PART FIFTEEN

FORWARD

§ 1

Day waned; died. Bombardier Michael came in; cleared away the tea-mugs. The telephone on the shelf buzzed impatiently. Purves went to it.

“It’s Torrington,” he announced, “and he wants to know if they’re to go on firing at the Pope’s Nose.”

“Tell him, yes,” said Stark, “till further orders.”

“Are we going to move out, sir?” asked Purves, coming back to the table. “My servant says he’s had orders to pack up my kit.”

“He has. My orders.” The tone of the Weasel’s voice stifled discussion. Again, the telephone buzzed.

“You answer it, Jameson.”

Peter picked up the receiver; heard the usual: “Brigade Major Seventh Don Ack wishes to speak to the Adjutant.” “You’re through, sir.” Then the usual quiet voice, “Oh, is that you, Jameson? About tonight, we want you to fire shrapnel on those cross-roads. Same as. . . . Here, half-a-minute. . . . Hang on, will you? . . .” A long pause. “Is your Colonel there? Do you mind asking him to speak?”

“They want you, sir,” said Peter across the room.

“I guessed as much.” Stark came over; took the instrument.

The four men heard him say: “It can’t be done under four hours. . . .” Pause. “Yes, just like them, isn’t it? . . . Le Rutoire Farm. . . . All right. . . . You might send those orders along, will you? . . . And I’m one gun short.” Then he put the receiver back on the shelf; turned round; and remarked with a peculiar smile: “Well, gentlemen, we’re for it this time!”

* * * * *

§ 2

Peter Jameson was not a man who gave either friendship or admiration lightly. His feelings for Colonel Stark had hitherto been tolerant rather than friendly, critical rather than admiring. The little red man had stood to his Adjutant for a type: the “Regular soldier”—a person of limited outlook, good at his job (and why not, after twenty years of it?), irascible, rather inclined to bother himself over-much with detail, taking the simple business of commanding an Artillery Brigade as seriously as if it had been the management of a complicated commercial concern. . . .

But on the night of September the 25th, even that stickler for organization and efficiency, P.J., had to acknowledge himself the Weasel’s inferior.

The problem confronting the commander of the 4th Southdown Brigade comprised, briefly, the assembling of six hundred men, five hundred horses, and innumerable vehicles, scattered over at least seven miles of ground, the moving of them forward—provisioned, munitioned, and if possible without casualties—over unexplored country to the support of an infantry whose whereabouts had not been ascertained. And all this had to be accomplished through officers mostly ignorant of active service, by weary men, under incessant shell-fire and in pitch darkness. Moreover—as the only definite information consisted of “You will report yourself at once for orders to G.O.C. 2nd Southdown Infantry Brigade” at farm three miles away—arrangements to meet all contingencies had to be made instanter.

But Weasel Stark forgot nothing, left nothing to chance. Within three minutes of receiving the first telephone-call, a cyclist was on his way back to the five-mile-distant waggon-lines, another to the Ammunition Column; Lodden and Torrington had left their Batteries for Headquarters, Purves was getting communication (through three different field-exchanges) with the forward batteries in Vermelles, the Doctor was packing up his instruments, Mr. Black serving out a second “tea” to H.Q. Staff, Gunner Horne preparing dinner for its officers. . . . Since tired men _may_ fight, but hungry men, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, won’t.

By the time D.R.L.S.[12] arrived with confirmation of the vague instructions, Bombardier Pitman and his typewriter were installed in the mess-room; and Peter, map in front of him, was dictating exact orders—“A and B would move by such and such a road, C and D would fall in in rear of them at such and such a point; Ammunition sections must keep touch by this means; Ration orderlies by that: the Brigade would halt here; a mounted officer from each battery await the Colonel there. . . .”

And all the time Stark was making certain, from Lodden, from Torrington, from Mr. Black, from Purves and the Doctor, by telephone messages and cyclists and mounted orderlies, about fodder and maps and a new gun for A Battery, and telephone-wire, and sand-bags and spare springs, and the million details which the Commander of a seasoned unit may leave to his subordinates but the Colonel of a new Brigade dare not abandon to chance.

Three quarters of a hour after the Weasel had said, “Gentlemen, we’re for it this time,” he and Peter—warmed by a square meal and a glass of port, their preliminary work accomplished, heavy belts bulging their aproned hunting-mackintoshes—climbed to horse in the rain, and set off, followed by their grooms, towards the shell-bursts over Vermelles.

Passing the gun-pits, Peter could see hurricane-lamps moving, figures unpiling sand bags from the blocked entrances. . . .

[12] Despatch Rider Letter Service.

