“Gas curtain here.”
“I see.”
“I’ll show you all the gas defences presently. He’s been spraying gas shells around rather freely of late.”
“Phosgene?”
“O, a mixture. Any of your crowd been out before?”
“No, but I have.”
“Rather thought so. Well, this isn’t a bad sort of hole, though it’s a damned long carry for stretchers from our bearer-posts and the Aids. Two feet of muddy water in places. Got good field-boots?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve scrounged a pair of waders. I’ll leave ’em behind for you.”
“Thanks.”
He shows me over the station. Its series of cellars provide a small mess, a bedroom for two officers, a dressing-room for the wounded, and quarters for the men. The accommodation for storing casualties if shelling is heavy is inadequate, but Carson explains that no active trouble is ever to be expected in this sector. The method of admitting stretcher-cases is down a gas-curtained shoot that was used originally for barrels of beer. The cellars have small, semicircular windows or air-holes high up in the thickness of the walls. A little light filters in, but all work has to be done by candlelight or with acetylene lamps.
Carson is reassuring.
“Direct hits most unlikely. There is a big old wall on the Boche side that catches any ordinary shell and bursts it, and all you get is a cartload of brick on the vaulting. I shouldn’t let the men mess about in the yard if there is any hate on, but probably they won’t.”
I smile at him understandingly.
“Probably not.”
We lunch in the cellar-mess on bully, pickles, and tinned pineapple. Carson is taking me up the line to show me the bearer posts. Simpson comes with us, and Finch, my batman. We traverse the ruins of Semelles, and as we pass close to a broken wall one of our howitzers, which is concealed in the basement of a ruined building, looses off. I jump, and feel as though I had been smacked on the head. I curse.
“Damn the filthy thing!”
Carson laughs.
“I ought to have warned you. Keep to the track. It’s not safe to go looking for wild flowers.”
I turn and smile at Simpson.
“Make a note of that, Simpson. No daisy parties.”
Finch, my man, guffaws. He tells me afterwards that he jumped a good six inches when that gun went off.
I think this is the only ultimate and logical attitude towards war, to make a joke of it, though the joke may at times be pinched and grim.
The communication trench opens out at the back of a ruined house. It is fairly dry to begin with, but later becomes a waterlogged yellow stodge. My field-boots just top the water, but Simpson and Finch are in puttees. I think of sending them back, but already they are well soused, and this is war. I say to Finch, “You’ll have some work on my field-boots, my lad,” and again he guffaws. I feel that I am making a good impression on these two men. We arrive at a Company Headquarters and some old deep dug-outs, and we put our heads in for a moment, and pass the time of day. Our bearer-post is about two hundred yards up the trench, a flimsy erection in a sap, and covered with one layer of rotting sandbags. It will accommodate four men.
“Not exactly the Ritz.”
Carson has grown pretty hard.
“It keeps the rain out. Better than a shell-hole.”
He goes on to show me a semi-derelict deep dug-out that has been used at one time as a reserve aid-post. Its gas curtains are rotten and its steps covered with slime. The place is known as “Jock’s Grave,” for above it is a grave with a crooked wooden cross. Vanity makes me scramble up to look at the cross.
“You’re snipeable up there,” says Carson.
I come down.
“Well, I don’t think much of the view.”
We slosh back down the communication trench, and return to Semelles that has become quiet and peaceful, if such a horror of devastation can deserve the adjective. We have tea. I decide to take a stroll among the ruins, and as I emerge I hear two men in conversation, and one of them is Finch.
“Captain Brent’s a bit of all right.”
That pleases me. I don’t want these men to suspect that I am not at all brave, or that fear can gnaw at my vitals.
* * *
Carson and his people have gone, and Margetson has joined me. Margy is senior to me in the unit, but he is not a competitive person, and he adopts an attitude that suggests that in experience I am the senior. Margetson is a lovable person, but the first day in our cellar depresses him badly. It is a noisy day, with Fritz shelling our guns, and I realize that Margy is feeling like a rabbit in a burrow, and dreading going out. We all get this feeling at times, and the only antidote is action.
