Part 2

Up and up went the first line. The subaltern watched it with a throbbing heart. It opened its files as it went, and, when nearly to the crest, broke into a steady run. It reached the summit. For a moment it showed black against the sky. Now? Nothing. The line disappeared over the hill. The second line mounted, doubled, showed against the sky and instantly a crowd of smoke-puffs leaped into the air above it. He saw tiny figures knocked all ways to the ground and immediately afterwards a run of sharp crashes came to his ears. The line disappeared over the hill, leaving behind figures that lay still and figures that tried to crawl out of the way of the third line. He watched them, fascinated, through his glasses. The third line advanced, undaunted. The crowd of smoke-puffs broke out again ere it reached the summit and continued while it passed. When it had gone, the subaltern noted an increase in the number of prostrate figures. Behind him more infantry collected in the field but no more advanced. The hostile shrapnel continued to burst over an empty hill-side. Presently it ceased. From the other side of the hill arose a furious, feverish crackling, noticeable even in the general uproar. The battery waited for it knew not what.

Slightly wounded men began to trickle down the hill-side. One passed close to the subaltern, lurching unsteadily. He was bleeding profusely from a wound in the head. He stopped, swaying from side to side, and looked at the lieutenant with a glare of idiocy. "Hell," he said with sombre simplicity, "Hell," and then went on without waiting for a reply. The lieutenant was inexpressibly shocked. It made him feel ill. He turned and saw the wounded man walking like one blind, hands out, across the field. The one word, "Hell," rang in his ears. He nibbled at another biscuit to steady his stomach. "Pretty rotten that," he said to himself, striving to get rid of the sensation by classifying it. "Rotten."

Then the orders came. The gun-teams dashed up and in a few moments the battery was moving at speed to its left across the meadows. Its route was a diagonal directed on the ridge. It went in all haste. Its half-depleted wagons had been replaced by full ones from the first lines. The subaltern felt that he was rushing towards a crisis. He was strangely exhilarated as he galloped on towards a line of trees that rose to the ridge at right angles. A gate showed in the line of trees and beyond the gate a road. The battery slackened speed, dashed through the gate, vehicle after vehicle, and turned to the right towards the ridge. The road was narrow, walled with high hedges and overhanging elms. It mounted to a shrub-filled notch on the height. There the battery was halted. The half-filled wagons now composing the first line drew into cover. The battery-commander and several men rode on. The battery waited, screened by the wooded crest of the hill. From the unseen landscape in front arose an appalling tumult of sound. It was like the noise of a colossal conflagration; the roar of flames, and the crackle of burning woodwork enormously magnified.

Suddenly the battery moved on again. Quickly it mounted the crest and dipped down on the other side. Again a gate on the right hand and in a moment the battery was racing at full speed across a stubble-field. A hundred yards ahead galloped the commander. To their left was open country, full of sound. Above them, over the ridge upon their right, a run of sharp explosions broke out. The subaltern heard them without heeding. He shouted encouragement to his men as they dashed across the field, though his voice was scarcely audible to himself. He was in a whirl of excitement. Life hung on every second.

