The Complete Memoirs of George Sherston 3 - Sherston's Progress

by Siegfried Sassoon

  At about eleven o’clock I went out myself with Howitt and a couple of N.C.O.s, but it was only in order to get them accustomed to being out there. Everything was very quiet while we crawled along the company front in the wet corn. The Germans had sent over a few admonitory 5.9’s just after ‘stand-down’; at long intervals they fired their machine-guns just to show they were still there. The topography of our bit of no-man’s-land was mainly agricultural, so our patrolling was easy work. On the right, B Company were demonstrating their offensive spirit by using up a fair amount of ammunition, but I had given orders that not a shot was to be fired by our Company. An impressively menacing silence prevailed, which, I hoped, would impress the Germans. I felt almost supercilious as I stood in the trench watching some B Company enthusiast experimenting with the Véry light pistol.

  That was one of my untroubled moments, when I could believe that I’d got a firm grip on what I was doing and could be oblivious to the whys and wherefores of the war. I was standing beside Corporal Griffiths, who had his Lewis gun between his elbows on the dew-soaked parapet. His face, visible in the sinking light of a flare, had the look of a man who was doing his simple duty without demanding explanations from the stars above him. Vigilant and serious he stared straight ahead of him, and a fine picture of fortitude he made. He was only a stolid young farmer from Montgomeryshire; only; but such men, I think, were England, in those dreadful years of war.

  Thus the strangeness of the night wore on – and stranger still it seems while I am revisiting it from to-day – and after I’d been along to all the sentry-posts a second time, I went back to the headquarter rabbit-hole to find Velmore dozing, with Flecker’s poems fallen from his hand, and the sturdy little sergeant-major dozing likewise in his own little rabbit-hole near by, while the signaller brooded over the buzzer. Away from the shell-hole there was another dug-out – larger, but not very deep – where we slept and had our food. Everything seems to be going on quite well, I thought, groping my way in, to sit there, tired and wakeful, and soaked and muddy from my patrol, while one candle made unsteady brown shadows in the gloom, and young Howitt lay dead beat and asleep in an ungainly attitude, with that queer half-sullen look on his face.

  The thought of that candle haunts me now; I don’t know why, except that it seems to symbolize the weary end of a night at the War, and that unforgettable remoteness from the ordinary existences which we might have been leading; Howitt going to an office in the morning; and Velmore down from that idyllic pre-war Oxford with an honours degree; and all those men in the company still unmobilized from farms and factories and wherever else it was they had earned a living.

  I seem to be in that stuffy dug-out now, with Howitt snoring, and my wakeful watch ticking on the wrist which supported my head, and the deathly map of France and Flanders all around me in huge darkness receding to the distant boom of a big gun. I seem to be back in my mind as it then was – a mind whose haggard vigilance had the power to deny its body rest, while with the clairvoyance of sleeplessness it strove to be detached from clogging discomfort and to achieve, in its individual isolation, some sort of mastery over the experience which it shared with those dead and sleeping multitudes, of whom young Howitt was the visible representation.

  I wanted to know – to understand – before it was too late, whether there was any meaning in this human tragedy which sprawled across France, while those who planned yet further slaughter were like puppets directing operations on which the unknown gods had turned their backs in boredom with our blundering bombardments. I wanted to know the reason why Corporal Griffiths was being what he was in quiet fortitude.

  And I felt a great longing to be liberated from these few hundred yards of ant-like activity – to travel all the way along the Western Front – to learn through my eyes and with my heart the organism of this monstrous drama which my mind had not the power to envision as a whole. But my mind could see no further than the walls of that dug-out with its one wobbling candle which now burnt low. Universalization of military experience fizzled out in my thinking that some day we should look back on these St. Floris trenches as a sort of Paradise compared with places in which we had afterwards found ourselves. Unlike those ditches and earthworks which had become fetid with recurrent human catastrophes – hummocks and slag-heaps and morasses whose names would live for ever in war histories – ours was an almost innocent sector still recognizable as cultivated farmland. I could recognize that innocence when Bond had made me some tea, and I had emerged into the peace of daybreak. The pollard willows loomed somewhat strange and ominous against the sky, but before long I was looking out over the parapet at an immaculate morning, with St. Floris away on the left – a factory chimney rising from a huddle of mysterious roofs – mysterious only because they were on the edge of no-man’s-land.

