by Thomas Hodd
“Another one of your blasted dreams!” The speaker who spoke so irritably was Milton, a thin, nervous fellow. He stood up to eat and kept peering through the brush. “Give us a rest. I hate this ‘war over’ guff,” he added savagely.
“It’s got to end sometime, kid,” said Bill Hilder, a big, bony leathery-looking man who sat on a pile of dry brush. “And we’ve come a long ways from a trench, ain’t we?”
“You’re right, Bill,” said the fourth man of the group. “I thought the thing would never end, but it’s looking different now. Old Heinie’s on the run this time.”
“Rats! It’s nothing but another game to get us into a hole. Everybody said the same thing when he pulled back off the Somme.”
Corporal Morton, the man who had championed Hilder’s speech, looked sympathetically at the nervous youth. “Don’t be a pessimist, Milton,” he said kindly. “A couple of weeks ago you wouldn’t have believed we’d be having a picnic here in the bush.”
“Some picnic,” shot back Milton. “Wet from head to heels, half-frozen, not a drink of tea since yesterday morning, and Heinie shooting from behind the trees. He picked off two C Company men yesterday.”
“That’s because they don’t know the bush,” said Hilder, the leathery man. “If you’d been a lumberjack like myself you’d be tickled pink to get in under these trees. And we’ve got as good a chance as Fritz to shoot from back of the bushes.”
“Get your gear on, fellows.” A sergeant had come through the trees. “Same orders as yesterday. Slow advance. Scouts in front. Keep touch with your flanks. Be ready to move in ten minutes.”
The quartet was ready in less time, and Morton looked around. “Who’s coming with me?” he asked. “Two of us till noon, other two till night.”
Bill Hilder stepped forward as he gave his equipment a final hitch. “I’ll go with you, Corp,” he said quickly.
The two men, Morton leading, pushed through the thickets fronting them and shoved forward until they were in line with the other platoon scouts. There they awaited the signal to advance.
“You needn’t of come, Bill,” said Morton. “It was Milton’s turn.”
“I knowed it were,” said the lumberjack with a grin, “but the kid’s got his wind up in this bush, and I’d just as leave be with you anyhow.”
Morton tingled at the words. He and old Bill Hilder had been army chums since Passchendaele, and the woodsman was at his best in this French forest. He seemed to find his way by instinct.
As the whistle sounded they moved on, but separated, Morton going to the left. They parted undergrowth and waded hip-deep through ferns that soaked them anew, always peering, listening, watching for skulking figures. Then came a knoll with a clearing in the centre. There was a faint toot of a whistle far over on their right, the signal for a halt to even some part of the line, and Hilder snorted his disgust. Morton looked over at him and saw the woodman’s face expressing his disdain.
“Same as yesterday,” he called through cupped hands.
Morton nodded and grinned. Then he sat down on a log and waited. What a change in one month! Four weeks ago they had attacked the Hun in an old battle area, a zigzag warren of trenches and dugouts, had routed him from it and spent hours in looking, curiously, about his abandoned stronghold. There had been his spades, with saw edges, his round water bottles, field-grey greatcoats, queer-shaped shrapnel helmets, goat-skin pouches, his rifles, gasmasks, Gott Mitt Uns belts, and awkward-looking long boots. And over all that inexplicable characteristic smell of German occupation.
He remembered Old Bill sniffing and spitting and refusing to drink from a German bottle, Milton looking for hidden explosives, and Roberts dreamily fingering a discarded guitar. His own feelings had been beyond words.
Then the rout had begun and everything changed. The battalion marched endless kilometres, but only men like young Milton complained. Morton thought that after a year in the trenches a man could have no new emotion, but he had found himself eager, strangely eager, and anxious, and fearful by turns, always absurdly impatient to “get along.”
All in the platoon were the same. Every man, no matter how far they had pursued the enemy that day, thought only of the morrow. And they had charged every rear guard with which they came in contact with a ferocious eagerness.
“Fritz is beating it,” they chorused. “Keep him going.”
