Death of a Hero (44 page)

Evans and Winterbourne stood at the end of the trench to help out the groping, half-blinded men. As they filed by, grotesques with india-rubber faces, great, dead-looking goggles, and a long tube from their mouths to the box respirators, Winterbourne thought they looked like lost souls expiating some horrible sin in a new Inferno. The rolled gas-blankets were pulled down tightly over the cellar entrances, but the gas leaked through. Two men were gassed and taken off in stretchers, foaming rather horribly at the mouth.

The gas bombardment went on until dawn, and then ceased. Winterbourne fell asleep, with his gas-mask just off his face. Hitherto they had slept with the box respirator slung on a nail or piled with the other equipment; after the experience of this and the subsequent nights, they always slept with the respirator on their chests and the mask ready to slip on immediately.

The heavies began again soon after it was light. Winterbourne was awakened by one which crashed just outside his cellar. He lay on the floor for a long time listening to zwiilING, CRASH, of the shells. He heard two ruined houses clatter to the ground under direct hits, and wondered if the cellars had held firm. They hadn't. But fortunately they happened to be unoccupied. Presently the German batteries switched off and began bombarding some artillery about five hundred yards to the left. Winterbourne profited by the lull to wash. He ran out of the cellar in his shirt-sleeves and gas-mask, with the canvas bucket in which he washed; and found that a shell had smashed the pump outside his billet. He knew there was another about three hundred yards to the right, although he had never been there.

It was another cold but sunny morning, with the inevitable white shrapnel bursts all over the sky. He was now so accustomed to them that he scarcely noticed their existence. Occasionally a very faint rattle of machine-gun fire came from the war in the air, of which he was nearly as ignorant as people in England of the war on land.

He took off his mask and sniffed. A fresh wind was blowing, and, although there was plenty of phosgene in the air, it was not in any deadly concentration. He decided to risk leaving the mask off. The ground was deeply delved with the conical holes made by the big shells thrown over, and pitted everywhere by the smaller holes of the gas
shells. He found a dud, and examined it with interest. A brownish-looking shell, about the size of a five-nine.

The cottages were rather scattered, and unused as cellar-billets in this direction. The top storeys had gone from nearly all, but in several the ground floor was fairly intact. He looked into each as he passed. The wallpaper had long ago fallen and lay in mouldering heaps. The floors were covered with broken bricks, tiles, smashed beams, laths, and disintegrating plaster. Odd pieces of broken furniture, twisted iron beds, large rags which had once been clothes, and sheets, protruded from the mass. He poked about and found photographs, letters in faded ink on damp paper, broken toys, bits of smashed vases, a soiled satin wedding-gown with its veil and wreath of artificial orange-blossom. He stood, with his head bent, looking at this pathetic debris of ruined lives, and absentmindedly lit a cigarette, which he immediately threw away – it tasted of phosgene. “La Gloire”, he murmured, “Deutschland über alles, God save the King.”

The next cottage was less damaged than the others, and its rough wooden shutters were still on their hinges. Winterbourne peered through, and saw that the whole of the inside had been cleared of debris, and was stacked with quantities of wooden objects. He shaded his eyes more carefully, and saw they were ranks and ranks of wooden crosses. Those he could see had painted on them R.I.P.; then underneath was a blank space for the name; underneath was the name of one or other of the battalions in his division, and then the present month and year, with a blank space for the day. Excellent forethought, he reflected, as he filled his bucket and water-bottle. How well this War is organized!

About nine, Evans's servant told him to report immediately in fighting order. Wearily and sleepily he threw on his equipment, re-tied the string of his box respirator, and slung his rifle and bayonet over his left shoulder. He waited with the officers' servants, who gave him a piece of bread dipped in bacon grease to eat. Presently Evans came out and they started off.

“I've got to see an R.E. officer,” said Evans, “about a new job on Hill 91. It's a bit further to the left of where we've been working, and it'll take us half an hour longer to get there.”

Winterbourne seized the opportunity to put forward one or two ideas he had been thinking over:

“I hope you won't mind, sir, if I say something – it's not an official complaint at all, you understand, only what I've been personally thinking.”

