Phillip felt suddenly elated, confident. He could hardly wait to fire the carbine. He felt outside himself now, excited and hot but also calm, as though nothing really mattered. The only thing was his hands shaking, and the electric snake flickering down his left eye.
The pom-poom-err, pom-poom-err of brass bands, the steady beating of big drums, came with a great volume of cheering and shouting from way down under the moon. Then looking round, Phillip saw a figure standing in the field behind the trench.
“Hold your fire, men!” cried the voice of Fiery Forbes. “Wait till you get the order to fire! Every round must tell.”
“Come down, sir!” cried Martin’s voice. “They’re coming, I can see them coming, sir!”
“Hold your fire,” said Captain Forbes again, shielding his eyes from the moon. Far away up the line, from northwards and the Menin Road, a crackle of rifle fire was arising, just like a dry thorn fire, thought Phillip, remembering an afternoon at Beau Brickhill when a stubbed-out hedge had been burned. Bullets began to crack overhead.
“Get down, sir!” more voices cried.
Captain Forbes slid into the trench, and taking out his case, lit a cigarette.
The crackle of musketry was sweeping louder and swifter. It seemed to rush upon the trench.
“Stand to!” Phillip heard the voice of Fiery Forbes shouting.
“Stand to, men, stand to!” echoed the anxious voice of Sergeant Henshaw, squeezing behind them along the trench.
“Don’t get the wind up, chum!” said the Carabineer, as he chewed his quid of ’baccy.
*
When the attack was over, when the cheers and singing of the Bavarians advancing to the crest with the blare of brass-bands coming through the moon-mist had died away, then under the droning of heavy shells and the swishing of shrapnel searching the road behind, Phillip was aware of moaning in front, and repeated cries like mutter-mutter-mutter!, until with amazement above the sweating of his body and the ringing noise in his ears he realised that the cries of the German wounded were the same as mother, mother, mother! heard from the Iron Colonel’s bloodless lips just before he had opened his eyes wide, and died. It was a startling thought, that the Germans felt like that, too—he hardly dared to think it. Then, wondering why the wrist of his left hand was stinging, as though the skin had been cut by a sharp knife, he stood the carbine against the trench, drew back his sleeve, and to his amazement felt a soft greasy water-blister there.
“The ’eat o’ the chamber,” explained the Carabineer, “boils the grease packed under the wooden cover. The barrel gits red ’ot, not as you’d notice it when you’re giving the Alleyman five rounds rapid.”
Five rounds! thought Phillip. He must have fired a hundred. He felt wildly exalted that the attack had failed; he wanted to laugh, to sing.
*
The moon of Hallowe’en, one night away from its full shine, sailed high in the sky, so that figures of men, whether standing or lying, moving or still, complete or broken into pieces, cast the smallest shadows upon the earth.
But such quality of observation vanishes like tissue paper in flame when high explosive detonates, and a man is exposed to his own frail aloneness. Phillip leapt down into the trench when with swoop and swish German shrapnel began to crack above.
High explosive followed shrapnel. The timeless night roared on. Cries came feebly through the choking fumes; showers of sparks and fiery tongues rose from the stacks west of the road; the windmill blazed until its arms dropped to pieces with running blazing tar. The shell sunk low, while yet the farm near it was lurid with flame.
With the glare behind them, the survivors in trench and rifle pit were appalled by a sudden great burst of cheering, prolonged and repeated; and to the striking up of Deutschland, Deutschland über Alles the Bavarians attacked again. The rows of faces were lit by flames as they ran forward, to fall before rapid-thudding rifle fire. Phillip could hear their officers shouting; he saw one run forward, until he stumbled upon his face, sword in hand. Then from Messines came the steady pop-pop-popple-clat-clatt! of traversing machine-gun fire. More than one was enfilading the line of trenches. Parapet and parados, or what served for them, seemed to jerk viciously in places, sending spirts of dirt upon him. When the machine-guns stopped firing there was more shouting; another rush; some of the attacking figures leaping from side to side, but never coming really near. Others lay down, and started to fire. There were only a few flashes here and there; and as the flames behind the trench sank down, the attack seemed to be called off. Whistles were blown, shouts were heard. Phillip felt himself suddenly to be feeble.
