Chapter 13

'"Well," 'e sez, "you knows 'ow much better off you are 'ere. You don't 'ave no standin' to the gun 'arf the night in the rain, an' live all the rest o' the nights an' all the days in a dirty, muddy, stuffy funk-'ole. That's the one thing I'm most glad to be out of," 'e sez. "Livin' under the ground, like a rabbit in a burrow with every chance of 'avin' 'is 'ead blowed off if 'e looks up over the edge. I've 'ad enough o' dug-outs an' observin' from the trenches, an' Coal-Box dodgin' to last me a bit, an' it's a pleasant change to be ridin' a decent 'orse on a most indecent apology for a road, an' not a Jack Johnson in sight, even if they are in 'earing."

''E made several more remarks like that durin' the mornin', an' of course I agreed with 'im. I mostly does agree with an officer an' most especial a young 'un. If you don't, 'e always thinks 'e's right an' you're just that much big a fool not to know it. An' the younger 'e is, the more right 'e is, an' the bigger fool you or anyone else is.

'Well, the Left'nant's enthoosy-ism cools off a bit when it begins to rain again like as if some one had turned on the tap o' a waterfall, but he tried to cheer himself remarkin' that most likely 'is Battery was bein' flooded out of their dug-outs. But I could see he was beginnin' to doubt whether the Am. Col.'s job was as cushy as he'd reckoned when the off-lead o' Number One wagon tries a cross-Channel-swim act in one of them four-foot deep ditches. The wagons 'ad to pull aside to let some transport motor-lorries past an' One's off-lead that was a new 'orse just come to the Column from Base Remounts an' had some objections to motor-lorries hootin' in his ear an' scrapin' past a eighth of an inch from his nose--'e side-slipped into the ditch. 'E stood there wi' the water up to 'is shoulder an' the lead driver lookin' down on 'im an' repeatin' rapid-fire prayers over 'im. I may say it took the best bit o' half an hour to get that blighter on to the road again an' the Left'nant prancin' round an' sayin' things a parrot would blush to repeat. But 'e did more than say things, an' I'm willin' to admit it. 'E got down off his horse an' did 'is best to coax the off-lead out wi' kind words an' a ridin' cane. An' when they missed fire an' we got a drag-rope round the silly brute the Left'nant laid 'old an' muddied himself up wi' the rest. We 'ad to dig down the bank a bit at last an' hook a team on the drag-rope, an' we pulled that 'orse out o' the mud like pullin' a cork from a bottle. It was rainin' in tons all this time an' I fancy the Left'nant's opinion o' the Am. Col.'s job had reined back another pace or two, especially as he'd slipped an' come down full length in the mud when haulin' on the drag-rope, an' had also slid one leg in the ditch well over the boot-top in reachin' out for a good swipe wi' the cane.

'We plods off again at last, an' presently we begins to get abreast o' some position where one o' our big siege guns was beltin' away. A bit further on, the road took a turn an' the siege gun's shells were roarin' along over our heads like an express train goin' through a tunnel; an' the Left'nant kept cockin' a worried eye round every time she banged an' presently 'e sez sharp-like to the drivers to walk out their teams and get clear of the line of fire.

'"If a German battery starts trying to out that feller," he sez to me, "we just about stand a healthy chance of meetin' an odd shell or two that's tryin' for the range."

'We had to pass through a bit of a town called Palloo,[2] an' just before we comes to it we met some teams from one of the Column's other sections comin' back. Their officer was in front an' as we passed he called to the Left'nant that Palloo had been shelled that mornin' an' the Headquarter Staff near blotted out.

'I could just see the Left'nant chewin' this over as we went on, an' presently he asks me if it's anyways a frequent thing for us to come under fire takin' ammunition up. I told 'im about a few o' the times I'd seen it happen myself, an' also about how we had the airmen an' the German guns makin' a dead set at the Column durin' the Retreat an' shellin' us out o' one place after the other.

'Before I finished it we hears the whoop o' a big shell an' a crash in the town, an' the drivers begins to look round at each other. Bang-bang another couple o' shells drops in poor old Palloo, an' the drivers begins to look at the Left'nant an' to finger their reins. He kep' on, an' of course I follows 'im an' the teams follows us.

'"I see there's a church tower in the town, Bombardier," he sez. "Does our road run near it?"

'I told him we 'ad to go through the square where the church stood.

