And We Go On (38 page)

All that day we went through the wet Wood and watched on every side. It was an experience we would not forget. Not a sound could be heard, save low voices when two men came together. We had a long extended line that kept well in advance of the main party, and we had to work forward as if every thicket held an enemy. The Germans were retreating and had plenty of time to shoot and get away, all the advantages being with them. Night found us at a wood-cutter's cabin and there we bivouacked, a few sentries remaining on duty some distance in front so as to prevent a surprise attack.

The Student and I slept together again and I told him about the 7th Battalion man's theory that we are greater than we realize and Spike's belief that we take our memories and affections with us when we go on. “I don't like to think that,” said the Student. “If that's so we'll always have visions with us that we abhor. Do you want to keep your memory of this war?”

His question startled me. I had not thought of it before, and I could not answer. I told him of the German wriggling, sliding, on my bayonet at Passchendale, of the sniping I had done at Vimy, the three Germans I had killed with a bomb from behind; I didn't want to remember such things. Then I told him of the officer asking for a drink, and how I had got it for him, of Siddall wanting me to stay while he went “to sleep,” of the German I had surprised in the old sap in front of Avion, and had let go; there were so many things I wanted to remember.

“I'll never know,” I said. “This chaos has wrecked all my senses of value. Do you?”

“No,” he said quickly, sharply. “I hate it all, it's so utterly insane.”

He made me think of the Professor and I told him of the talks we had on our way to the Salient, and of Freddy's premonitions.

“If I thought,” he said, “that it's true we can't escape a cyclometry form of existence I'd find some quiet brookside or nook among the hills and live there on berries and nuts and simply watch the clouds and sunrise and sunset. What's the use of building or learning new things if we are carried mercilessly into another era of destruction. Far better to just sit and watch the birds and squirrels.”

The conversation was too melancholy for me, and so I switched to a lighter vein and told him there was humour even in the trenches. He looked at me despairingly, and I told him of little Joe, our Cockney runner, who had been shot through both legs at Passchendale and had lain two days beside a group of dead Germans. When we found him he pointed at the nearest corpse, a bloated figure, and whispered. “Turn 'im over, will yer mytes? 'E as an 'orrible fice.”

The Student did not relax his glumness and I told him of the new officer that came to us at Lieven. He was taking two of his draft to a post in some ruined buildings on the outskirts of Lens, and got mixed in his turnings. No one was in sight. All the wreckage looked alike, and there were no trenches, yet he knew that the post must be nearby, perhaps in one of the ruins. So he led the way around one of them and called in at openings on
each side to know if there were any of “D” Company there. As he got no response his voice grew bolder. After a complete circuit of the building, a rather long one, he got more mixed and made the same circle, calling as before. His heroes plodded around him without comment, until he started the third round. Then the man in the rear complained.

“Shut up, Bill,” said his mate. “This here's Joshua and we're on a seven-day tramp around Jericho.”

The sun shone the next afternoon and our spirits grew lighter. I walked with Sambro in the morning, finding him always the same. In the afternoon the Student came with me again and as we prowled through the underbrush, or halted at some point to wait for the line to grow even, he told me that he had a girl in Canada whom he was going to marry as soon as he returned. “I'd never have enlisted if it wasn't for her,” he said. “She never said anything outright but I knew she thought I ought to go – women will never understand what a futile mess this is.”

“I think they do,” I said. “Perhaps better than we.”

“Well,” he said, “I wouldn't mind if I knew for sure I'd get back all right, but if this war's going to last another winter I'll go crazy.”

“You won't,” I said, “You'll just carry on like the rest of us. One never knows how much he can stand until he has to. After you've been here a year you'll get so you just go on and on and on, as if you were on a great long slide and couldn't stop if you wanted to. We all get that way.”

Ahead of us we saw a clearing and a small farm. A little cottage stood on a knoll with a shed close by. There was a fence about the place and a few apple trees near the house. We hurried toward them when I saw Steve step from the cottage door and hold up his hand. I stood, spell-bound, a moment, unable to move. It was clear and bright and I could see the very buttons on his tunic, the way his belt was loosely hooked. Never had I had such a clear picture of him and I was sure he would speak.

The Student walked by me right towards him. I watched to see if he would notice the soldier that wore trues instead of kilts, and then – too late – I realized the danger.

“Come back,” I shouted, in such a voice that the Student turned, but even as he did it seemed as if Steve had simply changed into a tall German who aimed a rifle.

Crack! A sharp report and the Student fell without speaking, crumbling in a heap. I fired from the hip without raising my rifle but the sniper had
ducked back into the cottage. Jones and Mills and Tommy and I ran back into the trees and started to surround the place so that he could not escape but he got through a window at the rear and ran for cover. It was useless. The range was not sixty yards and he went down under our first fire.

I hurried back to the Student. He was plucking feebly at one of his tunic pockets and I unfastened it for him. In it, protected by his paybook, was a photo of a lovely girl. I held it so he could look at it and saw his lips move in thanks. He gazed at the picture until his eyes dimmed, then smiled as though he thought the face so near his would understand, and the smile stayed when we left him.

Tommy looked at the dead German, and at the house. “What earthly use was it for that Heinie to pull such a stunt?” he demanded. “He hadn't any chance to get away afterwards and what good did it do him to kill poor Linder?”

“There's one more dead on each side,” answered Jones, who was looking at the two still forms, “and that means we're so much nearer the end of the war.”

I looked at him. Jones was a big, placid-appearing man, but there was a tinge of bitterness in his tone. “When there has been enough of us killed the folks at home will begin to protest and this whole business will collapse,” he said as we moved on. “Then each side will blame the other and them that's left will go back and carry on.”

