THE EXPEDITION TO NO MAN'S LAND
"TURN out, you chaps! You're warned for duty in the first-line
trench."
With the sergeant's words ringing in his ears Ralph Setley arose from
his uncomfortable bed. A candle was still guttering. It was not yet
dawn. The Huns' protracted shelling had ceased until the time for
their customary morning "hate."
The rest of the occupants of his dug-out were engaged upon their
morning "toilet"--the rite consisting of cleaning and oiling their
rifles. Washing was out of the question, and as they had turned in
fully dressed, including great-coats and boots, there was nothing
further to be done beyond cooking breakfast.
Thanks to the blunder of the rationing party the men regaled
themselves with slices of bacon, bread not more than three days old,
and tea of exceptionally strong brew. The bacon was gritty, which was
not to be wondered at, seeing that the men had been under shell-fire
almost the whole way to the trenches.
Alderhame was in high spirits notwithstanding he had had but a few
hours' sleep. There was a touch of the far-off "green-room" days, as
he laid his hand on Setley's shoulder.
"Come on, laddie," he said. "Let's survey the radiant morn:--
"This battle fares like to the morning's war,
When dying clouds contend with glowing light;
What time the shepherd, blowing of his nails,
Can neither call it perfect day nor night."
Viewed in the pale grey dawn, the dreary stretch of No Man's Land was
robbed of most of its ghastly details. Here and there, often in
heaps, huddled corpses dressed in mud-stained field-grey testified to
the accuracy of the British rifle and machine-gun fire. Further away
lay the trenches that the Wheatshires had visited so effectively.
Already Hun wiring parties had been out, and the shattered stakes and
snake-like coils of severed barbed wire had been replaced by new.
Almost in the front row of wire a black, white, and red striped
flag--the emblem of Germany--fluttered in the faint breeze.
Setley could now understand why the order for recall had been given
when the regiment was in possession of this section of the Hun
trenches, for dominating the advance works was a strong redoubt,
known to the Wheatshires by the somewhat ominous name of Pumpnickel.
For the last three weeks the Engineers--the same company whose
rations had been appropriated by the Wheatshires--had been engaged in
driving a mine-gallery in the direction of this earthwork-fortress.
Great things were promised when the time came to spring the mine and
send Pumpnickel Redoubt flying in the air.
"I mean to get that flag," declared Bartlett. "I'll go out to-night
and bring it in."
"Wouldn't if I were you," said Penfold. "It's a sort of booby-trap, I
wouldn't mind betting. Something that, when moved, explodes a
grenade."
"I'll risk that," declared the lad grimly. "The Boches mustn't flaunt
their colours in our faces. I was----"
Something "pinged" on the rounded surface of his steel helmet. A
watchful sniper had seized his chance. Only by an inch had Sidney
escaped death, for had the bullet struck the steel squarely instead
of glancing off the convex surface the head-gear would not have
withstood the impact.
"Are you young fools looking for trouble?" growled Sergeant Ferris,
the N.C.O. who had routed them from the dug-out. "Keep under cover,
and use a trench periscope if you want to enjoy the scenery."
"Thanks for the tip, sergeant," said George Anderson. "Sorry I can't
offer yer a seegar, sergeant; I left me case on the grand pianner at
'ome; but 'ave a fag--a genuine Day's March Nearer 'Ome' brand."
The N.C.O. took the proffered cigarette and lit it slowly and
deliberately.
"Are we on Wiring Party to-night, sergeant?" asked Ginger.
"Not as I know of," was the reply. "Why?"
"'Cause my pal 'ere is goin' to get 'old of that striped
bed-cover"--jerking his thumb in the direction of the German
flag--"an' I'm a-goin' with 'im; ain't I, Sid, ole sport?"
"Then you'll have to be sharp about it," remarked Sergeant Ferris.
"The mine is to be sprung at 3.30 a.m. We're over the top again; this
time there'll be no going back, if all goes well. We ought to advance
four hundred yards and consolidate the position. So now you know. Go
for the flag at your own risk, chums; but don't forget. Be back
before three, or you'll stand a sure and certain chance of going to
Kingdom Come with a couple o' hundred perishing Boches for company."
During the rest of the day nothing happened beyond the customary
routine of trench life, combined with the monotonous occurrence of
casualties.
"Are you still of the same mind, Bartlett?" enquired Alderhame, as
darkness set in.
"Rather," was the firm reply.
"Then I'm going with you."
"And I," added Setley.
"No, you don't," objected Anderson. "Two's quite enough for this
blessed job. Look 'ere: if I don't come back, there's a letter in my
pack wot I wants sent 'ome. Anythink else you can 'ave, fags an' all.
I'm going to 'ave a doss. Turn me out at twelve."
"Rum chap," commented Alderhame, indicating the soundly sleeping
Ginger. "A regular rough diamond, always ready to do a pal a good
turn."
"By the by," said Setley. "You did me a good turn when my bayonet got
hung up, although you nearly split the drum of my ear when you fired
and brought down the fellow who was about to club me."
"Every little helps," said Alderhame. "Lucky for you the Hun wasn't
on my left side."
"Why?" enquired Ralph curiously.
