Part 7

You may very well chance to stick your hand in the upturned face of a far-gone corpse, as I did my first time out; but if you do so you mustn't shiver--far less grunt--because shivering may make your oilskin coat or something else rustle, and draw fire on you and your party. So a man needs to have his wits about him when he's over the parapet, and the cooler he keeps and the more deliberate are his movements the better for all concerned. One needn't loaf, but, on the other hand, it's rather fatal to hurry, and quite fatal to flurry, especially when you're crawling among wire with loose strands of it and "giant gooseberries" of the prickly stuff lying round in all directions on the ground to catch your hands and knees and hold you up. If you lose your head or do anything to attract attention, your number's pretty well up. But, on the other hand, if you keep perfectly cool and steady, making no sound whatever happens, and lying perfectly flat and still while Boche flares are up or their machine-guns are trying to locate you, it's surprising how very difficult it is for the Hun to get you, and what an excellent chance you have of returning to your own line with a whole skin.

I had an exact compass bearing on the spot we wanted to investigate, taken from the sap on our left from which we were starting. "The Peacemaker" ran his own hands over the men of the party before we climbed out, to make sure everyone had remembered to leave all papers and things of that sort behind. (One goes pretty well stripped for these jobs, to avoid anything useful falling perchance into Boche hands.) We each carried a couple of bombs, the men had knobkerries, and I had revolver and dagger, to be on the safe side. But we were out for information, not scrapping.

It was beautifully dark, and, starting from a sap-head, clear of our own wire, we crossed the open very quickly, hardly so much as stooping, till we were close to the Boche wire, when a burst of machine-gun fire from them sent us to ground. The Companies on each flank in our line had been warned we were out. This is always done to prevent our own men firing at us. Such little fire as was coming from our line was high, and destined for the Boche support lines and communications; nothing to hurt us.

Now, when we began crawling through the Boche wire I made the sort of mistake one does make until experience teaches. I occupied myself far too much with what was under my nose, and too little with what lay ahead--and too little with my compass. To be sure, there's a good deal in the Boche wire which rather forces itself upon the attention of a man creeping through it on hands and knees. The gooseberries and loose strands are the devil. Still, it is essential to keep an eye on the compass, and to look ahead, as well as on the ground under one's nose, lest you over-shoot your mark or drop off diagonally to one side or the other of it. I know a good deal better now. But one has no business to make even one mistake, if one's a "Temporary Officer and Gentleman," because one's men have been taught to follow and trust one absolutely, and it's hardly ever only one's own safety that's at stake.

Suddenly I ran my face against the side of a "giant gooseberry" with peculiarly virulent prongs, and in that moment a bullet whizzed low over my head, and--here's the point--the bolt of the rifle from which that bullet came was pulled back and jammed home for the next shot--as it seemed right in my ear. We all lay perfectly flat and still. I could feel the Sergeant-Major's elbow just touching my left hip. Very slowly and quietly I raised my head enough to look round the side of that "giant gooseberry," and instinct made me look over my right shoulder.

We were less than ten paces from the Boche parapet. The great, jagged black parados, like a mountain range on a theatre drop scene, hung right over my shoulder against a sky which seemed now to have a most deadly amount of light in it. I was lying almost in a line with it, instead of at right angles to it. Just then, the sentry who had fired gave a little cough to clear his throat. It seemed he was actually with us. Then he fired again. I wondered if he had a bead on the back of my head. He was not directly opposite us, but a dozen paces or so along the line.

Now, by the queer twisty feeling that went down my spine when my eyes first lighted on that grim black line of parados just over my shoulder, I guessed how my men might be feeling. "Little blame to them if they show some panic," thinks I. I turned my face left, so as to look down at the Sergeant-Major's over my left shoulder. He'd seen that towering parados against the sky, and heard that sentry's cough and the jamming home of his rifle bolt. By twisting my head I brought my face close to the S.M.'s, and could see that he fancied himself looking right into his own end. I had to think quick. I know that man's mind like the palm of my hand, and I now know his splendid type: the English ex-N.C.O. of Marines, with later service in the Metropolitan Police--a magnificent blend. I also know the wonderful strength of his influence over the men, to whom he is experienced military professionalism, expertness incarnate. At present he felt we had come upon disaster.

"My Gawd, sir!" he breathed at me. "Why, we're on top of 'em!"

That was where I thought quick, and did a broad grin as I whispered to him: "Pretty good for a start--a damn fine place, Sergeant-Major. But we'll manage to get a bit nearer before we leave 'em, won't we?"

