Part 32 (1/2)

CHAPTER XXIV

The Chateau at the Trench End

The wake of the battalion was marked at every stride by enemy dead and wounded, and when Wetherby overtook them he found them bayoneting and bombing their way along a zigzag trench, and Harry Hawke in the act of scoring ”2/12th R.R.” on the s.h.i.+eld of a captured machine-gun with the point of his dripping weapon.

”Where is Mr. Dashwood?” cried young Wetherby.

”Straight ahead, sir. 'Follow the tram-lines,' and you can't miss him!”

And Harry Hawke pointed with a grin to the zigzag trench.

They ran together along the broken parapet as the explosion of the hand bombs suddenly ceased, and from the way the battalion was crowded in the trench below them with a goodly a.s.sortment of unwounded prisoners, progress seemed to have been checked for a moment.

Stumbling over bodies, and every now and then getting entangled among strands of broken wire; blundering down into some trench-mortar hole and up again at the other side, Wetherby and Hawke at length came upon Bob Dashwood and Dennis, where the trench ended abruptly without any apparent rhyme or reason.

”Hallo, what's up?” Wetherby called, removing his mask and putting on his helmet, seeing that his brother officers had done the same, the battalion being now beyond the gas zone.

”Wait a minute,” replied Dennis. ”They'll send up another flare, and then you'll see.”

Overhead soared a rocket from the German lines, and as the light made everything grotesquely visible, the outline of a building showed blackly fifty yards from the trench end.

It was a small chateau, which, from its position in a fold of the ground behind a little ridge, had somehow escaped the havoc of our bombardment.

The ridge round which the trench end curved had been ploughed and mangled and heaped up into a ragged contour, but beyond some gaping holes in the high-pitched slate roof and a yawning gap in the northern wing, the chateau stood behind a tall wall, with an iron gate obligingly open, as if inviting them to enter.

”You see what's happened,” explained the O.C. ”The place would be so obviously dominated by the capture of this ridge that the beggars haven't thought it worth while turning it into a redoubt. It's very tempting, but it might prove a death-trap if they've got their heavy guns trained on it.”

”There's another thing,” said Dennis in further explanation to Wetherby.

”We've taken about a couple of hundred prisoners, and killed somewhere about the same number, but the rest of the enemy battalion has mysteriously disappeared. We've bombed all the dug-outs we can find, but there's one we must have missed, and the bulk of them have got clear away somehow. What are you going to do, Bob?”

Bob Dashwood lit a cigarette before he replied. Then he reloaded his revolver.

”Those two runners should have reached our supports,” he said; ”and the field wire will be coming up now. We'll chance our arm, Den, and take possession of the place. Come on, Reeds.h.i.+res!” And he climbed out.

Another rush of brown figures ran forward to the big gate, and Hawke, who was the first to reach it, held up a warning hand as he thrust his head round one of the brick piers, expecting nothing less than machine-guns.

But the place seemed deserted, although the trampled garden bore every sign of recent occupation. A bullock had been slaughtered by the fountain, and its horns and hide lay there. The flower beds had been ruthlessly trodden under foot, but a wealth of beautiful blossom still remained, and Harry Hawke plucked a Gloire de Dijon rose and chewed the stem between his teeth as he scampered up the gra.s.s slope on to the terrace.

The front door was wide open, as were several of the white cas.e.m.e.nt windows, and from a magnificent candelabra suspended from the ceiling of the hall guttering candles threw a blaze of yellow light on to the tiled floor.

Even Hawke gaped with astonishment at the gorgeous gilded decorations of the walls and the white marble staircase that led to the upper floor.

”Why, it's like Madame Tussord's arter yer paid yer bob to go in,” he said.

”And they've made a chamber of horrors of it,” muttered Dennis, who overheard him, as he looked at the shattered mirrors, the full-length portraits fluttering in rags in their frames, and the gilt furniture, whose upholstery of silk brocade showed the traces of muddy boots and spurred heels.

One end of the hall was taken up by a huge open fireplace carved with life-size figures of laughing nymphs and fawns, and, with that coa.r.s.e imbecility which pa.s.ses current in Germany for humour, some wag had daubed the noses of the figures with vermilion.

Empty wine bottles lay beside a priceless marquetry table, whose top had been burned with cigar ends; and as the men scattered rapidly through the adjoining rooms, they found everywhere traces of German ”kultur”

which the vandals had left behind them.