Pass Guard at Ypres Page 7

  “Cheer-oh!”

  How the devil did he manage to keep his voice so natural in this filthy row? He was just exactly the same as if he was at Aldershot.

  “Just came along to see if all was O.K. here. You all right?” He was talking a bit more slowly. Well, of course, he would. But that was all.

  “Yes. We’re all right.”

  “Lost many?”

  “Three for certain. None in the last half-hour.”

  Robbie nodded and paused, looking up the hill to Hooge.

  “Pretty thick up—up there: it’s worse than here. They’ve got machine guns from Hooge as well. It looks as if they’re coming.”

  Freddy Mann tried to lick his lips, but his tongue was sticky. He made a praiseworthy attempt to swallow some moisture that wasn’t there.

  “About as nasty a night as any that we’ve had.”

  Freddy Mann swallowed again.

  “Do you think—anything is up?”

  “Dunno. Toler thinks there may be. And Harry’s in a filthy temper—that’s usually a sign of something.”

  “Wonder why they shoved us in the line?”

  “Give the other chaps a rest probably. Ten days of it they’ve had on end. Up to us, I suppose, to take the bowling. They’re getting it pretty bad up there. Getting in must have been the devil of a job on a night like this. Well.” He glanced round and back at Freddy Mann. “Suppose I’d better get along and see about our rations. Think I’ll go back this way,” as he clambered up into No Man’s Land. “Just see if all’s O.K. along the wire. Biggs seems happy enough.” He nodded towards the figure in the tumbled sap-head. “So long. I’ll be just along here—if anything should happen: it’s a sticky sort of night.”

  Robbie nodded casually and passed along towards the road. With him there seemed to Freddy Mann to vanish one of the few hopes of sanity that remained. Robbie seemed to take all this as natural. He was older, of course; perhaps that made the difference. For himself he’d have to stick it out, but it wasn’t easy, as his head was dancing a bit, and he kept on shivering and feeling funny whenever a shell came near. What was the use of calling this “standing up to bowling”? You could stand up to bowling all right, when you had a chance, but out here, if you weren’t shot through the head like Ark-wright, you were blown to bits like Ford and Graveson were last week, and all the time there were those poor swine of Tommies depending on you, so you couldn’t say what you felt, and all these corpses and blood and things about, just because the Staff said they had to stick it out in front of Ypres, which everybody knew was a damned silly thing to do, with these crumps pouring down and the earth rocking—and now what the hell was up? He leaned forward over the parapet as some new devilry broke out at Hooge, accompanied by redoubled machine-gun fire, flicker and fall of starlights, and between them arches of fire that seemed to rise into the heavens and fall in lines of sparks to earth just where the front line companies must be.

  “What the hell——”

  “Steady, lad, now steady. Are you ready here?”

  Freddy Mann turned to face his Company Commander.

  “Is it an attack?”

  “Think so. It’ll be all right, lad. Just keep steady. Yes, there’s the S.O.S. and that’s our guns: just stick it. Keep ’em steady. All right?”

  “Yes—but what the devil’s that?”

  “Dunno—damned if I know, to tell you the truth. Might be anything—new star shells or something. Been watching it for the last few minutes, matter o’ fact. It’s——”

  He looked again, a little puzzled. He was a conscientious, rather fussy Regular soldier, well versed in his job and in military history; but his mentality, and, as it proved, his knowledge of human nature had its limits: he could not know that at that moment men were screaming, cutting their throats with bayonets and blowing their brains out, while their flesh was being gnawed and stripped from their bones by liquid fire.

