* * *
Hallard is dead.
* * *
But let me get back to the present tense. It seems to help me to put things down on paper.
Our Division, after lying out for two days in the rain in shell-holes, attacks. To be able to attack after two days of such misery is a tribute to any troops. It is quite a long time before wounded begin to come down to us at the main dressing-station, and they are muddied to the eyes. We pick up bits of gossip from them, and divine that the attack has not progressed too well, and that the awful conditions of the ground have held our men up.
Fairfax takes Carless and his batman with him and goes up to the posts to see how the scheme of evacuation is working. Hallard is at the Bakery, Gibbs at Bourne End. Fairfax returns with the look of a man who has been badly frightened. He is splashed with mud, and very tired. He has left Carless to help Gibbs, who appears to be feeling most of the pressure.
Fairfax calls me into the mess.
“Get me a drink, Steevie, old man.”
I pour him out a whisky and make it a strong one.
“Things pretty bad up there?”
“Indescribable. Some of our bearers are pretty done up already. It’s an awful business getting stretcher cases back. I shall have to ask Cleek for extra bearers.”
“Anyone hit?”
“Yes, little Sissons has been killed, and Corporal Wood wounded. He’s coming down now.”
Fairfax gulps whisky. I have never seen him so distressed, and my compassion is roused.
“Shall I draft a letter to Cleek?”
“Wait a moment, Stephen. I think I’ll wait upon circumstances. Luckily there has not been much shelling round our posts, and so far as I can judge the advanced post won’t be needed. Our men only advanced about two hundred yards. They got farther, but a counter-attack pushed them back. Most of their rifles were clogged with mud. Same with the Lewis guns.”
Fairfax is in the act of finishing his whisky when a muddy and exhausted corporal bursts into the mess. He is in a highly emotional state, and shaking with fear and exhaustion.
“Captain Hallard’s been killed, sir.”
I am conscious of a profound silence, a kind of voiceless horror. I watch Fairfax put his glass down on the table, and into my mind has flashed the inevitable significance of this tragic news. Hallard dead! And on me will fall the duty of going up to replace my dead friend. I feel my belly dropping, and my mouth going dry.
Fairfax grabs the bottle and pours the man out a drink.
“Toss that down, Sparks. What happened?”
“He began shelling round our post, sir, and got one of our stretcher squads just when it was coming in. Captain Hallard rushed out to help.”
“Another shell?”
“Yes, sir.”
The man drinks with a sort of shuddering gulp.
“Blew Captain Hallard’s head off, sir. Monk and Barker were killed, and Lamb and Higson wounded. The battalion sent a runner down to say they have scores of wounded lying in shell-holes. Sergeant Frost’s almost off his head, sir. I thought I ought to come back and report.”
Fairfax looks at the man.
“I see. Things a bit disorganized?”
“Absolutely, sir. Captain Hallard being killed——”
Fairfax’s eyes meet mine. My tongue seems stuck in my mouth. My knees are shaking, and my stomach feels like a cold wet rag.
“I had better go up, sir.”
“Will you, Stephen?”
“Yes, sir, and take up some reserve bearers. It sounds as though the evacuation has broken down. I’ll try and put things straight.”
He gives me a look of gratitude.
“Thank you, Stephen.”
But this tragedy is to claim yet another actor on the stage. I am standing outside the mess telling Corporal Sparks to warn Sergeant Simpson to get his men together while I go and collect a few things from my dug-out when I see Colonel Cleek coming from the direction of the orderly room. The look of the man warns me of further storm and stress. I salute him, and he nods at me smilelessly.
“Colonel Fairfax in the mess, Captain Brent?”
“Yes, sir.”
Cleek storms in with a face like a blizzard and slams the flimsy door, and I am moved to loiter there for a few seconds and listen, for what concerns Fairfax concerns me. I hear Cleek’s voice furiously scolding like the voice of some angry termagant. There has been a complaint from the Brigade that the wounded are not being got away. A scandalous business.
