Behind the Lines

by Morris, W. F. ;

  Prudently they kept a sharp look out around them. And it was fortunate they did so, for as they were descending a gentle slope they came suddenly upon a little party of horsemen in a sunken road below. The horsemen, five in number, were sitting motionless on their animals, with their backs towards Rawley and Alf. Two of them, side by side, were apparently studying a map. It was a tense moment for the two vagabonds. By silent agreement they had dropped flat. To retreat back over the slope seemed too dangerous, and yet it was dangerous to remain where they were. One of the two horsemen studying the map had stretched out his arm and was pointing to his flank; at any moment he might turn in the saddle.

  Rawley glanced despairingly about him. Fifteen yards to his right were the remains of a building of some kind—a low jumble of broken bricks, and an upsticking beam or two. Rawley whispered to Alf and began to crawl. The sack on his back seemed clamorously conspicuous and impeded his movement. He lowered it gently into a shell hole beside him and left it. Alf had stopped. Burdened as he was with the suit-case in front, the sack behind, and the blankets over his shoulder, crawling was impossible. Rawley pulled out his knife and went back. He cut the cord that held the suit-case and sack together. The old sacks might escape notice, but the suit-case would be startlingly visible: that would have to go. They crawled on, Rawley cursing the suit-case which Alf held awkwardly under one arm. They kept their eyes on the little group of horsemen not thirty yards distant, and at every impatient tapping of a hoof upon the road they dropped flat and lay still.

  They reached the shelter of the mound of bricks at last and paused. They breathed more freely, but they did not feel safe. One or more of the horsemen might mount the slope and discover them crouching there. Rawley raised himself cautiously and examined the pile of debris in front of him. It consisted of a low bank of broken bricks, the remains evidently of an outer wall; beyond that, in what had been a room, was a hollow littered with plaster rubble; and beyond that again lay the fallen roof, a broken, blackened lattice-work of rafters, still covered in one place with broken slates. Under that their chances of escaping detection would be greatly improved.

  They crawled with difficulty over the low barrier of bricks and crossed the filthy reeking hollow beyond. The fallen roof lay almost flat on the rubble, but they found a small space near the flattened peak of the gable and crawled under. There was room enough to lie comfortably under the slated portion, and the slates, though sufficiently damaged to allow them to see what was going on outside, were not so broken as to make their hiding-place dangerous. Furthermore they could now see the heads and shoulders of the horsemen on the sunken road. “If only we ’adn’t left our perishin’ sacks out there we might have ’ad a bite of somethin’ while waitin’ for the procession to pass,” complained Alf.

  “You have got your suit-case,” retorted Rawley. “Have a bite at that.”

  He watched the horsemen with some anxiety. The sword scabbards and rifle buckets proclaimed them to be cavalry troopers. Four of them had dismounted, and while one walked the four horses slowly up the road, the remaining three climbed the far bank and settled down in full view of the hiding-place. The remaining man put his horse at the near bank and rode up the slope, passing between the shattered building and the sacks but without giving a glance to either. He disappeared from view over the crest.

  The scrape of a match caused Rawley to turn sharply. Alf, his knees up and his back against a hummock of masonry, was in the act of applying a lighted match to the cigarette that dangled from one corner of his mouth; but before the flame could burn the tobacco, a hand knocked both cigarette and match on to the rubble. “You blasted fool,” whispered Rawley. “Those fellows over there are facing this way and they would spot the smoke in a moment.”

  Alf recovered the bent cigarette from between two bricks at his feet. “Awkward beggar!” he growled as he straightened it between his fingers. “They wouldn’t ’ave noticed nothin’. It ain’t as though they was looking for us.”

  “I’m not so sure of that,” answered Rawley. “We can’t afford to play the fool, anyway.”

  Alf relapsed into grumpy silence; Rawley kept watch. The only sounds that reached him were the murmur of voices from the men below, and the klop of hoofs on the road as the horses were walked slowly up and down. The light was gradually failing, and the mist that was so common over all the devastated area was shrouding distant objects one by one. Alf was dozing, and Rawley himself found the cold and silence were slowly wearing down his wakefulness.

