About nine, Evans’s servant told him to report immediately in fighting order. Wearily and sleepily he threw on his equipment, re-tied the string of his box respirator, and slung his rifle and bayonet over his left shoulder. He waited with the officers’ servants, who gave him a piece of bread dipped in bacon grease to eat. Presently Evans came out and they started off.
“I’ve got to see an R.E. officer,” said Evans, “about a new job on Hill 91. It’s a bit further to the left of where we’ve been working, and it’ll take us half an hour longer to get there.”
Winterbourne seized the opportunity to put forward one or two ideas he had been thinking over:
“I hope you won’t mind, sir, if I say something – it’s not an official complaint at all, you understand, only what I’ve been personally thinking.”
“Go ahead.”
“Well, sir, I assume that the reason we are kept in billets instead of in the line is to give us more rest so that we come fresh to work. But here it doesn’t work out that way, especially in the past fortnight; and it’s likely to get worse instead of better. It seems to me that we should much better off if we were in dug-outs in the reserve We have that long walk through the mud twice a day; we get all the shells meant for the transport and ration parties; we get an all-night strafing in the line; we’re shelled all the way down; we come back to gassy billets, which are shelled with heavies twenty hours out of twenty-four. The cellars are no real protection against a direct hit. They’re damper than dug-outs, and just as dark and ratty. There are far more whizz-bangs and light stuff in the line, but far fewer heavies; and if we had even fifteen-foot dug-outs, we’d get some sleep, instead of starting awake every ten minutes with a crump outside the cellar entrance. We’re getting a lot of useless casualties, sir. I passed the cook-house as I came along, and the cook told me one of his mates had just gone down with gas from last night. And the S.M. looks as green as grass. Can’t you get us put in the line, sir?”
Evans cogitated a moment or two:
“Yes, I think you’re right. No, I can’t get us moved. I haven’t the authority. I wish I had. I’ll ask the Major to put it before the Colonel. It’s quite true what you say. In the past week we’ve had eight casualties in the line, and twelve here or going up and down. But with this show coming off I expect every trench and dugout will be packed.”
Winterbourne felt enormously proud that Evans had not snubbed his suggestion. Evans went on, after a pause:
“By the way, Winterbourne, have you ever thought of taking a commission?”
“Why yes, sir; it was suggested by the Adjutant of my battalion in England. I believe my father wrote to him about it. He, my father, was very keen about it.”
“Well, why don’t you apply?”
It was now Winterbourne’s turn to cogitate:
“I find it rather hard to explain, sir. For many reasons, which you might think far-fetched, I had and still have a feeling that I ought to spend the War in the ranks and in the line. I should prefer to be in the Infantry, but I think the Pioneers are quite near enough.”
“They often come round for volunteers, you know. If you like, I’ll put you down next time and the Major will recommend you to the Colonel.”
“It’s kind of you, sir. I’ll think about it.”
One night, two nights, three nights, four nights passed and still there was no big battle. And they were not moved. Every, night they were shelled up the line, shelled in the line, shelled on the way back, and arrived in a hailstorm of gas shells. They had to wear their gasmasks for hours every day. And sleep became more and more difficult and precarious.
Winterbourne’s intimacy with Evans and his own “education” put him in rather an ambiguous position. Evans trusted him more and more to do things which would normally have been done by an N.C.O. And Winterbourne’s feeling of responsibility led him to take on and conscientiously carry out everything of the kind. One night there was supposed to be a gas-discharger attack by the British in retaliation for the heavy German gas bombardments. All the officers wanted to see it; and since it was staged for an hour before dawn, that meant either that one officer had to take the Company down or that the men had to be kept up two hours longer, exposed to artillery retaliation. Evans solved the problem. He sent for Winterbourne:
“Winterbourne, we want to stop and see the fun up here. Now, you can take the Company down, can’t you? I’ll tell Sergeant Perkins that you’re in charge; but of course you’ll give orders through him. Come back here and report after you get them back.”
“Very good, sir.”
