CHAPTER XX

BACK FROM BATTLE

And as we left the trench to-night, Each weary 'neath his load, Grey silent ghosts as light as air Came with us down the road.

And as we sat us down to drink, They sat beside us too, And drank red wine at Nouex les Mines, As once they used to do.

(_From "Soldier Songs."_)

A soft rain was falling; a low wind swept across the levels, and the leaves of a near birch copse rustled in the breeze, faltering timidly as they shook the rain from their shining fringes. A soft, bluish haze surrounded the tops of the birches, the trunks were engirt with a pale mist which gave an eerie atmosphere to the whole wood.

The London Irish had just left the trenches and were following a sunken road on their way back to billets and a month's rest. The men were in a gay good humour, "Charlotte the Harlot," the Rabelaisian song was sung with great gusto. The faces of sweet French maidens, almost forgotten, were recalled again. The men's fancies rushed hither and thither, painting rosy pictures of snug farmhouses and good cafés. A month's rest away from the ructions of war; how splendid!

Where the wood grew thinner a brushwood screen had been improvised so as to hide the road. In front lay an unlucky red brick village, one which had suffered much from the guns of war. Every third house had been hit by shell fire and many of the homes were levelled to the ground. A heavy wall of cloud, ragged of front crawled across the sky; the sun was overcast, but far up, shooting through the advancing layers of black, a long, golden ray of sunshine streamed out and lit up the firing line.

Save for the crunch of marching feet there was quiet. The shower went by and the soft rustle of the rain falling on the grass by the roadside had ceased. All around the country lay in ruins, the self-sown crops in the wide meadows drooped abjectly to earth as if in mourning for the reaper who visited the place no more. The men passed a house which stood in the fields, a little red-brick cottage with its chimney thrown down, its doors latchless and its windows broken. Once a home of thrifty, toiling people; now the clear sun, which succeeded the shower, saw no housewife at work, no children playing, no man out in the fields storing up the harvest crops. Nothing there now save the guns which lurked privily and kept for the moment a decorous silence. A big shell was following the men along, bursting at intervals some five hundred yards behind. The Germans were sweeping the road, trusting that the projectile would drop on any troops who might be marching along there. The shell followed steadily, keeping its distance and doing no harm. But the range might be lengthened at any moment and then trouble would ensue. The men marched rapidly, hardly daring to breathe.

"Gawd, I don't like that 'ere coal-box," said Bubb, as he heard an explosion behind. "That blurry one was nearer, I fink."

"Further off, I should say," Bowdy Benners replied. "Light a fag, Spudhole, it will do you all the good in the world."

He burst into song:--

"Give me a lucifer to light my fag, And laugh, boys, that's the style, Pack up your troubles in your old kit-bag, And smile, boys, smile."

"Come, boys, sing up," he called. "Come on, let go!"

The chorus was repeated and the men joined in singing, roaring at the tops of their voices. Bubb straightened his back, expanded his chest and looked at his mate. Bowdy, with his cigarette in his mouth, was bellowing out the chorus, the cigarette moving up and down as if keeping time with the measure.

Spudhole swept into a fresh song, a well-known favourite. The men joined in the singing:--

"There's a soldier out on picket Over there, There's a soldier out on picket Over there, There's a soldier out on picket, And 'e wants 'is bloomin' ticket, But the beggar's got to stick it Over there. 'E don't mind the dug-outs' stenches And the God-forsaken trenches When 'e's thinkin' o' the wenches Over there."

The voices died away as a shell burst in the road very close at hand.

"Nearer that time," said Bubb. "I wish we were in the trenches."

They sighted the village to find the shells bursting all through the place and the buildings flying about the streets. The children were in hiding, not a civilian was to be seen save a pale, thin woman of forty who stood at the door of a ruined estaminet. This had no doubt been her home; probably she was still living in the cellar.

