Pass Guard at Ypres (4 page)

Stand-to. So far, all O.K., but they'd had a lively time. They'd
only got into the line the previous night, and the Colonel, the Skipper, and the
German artillery and snipers hadn't given them much peace since they arrived.
He himself had done what he could within the time. He'd been round his three
dug-outs and two sapheads and got his sentries posted and reliefs told off, and
he'd found the way to B.H.Q. in Cambridge Road, which wanted a little doing
in itself, and he'd managed to get a look at his wire from No Man's
Land. That was the great thing, as Townroe was always ramming down their throats at
Aldershot, and those fellows of the 1st Battalion—get out into No
Man's Land at all costs, and see for yourself what things are like. Judging
from the time he'd spent there, assing about with Robbie in front of their
platoon sectors, it wasn't a particularly cheerful place, and he
didn't seem to have done much there except tread on the stomach of a dead
Boche, lose his prismatic compass and get his hand half bitten off by a rat about
the size of a full-grown rabbit that came up to him as he was lying
“doggo” in the grass. Still, he'd been there, not this time as
a novitiate in training, but in his own right as officer commanding that sector of
the front. Sixty yards from the corner of Railway
Wood to
Witteport Farm he held that night, and so far he'd held it safe. That, it
seemed to him, was doing the thing that mattered. Nothing in front. He raised
himself a fraction to peer through the mists that lay heavy upon the fields towards
a jagged line of stakes just discernible in the fading moon: nothing in front but
those armed forces which to him and those with him must needs stand as the powers of
death and evil. And there, with Ypres and the sea behind them, he and his platoon
were stationed, with a job, the nature of which he understood, to do. Robbie was on
one side of him, Malcolm upon the other, and beyond them on either side the vast
curve of the British line bent almost upon itself round Ypres. And round the rim of
that tortured curve and beyond it, to the marshes in the north and the mountains in
the south, men were ranged as they were ranged here, bayonets pointing to the east,
ready for what the dawn might bring. As at Railway Wood, so at Boesinghe or Hill 60
or La Bassée or Verdun or the Vosges, men were sweating blood, sniping and
being sniped, prowling like starving beasts of prey, and occasionally from the hours
of darkness plucking some curious moments of an unexpected peace. Here at least the
night was quiet now, as it gave place to the coming day: star shells still flickered
unevenly, but the dawn was breaking fast; fields and farms were more distinct, and
beyond the trees the towers of Ypres had already caught the rays of the early sun.
That first night of straining vigil was nearly over; dusk changed to grey; the mists
began to lift along the
fields, and behind them at last Ypres
stood clear in the light of morning against the sky. “Stand down”: a
sniper's rifle cracked, and the day of warfare had begun again. But the night
was over, and so far he had not betrayed his trust.

“Soldiering,” remarked Private Bamford, as he turned a heavy eye
upon the other occupants of the dugout and slowly rolled and lit a cigarette.
“This 'ere soldiering ain't what it used to be.”

Private Derek Rossiter, ex-undergraduate of Trinity, put down his pencil and leaned forward with interest. “To what in particular do you take exception?”

“Eh?”

“What's the matter with the bloody war?” in the same well-bred, even tones.

“You'd know, Mr. Rossiter, if you'd seen South Africa.”

“ 'Is name's Brains,” from the irresponsible Bartlett. “Go on.”

“I knows respect, me lad, where respect is due. And that's more than can be said for some. Well, in South Africa,” he continued, “we soldiered proper. But 'ere, for a month we've been in this bloody country with this 'ere battalion, and not one bloomin' Boche 'ave I or any of us seen. Crawling up and down these trenches, living in these 'ere dug-outs, keeping your buttons and yer side arms dirty—that ain't soldiering. Look at the officers, too—I asks yer, look at them.”

“What's the matter with 'em?” from the mild, middleaged, and evidently much married Private Beard. “Nice
well-spoken cheery lot. Bit wild at times, but most of 'em ain't married. None the worse for that.”