'"Then we come pretty near walkin' through the bull's-eye o' their target," he sez; "for I'll bet they're reckonin' on an observation post bein' in the tower, an' they're tyin' to out it."

'We got into Palloo an' it was like goin' through it at midnight, only wi' daylight instead of lamp-light. There wasn't an inhabitant to be seen, except one man peepin' up from a cellar gratin', an' one woman runnin' after a toddlin' kid that 'ad strayed out. She was shriekin' quick-fire French at it an' when she grabbed it up an' started back the kid opened 'is lungs an' near yelled the roof off. The woman ran into a house an' the door slammed an' shut off the shriekin' like liftin' the needle off a gramaphone disc. An' it left the main street most awful empty an' still wi' the jingle o' the teams' harness an' clatter o' the wagon wheels the only sounds. Another few shells came in an' one hit a house down the street in front of us. We saw the slates an' the chimney pots fair jump in the air an' the 'ole 'ouse sort of collapsed in a heap an' a billowin' cloud o' white smoke an' dust. There was some of our troops hookin' a few wounded civilians out as we passed and the road was cluttered up wi' bricks an' half a door an' broken bits o' chairs an' tables an' crockery. Fair blew the inside out o' the house, that shell did.

'When we come clear o' the town there was a long stretch o' clear road to cover, an' we was ploddin' down this when we hears the hum o' an airyplane. The Left'nant squints up an' "It's a Tawb," he sez.

'"Beggin' your pardon sir," I told 'im, "but it's a German. No mistakin' them bird-shaped wings an' tail. He's a German, sure enough."

'"That's what I just said, Bombardier," he sez, which it wasn't but I knew it was no use sayin' so.

'The airyplane swoops round an' comes flyin' straight to us an' passed about our heads an' circles round to have a good look at us. The Left'nant was fair riled.

'"Dash 'is impidence," he sez. "If he'd only come a bit lower we might fetch him a smack"; an' he tells the gunners to get their rifles out. But the German knew too much to come close down though he flew right over us once or twice.

'"Why in thunder don't some of our guns have a whale at 'im,'" the Left'nant says angry-like, "'or our airmen get up an' shoot some holes in 'im. He'll be droppin' a clothes-basketful o' bombs on my wagons presently, like as not. An' I can't even loose off a rifle at the bounder. Good Lord, that ever I should live to walk along a road like a tame sheep an' let a mouldy German chuck parcels o' bombs at me without me being able to do more'n shake my fist at 'im. . . ." 'An he swore most vicious. The airyplane flew off at last but even then the Left'nant wasn't satisfied. "He'll be off back 'ome to report this Ammunition Column on this particular spot on the road," he sez, "if he's not tickin' off the glad tidings on a wireless to 'is batteries now. An' presently I suppose they'll start starring this road wi' high-explosive shell. Did ever you know a wagon full to the brim wi' lyddite being hit by a high-explosive, Bombardier, or hear how 'twould affect the Column's health?"

'"I knew of a German column that one of our airyplanes dropped a bomb on, at the Aisne, sir," I sez. "I passed the place on the road myself soon after."

'"An' what happened?" he asks, an' I told 'im it seemed the bomb exploded the wagon it hit an' the wagons exploded each other. "That Ammunition Column," I sez, "went off like a packet o' crackers, one wagon after the other. An' when we came up, all that was left o' that column was a reek o' sulphur an' a hole in the road."

'"That's cheerful," sez the Left'nant. "With us loaded down to the gunn'l wi' lyddite, an' the prospect o' being a target for every German gun within range o' this road." He fidgeted in his saddle a bit, an' then, "I suppose," he sez, "they'll calculate our pace an' the distance we've moved since this airman saw us, an' they'll shell the section o' road just ahead of us now to glory. I'd halt for a bit just to cheat 'em, for they'll shoot by the map without seein' us. But that requisition for lyddite was urgent, wasn't it?"

'I told him it was so, an' the Battery captain had told me to get it in quick to the column.

'"Then we'll just have to push on an' chance it," sez the Left'nant, "though I must own I do hate being made a helpless runnin'-deer target to every German gunner that likes to coco-nut shy at me. . . . Like a packet o' crackers. . . . Good Lord!"

