Pass Guard at Ypres (5 page)

This was as it should be: there was peace in Ypres tonight. Major Baggallay
walked contentedly, humming to himself as he smoked a cigarette and strolled along
the middle of the road. He was a wily old war-dog, and he knew his Ypres. They
wouldn't shell Ypres again tonight. Funny thing, that, about Ypres: you might
have hell let loose the whole day long, and then about six or seven o'clock
it would all die down and you could shove along the Menin Road with the reliefs, or
stroll about by the Cloth Hall, as if you were in Piccadilly. Today was a case in
point—nothing but 8.9s all the morning, and Jack Johnsons from 2 to 5; beast
of a day it had been, but it had all stopped at 7, and he'd got along to the
“C” Company Mess without hearing a crump from the Ramparts to the
Lille Gate. Jolly good thing it was so, as it was only that that made Ypres
possible. Ypres—he knew a bit about war, he did, after the Sudan and South
Africa, but he'd never struck anything quite like this. It was no use
pretending even with these kids in “K.1” that he was used to it; he
felt the strain as much as anybody, even if he knew too much about the game to show
it. He wasn't sure really that he didn't feel it rather more. They
were good chaps in this battalion, O.K. so far in the line, but God, they
weren't half
kids! That “C” Company mess
this evening, for example. They'd done him well enough, no complaints on that
score, in spite of old Toler's sideways looks as the whisky went round, but
they were just like a party of schoolboys who'd suddenly struck casualties on
a field day on Salisbury Plain. Well, not Harry perhaps. Harry was a tough nut who
didn't talk much in the line except to damn his sergeant-major, and
didn't buck too much about the war. But the rest, except old
go-to-prayer-meeting Toler, were kids enough—that young blighter Jack, with
his tales of windjamming round Cape Horn, and that cheery Scotch giant Malcolm, and
Robbie, and Freddy Mann. Good pair, that pair, all the same; sort of—who were
the Johnnies—oh, yes, Achilles and Patroclus they seemed to be. Lucky swine,
Freddy Mann, to have a friend like Robbie. He'd told Townroe more than once
that he was the one absolute thoroughbred in the battalion. Pale, quiet fellow he
was, but he'd never seen him wilt. Always out and about at the hottest
corner, pulling away at his pipe, doing stunts that he never said anything about,
knew his men backwards, hard as nails—there wasn't much the matter
with Oxford if it still turned out chaps like that. And Freddy Mann, the
“Cherub,” he had the right stuff in him, but he was green to a degree,
the “Cherub.” Everything seemed to surprise him—an old
soldier's wish for a Blighty, the effects of rum, the morals of majors at the
base, that poor swine Garton's death from heart failure, Army sergeants and
their pretty little ways—he seemed to have come from the cradle straight to
Ypres. Rum thing, life, for a fellow like
the
“Cherub.” Little country grammar school, vicar's tea parties, a
day excursion or two to London, which seemed to have been his greatest delight this
time last year, leaves school, goes into the local bank, just starts smoking and
having a latchkey of his own, then this.

The Major paused as he turned at the corner of the Rue de Lille, opposite the Cloth Hall, to the right towards the Ramparts. Peaceful enough—just that one house blazing away behind the cathedral—but, God, how big! They didn't know, poor kids, how big. Perhaps they believed all wars were the same as this. But he—he'd soldiered for thirty years, and this was something that he'd never known before. Any one of these nights and days would have meant a battle and a medal upon the sands of Egypt. What was Roorke's Drift compared to an outpost show at Hooge, with trench mortars and minnies raising living hell, and gas for all they knew coming down upon the wind? They'd thought a lot of themselves when they'd managed to hold Ladysmith, but what was Ladysmith to Ypres? A few potty guns a mile or two away, a few odd snipers, fifty casualties a week or so, and here in layer on layer around them were a thousand guns, divisions massed upon divisions, hungry to advance and thrust them from Ypres to Poperinghe, Pop to Hazebrouck, Hazebrouck to the sea, while as for casualties—that, if any, was the part of his job at B.H.Q. he mostly loathed. It got on his nerves, that daily toll. “Killed in action and struck off strength”; section by section, company by company, they'd paid their price, and nothing to show for it but Ypres. Ypres—yes, by God, he hated Ypres.
Talk about human sacrifice—why that Cloth Hall itself was like a jagged tooth, looking as if it might belong to some beast that just wanted to go on swallowing flesh and blood. What were the casualties now within the Salient—10,000, 20,000, 30,000—what did it matter? It seemed as if it would go on like this for ever now, in and out Vlamertinghe, Ypres, Railway Wood, Hooge—it was only a few weeks, but it had been long enough.

