But this jesting is ominous. I discover the same atmosphere in the company mess of one of our battalions when I go to look up a friend. Always we have thought of going forward, even though our progress might be bull-headed and bloody, never of going back. Now, even the fighting men talk facetiously of a divisional cross-country race in the wrong direction.
I do not like the situation at all.
Let such a feeling permeate masses of men, even in jest, and a debacle may overtake us.
But is it jesting? Have we become infected by a profound mistrust of our leaders? And do our fighting men feel that they will be asked to do impossible things?
I set this fact down in all solemnity.
My feeling is that our army is flinching from the very rumour of the super-offensive that is being prepared against us, and that we are waiting upon disaster.
Were I to publish my premonition to the world here, I suppose I might be shot.
We are afraid, but with a different fear, the fear of men who are ready to run.
* * *
Our gas-treatment centre is prepared for the great day. We have been provided with a number of portable baths and stacks of pyjamas. Mustard-gas cases are to be stripped of their clothes, given alkaline baths, and re-dressed and evacuated in clean pyjamas. There is an element of grim humour in the prospect of our having scores of men neatly tied up in clean pyjamas, and being unable to evacuate them for lack of ambulances. It may be that the poor devils will be made prisoners in their sleeping suits.
We rehearse the proceedings, using some of our own men as mock-patients, and timing the process in relation to our equipment and staff. It is necessary that we should have some idea of how many cases we can deal with in a stated time. Speed may be essential if the German attack should succeed, and a deluge of troops in field-grey should come pouring down on us over these hills.
* * *
Note.—On March 21st our gas-treatment preparations proved superfluous. We had very few gas cases, but were swamped with wounded, many of them severe stretcher cases with which we had not been expected to deal.
* * *
Harker and Potter and B Section have left us for duty with the 203 F.A.
Fairfax and I go out riding. We are alone, and we strike back over the open country, and its emptiness troubles me. It seems difficult to believe that this silver-grey landscape and this serene and sunny sky can promise anything but peace, but we know that the storm may break on us any day. Moreover, Fairfax is out with a purpose, and he confides it to me when we pull up our horses on the crest of a hill.
“Rankin has given me a hint that it would be good policy to reconnoitre a line of retreat across open country. The Blaincourt cross-roads will probably be shelled to blazes. If we can cut across the open and strike the Peronne road farther west we may get away and without casualties.”
So, even some of our Divisional staff are not optimists, and they must know more than we can know.
“The ground seems pretty firm.”
“Yes, thank God for a dry March.”
“The old Boche may also have cause to praise God.”
We ride on, and strike no snags in the way of high banks or deep ditches. This country has grassed itself back to Nature, and is firm and solid, and capable of carrying wheeled traffic. Bearing right we come upon a track that leads to the railway which has been repaired. An engine is standing here, the driver, an elderly “tough” in khaki, leaning out of the cab and talking to a Tommy.
Says the driver of the engine, “Who’s downhearted? We’ve stopped the old blighter before, and we’ll stop him again.”
An admirable spirit, but I imagine that retreat will be easier for the man on the engine.
We find that the track joins the main road near the ruins of another village, and Fairfax is satisfied. In this dry weather we shall be able, if necessary, to cut out the Blaincourt cross-roads.
These crisp, cold March nights make one’s premonitions tingle. A blaze of stars, a strange tense silence, dark hills and dim valleys, and over yonder, what?
March 19. We have been warned to stand to. The fighting men have manned their battle stations. Silence. Nothing happens.
March 20. Weather serene and sunny. After dinner we play Bridge in our funny little garden-house of a mess. I become conscious of the fug, and feel sleepy. Gibbs and I go out, and stand under the stars. There is the suggestion of a faint ground mist rising, and the air is keen and fresh.
Gibbs yawns.
“What about turning in, Steevie? One may as well pile up some sleep. When the show starts we may not have a chance of shedding our breeches.”
We go down to our slit in the earth under the bank and hedge. We undress, get into our flea-bags, and Gibbs blows out the candle.
“How do you feel about it, Steevie?”
“What, the show?”
“Yes. I wish the damned thing would burst and get it over. It’s like going about with a nice little packet of pus in one’s soul.”
“Same here. Well, perhaps Jerry will serve us up a barrage for breakfast.”
I hear Gibbs yawn.
“Cunning old creature, Fritz. Well, nighty-night, old thing.”
I wake early in the morning. I am not suddenly awake, but gradually and drowsily so, and I lie and listen to the rumble and bump of guns. I feel that I have never heard anything quite like it before and its tremendousness and terror. Almost, one can feel the earth vibrating as though the thudding shells up yonder were so many gigantic metal feet stamping upon the soil. And suddenly I am acutely conscious and alert. This is the prelude to the great spring offensive. I sit up, reach for my wrist-watch which is hanging on a nail and hold it in the palm of my hand. The illuminated dial tells me that it is twenty minutes past five.
Gibbs is snoring. I draw my legs out of my flea-bag and squat on the edge of the bunk.
“Gibbie.”
“Hallo.”
He heaves himself up.