It worked like a charm, and I thanked God for the fine type he represents. It was as though his mind was all lighted up, and I could see the thoughts at work in it. "Oh, come! so it's all right, after all. My officer's quite pleased. He knew all about it and it's just what he wanted; so that's all right." These were the thoughts. And from that moment the S.M. began to regard the whole thing as a rather creditable lark, though the pit of his stomach had felt queer, as well it might, for a moment. And the wonderful thing was--there must be something in telepathy, you know--that this change seemed to communicate itself almost instantly to the men--bless their simple souls!--crouched round about behind. I'd no time to think of the grimness of it, after that. A kind of heat seemed to spread all over me from inside, and I had been cold. I think a mother must feel like that when danger threatens her kiddies. The thought in my mind was: "I've brought these fellows here in carelessness. I'll get 'em back with whole skins or I'll die at it."

I never had any Hymn of Hate feeling in my life, but I think I'd have torn half a dozen Boches in pieces with my hands before I'd have let 'em get at any of those chaps of mine that night.

Now I was free; I knew the men were all right. I whispered to the S.M., and very slowly and silently we began to back away from that grim parados. The sentry must have been half asleep, I fancy. My compass showed me we must be forty or fifty yards left of the point in the Boche line we wanted; so as soon as we were far enough back we worked slowly up right, and then a bit in again. And then we found all we'd hoped for. It was a regular redoubt the Boche was building, and he had nearly a hundred men at work, including the long string we saw carrying planks and posts. Some were just sitting round smoking. We could hear every word spoken, almost every breath. And we could see there were sixty or seventy men immediately round the redoubt.

That was good enough for me. All I wanted now was to get my men back safely. I knew "the Peacemaker" had two machine-guns trained precisely on the redoubt. All I wanted was to make sure their fire was all a shade to the left, and every bullet would tell. We should be firing fairly into the brown of 'em; because the little cross communication trench which we had watched them working in was no more than waist-deep; just a short-cut for convenience in night work only. We had 'em absolutely cold. The S.M. told me the men wanted to bomb 'em from where we were. But that was not my game at all.

With the compass bearing I had, getting back was simple. I saw the last man into our sap, and found the O.C. waiting there for me. I'd no sooner given him my news than he was at the guns. We had twenty or thirty rifles levelled on the same mark, too, and, at "the Peacemaker's" signal, they all spoke at once. Gad! it was fine to see the fire spouting from the M.G.'s mouth, and to know how its thunder must be telling.

Four belts we gave 'em altogether, and then whipped the guns down into cover, just as the Boche machine-guns began to answer from all along their line. It was a "great do," as the S.M. said. The men were wildly delighted. They had seen the target; lain and watched it, under orders not to make a sound. And now the pressure was off. Listening now, the Boche guns having ceased fire, our sentries could plainly hear groaning and moaning opposite, and see the lights reflected on the Boche parados moving to and fro as their stretcher-bearers went about their work. A "great do," indeed. And so says your

"_Temporary Gentleman_."

IN BILLETS

You have asked me once or twice about billets, and I ought to have told you more about them before; only there seems such a lot to pick and choose from that when I do sit down to write I seldom get on to the particular story I mean to tell.

And that reminds me, I didn't tell you of the odd thing that happened the night we came out into billets this time. The Boche had finished his customary evening Hymn of Hate, or we thought he had, and while the men were filing into their different billets the C.S.M. proceeded to post our Company guard outside Company Headquarters. He had just given the sentry his instructions and turned away, when Boche broke out in a fresh place--their battery commander's evening sauerkraut had disagreed with him, or something--and half a dozen shells came whistling over the village in quick succession. One landed in the roadway, a yard and a half in front of the newly-posted sentry. Had it been a sound shell, it would have "sent him West"; but it proved a dud, and merely dug itself a neat hole in the macadam and lay there like a little man, having first sent a spray of mud and a few bits of flint spurting over our sentry and rattling against his box.

Now that sentry happened to be our friend Tommy Dodd; and Tommy was about tired out. He'd been on a wiring party over the parapet three parts of the night, taken his turn of sentry-go in the other part; and all day long had been digging and mud-scooping, like the little hero he is, to finish repairing an impassable bit of trench that master Boche had blown in the evening before, to make it safe before we handed over to the Company relieving. He was literally caked in clay from head to foot; eyebrows, moustache, and all; he hadn't a dry stitch on him, and, of course, had not had his supper. It was an oversight that he should have been detailed for first sentry-go on our arrival in billets. I had noticed him marching up from the trenches; he could hardly drag one foot after another. What do you think the shell landing at his feet and showering mud on him extorted from weary Tommy Dodd? I was standing alongside at the time.

"'Ere, not so much of it, Mister Boche! You take it from me an' be a bit more careful like. Silly blighter! Wotjer playin' at? Didn't yer know I was on sentry? Chuckin' yer silly shells about like that! If yer ain't more careful you'll be dirty'n me nice clean uniform nex', an' gettin' me paraded over for bein' dirty on sentry-go!"