"Halt!" The guns stopped, were unlimbered and reversed in an instant. The teams raced back to cover. The wagons dashed up beside their guns. Around them one or two shells burst harmlessly upon the ground, like the first heavy raindrops which precede the storm. It broke. Overhead the sky collapsed with a fearful crash. The subaltern saw a myriad spouts of dust leap up from the stubble, saw his most trusted sergeant fall like a sack across the gun-trail. There was another riving crash overhead. The subaltern turned to hear an order megaphoned from the sergeant-major at the end of the line. "Guns in Action--Just below Church." He whipped out his glasses, focussed quickly for the church, saw a row of pin-points of flame flicker along a hedge. A moment later the air in front of him was shaken by a group of crashes, followed on the instant by a long, high-pitched drone. In the middle of it he heard the megaphone. "3350 yards--Corrector 140." The men worked desperately at the guns, like sailors in a blinding storm. The shrapnel beat down among them like hail, ringing on the shields. "Section Control." The subaltern gave the order. "Fire!" The whole battery fired swiftly, his guns among the first. He watched the distant hedge below the church through his glasses, saw a crowd of smoke-puffs burst over it even as the flame-points flickered again. He shouted an alteration of the corrector and his voice was swallowed by the crash of the hostile shells. Again the shrapnel droned, flicked up the dust around him. He heeded it not. He saw a man roll over with a shell in his hands. He sprang to him, seized the shell, thrust it into the breech without the loss of a second. Rapidly the guns fired. Away to his right he heard the quick detonations of the other guns and again the crash of bursting shrapnel. He gazed again at the distant hedge. It was a duel between that battery and his. Extinction was the portion of the one which failed in speed and accuracy. With a savage thrill he saw a high shaft of flame spout up behind the hedge. A shell--he claimed it as his--had plumped into an ammunition wagon and exploded. Wrought to fever-pitch, the artillery-men loaded and fired. A cloud of dust hung about each gun, obscuring the view, stabbed every few seconds by a sharp thrust of flame. Down the hill-side the smoke of shrapnel which had burst too low drifted close to the ground like steam from a passing locomotive. Away in the distance, along that hedge--the men in the battery saw only that, were oblivious to all else--a cloud of smoke gathered, grew thicker every instant. Under it the pin-points of flame flickered with ever longer intervals between the flashes. Over the battery on the hill the shrapnel burst with less and less of noise, less and less of accuracy. The subaltern exulted. They were getting the upper hand. He yelled stimulation to his men. His two guns fired faster even than before, raining shells at the hedge. Suddenly he was aware that the hostile shrapnel had ceased. Behind the hedge he saw a cloud of dust arise. Their enemy was retiring at speed. He altered the range, flung shells into the dust-cloud until it disappeared. "Battery Control--Stand fast." The guns ceased fire.

The subaltern turned to look at what he believed to be the wreckage of his battery. It was littered with dead and dying men. A wagon lay on its side, was being righted as he looked at it. Men pulled away a body from underneath. Every vehicle in the line, guns and wagons, was pock-marked with splashes of lead. The shield of one gun had been neatly perforated by a shell and the crew of that gun lay about it as they had been dispersed by the explosion. Their clothes were still on fire. The subaltern was staring stupidly at them when the lieutenant who never carried cigarettes approached. He opened his mouth to speak--no doubt to ask for another cigarette--when suddenly his expression changed to a sickly smile and he pitched forward. The subaltern turned round in a flash of savage anger. This was murder. They had finished fighting----

"Infantry advancing across stream--1800 yards," came the stentorian voice of the sergeant-major. The subaltern understood as he ran back to his guns. It was to repel the infantry that they were there. The duel with the other battery was merely an episode. He looked down into the valley below him, saw that it was filled with little grey figures. A stream bisected the mass. They were advancing quickly, in rushes, apparently without opposition. Some of the foremost were lying down, firing at the height. Below him, from origins that were hidden by a fold of the ground, rose the noise of a fierce and sustained rifle fire. The battery got to work again. Methodically, evenly, it sprayed that advancing horde with shrapnel. Other batteries, invisible to them, were helping, for a larger number of shells burst over the foe than they accounted for. The vicious little puffs of smoke multiplied. The subaltern watched their effect with cool, unemotional interest. It was like striking into a mass of ants. Numbers sprawled; the multitude was undiminished. He hurled his thunderbolts upon them like a god, himself serenely unassailable. A half-contemptuous pity for them arose in him but did not interfere with the exact performance of his duties. The men at the guns laughed.

