Part 12

None of the others showed any sign of fear except anxious looks. We had been in no danger at all during the previous night's bombardment, but many of the men had been terrified. Now, when they were in considerable danger, they felt nothing more than anxiety, simply because there was no awe-inspiring display of flame and thunder.

Murky smoke clouds issued from the trees and hung above them in thin streaks. Another sound was added to the uproar--a long-drawn whine--and a sepia coloured puff appeared high up in the sky. A sharp ringing crack followed. Then another puff appeared, and then another. High-explosive and shrapnel shells continued to burst without intermission.

The frogs had ceased to croak, for one of our men, standing on the edge of the pond, was throwing pellets of mud at them. All at once he dropped like some inanimate object and lay on his side. At the same time a motor-ambulance came rushing up and stopped at the cross-roads. Two soldiers issued from the wood, carrying a stretcher. A wounded man was lying on it. He did not move arms or legs, but he howled and screamed;, his voice rising and falling in a weird inhuman manner. A little after, two more wounded were carried out on stretchers. They were white, silent and motionless.

A small crowd had gathered round the man who had fallen by the pond. He was laid on to a stretcher. He seemed rather dazed but did not look pale. A shrapnel ball had hit him in the back.

The human loads were pushed into the ambulance which disappeared in a cloud of dust.

Our anxiety had deepened. Many of us were walking up and down in agitation. Nevertheless, there was no hysteria and no ignominious expression of fear as there had been on the previous night.

At last the railway engine appeared, to the immense relief of everyone. We climbed into the trucks and the return journey began. The shelling continued unabated. Above the belt of poplars a little black speck was moving along at great speed. Around it and trailing behind it were numerous black puffs. The frogs had resumed their concert.

When we reached our destination we were met by several others of our unit who had arrived during the afternoon and were quartered in the town. Two of my friends were amongst them and together we walked over to their billet.

We entered a huge bare room and sat down on some of the kits that were arranged neatly round the floor.

"What sort of a time have you had?" I asked.

"Bloody awful.... The S.M. and the C.O. have been making our lives a misery. We've had umpteen extra drills and parades and kit inspections. There've been at least a dozen orderly-room cases and several court martials since you left. You know Deacon? He got fourteen days. Fritz has been over a good bit lately and we have to put out our lights as soon as it gets dark, else we'd cop out for sure. Well, one of our Sergeants had a candle burning in his tent and the flap wide open--you could have seen it a mile off, you've no idea how a candle shows at night-time! We heard the archies firing in the distance and we yelled, 'Put out that light!' The Sergeant didn't take any notice though--he was reading a book. So Deacon, who's got a decent bit of pluck, walked across and asked him to blow out his candle. The Sergeant told him to mind his own bloody business. So Deacon said he'd blow the candle out himself. The Sergeant flew into a rage and swore at him and told him to sling his bloody hook. Deacon got wild too--he's one of those fellows who won't stand any nonsense--and blew out the candle. The Sergeant went off the deep end properly and had him placed under arrest. Deacon got a District Court Martial and was charged with insubordination. They gave him fourteen days' Number 1. He's serving it in camp. There's no gun or wagon there, so they can't crucify him on a wheel in the ordinary way. They've been tying him to a post instead, one hour in the morning and one in the afternoon. That blackguard of a Police Corporal won't let him be in the shade where the trees are, but has him tied up in the full glare of the sun.

"The C.O.'s been down on people writing things in letters too. Lewis wrote home he'd starve on the rations we get if it weren't for the parcels his people send him. The C.O. had him up. He told him to make complaints through the proper channels in future and gave him seven days Number 2. He has to collect and empty the latrine buckets every morning before breakfast. When he gets back from work in the afternoon he has to chop wood with that swine of a Police Corporal standing over him. Of course, he's a bloody fool to write in that strain--our rations aren't so bad, considering. Thompson was up for the same sort of thing. He wrote he'd seen a thing or two out here and when he got back home he'd open people's eyes a bit about the war and the army. All bluff, of course, for the truth about the war and the army could never be published. He got five days for his trouble. I nearly got into hot water myself. Luckily for me I was the first one to be on the peg for writing things in my letters, else I'd have got a stiff sentence. I wrote: 'Being in the army is just like being back at school; the only difference is that whereas at school your superiors generally know a little bit more about things than you do, in the army that is not the case.' The C.O. told me off properly. He said it was most serious, a court martial offence, in fact. The charge would be one of 'Conduct prejudicial to good order and military discipline.' He let me off, though, because it was my first transgression. Old Peter Cowan was nearly run by the S.M. a couple of days ago. He was inspecting us and when he came to Peter he shouted, 'Why haven't you cleaned your boottons?' Peter answered with a perfectly solemn countenance, 'I omitted to do so, sir.' The S.M. glared at him, but he wasn't quite sure about the meaning of the word 'omitted,' and being afraid of making a fool of himself he passed on. Fletcher, who was standing only a few numbers away, smiled at Peter's remark. The S.M. spotted him, and shouted, 'What are you grinning at--anything foonny?' Fletcher said, 'No, sir,' and straightened his face with a wry contortion. The S.M. shouted to the Orderly Sergeant: 'Take this man's name.' Fletcher was up before the C.O. in the evening and got three days for laughing in the ranks. I'm sure Peter'll get into trouble before long. He did the same sort of thing yesterday. Sergeant Hyndman was in charge of us and we were standing to attention. Peter started talking--you could hear him as loud as anything. Hyndman got his rag out and yelled, 'Stop talkin' there, will yer?' Peter dropped his voice and went on in a whisper. Hyndman could still hear him, so he walked up to him and shouted, 'What the bloody 'ell's the matter wi' yer?' As cool as you like old Peter replied, 'Cacoethes loquendi.' Of course Hyndman hadn't the remotest idea what that meant and said, 'None o' yer bleed'n' impudence, else I'll land yer inter trouble.' He didn't run him though.

