The march back lay along a track under a sort of plateau. They were passing below a raised bank near a windmill, when he saw some men in forage caps standing above.
“Royal Flying Corps!” exclaimed Baldwin.
Looking up at the faces above him, he saw, with a start, the be-spectacled grinning face of Jack Hart among them. He had a sergeant’s stripes on his sleeves. At the same time Jack saw him, and waved; then they had gone past. He told Baldwin about Jack’s legendary wickedness. And now he was a sergeant!
At the end of the march the company entered in twilight through the iron gates of a large building set among trees. It turned out to be a new and unfinished convent. A high wall surrounded the grounds. The rooms within were wide and lofty, without doors; the building had no lavatories, no kitchen range, no fires where their clothes might be dried; but what matter, they were under a roof.
“Wonderful how cheerful the men always are, isn’t it?” he heard Mr. Ogilvy say to an officer of another company.
“Yes, a wonderful feeling to be with them, Bruce.”
These untried men accepted all that came, buoyed by a feeling that was not yet of the present. Tommy Atkins perhaps expressed that feeling—though not by his words—by the attitude that all was in the hands of God—an attitude which had not yet become discredited at its face value; for all were yet amateurs of war and its machinery, mental and physical.
*
They were indeed happy to be under shelter. Candles winked on the parquet floors, as stew was eaten hungrily, followed by tea, drunk out of unwashed mess-tins. It was hot, it had rum in it. Firmly Tommy Atkins refused his portion. Animation filled the room flickering with shadows on the walls; each candle-light was a personal beacon of security and shelter; and when the post came, with three letters for him, from Mother, Desmond, and Father, Phillip wanted nothing more.
After a game of solo with some of the fellows, he and Baldwin went outside to explore the grounds. Against one wall the cooks’ fires smouldered, beside a heap of branches for the morrow. Tommy Atkins stood there, cheerfully sipping from a mess-tin his own brew of rumless tea.
The clouds had lifted. A star shone in the clear sky. There was a slight hillock among the trees, and seeing several men standing there, they wandered that way. As they drew near, Phillip sensed something strange in the attitude of the men on the hillock. No one was talking as they stared towards an open space through the trees. As the two friends joined them a cock pheasant flew crowing through the darkness, a thing unheeded by the watching group, so intent were they upon something else. What could it be?
Under distant clouds ran a faint flicker of light. A moment later he saw it appear again, but as a suffusion, a glow which spread up and died, only to flicker again and play like remote summer lightning higher in the sky. A dull blow came on the light breeze, then another. The horizon was faintly reverberating, glowing fitfully, trembling with light.
So still did they all stand there that he could hear the sycamore leaves breaking from the trees above, falling from branch to branch, coming to rest in the darkness around them. The guns of Ypres!
*
Rain fell in the night, and during the next morning and early afternoon; and when the London Highlanders left the convent it was still raining. They marched through the square of St. Omer and out of the town to a long line of omnibuses standing on the right of the road. Wet to the skin again, with sodden spats and shoes, they clambered upon the familiar solid-tyred Tillings-Stevens buses, greeting them like old friends, despite their boarded windows and grey paint, for when last seen they had been of the streets of London.
“I votes we ride on top, Norman.”
The bus was a 47. Surely it was lucky? He explained that it might be one that he had often raced with his friend Desmond up Brumley Hill in the old days, on its way to the George and Dragon, Farnborough. “I hated the coming of the buses, with their hordes of people invading the countryside, and stripping the woods of bluebells. Most of them, from Shoreditch, went only for the ride, and to booze at the George and Dragon, so they did not do much harm to the countryside. We’ll see more on top, Norman.”
It was a hopeful remark, for the day was already sinking into twilight. The bus swayed along the pavé road, following another of a long column in front, often skidding, and once striking a tree with its off-side rear hub. Cheers could be heard from down below when this happened. The road was narrow, lined by trees on either side. On the slippery sett-stones the pace was a crawl. Trees beside the route were darkly lit by the glare on the eastern horizon to which they travelled, intently staring. During the many stops the rolling cannonade came directly upon the wet wind. The scene was romantic to Phillip, despite the growing immediacy of fear under the unbelieveableness of the whole thing. Was he dreaming, after all? How could they put Territorials into battle? Perhaps they were to be used to help the wounded, as they had at Villeneuve. Why was it all happening? Could he be killed? He felt himself going pale, and with an effort evaded the frightful thought. He could not be killed; for what would Mother do if——
Baldwin was silent, too. Neither spoke more than a word or two. They had already agreed to stand by each other, whatever happened.
The sky was now lit up by almost continuous flashes far ahead of the black avenue of trees.
“It’s rather like the early bioscopes in a way, isn’t it, I mean the flickering, Norman. I remember when I went to my first flicks at the Electric Palace—I saw it all through three times, and when I got home, my father sent me to bed and forbade me to go again.”
“I saw my first films through several times, too, and went home late, but my dad didn’t mind particularly.”