There was no British gas attack, but the Germans put up what was then a considerable gas bombardment. They sent over approximately thirty thousand gas shells that night, most of them in and around the village where the Pioneers were billeted. The Company had to wear gas-masks over the last half-mile, and Winterbourne had a very anxious time getting them along. He had discovered a disused but quite deep trench running through the village almost to their billets, and he took the men along there instead of through the village street. It was a little longer, but far safer. The shells were hailing all round them, and Winterbourne didn’t want any casualties. Sergeant Perkins and he managed to get the men safely into billets. Winterbourne turned and said:
“Well, goodnight, Sergeant; I must go up the line again and report to Mr. Evans.”
“You ain’t going up agen, are you?”
“Yes, Mr. Evans told me to.”
“’Struth! Well, I’d rather it was you than me.”
Winterbourne fitted on his gas-mask, and groped his way out of the Sergeant’s cellar. The night was muggy, a bit drizzly, windless and very dark – the ideal conditions for a gas bombardment. What little wind there was came from the German lines. He hesitated between taking the long muddy trench or the more open road; but since he was practically blinded in the darkness with his goggles, he decided to take the trench, for fear of losing his way. It was rather eerie, groping his way alone up the trench, with the legions of gas shells shrilling and phutting all round him. They fell with a terrific “flop” when they came within a few yards. He stumbled badly two or three times in holes they had made in the trench since he had come down. For nearly half a mile he had to go through the gas barrage, and it was slow work indeed, with the mud and the darkness and the groping and the stumbling. Interminable. He thought of nothing in the darkness but keeping his left hand on the side of the trench to guide him and holding his right hand raised in front to prevent his bumping into something.
At last he got clear of the falling gas shells, and ventured a peep outside his mask. One sniff showed him the air was deadly with phosgene. He groped on another two hundred yards and tried again. There was still a lot of gas, but he decided to risk it, and took off his mask. With the mask off he could see comparatively well, and travelled quite rapidly. About an hour before dawn he reported to Evans.
“There is a devil of a gas bombardment going on round the billets and for half a mile round, sir,” said Winterbourne; “that’s why I’m so late. The whole country reeks of gas.”
Evans whistled.
“Whew! As a matter of fact, we’ve been drinking a bit in the dug-out with some Infantry officers, and one or two are a bit groggy in consequence.”
“Better wait till dawn, then, sir. If you’ll come up into the trench you’ll hear the shells going over.”
“Oh, I take your word for it. But the Major insists on going down at once. We’ve just heard that there isn’t going to be a gas attack. You’ll have to help me get them down.”
“Very good, sir.”
The Major was entirely sober; Evans was perfectly self-controlled; but the other four were all a little too merry. It was a perfect nightmare getting them through the gas barrage. They would insist there was no danger, that the gas was all a wash-out; and kept taking off their masks. They disregarded the Major’s peremptory orders, and Evans and Winterbourne had constantly to take off their own masks to argue wi
th the subalterns and make them put on theirs. Winterbourne could feel the deadly phosgene at his lungs.
Just after dawn they reached the Officers’ Mess cellar, fortunately without a casualty. Winterbourne felt horribly sick with the gas he had swallowed. The Major took of his gas-mask, and picked up a water-jug.
“Those confounded servants have forgotten to leave any water,” exclaimed the Major angrily. “Winterbourne, take that tin jug and go and get some water from the cook-house.”
“Very good, sir.”
The shells were still pitilessly hailing down through the dawn. It was a hundred yards to the cook-house, and Winterbourne three times just escaped being directly hit by one of the ceaselessly falling shells. He returned to the Mess, and left the water.
“Thanks very much,” said Evans; “you may go now, Winterbourne. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, sir.”
“Goodnight,” said the Major; “thank you for getting that water, Winterbourne; I oughtn’t to have sent you.”
“Thank you, sir; goodnight, sir.”
