Pass Guard at Ypres Read online

  But at that tunnel in the ramparts a definite advance in twentieth-century artillery practice was made that night. The next morning daylight poured through a channel of forty feet into a twisted mass of masonry, broken timber, bones and spattered blood. Portions of four dead men were strewn around. There was no mark or wound upon the Major; but in spirit he was with those others, and a peace had come upon him that was deeper than the peace he asked.

  CHAPTER IX

  “Don’t think he’s shamming, not meself I don’t. Can’t tell, yer know; but if you was to ask me, I wouldn’t call it shamming.”

  Tom Bamford and Willy Beard sat each in his corner of the dug-out. Willy Beard leaned forward, hands on knees, as he spoke, and regarded the man on the floor with his head on one side and a puzzled expression on his face.

  “Say it came on sudden, do yer, Dick?”

  “Yes.” Dick Bartlett looked up, his arm still round Private Garton’s neck. “Sudden like it came on; he was all right afore; just as we was coming along that sap-’ead, out towards Y Wood. ’Ere, ’old up, mate.” He leaned down again and put his arm round Garton’s back to support him during a sudden burst of vomiting and coughing. “ ’Ere, Bett, got yer water-bottle on yer? P’raps ’e wants a drink.”

  “Sometimes they does it by swallowing soap or something of the sort. ’Ere y’are.” Private Bettson handed over his water-bottle with his usual expression of resigned gloom. “Some of the reg’lars does it—scrimshankin’, that’s what it’s called. Didn’t ’ave no soap about ’im, yer didn’t notice?”

  “Not that I knows of—’e ain’t that sort. ’Appened sudden like, that’s the funny thing about it. Just shoving along the trench we was, time they was crumping a bit this afternoon—”

  “Yes—remember that.” Beard nodded. “ ’Eard ’em round about two o’clock, Y Wood way. Thought yer might be gettin’ it.”

  “That’s it. Bit ’eavy it was, usual sort of stuff. Then one comes pretty near; then all of a sudden ’e falls about and starts this game. Don’t seem to be ’it nowhere, that’s the funny thing about it.”

  Private Bartlett fingered Garton’s back and legs. “Ain’t no blood, not that I can see. Often a bad sign, though, when there ain’t no blood. What d’yer make of it, Tom?”

  “Damned ’ard to say. If it was in South Africa now, I’d ’ave called it ’eat-stroke. In South Africa—”

  “Damn South Africa.” Private Bettson turned round with a savage growl. “You and yer bloody snowballin’ in South Africa. This blasted shellin’, that’s what it is in my opinion—there you are, they’re at it again. Railway Wood, that is. That’s it, those field-guns of ours, that’s what it is—they always starts it.”

  Private Bettson looked round.

  “What the ’ell’s the use of their bangin’ off the way they do? Three rounds a day, that’s all they got, an’ they poops ’em off, and this is what we gets for it. Four bloody ’ours of it today alone.”

  “They was shelling Vlamertinghe this afternoon.” The peaceful Beard usually bore out the remarks of the last speaker. “ ’E doesn’t look so well, not now ’e don’t. Kid o’ mine, ’e was taken once like that. Ever tell yer”—he turned to Bamford—“about that kid o’ mine?”

  “Yes.” Tom Bamford was watching Garton more intently. “Don’t like that blue around ’is lips, yer know. ’Ere’s the bloody Corporal,” under his breath, as the dugout entrance darkened and Corporal Sugger appeared.

  “What’s all this?” said Corporal Sugger, his underlip protruding under his short black moustache. “Where’s the feller? ’Ere, you get up,” as he gave Private Garton a kick.

  “ ’Ere, steady, mate.”

  “Who the ’ell are you, matin’ me? Wounded or shammin’, that’s what I want to know. Come on, yer bastards, ’as he got ’it or not?”

  “No, leastways not that we can see, but—”

  “Then ’e’s shammin’. Bound to get it, with you fellers—always said so. Y’ain’t soldiers—that’s what it is. Get up.”

  Another kick.

  Private Garton moved restlessly.

  “Never you mind ’is mouth.” Corporal Sugger turned to Bartlett, who was wiping some foam from his lips. “That’s an old trick, that is—like spitting blood: don’t take me in, that don’t.”

  “P’raps not, Corporal, but if ’e can’t move’e can’t.”

