Part 25

Another clear day and another clear night. We lay awake listening anxiously to the bursting of bombs and the muttering of anti-aircraft fire. But we went to sleep in the end and felt drowsy all the following day--a clear day. Casualties came in from a camp that had been bombed overnight, and we saw shattered limbs, smashed heads, and lacerated flesh. Several of our men were looking pale through lack of sleep and had dark rings round their eyes.

Another clear night. The agonizing vigil began again, but I was so weary that I went to sleep a few minutes after lights out. Sullen thunders mingled with my dreams and did not wake me up.

Another clear day. Would the fine weather never end? Late in the afternoon, however, a few clouds collected on the horizon. In the evening the entire sky was overcast and not a star was to be seen. And as we went to bed we heard the rain swishing down upon the canvas roof. The unspeakable joy we all felt at the prospect of an untroubled night!

"Bloody fine, this rain: we'll get some proper sleep now, thank God. I never had the wind up so much in all my life, and I've been out here since '15 and in some pretty hot places too."

"I reckon the longer yer out 'ere the windier yer get. I joined up in '14 like a bloody fool. At first I didn't care a damn for anything. Then I was wounded on the Somme an' sent across to Blighty. I dreaded comin' back agin. I only 'ad a little wound in me 'and, an' I used ter plug it wi' dubbin' an' boot-polish ter keep it raw. It didn't 'alf 'urt, but it gave me a extra week or two in 'orspittle. I 'ad to go in the end though--the M.O. didn't 'alf give me a tellin' orf. Jesus Christ, didn't I 'ave the wind up when we went up the line! An' now I'm scared at the slightest sound, an' I sometimes wake up out o' me sleep shiverin' all over. When I was on leave a motor-car backfired in the street--it didn't 'alf make me jump; me mate 'oo was with me said I looked as white as a sheet. The longer yer out 'ere the worse yer get--it's yer nerves, yer know, they can't stand it. In the line it's always the new men what's the most reliable...."

"That's a bloody fact. When we first come out, I thought all the Belgian civvies a lot o' bloody cowards takin' cover whenever Fritz came over. We used to stand an' look at 'im. They wasn't cowards, it was us who was bloody fools. They knew summat about it, we didn't. All the same, I know one or two old reg'lars 'oo was in it from the first an' never 'ad the wind up any time--there's not many like that though, generally it's the old soldiers what's the worst o' the lot for wanglin' out o' risky jobs."

"Napoleon was right," observed a small, red-haired lance-corporal, whose remarks generally had a sardonic touch, "when he said the worse the man the better the soldier. It's only people who have no imagination and no intelligence who are courageous in modern war. Nobody with any sense would expose himself unnecessarily and rush a machine-gun position or do the sort of thing they give you a V.C. for. Of course, there are a few cases where it's deserved, and it isn't always the one who deserves it that gets it. I'm quite certain the refined, sensitive, imaginative kind of man is no good as a soldier. He may be able to control himself better than the others at first--educated people are used to self-control--but in the long run his nerves will give way sooner. Moral courage is a thing I admire more than anything, but there's no use for it in the army, in fact it's worse than useless in the army. The man who's too servile to be capable of feeling humiliation and too stupid to understand what danger is--that's the man who makes a good, steady soldier. We've seen men so horribly smashed up by bombs that it makes you sick to look at them, and then people expect us not to be afraid of air-raids. The civvies haven't seen that sort of thing, so they may well show plenty of pluck, although I believe there are a good many with enough imagination to have the wind up when there's an air-raid on."

"Bloody true. You know, if there was a lot o' civvies an' a lot of Tommies in a Blighty air-raid, I reckon the civvies'd show more pluck than the Tommies. My mate who's workin' on munitions told me 'e saw 'underds o' soldiers rushin' to take shelter in the last raid on London. O' course there was crowds o' civvies doin' the same, but 'e says there was a lot what didn't seem to care a damn. The other day we 'ad a bloody parson spoutin' to us--'e said war brings out a man's pluck an' makes an 'ero of 'im. I reckon that's all bloody tosh! War makes cowards of yer, that's the 'ole truth o' the matter, I don't care what yer say. I didn't know what fear was afore I joined the army. I know now, you bet! I'm a bloody coward now--I don't mind admittin' it. There's things I used ter do what I wouldn't dare do now. When we go up the line I'm in a blue funk from the time I 'ears the first shell burst to the time we goes over the top. An' when we goes over I forgets everythink an' don't know what I'm doin'. P'raps I'll get a V.C. some day wi'out knowin' what I done ter get it. And I'm not the only one like that. Anyone 'oo's bin out 'ere a few months an' says 'e ain't windy up the line's a bloody liar, there now...."

"By the way," I interrupted, "how did that orderly who works in the theatre get his Military Medal--he had the wind up more than any of us the other night?"

"I know whom you mean," answered a private of the R.A.M.C. "He got it that bombing-stunt a few months ago. It was bloody awful too--the worst thing I've ever been in. I was standing next to him when the first one exploded. He flopped down and lay flat on the ground, but I rushed away into the fields with a lot of others. When it was all over we went back and heard the wounded crying out in a way that was dreadful to hear. This fellow was still lying on the ground by the duckboards, trembling all over and paralysed with fear. We went to help the wounded, but he was in such a state that he could not come with us, so we left him behind. There was an inquiry afterwards and we got into a frightful row for running away. He got the M.M. for sticking to his post!"

