A Soldier's Place

by Thomas Hodd

  They filed outside and in a straggling line ran for the nearest buildings. They kept inside the field and had the protection of the high road bank and in a short time were in a cellar. It was filled with frightened Belgians. Men and women and children were crowded into the underground chamber and near the door a young fellow sat with a girl on his knees. An old man caught Morton’s arm and pointed to them.

  “Just married,” he said in English. “Just married.”

  Morton tore from him, from all of them and went upstairs from the cellar and into a yard. From there he led a wild dash across the road. Snipers shot at them and missed and the machine guns awoke too late. On the other side they found that they could work forward through gardens, if they used caution. Then the sergeant called to them from a cellar.

  “Keep low,” he said. “We’re into the town, but the Germans are hidden in the houses and we can’t take chances. The word is to sit tight till dark.”

  Morton’s men left him at once and got into a cellar.

  Ahead, sheltered by a clump of small fruit trees, the corporal saw a bomber. He crawled to him.

  The fellow had a grenade cup on his rifle. “Let’s work ahead to the corner and get a chance at that machine gun,” he said.

  The man grinned, and exchanged rifles. Morton went on and the bomber followed.

  It seemed hours before they reached their objective, a pathway with banked sides by which they could reach a forward cellar. The householder of the place was a nervous Belgian who would not speak louder than a whisper. He was in terror of the shelling he had heard and begged Morton not to look out of his windows or doorways. If the Germans thought he had helped to fight them….

  “But we’ve got the Germans on the run and they’ll never get a chance to hurt you,” said Morton impatiently. The man shut his lips tight, shook his head and refused to accompany them upstairs.

  Morton found his way up but saw there was no chance to use grenades effectively unless they were nearer their target. It meant more detouring through gardens, more risk from snipers. It was growing dark and they had not eaten since morning. But they went on and on and at last were in a garden very near the enemy post. Very slowly he crept to a fence corner, put a grenade in the cup, then fired. The Mills bomb looped high and descended exactly as he wished. It was a perfect hit on the house corner where the Maxim was established. He waited a moment, then sent a second, a third, and a fourth grenade. Then a voice called from a cellar, and they saw an excited Belgian. “You got the Boche,” he called jubilantly. “One is dead, perhaps another. They are gone, like sheep. Bravo, English.”

  “We are Canadians,” said Morton.

  “Canada! It is so! Bravo again. I am glad you have won. Was it not a fierce battle?” The bomber grinned. “Not much,” he said. “Just a workout for us guys.”

  The Belgian frowned and did not answer him. He turned to Morton. “The Boche are in some houses,” he said. “You will need to be careful, but there are not many. All their officers have gone.”

  Morton went to the cellar and asked for something to eat. The Belgian quickly got them bread and potatoes and a bottle of wine. They ate without saying much, but the Belgian and his wife were much excited. They pointed at the kilts and gas masks and steel helmets, and jabbered rapidly in Flemish.

  As soon as he had finished eating, Morton went out again. It was dark enough to move unseen in the shadows and he and the bomber made careful reconnaissance. They found that the enemy had flown. Then they went on, very slowly, wary of traps, Morton burning with a desire to meet a skulker. He fixed his bayonet on his rifle.

  There were sounds from the next street. Men were on the move, a big platoon of them, and the company commander was leading. Morton and the bomber joined them. They went direct towards the station. A spray of bullets hummed and sang down the wide way, the last salute of the fleeing gunners. That was all, and shortly the platoons were on their own, scouting the streets and lanes.

  Part II: November 11

  When dawn came Morton had not found a German. One of his platoon reported shooting one in a yard. Another had seen two grey figures running down a distant street. Nothing else had happened. And the sergeant had sought Morton and informed him that the war would be over at eleven o’clock. Morton had turned from him and cursed so luridly that he had been ashamed of himself. The war was over. Who cared? He hated everything.