“Your officers are not doing their duty, Fairfax.”
I wait for Fairfax’s reply. His voice is under control, deliberate and courteous.
“I resent that accusation, sir. One of them has done his duty so completely that he is dead.”
But Cleek is an angry and scared official, and not a man. He is afraid of the scandal settling upon his shoulders.
“That means that one of the posts is without an officer.”
“Brent is going up at once.”
“These wounded must be got away, Fairfax. You understand? I hold you responsible. If I receive any further complaint it will be a very serious matter for you.”
“I quite realize my responsibility, sir.”
“You had better go up yourself and supervise the evacuation. And you will report to me when all the wounded have been dealt with.”
“Very good, sir.”
I am seething. Why doesn’t the old swine go up himself and see and help? He has no idea of the conditions up there. Apparently he does not care a damn about men like Hallard being killed provided that his own reputation does not suffer. I rush off to my dug-out and put on my trench coat and cram a pipe, tobacco, matches and some chocolate into my pockets. Finch’s dutch-cheese face appears in the doorway.
“Are we taking your valise, sir?”
His enthusiasm touches me.
“No, Finch, no luxuries like that. If you can manage an extra blanket and ground sheet. And fill a flask with whisky.”
“It’s terrible about Captain Hallard, sir. The men are glad you are going up, sir. They feel all right with you.”
Glad to be going up! I am thinking of poor Hallard’s premonitions, and his sardonic, quiet courage. A headless Hallard! The horror seems to stick in my consciousness. I find Simpson parading the men in the road. Harker and the two 203 F.A. men are acting merely as evacuating officers, as all the wounded are being rushed to the Corps Main Dressing Station between Ypres and Poperinghe. I see Fairfax emerging from his dug-out in his muddy trench coat. He is coming up with us.
I cross over to him.
“You’re not coming, sir?”
“Orders, Stephen. We’re both in the mud and the soup.”
“But you’ve only just been up, sir.”
“After what has been said to me I could walk to Berlin.”
Some of our motor-ambulances have pushed up as far as Hell Fire Corner and are being loaded there. We pass squads of our bearers coming down the track, and stand aside to let them pass. They are covered with mud, and look pinched and dead-eyed. It is an exhausting business. Fairfax speaks to them as they pass, and they brighten to his words. Half-way up we come upon a party who have floundered into a shell-hole with stretcher and case. We help them out, Corporal Block getting down into the shell-hole and taking one end of the stretcher. I am going to be glad of Block.
The Bakery! Shelling has ceased for a while, but the place looks more horrible and desolate than ever. The post is surrounded with wounded, some lying on stretchers and waiting to be got away. I have a glimpse of other bodies ranged in a row, the toes of their boots sticking up. Dead men. I fancy that I can distinguish a headless body at the far end of the row. Hallard! Just an anonymous piece of flesh. But the business is obvious and urgent. We set half our bearers on the job of clearing these stretcher-cases away along the duckboard track. There are a certain number of walking wounded who can tramp down with them. I take Block and the rest of the bearers and go forwar
d to try and collect the cases who are supposed to be lying out in shell-holes. After stodging and floundering through the mud I manage to find a regimental M.O. He and the battalion bearers have collected a number of wounded in two large craters. He is almost voiceless with suppressed fear and fatigue.
“Thank God you chaps have come along. I’ve been cursed to hell for not getting the men down. What’s happened?”
“Rather a sticky business at our post. One officer there was killed. If you ask me I think the people to be cursed are those who staged this show here.”
“My God, yes. But why doesn’t somebody in authority say so?”
We load up our stretchers and go back. I help with one of the stretchers, and I soon discover that though the carry is not a long one, the strain on the men is tremendous. I find that Fairfax has managed to get most of the stretcher-cases away, but it is obvious to us both that we need more bearers. If possible it should be arranged that they could work in relays, with a rest, sleep, dry socks, and a hot meal in between.