But in the forest it had been different. More than ordinary caution was needed, for contacts with the flanks were difficult, and the enemy snipers were particularly dangerous. So nerved up had Morton been that he had lain awake half the night, conscious of the mysterious hushed silence of the woods, the steady hiss of rain among the branches, the bent, silent figures of the posted men, the huddled, rubber-sheeted forms under the trees, stirring and muttering in their sleep as drippings from overhead caught their faces.
Crack! Wheee! The report of a rifle—the whine of a bullet in the brush. A sniper had fired from the other side of the knoll and he had not missed Morton by many inches. The corporal ducked low at once, and he heard sudden low calls of warning in the woods behind him. He looked to see Hilder, but the woodsman had disappeared. He came in sight a moment later, squirming along on his stomach, working to the right. Crack! The sniper fired again. Another bullet split leaves over Morton.
Hilder paused a moment and looked back, then wriggled on, keeping low. Crack! A third shot, then a fourth. The sniper was evidently trying to keep Morton pinned to his shelter. Hilder became anxious, too eager to make a kill. He half-rose and ran as a skirt of low bushes hid him. In a moment he would have a chance to spot the sniper.
Crack! A nearer, sharper report. A more snarling, whip-like sound to the bullet. It came from the left this time and Morton heard the thud of Old Bill’s body as it struck the earth. He knew the woodsman must be badly hit to drop so abruptly, and he crawled to him in fierce haste.
Hilder lay on his back. His steel hat and rifle lay apart from him, where they had fallen, and he was plucking feebly at the strings of his respirator holder; his face was a ghastly grey.
“They got me, Corp,” he muttered, “they got me dirty.”
“I’ll fix you up, Bill,” breathed Morton, snatching out his field dressing, but he knew as he spoke that it was but a matter of minutes.
“You—can’t.” Old Bill spoke with effort. Beads of perspiration gathered on his forehead and lips.
Morton tore away the respirator holder, pulled back the equipment, opened Bill’s tunic. The shirt underneath was soaked with blood; blood seeped everywhere. “Don’t bother, Corp,” the whisper was panted. “Git them—dirty Boche—won’t you?”
“I will, Bill, I’ll shoot their hearts out.” Morton’s lips trembled with emotion. Nothing in the war had touched him as much as to crouch there and watch the veteran relinquish life. Hilder was rough and uncouth, but he was as “white” and “square” as a man could be. “Bill, I’ll get them some way,” he went on, not knowing what to say, desperately striving to make clear his loyalty, his affection for the old fellow. “The first Heinie I get my hands on is going to pay for this.”
“Corp…”
“Yes, Bill?”
“Same—as if—you—were me.”
“The same—I will, Bill.” The words were half-sobbed.
Hilder closed his eyes, opened them. A last flicker of understanding, and he was dead.
Morton looked around. He saw a head poking through the brush and at once signalled the man to keep low, then he crawled back.
“You chaps spread out around this clearing,” he ordered. “There’s a pair of dirty devils on each side. They tricked Old Bill into chasing to the right and then the guy on the left plugged him. He’s dead.”
“Old Bill dead!” Milton’s voice was shrill with horror. “Is he dead—sure?” The youngster’s face showed his distress. “Good gosh, Corp, I—you know it wasn�
��t his turn.”
“Never mind that now,” said Morton curtly. “That was just a matter of luck. You chaps put some rifle grenades over and then sneak around on them quick. Get them if you can. I’m going to get Bill’s pay book and disk and stick his tin hat on his rifle so’s the burial party’ll be sure to find him.”
The men wormed their way through the brush, muttering revenge. Presently there came the sharp metallic ping of a grenade, then another, and another. There were quick rifle shots, then all sounds were farther away. The Highlanders routed the snipers. Only one man came back to have a last look at Bill. It was Roberts, the whimsical dreamer, whistling softly in his quiet way. He leaned on his rifle and looked a long time at the still, blood-soaked figure, then went away without saying a word.
