How Dear Is Life (33 page)

“All right, thanks.” Phillip motioned to speak with him in private. “Bertie, have you heard anything about a relief?”

“Not yet. But they say a French brigade is on the way. Have you seen old Gerry? It's such a frightful schemozzle no one knows where anyone is. Like a drink?”

Hubert Cakebread offered his water-bottle. It was full of warm tea, rum in it. Phillip took a long pull. Immediately afterwards he felt it wasn't so bad, after all.

“May my pal Martin have some? I'll fetch him.”

Martin was drooping, coughing hollowly, near the Medical Officer. Captain McTaggart was wiping his bloody hands on a towel. Bearers, red-cross white brassards on both arms, were arriving, folded stretchers on shoulders. They had been carrying the wounded down through the wood to the road where waggons had taken them away.

Martin spoke to Tommy Atkins, who told the Medical Officer.

“Tell him to go sick when we're out of the line,” said Captain McTaggart, without looking up from what he was doing. Martin saluted, and turned away. Phillip knew what that meant: Medicine and Duty—a No. 9 pill, to clear the bowels. He touched Martin's arm, to tell him about the rum waiting for him; but Martin did not want any. He was weeping.

Carrying one wooden S.A.A. ammunition box by its rope handles between them, and Phillip dragging another partly on the ground, they set off back to the line. The boxes were heavy. They stopped frequently on the way up to the road.

Before they reached it, Martin collapsed, moaning that he could go no further.

“Hell, I can't manage more than one box by myself. Get up!”

“I can't.”

“We're all in the same boat. I don't like it any more than you do. Come on, I say!”

When Martin would not, he said, “If Grannie Henshaw reports us, we'll get in a row, you know! You're a fool not to have had some of that rum, when I wangled it for you.”

Martin groaned. He was trembling violently.

“Well, it's no damn good stopping here! We're right beside the road, and if they start firing, we'll cop it! Come on, get up! I know you're putting it on! Why, even those chaps wounded on stretchers didn't moan. Get up, I say!”

“I can't. I'm dying.”

“Can't you even help me get this bloody weight on my shoulder? Christ, won't you even help that much? Then blast you, you Leytonstone lout!” cried Phillip, with sobbing breath, striking Martin on the head.

He tried to shoulder the box, but could not get it up. While he sat there, an outburst of shouting arose all along the front from left and right; and as rifle-fire flashed everywhere, he lay down beside Martin; then taking his bayonet off his rifle, began
to break open the box, and sling the linen bandoliers over his shoulder.

“Get up, you lout! Jesus Christ, hark at them!”

The shouting had spread across the whole of the front, from Messines on the right to Wytschaete on the left. As he listened, the thin wire drawn tight within, the shouting took on an ominous note: a deeper, roaring sound, overcoming the thudding of rifle-fire at ground-level from the ground in front. There were glints in the moonlight; there were noises of running feet: isolated yells; and then a deep growling
aa-aa-ah
, like the back-wash of a wave rolling shingle down a beach.

Hearing it, Phillip was at first unable to move. He crouched low, staring towards the dreadful deep noise from which now came screams and cries. Struggling to get his voice up from his stomach, at last he managed to gasp, as he shook off the weight of linen bandoliers and tugged at Martin's arm, “It's too late! They're coming! Come on! Come on, quick! Oh, you bloody fool, you idiot!” for still Martin would not move, but lay there, face on arm.

Phillip tried once more to get him up. He pulled him by the arm, screaming at him; he beat him about the head, spraining his thumb in so doing; and then he ran, mouth open, blindly the way he had come. Behind the farmhouse, between retching attempts to get his voice, “They've broken through! Bayonet charge! They're coming over the road! Martin! Martin! Save him!”

“Control yourself, that man!” cried the authoritative voice of the Medical Officer. “Atkins, Smith, take a stretcher! You!” to Phillip. “Guide them where to go, and then rejoin your company!”

“Very good, sir,” said Phillip, hoping that no one had recognised him. He realised that he had left his carbine beside Martin.