  He went into a house, urged by a vociferous Belgian, and accepted a cup of coffee and some fruit. His head was heavy. It ached and throbbed. He was tired, utterly weary all at once; he was bitter, a burning sense of grief, which he felt could never be stifled, made him sullen. He was curt in his answers to a deluge of questions in Flemish and bad English.

  Then, as he sat with his coffee, he saw the window of a house farther up the street raised quickly. A head thrust out and tunic of field grey was exposed. It was a German soldier seeking to escape, and he was certain to be caught. The fellow dropped to the ground, then looked up street. Morton guessed his intentions at once. A trio of officers were in front of a fruit store, conversing. The Hun intended to surrender to them and thus ensure himself a fair treatment.

  In an instant Morton crossed the room and picked up his rifle. His host uttered a startled cry, then all the family rushed to the window. Morton released the safety catch and made sure the weapon was loaded. He was tingling all over. Here was his chance for vengeance, vengeance for poor Old Bill, for Roberts and young Milton, killed in the last hour. By heavens, a Boche should die at the last hour.

  He was forced to wait until the fellow reappeared at a gate leading into the street, a high, door-like affair. Then, as he watched, he tensed. An elderly Belgian had suddenly appeared, a thickset man with a sledge in his hands. He hid behind the open gate. The German came forth, watching the officers. The Belgian struck from behind. His sledge crushed the man’s head like an eggshell, seemed to drive the body into the walk. There were shrill cries from the street, from open doors and windows, shouts from the officers. Morton looked away. He was sickened. He rose and left the place, turning instinctively to streets that seemed the most deserted. How he hated everything!

  No man was with him as he walked on and on, heading, without knowing it, back towards Jemappes. He started as he saw the little brick building beside the road. Immediately he hurried over. Soldiers were there, a party under a sergeant, and they were reverently removing the dead. Morton watched them and bared his head as the bodies were carried by him.

  “Know them?” asked the sergeant.

  Morton nodded. “I was with them here,” he said.

  “Phew!” whistled the sergeant. “Close enough. Well, considering everything, we got off pretty light. And now she’s ended. They’re going to give those boys a bang-up funeral and…”

  “What good’ll that do?” Morton snarled the words. He was on fire inwardly.

  The sergeant looked at him closely. “The best thing you can do,” he said slowly, “is to go and get some liquor and go to bed. The big brass hats are coming to town as soon as it’s safe and there’ll be a lot of ceremony, and all that.”

  “I’d like to shoot every blasted one of them,” Morton grated the words as he walked away. He knew that the sergeant stared after him, but he did not look back.

  In the main square were men of his company, haggard, red-eyed for want of sleep, almost despondent in their attitude. Belgians were around them, chatting, pointing, laughing, offering drink and food, cheering. Morton did not stop there.

  It was late afternoon before he awoke and had a real meal. He was in a house on the outskirts of Mons, the farther side of the town, and the old couple who served him were very kind. They had beckoned him in from the street. They could not speak English, they were deaf and they lived alone, but they wanted him to rest on one of their beds. Morton, feverish, heartsick, no fit company for anyone, was glad of the privilege. He had slept like a
child.

  He promised the old lady he would be back and then went out on the street. Lights were everywhere. There were sounds of singing, shouting, riotous rejoicing, but the world was queer. Something was missing. It was the dull thudding and drumming of the guns that had been in his ears for two years.

  He went along the street and met soldiers. They were not members of his battalion, but others who had marched up during the day and were in for a celebration.

  “Come on, Jock,” they called. “There’s an estaminet near here where they’ve got the real goods. We’ll wet you in good style.”

  They were loquacious, gay, wine-mettled. They told him how the brass hats had posed for pictures in the square, how the pipers had played, how the Belgians were honouring the Canadians, and then related all the rumours about the Kaiser and the German navy.

  “Nothing ahead but home now, Jock,” shouted one excited lad.

  Home! Morton scowled at the word. What had home to do with the war? Home was something remote, something connected with the past; he could think of it later. Just now there were Old Bill, and Roberts, and Milton, and the Hun with his head smashed in. He refused them sullenly.