Mr. Ogilby walked along the back of the trench, asking how they were. Any casualties? Lance-corporal Douglas reported none in his half-section; but they needed more ammunition. Sergeant Henshaw told him to detail two men to fetch boxes from the dump behind the farmhouse to the right of the burning corn-stack, now a low glowing heap of embers sometimes fluttering with lilac flames.
Douglas, tense and sharp, ordered Phillip and Martin to go. Martin, a limp figure of woe, on hearing his name, began to cough hollowly, as he held his hand to his side.
“Get back as soon as you can, boys,” said Sergeant Henshaw, encouragingly. Phillip was glad to get away from the trenches. With Martin slow and silent beside him, he made for the far side of the stack ember-pile.
“We must avoid showing ourselves against the glow of the fire.”
“Oh my God. I can’t go on,” groaned Martin.
“Come on, I say. It’s not healthy here. These bullets aren’t aimed anywhere, but all the same, it’s no sense standing still.”
“I’m not well,” moaned Martin.
“The crack you hear is the air closing up behind the bullets. One of the regulars told me it was because they were explosive bullets. He said the sparks they made when hitting the road proved it, but I don’t believe it. Come on, get over the road quickly!” He-took Martin’s arm.
“Oo are yer?” cried a voice.
“London Highlanders!”
“Pass,” cried the unseen sentry.
They crossed the road.
“I hope we’re relieved tonight, I can’t stand much more,” said Martin, with half-sigh, half-groan, stopping beside a hedge. He coughed hollowly, bending down, pressing his hand to his side.
“I hope so, too. What’s up, a stitch?”
“Yes,” gasped Martin. “I’ve had it ever since that shell got me in the side this morning.”
Phillip thought Martin was making that an excuse to go sick, but he said nothing. “You’ll be all right. Come on.”
“Feel my forehead.”
Phillip felt. “It feels rather hot, I must say.”
“I believe I’m bleeding inside. Oh!” Martin began to sob. “I can’t stick it no more, Maddison! Honestly I can’t! This pain is awful, all down my side!”
“I’ll carry your rifle for you. We’re nearly there.”
But Martin would not move. Phillip began to feel scorn for him, a Leytonstone boy indeed, with his woeful monkey-eyes. Martin was obviously putting it on. “Come on, I know it’s pretty bad, but perhaps we’ll be relieved tonight. That regular told me the Indian troops only had twenty-four hours in the line, then they were relieved.”
“But they had lost all their officers,” wept Martin. “Oh, why doesn’t someone stop it?”
Phillip walked slowly beside him. They passed the dark shape of the farmhouse and went down a lane to where several shadowy figures were standing and talking in low voices. Phillip saw stretchers on the ground. Captain McTaggart the Medical Officer was kneeling by one. The orderly holding an Orlik torch beside him seemed familiar. It was Tommy Atkins.
The ammunition dump was at the other end, in an orchard. Mules with pack saddles were waiting there, their bridles held by tall transport men wearing woollen comforters. They were the Coldstreamers. Phillip asked if Sergeant Cakebread was about.
“Here I am, young Phil!” said Bertie, to his immense r
elief. “How’s things?”
“All right, thanks.” Phillip motioned to speak with him in private. “Bertie, have you heard anything about a relief?”
“Not yet. But they say a French brigade is on the way. Have you seen old Gerry? It’s such a frightful schemozzle no one knows where anyone is. Like a drink?”
Hubert Cakebread offered his water-bottle. It was full of warm tea, rum in it. Phillip took a long pull. Immediately afterwards he felt it wasn’t so bad, after all.
“May my pal Martin have some? I’ll fetch him.”
Martin was drooping, coughing hollowly, near the Medical Officer. Captain McTaggart was wiping his bloody hands on a towel. Bearers, red-cross white brassards on both arms, were arriving, folded stretchers on shoulders. They had been carrying the wounded down through the wood to the road where waggons had taken them away.
Martin spoke to Tommy Atkins, who told the Medical Officer.