  Why didn’t Corporal Sugger get up? What was the use of lying squealing at the bottom of a trench? Hadn’t he often said that the one thing he wanted to do was to see a Hun? Hadn’t he often told ’em all about exactly what he was going to do with ’em when he met ’em? This was his chance. He wouldn’t have a better chance than this. Didn’t he want to see them? There they were to see, coming on like grey ants, shoving along past their left towards Zouave Wood, dozens of ’em, hundreds—ants growing bigger all over the ground with some khaki chaps being driven along in front of them. They weren’t advancing in very good order, but they were coming nearer. Somehow they’d got to stop them. Whatever happened they mustn’t get into the trenches, Townroe said. But the shelling didn’t seem to stop them, or the machine guns: the more that fell the more it seemed came on over the crest by Hooge. The companies there hadn’t stopped them: they were getting round behind them now. He could even hear the men cheering and shouting between the bursts of shell fire: first time he’d seen them in all these weeks, first time almost it really seemed to him that they were real. Why couldn’t they stop and give them just a moment—only fair, after all that shelling, to give them just a breathing space. But you couldn’t expect much from chaps who’d go and pour fire over people, like that fellow from Hooge said they’d done up there. This was the end, perhaps. Bit too fast, this bowling. They’d got to be stopped, Townroe said, and they kept on coming on, so—hullo he was coming for him, that fellow, making a bee-line straight at him through the wire. Well, here’s for the revolver. Might get him. He hadn’t practised much with his revolver, but it was the only chance—oh, damned good shot, that. That was Bamford. Always a good chap, Bamford. They seemed to be stopping a bit now at last. Didn’t blame ’em, with so many hanging on the wire, and others lying on their backs and squirming about all over the place and crawling through the grass. There were no more coming, either, now. Our machine guns—that’s what it was, those M.M.G. fellows and Robbie’s Lewis gun. Oh, damned good if they’d stopped them. Bit of a mess they’d made though. Look at this one fire-bay, or what used to be a fire-bay, and Beale and Holter sprawling dead across the parapet, and Price bleeding to death in that corner, and Howell groping about as if he couldn’t see—just Bamford and himself left, and Sugger squealing and lying on his face. He’d be shot for cowardice most likely. Here was Harry coming. He’d fix him. Damned fool he was to carry on like that. You didn’t stop the Hun by lying at the bottom of a trench, shrieking and calling out for God. Fool he’d look, when he got up again and he found that while he’d been lying there they’d stopped the Hun. Yes, here come the shells again. They wouldn’t be shelling those trenches if they hadn’t known the attack had failed. Good bit of work, that, to have stopped the Hun. Never mind the shelling. They’d stopped——

  An hour to go. Glad he’d got back from the dressing station in time after that crack on the head in the trench yesterday morning. Hadn’t known much about yesterday, and what he had was apparently all wrong. It wasn’t at them at all that they were going, but at those fellows on the left. They’d had a pretty thin time, his crowd, up in the air all day and fired at from front and side and rear. One way of sleeping through it, anyway, to get knocked out by a bit of shell and be for six hours unconscious in a dug-out. Getting back to Sanctuary Wood last night was about the first thing he remembered. Now they were there, why the devil did they leave it? Damned silly idea, attacking Hooge by daylight. Putting the whole Brigade in, were they? Jolly few there’d be left this time tomorrow. Silly to leave a place like this. Not much to look at, with half the trees down and shells crashing into it every few minutes, but it was better than the open; they could move about here, and a fly couldn’t move out there without being pipped. No dog’s chance of getting across the open this afternoon, any more than those other poor swine had of getting across the Menin Road upon their left. Harry had practically said so, and it was easy to guess what Townroe thought. Chucking away men like this, good chaps all of them, fellows he’d got to know well, fellows like Beale and Price and Holter. Hadn’t got Robbie,
though, or Bamford—glad of that, as he glanced at Bamford, looming heavily by his side and putting a stray bullet away in his pouch. One hour—he was still feeling sick and dizzy, and suddenly Bamford’s figure seemed to dance and disappear, and in place of it the bullet grew ever larger and larger, till at last it filled the trench before him, a gigantic dark pointed mass spread across the scarred earth and trees, with a number which he could not quite decipher in blood and figures round the base. He felt for his “cold mutton ticket”—second Lieutenant Frederick Drydale Mann, No. 45231. Good luck to it! One hour to go.