Well, war was his job, he supposed, as he stumped across the square. He'd chosen it, and it wasn't up to him to grizzle, but he was 58 and he was tired. He felt a bit past this sort of thing. Game for the young, this game. He'd laughed at his wife, when she'd tried to stop one more old dug-out joining up at York, and he'd managed to carry through so far, but he was tired. He was an old man, and it was a bit beyond him; it was big and new. Freddy Mann—why his younger son was older than Freddy Mann—more like his grandson almost, with his cheeks and mop of curly hair; it was their show, after all, not his. The garden at Ilkley, that's where he ought to be; it came to his mind, that garden on a peaceful night like this. Keep safe, she'd said, when he packed up and shoved along. He'd never shown the feather in thirty years, nor asked for safety, but he couldn't help just thinking of it now. He was ready for it still, ready as Tom with the Grand Seas Fleet, or Derek at the Dardanelles, but he was old, damned old, and he was glad that just tonight he would sleep in peace. Here was his tunnel in the ramparts. He looked into the black mouth and up to the solid earth above. Forty feet of soil
above his head; the shell was not yet made that would break through forty feet. Tomorrow he'd be ready for it all again, ready with the best, but tonight he'd just forget and sleep in peace. Damned dark, this tunnel, and deep. Here was old Parker; better not wake him. Hard on a dark night to find his way about inside. So much the better—there would be peace tonight.

But at that tunnel in the ramparts a definite advance in twentieth-century artillery practice was made that night. The next morning daylight poured through a channel of forty feet into a twisted mass of masonry, broken timber, bones and spattered blood. Portions of four dead men were strewn around. There was no mark or wound upon the Major; but in spirit he was with those others, and a peace had come upon him that was deeper than the peace he asked.

“Don't think he's shamming, not meself I don't.
Can't tell, yer know; but if you was to ask me, I wouldn't call it
shamming.”

Tom Bamford and Willy Beard sat each in his corner of the dug-out. Willy Beard leaned forward, hands on knees, as he spoke, and regarded the man on the floor with his head on one side and a puzzled expression on his face.

“Say it came on sudden, do yer, Dick?”

“Yes.” Dick Bartlett looked up, his arm still round Private Garton's neck. “Sudden like it came on; he was all right afore; just as we was coming along that sap-'ead, out towards Y Wood. 'Ere, 'old up, mate.” He leaned down again and put his arm round Garton's back to support him during a sudden burst of vomiting and coughing. “ 'Ere, Bett, got yer water-bottle on yer? P'raps 'e wants a drink.”

“Sometimes they does it by swallowing soap or something of the sort. 'Ere y'are.” Private Bettson handed over his water-bottle with his usual expression of resigned gloom. “Some of the reg'lars does it—scrimshankin', that's what it's called. Didn't 'ave no soap about 'im, yer didn't notice?”

“Not that I knows of—'e ain't that sort. 'Appened sudden like, that's the funny thing about it. Just shoving along the trench we was, time they was crumping a bit this afternoon—”

“Yes—remember that.” Beard nodded. “ 'Eard 'em round about two o'clock, Y Wood way. Thought yer might be gettin' it.”