  “You keep yer bloody mouth shut, or you’ll be for it, too.” Corporal Sugger turned with an added ferocity to his arch enemy, Private Bamford. “ ’Ave you before the officer.”

  “Well, now, I wonder? Seems to me yer’d better get the officer, or doctor, or something; ’tain’t as if we was gettin’ any further. Look at ’im now.”

  Private Garton’s breathing was becoming more laboured. His hands clasped and unclasped spasmodically.

  “Easy enough put on, that is. However”—Corporal Sugger paused a moment—“soon fix ’im, I will. ’Ere, Bettson, you get Trott.”

  The dressing station was near, and within a few minutes the M.O. had taken charge of the case. A talkative fellow, the M.O., a fellow who believed in jollying things up, in putting a cheerful face upon it, in keeping up one’s pecker, in not giving way.

  “That’s it, me lad, soon have you on yer feet. Let’s just feel, here and here. Ah yes, nothing broken—not even scratched as far as I can see. Let’s have a look at his mouth—no, that foam’s nothing—yes—well—” He rapidly slipped a capsule between Private Garton’s lips. “That’ll buck you up. Feel better now, lad? Yes, that’s right.”

  Private Garton had struggled to a sitting position and was looking round.

  “That’s it—that’s right.” A hearty smack upon the back assisted the patient to a more erect posture. “Just keep on like that. Give him a drink of tea—no rum. Got a stretcher case or two, but I’ll be back in half an hour. No, Corporal, he’s not shamming—just a touch of shock—plenty like that. There’s worse things happen at sea. See you soon. Just jolly him up a bit—that’s all he wants.”

  “Told yer ’e wasn’t shammin’. Thank Gawd the Corporal’s gone,” as the dug-out breathed again. “Ought to ’ave known, too, ’cos what Sugger doesn’t know o’ scrimshankin’—Gawd, there ’e’s off again. ’Ere, mate, I don’t like this,” as Bartlett turned to Beard. “Get Trott back.”

  The M.O. had unfortunately decided to jolly up the front-line trenches. Private Beard found the dressing station empty, while the others watched round a scarcely breathing figure.

  “Can’t ’e get the Corporal or something?” Bartlett muttered anxiously. “ ’Ere, mate, ’ave a drink o’ tea. Rub ’is ’ands, Bet—’e seems all cold.”

  “It’s all this bloody shellin’. Wish to Gawd they’d stop. Oh, Gawd, that was near.”

  “Rub ’is ’ands, yer fool.” Bartlett shouted to Bettson above the crashes, “Thank Gawd, ’ere’s the officer. It’s Private Garton, sir; very queer he is, sir. Get inside, sir, quick.”

  “Damned nearly on us. That’s in the next trench.” Freddy Mann dived into the dug-out. “Fit, is it?”

  “Looks like it. The M.O.’s been, but he’s been took worse since.”

  Freddy Mann looked at the motionless figure.

  “Got a glass?”

  “Whaffor, sir? ’Ere y’are—’ere’s Brain’s mirror. This’ll do. ’Tain’t that, is it?”

  “Just hold him. We’ll know in a minute. Can you feel his heart?”

  “No.”

  “His ’ands is very cold, sir.”

  “Can you feel his heart?”

  “No.” Private Bamford bent lower.

  “Like ice, sir, ’is ’ands. Oh, Gawd, this shellin’.”

  “No sign?”

  Private Bamford shook his head.

  “All limp, sir, he seems to be.”

  A minute passed. Freddy Mann took the glass away from the foam-flecked mouth. He examined it carefully at the dug-out entrance.

  “ ’E’s cold all over, sir—’
E’s—”

  “Put a coat over him and shut his eyes. What do you want, Corporal?”

  “Just looked in to see that scrimshanker—oh—” Corporal Sugger paused.

  “Dead, is ’e?”

  “Yes.”

  He took a step forward and looked at the officer and the men.

  “What did he die of?”

  “Joy at seeing yer, yer bastard,” muttered Bettson. The incessant crashes prevented the words from being heard. “How are we to know? He’s dead, that’s all. You’d better get a stretcher.”

  But Corporal Sugger stood motionless, looking at the body.

  “ ’Ow the ’ell was I to know ’e wasn’t shamming? Easy enough. ’Ow was I to know?”