“Tell him to go sick when we’re out of the line,” said Captain McTaggart, without looking up from what he was doing. Martin saluted, and turned away. Phillip knew what that meant: Medicine and Duty—a No. 9 pill, to clear the bowels. He touched Martin’s arm, to tell him about the rum waiting for him; but Martin did not want any. He was weeping.
Carrying one wooden S.A.A. ammunition box by its rope handles between them, and Phillip dragging another partly on the ground, they set off back to the line. The boxes were heavy. They stopped frequently on the way up to the road.
Before they reached it, Martin collapsed, moaning that he could go no further.
“Hell, I can’t manage more than one box by myself. Get up!”
“I can’t.”
“We’re all in the same boat. I don’t like it any more than you do. Come on, I say!”
When Martin would not, he said, “If Grannie Henshaw reports us, we’ll get in a row, you know! You’re a fool not to have had some of that rum, when I wangled it for you.”
Martin groaned. He was trembling violently.
“Well, it’s no damn good stopping here! We’re right beside the road, and if they start firing, we’ll cop it! Come on, get up! I know you’re putting it on! Why, even those chaps wounded on stretchers didn’t moan. Get up, I say!”
“I can’t. I’m dying.”
“Can’t you even help me get this bloody weight on my shoulder? Christ, won’t you even help that much? Then blast you, you Leytonstone lout!” cried Phillip, with sobbing breath, striking Martin on the head.
He tried to shoulder the box, but could not get it up. While he sat there, an outburst of shouting arose all along the front from left and right; and as rifle-fire flashed everywhere, he lay down beside Martin; then taking his bayonet off his rifle, began to break open the box, and sling the linen bandoliers over his shoulder.
“Get up, you lout! Jesus Christ, hark at them!”
The shouting had spread across the whole of the front, from Messines on the right to Wytschaete on the left. As he listened, the thin wire drawn tight within, the shouting took on an ominous note: a deeper, roaring sound, overcoming the thudding of rifle-fire at ground-level from the ground in front. There were glints in the moonlight; there were noises of running feet: isolated yells; and then a deep growling aa-aa-ah, like the back-wash of a wave rolling shingle down a beach.
Hearing it, Phillip was at first unable to move. He crouched low, staring towards the dreadful deep noise from which now came screams and cries. Struggling to get his voice up from his stomach, at last he managed to gasp, as he shook off the weight of linen bandoliers and tugged at Martin’s arm, “It’s too late! They’re coming! Come on! Come on, quick! Oh, you bloody fool, you idiot!” for still Martin would not move, but lay there, face on arm.
Phillip tried once more to get him up. He pulled him by the arm, screaming at him; he beat him about the head, spraining his thumb in so doing; and then he ran, mouth open, blindly the way he had come. Behind the farmhouse, between retching attempts to get his voice, “They’ve broken through! Bayonet charge! They’re coming over the road! Martin! Martin! Save him!”
“Control yourself, that man!” cried the authoritative voice of the Medical Officer. “Atkins, Smith, take a stretcher! You!” to Phillip. “Guide them where to go, and then rejoin your company!”
“Very good, sir,” said Phillip, hoping that no one had recognised him. He realised that he had left his carbine beside Martin.
Chapter 23
REACTION
THE moon was wasted of its light, hanging pale above the five distant wooded Monts de Flandre when scattered groups of the London Highlanders, driven from L’Enfer wood, made their way to the straight road leading to Wulverghem, a village two miles west of Messines. Through the night-lenses of Captain ‘Fiery’ Forbes’ binoculars Germans were visible walking about on the ridge, apparently seeking wounded. Stray shells whined down, twisting luridly in the unknown dark; distant reverberations shook the dim air of dawn.
Flights of machine-gun bullets began to hiss and streak through the semi-darkness, the traversing streams followed by their sequences of reports. Sporadic rifle-fire opened up; it was dangerous to group; the order was to extend, men to make their way back to the reassembly point at Wulverghem.
Most of the inhabitants of the village remained, with many of the houses intact, and the church. Those peasants who were about seemed to take little interest in what was going on. Haggard kilted men fell in on company markers in a field outside the village; and having piled arms, rested.