They were sitting in a front seat, their laps covered by the tarpaulin apron which still remained. Looking down, he saw that the engine was boiling, steam hissing up from its radiator cap. The convoy of thirty-four buses had stopped for a battery of French guns to pass. Could they be the famous seventy-fives? The newspapers had praised these wonderful guns, firing their rafales, or continuous fire. How wonderful if they were!
On went the convoy again, the bus grinding in low gear, the solid tyres damping down the shocks of the sett-stones. They passed through a town, entering another straight avenue of trees. This road was congested. Wagons and lorries were moving both ways. The rain had stopped, and the moon shone clear. They removed the tarpaulin from their knees, hoping it might dry.
All hopes of a billet for the night went as the convoy moved through another town, the tall trees seeming to lead direct to the great arc of thundering light which was the battle raging for Ypres.
“My God, Norman, look at the play of light on the clouds!”
“It’s rather wonderful, when you think of it.”
“Do you feel frightened?”
“Not particularly.”
“Same here.”
There was another wait, prolonged and cold, between the over-arching trees. Ambulances drawn by horses moved slowly below, each with a red cross on a white square on its canvas hood looking black in the moonlight. The noise of gunfire was now so great that the grinding of the iron wheels of the ambulances on the pavé was unheard.
He touched the wet twigs of the tree near his head, and by the feel judged that it was an elm. The thought that soon he would be leaving for ever the tree, so quiet and fixed in its life, became a vast blanching fear; he threw himself down and his head cracked with stars as the whole earth split white. Was he wounded? The bus seemed upright. Baldwin was holding his head as he saw when, his ears still ringing, every part of the trees around them seemed petrified. There was a third smiting report, followed by a fourth.
They learned from the bus-driver that it was a battery of naval guns firing from a railway siding. Even so, it was alarming. Like ghosts of their former selves, among other pallid faces the length of the convoy, they sat and waited, shaken by the tumultuous night.
*
At last, cold and tired, unspeaking, they arrived
at their destination, climbing stiffly down the stairs of the bus and passing in single file into what seemed to be a cathedral, with a tall belfry and smaller fretted towers and pinnacles along its roof, glintering in the nearly rounded moon.
“Lead on, lead on!” said Mr. Ogilby’s voice. Then Sergeant ‘Grannie’ Henshaw’s voice was saying, “This way, follow me! No smoking, anyone!” He was known as Grannie Henshaw because he was a kindly, slightly fussy, elderly man, a bachelor who had been in the battalion for over twenty years.
To Phillip’s relief, most of the shells seemed to be bursting beyond the town. The bursts outlined roof-tops and chimney-stacks. Away from the scintillant night he followed others through a door, to find himself inside what looked like an immense timbered hall, with a carved oak seat extending around and under walls which were painted with large pictures, seen dimly in the light of hurricane lamps on the ground. An agitated civilian, wearing a funny hat, sash over one shoulder and tied round his waist, was gesticulating to Captain Forbes.
With relief he heard that they were to sleep there for the rest of the night. Two blankets each were issued, but no tea or food.
“Get what sleep you can, you fellows,” said Mr. Ogilby, walking round to where they had dumped their equipment on the seat. “And no smoking. The mayor is anxious about fire, as this is an historic building, apparently. Is that clear? No smoking. Breakfast will be at six o’clock. It is now nearly three, so get down to it.”
“Well, we don’t get much money, but we do see life,” said Elliott, when Mr. Ogilby had gone away. Phillip went to find cousin Gerry, at the other end of the hall.
“Hullo, young Phil. How goes it?”
“Oh, not so bad. I say, I’ve got a spare cake. Would you like it?”
“Can you spare it?”
“Of course I can. How’s Bertie?”
“Haven’t seen him. The transport remained behind. I bet he’s cursing that he’ll miss the fun.”
Gerry had not seen the French wounded at Villeneuve. Did he really think it was fun? He wished he were with the transport. He went away, returning with the cake. On the way back he saw Peter Wallace, and stopped to speak to him before he realised that he, with David and Nimmo, was cutting into three pieces a pork pie. Would be think he was cadging?
“Hullo, Peter. How goes it?”
Peter grunted, and looked at him sourly.
“Remember old Purley-Prout, Peter? I wonder where he is today?”
“What do I care for your dam-silly questions?”
“Oh, I only just wondered. No particular reason, really.”
“At least he wasn’t half German.”
“Nor am I; I’m only quarter.”
“What do you want?”
“Nothing, really.”
“Then take it and go.”
Nimmo smiled at him, and winked. Phillip strolled away, trying to look as though he had merely been having a friendly chat with Nimmo. Was that why Father had removed Lindenheim from the front gate? Thank God for Baldwin.
*
The floor of the Salle Pauwels was cold, despite two blankets, while the noise of the guns never ceased throughout the four hours of fitful sleep. In the wan light of hurricane lamps they had half a tin of bully beef and biscuits for breakfast. Hardly were the lumps swallowed when an increased cannonade seemed to shake the whole lofty building. Then buckling on equipment, they fell in for rifle inspection. When new ammunition of pointed bullets was exchanged for the old blunt-nosed clips, with two extra linen bandoliers, his heart gave a sickening bump. Surely they would not be sent into action, when they were lines of communication troops? Still, there was hope when they were told to tie two blankets over the shoulder, like a plaid. Perhaps these were to wrap the wounded in? This small hope died when Captain Forbes addressed the company.