  In one hour he was back in his room. He kicked off his boots and sat on the bed, thinking, thinking.

  His mind went back over the years he had been at the front. He remembered his first trip in the line down Arras way. He had been so eager to see the war, to feel it, to sense it. He had stared in a box periscope the first morning, looking over the top. There lay the enemy trenches winding a white snaky wriggle over the face of the slope, and beyond were the ruins of a shell-broken town. He could see gaunt ribs of shattered roofs, the sunlight catching bits of glass that remained whole. The front was quiet and a strange feeling had possessed him. Was this the war? Then, some yards outside the wire barricade, half-hidden by old grass and debris, he had seen a skeleton. The uniform was rotten and indefinite. Friend or foe? Who could say? And, as if an icy hand had gripped him, as if a fleshless finger had pointed—he saw, understood. That shrivelled, nameless, unknown corpse spelled war!

  Other things had startled him afterward, but that first sensation had lingered, remained with him. War! For seemingly endless time it had meant inhabiting the underground, damp, ill-smelling, rat-ridden dugouts; an existence amid mud; mud and rusting wire, mud and rain, mud and slimy sandbags, mud and mire, always mud. War! Brick dust and ashes and broken timbers, and twisted iron and gateways into houses that were not there; gaping cellars, bedding and toys and clocks and cradles in a chaos of destruction; a lone crucifix at a crossroads where all else was ruin. War! A plot of white crosses sandwiched among heaps of rubble, and a signboard saying “Dangerous Corner.” A wet wood, dripping trees….

  “Same as if you were me.”

  The words came back to Morton as if they had been whispered out of the shadows. He started and clenched his hands. Old Bill, grey-faced, stiffening on those wet leaves.

  Strange that such a picture should come back so vividly. Had he shirked his promise? No, every time there had been an enemy in range he had sought eagerly to get at close quarters, had thirsted for his chance.

  Old Bill. What a “square-shooter” the old fellow had been! He had borrowed money once, to play crown and anchor, and had won, and had made Morton take half his winnings. That was his type. He had—

  “Kamerad!”

  Morton raised himself, stood up. A closet door he had scarce noticed was suddenly ajar. He strode to it, flung it open. There, blinking in the lamp light, cringing, white-faced, stood a German!

  He was a young fellow, as young-looking as Milton had been, and his eyes held the fright of a hurt animal. Morton did not speak. “Kamerad!” It was barely a whisper.

  The corporal clenched his hands again. He drew his breath in a long whistling intake. At last! “Same—as if—you—were me.” The cowering man huddled back, gasped. “Kamerad!” His whisper was shrill. He tugged off his grotesque red and grey cap and offered it to Morton. “Souvenir—kamerad.” Morton made a stern motion for him to put it on again.

  They stood looking at each other. From the street came ribald shouts, a rollicking song: “I’m out to catch a Hun, a Hun, I’m out to get the son of a gun; And when I do I’ll bet he’ll rue The day he left the Rhineland.”

  The German, listening intently, whimpered his fear. Morton shook his fist and placed a hand over his mouth, signalling silence, then he sat down on the bed again. The fugitive stood watching him, dry-lipped, wide-eyed, and terror-stricken.

  The war had ended at eleven o’clock. It was a fact Morton could not evade, and how he hated it. Yet, he raged within himself, if only this German had been a husky, defiant fellow—one of those arrogant, supercilious officers he had seen captured at Amiens—then he would not have recognized armistice. This young fellow looked like Milton.

  Morton thought of the prisoners he had seen during the autumn drive. Somehow it seemed they were more like humans than he cared to admit. Roberts had spoken of it in his whimsical way, after he had shot a gunner in Jigsaw Wood.

  “I’m glad that chap’s got a grey uniform on,” he had said, “for if he were shaved I’d swear he was a cousin of mine.”

  This trembling lad scarce looked an alien. It was easy to see that he was nervous, had probably bolted into the house in a panic as news came of the advance at dusk. Dress him in a kilt and khaki and wipe the fear from his eyes, and no one would call him a German. But—poor Old Bill! They had shot him dirty. Morton’s anger leaped within him again, but it was weaker and cooled quickly. After all, wasn’t all war “dirty”?