  If only they could see the bottom of that tree. Two hundred yards more, and they could get to the crest and see it. If it was possible, they’d do it, but it was just as Bamford had said, just like Magersfontein over again. Shove on, though. Robbie was shoving on, and there was Townroe and Toler out in front, and Bill’s crowd on his right. Shove on; it didn’t matter about the other bullets, didn’t particularly matter now even if that one came along—getting there was all that mattered. But they couldn’t do it. Just about here was where the first wave had stuck. Nearby those leading platoons lay all in rows. Here was Hooker, a shell seemed to have got him pretty badly. Let’s see if they could get a little further—just a yard further, just for the sake of doing it. Get up, Johnson. If you must fall, don’t fall on your bayonet. Oh you can’t get up; that’s one less. How’s that on Kaye’s theory? All right, but it’s the getting on that’s difficult. Nobody seems to be getting any further now. Townroe’s stopped, they’ve all stopped. Perhaps they’ll go on when the Hun has fired all his ammunition. But there won’t be many left. Nice job for Scribner, making out the casualty lists tonight. Back, is it? Withdraw, not retire, don’t forget that—no such order as retire today. Withdraw sounds better—but retire or withdraw, they’ve got to go back the way they came. Bloody fool, the Corps Commander. Pity he wasn’t here to enjoy it all himself. Get back—they’d damned well take Hooker and Johnson with them. Shove Johnson on your back, Bamford; I’ll look after Hooker. Tell Bettson to fix up Biggs—no chance for him, if he’s left out here: give me his rifle. We’ll get back somehow, many as we can, to Sanctuary Wood. Can’t miss the way. There’s bodies all the way back to show us. Wonder if there’s any rum left in Sanctuary Wood. Not the way it worked out last year by Cæsar’s Camp or on Laffan’s Plain. Things don’t often go as they should in front of Ypres. All right, Bamford, you can put him down now; we’re back in Sanctuary Wood. He’s dead, is he? Perhaps he was dead when we picked him up. But we’ll stop the rats or Huns from getting him tonight.

  “Beat up the band, for God’s sake.” They were ready now, all fallen in. There wouldn’t be any more, however long they waited. No use counting them over again. Thirty-two made thirty-two and why shouldn’t a company have thirty-two? “A” Company only had six, and “B” Company ten, so why worry if “C” Company had thirty-two. He’d done well, had Freddy Mann; he’d brought fourteen out alive. No more to come—get on. Robbie was here and Toler and Bill and Harry—they were all ready except the band. There were plenty, too, to make a band. Give Baines a drum, and bugles to Hall and Grimes, they could blow bugles and Grimes could hobble along somehow, because it had missed his knee. Townroe was here now, and Toler on his horse, riding up and down beside them, riding damned badly, and blocking half the traffic outside the Goldfish Château. Never mind that, the traffic would have to look after itself for once. There was the G.O.C. watching, and half the Staff, and here were some fellows of the 1st who’d strolled across from Dickebusch to see them. They were all ready, and they could form fours just as well with thirty-two men as with 200. Might have given them buses, perhaps, to get them back, but as they hadn’t it didn’t matter; back on their own they’d go, the band was all they wanted. Buck up the band. Shove in Fyles, if you want another bugle—double up, Fyles, they want you for a bugle, and you’ve got as much breath left as anybody, put your head up, that’s the way. That’s it now, drumsticks crossed, bugles ready, Townroe up in front and Robbie just behind him with three rows of fours between. Now for it—“Tipperary,” that’s the tune—just what they want, this, to help them keep the step. Oh, keep step, for God’s sake, Bettson. You’ve stopped the Hun and you’re going back to rest. I know you’re pretty well all in, but keep step, old son, same as the rest of us. Let’s all keep step—that’s it, heads up. Sing—damned crowd of scarecrows, and we didn’t do all we wanted, but we’re off back now to St. Jan-ter-Biezen and we’ve stopped the Hun.