***
The days that followed were hectic ones. Long marches, occasional skirmishes. They drove the Hun from the forest, but they had to advance slowly on account of the flanking battalions being more or less “in the air.” In the villages it was pleasing to witness the thankfulness of the people released at last from the long paralysis of the domineering men in grey. At one place there was a hysterical rejoicing at a large brick farmhouse. An odd-looking man was shaking hands with everyone. He had the strange waxen colour of death. Three years he had lived in the cellar with the Germans overhead, and they had not found him.
Each day the tension showed more on the men. Was this the end of the war? Never had rumours raced more wildly, never had hopes ran as high. And even Milton had ceased to complain as they chased the enemy over farmlands and through villages. At long last the tables seemed turned.
“We been three years holdin’ water-logged ditches for the king and Art Currie,” said one lean hound of a fellow. “Now this here’s a vacation.”
“Vacation nothin’,” snorted another. “It’s the bloomin’ end of the war, and the next war, me lad, you’ll have a hard time gettin’ me…”
“Can it,” yelled a chorus. “Next war! What in hell are you givin’ us?”
And so it went. Morton never joined in their talk. He and Roberts shared their blankets and rations but they did not converse much; it was as if they understood each other. Milton clung to them, always making his bed next to theirs, watching their faces, smoking cigarettes continually. Saturday evening, November the ninth, they marched after a hard day, into the little village of Jemappes, and just before midnight the three men were in blankets in a small room in a snug house. They had had an excellent supper of bread and coffee and fried potatoes, and Milton was flushed and eager with his good news.
“A runner told me that the war’s going to be over on Monday,” he said. “He’s from the brigade, so he should know. Gosh, I hope it’s true. We’ll be here tomorrow, anyway, resting up, and there won’t be much doing the next day if it’s the end.”
Morton said nothing. But he lay awake long after the others were sleeping soundly, thinking of Old Bill gasping out his life on the wet leaves in Raismes Forest, of the promise he had made him. “…same as if you were me.” Not once since he had pledged his word had he got near a German! He thought of other chums he had had, of the mad, bad days in the Salient, of the whole tragic devilishness of war. Then he slept fitfully, and when he awoke Milton had brought him his breakfast.
“Cook kitchens came in last night,” said the boy excitedly. “Here, Roberts, I got yours, too. Get up, you thickheads. It’s a perfect morning. The church bells are ringing and there’s not an order at all. I don’t believe we’ll do another tap till the war’s over.”
In spite of himself Morton grew eager. He ate and dressed hurriedly and went out in the yard. He was going to seek the sergeant and find out if anything definite had come through or not, but he halted. Why push the thing? The luck might not hold. He sat down on a sun-warmed doorstep and smoked. Children came around, eyeing him curiously, then Roberts came out. In a moment the tall fellow had two of the youngsters on his knee and was trying to talk Flemish to them.
Milton came back, and starting walking to and fro, smoking furiously. “Oh, boy,” he chortled. “One more day. Say, who’d ever have thought this spring, that it would be over so quick? When I get back I’m not going to do a thing for six months. What about you, Roberts?”
“Me?” The whimsical look flashed back in the dreamer’s eyes. “Me, I’m going to have a home right here in Belgium. I’ll settle down somewhere in the Salient, a broken-tiled floor, sandbag walls, corrugated iron roof, rats running free, a manure heap by the window, gas alarm at the door, an estaminet right across the street….”
“Morton!” It was the harsh voice of the platoon sergeant that interrupted, and there was something in its tone that made the corporal get to his feet in chilly expectation. “Get your section ready at once—battle order. Leave your other stuff in your billets. We’ll get it after.”
Milton had stopped his pacing. The cigarette in his fingers dropped to the flagged walk and showered sparks. The lad’s face was like that of a man in a trance.
“What’s up?” Morton heard himself ask the question, he had not known he spoke. “Mons.” The sergeant’s voice was a snarl. “Get your men ready.”
“But—wait, Sergeant.” Milton had thrust off his daze. “We’re not going into a scrap, are we? The war’s over tomorrow, I got it straight. There’ll be no fighting now, will there? What are we to do?”