It was known by this time that the Earl of Findhorn was killed, with the Adjutant. Captain Forbes was in command of the battalion.
When the roll was called one hundred and fifty men of all ranks answered their names. Of ‘B’ Company twenty-seven remained, with Mr. Ogilby in command.
Captain Forbes, briefly addressing the battalion survivors, said that many of the missing would no doubt be rejoining later.
A cavalry regiment had their lines nearby, and when from their cooks came dixies of hot tea, Phillip learned they were the Oxfordshire Hussars.
Later the transport waggons of the Coldstream arrived. Tins of Maconochie were given out, as many as each man wanted. Nobody took more than one. Phillip could not eat his.
Morning revealed a monotony of damp level fields, leafless trees around farms with red-tiled roofs, and a dark wood about a mile away. Dominating the landscape, frowning over all, was Messines, looking like a mass of cracked, dark-brown crab-shells against the sky-line. The dark-brown serrated mass was almost sinister in distinctness with the light of early morning behind it.
Now that day was come, and water gleaming in cart-ruts and hoof-holes in the mud all around, Phillip felt wretched, as though with the night something which had been his life was gone. Almost he wanted to be back on the ridge in darkness again, among burning stacks and buildings, listening to the bird-like piping and moaning of ricochets, even the cheering and band-playing and the crashing of rifle-fire. It was terrible, and yet it was wonderful; even as the thought of ever having to go through it again was icy blackness to the mind.
What could he do, to avoid going back? If only he could get some of his ribs broken, as they said Martin had got. He had been got away just in time.
An officer of ‘D’ Company, with a folding camera, took photographs as they stood in a loose line.
Of Baldwin he had heard no news. The stretcher-bearers knew nothing. Elliott was missing too. Phillip went to Gerry’s company, to find him. Cakebread was missing, they said. Feeling heavy and hollow he hastened to the transport to see Bertie. A big red-faced Coldstreamer said the sergeant had remained during the night with his old company, hearing that all the officers had been killed. That was when the Allemans had broken through on the left, and the Highlanders had counterattacked with the bayonet. Sergeant Cakebread had led them and had not been seen since.
“I see, thank you,” said Phillip; and wondering what to do, he went to ‘C’ Company, to see Peter Wallace, and David, and young Nim
mo. It was a shock to learn that Peter had been killed, after going to the rescue of the Medical Officer, Captain McTaggart, who had been bayoneted while attending a wounded man. In the light of a burning stack Peter had run in to help, but his glasses must have dropped off, for when last seen he had been wrestling with a German, whose head he had got under his arm. Just then more Germans had appeared from the other side of the farm, and a withdrawal into the wood had been ordered. Screams of men bayoneted had been heard. If ever a man deserved the V.C., it was Peter Wallace, the dishevelled chaps of ‘C’ Company said.
“What about David, and young Nimmo? Were they with Peter?”
Nobody seemed to know.
He wandered off by himself, thinking about Peter’s bravery, and his own utter funk. It was just the same as when they had been boys in the Backfield. He had always been afraid of fighting; Peter had always been brave. There was no doubt of his own cowardice, then and now. He re-lived, with drying mouth, the scene in the trench again: the red-black-gold flash of the 5·9 bursting on the parados, his legs buried in earth, the voice of the bearded Carabineer coming from a long way away as he pulled him out. If he had not been sent back for ammunition, he would have been bayoneted with the others in the trench. He had slipped away, from behind the stretcher-bearers, as soon as they had carried off Martin. What else was there to do except clear off? Would Martin remember that he had struck him on the head? If so, he would say that he had only been trying to make him wake up to his danger, and the need to get bandoliers to the company. That was true, in a way. It was true. Nevertheless, or tamen, as the Magister would say, he had been in what Father called a blue funk.
He wandered to the road, and watched the Oxfordshire Hussars parading without their horses. Other men of the battalion were standing about there. The Hussars were Yeomanry, territorials like themselves, and going up for the first time on foot. Was there to be an attack, to try and get back the ridge? If so, they hadn’t a hope, against all those German machine-guns, and in daylight, too.
How Dear Is Life Page 32