“Why not go back, sir, now, and see Cleek? The other ambulances can spare us men.”
“It seems a dastardly business leaving you, Stephen.”
“I shall be all right, sir.”
The Germans are counter-attacking. The whole world seems to be plastered with shells. I am at work in the post dressing the worst of the cases as they come down. This infernal noise is shattering. Shells keep exploding in the mud all round us, and screaming overhead, but we are not hit.
How long has this been going on? I don’t know.
I feel that if this shelling continues much longer, I shall lose control of myself and scream.
There is a horrible crash just outside this pile of old bricks. The whole place shakes; chunks of earth hurtle in. I hear shrieks and moans, and for the moment fear paralyses me. I realize that a shell must have burst among the stretcher-cases lying outside. I know that I ought to go out; I can’t go out. I must go out.
I hear Corporal Block’s voice. He is cursing. “Blast your bloody eyes. Come back here, damn you, and help. What are you, a lot of filthy cowards?”
Those fierce words might have been addressed to me. I go out, and see a sight I shall never forget. I will not attempt to describe it. Some of our bearers who were waiting have been hit, as well as the poor devils who were lying on stretchers. But what is far more ugly is the stampeding of some of our men. They have bolted along the duckboard track, or what is left of it.
I rush after them, cursing. It is a relief to curse. I see that most of them are men from the other ambulance.
“Come back, damn you. Haven’t you any guts?”
They hesitate, eye me sullenly, and begin to return.
“I know it’s no bloody children’s party, but we’ve got our job to do.”
I feel better. I see Block grinning at me.
“That’s the stuff to give ’em, sir.”
God bless Corporal Block.
There is another lull, and I seize the opportunity to work outside and to clear up the shambles. At last we seem to be coping with the flow of wounded, and the pool of pain lying about the Bakery grows less and less. I hear Finch’s voices saying, “Here’s a cup of tea, sir.”
A cup of tea! How the devil did he manage to produce it? But both cup and tea are actual, and so are the biscuits he serves me on the lid of a tin.
“Good man, Finch. You’ve saved my life.”
He grins at me lovingly. Are these men loving me? Do they suspect how near I was to screaming?
But my hands are filthy. I cannot touch the biscuits with my bloody fingers.
“It can’t be done, Finch.”
“Do you mind if I pop ’em in, sir? I’ve ’ad a wash in a shell-hole.”
I laugh, and sit down on somebody’s tin hat in the mud while he feeds me, for suddenly I have a furious hunger and I do not mind his fingers.
“We couldn’t get along without you, sir.”
“Don’t make a song about me, Finch.”
I go on working, feeling refreshed, and with my tail up. I am bending over a stretcher-case when I hear a voice addressing me, a pleasant, friendly voice.
“Are you the medical officer in charge here?”
I turn and look up and find an elderly officer standing behind me. He has a fresh, handsome face, a grizzled moustache, steady blue eyes. I recognize Colonel Gretton, the Divisional G.S.O.1.
I salute him.
“Yes, sir.”
“Things have been a little sticky here.”
“Very sticky, sir, but I think we have nearly cleared our cases.”
He looks at me kindly and shrewdly.
“Just a moment, Captain——”
“Brent, sir.”
“I want a word or two.”
I accompany him to the back of the Bakery where the dead are lying.
“I hear that one of your officers has been killed.”
I glance half-furtively at a headless body.
“Yes, he’s there, sir. My particular friend.”
Colonel Gretton prods the ground with the ash stick he is carrying.
“I suppose your C.O. has been up here?”
“O, yes, sir, we came up together to put things straight after Hallard had been killed.”
“Evacuation going smoothly now?”
“I think so, sir. It’s not easy in the mud.”
“Hardly. I want you to answer this question carefully. Has either Colonel Cleek or his D.A.D.M.S. been up here?”
