Pass Guard at Ypres Read online

  CHAPTER XXX

  Nobody would question the importance of the cause for which Freddy Mann strove. Nobody would deny that if you have to go over the top in the morning, rum is the one thing that the men must have, that the bread ration doesn’t matter in comparison to rum, that the post doesn’t matter, or new respirators, or pork and beans, or any damned thing in the world but rum. It is obvious that if by a twister of a Q.M.S. like Boles your platoon has been deprived of rum it isn’t your fault if the whole damned show breaks down, that it’s only rum that will get the men out of their shell-holes and on to Glencorse Wood, that they’ve got to be pretty well tight before they’ll move a yard, and they can only get tight on rum: that therefore if the Q.M.S. has bagged the platoon’s rum, then he’d better damned well get down to it and bag some more, seeing that there’re only two hours to zero and the one thing the men have got to have is rum. Nor, on the whole, can serious exception be taken to Freddy Mann’s manner of pleading: vigorous, perhaps, but not unduly vigorous: it’s no use talking as if you were at a Sunday-school treat at Edenhurst when you’re dealing with swine like Boles. If you don’t stand out for your platoon, he’ll do the dirty on you again: five days they’ve been here, lying in these shell-holes in front of the Wood, and they’ve done their whack as well as anybody else, and they’ve been crumped to glory pretty well all the time, and they’re fed up to the teeth and you don’t blame them. What’s the use of smiling and looking pretty and nice about it when Boles has got the rum at headquarters all the time, lapping it up and then saying it’s all been given out. If he hasn’t got it then somebody else has—that knock-kneed puppy Briggs, probably, or Maisey and the Adjutant, or the Army Commander perhaps or——

  “It’s all right, Cherub, old chap.”

  Robbie spoke quietly, but his voice could be heard clearly enough above the roar of the field guns a mile away.

  “It’s all right: it’s only a little mistake, that’s all.”

  “Mistake be damned.”

  Freddy Mann half wept as he snapped and snarled.

  “Damned funny, isn’t it, that it’s always a mistake where my platoon’s concerned? Suppose it was a mistake last Friday when——”

  “It’s all all right. Just take it quietly. It’s the same for all. It’s—”

  “Same for all, is it? Why, Briggs and his crowd over there are just swimming in it. They’ve got ours as well, I tell you; and if that’s all that that swine Boles can say——”

  “It’s quite all right.” Robbie came nearer, till his head almost touched Freddy Mann’s.

  “Steady, old chap, steady.”

  “What’s the use of saying ’Steady’? Suppose I’m allowed to ask for rum, aren’t I? Or perhaps we’re all to be teetotalers, our crowd? Perhaps we’ve got to go over the top on water. Plenty of water about, anyway.”

  Freddy Mann laughed.

  “Look here, Mann——”

  “Anybody would think I was asking a bloody favour, from the way you all go on. It’s 1 now, and we go over the top at 3, and just because my chaps want their rum——”

  Robbie laid his hand on Freddy Mann’s arm.

  “You’re with them, of course—I can see that. Just because you’ve got the blasted company——”

  The grip tightened, but Freddy Mann took no notice.

  “Orders are, rum was to be issued at midnight. It’s 1 now, and what I want to know is, where’s our rum?”

  “It’s all right, Mitchell—don’t bother to wait.”

  Robbie looked over his shoulder.

  “Look here, Cherub, drop this. They’re beginning to notice.”

  “Oh, yes, pity that, great pity. It wouldn’t do if they began to notice that I was trying to get their rum for them. Doesn’t do, in polite society, to ask for rum. Sorry I’ve bothered you. Of course we’ll be very glad to take water, since it’s very good for us. Can’t go wrong, if you stick to water. Come on, you——”

  He turned roughly to Robbie.