I am in the mess, censoring letters, when Block rushes down to say that the A.D.M.S. is up above. It is a quiet morning with the sun shining, and I hurry out to find Colonel Cleek in gas-mask and tin hat, looking aggressively official. The tin hat seems to accentuate the narrowness of his bloodless face. He has come to inspect, and, with Cleek, inspection postulates a search for trouble. He points with his cane at some stretchers propped on end against a wall.
“What’s this, Brent? Is that how you store your stretchers?”
I explain that the stretchers were mud-caked, and they have been washed, and put out to dry.
“Where’s Captain Margetson?”
“Seeing some sick men, sir.”
“I want Captain Margetson. He is the senior officer here.”
I send Block for Margy. Meanwhile, Cleek struts round the yard like a lean old cock who feels like crowing on this quiet morning.
“Are your gas defences in order, Captain Brent?”
“Quite, sir.”
Margetson arrives, looking flustered, with his tin hat on the back of his head. He has shaved rather indifferently, and Cleek gazes pointedly at his chin.
“I want this yard cleaning up, Captain Margetson. Too much rubbish. What are these old tins doing here?”
Margetson looks at me, and I explain that the dump of tins in the corner has been left by previous units.
“Have them buried.”
“Very good, sir.”
Cleek enters the station, and begins by banging his steel hat against the vaulting at the top of the stairs. I want to guffaw in the Finch fashion, but say, “Not much headroom, sir.” Cleek puts his tin hat straight; he is not very accustomed to these soup plates. He inspects the mess and our bedroom, and the dressing-room, and then suggests that we officers are occupying too much space. We can eat and sleep in one cellar. Damn him! Let him come out of his comfortable house in Béthune and try it himself!
We are ordered to parade the men in the yard, and he inspects them. He falls on two men for having dirty buttons; boots and puttees are not sufficiently smart. I find myself wishing that Fritz would send something over so that I may have the satisfaction of seeing how Cleek reacts.
He ignores me, and takes Margetson off to a corner of the yard. I hear him say, “I’m not satisfied, Captain Margetson. You must tighten things up. More attention to detail.”
I am feeling mischievous, and when they come back I ask Colonel Cleek whether he wishes to go up the line and inspect our bearer-posts.
“I’m afraid it’s rather muddy, sir.”
He snubs me.
“That is your province more than mine, Captain Brent. I have an important conference at twelve. When I do inspect the posts I shall expect to find them clean and in order.”
We salute as he gets into his Ford ambulance.
“Good morning, sir.”
He does not reply, but sits there solemn and stark while the driver turns the Ford in the yard.
Margetson’s face has an absurdly wistful look.
“Authority doesn’t seem out to help us much.”
I cannot help laughing.
“What do you expect, Margy, from an old blighter like that?”
Margetson looks shocked. He is a rath
er pious creature.
“Ssh, the men, Brent!”
“Tut-tut, they’ll be thinking what we say and worse.”
* * *
We have had a bit of a smash-up.
Fritz obtained a direct hit on the station with a 5.9 howitzer shell just before tea. I was dressing a case, and Margy was in the mess writing letters. The shell landed on the pile of brick rubble just above the mess, blew a hole in the vaulting, but did not penetrate. I heard Finch shouting to me, “The mess has been hit, sir.” I rushed along the passage and found the door jammed by brick rubble. Finch and I forced it open. The cellar was in utter darkness, and full of fumes and dust and smoke. I shouted for Margy, and got no reply. When we got a candle lit we found brick rubble all over the place, tea things smashed, and Margetson on the floor with his hands over his face.
I thought at first he had been hit, but he was only shocked and stunned. I found him strangely rigid, and for the moment incapable of articulate speech. He mumbled at me.
“All right, old man, all right.”