'We plodded on, the Left'nant spurrin' his horse on and reinin' him back, an' cockin' his ear for the first shell bumpin' on the road. Nothin' happened for quite a bit after that, an' I was just about beginnin' to feel satisfied that the Germ bird 'ad run into a streak o' air that our anti-aircraft guns kept strickly preserved an' that they'd served a Trespassers-will-be-Spiflicated notice on 'im an' had punctured him an' his wings. But just as we rounded a curve an' came into a long straight piece o' the road, I hears a high-risin' swoosh an' before it finished an' before the bang o' the burst reached us, spout goes a cloud o' black smoke 'way far down the road.'

'"This," says the Left'nant, "is goin' to be highly interestin', not to say excitin', presently. I figure that's either a four-point-two or a five-point-nine-inch high-explosive Hun. An' there's another o' the dose from the same bottle, an' about a hundred yards this way along the road. I dunno how their high-explosive will mix wi' ours, but if they get one direct hit on a wagon we'll know all about it pretty quick. A Brock's Crystal Palace firework show won't be in it wi' the ensooin' performance. An' that remark o' yours, bombardier, about a packet o' crackers recurs to my min' wi' most disquietin' persistency. 'An' still they come,' as the poet remarks."

'They was comin' too, an' no fatal error. No hurry about 'em, but a most alarmin' regularity. They was all pitchin' plumb on that road, an' each one about fifty to a hundred yards nearer our procession, an' us walkin' straight into the shower too. The swoosh-bang o' each one kep' gettin' louder an' louder, an' not a single one was missin' the road. I tell you, I could feel the flesh creepin' on my bones an' a feelin' in the pit o' my stomach like I'd swallowed a tuppenny ice-cream whole. There was no way o' dodgin', remember. We'd a ditch lippin' full o' water along both sides o' the road an' we knew without lookin'--though the Left'nant did 'ave one squint--that they was the usual brand o' ditch hereabouts, anythin' down to six foot deep an' sides cut down as straight as a cellar wall. It was no use trottin' 'cos we might just be hurryin' up to be in time to arrive on the right spot to meet one. An' it was no use haltin' for exactly the same reason. The Left'nant reins back beside the leadin' team, an' believe me there wasn't one pair o' eyes in all that outfit that wasn't glued on 'im nor a pair o' ears that wasn't waitin' anxious for some order to come, an' I'm includin' my own eyes an' ears in the catalogue. There was nothin' to be done an' nothin' to be said, an' we all knew it, but at the same time we was ready to jump to any order the Left'nant passed out. The shells was droppin' at about ten to fifteen seconds' interval, an' we could see it was goin' to be a matter o' blind luck whether one pitched short or over or fair a-top o' us. They were closer spaced, too, as they come nearer, an' I reckon there wasn't more'n fifty or sixty yards atween the last two or three bursts. An' we was still walkin' on, every man wi' his reins short an' feelin' 'is 'orse's mouth, an' his knees grippin' the saddle hard.

'"Bang!" one hits the road about one-fifty to two hundred yards short an' we heard chips o' it whizz an' hum past us. The Left'nant looks, round. "When I say 'trot' you'll trot," he shouts, "an' no man is to stop or slow up to pick up anyone hit."

'Next second, "Crash!" comes another about a hundred yards off, an' before the lumps of it sung past, "Ter-r-rot!" yells the Left'nant. Now some people might call the en-sooin' movement a trot, an' some might call it a warm canter an' first cousin to a gallop. We sees the game in a wink--to get past the spot the next crump was due to arrive on afore it did arrive. We did it too--handsome an' wi' some to spare, though when I heard the roarin' swoosh of it comin' down I thought we was for it an' a direck hit was due. But it went well over an' none of the splinters touched.