  He was aroused by the thud of hoofs behind him. Three horsemen rode out of the dusk and beside them plodded a man on foot. And as they rode slowly down the slope, passing within a few yards of his hiding-place, Rawley had confirmation of the suspicion that had troubled him for the past hour. In the slouching figure beside them he recognized one of the outcasts of the devastated area.

  The men sitting on the bank rose at their approach, and the usual gruff interchange of chaff took place between them. The fast-gathering darkness made it difficult to see what was going on, and Rawley had to be guided by his ears. He heard the sound of rough English voices mingled with the jingle of bits. Then boots scraped on the road, and he heard the restless movement that a horse makes when a man climbs into the saddle. Feet pawed the road intermittently like instruments tuning up, and then, following a gruff “Walk March!” the whole orchestra of hoofs broke suddenly into sound. He watched the road where it was visible for fifty yards as a pale strip in the gloom and a few moments later saw the cavalcade pass as a dark slowly-moving shadow. It disappeared and the echo of the hoof beats died away.

  “ ’Ave they gone?’ asked Alf in a hoarse whisper. “Well, I ain’t sorry. What wiv draughts in me ear’ole and ’arf bricks in the back of me neck I ain’t slep a wink. Roll on duration! What about movin’?”

  “Presently,” said Rawley. “We will give them a few more minutes to get right away. We’ve got to go dashed carefully. Kelly did us a good turn when he blew in our shaft.”

  “What’yer mean?”

  “I mean that while we were digging our way out Kelly and his crowd were being rounded up. Didn’t you see that chap those three fellows brought in just before they went off? He was one of the mob that raided the village. I expect they have cleaned up Kelly and now they have got the cavalry out rounding up the stragglers. We’ve got to go mighty carefully. No more daylight trekking, that’s certain. One pipe and then we will start. Hold your coat open while I strike a match. We are taking no chances now.”

  IV

  It was quite dark when they left their hiding-place. They recovered their sacks from the shell holes and set out. Rawley insisted that the rolled blankets should no longer be carried round the chest like a bandoleer. If they were hung loosely over one shoulder the whole of the impedimenta could then be dropped in a moment. He said it was absurd to take the suit-case, but Alf was adamant on this point. He declared that it balanced the sack on his back, and he had to carry it, so it was his funeral anyway.

  They descended the slope and crossed the sunken road. There was no moon, but there were rifts in the clouds through which the stars shone, and Rawley set his course by the occasional glimpses he had of Altair and the Great Bear. It was a very unsatisfactory method, but no other was available.

  They plodded on side by side at a steady pace and in silence. The exertion and the load they carried kept them warm in spite of the chill night air. They had eaten nothing since midday, but Rawley refused to stop. He said they could not afford the time that would be lost in stopping to open sacks and tins. When they had gone to earth in their new home it would be time enough to think of eating. They had brought two battered water-bottles with them and had quenched their thirst before leaving their hiding-place under the shattered roof.

  Hour after hour went by, and the ceaseless plodding through the formless night produced in Rawley a kind of numbness of the brain. His limbs moved without his volition. It seemed that he was doomed to march to the end of time
through a formless, endless and darkened world. He had no notion of his whereabouts. In that desert from which all landmarks had been obliterated the map was useless. He had set out from the dug-out on a course which, if accurately adhered to, would bring him straight to his destination, but he knew how difficult it was to march across country at night even with the aid of a compass. The rough-and-ready methods he was forced to use left all too much latitude in which to go astray. And in addition they had to make several detours to avoid hutments; and after these it was almost certain that they had not always got back even to the rough line they were following. The only course was to go ahead and trust that Alf would recognize some locality. One thing, however, Rawley had decided upon, and that was not to continue the march longer than two hours before dawn, unless Alf could say for certain that they were close to their destination. The best part of two hours might be required to find a suitable hiding-place, and they must be below ground before the darkness lifted.