  Aloof from our concerns, another day was beginning, and there seemed no special reason why the War should command us to keep our heads down. The country, as I said before, looked innocent; the morning air was like life’s elixir, and hope went singing skyward with the lark.

  Refreshed by a few hours’ sleep, I was up in the Front Line an hour or two after midday, gazing at the incalculable country beyond the cornfield. My map told me that the town of Merville was about three miles away from me, but the level landscape prevented it from being visible. Our long-range gunners knew a lot about Merville, no doubt, but it was beyond my horizon, and I couldn’t hear so much as a rumble of wheels coming from that direction. The outlook was sunlit and completely silent, for it was the quietest time of day.

  I was half-way between two sentry-posts, on the extreme left of our sector, where no-man’s-land was narrowest. The longer I stared at the cornfield the more I wanted to know what was on the other side, and this inquisitiveness gradually developed into a determination. Discarding all my obligations as Company Commander (my main obligation being to remain inside the trench and get it deepened by those 120 shovels, which we’d taken over) I took off all my equipment, strolled along to the nearest sentry, borrowed his bayonet, and told him that I was going out to have a look at the wire. Returning to my equipment, I added my tunic and steel helmet to the heap, took a deep breath, grasped the bayonet firmly in my right hand, and crawled out into the unknown. I wasn’t doing this from a sense of duty. It would certainly be helpful if I could find out exactly what things were like on the other side, and whether, as was rumoured by staff experts, the Germans withdrew most of their trench garrison during the day. But my uppermost idea was, I must admit, that the first man of the 74th Division to arrive in the enemy trenches was going to be me. This was a silly idea and I deserved no credit at all for it. Relying on Velmore to hold the fort at company headquarters, I was lapsing into my rather feckless 1916 self. It was, in fact, what I called ‘playing my natural game’. I can’t believe that I really enjoyed it, but it was exciting to worm one’s way across, trying not to rustle the corn stalks. After about 300 yards of this sort of thing I crept through a few strands of wire and came to the edge of the concealment zone. What on earth would Doctor Macamble say if he could see me, I wondered, trying to bluff myself into a belief that I wasn’t the least bit nervous. He would probably have rebuked me for being ‘bloodthirsty’; but I didn’t feel at all like that.

  The shallow German trench was only a few yards away, and there was no one in it, which was a great relief to my mind. I got into it as quickly as I could and then sat down, feeling by no means at home. The bayonet in my hand didn’t seem to give me any extra confidence, but there were some stick-bombs lying about, so I picked one up, thinking that it would be just as well to take something back as a surprise for old Velmore. I then proceeded along the trench, sedately but bent double. For the benefit of those who enjoy exact description I will add that I was going in the direction of the Germans who were opposite B Company, i.e. away from St. Floris. The trench was only waist-deep; almost at once I saw what I presumed to be a machine-gun team. There were four of them, and they were standing abou
t thirty yards away, gazing in the other direction. They were wearing flat blue-grey caps and their demeanour suggested boredom and idleness. Anyhow I was at last more or less in contact with the enemies of England. I had come from Edinburgh via Limerick and Jerusalem, drawing full pay for seven months, and I could now say that I had seen some of the people I was fighting against. And what I saw was four harmless young Germans who were staring up at a distant aeroplane.

  Standing upright, I watched them with breathless interest until one of them turned and looked me straight in the face. He was a blond youth of Saxon type, and he registered complete astonishment. For several seconds we gaped at one another; then he turned to draw the attention of his companions to their unknown visitor, who immediately betook himself to the cover of the cornfield, to the best of his ability imitating a streak of light. I returned much quicker than I came, and while the Germans were talking it over at their leisure I resumed my tunic and tin hat and took the bayonet back to its owner who eyed the stick-bomb enquiringly. With a marked change of manner from my recent retreat on all fours, I laconically mentioned that I’d just slipped across and fetched it. I then returned in triumph to Velmore, who implored me not to do that sort of thing again without warning him.