'"Steady there, steady," shouts the Left'nant "but keep goin'. They'll repeat the series if they've any sense." We could hear the blighters crumpin' away back down the road behind us, an' believe me we kep' goin' all right. But the Boshe didn't repeat the series; he went on a new game an' just afore we came to the end o' the straight stretch four crumps pitched down astride the road ahead of us about two hundred yards. One hit the edge o' the road an' the others in the fields on both sides an' one of these was a dud an' didn't burst. But we knew that the fellers that did go off would make a highly unhealthy circle around an' the prospect o' being there or thereabouts when the next boo-kay landed wasn't none too allurin'. The Left'nant yells to come on, an' we came, oh, take it from me, we came a-humpin'. There was some fancy driving past them crump holes in the road, but we might have been at Olympia the way them drivers shaved past at the canter. We was just past the last spot the four landed when I heard the whistle o' another bunch comin' an' my hair near lifted my cap off. Them wagons o' ours isn't built for any speed records but I fancy they covered more ground in the next few seconds than ever they've done before. But goin' our best, there was no hope o' clearin' the blast o' the explosions if they explosioned on the same target, an' we all made ourselves as small as we could on our horses' backs an' felt we was as big as a barn all the time the rush was gettin' louder an' louder. Then thud-thud-thud an' crash! three of 'em dropped blind an' only the one exploded; an' it bein' in the ditch didn't do any harm beyond sendin' up a spout o' water about a mile high. Three duds out o' four--if that wasn't a miracle I want to know. But we wasn't countin' too much on it bein' miracle day an' we kept the wheels goin' round with the whistle over-'ead an' the crashes behind to discourage any loiterin' to gather flowers by the way.

'An' when we was well past an' slowed down again I heard the Left'nant draw a deep breath an' say soft-like ". . . a packet o' Chinese crackers."

'But 'e said something stronger that same night. He'd just crawled back to the Column wi' his empty wagons leavin' me as orderly at the Battery, an' me havin' a pressin' message to take back for more shells I trotted out an' got back soon after he did. I took my message to the old farm where the officers was billeted an' the mess-man takes my note in. I got a glimpse o' the Left'nant wi' his jacket an' boots off an' his breeches followin' suit. "I'd a rotten day," he was sayin', "but one good point about this Am. Col. job--an' the only one I see--is that you get the night in bed wi' your breeches off."

'But if you'd only 'eard 'im when he found he was for the road again at once an' would spend 'is night in the rain an' dark instead of in bed--well, I couldn't repeat 'is language, not 'aving the talent to 'is extent.

''E was transferred to a battery soon after an' I 'eard that when he got the orders all 'e 'ad to say was, "Thank 'Eaven. I'll mebbe get shelled oftener in a battery, but at least I'll 'ave the satisfaction o' shellin' back--an' _I may_ 'ave a funk-hole handy to duck in when it's extry hot, instead o' ridin' on the road an' expectin' to go off like a packet 'o crackers."

'Mebbe he was right,' concluded the Bombardier reflectively. 'But I s'pose it's entirely a matter o' taste, an' how a man likes bein' killed off.'

[1] Servant.

[2] The identity of the town is very effectually placed beyond recognition by the Bombardier's pronunciation.

THE SIGNALLER'S DAY

The gun detachment were curled up and dozing on the damp straw of their dug-out behind the gun when the mail arrived. The men had had an early turn-out that morning, had been busy serving or standing by the gun all day, and had been under a heavy shell fire off and on for a dozen hours past. As a result they were fairly tired--the strain and excitement of being under fire are even more physically exhausting somehow than hard bodily labour--and might have been hard to rouse. But the magic words 'The mail' woke them quicker than a round of gun-fire, and they sat up and rubbed the sleep from their eyes and clustered eagerly round the Number One (sergeant in charge of the detachment) who was 'dishing out' the letters. Thereafter a deep silence fell on the dug-out, the recipients of letters crowding with bent heads round the guttering candle, the disappointed ones watching them with envious eyes.

An exclamation of deep disgust from the Signaller brought no comment until the last letter was read, but then the Limber Gunner remembered and remarked on it.

'What was that you was rearin' up an' snortin' over, Signals?' he asked, carefully retrieving a cigarette stump from behind his ear and lighting up.

The Signaller snorted again. 'Just 'ark at this,' he said, unfolding his letter again. 'I'll just read this bit, an' then I'll tell you the sort of merry dance I've 'ad to-day. This is from an uncle o' mine in London. 'E grouses a bit about the inconvenience o' the dark streets, an' then 'e goes on, "Everyone at 'ome is wonderin' why you fellows don't get a move on an' do somethin'. The official despatches keeps on sayin' 'no movement,' or 'nothin' to report,' or 'all quiet,' till it looks as if you was all asleep. Why don't you get up an' go for 'em?"'

The Signaller paused and looked up. 'See?' he said sarcastically. 'Everyone at 'ome is wonderin', an' doesn't like this "all quiet" business. I wish everyone at 'ome, including this uncle o' mine, 'ad been up in the trenches to-day.'