The men stared at the woman, saw her bowed head, her ragged clothes, her queer, weedy form. In her eyes was a look such as the men had seldom seen. The poor creature reminded Bowdy of a dog which he once had seen prowling round a pond in which its young had been drowned.

"Wot's she doin' standin' out in the street like that?" said Bubb. "She'll stop a packet if she's not careful."

"Eyes right," came an order from an officer in front, and the men turned their eyes towards the woman at the door.

"Salutin' 'er. I wonder wot for," said Bubb.

"'Er four children were killed yesterday by a shell," said somebody in the ranks.

The woman raised her head and looked stolidly at the soldiers. Her expression did not change; perhaps feeling was dead within her.

At the other end of the village stood a ruined convent from which the nuns had not yet departed. They educated the village children. The little ones went to school daily, their books and respirators under their arms. The classroom was in the cellar of the Convent. As the men passed the Convent, they saw a nun, dressed in blue homespun, white frontlet and black veil, standing at the door throwing crumbs to the doves which fluttered about her feet. In one hand she held a rosary; no doubt she was saying her prayers. There was France personified, France great and fearless, a martyr unsubdued! The sight was a tonic to the men. Unable to resist the impulse, they gave vent to a rousing cheer. A look of perplexity overspread the woman's face, she gazed at the soldiers for a moment, then throwing the remaining crumbs to the birds she retreated hurriedly into the Convent.

"Wot a fine woman that one is," said Spudhole. "Gawd, there's somefin' in 'em, you know. An' they don't do it for show, neither. Well, we'll 'ave another song now, one respectable like. Not one that we wouldn't want good people to 'ear. 'Ow about 'Little Grey 'Ome in the West'?"

In the late afternoon the men arrived at the village in which they were to billet. The battalion marched down the main street dog-tired and glad that the march was at an end. The wineshops were open and soldiers could be seen sitting on the wine barrels, smoking and drinking. At the corner of one side street, a cook was washing his face at a pump and half-a-dozen merry little children were flinging pebbles at him. When a pebble hit him, he would bend down, raise a mess-tin of water and fling it at the mischievous rascals. A party of soldiers came out from an alley, bearing between them three dixies of hot, steaming tea. They were indulging in idle banter and seemed very pleased with themselves--their eyes glowed with happiness.

At the door of an estaminet stood the patronne gossiping with a neighbour and laughing heartily over something. Another party of children were hopping over lines marked with chalk on the pavement and chanting in unison a song of which Bowdy could catch a few lines:--

"A l'école dans le ville, A l'école dans le ville, A l'école, A l'école, A l'école dans le ville."

Bowdy's platoon came to a halt in the square, the company cook who came there long in advance of the battalion, was pouring fistfuls of tea in a dixie which stood on a field kitchen. He was red of face as a lobster, and a smile of satisfaction lit up his genial countenance when he saw the men.

"You look pleased with yourself," Bowdy said.

"So will you be pleased," said the man, "when you get your tea after a little. I've made it well, extra strong, and Spudhole has just received a parcel from home."

"The post is up?" Bubb asked.

"There's a letter for you, as well as a parcel," said the cook. "And we are going back for a rest to-morrow night, for a month or six weeks."

"Are we really?" Bowdy enquired.

"Of course we are," was the answer. "And we're going to get paid, too, this evening...."

They were going back for a rest, probably to Cassel, and they knew such a delightful billet there, the Y---- Farm....

Bowdy breathed in the fresh air. Away behind the firing line the sun was sinking and a soft, luminous glow settled on the roofs of the houses near.

"We should have a bit of a spree to-night," said the cook, raising the dixie of the waggon, placing it on the ground, and stirring it with a long ladle. "At the café round the corner. A champagne supper, a song, and an all-round entertainment. Are you game for it?"

"Blimey, of course we're game for it," said Spudhole. "Wot time will it start?"

"'Arf past seven."

"Righto," said Bubb and Bowdy in one voice. "We'll be there."