  CHAPTER XIII

  Captain Freddy Dale sipped his whisky and regarded rather fixedly the officer who faced him, toying with pencil and paper and looking at him with indifferent gaze. If it were possible to credit such a thing of so finished a production of Camberley, it would almost have appeared as if Captain Dale were nervous at the prospect of the forthcoming interview. The situation was admittedly difficult, especially as Captain Dale, in addition to his determination to fulfil his duties as Corps representative, was conscious of the obligation laid upon him as a human being to give some inkling of the feeling that existed up at Proven. It would hardly be fair to let this Colonel, who seemed a sufficiently good fellow, go blundering on to his fate in the fond belief that all was well, when as a matter of fact, in the eyes of the Corps Commander, all was very far from well. So far, Colonel Townroe had remained regrettably unresponsible to his openings. He would lift up his head a little, look at him rather vaguely, pass the whisky or the cigarettes over and wait for him to speak. Well, as things were, let the human touch come afterwards: he couldn’t well go wrong if he stuck to the mission on which he had been sent.

  “It is just, you understand, Colonel, that the Corps Commander wishes to get a clear picture in his mind of what was happening: and you were on the spot. Can you tell me exactly what was happening, say at four o’clock that afternoon, before—er—the order came to withdraw to Sanctuary Wood?”

  “We were being potted at—that’s about all there is to it.”

  “And about 6 p.m. the order came to withdraw?”

  “Yes.”

  “From Brigade?”

  “From Brigade or the War Office. It came, anyway. Have a drink?”

  “Thanks. Well——” Freddy Dale’s note book was in his hand. “Was it in your opinion—strictly necessary?”

  Colonel Townroe raised his eyebrows.

  “May I put it this way—if you had been in sole command, without any possibility of receiving orders—I put the case quite hypothetically—would you have—er—withdrawn?”

  Colonel Townroe’s eyes narrowed a trifle. He made no reply.

  “You see——” Freddy Dale struck a match and held it a moment before lighting a cigarette. “The Corps Commander feels——”

  “The Corps Commander wasn’t there.”

  “The Corps Commander feels,” he repeated with some decision, “that it might have been possible——” He stopped.

  “Well, go on. What does the Corps Commander feel?”

  The Corps Commander’s feelings were, it appeared, definite and explicit. The Corps Commander had made a careful study of the situation from the beginning, from the launching of the attack. He had scrutinised personally all reports and orders that had come into his hands, and had questioned at some length some twenty-seven eye-witnesses, including three prisoners who had been brought to Proven that morning. He had, of course, taken the G.O.C. and brigadiers concerned into the fullest consultation before coming to his decision, but his decision, although he, Captain Dale, regretted to have to announce it, was that——”

  “We ratted?”

  Freddy Dale waved a deprecatory hand. No such thought he was sure was consciously in the minds of any of them, but in view of all the circumstances, it would appear that perhaps the position, both at Hooge and before Sanctuary Wood, was abandoned with undue haste, and without due regard——

  “That’s all very well, but what about our casualties? Do you know what we are losing?”

  Freddy D
ale was now on firmer ground. The Corps Commander was of opinion, with which he was sure that all would agree, that there were occasions upon which less regard must be paid to casualties than normally was the case. There were crises in trench warfare, as in all forms of warfare, in which prime regard must be paid, not to the toll of human life that was being exacted, but to the requirements of the situation, the morale of the remaining troops, the honour of the regiment.

  “This affair,” Captain Dale continued in more confident tones, “has left an unfortunate impression. I tell you this, you understand, as between ourselves. It does not fall within my official duties.” He paused before he continued.

  “Yes, yes. Go on.”

  “Very well, then, if I may speak openly, it has tended to create the impression at Corps and elsewhere that the value of Kitchener’s Army as a fighting unit has been exaggerated. It is the first affair of any consequence in which a division of the New Army has been engaged. Notice has necessarily been taken of it, reports have been called for from G.H.Q. and from the War Office, and it stands to reason that the nature of those reports——”