  We thereupon decided that, as the general had announced that he expected a prisoner as soon as possible, the obvious thing to do was to send Howitt across with a strong patrol some fine morning to bring back that machine-gun team and thus acquire a Military Cross. It had been great fun, I felt. And I regarded myself as having scored a point against the people who had asserted that I was suffering from shell-shock.

  About ten o’clock that night I hunched my way into the rabbit-hole feeling somewhat the worse for wear. ‘Slight strafe on, it seems!’ I remarked to Velmore, who was leaning his back against the far end where there was just room for the pair of us to sit side by side.

  ‘We must try and stop the men moving about so much round headquarters by day,’ he suggested. I lit my pipe. There was no doubt they’d fairly put the wind up me a few minutes before when a batch of 5.9’s had dropped all round me while I lay flat on the ground somewhere between number 8 and 9 sentry-posts. Velmore sympathized and commented on the accuracy of the Teutonic artillery-men. The Adjutant had been up that evening and had told him that a big shell had landed just outside Orderly Room window about breakfast time. Luckily it had fallen on the manure-heap. A thud and an earth-shaking explosion immediately behind our dug-out now caused me to propose that a spot of Flecker wouldn’t do us any harm, and we had just begun to make the Golden Journey to Samarkand when another shell arrived plump on top of us. But there was no explosion. The smoke still curled up from Velmore’s cigarette. ‘Our camels sniff the evening and are glad,’ quoted he…. A large fissure had appeared in the earth wall behind us; exactly between us the nose-cap of the shell protruded. Velmore, who had a talent for picturesque phrases, named the crack in the wall ‘the grin of death’. I still consider it queer that only the dudness of that 5.9 preserved us from becoming the débris of a direct hit.

  Consulting my watch, I found that it was time for me to be taking out my conducted tours in no-man’s-land. (I took them out, two at a time, for twenty-minute crawls, and the ‘patrol proper’ went out at 12.30.) ‘I think I’ll come up with you,’ remarked Velmore. ‘It can’t be more dangerous in the Front Line than it is here.’

  On the following night at much the same time we were squatting in exactly the same place, munching chocolate. We were agreeing that the company was getting through its first dose of the line extremely well. They were a fine steady lot, and had worked hard at strengthening the posts and deepening the shallow connecting trench. We had also improved the wire. Best of all, we should be relieved the next night. ‘And not a single casualty so far,’ said Velmore. I didn’t touch wood, but as to-morrow was the thirteenth I produced my fire-opal and touched that. ‘Aren’t opals supposed to be unlucky?’ he enquired dubiously, shutting one eye while he admired the everlasting sunset glories of the jewel. ‘Mine isn’t,’ I replied, adding that I intended to give it another test that night. ‘I’m going to do a really good patrol,’ I announced. Velmore looked worried and said he wished I wouldn’t. He argued that there was no special reason for doing it. I reminded him that we must maintain our supremacy in no-man’s-land. ‘Haven’t you already shown your damned supremacy by going over and quelling the Fritzes with a look?’ he protested. But I produced a plausible project. I was going to locate a machine-gun which had seemed to be firing from outside their trench with the intention of enfilading us, and anyhow it was all arranged, and I was going out with Corporal Davies at one o’clock, from No. 14 post (which was where our company front ended). Seeing that I was bent on going, Velmore became helpful, and the sergeant-major was told to send an urgent warning to B Company, as the objective I had in mind was on their front.

  My real reason for seeking trouble like this was my need to escape from the worry and responsibility of being a Company Commander, plus annoyance with the idea of being blown to bits while sitting there watching Velmore inditing a nicely-worded situation report. I was tired and over-strained, and my old foolhardiness was taking control of me.

  To be outside the trench with the possibility of bumping into an enemy patrol was at any rate an antidote to my suppressed weariness of the entire bloody business. I wanted to do something definite, and perhaps get free of the whole thing. It was the old story; I could only keep going by doing something spectacular.