§ 3

Single file through the streaming darkness, they jog-trotted the uneven road.

The rain beat in Peter’s eyes; little Willie stumbled, pulling wet reins through wet gauntlets; recovered himself; jogged on. Peter leaned over; gentled the arched neck. Peering forward, he could just see the huge chestnut’s lifting croup, the Weasel’s bobbing torso. . . . Something came screaming out of the murk; flashed crimson; whistled; pattered to ground. Instinctively, Peter’s knees tightened on the saddle-flaps. Little Willie hunched himself for a gallop; felt steady hand at his mouth; desisted. “Anybody hurt?” called the Colonel. Peter turned in his saddle; saw Jelks wrenching Queen Bess back to the road, a second figure coming up steadily behind. “No, sir. Ten yards to our left.” . . . They rode on.

Now they were into Vermelles—a broad street of battered houses. The Colonel slowed to a walk. Came another whistle, followed by the smash of tiles, the clink of falling brick on cobble. “This is damned unpleasant,” thought our Mr. Jameson. He saw Stark bend down, speak to a shadow on the road. They veered left; right again; over a railway-line into a soft road, trees on either side. The rain had almost stopped. Behind them, shells still whistled over the town. Immediately about them, all was quiet. Stark bent from his saddle; flashed a torch at the roadway; inclined right. They jogged on three hundred yards over turf, past a big hay-rick. Stark flashed his torch again: signalled “dismount.”

“Sorry,” he said when Peter came up. “Couldn’t risk being blocked on the main-road. That’s the farm. We’ll have to walk the rest.” He pointed to a yellow light; handed reins to his groom—an old man, clean-shaven and bow-legged.

“Doherty, you and Jelks will take the horses back to that hay-rick. Let ’em feed. Whatever happens, don’t move from it. You understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ruddy muck-up all round,” commented the Weasel to his Adjutant as they stumbled down into a greasy trench; lost the light; hauled themselves out; found it again; picked their way through five yards of wire; felt mud and cobbles under their feet; saw the light close in front of them. . . .

Suddenly, Peter grew aware of noise. A noise inhuman. The whimper of damned souls. A wail as of wet fingers on an enormous glass: a wail that rose and fell, interminable, unbearable. Suddenly, he was aware whence that wail came.

All along the muddy roadway they lay: the wounded: hundreds of them: thousands: brown blanket shapes: some muttering: some moaning: some singing in delirium: some quite still. The agony of it gripped Peter in the stomach. Vomit rushed to his throat; was choked down again. . . .

The Colonel stepped over a moaning form; pulled back a sack curtain revealing bare walls, an oil-lamp, three gunner officers eating round a trestle table.

“Is this Le Rutoire?” rasped the Weasel.

The three officers rose to their feet: “Part of it, sir,” said one, “the rest’s about fifty yards down the road.”

“Is General Ballardyce here?”

“No, sir.”

“Who are you?”

“Siege,” said the officer, and gave his number. “We’ve got two six-inch Hows. in the farm.”

“Haven’t seen an Infantry General anywhere about?”

“No, sir.”

“All right. I’ll try down the road.”

“Have a drink before you go, sir?”

“No, thanks.”

They clambered back into the darkness; set off, between the moaning forms, down the road; found a great gloomy gateway. Here, the wounded lay in hundreds. Shapes stood over them; lifted them; loaded them into the shelves of hooded cars. The cars chugged away. Other cars chugged up. . . .

They passed through the gateway. “Do you know if General Ballardyce is here?” asked Stark of a big man, chaplain’s cross on his cap.

“No, I don’t,” answered the parson. “Who the hell is General Ballardyce?”

They searched the farm, gloomy outhouse after gloomy outhouse. Everywhere lay the wounded, brown shapes, moaning and wailing. Finally, they found steps; stumbled down them into an underground cellar. The place looked, smelt, was a charnel house. The reek of it struck Peter like a blow. Reek of blood! Blood everywhere. Bloody forms lying on bloody sacks. Bloody bandages in bloody buckets. A man with bloody hands stooping over bloody flesh.

“Let’s get out of this,” rasped Stark. . . .

Once more they stood outside the farm, among the chugging cars, the moaning wounded. A form approached them. A voice asked “Are you General Ballardyce?”

“I am not,” said Colonel Stark.

The form materialized into a pale-faced subaltern, whom Peter recognized.

“Aren’t you Rutton of the Chalkshires?”

“Yes. Jameson, isn’t it? I say, I wish you could help me. I’ve got all the travelling cookers of the 2nd Infantry Brigade just up the road. And I’ve been ordered to rendezvous with them at Haisnes Church at dawn. . . .”