T
HE
moon was wasted of its light, hanging pale above the five distant wooded Monts de Flandre when scattered groups of the London Highlanders, driven from L’Enfer wood, made their
way to the straight road leading to Wulverghem, a village two miles west of Messines. Through the night-lenses of Captain ‘Fiery’ Forbes’ binoculars Germans were visible walking about on the ridge, apparently seeking wounded. Stray shells whined down, twisting luridly in the unknown dark; distant reverberations shook the dim air of dawn.

Flights of machine-gun bullets began to hiss and streak through the semi-darkness, the traversing streams followed by their sequences of reports. Sporadic rifle-fire opened up; it was dangerous to group; the order was to extend, men to make their way back to the reassembly point at Wulverghem.

Most of the inhabitants of the village remained, with many of the houses intact, and the church. Those peasants who were about seemed to take little interest in what was going on. Haggard kilted men fell in on company markers in a field outside the village; and having piled arms, rested.

It was known by this time that the Earl of Findhorn was killed, with the Adjutant. Captain Forbes was in command of the battalion.

When the roll was called one hundred and fifty men of all ranks answered their names. Of ‘B’ Company twenty-seven remained, with Mr. Ogilby in command.

Captain Forbes, briefly addressing the battalion survivors, said that many of the missing would no doubt be rejoining later.

A cavalry regiment had their lines nearby, and when from their cooks came dixies of hot tea, Phillip learned they were the Oxfordshire Hussars.

Later the transport waggons of the Coldstream arrived. Tins of Maconochie were given out, as many as each man wanted. Nobody took more than one. Phillip could not eat his.

Morning revealed a monotony of damp level fields, leafless trees around farms with red-tiled roofs, and a dark wood about a mile away. Dominating the landscape, frowning over all, was Messines, looking like a mass of cracked, dark-brown crab-shells against the sky-line. The dark-brown serrated mass was almost sinister in distinctness with the light of early morning behind it.

Now that day was come, and water gleaming in cart-ruts and hoof-holes in the mud all around, Phillip felt wretched, as though with the night something which had been his life was
gone. Almost he wanted to be back on the ridge in darkness again, among burning stacks and buildings, listening to the bird-like piping and moaning of ricochets, even the cheering and band-playing and the crashing of rifle-fire. It was terrible, and yet it was wonderful; even as the thought of ever having to go through it again was icy blackness to the mind.

What could he do, to avoid going back? If only he could get some of his ribs broken, as they said Martin had got. He had been got away just in time.

An officer of ‘D’ Company, with a folding camera, took photographs as they stood in a loose line.

Of Baldwin he had heard no news. The stretcher-bearers knew nothing. Elliott was missing too. Phillip went to Gerry’s company, to find him. Cakebread was missing, they said. Feeling heavy and hollow he hastened to the transport to see Bertie. A big red-faced Coldstreamer said the sergeant had remained during the night with his old company, hearing that all the officers had been killed. That was when the Allemans had broken through on the left, and the Highlanders had counterattacked with the bayonet. Sergeant Cakebread had led them and had not been seen since.

“I see, thank you,” said Phillip; and wondering what to do, he went to ‘C’ Company, to see Peter Wallace, and David, and young Nimmo. It was a shock to learn that Peter had been killed, after going to the rescue of the Medical Officer, Captain McTaggart, who had been bayoneted while attending a wounded man. In the light of a burning stack Peter had run in to help, but his glasses must have dropped off, for when last seen he had been wrestling with a German, whose head he had got under his arm. Just then more Germans had appeared from the other side of the farm, and a withdrawal into the wood had been ordered. Screams of men bayoneted had been heard. If ever a man deserved the V.C., it was Peter Wallace, the dishevelled chaps of ‘C’ Company said.

“What about David, and young Nimmo? Were they with Peter?”

Nobody seemed to know.

He wandered off by himself, thinking about Peter’s bravery, and his own utter funk. It was just the same as when they had been boys in the Backfield. He had always been afraid of fighting; Peter had always been brave. There was no doubt of his own
cowardice, then and now. He re-lived, with drying mouth, the scene in the trench again: the red-black-gold flash of the 5·9 bursting on the parados, his legs buried in earth, the voice of the bearded Carabineer coming from a long way away as he pulled him out. If he had not been sent back for ammunition, he would have been bayoneted with the others in the trench. He had slipped away, from behind the stretcher-bearers, as soon as they had carried off Martin. What else was there to do except clear off? Would Martin remember that he had struck him on the head? If so, he would say that he had only been trying to make him wake up to his danger, and the need to get bandoliers to the company. That was true, in a way. It
was
true. Nevertheless, or
tamen
,
as the Magister would say, he had been in what Father called a blue funk.