Suddenly, without warning, the air above him was riven with a triple crash. The familiar drone followed, was blotted out by a second violent detonation. Gusts of smoke blew across the sky. A hail of shrapnel bullets kicked up the dust, pattered on the guns. His cap was knocked from his head by an invisible hand. A man at the gun sprang up, performed a grotesque parody of a dervish-dance, twirled with outstretched arms, and collapsed. Another sat for a second with both hands to his head and fell back. For a moment the service of the guns was suspended. The subaltern ran towards it, shouting. The diminished crew bent grimly to their task. The overhead crashes of the shrapnel came down in one continuous detonation. The bullets rained down upon them in heavy showers. The hostile artillery had got their range exactly. Where were they? The subaltern searched the distance for gun-flashes. He saw none. Their enemy was invisible, snugly tucked away somewhere. It would have profited little to have discovered them. His orders were to fire at the infantry and at the infantry his two guns fired, as fast as depleted squads could serve them. The rest of the battery fired likewise. He did not see how many guns were still in action, could not spare a moment to look. His attention was held by the swarm of advancing figures. The hail of shrapnel was an agony at the back of his consciousness; he ignored it, resolutely.

Suddenly a horse pitched and rolled, kicking violently, at his feet. It startled him. He had not seen it arrive. A man disengaged himself from the struggling animal, stood up and shot it dead with his revolver. It was the captain.

"In--command--at the infantry--section control--carry on," he panted, and ran to his place at the end of the line.

The battery commander was killed then! The thought flashed across his mind, was lost in the urgent business of the moment. He shortened the range, altered the corrector, aiming at the nearer edge of the approaching infantry. A moment later three or four men arrived at a sprint and reported themselves. The subaltern heard without emotion that more had started, would never arrive. He detailed them. The discharges of the guns followed faster.

How long this phase lasted the subaltern never knew. Ordinary standards of time could not measure that nightmare where he constantly shortened the range, hurled unavailing thunders at an inexorably advancing flood. He remembered the moment of agony when he saw that they were running out of ammunition, the joyous relief when the first-line ammunition-wagons raced up and stopped at the right hand of the guns. Under a pall of smoke from the bursting shells he saw his gun-crews dwindling, each man doing the work of two, of three. Once a heavy explosion on the ground attracted his attention. It was the commencement of a series. Choking fumes, now black, now yellowish, drifted over him. A howitzer battery had joined their assailants, was firing high explosive. Exasperated, he searched the distances for a glimpse of the hostile guns. He saw no sign of them. They were being overwhelmed, as they themselves had overwhelmed the battery he had not seen, by foes whose concealment he could not even guess at.

Suddenly--how, he knew not--the word was passed to him: "In command." He ran to the end of the line, found the sergeant-major crouching behind the wagon-limber. Blood was running from a diagonal bullet-score across his face. Close by were the bodies of his predecessors in command.

"Four guns in action, sir," said the sergeant-major. "Brigade commander's orders: 'Hold our ground.'"

"How long ago?" queried the subaltern.

"Some time," was the reply. "Not sure--but think the colonel and staff are killed, sir."

The subaltern looked along the line of guns, frowned at the tiny groups of gunners.

"Where's the observing party?"

"At the guns, sir."

"Rangetakers? Horseholders?" He had to shout to be heard in the continuous crashing of the shells.

"At the guns. Every man in action, sir, except with the horses under cover."

The subaltern took in the situation, glanced at the advancing infantry. Despite the efforts of the battery the nearer of them had got close, were now hidden by a fold in the ground. From that fold of ground came a frenzy of rifle-fire and, he fancied, shouts and cries. With despair in his heart, he determined to "hold his ground." Veiled in dust and smoke his four guns fired irregularly but rapidly.

A tumult of noise broke out to his right, almost behind him.

"Outflanked?" he queried at the top of his voice. The sergeant-major nodded.

At the same moment he saw a swarm of brown infantry come over the fold of ground in front of him. Disaster followed disaster. A high-explosive shell swallowed one of his precious guns with an awful explosion of flame and smoke. A soot-faced man ran up and shouted to him that the wagon-supply was all but exhausted. Only the gun-limbers remained. The subaltern glanced at the defeated infantry surging towards them. His jaw set hard with a fierce resolve.

"Call up the teams," he shouted.

The sergeant-major signalled to the hill. A moment later the limbers were racing over the shell-swept field. The survivors of the battery sighed with relief as they fired away their last shells.

