In former days Collins had taught these “Flamandische”, as he called them, with insult to their supposed half-German origin, what he said was the polite English greeting; so that now, when he entered, Phillip was met with the words:
“’Allo, you bloodie vool! ’Ow izzit, you foogpeeg? Bullocks to yoo!”
To which, with an attitude of extreme politeness, he replied:
“Comment vous portez vous, madame et messieurs? You scroungers, skrimshankers, and dirty dogs dodging the column, bon jour!”
“Si, si,” said the old woman, beaming upon him.
“Ah, oui, madame, you’ve rumbled them too, I see!”
These great louts, he thought, had a low sense of humour. Once when he had asked one if he were married he had replied, and before his mother, too, “Non, m’sieu! Pour moi, la main la fiancée!” and all had roared with laughter. Tom Ching, who had spat in his eye coming home from school one day, would be at home with them. They used filthy expressions as a joke, too, such as a word that sounded like estomachcloit, though what it meant exactly he did not know—something to do with stomach and cloth. Did they too wear belly-bands, or cholera belts? No wonder everyone in the billet was lousy.
“Au revoir,” he said aloud; but under his breath he gave them the soldier’s farewell.
Chapter 4
A BICYCLE RIDE
IN the estaminet he warmed and greased his boots by the stove, put them on again, with cleaned puttees, and sat down to an omelette, with white wine, having remembered that Lance-corporal Mortimore of Bleak Hill days had said this was the right drink. After café and cognac, it was time to think of getting back, before he was missed.
Arriving at the root-clamp, he decided not to put on the bowler hat; he was worrying a little lest his absence had been noticed. However, anyone could ride a bike.
He was thinking of hiding it somewhere in the grounds of the Red Château, for possible use another time, when a passing soldier told him that everyone was out in No Man’s Land, talking to the Alleymans.
“There’s bloody hundreds on’m, Jock!”
This extraordinary news sent Phillip off at once; and cycling on past the Château, he saw what at first sight looked like a crowd on a football field during the interval of a match. With mixed feelings of trepidation, eagerness, apprehension and bewilderment, he pedalled on past the trees and arrived, with the most extraordinary feeling of loneliness and self-exposure, at the front line trench, at the sandbag barricade across the road. It was like seeing it all in a dream, to be standing up in that strange daylit place. How small the barricade looked, how thin and puny, seen from beside it; how narrow the road, and how clean-looking, unused, with the grass growing on it. He saw too, almost with a start, the large brick building of the Hôspice, where the German machine-guns fired from, a couple of hundred yards on the right of the road in front. How large it looked now, though the bottom part of it was still hidden by the rise in the ground. This side of it another barricade stood across the road—the German front line.
All this Phillip perceived in a dream-like glance as, leaning the bicycle against the British barricade, he walked into No Man’s Land and found himself face to face with living Germans, men in grey uniforms and leather knee-boots—a fact which was as yet almost unbelievable. Moreover, the Germans were actually, some of them, smiling as they talked in English. He hurried to be among them, and saw one writing his name and home address, to exchange it with an English name and address. They had agreed to write to one another after the war.
Most of the Germans were small men, rather pale of face. Many wore spectacles, and had thin little goatee beards. He did not see a pickelhaube. They were either bare-headed, or had on small grey porkpie hats, with red bands, each with two metal buttons, ringed with white, black, and red, rather like tiny archery targets.
“They are Saxons,” a bearded soldier told him. “They watched some of the London ’Ighlanders—your lot, mate—putting up a fence last night, but they wouldn’t fire, he told me, even if they was ordered to. Or if they was forced to, like, they said they’d fire ’igh.”
“I saw the Christmas tree they put up, after singing carols.”
“Not a bad lot o’ bleeders, if you arst me, mate.”
Among the smaller Saxons were tall, sturdy men, taking no part in the talking, but moving about singly, regarding the general scene with detachment. They were red-faced men, and Phillip noticed that their tunics and trousers above the leather knee-boots showed dried mud-marks.
Looking in the direction of the mass of Germans, Phillip could see, judging by the rows of figures standing there, at least three positions or trench-lines behind their front line, at intervals of about two hundred yards.