A short distance ahead we saw a road that curved among the trees. On the left there was a pile of short logs that had been recently cut. Seated on them was a German soldier, a rather slight man, his grotesque steel helmet looking like a shell. We were treading on moss and old leaves, and the dampness had softened everything so that we made no sound. The German never heard us. Someone pushed by me, breathing with short, eager intakes. It was Giger. He was creeping up behind the unsuspecting Hun like a great, blood-thirsty tiger.

The fellow never saw him until he was at the end of the logs, and then he surrendered at once, shooting his arms into the air and whining “Kamerad.”

Giger walked up to him softly, easily, watching, until he was around the heap, then he tensed and thrust with all his strength, driving his bayonet with all the brutal savagery of a killer. It was a ghastly, merciless thing, and I shuddered. Tommy stood, white-faced, and looked around for an officer. Giger grinned back at us. How's that?” he called. “I …”

A second German shot up from some hiding place at the far end of the logs. He had not his bayonet but the woodman's axe that had been left there, and before Giger could jump from danger or withdraw his bayonet he was cut down by a fearful blow on the neck and shoulder. Then the German ran like a deer – and no one fired a shot at him.

There was nothing we could do for Giger. Everything had happened so quickly, so strangely, that we had simply been inert witnesses. His eyes sought his wrist and I saw the hair ring on it, the “charm” Blinks had given him. He died with startled incredulity in his gaze.

When we reached the end of the forest it was night, just dusk, and Tommy and I were in the lead. A new officer was with us, and was another good one, a very silent man, but without frills or foolishness. I had my binoculars with me and scanned the village at the top of a slope leading from the Wood edge. Only French people were in sight. I looked along the trees to the left and saw two Germans standing beside lone trees. At first glance I had thought them labourers, as they were talking and not watching the Forest.

Barron had returned to us and he was with the officer. A few yards out in the open was a brick building that might be used as a shelter. They moved out to inspect it. I called to them and pointed out the Germans, but after a look at them they shouted that they were Frenchmen, and went on toward the building. When almost to it the Germans saw them, and at once started running up the slope toward the village. They were quite a distance away and had a chance. Barron started shooting at them and at each shot the runners increased their pace. Tommy and I had our first good laugh in several weeks.

As darkness came we filed from the Wood and into the building. We placed two groups of men in hollows at the foot of the slope, having them as posts to prevent any possible surprise. Barron was a corporal and for the first half of the night visited them each hour. Then it was my turn and I strolled out and located both parties and talked with them. I had hardly reached the building when crack-crack-crack, machine gun bullets knocked tiles down on us and pattered on the bricks. Our Lewis gun outside loosed a pan and instantly there came a crackling of rifles. It sounded as though the Hun were in force and closing in on us. Our sentries came plunging in.

They had routed their first assailants, who had come along a road towards them, but they had been almost caught by fire from a second gun,
and had been forced to retire. We waited a time, and were ready with bombs in case they came close, but nothing happened. Then two of us ventured outside with the officer and found the way clear into the Wood. We stole out as silent as Indians and reached cover in time to hear our visitors shooting more tiles off the rafters. Our Lewis gun rattled its defiance from the rear of a big stump and there was silence at once. The Hun did not fire another shot, evidently thinking that reinforcements had arrived. In daylight we advanced into the village but found that, as usual, the enemy had flown.

At night it was raining again, a cold drizzle. We had not sighted Huns in the afternoon and were quite near another village. Orders came that we were to line a hedge and dig in for the night. Sambro and Tommy and Kennedy and I were disgusted. Just ahead were houses that would provide shelter and beds. Why not go to them? We waited until all was quiet and then crept away and into the murk. We went to the third house, arriving from the rear, hoping we would not alarm the folks so as to let the sentries back at the hedge know who we were. I tried the door and it opened easily. A clock was ticking in the room but no one answered my soft call. We struck a match and saw that the place was empty, vacated, and in an inner room found a big bed. We hung blankets over the windows before striking a light and in a short time had stripped our boots and kilts and were under sheets, lying crossways the mattress which we had dragged to the floor.

We slept warm and comfortably but I woke with a start. Something seemed wrong, though the others were not stirring. I rose up in my bare feet and padded to the window to take down the blanket. Something held me back, made me peep out one corner, and for a moment I held my breath.

On the street, not ten feet from me, two Germans were standing, resting from carrying a dixie of soup or tea. One had his back to me, the other's face was towards me but he was looking up at an aeroplane otherwise he must have noticed me at the window I slipped back to the door but found that I could not lock it, tip-toed in again and wakened the boys. We dressed more quickly than we had ever dressed before and then took stock. We only had two bombs with us, we could not tell how many Germans there were, and whether or not our men had retired. For some time we stood by the door, listening. Several times we heard harsh guttural
voices and heavy feet on the cobbles, and then a man came along close to the houses. He entered the next home to ours and we heard him tramping about in a way that told us the building was empty. When he came out he walked toward the very door at which we were standing. He had his hand on the latch and his foot on the step when someone called to him. I had my rifle barrel level with his head and my finger on the trigger. Had the door moved inward a few inches he would had died very suddenly, but he hesitated, then answered grumpily and went back down the street.

We all drew a long breath. I was bathed in perspiration. For long minutes we stood there, looking at each other, listening, then the suspense grew too great. “I'm going out that back door,” I said, “and make a run for it. I can't stick here like this.”

The others agreed heartily. We opened the door and peered out, ready to shoot. Not a German was in sight. We ducked out and in between buildings, watching the next house. No one was in it. Tommy looked down the street. At the far end a squad of men in gray were hurrying away from the village. We turned and grinned at each other, then sobered. A party of our men had just come to the first house and were exploring cautiously. When they saw us they stared, open-mouthed.

“We nearly bagged a couple of Heinies,” I said carelessly, “but the beggars got away.”