* * * * *

Far off upon a height the divisional artillery commander was watching them through his glasses. "Why isn't that battery withdrawn?" he asked irritably. He turned to give an order, then checked himself. "No, it's too late," he said. He continued to watch them.

* * * * *

The guns were limbered up in a storm of shells. The subaltern threw himself upon a horse that came handy. The detachments waited for the order to retire.

"The battery will _advance_--in line!--Gallop!" he yelled.

He spurred his horse straight for the infantry. Behind him his three guns bumped and leaped over the inequalities of the stubble-field. Onward they raced. They tore through the approaching infantry as though they were mere phantoms, regardless of those that fell before their rush. Overhead the shrapnel burst less frequently. They hurled themselves down into a depression and up again on the rise of a little ridge. One or two brown soldiers were lying prone on it and firing rapidly.

"Halt!--Action front!--At the infantry!--Point blank!" yelled the subaltern.

In front were the grey-uniformed soldiers, swarms of them, not a hundred yards away, rushing on them with gleaming bayonets. Working like madmen, the artillery-men reversed the guns, loaded, aimed, fired. Again and again the guns spoke. The squads worked like men doomed, anxious only to take toll for their own lives. The shells, set to zero, burst almost at the muzzles of the guns. Their bullets tore through the groups of infantrymen, mowed them down. They seemed to melt away. Behind him the subaltern heard a loud cheer. The beaten infantry were being rallied, led again to the attack.

In front of his guns the enemy surged forward, only to be swept away. Hesitation was manifest among them. Men turned and ran back. The rearward movement spread. He exulted in their confusion. As his guns fired their last rounds, a line of brown infantry rushed past them with a mighty shout, their bayonets levelled at the charge. The grey infantry broke and fled.

The subaltern looked round, wiping the acrid smoke-grit from his eyes. Behind him, down the hill-side where his battery had fought, masses of brown infantry were advancing. The tide had turned.

* * * * *

Far away, the divisional artillery commander took his glasses from his eyes. "By G--d! that chap's saved 'em!" he said. He wrote out an order and despatched it.

* * * * *

The subaltern stood by his line of silent guns, watching the fight roll away from him. He felt atrociously hungry and thirsty. His water-bottle was empty. He felt for the biscuits in his pocket. There was not one. He wiped his hand across his mouth and there was biscuit-dust upon the back of it. Then he cursed in bitter disappointment. He could not forgive himself for having eaten those biscuits, as it were in his sleep.

Presently an order came and he drew the remnant of his battery out of action.

PRO PATRIA

In the dark of the autumn evening the rearguard drew itself wearily through the silent village. To a column of infantrymen, dusty, dejected, haggard, with rifles held indifferently on the shoulder, at the trail, or tucked under the arm, succeeded a procession of miscellaneous vehicles--ambulances, army-wagons, brick-carts, gigs, anything that would roll on wheels it seemed. Some of these vehicles were loaded high with goods whose nature was hidden by the bulging tarpaulins stretched tightly over them, but the majority held only men who sat up listlessly, swaying with every jolt of the vehicle, dull-eyed, mournful, and silent. The faces of most of them were partially masked by bandages that passed at varying angles across their heads. Others nursed an arm in a sling; some were apparently undamaged. These were the slightly hurt. Here and there in the long train, a head, swathed like that of an antique corpse, raised itself from the depths of a wagon and peered over the side, striking a note of suffering which found no repercussion in the men, fatigued beyond sensibility, who marched by the wheels. After a longer or shorter space those heads relapsed again out of sight, sinking without murmur or gesture, in hopeless resignation. These vehicles bore the wreckage of the army, swept up by the retreating rearguard which cleared the road of everything that could afford an indication to the enemy of the nature of the force in front.