“No, sir.”
“Never?”
“No, sir; he has never been near us. We were given map references in operation orders.”
He gives me a quick, shrewd stare.
“And what was their exact significance?”
“Just points on the map, sir. It wasn’t possible to use them. We had arranged to take over the aid-posts as collecting posts, had it been necessary.”
“Just points on the map, Captain Brent. Was there anything to distinguish them, mark their existence?”
“Nothing but shell-holes, sir.”
He gives me another shrewd look, and I feel that I have helped to cook Cleek’s goose for him. I more than suspect that our G.S.O.1 has come up to investigate and to report upon the situation. And, probably, Colonel Cleek has been attempting to offer up Fairfax as a victim.
Colonel Gretton surveys the horizon, prods the earth with his stick, smiles at me suddenly, and turns to go.
“I am glad you have cleared up the situation, Captain Brent. I shall be able to report on it favourably, and you.”
“Thank you, sir.”
I salute him, and he gives me a paternal wave of the hand.
“Good-bye, Brent.”
“Good-bye, sir.”
Two of the 203 F.A. officers, and fresh bearers come up to reinforce us. We officers have to crowd into the Bakery, and having scrounged some spades we make the men dig themselves rabbit-scratches in the bank.
I am feeling done-up. I have been up here a night and a day. I have had poor Hallard’s body sent down. We could not find the head.
Somehow I am beginning to feel the shock of his death more now. The reaction is upon me. I am all jumps and ready to shake at nothing. Self-control is like putting oneself on the rack. I haven’t had any sleep yet.
* * *
If there is much more shelling I shall break down and disgrace myself. I feel I must do something. I take Block and Finch and flounder up to the nearest aid-post to see if they are getting many casualties in. No, things are quiet.
* * *
Sergeant Simpson and Block come up to me.
“You ought to get some sleep, sir.”
“Sleep!”
“Yes, sir. Finch has managed a bed.”
They do not touch me, but I feel the goodwill and the kindness of these two men compelling me towards that vaulted shelter. I go in. I see Finch, and a clean stretcher laid out, with a blanket covering it. The two other officers are squatting
on boxes. Finch makes me lie down. He unlaces and pulls off my muddy field-boots, and covers me with the blanket. I have a strange feeling of being a child in the hands of a strong, and capable nurse.
“That’s it. You have a nap, sir.”
I must have slept for hours, like a drugged creature, and I wake to find Fairfax sitting on a box beside my stretcher bed. I sit up, and he puts out a big hand and gently pushes me back. I realize that I feel giddy and rotten, and that my head is aching.
“Sorry, sir. I shall be all right in a minute.”
He sits and looks at me with strange affection. We are alone together.
“What time is it?”
“To you, to-morrow morning, Stephen. I am taking you back with me. You have done more than enough.”
A feeling of infinite relief descends on me. Does he understand that I am near breaking-point? I know, somehow, that he does, and that my poor silly pride is saved.
Finch comes in with a cup of tea, and some bully beef and bread.
“ ’Ere’s your breakfast, sir.”
He gets behind me, and props me up while I eat and drink. Fairfax lights a cigarette and speaks to Finch.
“We are going down in ten minutes, Finch.”
“What about Simpson and Block and the rest, sir?”
“They are coming, too. The 203 people can carry on. You have all done damned well.”
Finch goes out, and I manage to smile at Fairfax.
“Any news of Cleek?”
“You’ve stymied him, Stephen, and given me the hole. Do you think I don’t realize what I owe to you?”
“O, rot, sir.”
“It’s not rot, Stephen; it’s just the truth.”
* * *
I don’t remember very much of that long tramp back to the Menin Road and peace. I was feeling too done up and seedy and stodging along in a kind of haze, but within me fluttered a little flame of exultation. Half-way down Fairfax gave me whisky from his flask, and I believe that at one place where the track had gone Finch took me on his back and carried me for fifty yards.
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