It's a pretty good spirit, isn't it? And I can assure you it runs right through; warranted fast colour; and as for standing the wash--well, Tommy Dodd had been up to his middle in muddy water most of the day. The Kaiser may have a pretty big military organisation, but, believe me, Germany and Austria together don't contain anything strong enough to dull, let alone break the spirit of the men of the New Army. The Army's new enough; but the tradition and the spirit are from the same old bin. It isn't altered; and there's nothing better; not anywhere in the world.

And I'm supposed to be telling you about billets!

Well, I told you before, how we took over from another Company; and the same holds good of how the other Company takes over from us in the trenches; and when it's over our fellows file out down the long communication trench, by platoons, with a goodish interval between men, so as to minimise the effect of chance bullets and shells; every man carrying all his own mud-caked goods and chattels, and all in good spirits at the prospects of a little change. Nothing Tommy welcomes so much as change--unless it's the chance of a scrap.

We cannot very well form up and march properly directly we get out of trenches at Ambulance Corner, because Fritz is so fond of directing his field-gun practice there; so we rather straggle over the next quarter of a mile, by platoons, till we come to the little river. It's a jolly little stream, with a regular mill-race of a current, and a nice clear shallow reach close to the bridge, with clean grass alongside. We wade right in and wash boots. Everyone is wearing "boots, trench, gum, thigh," so he just steps into the river and washes the mud off. Then he gets back to the bank, and off with the gum-boots and on with the ordinary marching boots, which have been carried slung round the neck by their laces. The trench boots, clean and shiny now, are handed into store at Brigade Headquarters, ready for our next turn in, for anyone else who wants 'em. In store, they are hung up to dry, you know, for, though no wet from outside will ever leak into these boots (unless they're cut), yet, being water-and air-tight, they get pretty wet inside after a week's turn in trenches, from condensation and the moisture of one's own limbs which has no chance of evaporation. It's the same with the much-vaunted trench-coats, of course; a few hours' wear makes 'em pretty damp inside.

After handing in the boots, we form up properly for marching into the village. Our Company Quartermaster-Sergeant, with a N.C.O. from each platoon, has been ahead a few hours before us, to take over billets from the Q.M.S. of the Company that relieved us; and so each platoon has a guide to meet it, just as in taking over a line of trenches. Either in or close to every billet, there are cellars marked up outside for so many men. These are our bolt-holes, to which every man is instructed to run and take shelter the instant a bombardment begins. "Abri 50 hommes"; or "Cellar for 30 men"; these are the legends you see daubed outside the cellars. And chalked on the gates of the house-yards throughout the village you will see such lines as "30 Men, 'A' Coy."; or "2 Off.'s, 30 Men, 'B' Coy."; and, perhaps, the initials of the regiment.

But when I mention billets you mustn't think of the style in which you billeted those four recruits last spring, you know. By Jove, no! It is laid down that billets in France mean the provision of shelter from the elements. Sometimes it's complete shelter, and sometimes it isn't; but it's always the best the folk can give. In this village, for instance, there are hardly any inhabitants left. Ninety per cent. of the houses are empty, and a good many have been pretty badly knocked about by shells. I have often laughed in remembering your careful anxiety about providing ash-trays and comfortable chairs for your recruits last year; and the trouble you took about cocoa last thing at night, and having the evening meal really hot, even though the times of arrival with your lodgers might be a bit irregular. It's not _quite_ like that behind the firing line, you know.

In some places the men's billets are all barns, granaries, sheds and stables, cow-houses, and the like. Here, they are nearly all rooms in empty houses. As for their condition, that, like our cocoa of a night, and cooking generally, is our own affair. In our Division, discipline is very strict about billets. They are carefully inspected once or twice during each turnout by the Commanding Officer, and every day by the O.C. Company and the Platoon Commanders. We have no brooms, brushes, or dusters, except what we can make. But the billets have to be very carefully cleaned out twice a day, and there must be no dirt or crumbs or dust about when they are inspected. Even the mire of the yards outside has to be scraped and cleared away, and kept clear; and any kind of destruction, like breaking down doors or anything of that sort, is a serious crime, to be dealt with very severely. The men thoroughly understand all this now, and the reason of it; and they are awfully good. They leave every place cleaner and better than they found it.