"I tell you, I'm jolly glad to be away from headquarters. We've got old Rusty in charge of us. He's been a bit of a worry-guts about having cleaned boots and buttons ever since he got his second pip, but he's quite a decent old stick taking him all round. He gets drunk every evening, so that he's generally too far gone to trouble about lights out. He doesn't make a fuss over our letters either--I believe he can only read a very plain hand and has to skip the longer words. A good job, too, for that's one thing I absolutely cannot stick, the way all our letters are read....

"I hear you've had some excitement? It put my wind up a bit when I heard about it. Still, I'm glad in a way--the monotony of our lives was becoming unbearable. I'd rather have shell-bursts than blasts of the S.M.'s whistle. Have many been dropping in the town recently?"

"A good few--I daresay you'll have some to-night if you're lucky. Yes, the S.M.'s whistle got on my nerves too. I was longing for a change and frightfully keen on seeing a bit of the war. I confess I wasn't particularly scared by the shells we had--of course, none of them came very near. But I don't want to have any more, not after seeing those wounded carried along on stretchers to-day. You're right in the town here and it's quite likely that you'll make a closer acquaintance with high-explosive shells than I've been able to make...."

I had hardly spoken when there was a faint muffled boom in the distance and a long, deepening howl, and then a loud explosion that shook the building.

A few minutes after a second shell passed overhead and exploded somewhere in the town.

Then, without the usual warning, there was a roar that seemed to split our heads and an impact that sent us reeling backwards against the wall. The room was filled with dense, pungent smoke and dust that choked and blinded us. Above the violent droning in our ears we could hear the clatter of falling bits of plaster and masonry. A whistle blew and there was a shout of "Clear Billet." We thronged the doorway and poured down the stairs, panic stricken, but before we had left the building there was another reverberating crash and once again we were enveloped by smoke and dust while the bits of plaster showered down upon us from the ceiling. I bowed my head and held my arm up to protect my face. Something whizzed closely by, and a man dropped heavily with a groan in front of me. He lay on his face with one arm doubled up underneath, quite motionless. Two men went up to him and crossed their hands under his chest to raise him. His blood was gushing out and forming a pool on the floor. As we dashed out into the road I saw an artilleryman standing alone on the cobbles and looking around in a scared fashion. There was another deafening explosion and dense clouds of smoke issued from a building forty or fifty yards away. Suddenly the artilleryman clutched his face with his hand. The blood began to stream through his fingers and down his wrist into his sleeve. He hurried away with staggering steps.

We left the town behind us and waited near a barn in the open fields. We were joined by the two men who had remained behind to help our wounded fellow soldier.

"Is it serious?" we asked.

"Serious?--He's done for, poor chap! A big bit of shell caught him right in the chest--it didn't half make a hole. We carried him away from the billet and sat him up against a wall. We couldn't stop the blood from flowing. He came to for a few seconds though, and moaned, 'O my poor mother! O my poor mother!' enough to break your heart. And then he seemed to lose consciousness again. The ambulance arrived and we laid him on a stretcher. I expect he died before he got to the hospital."

"Anybody else hit?"

"Two of our fellows--one of them pretty seriously. They could both walk though. A lot of men from other units have been killed. The last shell dropped into a mess-room and laid out a dozen or more, and just as we were coming along we saw an artilleryman lying in the road with a big hole right in the middle of his face. He was still warm but his heart had stopped beating. It's a bloody awful feeling to lose one of your mates, though."

"I can't make it out, some'ow. 'E was talkin' an' jokin' to me only a few minutes back, an' now 'e's dead. The way 'e said 'O me poor mother!' nearly set me cryin'. Poor old chap, 'e was one o' the best--it's allus the best as gets killed an' the rotters left alive."

No more shells dropped into the town that day, but instead of going back to the billet, the men made their beds in the barn at nightfall. I returned to camp, thinking of the man who was dead and wondering whose turn would come next.

THE CASUALTY CLEARING STATION

"For who feels the horrors of war more than those who are responsible for its conduct? On whom does the burden of blood and treasure weigh most heavily? How can it weigh more heavily on any man or set of men than those on this bench?"

MR. BALFOUR (House of Commons, June 20th, 1918.)