  So there was more bravado than bravery about it, and I should admire that vanished self of mine more if he had avoided taking needless risks. I blame him for doing his utmost to prevent my being here to write about him. But on the other hand I am grateful to him for giving me something to write about.

  Leaving me in the rabbit-hole to ruminate and reserve my energies, Velmore toddled off to the Front Line, which was, to revert to golfing phraseology, only an easy iron-shot away. I cannot claim that I remember exactly what I ruminated about, but an intimate knowledge of my mental technique assures me that, with danger looming in the near future, my thoughts were soon far away from St. Floris. (Who was St. Floris, by the way?) Probably I scribbled half a page in that long lost notebook – not too self-consciously, I hope. And then my mind may have rambled off to see a few friends.

  Having ceased to wonder when the War would be over, I couldn’t imagine myself anywhere else but on active service, and I was no longer able to indulge in reveries about being at home. When I came out this last time I had turned my back on everything connected with peace-time enjoyment. I suppose this meant that I was making a forced effort to keep going till the end. Like many people, I had a feeling that ordinary human existence was being converted into a sort of nightmare. Things were being said and done which would have been considered madness before the War. The effects of the War had been the reverse of ennobling, it seemed. Social historians can decide whether I am wrong about it.

  Anyhow, as I was saying, I probably thought vaguely about those kind hunting people at Limerick, and speculated on such problems as what The Mister did with himself during the summer months; it quite worried me when I thought of the old boy convivially consuming neat whisky in hot weather. But if I called to mind my more intimate friends, it was themselves that I saw and not the places where I had been happy with them.

  And if my visual meditations included the face of Rivers I did not allow myself to consult him as to the advisability of avoiding needless risks. I knew that he would have dissuaded me from doing that patrol. And then, no doubt, I dozed off until Velmore came back to tell me that it was getting on for one o’clock and Corporal Davies all ready for me up at No. 14 post.

  Corporal Davies was a trained scout, young, small and active. We had worked out our little scheme, such as it was, and he now informed me in a cheerful whisper that the machine-gun which was our objective had been firing now and again from its usual position, which was half-right, about four hundred yards away
. (The German trench was about six hundred yards from ours at that point.) In my pocket I had my little automatic pistol to provide moral support, and we took three or four Mills’ bombs apiece. Our intention was to get as near as we could and then put the wind up the machine-gunners with our bombs.

  A sunken farm-road ran out from No. 14 post; along this we proceeded with intense caution. About a hundred yards out we forsook the road and bore right-handed. It was a warm still night and the moon was very properly elsewhere, but the clear summer sky diminished the darkness and one could see quite a lot after a bit. Under such conditions every clod of earth was liable to look like the head of a recumbent enemy and the rustle of a fieldmouse in the corn could cause a certain trepidation – intrepid trepidation, of course.

  Obviously it takes a longish time to crawl three or four hundred yards with infinite caution, but as nothing occurred to hinder our progress there is nothing narratable about it. I hadn’t the time on me; crawling on my stomach might have smashed my watch-glass if it had been in my pocket, and its luminosity would have been out of place on my wrist. But what a relief it was, to be away from time and its petty tyrannies, even when one’s heart was in one’s mouth.

  Behind us loomed the sentry-posts and the impressive sweep of the line, where poor old Velmore was peering anxiously out while he awaited our return. It really felt as though Corporal Davies and I had got the best of it out there. We were beyond all interference by Brigadiers.

  Just when I least expected it the German machine-gun fired a few rounds, for no apparent reason except to allow us to locate it. We were, as far as I could judge, less than fifty yards from it and it seemed uncomfortably near. I looked at Davies, whose countenance was only too visible, for the sky was growing pale and we must have been out there well over two hours. Davies needed no prompting. He had already pulled out the pin of a bomb. So, to cut a long story short, we crawled a bit nearer, loosed off the lot, and retreated with the rapidity of a pair of scared badgers. I don’t for a moment suppose that we hit anybody, but the deed was done, and when we were more than half-way home I dropped into the sunken road, and only the fact that I was out on a patrol prevented me from slapping my leg with a loud guffaw.