Part 4 (1/2)

She stretched out her right hand with a pointing finger.

”Le voila!... c'est l'homme.”

There was no mistake about it, and the man looked sheepishly at her, not denying. He was sent off under escort to the military prison in St. Omer for court-martial.

”What's the punishment-if guilty?” I asked.

”Death,” said the colonel, resuming his egg.

He was a fine-looking fellow, the prisoner. He had answered the call for king and country without delay. In the estaminet, after coming down from the salient for a machine-gun course, he had drunk more beer than was good for him, and the face of a pretty girl had bewitched him, stirring up desire. He wanted to kiss her lips... There were no women in the Ypres salient. Nothing pretty or soft. It was h.e.l.l up there, and this girl was a pretty witch, bringing back thoughts of the other side-for life, womanhood, love, caresses which were good for the souls and bodies of men. It was a starved life up there in the salient... Why shouldn't she give him her lips? Wasn't he fighting for France? Wasn't he a tall and proper lad? Curse the girl for being so sulky to an English soldier!... And now, if those other women, those old hags, were to swear against him things he had never said, things he had never done, unless drink had made him forget-by G.o.d! supposing drink had made him forget? He would be shot against a white wall. Shot dead, disgracefully, shamefully, by his own comrades! O Christ! and the little mother in a Suss.e.x cottage!...

XII

Going up to Kemmel one day I had to wait in battalion headquarters for the officer I had gone to see. He was attending a court martial. Presently he came into the wooden hut, with a flushed face.

”Sorry I had to keep you,” he said. ”Tomorrow there will be one swine less in the world.”

”A death sentence?”

He nodded.

”A d.a.m.ned coward. Said he didn't mind rifle-fire, but couldn't stand sh.e.l.ls. Admitted he left his post. He doesn't mind rifle-fire!... Well, tomorrow morning.”

The officer laughed grimly, and then listened for a second.

There were some heavy crumps falling over Kemmel Hill, rather close, it seemed, to our wooden hut.

”d.a.m.n those German gunners” said the officer. ”Why can't they give us a little peace?”

He turned to his papers, but several times while I talked with him he jerked his head up and listened to a heavy crash.

On the way back I saw a man on foot, walking in front of a mounted man, past the old hill of the Scherpenberg, toward the village of Locre. There was something in the way he walked, in his att.i.tude-the head hunched forward a little, and his arms behind his back-which made me turn to look at him. He was manacled, and tied by a rope to the mounted man. I caught one glimpse of his face, and then turned away, cold and sick. There was doom written on his face, and in his eyes a captured look. He was walking to his wall.

XIII

There were other men who could not stand sh.e.l.l-fire. It filled them with an animal terror and took all will-power out of them. One young officer was like that man who ”did not mind rifle-fire.” He, by some strange freak of psychology, was brave under machine-gun fire. He had done several gallant things, and was bright and cheerful in the trenches until the enemy barraged them with high explosive. Then he was seen wandering back to the support trenches in a dazed way. It happened three times, and he was sentenced to death. Before going out at dawn to face the firing-squad he was calm. There was a lighted candle on the table, and he sorted out his personal belongings and made small packages of them as keepsakes for his family and friends. His hand did not tremble. When his time came he put out the candle, between thumb and finger, raised his hand, and said, ”Right O!”

Another man, shot for cowardice in face of the enemy, was sullen and silent to one who hoped to comfort him in the last hour. The chaplain asked him whether he had any message for his relatives. He said, ”I have no relatives.” He was asked whether he would like to say any prayers, and he said, ”I don't believe in them.” The chaplain talked to him, but could get no answer-and time was creeping on. There were two guards in the room, sitting motionless, with loaded rifles between their knees. Outside it was silent in the courtyard, except for little noises of the night and the wind. The chaplain suffered, and was torn with pity for that sullen man whose life was almost at an end. He took out his hymn-book and said: ”I will sing to you. It will pa.s.s the time.” He sang a hymn, and once or twice his voice broke a little, but he steadied it. Then the man said, ”I will sing with you.” He knew all the hymns, words and music. It was an unusual, astonis.h.i.+ng knowledge, and he went on singing, hymn after hymn, with the chaplain by his side. It was the chaplain who tired first. His voice cracked and his throat became parched. Sweat broke out on his forehead, because of the nervous strain. But the man who was going to die sang on in a clear, hard voice. A faint glimmer of coming dawn lightened the cottage window. There were not many minutes more. The two guards s.h.i.+fted their feet. ”Now,” said the man, ”we'll sing 'G.o.d Save the King.'” The two guards rose and stood at attention, and the chaplain sang the national anthem with the man who was to be shot for cowardice. Then the tramp of the firing-party came across the cobblestones in the courtyard. It was dawn.

XIV

Sh.e.l.l-shock was the worst thing to see. There were generals who said: ”There is no such thing as sh.e.l.l-shock. It is cowardice. I would court-martial in every case.” Doctors said: ”It is difficult to draw the line between sh.e.l.l-shock and blue funk. Both are physical as well as mental. Often it is the destruction of the nerve tissues by concussion, or actual physical damage to the brain; sometimes it is a shock of horror unbalancing the mind, but that is more rare. It is not generally the slight, nervous men who suffer worst from sh.e.l.l-shock. It is often the stolid fellow, one of those we describe as being utterly without nerves, who goes down badly. Something snaps in him. He has no resilience in his nervous system. He has never trained himself in nerve-control, being so stolid and self-reliant. Now, the nervous man, the c.o.c.kney, for example, is always training himself in the control of his nerves, on 'buses which lurch round corners, in the traffic that bears down on him, in a thousand and one situations which demand self-control in a 'nervy' man. That helps him in war; whereas the yokel, or the sergeant-major type, is splendid until the shock comes. Then he may crack. But there is no law. Imagination-apprehension-are the devil, too, and they go with 'nerves.'”