  “Go on, you’re O.C. You get it. Boles has got it and I’m going to have it. Thought you could do it on me, between you—thought——”

  “Cherub, you know what this means—if you go on like this——”

  “Yes. Means that Boles has got out of his feather-bed, and that won’t do”—in a high, mimicking, falsetto voice.

  Robbie turned away.

  “Damned well go myself and get it—that’s what I’ll do. Go to B.H.Q. and get it. Tell ’em there. That’ll wake you up. Pity if Maisey knows. It’s—hullo——”

  “Got it, sir,” as Mitchell gave the accompanying salute. “Corporal Barnes, he had it. Got it up there, and it just so ’appened that we came across ’im. ’E’s a goner. ’Ere’s the rum.”

  “Got the rum, anyway. Goner or not, doesn’t matter long as we’ve got the rum. Let’s get on with it. Come on, Harris, look after ourselves—we’ll——”

  He moved and found himself face to face with Robbie.

  “We’ll——”

  Suddenly his head danced a little, and his hands began to shake. He stumbled a step forward, and felt for Robbie’s hand.

  “I say, Robbie, I——”

  “That’s all right, Cherub—all right—that’s over. Glad it turned up—all right——”

  “Robbie.”

  “Have a drink—quickly. Drink this.”

  Freddy Mann stood still, trembling.

  “Oh God, Robbie. It happened to Bill in a different way. I didn’t mean——”

  “I know. It gets us all at times. Go on, drink it up. I know. No, I wouldn’t start praying aloud. Bad sign, that. Just drink it up and cut along. I’ll be round before—before we go.”

  Anyway, he was praying pretty decently, that fellow in the shell-hole just to the left of him. There are all sorts of ways of calling upon God, ten minutes before an attack. Sergeant Sugger’s way, for example—it seemed to have served Sergeant Sugger himself well enough, as a matter of fact, but it had never struck Freddy Mann as being particularly fitting or dignified. Then there was the whining, paling way, the sort of whipped-dog whimper; or the mixed assortment of oaths and blasphemies, mingled with confused appeals, which in the sight of the Almighty must surely leave the suppliant where he was. No, if one had to call on God at all, this on the whole was the way to do it. If God heard at all, he surely ought to listen when a man spoke steadily in a quiet voice, and just once told him about his little kid at home. “Oh God, oh God, help me”—yes, a very reasonable form of prayer. “Help me, help me,” the words came to Freddy Mann as he stood and waited, while a luminous hand crawled round an invisible watch upon his wrist. It might have been better if he himself had spoken once, quietly, just like that, instead of doing what he had done two hours ago. But now he hardly needed to. Rather hard on the war gods that were abroad that night, that they couldn’t rob him of that peace that had fallen so strangely once again upon him. They’d told him on church parade that the spirit of God brought peace. They hadn’t told him that an old lead-swinging soldier could do it by standing by his side and grunting; that shells could swirl overhead, and burst around him, and leave him as unmoved as if he were a disembodied spirit, watching the issues from afar; that the pressure of Robbie’s hand, as he came up to him now at the last, when Fate would so soon reveal her secrets, would bring that final touch of strength to knees that an hour ago had been as water; that now, when after twenty heart-beats more he would rise, and perhaps walk forward, perhaps stumble headlong, he would look behind him quickly to a mass of broken buildings that he imagined he could see, and step with a quiet smile, whistle in hand, to the front of the shell-hole, facing eastward to the jagged line of fire.

  “Oh God, give me strength.”

  “That’s right, old chap. That’s all you want.”

  “Help me.”

  “That’s right. Come on now—come on, Bamford—we’ll dodge your bullet—stout fellow—come on, all of you. Yes, it’s all right, Robbie, we’re all here, just behin
d. Come on, old chap—God’s heard you—come along.”