“It only shows,” he said to Glass, one of his friends of the new draft, “what a lot of men they have, compared to ourselves. We’ve got only one line, really—our reserve lines are mere scratches.”
“I was thinking the same thing. I say, Maddison, do you see those green lanyards and tassels on those big fellows’ shoulders? They’re sniper’s cords. They’re Prussians.” Phillip thought that they did not look at all friendly. Their heads looked strong, big and round, compared with the Saxons’.
“That’s what the Saxons told me what they are,” continued Glass. “They don’t like the Prussians.”
“Yes, my father always told me that.”
One of the small Saxons was contentedly standing by himself smoking a new and large meerschaum pipe. He wore large spectacles, and looked just like a comic-paper “Hun”. Phillip noticed that the white bowl of the pipe had the face and high-peaked cap of Little Willie painted on it. The Saxon saw him looking at his pipe, and taking it out of his mouth, he said with quiet satisfaction, “Kronprinz! Prächtig Kerl!” as he looked at the portrait and wagged his thin black little goat’s beard in approval, before putting the mouthpiece back carefully between his teeth, and puffing to keep the tobacco alight. This done, he removed the pipe, examined the bowl, rubbed it against his nose, and went on smoking.
“He’s trying to colour it,” said Phillip. “I had a curved pipe like that, only it was wood—the Artist’s pipe. I got fed up with trying to season it. Cheer-ho!” he said to the man with the meerschaum.
Another Saxon came forward to explain in English. “‘Prächtig Kerl’ means ‘Good Chap’, or ‘Decent Fellow’. What you would call a ‘Proper Toff’ in Piccadilly. The Kronprinz Wilhelm gave us all a pipe. Jolly fine Christmas box, eh?”
“Jolly fine,” said Phillip. “You speak very good English.”
“I have been in London. I was waiter at the Regent Palace Hotel for two years. You know it?”
“No,” said Phillip, “but I know London, or bits of it.”
“Do you know Germany, sir?”
“No, but I have German cousins in Bavaria.”
“So?”
“So,” said Phillip. “Prächtig Kerl—your Crown Prince.”
Church, who had been amused by this conversation, said amiably to Phillip, “Fancy thinking like that about Little Willie! But I suppose they don’t realise what an absolute ass the fellow really is!”
“They’re told nothing,” said someone. “They’re driven on from behind by their officers. You see the Germans standing by their support and reserve trenches? They daren’t come over.”
Church said to Phillip, in a confidential voice, “That’s rot, in my opinion—he got it out of that rag The Daily Trident. But did you notice that Saxon called you ‘sir’? They think we are officer-cadets in these goat-skins. Incidentally, I heard from one of the Germans this morning that the London Highlanders are supposed to be going back to St. Omer, and start an Officers’ School for Kitchener’s Army.”
“I know how they got that,” said a man that Phillip recognised from No. 3 Company. “The Germans listen to what our chaps signal on their buzzers. When about a fortnight ago Harvey-Lowther, in our company, was ordered to report to H.Q., his commission having come through, they
knew somehow; and put a board in their trenches, saying, ‘Congratulations Mr. Harvey-Lowther’. They’ve got an electric device which picks up our Morse messages.”
“Good lord!”
“They’re damned efficient,” said Church. “Did you hear that the Mayor of Armentières was shot as a spy? They found a secret telephone in his cellar, going underground to the German lines.”
“Then there is the case of a farmer plowing with grey horses in a field next to a battery of our heavies near our transport lines. His furrows were in the shape of an arrow pointing straight at the battery. A Taube overhead saw it, and soon afterwards the guns were shelled, and blown to hell. The farmer was shot as a spy. Yes, the Germans were well prepared for this war,” said a man of the Black Watch.
“Well, I know one thing,” replied Phillip. “Their trouser buttons are duplicated, in case of one coming off. They thought even of that detail! For the long march through Belgium!”
“Not like us, bunged out by the War Office to the Low Country in shoes and spats!” observed Church, sardonically.
“And the wrong rifles, don’t forget!”
“Oh well, it’s all in the game.”
“Hear, hear,” said Phillip, wanting to please Church.