“You’re goin’ to do just what you’re told, me lad,” came the answer. The sergeant’s face was pale and set. The harshness in his voice was unusual. “You don’t know anything about the war being over. That’s all from the horse lines. Go on, get ready.”
Roberts put the children from his knee, then called one back, a little girl. He coaxed her for a kiss and she gave it to him shyly.
“There’s my luck,” he smiled. “See you later, mademoiselle.” The little girl laughed at him.
When the platoon formed up every man was irritable. They swore over trivial matters, they hitched and changed position, they looked at their watches. One or two were cursing, with frightful emphasis, the ones responsible for the new orders.
Morton said nothing. He gazed moodily beyond the village and saw a few long-range crumps leaving black smoke trails away to the left. When the order came to proceed he fell in with his section, last in the platoon. They wound around a corner to the Mons road and marched up it a distance, then entered a field.
The Hun began to shell them with shrapnel and gas, but the shells did not drop close enough to do damage. They crossed a deep ditch by using a stretcher as a bridge, and an hour later were at a building that proved to be a brewery. A shell or the soldiers had started one vat leaking and there were many rough jests among the Highlands as they sampled the beverage. But in the building the sound of the shells was more alarming and several HEs came very near the entrance.
Roberts filled the top of his mess tin with beer. He raised it to his lips. “Here’s to the day we go home,” he said as he drank.
“Blast you, keep your trap shut or I’ll shut it.” It was Milton, his eyes blazing, his thin form taut, almost crazed with fear and anxiety.
Morton had to step between them. “Cool your head,” he snapped at the youth. “What’s the matter with you?”
They left the building and went on. The platoons were now scattered and soon they were advancing by sections. Morton saw his officer and sergeant lead along the bank of the main highway. Machine guns were firing from the first houses in Mons and he saw three men of C Company become casualties. Then shells began to drop in quick succession. They fell between Morton’s section and the rest of the platoon. “Come on, fellows. We have no cover here,” Morton called. “Let’s run for that building ahead.”
A small brick outhouse was near the bank of the road. “Let’s get over the bank,” yelled Milton. The youth was white-faced from fear, and starting at each explosion.
“You can’t,” ca
lled another. “Look—see?” They saw the officer and a man get wounded as they tried to cross the highway. It was plain that the Hun had a machine gun placed so that he could sweep the road with bullets.
They reached the outbuilding and took refuge behind it. Whammm! A shell dropped within yards of them. Another came, another and another. Shrapnel moaned and sang about them.
Milton tried the door of the building. It was locked. Beside it, however, was a long plank. Two of the men seized it and used it as a battering ram, breaking the door inward. The five men in Morton’s section crowded inside. Roberts sat on a box by the door, whistling softly in his calm, meditative manner. Milton stood well back in the shed and the others found seats along the side.
They waited a time and the shelling slackened, then the shells began dropping nearer the town, on soft, open ground. Morton got up and went to the door. “We can get to the houses now,” he said. “Let’s go. I can see C Company men there already.” He pointed to suburbs over on the right.
Crash! A terrific, ear-splitting report. A blast of air, awful concussion! Overhead shrapnel just above the door, almost in the door. Morton and another man were knocked down, but not hurt. Then low cries.
“Look at Milton.”
The corporal got to his feet. Milton had staggered back against the wall. Every drop of blood seemed to have drained from his face. His eyes were fixed. He did not speak. Then they saw that his wrist had been almost severed, that there was a dreadful wound in his stomach. They had not lowered him to the floor before he was dead.
Morton turned to speak to Roberts, and froze with horror. The dreamer had never moved from where he sat. His head was forward, his hands still circled his rifle barrel, but from a ghastly wound in his temple blood dripped in a dark, thin stream. He, too, was dead.
The men looked at each other, but no one spoke. Then Morton looked out again. “Come on, boys,” he said, in a grim, strained voice, unlike his own. “I’m going to get one of them Heinies if it’s the last thing I do.”