“Haisnes is three miles away from here; and it’s inside the Boche lines, young man,” interrupted Stark.

“I know, sir. But I’ve got written orders.” He fumbled inside his coat, produced a message-form. Stark flashed a torch on it. “You see, sir. It’s quite clear. What _am_ I to do, sir?”

“Use your common sense, young man. You can’t charge the Boche with your sanguinary kitchens. . . .”

An orderly stumbled up; saluted Rutton; said, “The General’s been gone three hours, sir. One of the doctors just remembered him riding up and riding off again.”

“What _am_ I to do, sir?” wailed Rutton.

But Stark was indulging himself in one real outburst: a frothing torrent of scarlet blasphemy that submerged every gilded head between Saint Omer and the Pylons of Loos. . . .

§ 4

Men under fire for the first time are not usually frightened.

Peter, re-walking the muddy road between those wailing wounded, was conscious of no fear. His orders—to find the horses, take them back through Vermelles and rejoin his Colonel at the cross-roads which the map called Corons de Rutoire—seemed simple enough. But he was in a black rage at the incompetence of those behind; and he cursed them as he pashed into the greasy trench, hauled himself out of it, tried to locate that hay-stack.

Damn that hay-stack! Where the devil could it have moved to? He saw the thing suddenly, outlined black against the saffron of a shell-burst; saw the silhouettes of horses rearing at their bridles; dashed forward. As he reached the two men, he heard the whistle of another shell; heard it stop, plop into the ground. No detonation followed.

“By the Lord an’ I’m glad to see you, sir,” ejaculated the shadow of Driver Doherty, “I’ve been thinking we’d be killed every minute.”

“You will be if you don’t hurry up,” snapped Peter, swinging himself straight from the ground to his saddle. “Up you get, both of you.”

Unthinking, he put spurs to Little Willie; set off at a hand-canter; turned in his saddle; saw the Colonel’s groom struggling with the big chestnut. The old ostler had caught his right leg against the unaccustomed rifle-bucket; couldn’t get it across the saddle of his own horse. Jelks was in the act of mounting. Peter wrenched his horse’s head round; galloped back; threw the man somehow into his seat. Another shell whistled over, plopped harmless into the ground. The Colonel’s chestnut reared.

“For God’s sake get a move on,” roared P.J., and slashed the groom’s mount over the croup with his heavy riding-stick. The old man and his two horses shot forward down the track; Peter and Jelks followed at a gallop.

They came unscathed to the road; slowed to a trot, Peter taking the lead. No more shells followed: the road was deserted. They crossed the railway, swung left, arrived suddenly in an empty square. Above them rose the skeleton of a church tower. Peter pulled up; took out his map; flashed torch at it. The grooms joined him.

“You can’t stop here, sir.” A sentry popped up amazingly from nowhere.

“Why not?”

“Road’s being shelled every two minutes. One’s just about. . . .” The whizz-bang gave no warning. Even as Peter flung up his arm to cover his face, he saw it hit the ground ten yards in front, detonate blue in the dust. Little Willie reared straight up; Peter flung himself forward on the horse’s neck; gave him his head. He came down again; stood shivering.

“Anybody hurt?” asked P.J.

“No, sir.”

“Then come on.”

Behind them, they heard shells bursting; in front, the road lay deserted between shattered houses. They trotted past a level crossing; came on confusion beyond belief.

In the inky darkness, men, horses, guns, infantry cookers, cars, motor-cyclists, lorries were fighting their way forward. There was no traffic control, no attempt at order. On the road, at the side of the road, anywhere man or beast could find foothold, feet pashed, wheels rumbled. An enormous pontoon-boat on its low carriage had broken down. Round it, and about it, stood cursing men. There were cries in the darkness: “Who the ’ell’s that? Where are you, mate? Are you the Suffolks?”

Damning and blasting, Peter barged his way through; made the cross-roads. There, just lighting a cigarette, he found Stark.

“Didn’t expect you quite so soon. Fine picnic, isn’t it?” said the Weasel, as the three horsemen dismounted. “Didn’t see anything of the Brigade, did you?”

“No, sir. They’ll have a job getting through.”

“They’re not due yet.”

Peter drew off his gauntlet; looked at his watch; saw the hands pointed to ten o’clock; groped instinctively for his cigar-case; pulled out a weed; bit off the end of it; found his matches; lit up.

“What about General Ballardyce, sir?”

“God knows where he’s got to. You might ask some of these infanteers. The whole place is swarming with them. Don’t be away long.”

Peter plodded off haphazard into the murk; barked his shin against a vehicle. “Who’s that?”