Church and Glass and Phillip moved on to watch some Germans digging with great energy with pick and shovel, the spades ringing on the frozen field. A tall rather stout officer with a brown fur collar to his long greatcoat stood by, bare-headed. When the hard lumps had been shifted, the grave was soon two feet deep. Then a dead German, stiff as a statue that had been lying out in No Man’s Land for weeks, was put on a hurdle, brought to the shallow grave, and put in, still a statue, and covered by a red-white-black German flag.
While the officer read from a prayer-book, and the Saxons stood to attention with round grey hats clutched in left hands, the three London Highlanders stood to attention with the others. It was during the shovelling back of the lumps that Phillip thought of his friend Baldwin, shot during the advance from l’Enfer Wood to the crest of Messines. Was he being buried, at that moment, by Germans with their hats off? Would it be possible to find out, somehow?
When the grave was filled up, the Germans put on it a cross made of ration-box wood, marked in indelible pencil
HIER RÜHT IN GOTT EIN UNBEKANNTE DEUTSCHER HELD
“Here rests in God an unknown German hero,” said Church.
It was just like the English crosses in the cemetery in the clearing within the wood, thought Phillip. The three moved on. Two Germans came up to them, smiling, offering cigars. “Please accept, sir.”
Not to be out-done, Phillip pulled a tin of cigarettes out of his pocket.
“Thank you, sir. Please have these cigarettes.”
Other Germans seemed pleased even with the tins of bully beef given them. One explained that the meerschaum pipe in his hand was the Christmas gift from the Kronprinz.
“Ja! Prächtig Kerl!” said Phillip, trying out his new German. The German replied eagerly in his own language. Phillip remembered the saying of his old nurse Minnie, Mittagsessen ist fertig! and pointing to the bully beef tin one carried, repeated the words, adding “Nein, nein!” shaking his head, making a wry face, clutching his middle. “Pas bon, bully beef.”
“Bully beef’s a cad,” said Church.
“Please? You speak German, mein Herr?” to Phillip.
“Nein, nein, mein hairy one,” retorted Phillip, for the German had a deep black beard. Then, lest the German feel he was being made a joke of, Phillip said, “I’m afraid I know only a few words of your language. Regardez, Englischer Princess Mary, her Gift Box to us,” as he showed the brass box, opening it to reveal Princess Mary’s photograph. “Deutscher, Kronprinz Wilhelm! Englischer, Princess Mary! Cousins! Yes!” for Church had laughed. “The Kaiser is a grandson of Queen Victoria, and she was very fond of him, and he of her. I think I like these Germans!”
“Prinzessin! Schön!” said the German, puffing his meerschaum pipe.
“What is ‘schön’, Church?”
“Beautiful?”
“She is beautiful, Princess Mary, I think.” To himself he said, She is rather like Helena Rolls, as he touched the envelope in his breast pocket.
Church moved away; Phillip wandered on, seeking other interesting sights. In the course of turning here and there, he overheard some Highlanders talking about the London Rifles. Immediately he thought of cousin Willie. The battalion, he heard, was holding the line just south of Messines in a large wood the other side of Wulverghem. An idea came to him: why not walk down and try and find Willie? And look for Baldwin’s grave on the way? Why not? Was it not Christmas Day, and the war stopped still? But dare he? How far away was it? He stared towards the east.
Wytschaete, called White Sheet, was fairly close: that dark brown broken crab-shell cluster on the sky-line had been stared at for weeks, part of the lifeless, dangerous horizon. Messines, so far as he could remember, or recall from the fragmentary impressions of marching there under fire for the first time on Hallo’e’en, must be some distance away, behind Wytschaete. Wasn’t it rather a risk, to try and go all that way in No Man’s Land? What was the time? He asked a German, who was looking at a watch with spidery hands. The German replied, “Half-past twelve, mister.” Glass, coming up at that moment, looked at his watch, and said, “I make it half-past eleven.” The German showed the face of his watch, a French one. “It keeps good time.”
Phillip remembered how Sir Edward Grey’s ultimatum expiring at midnight had been one o’clock in the morning, Berlin time.
“You are an hour before us,” he said.
“Yes,” said the German, with a smile. “That is our proper place in the sun.” Phillip wondered what he meant. Hadn’t the Kaiser said something like that?