"Simply because I'm stone-blind in my left eye," replied the ex-actor
composedly. "I was passed for Class A just the same. When I told the
doctor he merely remarked: 'Oh, left eye, eh? Well, a man almost
invariably shoots with his right eye!' 'I'd sooner shoot with a
rifle, sir!' I said. 'And so you shall, my man!' he rejoined,
laughing at my repartee; so he marked me down for general service,
and here I am. I'm not at all sorry. If I come through this business
it will be something to be proud of, you know."
All was quiet between the opposing lines. The Huns, realizing the
superior weight and volume of fire of the British guns, wisely
refrained from inviting them; while the latter, massed until they
were practically wheel to wheel, were silent, concentrating their
energies for a terrific tornado of shell as a prelude to the rush of
the infantry "over the top."
At midnight the two volunteers were roused from their slumbers.
"Still of the same mind?" enquired Penfold.
"Not 'arf," replied Ginger, while Bartlett nodded his head and
shrugged his shoulders in the characteristic way that he had
inherited from his Polish ancestors.
"We'll speed the parting guests," declared Alderhame, with a forced
attempt at joviality. "Me lud, your carriage waits."
"Chuck it!" retorted Anderson. "'Ere, gimme me baynit. Look arter me
rifle till I comes back. Now, Sidney, old sport."
Setley, Penfold, and the ex-actor accompanied them to the front
trench. Like men about to dive into icy-cold water the two raiders
paused, with one foot on the fire-step; then without a word both
wriggled silently and cautiously over the parapet. Ten seconds later
the intense darkness had swallowed them up.
Braving the piercing cold the three men awaited their comrades'
return, peering at intervals over the top of the parapet and
straining their ears to catch the faintest sound of their movements.
Twenty minutes passed, but neither by sight nor sound did the twain
betray their presence in the forbidding No Man's Land.
Suddenly the darkness was pierced by a short shriek of mingled pain
and rage, the thud of blows falling on some soft object, and the
unmistakable squelching of many feet in the tenacious slime.
"Good heavens!" ejaculated Penfold. "They've been done in. Who's
going out, lads?"
"Not much use at present," objected Alderhame. "The Huns are on the
alert. When things have quieted down a bit, I'll go."
"That's the spirit, lad," said Sergeant Ferris, who had joined the
party of watchers. "Discretion is what's wanted now. We've chucked
away two men over this business already, and all for the sake of a
dirty German flag."
Another twenty minutes passed. The Huns could be heard talking
excitedly in their trenches, but the distance was too great to
distinguish their words. Setley was of the opinion that Sidney was a
prisoner. He fancied that he heard the lad's voice, but he could not
be certain.
"If they'd got Ginger," declared Penfold, "there would be no doubt of
hearing his voice. Well, lads, are you fit?"
The three men began to remove great-coats and everything likely to
impede their movements. Suddenly Setley snatched up his rifle.
"What's up, now?" asked the sergeant.
"Something moving," declared the lad.
The sentries, too, held their arms in readiness to open fire.
"Steady on, chums," whispered Ginger. "Don't let rip. It's only me."
He wriggled over the parapet and dropped inertly upon the fire-step.
For some moments he lay like one dead, his comrades forbearing to
question him.
Presently he raised his head, and extending his hand showed a closely
rolled bundle that was indistinguishable in the darkness.
"I've got it, mates," he announced. "It's the flag we went out for.
Got me baynit into one bloke's throat, an' didn't 'e scream."
"Where's Sidney?" asked Penfold.
"Ain't 'e back? I lost touch with 'im. 'Ere, I'm off out again!"
"No, you don't," declared Sergeant Ferris firmly. "You'll be put
under arrest if you attempt it. You're done up. Now, you fellows, if
you're going you'd best look sharp about it. Take a rope, in case you
find young Bartlett. Slip it round his heels, and drag him in if he
cannot crawl."
In spite of his resolution, Setley's heart was literally in his mouth
when he found himself in contact with the slime of No Man's Land. At
ten paces he had lost all idea of the whereabouts of his companions.
Guided by the relative position of the Pole star, now shining feebly
through the drifting smoke, he crawled slowly but steadily onwards
towards the spot where the coveted flag had been planted.
At frequent intervals star-shells burst overhead, throwing a
blinding, ghostly glare upon the crater-pitted ground. Their
appearance was the signal for Setley to throw himself flat upon the
ground. The slightest movement would have resulted in a machine-gun
being trained upon him. With his face pillowed on his arm--it was the
only way of preventing a smothering acquaintance with the
evil-smelling Somme mud--he was unable to take advantage of the light
to look for his companions. Whether they were ahead, behind, or had
relinquished their efforts, he was totally in ignorance.
Presently his hand came in contact with some hard cold substance. It
was the face of a frozen corpse--that of a Hun, judging by the
cloth-swathed helmet. The man was obviously a sniper, for he had on
him a stock of candles, food and drink, and a pair of binoculars.
Evidently he was making, under cover of darkness, for a favourite
lair when a chance bullet struck him on the forehead.
A searchlight, unexpectedly unmasked, swept the ground. Fortunately,
Setley had just crept into a shell-crater, and the raised lip
effectually intercepted the dazzling rays. From the corner of his eye
he made out the sinister lines of wire fronting the German trenches,
the criss-cross of barbed entanglements standing out like silver
filigree work in the cold rays of the electric light. He was within a
few feet of his objective.
Voices were talking just over the sand-bagged parapet. He listened.
There were Germans speaking in broken English, asking questions in
menacing tones. Someone was answering--and that someone was Private
Sidney Bartlett.