“Go ahead.”

“Well, sir, I assume that the reason we are kept in billets instead of in the line is to give us more rest so that we come fresh to work. But here it doesn't work out that way, especially in the past fortnight; and it's likely to get worse instead of better. It seems to me that we should much better off if we were in dug-outs in the reserve We have that long walk through the mud twice a day; we get all the shells meant for the transport and ration parties; we get an all-night strafing in the line; we're shelled all the way down; we come back to gassy billets, which are shelled with heavies twenty hours out of twenty-four. The cellars are no real protection against a direct hit. They're damper than dug-outs, and just as dark and ratty. There are far more whizz-bangs and light stuff in the line, but far fewer heavies; and if we had even fifteen-foot dug-outs, we'd get some sleep, instead of starting awake every ten minutes with a crump outside the cellar entrance. We're getting a lot of useless casualties, sir. I passed the cook-house as I came along, and the cook told me one of his mates had just gone down with gas from last night. And the S.M. looks as green as grass. Can't you get us put in the line, sir?”

Evans cogitated a moment or two:

“Yes, I think you're right. No, I can't get us moved. I haven't the authority. I wish I had. I'll ask the Major to put it before the Colonel. It's quite true what you say. In the past week we've had eight casualties in the line, and twelve here or going up and down. But with this show coming off I expect every trench and dugout will be packed.”

Winterbourne felt enormously proud that Evans had not snubbed his suggestion. Evans went on, after a pause:

“By the way, Winterbourne, have you ever thought of taking a commission?”

“Why yes, sir; it was suggested by the Adjutant of my battalion in England. I believe my father wrote to him about it. He, my father, was very keen about it.”

“Well, why don't you apply?”

It was now Winterbourne's turn to cogitate:

“I find it rather hard to explain, sir. For many reasons, which you might think far-fetched, I had and still have a feeling that I ought to
spend the War in the ranks and in the line. I should prefer to be in the Infantry, but I think the Pioneers are quite near enough.”

“They often come round for volunteers, you know. If you like, I'll put you down next time and the Major will recommend you to the Colonel.”

“It's kind of you, sir. I'll think about it.”

One night, two nights, three nights, four nights passed and still there was no big battle. And they were not moved. Every, night they were shelled up the line, shelled in the line, shelled on the way back, and arrived in a hailstorm of gas shells. They had to wear their gasmasks for hours every day. And sleep became more and more difficult and precarious.

Winterbourne's intimacy with Evans and his own “education” put him in rather an ambiguous position. Evans trusted him more and more to do things which would normally have been done by an N.C.O. And Winterbourne's feeling of responsibility led him to take on and conscientiously carry out everything of the kind. One night there was supposed to be a gas-discharger attack by the British in retaliation for the heavy German gas bombardments. All the officers wanted to see it; and since it was staged for an hour before dawn, that meant either that one officer had to take the Company down or that the men had to be kept up two hours longer, exposed to artillery retaliation. Evans solved the problem. He sent for Winterbourne:

“Winterbourne, we want to stop and see the fun up here. Now, you can take the Company down, can't you? I'll tell Sergeant Perkins that you're in charge; but of course you'll give orders through him. Come back here and report after you get them back.”

“Very good, sir.”

There was no British gas attack, but the Germans put up what was then a considerable gas bombardment. They sent over approximately thirty thousand gas shells that night, most of them in and around the village where the Pioneers were billeted. The Company had to wear gas-masks over the last half-mile, and Winterbourne had a very anxious time getting them along. He had discovered a disused but quite deep trench running through the village almost to their billets, and he took the men along there instead of through the village street. It was a little longer, but far safer. The shells were hailing all round them, and Winterbourne didn't want any casualties. Sergeant Perkins and he
managed to get the men safely into billets. Winterbourne turned and said:

“Well, goodnight, Sergeant; I must go up the line again and report to Mr. Evans.”

“You ain't going up agen, are you?”

“Yes, Mr. Evans told me to.”

“'Struth! Well, I'd rather it was you than me.”