  They trudged on wearily like automatons, and the only variation in the movement was when some fracture of the ground caused them to lengthen or shorten their pace and the occasional hitch given to sack or blankets. Rawley estimated that barely three hours of darkness remained.

  A huge truncated pyramid loomed up darkly to their left, its outlines ragged and undefined in the murk. Rawley broke the long silence. “What on earth’s that?” he whispered. They turned towards it by silent consent. The ground was much broken by ancient shell holes and shallow trench remains. The huge shape bulked broader and higher as they approached. It was mottled with pale grey streaks and patches, and quite suddenly they found themselves at its foot. It towered above them, a gigantic pimple of earth on a high plateau. Its surface was furrowed and pitted; rank grass grew upon it, but the underlying chalk showed in streaks and patches. “My God, it might be Silbury Hill!” muttered Rawley.

  Alf made a sudden exclamation. “I know where we are, mate,” he cried excitedly. “This ’ere’s the old Butte de Warlincourt. Don’t I know it! Proper ’ealth resort it was in ’16—I don’t think.”

  “I’ve heard of it,” answered Rawley in a low voice. “Don’t shout. But whereabouts is it?”

  “Bapaume way.”

  “Yes, but north, south, east or west?”

  “It’s before you come to Bapaume.”

  “What, west of it? Wait a minute—how does it lie with regard to that road, the Albert-Bapaume Road?”

  “You can see it from the road easy.”

  “But which side of it—north or south? Coming from Albert, say, is it right or left?”

  “Right—an’ it ain’t more’an about fifteen kilos from Albert.”

  “Good—we’re getting near. Now let me think.” Rawley did not think it prudent to strike a match so near a road, but he had studied the map so carefully that he carried a plan of its main features in his mind. The Albert-Bapaume road, he remembered, ran diagonally across the map—roughly S.W. and N.E. If they marched between those two points, N.W. that was, they must strike the road. Then they must follow the road in the direction of Albert and turn off it southwards at Poizières—that was if Alf could recognise a pile of bricks as that village. He turned his attention to the sky. Gaps in the clouds were rare and the clouds moved sluggishly. He had to wait several minutes before a glimpse of the Great Bear gave him the direction of the Pole Star. Then he faced it, turned half left and set off.

  They came upon the road in a few minutes, one of those straight French roads that switchback uncompromisingly across the country as though drawn with a ruler; but they did not venture to follow it. They went back a few yards and moved parallel with the pale glimmer on their right.

  “We haven’t much time,” whispered Rawley. “It will be dawn in something under three hours. It’s fifteen kilometres to Albert, you say; how far to Poizières, do you think?”

  Alf thought for a moment. “Not more’an eight or nine, I reckon.”

  “Well, it will take us the best part of an hour and a half to do that—and then this cellar of yours I made out to be about two kilometres south of that. And we have got to find it, too. By jove, we shall not have much time if we’re not to be caught by the dawn.”

  “Don’t you worry, old cock,” answered Alf confidently. “There are thousands of perishin’ dug-outs round this ruddy place.”

  They plodded steadily along. Once they dropped flat while a lorry rumbled along the road with rattling chains and flapping cover. That was the only sound that broke the silence.

  Once to their right they saw the framework of a raised water-tank dark against the sky, and they went warily till it had disappeared in the gloom behind them. Then a few low mounds of brick rubble announced that they were passing over a village. Beyond it to their right the wedge-shaped nose of a tank pointing upwards showed dimly against the night sky. Rawley halted. “Is that a derelict or not?” he whispered.

  “A derelick,” said Alf. “I remember him. This ’ere’s Poizières.”

  They turned south. Crumbling trenches lay everywhere about them. To their left the ground sloped down to a shallow valley. “Keep just below the crest on this side and follow the slope,” said Rawley. Some minutes later some stark, ragged tree trunks stabbed the night sky ahead. “There’s your wood,” said Rawley. “Or I’m a Dutchman.”