Outside the Major’s and Evans’s part of the cellar the other officers were sitting round a deal table by the light of a candle stuck in a bottle, which looked dim and ghastly. The place was practically gas-proof, with tightly-drawn blankets over every crevice.
“Win’erbourne,” said one of them.
“Sir?”
“Run along to the Quar’master-Sergeant and bring us a bottle of whisky.”
“Very good, sir.”
Winterbourne climbed the cellar steps, lifted the outer gas-curtain rapidly, and stepped out. There was such a stench of phosgene that he snapped his mask on at once. The shells were falling thicker than ever. One hit the wall of the house, and Winterbourne felt bricks and dust drop on his steel helmet and shoulders. He shrank against what was left of the wall. Two hundred yards to the Q.M.S.’s billet. That meant nearly a quarter of a mile through that deadly storm – for a half-drunken man to get a few more whiskies. Winterbourne hesitated. It was disobeying orders if he didn’t go. He turned resolutely and went to his own billet; nothing was ever said of this refusal to obey an officer’s orders in the face of the enemy.
Winterbourne stood outside the entrance to his cellar, took off his steel helmet and folded down the top part of his gas-mask so that he could see, while still keeping the nose-clip on and the large rubber mouthpiece in his teeth. The whitish morning light looked cold and misty, and the PHUT PHUT PHUT PHUT of the bursting gas shells continued with ruthless iteration. He watched them exploding; a little curling cloud of yellow gas rose from each shell-hole. The ground was pitted with these new shell-holes, and newly-broken bricks and debris lay about everywhere. A dead rat lay in a gas-shell hole just outside the entrance so the War caught even the rats! There had been a young, slender ash-tree in what had once been the cottage garden. A heavy explosive had fallen just at its roots, splintered the slim stem, and dashed it prone with broken branches. The young leaves were still green, except on one side where they were curled and withered by gas. The grass, so tender a Spring green a week before, was yellow, sickly, and withered. As he turned to lift the gas blanket he heard the whizz and crash of the first heavy of the day bombardment. But the gas shells continued.
Inside the cellar was complete darkness. He took off his mask and fumbled his way down the broken stairs, trying not to wake the other runners. It was important to use only one match, because matches were scarce and precious. The air inside was foul and heavy, but only slightly tainted with phosgene. Winterbourne half-smiled as he thought how furiously he had contended for “fresh air” in huts and barrack-rooms, and how gladly he now welcomed any foul air which was not full of poison gas. He lighted his stub of candle, and slowly took off his equipment, replacing the box respirator immediately. His boots were thick with mud, his puttees and trousers torn with wire and stained with mud and grease. A bullet had torn a hole in his leather jerkin, and his steel helmet was marked by a long, deep dint, where it had been struck by a flying splinter of shell. He felt amazingly weary, and rather sick. He had known the fatigue of long walks and strenuous Rugby football matches and cross-country runs, but nothing like this continual, cumulative weariness. He moved with the slow, almost pottering movements of agricultural labourers and old men. The feeling of sickness became worse, and he wanted to vomit out the smell of gas which seemed to permeate him. He heaved over his empty canvas bucket until the water started to his eyes, but vomited nothing. He noticed how filthy his hands were.
He was just going to sit down on his blanket and pack, covered by the neatly-folded ground-sheet, when he saw a parcel and some letters for him lying on them. The other runners had brought them over for him. Decent of them. The parcel was from Elizabeth – how sweet of her to remember! And yes, she had sent all the things he had asked for and left out all the useless things people would send to the troops. He mustn’t touch anything except the candles, though, until tomorrow, when the parcel would be carefully divided among everybody in the cellar. It was one of the good unwritten rules – all parcels strictly divided between each section, so that every one got something, even and especially the men who were too poor or too lonely to receive anything from England. Dear Elizabeth! how sweet of her to remember!