  This was what he’d been waiting for. What the devil did the rain matter? Bill stood outside his dug-out, examining his revolver and adjusting the string of his smoke helmet. The worse the weather, the better for the raid: the Hun wouldn’t expect them on a night like this. It was about time it came off, about time somebody did something. Hanging about in Railway Wood and being whizz-banged in Cambridge Road wouldn’t win the war. If other fellows, like those fellows in the 1st Battalion, were content to sit and smoke, well he wasn’t. Devil of a job he’d had, though, to get the Skipper to agree, and then there’d been all the excitement with the Colonel and the Brigadier, and all the reams of orders and instructions. There was too much talk altogether in this war: why not get on with it, and cut out all the quack? Just a few good chaps like Robbie and Freddy Mann and Jack Malcolm: all they wanted to do was to leave it to them, and they’d soon get it through. He’d know all about it, the pretty Hun, before a few more hours were over. He’d know. Bill got up on the firestep, and peered through the line of stakes into the darkness. There they were, tucked away. Let him get at them, that was all. He’d lived for this long enough—dreamed of it, ever since he’d first joined up. Gad, life wasn’t half worth living with a job like this in hand. Here were Freddy Mann and Robbie, and the Skipper was round there waiting. Now they’d show ’em. Bill laughed aloud as he gave a final hitch to his equipment, and swung through the driving rain along the trench.

  CHAPTER X

  “Any news of the raid?” Private Beard looked up as Dick Bartlett entered, shook the water from his hat and wrung out the bottom of his tunic.

  “None I’ve heard of. Where the ’ell’s my rations? ’Ere, Bett, you swine, you’ve bagged my bully beef.”

  “Tell yer I ain’t—your tin’s over there. ’Ave this, too, if yer wants it. Ain’t they got nothing but this ’ere bloody bully beef?”

  “And can’t you do nothing but grouse about yer grub? Damned sight more than yer ever got when yer was down Limehouse, I’ll be bound. Chuck over the opener, Beard, old son.”

  “Better if it was cooked. But ’ow the ’ell can yer get a fire going, night like this.”

  “Just as well. Remember what ’appened last week, time we made a bit o’ smoke.”

  “Mean when Bob was knocked out? Bit o’ bad luck, that’s all that was. Can’t even do a bit o’ cookin’ now—it’s come to that. Where’s granddad?”

  “Out with the officer, same as usual.”

  “More fool ’im—’e wasn’t asked to go. Ought to know better, old soldier like ’im—’e ought to know.”

  “Always ’angin’ round ’im, yer know ’e is. Watches ’im like a two-year-old. Gawd knows why.”

  “Wants it, p’raps.” Dick Bartlett dug vigorously into the tin between his knees. “Bit of a kid, our officer. But he’s growin’ up. ’Ow’s the kids, Beard?”

  Beard warmed to the one subject that never failed to awaken interest.

  “Ain’t so bad. ’Ad a letter today. Bob’s got a touch o’ croup, and Lil she’s teethin’, but the missus says—’ere, where’s the letter? I’ll read yer what the missus says. Where the ’ell’s that letter? ’Ere, get up, Bett, you’re sittin’ on my letter.”

  “Pity Brains ain’t ’ere—’e’d make something of this bully beef.” Bettson sat immovable, rolling a cigarette. “Gawd’s sake, leave off shoving me about, yer blighter. ’Ow do I know where yer letter is? ’Tain’t even as if it was good bully, because it ain’t. Dish o’ hot Maconochie now—”

  “Or pork and beans—with the pork absorbed into the beans, same as what the good book says.” Bartlett walked to the opening of the dug-out to watch the rain hissing past the sandbags into the black water at his feet.

  “Bloody fools, them fellers that volunteered to go tonight. Don’t suppose they’ll get there. If they do they won’t get back. Like ’ell tonight. ’Ullo, there’s the star shells going up. That’ll be them arriving. That’s it—that’s the machine guns opening from Bellewarde. Wonder who we’ll get if Freddy Mann stops a packet.”

  “Brains, p’raps. ’E’s takin’ a commission soon. Sort o’ feller that ought to. What are they makin’ for?”

  “Corner o’ Bellewarde.”

  “An’ there’s Bavs there. Wurtemburgers. ’Ope they enjoys it, that’s all I can say.”