He wandered to the road, and watched the Oxfordshire Hussars parading without their horses. Other men of the battalion were standing about there. The Hussars were Yeomanry, territorials like themselves, and going up for the first time on foot. Was there to be an attack, to try and get back the ridge? If so, they hadn’t a hope, against all those German machine-guns, and in daylight, too.

*

Could it be true, as some of the chaps were saying, that among the Bavarians advancing to the crest, to the music of their bands floating before them in the silence of the guns, were students walking arm-in-arm because they had no rifles at all, being sustained only by the desperate singing of comrades, volunteers like themselves, who had had even less
training than the youngest of the London Highlanders? And that the cries of
Mutter-
Mutter-Mutter
among the wounded were the same as
Mother-
Mother-Mother
heard from the Iron Colonel’s grey lips when he had opened his eyes wide, just before dying, as he lay in the lee of the cornstack? It was a terrible thought, that the Germans were like themselves: a thought that he could not bear to think of at all, even to himself.

*

When the Hussars had gone, he saw a group of officers trotting up the road. They had red bands round their hats, and gold braid on the peaks. In front of them rode a Colour-sergeant, bearing a little Union Jack as a pennant. Behind him came a sturdy, white-moustached figure, which he recognised from
newspaper photographs as Field-Marshal Sir John French, the Commander-in-Chief. Everyone saluted as he went past.

He watched the magnificent posse, as he thought of it halting and dismounting. Sir John French spoke to several of the Highlanders. He hurried over to hear. It was surprising how short the Commander-in-Chief was, and how kindly he spoke. He said the battalion had done well. Their work, and the way they had borne themselves, would never be forgotten. He asked many questions, all in the same kindly voice, rather like Sir Ian Hamilton’s. It was a wonderful feeling, to be spoken to like that by a Field-Marshal. He was not at all stern, like Lord Kitchener; rather the reverse. He felt much happier. All the staff-officers looked spotlessly clean, with gleaming brown riding boots and belts, and shining spurs. A Rolls-Royce motor-car with a Union Jack on its bonnet, and several mounted men, all with sergeant’s stripes, followed the group as they rode away.

With the others, Phillip was excited by the visit; but depression returned when the order was given to fall-in on the road. He was almost sorry to be leaving the field, muddy as it was; still, they would be going back for a rest, and letters and parcels.

Changes were made in the company. Lance-corporal Douglas was now full corporal, with an extra purple stripe to each sleeve made by indelible pencil. He was in charge of the left-half company. Collins, promoted lance-corporal, was in charge of the section. Collins now had a determined manner, so different from his apathetic attitude during the night bus-ride from Ypres, long ago. Then, with a start, he realised that the bus-ride was only last Friday night; and that today was Sunday. Sunday! What would they be doing at home? He could not imagine his home. Would the bell of St. Cyprian’s Church be tolling for eleven o’clock service? How unreal and far-away all that now seemed. It was gone for ever.

After linen bandoliers of ammunition had been handed out, the battalion moved off through the village. To his dismay Phillip realised that they were going along the road leading to Messines. Surely they were not going into the attack again? Shells were bursting on the rising ground in front. There was a lot of machine-gun fire in the distance. Why were they marching back again? Hadn’t they done their bit? He felt like crying.

They turned off the road, down a muddy lane which led to a farm. They lined a ditch, behind a thorn hedge. They were
told not to look up, in case enemy aeroplanes saw their white faces.

Through a gap in the hedge he watched the Hussars advancing in open order, across the brown land which sloped almost imperceptibly down to the little brook which he had crossed with others during the withdrawal in the darkness. Many machine-guns were now firing, from unseen posts across the stream. Then tiny figures of men were seen, moving down the slopes. They were Germans. Nearer, other figures were moving back towards the spur—the Hussars coming back.