“That's it. Bit 'eavy it was, usual sort of stuff. Then one comes pretty near; then all of a sudden 'e falls about and starts this game. Don't seem to be 'it nowhere, that's the funny thing about it.”

Private Bartlett fingered Garton's back and legs. “Ain't no blood, not that I can see. Often a bad sign, though, when there ain't no blood. What d'yer make of it, Tom?”

“Damned 'ard to say. If it was in South Africa now, I'd 'ave called it 'eat-stroke. In South Africa—”

“Damn South Africa.” Private Bettson turned round with a savage growl. “You and yer bloody snowballin' in South Africa. This blasted shellin', that's what it is in my opinion—there you are, they're at it again. Railway Wood, that is. That's it, those field-guns of ours, that's what it is—they always starts it.”

Private Bettson looked round.

“What the 'ell's the use of their bangin' off the way they do? Three rounds a day, that's all they got, an' they poops 'em off, and this is what we gets for it. Four bloody 'ours of it today alone.”

“They was shelling Vlamertinghe this afternoon.” The peaceful Beard usually bore out the remarks of the last
speaker. “ 'E doesn't look so well, not now 'e don't. Kid o' mine, 'e was taken once like that. Ever tell yer”—he turned to Bamford—“about that kid o' mine?”

“Yes.” Tom Bamford was watching Garton more intently. “Don't like that blue around 'is lips, yer know. 'Ere's the bloody Corporal,” under his breath, as the dugout entrance darkened and Corporal Sugger appeared.

“What's all this?” said Corporal Sugger, his underlip protruding under his short black moustache. “Where's the feller? 'Ere, you get up,” as he gave Private Garton a kick.

“ 'Ere, steady, mate.”

“Who the 'ell are you, matin' me? Wounded or shammin', that's what I want to know. Come on, yer bastards, 'as he got 'it or not?”

“No, leastways not that we can see, but—”

“Then 'e's shammin'. Bound to get it, with you fellers—always said so. Y'ain't soldiers—that's what it is. Get up.”

Another kick.

Private Garton moved restlessly.

“Never you mind 'is mouth.” Corporal Sugger turned to Bartlett, who was wiping some foam from his lips. “That's an old trick, that is—like spitting blood: don't take me in, that don't.”

“P'raps not, Corporal, but if 'e can't move'e can't.”

“You keep yer bloody mouth shut, or you'll be for it, too.” Corporal Sugger turned with an added ferocity to his arch enemy, Private Bamford. “ 'Ave you before the officer.”

“Well, now, I wonder? Seems to me yer'd better get the officer, or doctor, or something; 'tain't as if we was gettin' any further. Look at 'im now.”

Private Garton's breathing was becoming more laboured. His hands clasped and unclasped spasmodically.

“Easy enough put on, that is. However”—Corporal Sugger paused a moment—“soon fix 'im, I will. 'Ere, Bettson, you get Trott.”

The dressing station was near, and within a few minutes the M.O. had taken charge of the case. A talkative fellow, the M.O., a fellow who believed in jollying things up, in putting a cheerful face upon it, in keeping up one's pecker, in not giving way.

“That's it, me lad, soon have you on yer feet. Let's just feel, here and here. Ah yes, nothing broken—not even scratched as far as I can see. Let's have a look at his mouth—no, that foam's nothing—yes—well—” He rapidly slipped a capsule between Private Garton's lips. “That'll buck you up. Feel better now, lad? Yes, that's right.”

Private Garton had struggled to a sitting position and was looking round.

“That's it—that's right.” A hearty smack upon the back assisted the patient to a more erect posture. “Just keep on like that. Give him a drink of tea—no rum. Got a stretcher case or two, but I'll be back in half an hour. No, Corporal, he's not shamming—just a touch of shock—plenty like that. There's worse things happen at sea. See you soon. Just jolly him up a bit—that's all he wants.”