We got him into his bunk, and he lay there with his arms spread, utterly still, and like a cataleptic. I examined him again, but could find no mark on him. It is a case of shock.
* * *
I send a chit to Fairfax by the ambulance that is returning to headquarters with three casualties, and then go out to look at the damage. The shell has blown a hole in the pile of broken brick, but with the hole plugged with a few sandbags and the rubble packed in with an old piece of corrugated iron over the top the place is as weather-proof, and almost as shell-proof as before. I tell Sergeant Simpson to put men on the job, and go back to Margetson. Finch is cleaning out the mess. He is facetious.
“Best china broken, sir.”
“Scrounge something, Finch. Borrow us a couple of tin mugs. I don’t mean to miss my tea.”
I am not feeling like tea. The business has shaken me, and filled me with queasy fears. My confidence in the supposed security of our cellar has been rudely shattered, and though the shell did not penetrate, my feeling of being in a safe hole has gone. I find Margy in the same attitude. I shake him gently, and reassure him.
“All right, old man. No harm done.”
I have seen cases of hysteria in women, but this is the first case of the kind I have seen in a man. Margetson begins to shake, and to make humanly inhuman noises. He clutches me, and babbles. The shock and the horror of the thing have dissolved his self-control. I try to soothe him, and the only effect is to produce tears and uncontrollable emotion.
This rending of a man’s self is rather horrible. I don’t want anyone but myself to see Margetson as he is.
“Just lie quiet, old man, and I’ll get you something.”
He whimpers and clutches me.
“That’s all right. Be back in a moment.”
I say nothing to anybody, but go for the morphia solution and a hypodermic and I give Margy a dose.
“Now, you go to sleep. You’ll wake up feeling O.K.”
* * *
Fairfax arrives in an ambulance just before dusk. He has received my message and come down at once, and I am glad of his big, blond calmness. I tell him about Margy, and that I have put him to sleep, and in the candlelight of the mess he looks at me closely.
“You all right, Stephen?”
“Quite, sir.”
“Tough man. I’ll come down early to-morrow. Do you think Margy ought to be relieved?”
“I rather think so, sir, but we shall know to-morrow.”
“Hallard and Gibbs are at Wigmore Street. Which would you rather have, Chiffinch or Carless?”
“Chiffinch, I think.”
“Any other damage?”
“Tea-cups, sir.”
He smiles at me.
“I’ll bring you a fresh tea-service.”
I have had a bad night, or rather, a hopeless dawn, with Margy. He woke up fighting and screaming like a child roused from a bad dream. I had to sit by him and try and calm him. The terrible part of it is that the rational half of him realizes that he has broken down, and he is fighting his elemental, hysterical self.
I try to give him more morphia, but he resists. He keeps on saying, “I’m all right, I’m all right. Let me alone. I’m all right, Steevie.” He insists on getting up, and trying to shave himself, but his movements are jerky and tremulous. He uses a safety razor, otherwise I feel that I should have to try and take the thing away.
Fairfax arrives with Chiffinch soon after breakfast. Chiffinch’s little face looks pinched and scared under its tin hat. I take Fairfax down to the mess. I am afraid of a scene, for poor Margy is rather like a drunken man who is both fractious and emotional, but Fairfax is master of the occasion. His kindness and sympathy have an immediate effect on Margy. He becomes pathetically mute and docile, and gets up and goes with Fairfax like a child.
* * *
Chiffinch is not a cheerful little animal to have about the house. He gives one the impression of being in a perpetual state of fright, and I catch him glancing surreptitiously at the scar in the brick vaulting. I know that he is thinking that if another shell should arrive in the same place, the result might not be so happy for us. It is only too easy for one to become obsessed by this kind of fear, especially so when one is living in a state of semi-darkness, and has not enough to occupy one’s mind. Casualties are few, and one could sit and yawn for hours.
This war-game can be so terribly boring.