“That's as may be, but where's their swords? Married or not, an officer ought to wear 'is sword. 'Ow can yer 'ave discipline if officers don't carry swords? Tunics, too. Captain 'Arry 'e's taken to wearing a Tommy's tunic in the trenches—dirty one at that. My officer 'e talked o' doing the same, but I told 'im it wouldn't do. All wrong, all this 'ere mix-up, yer know, in this 'ere ‘K.1.' And there's officers ought to be in the ranks, and fellers in the ranks that should be officers—same as you, Mr. Rossiter. It's all of a piece, seems to me—all mixed up. To 'ave fellers in the ranks talkin' same as you do, it ain't in accord with army ways.”

“Suppose not. But this is a new army and a new war, you know. This, my venerable Denis, is the war for civilisation, the war to end war, as our martial Skipper has told us with such verbal embellishment. New wine in old bottles—you know.” Rossiter took up his pencil again.

Private Bartlett whistled. “That's talk, that is. Lumme, Brains, yer can't 'arf talk. That's got yer, grandpa. Ain't got much, I'll lay, to say to that.”

Private Bamford looked a little helpless for a moment.

“ 'Tain't I'm growsing, exactly.”

He paused a moment.

“All this talk, for example—look at that. Talk about winnin' the war, yer know, and all that sort of thing. It's unsettling. Course we wants to win the war, but we wants to do it quiet like and natural. Ought to 'ear what some of them 1st Battalion fellers are sayin' about the way our fellers
are foolin' about in this 'ere sector—chucking bombs about, crumpin' when there ain't no need to crump, mucking up the line generally. Captain Corra, 'e warn't too pleased.”

“Ah, he should welcome our enthusiasm.”

“P'raps he should, but 'e don't. Takes the war as it comes, 'e does, and goes along quiet with his job. Look at 'im and then at the Skipper, volunteering for this, suggesting that, looking round for trouble generally. Take that sap-'ead business on Tuesday, when we all of us nearly stopped a packet—that was due to 'im.”

Private Beard nodded approvingly.

“You're right there. Pity to spoil a bit o' quiet when yer've got it. 'Tain't too easy not to get a bit o' quiet in life. But I suppose—”

He looked round.

“Some of us was volunteers, you know. This ain't our job. Me, for example. Shopkeeper I am, same as I've often told you—little shop down Bethnal Green. Suppose I came out—to 'elp to win the war. That's what 'appened with most of us. Look at Brains 'ere. Look at the officers. 'Ardly one of 'em knew a rifle from a walkin' stick a year ago. Sammy, 'e's a singer, and Duff, 'e's an artist, and—”

Private Bamford in his turn nodded agreement.

“That's what it is, old cock, and it makes it 'ard for soldiering. Excitable sort of ideas, these fellers get. If yer go about singing and painting and such, yer bound to get excited. Spreads, too. Same as my officer. Nice quiet little chap 'e is, but look at 'im yesterday after stand-to. Started when I brought 'is rations. Started talking just like them
others, worse if anything—winning the war for 'umanity, and the glory of Yeeper. Glory of Yeeper—I asks yer”—as Private Bamford lifted a baleful eye. “What can yer make o' that?”

“Glory of Yeeper—ah, 'e ain't the only one at that game. There's Brains 'ere. Come on Brains, let's show 'em,” as Private Bartlett darted up and seized a paper from Rossiter's side. “Look at this,” as he thrust it into the other's hand. “Brains wrote this. Last week 'e wrote it and sent it 'ome, and 'ere it is in print, and 'is initials, too. You read that, granddad. That'll do yer good. Make yer think.”

Slightly puzzled, Private Bamford took the paper, looked at the title of a poem, at the initials “D. R.” beneath, crossed his legs, put a pipe into the corner of his mouth, laid his forefinger carefully upon the first line and read:

“Fair was your City, old and fair,

And fair the Hall where the kings abode;

And you speak to us in your despair—

To us, who see but ruins bare,

A shattered wall, a broken stair,

And graves on the Menin Road.

“It was sweet, you say, from the city wall

To watch the fields where the horsemen rode;

It was sweet to hear at evenfall

Across the moat the voices call;

It was good to see the stately hall

From the fields by the Menin Road.

“Yea, citizens of the City Dead,

Whose souls are torn by memory's goad;

But now there are stones in the old Hall's stead,

And the moat that you loved is sometimes red,

And echoes are stilled and laughter sped,

And torn is the Menin Road.