“Told yer 'e wasn't shammin'. Thank Gawd the Corporal's gone,” as the dug-out breathed again. “Ought to 'ave known, too, 'cos what Sugger doesn't know o' scrimshankin'—Gawd, there 'e's off again. 'Ere, mate, I don't like this,” as Bartlett turned to Beard. “Get Trott back.”

The M.O. had unfortunately decided to jolly up the front-line trenches. Private Beard found the dressing station empty, while the others watched round a scarcely breathing figure.

“Can't 'e get the Corporal or something?” Bartlett muttered anxiously. “ 'Ere, mate, 'ave a drink o' tea. Rub 'is 'ands, Bet—'e seems all cold.”

“It's all this bloody shellin'. Wish to Gawd they'd stop. Oh, Gawd, that was near.”

“Rub 'is 'ands, yer fool.” Bartlett shouted to Bettson above the crashes, “Thank Gawd, 'ere's the officer. It's Private Garton, sir; very queer he is, sir. Get inside, sir, quick.”

“Damned nearly on us. That's in the next trench.” Freddy Mann dived into the dug-out. “Fit, is it?”

“Looks like it. The M.O.'s been, but he's been took worse since.”

Freddy Mann looked at the motionless figure.

“Got a glass?”

“Whaffor, sir? 'Ere y'are—'ere's Brain's mirror. This'll do. 'Tain't that, is it?”

“Just hold him. We'll know in a minute. Can you feel his heart?”

“No.”

“His 'ands is very cold, sir.”

“Can you feel his heart?”

“No.” Private Bamford bent lower.

“Like ice, sir, 'is 'ands. Oh, Gawd, this shellin'.”

“No sign?”

Private Bamford shook his head.

“All limp, sir, he seems to be.”

A minute passed. Freddy Mann took the glass away from the foam-flecked mouth. He examined it carefully at the dug-out entrance.

“ 'E's cold all over, sir—'E's—”

“Put a coat over him and shut his eyes. What do you want, Corporal?”

“Just looked in to see that scrimshanker—oh—” Corporal Sugger paused.

“Dead, is 'e?”

“Yes.”

He took a step forward and looked at the officer and the men.

“What did he die of?”

“Joy at seeing yer, yer bastard,” muttered Bettson. The incessant crashes prevented the words from being heard. “How are we to know? He's dead, that's all. You'd better get a stretcher.”

But Corporal Sugger stood motionless, looking at the body.

“ 'Ow the 'ell was I to know 'e wasn't shamming? Easy enough. 'Ow was I to know?”

This was what he'd been waiting for. What the devil did the rain matter? Bill stood outside his dug-out, examining his revolver and adjusting the string of his smoke helmet. The worse the weather, the better for the raid: the Hun wouldn't expect them on a night like this. It was about time it came off, about time somebody did something. Hanging about in Railway Wood and being whizz-banged in Cambridge Road wouldn't win the war. If other fellows, like those fellows in the 1st Battalion, were content to sit and smoke, well he wasn't. Devil of a job he'd had, though, to get the Skipper to agree, and then there'd been all the excitement with the Colonel and the Brigadier, and all the reams of orders and instructions. There was too much talk altogether in this war: why not get on with it, and cut out all the quack? Just a few good chaps like Robbie and Freddy Mann and Jack Malcolm: all they wanted to do was to leave it to them, and they'd soon get it through. He'd know all about it, the pretty Hun, before a few more hours were over. He'd know. Bill got up on the firestep, and peered through the line of stakes into the darkness. There they were, tucked away. Let him get at them, that was all. He'd lived for this long enough—dreamed of it, ever since he'd first joined up. Gad, life wasn't half worth living with a job like this in hand. Here were Freddy Mann and Robbie, and the Skipper was round there waiting. Now they'd show 'em. Bill laughed aloud as he gave a final hitch to his equipment, and swung through the driving rain along the trench.