed at the father and mother and daughter who, returning while we
were there, wept because their home had been touched.
Orders came to attack. A beautiful plan was drawn up by which the
battalions of the brigade were to finish their victorious career in the
square of La Bassée.
In connection with this attack I was sent with a message for the Devons.
It was the blackest of black nights and I was riding without a light.
Twice I ran into the ditch, and finally I piled up myself and my bicycle
on a heap of stones lying by the side of the road. I did not damage my
bicycle. That was enough. I left it and walked.
When I got to Cuinchy bridge I found that the Devon headquarters had
shifted. Beyond that the sentry knew nothing. Luckily I met a Devon
officer who was bringing up ammunition. We searched the surrounding
cottages for men with knowledge, and at last discovered that the Devons
had moved farther along the canal in the direction of La Bassée. So we
set out along the tow-path, past a house that was burning fiercely
enough to make us conspicuous.
We felt our way about a quarter of a mile and stopped, because we were
getting near the Germans. Indeed we could hear the rumble of their
transport crossing the La Bassée bridge. We turned back, and a few yards
nearer home some one coughed high up the bank on our right. We found the
cough to be a sentry, and behind the sentry were the Devons.
The attack, as you know, was held up on the line
Cuinchy-Givenchy-Violaines; we advanced our headquarters to a house just
opposite the inn by which the road to Givenchy turns off. It was not
very safe, but the only shell that burst anywhere near the house itself
did nothing but wound a little girl in the leg.
On the previous day I had ridden to Violaines at dawn to draw a plan of
the Cheshires' trenches for the general. I strolled out by the sugar
factory, and had a good look at the red houses of La Bassée. Half an
hour later a patrol went out to explore the sugar factory. They did not
return. It seems that the factory was full of machine-guns. I had not
been fired upon, because the Germans did not wish to give their position
away sooner than was necessary.
A day or two later I had the happiness of avenging my potential death.
First I took orders to a battery of 6-inch howitzers at the Rue de
Marais to knock the factory to pieces, then I carried an observing
officer to some haystacks by Violaines, from which he could get a good
view of the factory. Finally I watched with supreme satisfaction the
demolition of the factory, and with regretful joy the slaughter of the
few Germans who, escaping, scuttled for shelter in some trenches just
behind and on either side of the factory.
I left the 15th Brigade with regret, and the regret I felt would have
been deeper if I had known what was going to happen to the brigade. I
was given interesting work and made comfortable. No despatch rider could
wish for more.
Not long after I had returned from the 15th Brigade, the Germans
attacked and broke through. They had been heavily reinforced and our
tentative offensive had been replaced by a stern and anxious defensive.
Now the Signal Office was established in the booking-office of Beuvry
Station. The little narrow room was packed full of operators and vibrant
with buzz and click. The Signal Clerk sat at a table in a tiny room just
off the booking-office. Orderlies would rush in with messages, and the
Clerk would instantly decide whether to send them over the wire, by
push-cyclist, or by despatch rider. Again, he dealt with all messages
that came in over the wire. Copies of these messages were filed. This
was our tape; from them we learned the news. We were not supposed to
read them, but, as we often found that they contained information which
was invaluable to despatch riders, we always looked through them and
each passed on what he had found to the others. The Signal Clerk might
not know where a certain unit was at a given moment. We knew, because we
had put together information that we had gathered in the course of our
rides and information which--though the Clerk might think it
unimportant--supplemented or completed or verified what we had already
obtained.
So the history of this partially successful attack was known to us.
Every few minutes one of us went into the Signal Office and read the
messages. When the order came for us to pack up, we had already made our
preparations, for Divisional Headquarters, the brain controlling the
actions of seventeen thousand men, must never be left in a position of
danger. And wounded were pouring into the Field Ambulances.
The enemy had made a violent attack, preluded by heavy shelling, on the
left of the 15th, and what I think was a holding attack on the right.
Violaines had been stormed, and the Cheshires had been driven, still
grimly fighting, to beyond the Rue de Marais. The Norfolks on their
right and the K.O.S.B.'s on their left had been compelled to draw back
their line with heavy loss, for their flanks had been uncovered by the
retreat of the Cheshires.
The Germans stopped a moment to consolidate their gains. This gave us
time to throw a couple of battalions against them. After desperate
fighting Rue de Marais was retaken and some sort of line established.
What was left of the Cheshires gradually rallied in Festubert.