'Have a lively time?' asked the Number One. 'We had some warmish spells back here. They had the range to a dot, and plastered us enthusiastic with six- an' eight-inch Johnsons an' H.E. shrapnel. We'd three wounded an' lucky to get off so light.'

'Lively time's the right word for my performance,' said the Signaller. 'Nothin' of the "all quiet" touch in my little lot to-day. It started when we was goin' up at daybreak--me an' the other telephonist wi' the Forward Officer. You know that open stretch of road that takes you up to the openin' o' the communication trenches? Well, we're just nicely out in the middle o' that when Fizz comes a shell an' Bang just over our 'eads, an' the shrapnel rips down on the road just behind us. Then Bang-Bang-Bang they come along in a reg'lar string down the road. They couldn't see us, an' I suppose they was just shooting on the map in the hopes o' catching any reliefs o' the infantry on the road. Most o' the shells was percussion, after the first go, an' they was slam-bangin' down in the road an' the fields alongside an' flinging dirt and gravel in showers over us. "Come on," sez the Forward Officer; "this locality is lookin' unhealthy," an' we picked up our feet an' ran for it. Why we wasn't all killed about ten times each I'll never understand; but we wasn't, an' we got to the end o' the communication trench an' dived into it as thankful as any rabbit that ever reached 'is burrow with a terrier at 'is tail. After we got a bit o' breath back we ploughed along the trench--it was about ankle deep in bits--to the Infantry Headquarters, an' the F.O. goes inside. After a bit 'e comes out an' tells me to come on wi' him up to the Observation Post. This was about eight ac emma [A.M.], an' just gettin' light enough to see. You know what that Observin' Post of ours is. The F.O. 'as a fond de-looshun that the Germs can't see you when you leave the support trench an' dodge up the wreckage of that hedge to the old house; but I 'ave my own opinions about it. Anyway I've never been up yet without a most un-natural lot o' bullets chippin' twigs off the hedge an' smackin' into the ditch. But we got into the house all right an' I unslings my Telephone--Portable--D Mark III., an' connects up with the Battery while the F. O. crawls up into the top storey. 'E hadn't been there three minutes when smack . . . smack, I hears two bullets hit the tiles or the walls. The F. O. comes down again in about ten minutes an' has a talk to the Major at the Battery. He reports fairly quiet except some Germ Pip-Squeak shells droppin' out on our right, an' a good deal o' sniping rifle fire between the trenches in front of us. As a general thing I've no serious objection to the trenches snipin' each other, if only the Germs 'ud aim more careful. But mostly they aims shockin' an' anything that comes high for our trench just has the right elevation for our post. There's a broken window on the ground floor too, lookin' out of the room we uses straight at the Boshies, an' the F.O. wouldn't have me block this up at no price. "Concealment," sez he, "is better than protection. An' if they see that window sandbagged up it's a straight tip to them this is a Post of some sort, an' a hearty invitation to them to plunk a shell or two in on us." Maybe 'e was right, but you can't well conceal a whole house or even the four walls o' one, so I should 'ave voted for the protection myself. Anyhow, 'e said I could build a barricade at the foot o' the stairs, where I'd hear him call 'is orders down, an' I'd be behind some cover. This motion was seconded by a bullet comin' in the window an' puttin' a hole in the eye o' a life-size enlargement photo of an old lady in a poke-bonnet hangin' on the wall opposite. The row of the splinterin' glass made me think a Jack Johnson had arrived an' I didn't waste time gettin' to work on my barricade. I got a arm-chair an' the half of a sofa an' a broken-legged table, an' made that the foundation; an' up against the outside of them I stacked a lot o' table linen an' books an' loose bricks an' bottles an' somebody's Sunday clothes an' a fender an' fire-irons an' anything else I thought any good to turn a bullet. I finished up by prizin' up a hearthstone from the fireplace an' proppin' it up against the back o' the arm-chair an' sittin' down most luxurious in the chair an' lighting up my pipe. That's a long ways the most comfortable chair I've ever sat in--deep soft springy seat an' padded arms an' covered in red velvet--an' I was just thinkin' what a treat it was when I hears the rifle fire out in front beginnin' to brisk up, an' the Forward Officer calls down to me to warn the Battery to stand by because o' some excitement in the trenches. "Major says would you like him to give them a few rounds, sir," I shouts up, an' the F.O. says, "Yes--three rounds gun-fire, on the lines the guns are laid." So off goes your three rounds, an' I could hear your shells whoopin' along over our heads.