  “Kamerad?” Morton shook his head. No use to put the chap into the street. That wine-crazed mob of singers would tear him to pieces. Even the Belgians would kill him. He waved the youth to a chair.

  An hour passed, then another. Morton was hardly aware of their flight. His brain whirled with a kaleidoscope review of the war as he had seen it. Old emotions revived and waned. He knew now that he could not harm this German, his first impulse had fled, never to return. The crowd had gone. It was midnight and the town had grown quiet. A long day of celebrating had taken its toll. The corporal got up and the youth rose hastily from the chair into which he had slumped.

  Morton looked into the closet. It was partly filled with old clothing. He probed and brought forth a long, blue coat and a soft cap, and handed them to his visitor.

  The German looked at him, then his eyes lightened with a wave of gratefulness. He understood and at once slipped the coat over his tunic. It fitted well, and he put on the limp cloth cap. The change was effective. He appeared a young Belgian and would never draw a second glance. It was only a short distance to the open, and then there were the outposts, scattered, relaxed with the excitement of the day ended. It would be easy to escape them.

  Morton opened the door of his room. The old couple had retired. He went on to the street door. The way was clear, and he gave an imperative toss of his head, the order to go.

  The German stepped out hastily, with a nervousness exactly like young Milton, then hesitated, turned and slowly, awkwardly, held out his hand.

  Morton drew back, then relented. What did it matter? He gripped the hand kindly.

  “Kamerad,” said the German in a soft guttural.

  “Good luck, kid,” said Morton.

  Then he stepped back hastily and went to his room. For a moment he was torn with a desire to shout an alarm, to recapture the fellow. Had he been disloyal? The thought, after the deed was done, seared him. But—the young lad had been so like Milton.

  He wondered why he had shaken hands, then knew, and warmed to the thought. Long contact with Roberts, good old whimsical Roberts, had made him. The tall fellow would have shaken hands with the German and blessed him.

  “As if—you—were me.”

  Very carefully he considered the words, then started up, thrilled, rel
ieved, at last happy.

  Never before had he fully grasped it. Old Bill’s last wish had been that he “play the game.” He had not wanted any “dirty” work.

  Corporal Morton lay down to sleep without a dread of the morrow.

  A Soldier’s Place

  The last heat of the afternoon sun warmed the corner in the pasture gully. It was floored with stone and withered grass, and Bill Green sat on an old board he had carried there, leaning his back against the gully side. He was lanky and red-haired, dressed in a worn grey suit and a blue roll-neck sweater. His old felt hat lay beside him but he had no overcoat or gloves. All his possessions were in a battered army haversack with “W. Green, A Company” lettered on its flap. His companion was a small brown dog.

  Green was watching a blaze of broad splinters and twigs over which he had suspended a small pail filled with water. Presently the water began to boil. He sat up and took a paper bag from his pocket. Left-handed, he poured tea from the bag into the pail, and let the blaze die to embers.

  While the tea cooled he sliced bread and bologna taken from the haversack. Then he looked at the dog.

  “Okay, Sarge. Dinner’s served.”

  He ate slowly, sipping his tea and pausing to feed the dog slices of the sausage. Finished, he gazed dreamily at the coals, fanned by light airs, until they were ashes. Then he shivered, and stood. His skin was reddened by exposure to wind and sun but, shaven, he would have been good-looking for he had blue eyes and his features were well-shaped.

  “We might as well start marching, old timer,” he observed. “It’s going to be too cold to sleep out.”

  The dog ran up the gully bank, hobbling, and lame in the hindquarters.

  “You’re not fit to travel,” Green shook his head. “You need to rest somewhere.”

  They reached a surfaced highway and occasional traffic rushed past them. Green tramped steadily, the dog at his heels, and it was dusk before they reached a village where the first lights of evening were winking yellow eyes.