“What’s the wheeze? O, that! So we are for it, at last.”
We sit for a moment in silence listening to that devastating noise. There is nothing coming our way at present. Their guns are concentrating upon our strong points and artillery positions.
“Gosh, Steevie, it’s some barrage!”
He lights the candle and I see that his hand is quite steady. We begin to dress, and I open my kit-bag, which is under the bunk, and take out my new velour breeches and tunic. If I am to be a prisoner I will enter Germany clad in my best clothes.
I hear hurried footsteps. Someone shouts down to us.
“Captain Brent, sir.”
“Hallo.”
“We are to stand to.”
Gibbs glances at me as I pull on my breeches.
“What, peachies, Steevie?”
I explain that if I am to spend a holiday in Germany I may as well take my best clothes with me.
“What a wise old beggar you are, Steevie. It’s an idea. I’ll do likewise.”
I am the first out, and when I emerge I realize that there is something more than darkness in this black, March morning. The air is cold and raw and wet. Fog? It occurs to me to wonder what effect fog will have on the day’s happenings. Will it not be like a smoke screen, blinding the defence, and masking the attack? Surely, God loves the Hun.
I grope my way across to the mess. The door is open and a candle is burning on the table. I see Fairfax sitting there, and our mess-orderly bustling about and laying the table.
Fairfax gives me a square, quiet, steadfast look.
“We had better have breakfast, Stephen.”
I know what he means. Our next meal may be problematical.
* * *
Daylight. The earth is blanketed with white mist. So thick is it that one cannot see the big Nissen hut until one is close upon it. That infernal row is still in full blast up yonder, but here the world is windless and muffled, and swathed in white wool.
Everything is ready. I seem to see the interior of th
e hut like a picture in still life, its boarded floor and windows, the open door at the far end through which the wounded will enter, and Corporal Chance and his table beside the door to record the cases as they arrive. I am almost convinced that the official mind regards the recording of the wounded as more important than the dressing of them. Trestles are ready for any stretcher cases. Dressings are laid out on a big table. The nursing orderlies are standing about with the air of men who, while listening to that drumfire, are not to be persuaded to accept it too seriously. This timber shell seems to contain a whole world of human tensions, and I can feel my own particular strain in the pit of my stomach.
* * *
Carless and Gibbs are in charge of the gas-centre, and Fairfax and I attend to the walking wounded and the evacuation.
At first everything is normal, almost conventionally so, and completely according to plan. The wounded begin to dribble in, are recorded and dressed, and passed down to the road, where they are packed into lorries that have been supplied to us. Most of them are light cases, bullet wounds, or fragments of H.E. in arm or leg. An officer comes in with an abrasion on his finger. He looks at me sheepishly.
“Perhaps I ought not to have come down with this, doc.?”
I take him across to Fairfax, who examines the abrasion, dresses it, and then leads him gently to the door, and points towards the line. The officer disappears.
* * *
I do not know what the time is, but the atmosphere has changed. Shells are falling in and about Blaincourt, big, terrifying shells. We hear some of them going overhead and the crash of the explosions. The Boche big guns are shelling the back areas and the roads.
We are getting stretcher cases, terrible cases, men from the transport lines, and even from a Labour battalion, as well as from the forward area. Gibbs comes up to help us. This wooden building seems full of anguish and horror and blood. I have a feeling that things are going badly. There is confusion and fear in the air.
Men are dying on our hands. We have a row of dead laid out under a hedge. The shells seem nearer, screaming and snoring overhead.
I am aware of one of my nursing orderlies flinching whenever a shell comes over.
I am feeling as he does. The strain of compelling oneself to concentrate upon doing things with one’s hands under conditions such as these is cumulative. One’s hands must not shake, nor one’s face betray one, even though one is quaking inwardly.
I feel that if this shelling continues I must scream.
A hot and sweating sergeant belonging to an A.S.C. Company accosts me as I am turning away from a hopeless case.
“Excuse me, sir.”
“Are you a casualty?”
“No, sir.”
The strain is making me irritable.
“Well, get out of here. Can’t you see we are busy?”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I hear you have had our S.-M. through, and that he’s dead.”
I remember the case. The man died on the stretcher.
“Yes. He’s outside somewhere.”
“You’ll excuse me, sir, but he had the sergeants’ mess-money on him. I’ve got to crash off with my crowd. If you could take charge of the money——”
I’m afraid I curse him.
“We’re dealing with wounded, not with mess funds, my lad. Get out.”
He gives me an angry, sullen look, and goes.
* * *
Fairfax comes up to me.
“Go and get some food, Stephen.”
“I’m all right, sir.”
He gives me a push.
“Go along. You’ll need it. There’s lunch in the mess.”
Outside the hut I realize that it is a perfect day and that the sun has eaten up the mist. Things seem quieter. I go to the mess and find Bond there eating bully-beef and pickles. He pours me out a whisky. I sit down and push food into a stomach that feels tight and unconsenting.
Fairfax appears at the door.
“Pour me out a drink, someone.”