“And by the farms and the House of White,

And the shrine where the little candles glowed,

There is silence now by day and night,

Or the sudden crash and the blinding light,

For the guns smite ever as thunders smite,

And there's Death on the Menin Road”

He looked up and out of the dug-out entrance to a haze of smoke that lay above the bare stumps of trees behind them, then back at Rossiter, apparently indifferent, clear-cut of face, athletic of body, one who had already proved in action those qualities which one felt instinctively in his case there was no need to prove, then back to the page again.

“Fair was your City, old and fair.”

“You wrote that, Mr. Rossiter?”

“I'm afraid I did.”

“Then yer knows 'ow to put these 'ere words into poetry same as this.”

“Sometimes.”

“And—yer in the ranks.”

“Apparently.”

Private Bamford remained thoughtful for a full fifteen seconds. At last he opened his mouth and spoke.

“It's a rum thing, this 'ere war, and there's rum things in it.” He looked at the page again. “And yer tell me yer wrote them words?”

“I was the servant of the Muse: the spirit moved me and I wrote.”

“Whaffor—yer ain't enjoyin' it by any chance?”

“Can't say that I am—and yet—”

“ 'Tain't natural not to talk like that. But it's all of a piece, me lad, same as what I tell yer. Took the Army quiet like, we did, same as it ought to be took. But soldiering, it ain't what it used to be.”

Freddy Mann spoke little as he led his platoon out of the Lille Gate, across the
bridge and along the railway embankment to the south of Ypres. He had indeed
sufficient reason for reflection. The R.E. Major had no doubt meant well enough: he
was a jovial sort, and it was just his way; but it did seem that to send him and his
party forth from the ramparts with a cheery final remark to the effect that the
Boche had been shelling the site of the machine gun emplacement which they had to
build all day, and “he didn't suppose that any of them would return
alive” was not on the whole in the best of taste. It was all very well to
joke about it when he was going off to a cheery dinner at the Goldfish
Château, but what about the fellow who with this parting blessing in his ears
had to do the job? The R.E. Corporal, too, didn't make things any easier.
Though Freddy Mann did not yet realise it, the lordly air of an R.E. corporal has
been known to subdue even junior staff officers and regimental officers under field
rank. Corporal Bonner held himself and his profession in due regard, and had sound
views upon the correct relationship between the R.E. and the infantry, more
particularly between “K.1” and a time-serving out-since-Mons N.C.O.
like himself. He spoke at intervals, but his remarks were hardly calculated to
dissipate the prevailing
gloom. He quite agreed that it was a
nasty spot that they were going to, and he bore out the Major's statement by
observing in more general terms that it was shelled all day and most of the night.
No, it wasn't a particularly easy place to find, because once you passed Birr
Cross Roads it was just as easy to wander into the Boche lines as your own; they
would have to note the way rather carefully, as he was afraid that he
wouldn't be there to guide them back, since he had various other jobs to do,
after he had got them settled down. Well, it was a bit difficult to say exactly what
one ought to do if casualties occurred. You couldn't leave them alone, of
course, as a man didn't have a dog's chance there when once he was
hit; you couldn't, on the other hand, spare men to look after them. This
machine gun emplacement had to be built tonight at any cost, as the Corps Commander
himself demanded to know that it was completed by the following day; it would be a
five-hours' job at least, and they wouldn't be there till 10. On the
other hand, if they didn't get away by 3 they wouldn't get away at
all, as a fly couldn't move there without being seen by daylight. After half
an hour of this sort of thing, Freddy Mann gave up fruitless attempts to derive
consolation from Corporal Bonner, and began to reflect for himself upon the brighter
aspects of the situation. After all, he'd had three or four working parties
before this during the last ten days. This was in rather a sticky sector, but it
made no real difference; things hardly ever did go wrong on working parties, even in
sticky sectors, simply because the Hun was always at the same game as well. So far,
nobody could reasonably find fault with the night. Oxford
Street
seemed a very reasonably adequate sort of trench, and, most important, he had his
own fellows with him as well, which was a damned sight better than taking out
Bill's or Sammy's crowd, or those paralytics of “B”
Company, as he had had to do last week. They were all there, all the Badajos
Barracks fellows, except poor Leader and Downton. They were shoving apparently happy
enough along the trench behind him, Bamford, just in his rear, breathing as usual
like a steam engine and growling to himself, Beard tugging at his unkempt little
sandy moustache and probably discussing his hopeful's whooping cough or mumps
with any who would listen, hard nuts like Bettson or the ex-navvy Scrott, Brains,
almost certainly pouring forth epigrams and carrying somebody else's sandbags
as well as his own, pale-faced little Barton, Corporal Sugger—near enough to
the side of the trench and knees well bent, if he knew anything of Corporal
Sugger—and bringing up the rear the fatherly, mild-voiced Sergeant Mitchell.
Then again, and this in itself made up for a multitude of ills, behind his
contingent there was Robbie with most of the rest of the company. On the whole,
then—be damned to this R.E. fool, as Freddy Mann looked with a sudden access
of confidence towards Corporal Bonner: Birr Cross Roads, was it, and it was tricky
going after this? He'd better get on with it, then, and not talk quite so
much, and be damned to all his croaking for an old wives' tale.