In the same way it has been strictly laid down that in their attitude towards the inhabitants the men must be scrupulous. And, by Jove, they are! Wherever our troops are you will find men in khaki helping the women with their washing, drawing water, feeding stock, bringing in cows, getting in wood, and all such matters; and if our fellows haven't much French, I can assure you they are chattering in some sort of a language most of the time. And if all this is incomprehensible to the good Frenchwomen, how is it that the latter respond with so lively a chatter, and why are they always smiling and laughing the while--even when one sees that in their eyes which tells more plainly than the mourning they wear of sacrifices they have made in the service of France? Come to think of it, do you know, that sums up the attitude of all the French women I have met, and of the old men of France, too; and it's an attitude which compels respect, while it elicits sympathy. They smile with their lips, and in the brave hearts of them they smile, too; even though they cannot altogether hide either the wearing anxiety of waiting, or, where bereavement has come, the grief of mourning for brave men lost, which shows in their eyes.

In the first convenient archway handy to our billets you will find the Company's field cooker. You have seen them trailing across the Plain down Salisbury way on field days--the same old cookers. The rations come there each day, from the Battalion Q.M. store, three miles away; and there the men draw them in their cooked form at meal-times. In every village there is a canteen where men buy stuff like chocolate, condensed milk, tinned café-au-lait, biscuits, cake, and so forth.

In the day-time, when there are no carrying fatigues, we have frequent inspections, and once the first day out of trenches is past, every man's equipment has to be just so, and himself clean-shaven and smart. We have a bath-house down near the river, where everyone soaks in huge tubs of hot water; and in the yard of every billet you will find socks, shirts, and the like hanging out to dry after washing. By 8.30 at night all men not engaged in carrying fatigues have turned in. During the week out of trenches we get all the sleep we can. There are football matches most afternoons, and sing-songs in the early evenings. And all and every one of these things are subject to one other thing--strafe; which, according to its nature, may send us to our cellars, or to the manning of support trenches and bridge-head defences.

With regard to the officers, our batmen cook our grub, moderately well or atrociously badly, according to their capacity. But, gradually, they are all acquiring the soldierly faculty of knocking together a decent meal out of any rough elements of food there may be available. More often than not we do quite well. Our days are pretty much filled up in looking after the men, and in the evenings, after supper, we have their letters to censor, our own to write, if we are energetic enough, and a yarn and a smoke round whatever fire there may be before turning in; after which the Boche artillery is powerless to keep us awake. At this present moment I doubt whether there's another soul in "A" Company, besides myself, who's awake, except the sentry outside headquarters. And I shall be asleep in about as long as it takes me to sign myself your

"_Temporary Gentleman_."

BOMBARDMENT

The day before we came back into trenches I meant to have written you, but the chance didn't arise. Now we have been in just twenty-four hours, and though the time has gone like lightning, because one has been on the jump all the while, yet, looking back, it seems ever so long since we were in billets. A good deal has happened.

For the first time since we've been out here we took over in broad daylight yesterday afternoon, and I've never known Fritz so quiet as he was. Not only were there no shells, but very few bullets were flying while we were taking over, and the ----s were clearing out for their week in billets. We had everything in apple-pie order and the night's duties mapped out, stores checked, and ammunition dished out--the extra night supply I mean--before tea, and were just thinking how remarkably well-behaved the Boche was and what a great improvement it was to take over by daylight. And then the band played!

I had been counting the supply of bombs in the Company grenade store, and was in the act of setting my watch by Taffy's, standing there in the trench at a quarter to five, when, with a roar, shells landed in six different parts of our line; not in the trench, you know, but somewhere mighty close handy. Of course, you might say there was nothing very startling about half a dozen shells landing near us, especially as nobody was hit. And that's true. But there was something queer about it, all the same. We both felt it. Taffy looked at me, and I looked at him, and "Oho!" said Taffy. And I entirely agreed.

Perhaps it was partly the unusual quietness that had come before. Anyhow, we both started at the double for Company Headquarters, and I know we both had the same idea--to see whether "the Peacemaker" wanted the word passed for everyone to take cover in such artillery shelters as we have now in this sector; and, mind you, they're miles better than they were when we first took over.

But, bless your heart! we needn't have bothered getting word about it from the O.C. Before we got near the Company dug-out the men were seeing to that for themselves, as they have been taught to do, and the trenches were empty except, of course, for the sentries and their reliefs, who, with the observation officer, would remain at their posts even if the bottom fell out of the world.

Such a raging frenzy of fire as there was when we met "the Peacemaker," outside the signallers' cabin, you never could imagine in your life, not if I wrote about it all night. One knows now that, on the average, there were not more than ninety projectiles per minute coming over us. But at the time, I assure you, it seemed there must be about ten a second, and that shells must be literally jostling each other in the air. Apart from anything else, the air was full of falling earth, wood, and barbed wire. It was clear they had begun by ranging on our parapet and entanglements. The oddest things were falling apparently from the sky--bits of trench boots, bully beef tins, shovel handles, stakes six feet long, lengths of wire, crumpled sheets of iron, and all kinds of stuff.