He opened her envelope with hands which shook slightly with fatigue and the shock of explosions. Then he stopped, lighted a new candle from the stub of the old one, blew out the stub, and carefully put it away to give to one of the infantry. The letter was unexpectedly tender and charming. She had just been to Hampton Court to look at the flowers. The gardens were rather neglected, she said, and no flowers in the Long Border – the gardeners were at the War, and there was no money in England now for flowers. Did he remember how they had walked there in April five years ago? Yes, he remembered, and thought too with a pang of surprise that this was the first Spring he had ever spent without seeing a flower, not even a primrose. The little yellow coltsfoot he had liked so much were all dead with phosgene. Elizabeth went on:
“I saw Fanny last week. She looked more charming and delicate than ever – and such a marvellous hat! I hear she is much attached to a brilliant young scientist, a chemist, who does the most peculiar things. He mixes up all sorts of chemicals and then experiments with the fumes and kills dozens of poor little monkeys with them. Isn’t it wicked? But Fanny says it’s most important war work.”
The sickness came on him again. He turned sideways and heaved silently, but could not vomit. He felt thirsty, and drank a little stale-tasting water from his water-bottle. Dear Elizabeth! how sweet of her to remember! Fanny’s letter was very rattling and gay. She had been there, she had done this, she had seen so-and-so. How was darling George getting along? She was so glad to see that there had been no fighting yet on the Western front. She added:
“I saw Elizabeth recently. She looked a little worried, but very sweet. She was with such a charming young man – a young American who ran away from Yale to join our Flying Corps.”
The heavy shells outside were falling nearer and nearer. They came over in fours, each shell a little in front of the others – bracketing. Through the gas-curtain he heard the remains of a ruined house collapse across the street under a direct hit. Each crash made the cellar tremble slightly, and the candle flame jumped.
Well, it was nice of Fanny to write. Very nice. She was a thoroughly decent sort. He picked up the other envelopes. One came from Paris, and contained the Bulletin des Ecrivains – names of French writers and artists killed or wounded, and news of those in the armies. He was horrified to see how many of his friends in Paris had been killed. A passage had been marked in blue pencil – it contained the somewhat belated news that M. Georges Winterbourne, le jeune peintre anglais, was in camp in England.
Another letter, forwarded by Elizabeth, came from a London art-dealer. It said that an American had bought one of Winterbourne’s sketches for five pounds, and that when he heard that Winterbourne was in the trenches he had insisted up
on making it twenty-five pounds. The dealer therefore enclosed a cheque for twenty-two pounds ten, being twenty-five pounds less commission at ten per centum. Winterbourne thought it rather cheek to take commission on the money which was a gift; but still – Business As Usual. But how generous of the American! How amazingly kind! His pay was five francs a week, so the money was most welcome. He must write and thank…
The last letter was from Mr. Upjohn, from whom Winterbourne had not heard for over a year. Elizabeth, appeared, had asked him to write and send news. Mr. Upjohn wrote a chatty letter. He himself had a job in Whitehall, “of national importance”. Winterbourne rejoiced to think that Mr. Upjohn’s importance was now recognized by the nation. Mr. Shobbe had been to France, had stayed in the line three weeks, and was now permanently at the base. Comrade Bobbe had come out very strong as a conscientious objector. He had been put in prison for six weeks. His friends had “got at” somebody influential, who had “got at” the secretary of somebody in authority, and Mr. Bobbe had been released as an agricultural worker. He was now “working” on a farm run by a philanthropic lady for conscientious objectors of the intellectual class. Mr. Waldo Tubbe had found his vocation in the Post Office Censorship Bureau, where he was very happy – if he could not force people to say what he wanted, he could at least prevent them from writing anything derogatory to his Adopted Empire…
George laughed silently to himself. Amusing chap, Upjohn. He got out his jack-knife and scraped away the mud so that he could unlace his boots. Outside the shells crashed. One burst just behind the cellar. The roof seemed to give a jump, something seemed to smack Winterbourne on the top of the head, and the candle went out. He laboriously re-lit it. The other runners woke up.
“Anything up?”
“No, only a crump outside. I’m just getting into kip.”
“Where’ve you been?”
“Up the line again, for the officers.”
Death of a Hero Page 34