VII

THE GERMAN PUSH

"What madness there is in this arithmetic that counts men by the millions like grains of corn in a bushel.... A newspaper has just written about an encounter with the enemy: 'Our losses were insignificant, one dead and five wounded.' It would be interesting to know for whom these losses are insignificant? For the one who was killed?... If he were to rise from his grave, would he think the loss 'insignificant'? If only he could think of everything from the very beginning, of his childhood, his family, his beloved wife, and how he went to the war and how, seized by the most conflicting thoughts and emotions, he felt afraid, and how it all ended in death and horror.... But they try to convince us that 'our losses are insignificant.' Think of it, godless writer! Go to your master the Devil with your clever arithmetic.... How this man revolts me--may the Devil take him!"

(ANDREYEFF.)

Throughout the winter one question above all others was discussed by the few who took an interest in the war: "What were the Germans going to do?" It was clear that they had been able to withdraw many divisions from their Eastern Front. Would they be numerically equal or superior to the Allies on the Western Front?

On the whole we were of opinion that, whatever happened, our positions would prove impregnable, although we observed with some astonishment that there were no extensive trench systems or fortified places behind our lines. I doubted whether the Germans would even attempt to break through--I thought they would merely hold the Western Front and throw the Allies out of Macedonia, Palestine, and Mesopotamia.

The winter was over and the fine weather had set in. For several months we had been working in a wood-yard and saw-mills. Our lives had become unspeakably monotonous, but the coming of warm days banished much of our dreariness. The hazy blue sky was an object of real delight. I often contrived to slip away from my work and lean idly against a wall in the mild sunshine. At times I was so filled with the sense of physical well-being, and so penetrated by the sensuous enjoyment of warmth and colour, that I even forgot the war.

At the bottom of the wood-yard was a little stream, and on the far bank clusters of oxlips were in bloom. Here we would lie down during the midday interval and surrender to the charm of the spring weather. It seemed unnatural and almost uncanny that we should be happy, but there were moments when we felt something very much like happiness. Moreover, it was rumoured that leave was going to start. How glorious it would be to spend a sunny May or June in England!

Once a fortnight we paraded for our pay outside one of the bigger sheds of the yard. As a rule, I was filled with impatience and irritation at having to wait in a long queue and move forward step by step, but now it had become pleasant to tarry in the sunshine. One day, when we were lined up between two large huts, a deep Yellow Brimstone butterfly came floating idly past. It gave me inexpressible delight, a delight tempered by sadness and a longing for better times. I drew my pay and saluted perfunctorily, being unable and unwilling to think of anything but the beauty of the sky, the sun, and the wonderful insect.

I held my three ten-franc notes in my hand and thought: "I will enjoy this lovely day to the full. When we get back to camp I will do without the repulsive army fare, I will dine at the St. Martin and buy a bottle of the best French wine, even if it costs me twenty francs. And then I'll walk to the little wood on the hill-slope and there I'll lie all the evening and dream or read a book."

The whistle sounded. It was time to go back to work. But I cursed the work and decided to take the small risk and remain idle for an hour or two. I went to an outlying part of the yard and sat down on a patch of long grass and leant back against a shed. The air was hot and several bees flew by. Their buzzing reminded me of summer holidays spent in southern France before the war. I thought of vineyards and orchards, of skies intensely blue, of scorching sunshine, of the tumultuous chirping of cicadas and grasshoppers, and then of the tepid nights crowded with glittering stars and hushed except for the piping of tree-frogs.

Before the war--before the war--I repeated the words to myself. They conveyed a sense of immeasurable remoteness, of something gone and lost for ever. But I wouldn't think about it. I would enjoy the present. But the calm waters of happiness had been ruffled and it was beyond my power to restore their tranquillity. I began to think of many things, of the war itself, of the possible offensive, and soon the fretful rebellious discontent, that obsessed all those of us who had not lost their souls, began to reassert itself.

But why not desert? Why not escape to the south of France? Why not enjoy a week, a fortnight, a month of freedom? I would be caught in the end--I would be punished. I would receive Number 1 Field Punishment, and I would be tied to a wheel or post, but nevertheless it would be worth it! I imagined myself slipping out of camp at night and walking until dawn. Then I would sleep in some wood or copse and then walk on again, calling at remote farms to buy bread and eggs and milk. I would reach the little village, the main street winding between white houses and flooded with brilliant moonlight. I would climb the wall and drop into the familiar garden and await the morning. Then I would knock at the door and I would be welcomed by an old peasant woman, and she would ask: "Tu viens en perme?" How could I answer that question? It worried me, I felt it was spoiling my dream. But I dreamt on and at the same time battled against increasing depression. Even a few days of freedom would be a break, a change from routine. And would the little village be the same as when I saw it last? No, it would be different, it would be at war. I might escape from the army, but I could never escape from the war. My dream had vanished.

But I would make the best of things. I would enjoy the immediate present--was I not losing hours of sheer pleasure by harbouring these thoughts and ignoring the beauty of the day?

Some distance ahead was a farm of the usual Flemish type--a thatched roof, whitewashed walls, and green shutters. Near by was a little pond with willows growing round it. In the field beyond, a cow was grazing peacefully. The sky seemed a deeper blue through the willow-branches. The tender green of the grass was wonderfully refreshing to the eyes. The cow had a beautiful coat of glossy brown that shone in the sunlight. I abandoned myself to the charm of the little idyll that was spread out before me and forgot the war once again.

And then all at once a gigantic, plume-shaped, sepia coloured mass rose towering out of the ground. There was a rending, deafening, double thunder-clap that seemed to split my head. For a moment I was dazed and my ears sang. Then I looked up--the black mass was thinning and collapsing. The cow had disappeared.

I walked into the yard full of rage and bitterness. All the men had left the sheds and were flocking into the road. Some were strolling along in leisurely fashion, some were walking with hurried steps, some were running, some were laughing and talking, some looked startled, some looked anxious, and some were very pale.

We crossed the road and the railway. Then, traversing several fields, we came to a halt and waited. We waited for nearly an hour, but nothing happened and we gradually straggled back to the yard.