  CHAPTER XXXI

  Bombs—Bombs had done it at the time of Loos, or would have done it if he had had half a chance, and bombs would do it again. God—if only he had some of his old crowd with him now, or even some of the August crowd at Glencorse Wood. Rabbits or not, they were his battalion. As for the perishers in this company of his, the knock-kneed mob of conscripts whom he had to drive out of shell-holes and pill-boxes—if Wingate could only see them he wouldn’t buck about the regiment quite so much. Be damned to the regiment, and the brigade and the whole division they’d jerked him into after that scratch at Herrenhage Château. He’d rather be with the old gang and his two pips than have a company of these undersized wasters. Still, there they were, and now he’d got them he’d make them get on with it. Time this mud-crawling came to an end, all this squirming and sneaking round pill-boxes, all this floundering up to your neck or being crumped to glory if you left the duckboards. Whatever sort of an end it was, it was time it came. Just over there was the place Harvey had been to, on the day he’d told him about when they were at Ypres. Gheluvelt—that was the place to get to: yes, by gad! and if he went alone he’d get there—out of this filth once and for all, and on the road to Menin.

  Muttering, he knelt beside the sodden boxes and drew the Mills bombs out one by one, handling them almost lovingly. Nice little eggs, they were, to be sure—pretty little eggs. He’d just hang a few round him, like this and this and this—and use the first on any swine in his new crowd who wouldn’t come on with him. Bombs, bombs, and get it over—damned muddle it had been, it was time to get it over. They ought to have got Ypres free by now—got to Bruges, Passchaendale, God knows where. He’d do it for them—nobody else seemed able to do it, but he would. Robbie would have done it long ago, or the Skipper or Bill or Harry—but they weren’t here now. Only at night they’d come and talk to him sometimes, but he was alone by day. Bamford would have done it, too, but Bamford wasn’t there either: there was only him to do it. Everybody else was stuck in the mud but him. Thought they’d done him down, but they hadn’t quite succeeded: they never would do him down, so long as he’d got his bombs. He’d got them, and he’d get there now. Yes, there it was. He clambered out of the pill-box and stood looking towards a sky just paling behind a line of jagged poplars to the east.

  Gheluvelt—that was the place to get to. Never mind what it stood for, or what it was all about. Never mind all that. It didn’t need Dick Leverett to stand mouthing out there, yapping at him from just over the edge of that shellhole, to tell him that. He knew it didn’t matter, as much as Dick Leverett knew it. If Dick Leverett didn’t take his ugly face away, he’d chuck a bomb at that to start with, just as he would if Wingate didn’t get out of his way instead of wagging his pincenez at him and trying to get into the pillbox to argue with him, or Madame Fouquière, sitting by that bit of wire and knitting and talking to him of Ypres. He’d chuck a bomb at all of them if they didn’t get out of his way. He didn’t want any talk about it, or what it was all about now. He’d finished with all that; all he knew was he was going to get there. That was the way, straight up, straight along—there was Gheluvelt behind those trees, and bombs would get him there—not talk, but bombs, bombs, bombs.

  The German sniper watched in the shell-hole, with his finger on the trigger of his rifle. He was doomed, he knew, but this did not worry him, as everybody else at Ypres was doomed as well as he. Knowing this, he could afford to watch the situation calmly, as it developed before his eyes. The British were coming on on three sides now; he thought, as a matter of fact, that a few had got round him, as bullets were coming from his rear. Never mind them—he’d just watch those in front, and pick off those he wanted. They came waddling along, like so many water-logged and overladen clumsy wooden figures, falling about, some getting up again and others lying where they were. There were plenty to choose from for the final pick. He ran his eye deliberately down the line: yes, on the whole that was the fellow, that fellow in front with his hands moving in and out of his pockets in funny jerking movements, and a grin, or something more than a grin, upon his face. He kept on opening his mouth, and jumping a little whenever he threw a bomb. He was just about the right distance, too—just right for a nice neat shot. He was coming on, still with his mouth wide open and his eyes twice as big as usual: he seemed an overgrown baby, all mouth and eyes and jerking arms and legs. Yes, he was the chap. He’d get him through the head—he couldn’t miss him. Two steps more, and the sniper smiled as he bent his finger. It was a pity that he fell dead as he pressed the trigger, as it spoilt his aim.