“Well, men, this is what we have trained for. The battle now raging may be the last big battle, and the decisive one, of the entire war. The enemy is doing his damndest to get the Channel ports. To do this he must first capture Ypres, where we are now. If he does capture Ypres, the whole of the British Expeditionary Force, and the Belgian Army, will be cut off. The Kaiser, we know on good authority, is not very far away, waiting to move forward with his troops. The regular soldiers are tired. They have been in action continuously since Mons, and so the London Highlanders have been given the honour of supporting them. I have here a message from the Colonel. “It is my proud belief that every London Highlander will remember the high traditions of the regiment.”
He paused. “Now, men, break ranks quietly and fall in on your markers in the square outside.”
Cold as cocaine Phillip followed other silent men through the arched door, and so into the Grande Place. Under a grey sky and upon the regular grey cobbles he saw a row of long-snouted guns, painted in colours of decaying cabbages, standing in the square. A man in wooden sabots went by, peaked capped and muffler’d, beside a loaded little cart drawn by a dog. Military police with red-caps and revolvers in holsters, and the company markers standing to attention in front of the Halles aux Drapiers, were the only other people visible in the square, except a soldier with a beard, and only one button on his tunic, on guard near the guns. He said something to Elliott, who gave him a cigarette.
“What did he say, Elliott?”
“He’s Royal Garrison Artillery, and says the guns have been taken out, as they’ve got no shells for them.”
*
As they marched in the direction of the firing, he saw some of the refugees read about in the newspapers. They were in a side street, loading their household goods into carts and handbarrows. They looked dull-faced, unsmiling, in best black clothes and black cloth caps. Down another street were rows of grey motor cars, stretching to the end. An enamelled plate on the corner house read Rue des Chiens.
“Road of the Dogs! Look at all those motor cars!” he exclaimed, for a joke. “Each one is owned by a rich dog—but all their showers have been called up!”
“Perhaps they volunteered for home defence only.”
“Seriously, Norman, I wonder what those motor cars are for.”
The sight of a French sentry, in blue coat, kepi, and red trousers, gave the clue.
“Good lord, they must be the Paris taxicabs painted grey, the ones we read of in the newspapers, Norman, that took reserves up to the Marne!”
“This place is mediaeval,” said Baldwin, a few minutes later, as they marched through a gap in the massive red-brick walls, between two stone figures of lions. “These are the ramparts, and the moat.”
Decaying water-lilies lay on the surface. Phillip wondered if roach and carp lived in the water. He felt, now that he was no longer frightened, glad that he had not missed the adventure. And his salary was piling up all the time, for when he got home again!
In the new mood of optimism, he felt pride as he saw the kilts swinging and the rhythmic movements of the leading company turning to the right up a long tree-lined road. There were grassy meadows extending on either side. Beside the road hundreds of cavalry horses were picketed. Coming down the road was a procession of refugees leading piled-up carts, some with old people perched on what looked like feather-bedding—stick-like people with grey, expressionless faces. The cobbled road led on straight, the feather-like poplar trees on either side drawing closer together and dipping once before rising up to the horizon.
They marched on into a misty landscape of plow and stubble ending at woods against the sky. Each man marched unspeaking now, for slate-coloured smudges of smoke hung over the woods, beginning as little black balls that spotted the sky and drifted into the general grey, other spots and smudges taking their place. Among them appeared yellow writhing caterpillars, much larger than the black spots, which Phillip thought of as the dung droppings of yellow hairy caterpillars.
The blows of the gunfire seemed to arise through the bones of his heels upon the hard cobbles.
Then his mouth filled with water as a coarse downward buzzing grew
louder and louder and in the field three hundred yards away on the right four massive black eruptions arose and instantly seemed to break the very day with four stupendous rending crashes.
“Halt!”
The rear companies waited, white-faced, while the leading company marched on, to allow an interval between them.
“Them’s Jack Johnsons,” said a cavalry soldier, one of a score guarding horses tied to a picket-line on the grass near the road. Leaning against branches were clusters of lances with bright points, and pennons below the blades.
The trooper explained that the rest of the squadron was in the line.
“What’s it like up there?” asked Elliott.
“Bloody terrible, mate.”
“How far away are the Germans?” asked Phillip.
“Just over that ridge. Why, you blokes in a ’urry to git at the Allymands?”
“It’s not a bad idea,” replied Elliott. “It’s what we came for. When do we attack?”
At this, other troopers gathered round. They were unshaven; one had almost a ginger beard; their cap badges were missing, and their shoulder numerals. Some of them had marked the numerals with indelible pencil.
They stared at the rolled blankets. “Blime, goin’ on a picnic? Where you blokes from? You don’t talk like Jocks.”
“We’re the London Highlanders,” said Elliott.
“London Islanders? Then we’re the pushin’ Horse Marines.”
How Dear Is Life Page 27