Part 12 (1/2)

Presently we were in Arras and our officer led us into the cathedral.

”We won't stay in here long,” said the officer. ”The Germans drop a sh.e.l.l in here every now and then and the next one may bring the rest of the walls down. People keep away from here.” This indeed seemed a very citadel of destruction and loneliness, but as we turned to go we heard a mournful noise from an inner room. We investigated and found a Tommy practicing on the cornet. He was playing a piece ent.i.tled, ”Progressive Exercises for the Cornet--Number One.” He stood up and saluted.

”Have the Germans bombarded the town at all today?” the captain asked.

”Yes, sir,” said the Tommy. ”They bombarded the square out in front here this morning.”

”Did they get anybody?”

”No, sir, only a Frenchman, sir,” replied the Tommy with stiff formality.

”Was there any other activity?”

”Yes, sir, there were some aeroplanes over about an hour ago and they dropped some bombs in there,” said the Tommy indicating a street just back of the cathedral.

”And what were we doing?” persisted the captain.

”We were trying out some new anti-aircraft ammunition,” explained the Tommy patiently, ”but I don't think it was any good, sir, because most of it came down and buried itself over there,” and he indicated a spot some fifteen or twenty feet from his music room.

The captain could think of no more inquiries just then and the soldier quickly folded up his cornet and his music and after saluting with decent haste left the cathedral. For the sake of his music he was willing to endure sh.e.l.ls and bombs and shrapnel fragments but questions put him off his stride entirely. He fled, perhaps, to some sh.e.l.l hole for solitude.

From the cathedral we went to the town hall. Here again one could not but be impressed with the futility of destruction. The Germans have torn the building cruelly with their sh.e.l.ls and their dynamite, but beauty is tough. Dynamite a bakeshop and you have only a mess. Sh.e.l.l a tailor's and rubbish is left. But it is different when you begin to turn your guns against cathedrals and town halls. If a structure is built beautifully it will break beautifully. The dynamite has cut fine lines in the jagged ruins of the Town Hall. The Germans have smashed everything but the soul of the building. They didn't get that. It was not for want of trying, but dynamite has its limitations.

We got up to the lines the next day and had a fine view of the opposing trench systems for ten or twelve miles. Our box seat was on top of a hill just back of Messines ridge. We saw a duel between two aeroplanes, the explosion of a munitions dump, and no end of big gun firing but the officer who conducted us said that it was a dull morning. Our day on the hill was a clear one after three days of low clouds, and all the fliers were out in force. Almost two dozen British 'planes were to be seen from the hilltop, as well as several captive balloons. Although the English 'planes flew well over the German lines, they drew no fire, but presently the sky began to grow woolly. Little round white patches appeared, one against the other, cutting the sky into great flannel figures. Then we saw above it all a 'plane so high as to be hardly visible. Indeed, we should not have seen it but for the telltale shrapnel. These were our guns, and this was no friend. Now it was almost over our heads. It seemed intent upon attacking one of the British captive balloons, which could only stand and wait. The guns were snarling now. We were close enough to hear the anger in every shot. The shrapnel broke behind, below, above and in front of the aeroplane, but on it sailed, untouched, like a gla.s.s ball in a Buffalo Bill shooting trick.

Yet here was no poor marksmans.h.i.+p, for at ten thousand feet the air pilot has forty seconds to dodge each sh.e.l.l. He merely has to watch the flash of the gun and then dive or rise or slide to right or left.

Sometimes, indeed, the shrapnel lays a finger on him, but he whirls away out of its grip like a quarterback in a broken field. The guns stopped firing, although the German was still above the British lines. Somebody was up to tackle him at closer range. Where our 'plane came from we did not know. The sky was filled all morning with English fliers, but each appeared to have definite work in hand, and not one paid the slightest attention to the German intruder. This was a special a.s.signment. When we caught sight of the English flier he had maneuvered into a position behind his German adversary. We caught the flashes from the machine guns, but we could hear no sound of the fight above us. The 'planes darted forward and back. They were clever little bantams, these, and neither was able to put in a finis.h.i.+ng blow. Our stolid guiding officer was up on his toes now and rooting as if it were some sporting event in progress. Looking upward at his comrade, ten thousand feet aloft, he cried: ”Let him have it!”

The hostile att.i.tude of the spectators or something else discouraged the German and he turned and made for his own lines. The Englishman pursued him for a time and then gave up the chase. The consensus of opinion was that the Briton had won the decision on points.

”They've been making a dead set for our balloons all week,” said an English soldier after the German 'plane had been driven away.

”If they get the balloon does that mean that they get the observer?” I asked in my ignorance.

”Lord bless you no,” said the soldier. ”No danger for 'im, sir. He just jumps out with a parachute.”

Next we turned our attention to the big gun firing. We could see the flash of the guns of both sides and hear the whistle of the sh.e.l.ls.

After the flash one might mark the result if he had a sharp eye. There was no trouble in following the progress of one particular British sh.e.l.l for an instant after the flash a high column of smoke arose above a town which the Germans held. A minute or so later we had our own column for a German sh.e.l.l hit one of the many munition dumps scattered about behind the British front. Our own hill was pocked with sh.e.l.l holes and the tower near which we stood was nibbled nigh to bits and we had a wakeful, stimulating feeling that almost any minute something might drop on or near us. The Tommy with whom we shared the view undeceived us.

”This hill!” he said. ”Why there was a time when it was as much as your life was worth to stand up here and now the place's nothing but a bloomin' Cook's tour resort.”

Our last day with the army was spent at the University of Death and Destruction where the men from England take their final courses in warfare. We began with a cla.s.s which was having a lesson in defense against bombs. A tin can exploded at the feet of a Scotchman and peppered his bare legs. Five hundred soldiers roared with laughter, for the man in the kilt had flunked his recitation in ”Trench Raiding.”

Officially the Scot was dead, for the tin can represented a German bomb.

They were cramming for war in the big training camp and they played roughly. The imitation bombs carried a charge of powder generous enough to insure wholesome respect. The Scot, indeed, had to retire to have a dressing made.

The trench in which the cla.s.s was hard at work was perfect in almost every detail, save that it lacked a back wall. This was removed for the sake of the audience. An instructor stood outside and every now and again he would toss a bomb at his pupils. He played no favorites. The good and the bad scholar each had his chance. In order to pa.s.s the course the soldier had to show that he knew what to do to meet the bomb attack. He might take shelter in the traverse; he might kick the bomb far away; or, with a master's degree in view, he might pick up the imitation bomb and hurl it far away before it could explode. Speed and steady nerves were required for this trick. An explosion might easily blow off a finger or two. Yet, after all, it was practice. Later there might be other bombs designed for bigger game than fingers.