There was shortly afterwards another surprise in this day of surprises, when a football was kicked into the air, and several men ran after it. The upshot was a match proposed between the two armies, to be held in a field behind the German lines. If a footer match was allowed, why not a bike ride? In some excitement he went back for his bicycle, and wheeled it among others walking, laughing and talking, to the German barricade. They moved round it, and made for a field on the left, just beyond the part-shelled Hospice; and a German smilingly helped him. The flat tyres were objects of amusement; so Phillip mounted, and rode on the road, past a cottage which had sandbags inside the windows, while pretending to be very nervous of falling off. Laughter met his antics. He rode on. The field-grey and khaki crowd was making for the field. Trying to feel nonchalant, like the heroes in magazine stories, he rode on up the rise and turned to the left, seeing before him the massed houses of Wytschaete. Nobody was about, so he rode on, entering a wide cobbled square, with a church rising above it, and trees; and cycling on slowly, he went down a narrow street between cottages and arrived at right angles to a long straight road lined with poplars; and seeing rusty steam-tram lines laid in the settstones, regarded them with a shock of near-sickness: this must be the ridge itself, and this was the road from Ypres to Messines.
He pedalled beside one rail, between rows of cottages with white-painted German numbers on their doors, obviously billet-numbers. He got another shock when he saw what hitherto had been seen only in a photograph: the menacing words painted large on a barn door:
GOTT STRAFE ENGLAND!
Near the barn was an estaminet, and outside the estaminet a bearded German was standing, smoking a new meerschaum pipe. Feeling white about the gills, Phillip gave a salute, which nearly caused a fatal wobble. “Ja! Ja!” he cried out. “Kronprinz. Prächtig Kerl! Auf wiedersehen,” and wondering if he would hear a shot any moment, he rode on, while the tune of O, for the wings, for the wings of a dove! Far, far away would I rove! ground like broken shells in his mind, accompanied by his teeth grinding out the time. Then, half-turning to wave at the German, he said to himself, incoherent with an upsurge of tremendous joy, “I bloody well am roving, too!”
Th
ere was no-one else in sight; he was alone on the Wytschaete-Messines crest.
*
Whatever he did, he must keep on cycling. He felt inside out, he felt unreal, he was on the wings of a dove, and if he kept on cycling, no-one would think of stopping him. After all, it was Christmas Day, which everyone was celebrating. The whole countryside was quiet: only the rattling of the bicycle, with its queer high handlebars, on the pavé surface of the long, tree-lined road. He hoped that the spokes wouldn’t start going through the rims, so that the wheels collapsed, and he was forced to walk. He told himself that his luck would hold so long as he rode on. No harm would come to him, if he rode on, and kept his thoughts to himself—he must not look about him, lest he give the idea that he was trying to find out about the German defences. There were, he could see by taking half-squeezed glances to the left with his eyes, some trenches with knife-rest wire in front of them. When he got back, he must say nothing about them; it would be rather mean to do that.
The weak sun, free of clouds in the deep part of the year, cast a long shadow of himself across the rimed grasses growing above the ditch on the left of the road. Then he thought that he must, to attract the least attention, should he meet anyone, ride on the right of the road in the Continental manner. But no-one was in sight.
What a wonderful adventure it was! The whole thing was a miracle!
How the people at home would be utterly astounded, when they heard that the Germans were not just brutes, as hitherto everyone had imagined!
He must have been going for the best part of two miles, he reckoned, when with a shock he recognised the place where the company had come up in extended order on the morning of Hallo ’e’en. He felt a chill strike into him when he saw the farm buildings on the right, down the cart-track, where, during that awful night just before the Bavarians’ bayonet-charge he and Martin had failed to bring up the boxes of ammunition to the firing pits. Martin, one of the Leytonstone tent, had lain down and been unable to get up, ill with pneumonia. His heart beat so rapidly that he felt faint when he came to where the Bavarians had poured over the road, and down the track to behind the farm, and the M.O., Captain McTaggart, had been bayoneted, and Peter Wallace too, going to his rescue. He began to feel very cold and frightened. What should he do? He must go on, keep on, he must go through with it now. Was he really alive, was he really there, was it all happening, had it all happened? He felt like a ghost.
A Fox Under My Cloak Page 5