Bond passes him out a whisky. He gulps it down and turns to go back towards the hut. He is about ten yards from the mess when I hear that sound in the air. Something makes me get up and rush to the door. I stand there, paralysed, fascinated. There is a deafening crash, a yellow glare, and a geyser of earth and smoke go up into the air. I see Fairfax blown sideways like a piece of brown rag. The hut is hidden for a moment. Clods of earth are falling on the tin roof of the mess. When the air clears I see the wooden hut sagging sideways as though some giant had given it a push. I hear screams.
I rush out to Fairfax. He is lying on the ground semi-conscious. His steel helmet has been blown off, and he is smothered in dirt, but I realize with immense relief that he has been blown over but not hit. Bond has followed me, and I leave him to look after Fairfax and dash on to the hut. I expect to find a shambles, but the screams I heard came from the poor, frightened wounded. The soft soil of the brewery garden had smothered the burst, and though the roof of the hut is riddled, and the blast of the explosion and the deluge of earth have almost pushed it over, no one has been hit. It is an amazing escape, but I realize that this wooden building has become impossible and may collapse. Also, it is too terribly exposed. I give orders for it to be evacuated, and for all the wounded to be carried down to what shelter we can find amid the broken walls. Gibbs is great, and so are Simpson and Block. I see Gibbie humping a man down on his back. Thank God for good men in a crisis such as this.
* * *
I go to Fairfax. He has been helped into his dug-out, and is lying on his bed. The shock has broken him up for the moment. He complains of a cracking head.
“Get me some aspirin, Steevie, and don’t worry. I shall be all right in half an hour.”
I tell him that it is his business not to worry, and that we can carry on.
I am feeling better now, perhaps because the responsibility is mainly mine, and I feel like a father towards my friend. We have turned the orderly-room into a dressing-room. I am at work there when the S.-M. comes in with a worried face.
“We’ve got about two hundred walking wounded, sir, in the yard, and no lorries.”
“Hell, where are the lorries, and the ambulances?”
“The lorries don’t come back, sir. One ambulance has been ditched and another hit. We’ve only one ambulance in.”
This is bloody! I go out and find this crowd of khaki in the yard. They are like patient sheep. I know that the one ambulance must be kept for bad cases. Also, I know that there is disaster in the air, and that unless these lightly wounded men are got away they may all become prisoners.
“Form the men up, S.-M., in the road.”
They get into some sort of formation, and I give them the best advice I can.
“Look here, you lads, you’ll have to walk and keep on walking in the right direction. It will be better to stick it and walk than wait for Jerry. Off you go.”
Some of them grin at me, but they recognize the rightness of my candour, and the poor parade stodges off down the dusty road.
* * *
Fairfax sends for me. He is still lying down.
“I gave orders for all the wagons to be packed, Steevie, with all the spare equipment, and the transport to stand to. Will you see it has been done?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Officers’ kits had better be packed and loaded. How is the situation as to wounded?”
“We’ve got them away, sir. Things seem quieter.”
“Thank God.”
Blaincourt has become strangely and ominously quiet. What does it mean? That our fighting front has been submerged, and that the deluge is upon us? I look at my watch. It is half-past three. I go out and find that our Transport S.-M. has all the G.S. wagons and limbers and horse-ambulances ready under the shelter of a wall. I see Finch appear and heave my valise on to a wagon.
Again Fairfax sends for me. He is sitting up and shows me an order that a cyclist messenger has brought from D.H.Q.
“Evacuate
all wounded and retire at once, Tincourt-Peronne road. Report position—midnight. Acknowledge receipt of order.”
What a strange ride is this! Soon after four o’clock we have evacuated our last casualties, tumbled our remaining equipment into the wagons and pulled out across the open country, leaving Blaincourt to the dead. The empty landscape is serenely sunlit. I can see no troops anywhere, nor hear any sound of war. We seem to be alone under this March sky, and it is hard to believe that we are part of an army that is facing disaster. Fairfax is managing to sit in the saddle, and he is on ahead, riding with the transport. I bring up the rear behind our marching sections.
Once or twice I stop my horse, turn and look back. Rumour has been wild and active, and I wonder whether I shall see German cavalry or tanks appearing on the hills behind us. How does a R.A.M.C. unit surrender to an enemy? We may be shot to pieces by their tanks before they recognize us as a non-combatant unit. I am not conscious of fear now, but of an alert curiosity. This is a different kind of war, staged in the open country, vibrant and mobile.
Some of our men are straggling. They seem rather done up. One man in particular, Hanks, our prize wangler and misfit, is pretending to be vastly sorry for himself. He has unbuckled his equipment and unbuttoned his tunic, and is carrying his steel hat. I overtake him after one of my pauses, and he looks up at me almost as though he expected me to offer him my horse.
“What’s the trouble, Hanks?”
He glances at me sullenly, and I realize that he is the sort of man who will quickly become insolent and insubordinate when things go wrong. Also, he is capable of infecting other men.
“Done up, sir.”
“That’s rather a pity, isn’t it?”
He has a little, poky, sour face, a mean face.
No Hero-This Page 32