“Cookers. Second Southdown Infantry Brigade,” answered Rutton’s voice. “I say that Colonel of yours is a brick.”

“Oh, to hell with you and your cookers,” said Peter, and plodded on again. He had been sweating: now the perspiration began to dry. Also the black rage was on him again. He heard the jingle of bits in the darkness; somebody shouted “Halt!” A shell, out of sight, crashed to ground. Then somebody called out from his horse, “I say, you with the cigar?”

“Yes,” answered Peter.

“Can you tell me where I am?”

“Who are you?”

“Southdown Yeomanry.”

Peter gave the information; and added, “I should get out of this if I were you. It’s no place for Cavalry.”

Asked the somebody, “Have I your permission to retire, sir?”

And Peter Jameson, Adjutant of the 4th Southdown Brigade, who had as much right to order Yeomanry out of action as Driver Jelks, said—without a quiver in his voice—“You have”; listened, cigar in mouth, to the somebody’s “Walk—March,” to the jingle of bits and the creak of accoutrements; saw the last file of that squadron disappear into the darkness.

“Discipline be sugared,” thought P.J. “A child could see that this isn’t the place for Divisional Cavalry.”

He plodded on, enquiring of all he met: “Have you seen General Ballardyce?” But nobody he met had either seen, heard of, smelt or felt the missing General of the 2nd Southdown Infantry Brigade.

§ 5

Meanwhile, Lieutenant-Colonel Douglas Stark, D.S.O. R.A., ruminated at the roadside. In front of him, the amazing traffic disentangled itself somehow; moved forward, a grotesque shadow-show, through the darkness. Behind him, he heard the jingle of harness, a battery moving forward over turf. He called out, “Who are you?” “B Battery 3rd Southdown Brigade,” came the answer. The battery disappeared. . . .

Stark began to reason out his position. He knew Ballardyce of old: a sound fellow, the last person to disregard detail. Therefore, Ballardyce had not been told to keep touch with his guns at Le Rutoire. Point one settled. Point two—Murchison’s cryptic orders about the forward move. Murchison was over-conscientious in the transmission of orders. Followed that Murchison had practically no information. Point two settled. And with that—added to his own private telephone-talk to the Brigade Major of Seventh Artillery—Stark arrived at a definite conclusion: The blunder lay further back than either Southdown or Seventh Division Headquarters.

Obviously. Because Rutton’s order to rendezvous with firstline transport at a village still in possession of the enemy, proved an entire misconception of the battle-front. . . .

The Weasel had not wasted the hour it had taken his Adjutant to find the horses and return with them to the cross-roads. He had spent it in reconnoitring, as far as possible, the immediate ground; in acquiring miscellaneous scraps of information.

Remained three problems—the exact position of our own front line, which section of it he would be asked to protect, and where to plant his batteries.

And the Weasel thought: “This road runs straight into Loos village. There are no shells coming from that direction. We are supposed to have taken Loos. I think we have. Beyond Loos”—he consulted his map—“is this Hill 70. The chances are we have not taken Hill 70. There is a lot of hostile artillery fire coming from my left front. . . .”

He timed with his watch the period between the discharges of the guns and the shell bursts over Vermelles. . . . “Those guns are not much over two thousand yards from me. I know for certain, because of the targets we were firing at this evening, that the centre of our original attack was held up: and if P.J.’s information about City Saint Élie was correct. . . .”

“And by Jove it _was_ correct.” The Weasel suddenly broke into speech. “That gun-fire proves it. As sure as God made little apples I’m sitting on the base-line of a semi-circle, plum in the middle of a five-mile salient.”

Then he took out his compass; laid it on the ground till the needle steadied; and turned due west. “Damn it,” said the Weasel, “what’s happened to the Véry Lights? . . .” And even as he spoke, directly to the south of him, he caught a faint white shimmer in the sky; and even as that faded, due north of him, he caught the barest glimpse of another.

“Oh, hell!” thought the Weasel. “Oh, ruddy hell!”

Down the road behind him, headlamp flaring recklessly, dodging in and out among the traffic, a motor-cycle phutted its jolting way. The Weasel jumped into the middle of the road; stood there, coat open, arms outstretched. The cyclist halted, dropping one leg to the ground.

“D.R.L.S.?” asked the Weasel.

“Yes, sir. I’m in a hurry.”