This German success, together with a later success against the 3rd
Division, that resulted in our evacuation of Neuve Chapelle, compelled
us to withdraw and readjust our line. This second line was not so
defensible as the first. Until we were relieved the Germans battered at
it with gunnery all day and attacks all night. How we managed to hold it
is utterly beyond my understanding. The men were dog-tired. Few of the
old officers were left, and they were "done to the world." Never did the
Fighting Fifth more deserve the name. It fought dully and instinctively,
like a boxer who, after receiving heavy punishment, just manages to keep
himself from being knocked out until the call of time.
Yet, when they had dragged themselves wearily and blindly out of the
trenches, the fighting men of the Fighting Fifth were given but a day's
rest or two before the 15th and two battalions of the 13th were sent to
Hooge, and the remainder to hold sectors of the line farther south. Can
you wonder that we despatch riders, in comparative safety behind the
line, did all we could to help the most glorious and amazing infantry
that the world has ever seen?[21] And when you praise the deeds of Ypres
of the First Corps, who had experienced no La Bassée, spare a word for
the men of the Fighting Fifth who thought they could fight no more and
yet fought.
A few days after I had returned from the 15th Brigade I was sent out to
the 14th. I found them at the Estaminet de l'Epinette on the
Béthune-Richebourg road. Headquarters had been compelled to shift,
hastily enough, from the Estaminet de La Bombe on the La Bassée-Estaires
road. The estaminet had been shelled to destruction half an hour after
the Brigade had moved. The Estaminet de l'Epinette was filthy and small.
I slept in a stinking barn, half-full of dirty straw, and rose with the
sun for the discomfort of it.
Opposite the estaminet a road goes to Festubert. At the corner there is
a cluster of dishevelled houses. I sat at the door and wrote letters,
and looked for what might come to pass. In the early dawn the poplars
alongside the highway were grey and dull. There was mist on the road;
the leaves that lay thick were black. Then as the sun rose higher the
poplars began to glisten and the mist rolled away, and the leaves were
red and brown.
An old woman came up the road and prayed the sentry to let her pass. He
could not understand her and called to me. She told me that her family
were in the house at the corner fifty yards distant. I replied that she
could not go to them--that they, if they were content not to return,
might come to her. But the family would not leave their chickens, and
cows, and corn. So the old woman, who was tired, sank down by the
wayside and wept. This sorrow was no sorrow to the sorrow of the war. I
left the old woman, the sentry, and the family, and went into a fine
breakfast.
At this time there was much talk about spies. Our wires were often cut
mysteriously. A sergeant had been set upon in a lane. The enemy were
finding our guns with uncanny accuracy. All our movements seemed to be
anticipated by the enemy. Taking for granted the extraordinary
efficiency of the German Intelligence Corps, we were particularly
nervous about spies when the Division was worn out, when things were not
going well.
At the Estaminet de l'Epinette I heard a certain story, and hearing it
set about to make a fool of myself. This is the story--I have never
heard it substantiated, and give it as an illustration and not as fact.
There was once an artillery brigade billeted in a house two miles or so
behind the lines. All the inhabitants of the house had fled, for the
village had been heavily bombarded. Only a girl had had the courage to
remain and do hostess to the English. She was so fresh and so charming,
so clever in her cookery, and so modest in her demeanour that all the
men of the brigade headquarters fell madly in love with her. They even
quarrelled. Now this brigade was suffering much from espionage. The guns
could not be moved without the Germans knowing their new position. No
transport or ammunition limbers were safe from the enemy's guns. The
brigade grew mightily indignant. The girl was told by her numerous
sweethearts what was the matter. She was angry and sympathetic, and
swore that through her the spy should be discovered. She swore the
truth.
One night a certain lewd fellow of the baser sort pursued the girl with
importunate pleadings. She confessed that she liked him, but not in that
way. He left her and stood sullenly by the door. The girl took a pail
and went down into the cellar to fetch up a little coal, telling the man
with gentle mockery not to be so foolish. This angered him, and in a
minute he had rushed after her into the cellar, snorting with
disappointed passion. Of course he slipped on the stairs and fell with a
crash. The girl screamed. The fellow, his knee bruised, tried to feel
his way to the bottom of the stairs and touched a wire. Quickly running
his hand along the wire he came to a telephone. The girl rushed to him,
and, clasping his knees, offered him anything he might wish, if only he
would say nothing. I think he must have hesitated for a moment, but he
did not hesitate long. The girl was shot.
Full of this suspiciously melodramatic story I caught sight of a
mysterious document fastened by nails to the house opposite the inn. It
was covered with coloured signs which, whatever they were, certainly did
not form letters or make sense in any way. I examined the document
closely. One sign looked like an aeroplane, another like a house, a
third like the rough drawing of a wood. I took it to a certain officer,
who agreed with me that it appeared suspicious.
