Part 14 (1/2)

One morning, the Subaltern forgets whether it was the first or second day of their stay, the old man took him into his library. It was a long, low room, fragrant with the smell of old books, and it looked out upon the leafy orchard. All the volumes were beautifully bound and nearly all were standard cla.s.sics. He was surprised at the culture of this little spot, tucked away in the intellectual desert of rural France, and at the refinement of this man, who had been a farmer all his life. All the while a great battle was being fought outside; one could not be sure of life for a consecutive hour; at such a time it was amazing to be fingering fine old books, in the quiet, sombre library, by the side of an old man in a black velvet skullcap.

Eventually the Subaltern picked out a volume by Segur, not because he wanted to read about war, but because he feared that the Voltaires, the Rousseaux, and the Hugos would be too difficult for him. Segur was easy: one could skip whole phrases without losing his gist: one was not worried by the words one did not know. He read of Napoleon's retreat on Paris--in its time accounted the most scientific retreat in history.

Soissons! Montmirail! Why, they had almost pa.s.sed into both these places! How everything that had ever happened would shrink before this--which was going on now, half a mile away.

CHAPTER XXVII

THE FIRST TRENCHES

Whether it was the second or third day of their stay in Poussey that the march began again the Subaltern does not know. The only thing he remembers is being awakened from a peaceful afternoon nap, hurrying rather confusedly on parade, and marching off, out of the village.

Turning sharply to the left, the troops descended the hill, and at length crossed the ca.n.a.l, which had evidently parted company with the Aisne. All was quiet, and he was making his way drowsily along the dusty road, when a whizz and a whistle brought him sharply to his senses.

There could be no mistake about it, the sh.e.l.l was coming right at them.

”Oh, d.a.m.n,” he said; ”we've been spotted.”

The sh.e.l.l burst short of them.

There was a s.p.a.ce of about two hundred yards that would obviously be sh.e.l.l swept, and the road offered not the slightest cover. Two hundred yards ahead there appeared to be a good stout bank, which would s.h.i.+eld them very effectually. The only thing to be done was to rush on as fast as they could, and thus suffer as few casualties as possible.

The men, however, did not quite realise the situation. By long training and a great deal of actual experience they had learned that the best thing to do when you are under fire is to tear for the nearest cover, and, failing that, flop down on your faces where you stand, and take your chance. As a general rule this proved sound enough, but in this especial case it was obvious to the Officers that the longer they delayed, the heavier would be the casualty list, a fact which the men did not understand. The British soldier is a sportsman, and understands the game as well as his Officer. He only wants to be led; and in battle, scarcely that. Driving is an Art absolutely unknown in the British Army.

In the stress of the tense moments that followed, the Subaltern owned to himself that as a driver he was not much good. The German artillery had got their range to a yard, and it was very trying to have to stand up in the open and spend precious seconds in urging on men who ought to have known better. He was strongly tempted to run for it, but a sense of duty prevailed, and he stayed there das.h.i.+ng about in a futile effort to speed matters up. He shouted, he shrieked, he swore, he has a dim recollection of even kicking at his men in the effort to get on out of the terrible danger zone. But perhaps to his overwrought nerves the delay seemed longer than perhaps it really was, or perhaps force of numbers from behind succeeded where he had failed; anyhow, he got his Platoon into safety, and only sustained the loss of five or six men.

His Platoon Sergeant behaved with an intrepid bravery that gave him a moral right to the Victoria Cross. He stayed in the fire-swept area to carry two wounded men into safety, and tended several others as they lay. He received no recognition--but those who were near him will never forget.

The bank reached, safety was achieved for the moment, at any rate. They pushed on for another half-mile or so, and were then halted under cover of the bank. They had not long to wait before the purpose of the whole manoeuvre was revealed to them. In their capacity of Local Reserve they had been hurried to the point of the line where the next attack in force was expected.

The whole thing was ridiculous in its mechanical exact.i.tude. In about five minutes the artillery bombardment died down. Hard upon its heels arose a most lively rifle-fire, which showed clearly enough that the preparatory bombardment was over, and the real attack about to begin.

Higher and higher rose the note struck by the rifle-fire, as the contest thickened. Never had they heard such intensity of concentration before.

Now up, now down, it rocked on in one sweeping, continuous note for nearly half-an-hour. Then it died down, almost to silence. The attack had failed, and the Local Reserve would not be needed.

It does not require much imagination to picture the state of mind of the men in reserve--cowering behind the bank. They could almost see the whole thing--the grey dots crawling over the crest of the hill, the shots that announced their detection, the uprising of them in a solid ma.s.s, sweeping towards the trenches; the withering fire, reaping in its victims like a scythe. They were wondering every second of the time, ”How far have the Germans got? Have they pushed us out?” But no order came to advance to re-capture the trenches, so they presumed all was well.

As the crossing of the open ground had been so rough, they were allowed to postpone their return journey until it was dark. But even then they were not safe.

The Colonel led the Battalion a clear two hundred yards away from the road. The darkness was so intense that they could not be seen, but in the silence of the night they were sure to be heard, and, on hearing them, the Germans would certainly plaster the road with sh.e.l.ls in the hope of ”getting” them as they returned.

The Colonel was right. The German observation-posts must have heard them, for the old, familiar whizz came whistling through the darkness.

The first sh.e.l.ls seemed incredibly long in the air. One's heart was in one's mouth, as one listened to hear if they were going ”to fall short,”

or ”go over.” Then the crash came, in front, on the road, and they knew that the Colonel had saved them once more. Even as it was, their Company Quartermaster-Sergeant was. .h.i.t in the foot.

The sh.e.l.ling in the darkness must have affected the nerves of the leading Company. They struck out at a tremendous pace. The Subaltern was dropping further and further behind. He could not keep up, and the prospect of losing touch in the darkness was extremely serious.

At last the ca.n.a.l bridge was reached and the bombardment ceased, but instead of being allowed to turn in towards Poussey, they were told to relieve the other two companies in the trenches.

They found the line, and ”took over” the trenches without mishap. Of course, in those days trenches were not built as they were later. To begin with, the men had no tools, except their ”entrenching implements,”