“To hell with your hurry. Put that blasted lamp out. Now wait.” The Weasel shaded the Orilux torch at his belt; drew a message-pad from his pocket; inserted the carbon; began to write. And while he wrote, very meticulously, he thought of the Brigade he had trained so carefully, of his wife and the life she carried, and of a certain individual at St. Omer who would not be displeased if Weasel Stark happened to make a mistake. . . . For in the bigger affairs of earth, as in the smaller, it is easier to break a subordinate than admit one’s own failure. . . .

“Sign on the message-form, please,” rasped the Weasel, holding his hand over the meticulous words. Then he tore off the top copy, and stuffed it into an envelope which he addressed, marking the time of dispatch on the space provided, to: “B.M. Southdown Div. Arty.”

“And now,” rasped the Weasel, “why the devil didn’t you shout out who your message was for? Don’t you know your job?”

“O.C. 4th Southdown Brigade R.F.A., sir,” said the cyclist. “He’s at Le Rutoire farm, sir. . . .”

“Is he?” said the Weasel; and opening the envelope, began to read: “Further to my B.M. 764, through 7 D.A., please report by bearer map-references of your batteries and what time G.O.C. 2nd I.B. proposes to attack. . . .”

“Why didn’t Davson or Hathway bring this?” asked the Colonel.

“I don’t know, sir. I only joined Divisional H.Q. this morning.”

The Weasel turned the torch on his own face: “You’ll know me next time, young man. Now buzz off.”

“I was told to wait for an answer, sir,” said the cyclist, slipping the empty envelope, signed for evidence of receipt, into the case slung at his side.

“You’ve got your answer,” rasped the Weasel. “Buzz off; and be quick about it.”

“Don’t switch on that headlamp till you reach Vermelles,” the great voice boomed like a megaphone through the phutting darkness.

§ 6

One o’clock A. M. on the morning of the 26th. A drizzle of rain. Stretching a mile down the road from Corons de Rutoire, its last water-cart just clear of the shell-fire on the Vermelles railway-crossing, waits a long column of dripping horses, loaded vehicles and weary men. The men are dismounted. They stand, gunners by gun-wheels, drivers at horses’ heads. “What’s happening, Joe? I dunno. Wish we could smoke. Where’s the old man? Up in front! Anyone hit in your lot? Only our Number one’s horse. Just a splinter. . . .” Laughter. . . . “Bet he danced a bit. Who bound it up? The Doc. Good for the Doc. He ought to be at Number Nine Hospital. What-ho!”

At the head of the column stands a little red-headed man; Adjutant by his side; round him, his four battery commanders: Torrington, dropping with fatigue; Lodden, very calm, all his irascibility vanished in the presence of crisis; Bromley, twirling brown moustaches; Major Lethbridge, the newcomer, a tiny fat man with a weak mouth and unsteady eyes, fidgeting his riding-switch.

“Well, that’s the position,” says the Weasel. “We can’t move forward because we haven’t got guides and God knows where the trench-bridges are. We can’t go back, because Ballardyce has obviously been ordered to attack. Therefore, though we may get it pretty hot if the Boche is still in Fosse Eight tomorrow morning, I intend to stop where I am. There’s an old trench just in front of us; the parados will give us a bit of cover.”

“But what about the horses, Colonel?” from Torrington.

“They’ll have to stop with the guns till dawn anyway. If the front line gives, we shall be liable to want our teams in a hurry. Well, gentlemen, if nobody has anything better to suggest. . . .” A silence. . . . “All right. Jameson, you’d better go with Bromley and mark for the right of the Brigade. Batteries to come up one at a time in column of route. Action left. Get your guns as close to the trench as you can. Usual intervals if possible. Teams to remain with the guns till dawn. Purves. . . .”

“Yes, sir.” The Balliol man appears out of the darkness.

“Tell H.Q. to walk their horses forward to that hay-stack. See it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Unhook the telephone-wagon and the M. O.’s[13] cart. Send your horses a hundred yards to the rear, and report to me when its done. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

[13] Medical Officer.

§ 7

If ever man in a tight corner drew comfort from good work done in the past, it was Weasel Stark as he stood alone that night, and watched this entity of his creating file past him in the darkness.

Very quietly they came, team after toiling team, gun after creaking gun, subaltern after subaltern leading his section to their marked position—O’Grady, Archdale, Pettigrew, Straker, Conway, Merrilees, Hall and Hutchinson. One by one the teams were unhooked, led away; one by one the guns swung round, muzzles across the gaping trench. And about each gun, as it dropped into position, men laboured, men very weary of labour, with pick and shovel and sand-bag, making what cover they might against the dawn.

And till dawn began, up and down among the labouring men,—the orders he had _anticipated_ received at last—strode the Weasel, rasping across the darkness: “Dig! you blight-hawks. For the Lord’s sake, dig!”