Behind the lugubrious procession a battery moved at the walk. The animals that drew the guns were lean and spiritless; many were lame, and the coats of all were dull with dust and sweat. Most of the teams were short of their proper tale of horses. The guns, limbers, and wagons were likewise thick with dust, and where this dust was not it could be seen that they were scored and pock-marked by shrapnel bullets. A professional eye looking at those guns as they passed would have remarked that the breech and muzzle covers had been removed, were strapped to the front of the shields. They were ready for instant action, yet many of the men who served them swayed in sleep upon their seats on limber or wagon. The countenances of all were grimed with dirt, channelled by dried rivulets of sweat and moisture from eyes irritated by acrid fumes. They looked like men who had been fighting a conflagration. They passed, guns and wagons, and after them came a squadron of cavalrymen sitting limply upon wearied horses. Another long column of infantry followed, and, immediately upon its heels, an endless cavalcade of horsemen. All, infantry, convoy, artillery, and cavalry, moved onwards steadily, without hurry and without halts, at a pace that had evidently long ago become automatic.

The houses between which they passed were silent, deserted, for the most part boarded up. No face looked out of any window, no light glimmered in any interior, no smoke came from any chimney. At the door of the only inn a couple of cavalrymen stood by their horses, sentries posted to deter the thirsty straggler. Some of the men in the column looked yearningly at the houses as they passed, imagining the joys of sleep and food; the majority plodded onwards mechanically in the failing light. All, perhaps, seeing the village, had dallied with the idea of bivouac. To their disappointment had succeeded a despair of ever halting. The officers by the side of their companies urged them forward with monotonous voices, aware themselves of the uselessness of their efforts. The infantry was marching at its best pace. Nevertheless as the column drew out of the village its speed spontaneously increased. A rumour had spread along it from end to end. They had given the enemy the slip.

The last cavalrymen, left at the entrance of the village until the column should have cleared it, passed along the street, turning in their saddles to look at the empty road behind them. The sentries at the inn mounted and trotted quickly forward to rejoin their ranks. The last man passed out of sight. The village street seemed strangely empty in the absence of the floods of men that had been pouring through it, with but little interruption, for many hours. Only the rhythmic tramp of the infantry upon the road, pulsating through the air like the audible systole and diastole of some mighty heart, and fading with every moment, remained like a reminiscence of the army. Presently that, too, ceased. Silence brooded over the houses whose outlines were rapidly blurring with the oncoming night, a silence broken only by the melancholy ululations of an owl that ventured to scour the deserted street.

That owl was baulked of its stoop by a sudden human utterance in a Cockney voice.

"It's all right, Bill--they've gone."

The figure of a man was dimly defined in the doorway of one of the cottages. He turned to answer a question.

"Yus. The 'ole bloomin' lot. Rearguard an' all."

The figure in the doorway was joined by another from the dark interior of the cottage, and the pair slunk cautiously into the street and looked up and down.

"We've done it, Sam," said the man addressed as Bill.

"Yus," replied Sam, peering around him under a frown from heavy brows. "Now for that public--me ole Gawd-lummy ain't 'ad nothin' in it fer a week."

"'Struth!" said Bill, stretching himself. "I ain't 'arf stiff wiv standin' in that poky little cupboard."

"Not so stiff as those poor blighters 'll be to-night," said Sam, with a thought of his marching comrades. "Now--right wheel! March! An' see that you've got a cartridge in yer rifle," he added in a tone of authority. It was evident that he was the leading spirit.

There was the metallic click of a cartridge inserted into the breech and then both men crept furtively in the shadow of the cottages towards the inn. The hanging sign of the house was silhouetted black against the sky just above their heads, when Sam stopped suddenly, pointing his rifle into the gloom.

"'Alt! 'Oo goes there?" he cried; under his breath he blasphemed rapidly, ferociously; the blasphemy of a man whose nerves are chaos, his speech-centres out of control. A shadowy figure moved in the darkness. "'Ands up--or I fire!" shouted Sam, the menace rising harshly out of his muttered vituperation.

A pitiful voice replied from the obscurity. Its panic expressed itself in a thin rising inflection that became almost a squeal.

"Don't shoot!--don't shoot!"

"Come out into the road," commanded Sam. "Cover 'im, Bill," he added.

The figure obeyed, was now slightly more visible against the light reflected from the white road.

"What are you doin' 'ere?" asked Sam.