Winterbourne fitted on his gas-mask, and groped his way out of the Sergeant's cellar. The night was muggy, a bit drizzly, windless and very dark – the ideal conditions for a gas bombardment. What little wind there was came from the German lines. He hesitated between taking the long muddy trench or the more open road; but since he was practically blinded in the darkness with his goggles, he decided to take the trench, for fear of losing his way. It was rather eerie, groping his way alone up the trench, with the legions of gas shells shrilling and phutting all round him. They fell with a terrific “flop” when they came within a few yards. He stumbled badly two or three times in holes they had made in the trench since he had come down. For nearly half a mile he had to go through the gas barrage, and it was slow work indeed, with the mud and the darkness and the groping and the stumbling. Interminable. He thought of nothing in the darkness but keeping his left hand on the side of the trench to guide him and holding his right hand raised in front to prevent his bumping into something.

At last he got clear of the falling gas shells, and ventured a peep outside his mask. One sniff showed him the air was deadly with phosgene. He groped on another two hundred yards and tried again. There was still a lot of gas, but he decided to risk it, and took off his mask. With the mask off he could see comparatively well, and travelled quite rapidly. About an hour before dawn he reported to Evans.

“There is a devil of a gas bombardment going on round the billets and for half a mile round, sir,” said Winterbourne; “that's why I'm so late. The whole country reeks of gas.”

Evans whistled.

“Whew! As a matter of fact, we've been drinking a bit in the dug-out with some Infantry officers, and one or two are a bit groggy in consequence.”

“Better wait till dawn, then, sir. If you'll come up into the trench you'll hear the shells going over.”

“Oh, I take your word for it. But the Major insists on going down at once. We've just heard that there isn't going to be a gas attack. You'll have to help me get them down.”

“Very good, sir.”

The Major was entirely sober; Evans was perfectly self-controlled; but the other four were all a little too merry. It was a perfect nightmare getting them through the gas barrage. They would insist there was no danger, that the gas was all a wash-out; and kept taking off their masks. They disregarded the Major's peremptory orders, and Evans and Winterbourne had constantly to take off their own masks to argue with the subalterns and make them put on theirs. Winterbourne could feel the deadly phosgene at his lungs.

Just after dawn they reached the Officers' Mess cellar, fortunately without a casualty. Winterbourne felt horribly sick with the gas he had swallowed. The Major took of his gas-mask, and picked up a water-jug.

“Those confounded servants have forgotten to leave any water,” exclaimed the Major angrily. “Winterbourne, take that tin jug and go and get some water from the cook-house.”

“Very good, sir.”

The shells were still pitilessly hailing down through the dawn. It was a hundred yards to the cook-house, and Winterbourne three times just escaped being directly hit by one of the ceaselessly falling shells. He returned to the Mess, and left the water.

“Thanks very much,” said Evans; “you may go now, Winterbourne. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, sir.”

“Goodnight,” said the Major; “thank you for getting that water, Winterbourne; I oughtn't to have sent you.”

“Thank you, sir; goodnight, sir.”

Outside the Major's and Evans's part of the cellar the other officers were sitting round a deal table by the light of a candle stuck in a bottle, which looked dim and ghastly. The place was practically gas-proof, with tightly-drawn blankets over every crevice.

“Win'erbourne,” said one of them.

“Sir?”

“Run along to the Quar'master-Sergeant and bring us a bottle of whisky.”

“Very good, sir.”

Winterbourne climbed the cellar steps, lifted the outer gas-curtain rapidly, and stepped out. There was such a stench of phosgene that he snapped his mask on at once. The shells were falling thicker than ever. One hit the wall of the house, and Winterbourne felt bricks and dust drop on his steel helmet and shoulders. He shrank against what was left of the wall. Two hundred yards to the Q.M.S.'s billet. That meant nearly a quarter of a mile through that deadly storm – for a half-drunken man to get a few more whiskies. Winterbourne hesitated. It was disobeying orders if he didn't go. He turned resolutely and went to his own billet; nothing was ever said of this refusal to obey an officer's orders in the face of the enemy.