  Alf was dubious till they came upon a grass-grown rutted track fronting the stark trees; then he said, “You’re right, mate. That’s where we ’ad the guns—why, you can see some of the pits now. Come on, we’ll soon be ’ome.” And he led the way confidently in among the shattered tree stumps. Presently they were stumbling over the brick rubble remains of a building. “ ’Ere we are,” whispered Alf. “I’ll go an’ hinspect the billet.” He slipped off the sack, suit-case, roll of blankets, and rifle, and revolver in hand moved cautiously around the pile of rubbish.

  He was back again in a few minutes. “It’s all right, mate. There ain’t nobody there. There’s a bit of water on the floor, but one of the old bunks is there and a bit of a table. We’ll be as snug as a bug in a rug in a couple of shakes.” He shouldered his load again, and Rawley followed him round the heap of rubble, through a tangle of brambles, and down a number of brick steps. Ten minutes later they were both asleep.

  CHAPTER XIX

  I

  They awoke rested, but ravenously hungry. They therefore ate a substantial meal, washed down with the water that remained in their water-bottles. They thought it unwise to light a fire until they had satisfied themselves that there were no troops in the neighbourhood. At the end of the meal Rawley lighted his pipe and inspected his new home by the light of the candle that was perched on two bricks. It was a small cellar some fifteen feet square, with a vaulted roof. The brick floor was dry except where a small pool of water had collected in a hollow at the foot of the steps. An old wire-netting bunk stood against one wall, and an overturned table with a broken leg completed the furniture. A rusty oil drum, punched with holes to serve as a brazier, stood on three bricks in a corner.

  There was plenty of work to be done. There was the table to mend and a second bunk to be constructed. Timber was to be had for the gathering in the wood above, and they had brought a dozen or more nails with them. But they needed some wire netting.

  Rawley went up the steps to prospect. It was just after three o’clock in the afternoon, and he went cautiously. The steps reached the ground level among a heap of rubble overgrown with brambles, and were thus most satisfactorily screened from the view of anyone who might chance that way. He walked to the edge of the wood and surveyed the prospect. Some five hundred yards away beyond a slight depression were the remains of a village, a few heaps of mouldering bricks; one white ragged wall a few feet high, the remains of the church, and two or three shivered tree trunks standing stark against the grey sky. He made the complete circuit of the little wood. On the second side a crumbling trench protected by a tangle of rusty wire ran along its margin; on the third, the bare slope was patterned wi
th a network of old trenches, the old German Line of ’15, he surmised; and along the fourth ran a weed-grown rutted track and a shallow zigzagging communicating-trench.

  On his way back he noticed the rusty iron cylinder of a pump lying by a small mound of brick rubble. Where there is a pump, there is a well, he told himself, and he set about looking for it. The mound of brick rubble was probably the remains of an outhouse in which the pump had been, but though he probed all over the area with the broken handle of the pump he could find no trace of the well. The narrow pump shaft had evidently been effectively blocked by rubbish and fallen bricks. He was just giving up the task as hopeless when a memory of a boyish holiday spent on a Norfolk farm occurred to him. He remembered there just such a pump in the long brick-floored kitchen, and a yard or two outside the kitchen door there had been a circular stone flag with an iron ring in it. He had tugged at that ring with boyish curiosity, and he remembered how the farmwife had come out and scolded him, telling him that underneath was a well so deep that one waited half a minute to hear a stone splash in the water below.

  He left the little mound of rubbish and walked slowly in a circle round it, stamping the ground and foraging among the grass and rubbish with his toes. He completed the circle and began a wider one. Half way round, his stamping feet struck a firm surface that rang hollow. He cleared away the grass and dirt and disclosed a circular flagstone with an iron ring, the double of the one he had tugged at as a boy. The flagstone was heavy and sealed with dirt, but, using the pump handle as a lever, he managed to move it far enough to allow a stone to pass through the gap. He listened and heard a slight splash far below. He returned to the cellar well pleased with the results of his exploration.

  II

  Alf was standing by his bunk with his back to it as Rawley came down the steps; something half-guilty in his attitude suggested that he was trying to hide something. Rawley glanced at him curiously, and then, with a smile and a nod towards the suit-case that was too long to be completely hidden, he said, “Got it open at last?”