*

All day the Highlanders and the Yeomanry sat or lay and slept by the hedge. The German advance seemed to have petered out. Phillip could not sleep; he lay back on his valise, while recent scenes recurred again and again in his mind. The electric snake flickered all down the left side of his head; he rubbed his eye; it made no difference. Then as the afternoon was growing dull other troops filed down the track, and Sergeant Furrow told them that they were being relieved. A rumour said that they would be returning to England, to be turned into an Officers Training Corps. They filed away down the muddy lane.

At first they marched fairly regularly in step down the
pavé
road to Wulverghem; but soon fatigue, and the hard sett-stones, made progress for each man a desperate, lonely, and unspeaking affair. Phillip’s shoes and hose, sodden from crossing the stream the night before, soon blistered his heels. They went on through Wulverghem, turning right-handed towards the nearest of the low, wooded hills to the north. Darkness had come when the first halt was called. They fell out on the right of the road, beyond the iron rails embedded in the
pavé.

Here the transport was waiting with hot tea and Maconochie stew; then on again into the night, humping packs, rifles continually being shifted from shoulder to shoulder, no one speaking, tramp tramp tramp in darkness flashing and rolling with gunfire along the eastern horizon.

They kept going in the hope of billets in the village below the Mont de Kemmel; but they marched on through dark little rows of cottages dim-seen under the embattled sky; men now slouching along, out of step, many limping upon the uneven
pavé.
Phillip was on the left of his file of fours; the
pavé
in the
middle of the road. A muddy track lay each side of it. With clenched teeth he slogged on. They came at last to another village. This time they halted, to lean upon muzzles of rifles, waiting, for this was the end of the march.

As in a bad dream he followed five others into a cottage kitchen. Their blankets had been thrown off before the advance through the wood; no matter, this was a house, with roof to keep out rain, and thanks be to God, said Corporal Douglas, a stove. Shedding equipment, they lay down, but stirred to to life once more when the post-corporal and his orderly man brought round letters. The orderly carried an extra sack marked
Missing
,
in indelible pencil.

Parcels would be delivered tomorrow, said the post-corporal’s voice, heard by Phillip lying in a corner, face to the wall, precious envelopes in breast-pocket, praying silently that all the candles be put out—the eye-stabbing bright points of light, the jarring voices in the room.

*

More of ‘B’ company turned up in the morning. An entire half-company of ‘A’ arrived. Retreating with other troops after the night of battle, they had slept elsewhere. The battalion losses were not so heavy as had been thought; they were just under four hundred.

For ‘B’ company there was a foot-inspection after breakfast; then Lance-corporal Collins marched the sick to the R.A.M.C. post, where iodine was dabbed on Phillip’s raw blisters. From the orderly he heard that Martin was in the Casualty Clearing Station at Locre.

Later in the morning orders came to move by ’bus. With relief he heard they were going back to Bailleul. When they paraded, Captain Forbes told them that he had received a telegram from the Commander-in-Chief, offering his warmest congratulations and thanks for the fine work they had done at Messines. “You have given a glorious lead and example to all Territorial troops who are going to fight in France.” There was also a letter from General Allenby, commanding the Cavalry Corps, in which he thanked the battalion for the self-sacrificing support given in a great emergency. “Steadiness and courage saved a situation that was as difficult and critical to deal with as will ever occur.” If only he had known what had really happened. Then Captain Forbes read out messages from the
2nd Battalion at Home. So the news had got to London! Ah, if only he had not run into the wood.

Yet he felt also a sort of pride as Fiery Forbes read out the messages; but upon reflection, wondered again how they could have applied to what had happened. How had the situation been
saved
?
He tried to picture Father’s face, when he read of it in
The
Daily
Trident.
He could almost hear Gran’pa on the Hill discussing it with Mr. Krebs and Mr. Bolton, in the shelter, or perhaps standing in the road outside his gate, with Mrs. Bigge looking on. Would Mrs. Neville, in her upper flat, be watching up the road as she usually did? He could imagine the serious faces, and perhaps Mrs. Neville would be crying; but not Mother. He had not seen her cry since he was a little child, though often hot spots came on her cheeks when Father bullied her, and a shine came upon her eyes.