I feel I must get Chiffinch out of this rabbit-hole, and I take him with me to visit our bearer-posts, and the aid-post of one of the battalions in the line. We have a quiet passage, but I can hear Chiffinch panting through the mud behind me. I can get along pretty fast, being lean and wiry, and one does not linger on these expeditions.
I find the men at the posts well and cheerful. It must be pretty dreary for them, poor devils, for the weather is filthy, and we have had scuds of snow.
“Manage to keep warm?”
“Champion, sir.”
“It must be a bit chilly at night. I’m relieving you to-morrow.”
Their faces are friendly to me, but I see them glancing a little critically at Chiffinch, who keeps fidgeting and poking at the sap wall with his stick. I know the feeling quite well; he wants to be back and under cover, but this is a temptation that one has to fight with prayer and sweat and self-cursings. We go on to the aid-post and find Garner the battalion M.O. dressing a case. He is a stolid and comforting person, and jokes with the man whose wound he is dressing.
“Real posh blighty for you, my lad.”
We hurry back, for I realize that the A.D.S. should not be left without an officer, but circumstance has played me a scurvy trick. Cleek has arrived in our absence. I find him sitting in the mess, still wearing his tin hat, and I know from the way he looks at me that I am in for trouble.
“I want to speak to you alone, Captain Brent.”
He rows me savagely. What the devil do I mean by leaving the A.D.S. without an officer in charge? It is useless for me to explain that I had gone out to show Chiffinch round.
“That’s no excuse, Captain Brent. Haven’t you any N.C.O.s?”
“Of course, sir.”
“Well, damn it, man, use ’em. I won’t have this sort of casual gadding about. You will not leave the station without an officer in charge. You understand?”
“Quite, sir.”
“Not so much French leave, Captain Brent. I shall have to take this matter up with your C.O.”
Damn him! He will be able to score off Fairfax on my account, but then God delivers him into my hands. He informs me that he proposes to inspect the bearer-posts and aid-posts. I look at my watch. I happen to know that for the last week or two Fritz has been indulging in one of those queer and mischievous “shoots,” with the communication trench and the reserve company headquarters as his objective. He must think we have a trench-mortar in the company headquarters sap. But he varies his time, with noon as the centre point of his space-ti
me pattern.
I do not tell Cleek this. I am so furiously eager to see how his sour dignity will stand shelling that I feel that I do not care a damn about the danger. We set off in grim and austere silence, and I listen to Cleek’s big feet sucking at the mud behind me.
“Disgraceful state these trenches are in.”
I make light of the mud, but run in the reality that our bearers’ boots and puttees are apt to get a little dirty.
“Do you dry your men’s boots, Brent?”
“We do the best we can, sir.”
Everything is peaceful, and I am wondering whether Fritz is going to refrain on this particular morning. We pass Company Headquarters, and reach our first bearers’ post. Cleek pokes the sandbagged roof with his stick.
“Rotten, Captain Brent, disgraceful. These men have plenty of time, haven’t they?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Indent for sandbags, and have this post repaired.”
“We have an indent in, sir. We are going to sandbag the whole post in properly.”
“Get it done, man, get it done. I have no patience with excuses.”
We pass on, and suddenly I realize that Fritz is not asleep. The centre of the trench is duckboard here, and we are close to the old deep dug-out, “Jock’s Grave.” Fritz has varied both his time and his range, and when I hear the first shell coming I know that it is going to be a near thing. I shout to Cleek, and throw myself down on the duckboards.
“Get down, sir, get down.”
I hear a splash behind me. The shell bursts on one side of the trench. We shall have a few seconds before the next one will arrive, and I scramble up and look over my shoulder at Cleek.
“Quick, sir; there is cover here.”
I reach the mouth of the dug-out and flatten myself against the wall to let Cleek past me. I realize that he is all mud from face to toes. In taking his safety dive he must have missed the duckboards. Another shell. He blunders past me, and almost takes a header down the dug-out steps. I can hear his rasping breathing. We sit down on the steps of the dug-out. Cleek’s face has a yellow tinge.
“One of the daily hates, sir.”
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