“This is where they've been getting on to it—all round 'ere,” Corporal Bonner nodded towards a welter of new shell holes, from which a strong earthy smell arose, and lines of broken sandbags facing them in the moonlight
along the ridge past the culvert. “All about 'ere; it's a twisty bit, and, as I say, you'll need to mark yer way.”

“Right: shove on.” Now that Oxford Street was left behind them Freddy Mann was experiencing a strong feeling that he was embarking upon an enchanted sea, but he was giving nothing away. Occasionally, from some tumbled dug-out, a head or two appeared, but otherwise nothing moved save grass and rats. After a time signs of other inhabitants ceased to appear, and they crept alone, and very stealthily, through a maze of wire, shell-holes and ruined trenches to their destination. Lucky it was a quiet night. They were near the plateau at last, and just over there, behind the wire, was the Boche: here were the tapes all ready laid for the embankment, so now tunics off and down to it, and for God's sake see that nobody makes a noise. Nothing to worry about, of course, but it's a bit on the near side, and there's nobody else about, and—it was a damned silly remark for the Major to have made.

Pity about this. The Major had done his best for them, and it wasn't his fault that no shell had fallen and hardly a rifle or machine gun had been heard since ten o'clock, that the men had got started without any trouble, and that now, at 2.30, the job was practically done. They'd done it pretty well on their own, too: an R.E. corporal in attendance upon an infantry working party usually has about as many other jobs as a porter at a terminus on a
Bank Holiday, and as far as they were concerned Corporal Bonner hadn't done as much as Private Bamford. Not that on this occasion such a comparison conveyed as much as would usually have been the case, for Private Bamford had got into the job tonight. Freddy Mann for once had taken no chances: he had turned a deaf ear to Bamford's representations as to the importance of an officer's comfort, and his batman had dug his little sector with the rest of them; furthermore, he and his comrades, knowing exactly where they were in relation to the enemy, had not tarried in the digging. No, it wasn't the R.E.'s fault that things had gone well that night, that they had had no casualties, that in four hours a machine gun emplacement had been completed that would satisfy the most exacting of corps commanders; no fault of theirs that at about 1 p.m. he and Robbie, knowing that the situation was now in hand, had had an unforgettable moment during the midway easy, lying on their backs concealed in the rank grasses of untilled fields, and watching the starlights flicker and fall against the clear sky of the summer night, till suddenly, here at Hooge, on the roof of an unknown world, a strange spirit of utter and elemental peace had touched them. No fault, all this, of the Major's, and, by Jove! they'd let him know. Back now, tails up, down past the Culvert to the Birr Cross Roads, past Gordon Farm and the Halfway House, back to the embankment and the gates of Ypres. Mitchell and Baines could take the men up those few hundred yards to the Prison, while he and Robbie dug out the Major to tell him all about it; it was
high time he was about at 5 a.m. and they were certain he would like to know that the job was done. The Major looked at them with interest. Full of it, weren't they, this curly-headed boy and this quietly elated sober-faced young man; thought they'd won the war to all intents and purposes, if one could judge from the way they talked. Well, well—the Major stuck his hands deeper into the pockets of his British warm, looked at them and smiled.

“Think you've done down Hooge, eh? Think you're top dog over Wipers? Think again, young feller-me-lads. All right this time, I grant you, but—have a drink and think again.”