Part 13 (1/2)
”Good Heavens,” he said to himself, ”what curious things Chance and Fate are. If I had stretched my leg out! Why didn't I?” He smiled.
At length a few Stretcher Bearers began to arrive, and the worst cases were carried off by them. Many of the less seriously wounded had to hobble, or even crawl down the hill, as best they could. It was a pitiable sight.
The Subaltern looked up, and caught the eye of an Officer being carried off on a stretcher. His mutilated leg was covered by his Burberry. He instantly recognised him as an Officer who had ”brought out” a ”draft”
some time previously.
If he were suffering great pain, he did not show it. He seemed annoyed, and a little ashamed.
”Just the look,” thought the Subaltern, ”that a fellow wears when he's out at Cricket--walking back to the Pavilion.”
The comparison, though not happy, was apt. It was just like Cricket.
Some missed their catches; some never had any sent to them; and others did brilliant things. A few had long innings, and compiled glorious scores, but the majority ”got out” pretty soon.
He pulled from his pocket a ”Caporal” cigarette, and placed it in his mouth, partly to show every one around how cool this inferno had left him, and partly to steady his nerves. But just as he was striking the match, a violent desire to laugh a.s.sailed him. He suppressed this tendency towards hysterics, but he shook so much that it was impossible to light the cigarette, and in the end he threw it away in disgust.
And so the day dragged on. They were sh.e.l.led with varying ferocity all the time. Once they attempted to launch an attack, but it failed, almost before it had started. The enemy artillery observation seemed too acute, the weight of his sh.e.l.ls too heavy, and the wood in front too thick.
About three o'clock in the afternoon the General must have decided that the holding of the hill was too costly a business. He therefore ordered it to be evacuated, and the troops to retire on the village of Poussey.
Every one, from the Colonel down, was privately relieved by this order, for every one felt that, if they had stayed there, by the end of the next day there would have been no regiment left.
The behaviour of the men had been superb. They had entered into this new phase of the war with that strange combination of recklessness and reliability which had made our ”contemptible little army” what it was.
Not a complaint had been uttered. They had joked all day--and there is an especial relish to jokes that are made between the thunderclaps--but they were worn out, not only by the terrors of that day, but by the acc.u.mulated loss of sleep and lack of food.
A further advance was impossible. The Germans had checked the onrush by the weight of their artillery. The victory of the Marne was over. The phase of the deadlock had begun.
CHAPTER XXVI
THE CELLARS OF POUSSEY
The Subaltern was too dazed to realise the significance of the day's fighting, but he brought his men back to the village without mishap, and behind the shelter of its walls they lay down to sleep just as they were.
In a little time the whole Battalion was rallied in the village, and fresh reinforcements were sent forward to hold a line nearer the village.
The night that followed was cold and windy. In spite of a fire that his men lit in a little side street, and various sacks that they ”lifted”
from barns, the cold caused extreme discomfort, and it was with a great sigh of relief that at length dawn broke upon them.
The Subaltern stumbled to his feet before it was fully light, shook the miserable sacks from his feet, and set out to explore the village.
Like most of its kind, it had only one central street, which was steep and winding. Underfoot were the usual cobbles, and the walls had a queer look of leaning inwards over the road with a protective air. He had not gone many yards before he came upon the little village square. Half of it was shut in by a huge, castle-like structure, which with its carved stone fountain gave the place almost a medieval air.
The gate in the wall was unlocked, and through the aperture he caught a glimpse of a trim garden and a comfortable-looking house.
”This,” said the Subaltern to himself, ”is just the sort of place that the Captain would choose for his headquarters.”
He slipped into the garden and peeped through one of the windows. Sure enough, there were the Captain, the Senior Subaltern and the Doctor.
They had already risen and were trying to boil a kettle on the ashes of last night's fire. It was not an inviting scene, by any means, but he pushed open the door, and started in the search for food.
The room in which he found them was a typical French kitchen, with a dirty grey ceiling, walls, and stone floor. The furniture consisted of a table, a couple of forms, and a chair or two. Otherwise there was absolutely no attempt at either comfort or adornment. Ransacking a dirty cupboard, the Subaltern drew forth in triumph a promising-looking bottle, and having pulled the cork, smelt at the contents with caution.