We carried it to the staff-captain, who pointed out very forcibly that
it had been raining lately, that colour ran, that the signs left formed
portions of letters. I demanded the owner of the house upon which the
document had been posted. She was frightened and almost unintelligible,
but supplied the missing fragments. The document was a crude election
appeal. Being interpreted it read something like this:--
SUPPORT LEFÈVRE. HE IS NOT A LIAR LIKE DUBOIS.
Talking of spies, here is another story. It is true.
Certain wires were always being cut. At length a patrol was organised.
While the operator was talking there was a little click and no further
acknowledgment from the other end. The patrol started out and caught the
man in the act of cutting a second wire. He said nothing.
He was brought before the Mayor. Evidence was briefly given of his
guilt. He made no protest. It was stated that he had been born in the
village. The Mayor turned to the man and said--
"You are a traitor. It is clear. Have you anything to say?"
The man stood white and straight. Then he bowed his head and made
answer--
"Priez pour moi."
That was no defence. So they led him away.
The morning after I arrived at the 14th the Germans concentrated their
fire on a large turnip-field and exhumed multitudinous turnips. No
further damage was done, but the field was unhealthily near the
Estaminet de l'Epinette. In the afternoon we moved our headquarters back
a mile or so to a commodious and moderately clean farm with a
forgettable name.
That evening two prisoners were brought in. They owned to eighteen, but
did not look more than sixteen. The guard treated them with kindly
contempt. We all sat round a makeshift table in the loft where we slept
and told each other stories of fighting and love and fear, while the
boys, squatting a little distance away, listened and looked at us in
wonder. I came in from a ride about one in the morning and found those
of the guard who were off duty and the two German boys sleeping side by
side. Literally it was criminal negligence--some one ought to have been
awake--but, when I saw one of the boys was clasping tightly a packet of
woodbines, I called it something else and went to sleep.
A day or two later I was relieved. On the following afternoon I was sent
to Estaires to bring back some details about the Lahore Division which
had just arrived on the line. I had, of course, seen Spahis and Turcos
and Senegalese, but when riding through Lestrem I saw these Indian
troops of ours the obvious thoughts tumbled over one another.
We despatch riders when first we met the Indians wondered how they would
fight, how they would stand shell-fire and the climate--but chiefly we
were filled with a sort of mental helplessness, riding among people when
we could not even vaguely guess at what they were thinking. We could get
no deeper than their appearance, dignified and clean and well-behaved.
In a few days I was back again at the 14th with Huggie. At dusk the
General went out in his car to a certain village about three miles
distant. Huggie went with him. An hour or so, and I was sent after him
with a despatch. The road was almost unrideable with the worst sort of
grease, the night was pitch-black and I was allowed no light. I
slithered along at about six miles an hour, sticking out my legs for a
permanent scaffolding. Many troops were lying down at the side of the
road. An officer in a strained voice just warned me in time for me to
avoid a deep shell-hole by inches. I delivered my despatch to the
General. Outside the house I found two or three officers I knew. Two of
them were young captains in command of battalions. Then I learned how
hard put to it the Division was, and what the result is of nervous
strain.
They had been fighting and fighting and fighting until their nerves were
nothing but a jangling torture. And a counter-attack on Neuve Chapelle
was being organised. Huggie told me afterwards that when the car had
come along the road, all the men had jumped like startled animals and a
few had turned to take cover. Why, if a child had met one of these men
she would have taken him by the hand instinctively and told him not to
be frightened, and defended him against anything that came. Yet it is
said there are still those at home who will not stir to help. I do not
see how this can possibly be true. It could not be true.
First we talked about the counter-attack, and which battalion would
lead; then with a little manipulation we began to discuss musical comedy
and the beauty of certain ladies. Again the talk would wander back to
which battalion would lead.
I returned perilously with a despatch and left Huggie, to spend a
disturbed night and experience those curious sensations which are caused
by a shell bursting just across the road from the house.
The proposed attack was given up. If it had been carried out, those men
would have fought as finely as they could. I do not know whether my
admiration for the infantry or my hatred of war is the greater. I can
express neither.
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 and deafly 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 or one 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 his battalion. Day and
night he tended and coaxed that car. He tied it together when it fell to
pieces. At all times and in 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.
[Illustration: YPRES _TO_ LA BASSÉE]
FOOTNOTES:
[17] The letters were written on the 14th October _et seq._ The censor
was kind.
[18] Dorsets, I think.
[19] I do not say this paragraph is true. It is what I thought on 15th
October 1914. The weather was depressing.
[20] Optimist!
[21] After nine months at the Front--six and a half months as a despatch
rider and two and a half months as a cyclist officer--I have decided
that the English language has no superlative sufficient to describe our
infantry.