  There is no reason, provided you can walk, to think of mud as something other than it is. It is an evil thing, but, like other evil things, it can be evaded or overcome by the wit of man. It will drown you if you leave the duck-boards, but keep to the spider track across the wastes and you will be safe. It will cling around your legs, seep over your thigh-boots, ooze through tunic and shirt and bind your muscles with its clammy chill, but you can stand against it, sweep it from you with your hands and arms as you struggle forward, keep breast and head erect and win your way, struggling step by step, to firmer ground. It will not clog your pistol if you wear your lanyard round your neck, nor foul your food if it is stored on the topmost shelf inside the dug-out. It stinks, but it helps thereby to overcome other reeks more vile. It will pin you to your shell-hole, but it will stretch before you as a protective bulwark to prevent your being overwhelmed by the sudden rush of the counterattack. It is an evil, but not the only evil, nor perhaps the worst. If you have been among those who have pressed on from Clapham Junction, past Weldloek and Herrenhage Château towards Gheluvelt and Menin, you will have known other evil things in plenty.

  You will have lain motionless through the day before grey concrete squares from which machine-gun bullets directed by invisible hands have spat forth in intermittent streams towards your lair. You will have cowered, as you have cowered so often before, beneath bombardments, your legs, arms and body so many masses of quivering tissues which have long forsworn your mastery, and your head a sounding board for a thousand hammers: aeroplanes will have swooped low over you, raining destruction as they roar their way along the lines of shell-holes; skulls will have grinned at you from the rank undergrowth or between the twisted branches of Glencorse Wood; human forms stained red will have grovelled to you moaning; corpses mingled with sandbags will have formed your barricades; green sickly clouds will have drifted upon you, while you panted, your teeth tight set upon a rubber tube and your eyes peering blindly through great goggle glasses, smeared with dirt and moisture; shifting half-seen shapes will have come to gibber at you during your hours of fitful sleep.

  It is when you can no longer stand that it is fearful, for then it ceases to be dead matter, and becomes, quite suddenly, monstrously alive. Then, perhaps, though not before, you may be permitted to resign to it the mastery, knowing that no human spirit can struggle for ever against a spirit more than human, that is alive as well as evil. It is when you lie headlong in the fields in front of Gheluvelt at midnight, the final goal of your achievement almost before your eyes, but your body crippled and powerless to move, that the dead mass round you begins to stir and breathe. It will work its way over you, covering legs and thighs and waist and shoulders, sucking aloud in its grim rejoicing as it draws you further and further into the depths of its soft spongy being. As the star-lights rise before you, they will be reflected in the big saucer-like eyes that are now so nearly on a level with your own. A myriad fingers will entwine themselves in yours, and shapeless legs will hold yours in a grip that no wrestler in the world could ever break. Its smell will fill your nostrils, and its wet lips will rise to meet you and stop your mouth with the moisture of their kiss. It will live, and, living, cease to be your enemy and become your friend. You have lost so much, and you are so very tired. Those that were with you at Hooge and Bellewarde have left you. A hope that was dead and had begun to
struggle to life again has died its second death: a city that you half hated, half cared for has forgotten you, for it has had many to care for it and hate it, and you are far away. Why grope further like an animal, or wander through the filth of daylight any more? There is a Being here that will hold you, and never let you go: its embrace is soft, and already as you sink within it the pain that made you breathe in spasms is lessened. You have had no respite, and here at last is rest. The face of day is hideous, and the sun but shines to breed a greater foulness. Here, in your hiding place, you will lie sleeping, for the Being that has found you and taken you to itself will keep you, and will see to it that you do not start at any sound or open your eyes again to the corruption overhead.

  CHAPTER XXXII