  “ ’Ere it is,” said Beard. “This is what the missus says. Lil, she says, she’s ’ad a rash, that comes o’ teethin’, the doctor says, and——”

  “Now their bloody guns ’ave opened. That Wytschaete Willy, and there goes Percy over into Pop. Pleasant sort of a night this’ll be before we’re through. Who thought of this blasted raid?”

  “Toler. Who d’yer think did—French or ’Aig?”

  “Show on our own—that it?”

  Dick Bartlett nodded. “Trust ’im for monkeying round and making trouble. Old Uncle was right in that. Remember what ’e used to say about winnin’ the war. ’E was right about that. Too much nonsense Toler talks.”

  “Suppose we all talked it, same as a month ago. Damned green we was.”

  “Damned fools we was to come. Only thing to do now is to carry on quiet and get out quick. Mine’s a left-arm Blighty.”

  “Might shove yer left ’and up above the trench, but they’ve made that court-martial now. Been a bloomin’ wounded ’ero, with a left-hand Blighty last October. Ah well, we’re a bit too late. Gawd, listen to the bloomin’ raid.”

  The dug-out was silent for a minute.

  “What’s that?” asked Private Beard. “Their guns or lightnin’?”

  “Both. There’s the ’ell of a storm just overhead. And what with that, an’ all these guns——”

  “Wonder ’ow they’re gettin’ on? Old Uncle’ll ’ave a tale to tell.”

  “Plenty ’e’s got already—what with South Africa and India. Prize liars ain’t in it with old Uncle. Damned old scoundrel, if ever there was one. But ’e looks after Freddy Mann proper. Say that for ’im, anyway.”

  “ ’Ullo, Corporal, any news?”

  A streaming head appeared at the dug-out entrance.

  “Nope, except the German fleet’s come out at Zillebeke.”

  “Raid, I mean.”

  “No. They’re out there somewhere. Getting it ’ot, too. Back soon I suppose. Don’t mean ter say Bett’s guzzlin’ still?”

  “Thinks it’s ’is duty. That’s what Bett’s ’ere to do, to guzzle. ’Ow many’s out?”

  “Seven. They’ll probably stop a packet or two between them—damned fools to go—just because they’ve found a bomb or two. ’Ullo, what’s up? There’s something ’appening.”

  The others followed Corporal Garside along the flooded trench, towards where dark forms were moving quickly. The rain was white in the light of the star shells and Verey lights, and three separate streams of lead poured overhead.

  “Keep down, yer bastards. They’re comin’ in. Somebody’s bein’ carried: thought as much. Wonder who it is. Anyway, ’tain’t the officer, ’e’s ’ere. Glad to see yer alive, sir. Thought as ’ow yer might ’ave stopped a packet. Anybody ’it, sir?”

  “Yes, Brains. Got it through the leg. We just managed to get him in.” “Is he——?”

  “He’s a gonner, I’m afraid. Where are the str
etcher bearers?”

  “Look ’ere, Corporal.” Private Bettson’s voice was clear above the others in the confusion, as he lumbered up the trench. “What I want to know is, when the ’ell we’re going to ’ave Maconochie instead o’ bully beef?”

  A lifeless form was carried down the trench, past an ex-docker turned soldier, who stood protesting, up to the knees in water, tin in hand.

  CHAPTER XI

  It is better in theory to be in company support than in the front line trench; better to be in battalion reserve somewhere by B.H.Q. than a hundred yards nearer the enemy; better to be in Brigade support at Ypres, than up at Railway Wood or Hooge; better than all to be in Brigade reserve and listen to the machine guns in the distance and watch the fireworks from Elverdinghe or Vlamertinghe. It is so in theory, but in practice it all depends. In the front line trench the majority of the rifle grenades, trench mortars and minnies available on the Western Front tend to be discharged at you, and you are sometimes struck by the resemblance between yourself and a target at the 200 yards range during musketry practice at Ash Ranges. Apart from that, unless an attack is imminent, the chances are that you may be left alone. If you are anywhere near B.H.Q. things tend to happen. Crumps of a heavier variety arrive, cheered by the company in the front line, who listen to them with glee as they sail over to disturb the R.Q.M. from his rations and his well-earned sleep. Also, you are nearer the Colonel, the Adjutant, and the trench-mortar dump, not altogether an unmixed advantage, and the Brigadier, when he visits the line, tends to ask why the devil you aren’t out on trench fatigues instead of hanging about the dug-outs.