§ 6

“Damn,” said Torrington, “I thought we were going to get a little rest. The men are pretty well all in. Straker’s up at the O. Pip,^[11] but he won’t see much. One round a minute, you say.”

They were standing under the trees, just outside the command post—a vast hollow mound of chalk, shored with timber, top covered with new-cut branches.

“Come in, won’t you? We’re just going to have some tea.”

Peter crouched through the timbered doorway; sat down on a ration-box. “I’ll just get on to Straker.” Torrington buzzed on the ’phone above his untidy bunk. “Give me the O. Pip, please. What’s that? You wanted H.Q. Well, the Adjutant’s here.” He handed the receiver to Peter.

Straker’s voice came stuttering down the wire: “I thought you’d like to know that one of our Infantry Brigades is coming up the road. The 2nd, I think. They’re just marching round the Fosse now.”

“Thanks,” said Peter calmly. “Don’t go away. Torrington wants to speak to you.” . . . And to Torrington, “I don’t think I’ll stay for tea, thanks. You might pass the order on to Lodden. . . .”

Peter picked his way diagonally across the field towards the ruined house at the cross-roads. In it, a fire burned. His own men stood about, smoking, gossiping, drinking tea from enamelled mugs. A wounded man limped by, eyes on the ground.

And suddenly, riding round the battered wall at the foot of the Fosse, he saw Colonel Andrews. On either side of him rode Slattery and Simcox. Peter saluted; the Colonel acknowledged; said “Hallo, Jameson”; rode on. Behind him, came the Chalkshires!

“My God,” thought Peter, “my God!”

Were these the lusty singing men he had known at Worthing, the cheery officers he had dined with at Shoreham—these dust-stained weary fellows, plodding two by two either side of the road? Hardly a sound came from their parched throats. Packs dragged at their shoulders; rifles dragged at their hands. Their faces were lined as the faces of old men. Sweat dripped from them. . . . A Company straggled by. Came his old company, Arkwright at their head.

“Hallo, Arkwright.”

“Hallo, P.J.”; and Arkwright rode on. Long Longstaffe and Private Haddock, trudging at his horse’s tail, looked up at the known name.

“Gawd,” said the little man, “if it ain’t our old P.J. ’Aven’t got anyfink to eat about yer, I suppose, sir?”

Others took up the cry: “P.J.! Gawblimey, it’s our old P.J. Ask P.J. ’E’ll give us somefink to eat. Somefink to eat, sir. For the love of Gawd. Somefink to eat. We can’t fight with nuffink in our stomachs, sir. . . .”

Peter ran forward; clutched Arkwright’s bridle. “What the Hell’s happened, Arkwright?”

The schoolmaster looked down from his horse. “I don’t know,” he said wearily, “I don’t know. We’ve been marching like this for three days. And the rations haven’t come. That’s all.”

Behind them, rose the heart-breaking voices: “P.J.! Yes, P.J., I tell yer. ’E’ll get us somefink to eat. Gawd! look at them ruddy gunners. They’ve got their rations, they have. ’Ere, mate, for the love of Gawd, just a bit of that bread.”

Some of the gunners ran out of the ruined house; proffered a crust or two. The men snatched at them; tore them with their teeth as they marched.

“I can’t do anything for them,” whispered Peter. “When did they eat last?”

“Yesterday evening. We were hustled out of Béthune just as they were starting breakfast. . . . Where are we going? . . . God knows, I don’t. The maps haven’t been served out. You’d better get out of this, P.J. It’s only giving the boys false hopes.”

Peter stepped back; and the company plodded by. As they passed him, sweating heads turned, dusty lips murmured. “Can’t you do nuffink for us, sir? Just a bite, sir. Anyfink’ll do, sir.” They looked like faithful dogs whose masters had betrayed them.

“Cheer up, lads,” said Peter, “cheer up!”

“We’ll do our best, sir. Bit ’ard though, our first time in action, ain’t it, sir? . . .”

The files trudged past him in the dust. Behind them, came other files, thousands of them. All dust-stained. All sleepless. All hungry. “Food!” they cried as they marched. “Food!”

But not a man of them fell out!

§ 7

They sat at tea in the bare Mess-room—the Colonel, Purves, Doctor Carson, Morency, Peter. Outside, it darkled. Rain had begun to fall.

“What’s happened to your appetite, P.J.?” chaffed the jovial Irishman.

“Somehow, I don’t feel hungry, Doc,” said our Mr. Jameson.

§ 1

Day waned; died. Bombardier Michael came in; cleared away the tea-mugs. The telephone on the shelf buzzed impatiently. Purves went to it.

“It’s Torrington,” he announced, “and he wants to know if they’re to go on firing at the Pope’s Nose.”

“Tell him, yes,” said Stark, “till further orders.”

“Are we going to move out, sir?” asked Purves, coming back to the table. “My servant says he’s had orders to pack up my kit.”

“He has. My orders.” The tone of the Weasel’s voice stifled discussion. Again, the telephone buzzed.

“You answer it, Jameson.”

Peter picked up the receiver; heard the usual: “Brigade Major Seventh Don Ack wishes to speak to the Adjutant.” “You’re through, sir.” Then the usual quiet voice, “Oh, is that you, Jameson? About tonight, we want you to fire shrapnel on those cross-roads. Same as. . . . Here, half-a-minute. . . . Hang on, will you? . . .” A long pause. “Is your Colonel there? Do you mind asking him to speak?”

“They want you, sir,” said Peter across the room.

“I guessed as much.” Stark came over; took the instrument.

The four men heard him say: “It can’t be done under four hours. . . .” Pause. “Yes, just like them, isn’t it? . . . Le Rutoire Farm. . . . All right. . . . You might send those orders along, will you? . . . And I’m one gun short.” Then he put the receiver back on the shelf; turned round; and remarked with a peculiar smile: “Well, gentlemen, we’re for it this time!”

§ 2

Peter Jameson was not a man who gave either friendship or admiration lightly. His feelings for Colonel Stark had hitherto been tolerant rather than friendly, critical rather than admiring. The little red man had stood to his Adjutant for a type: the “Regular soldier”—a person of limited outlook, good at his job (and why not, after twenty years of it?), irascible, rather inclined to bother himself over-much with detail, taking the simple business of commanding an Artillery Brigade as seriously as if it had been the management of a complicated commercial concern. . . .

But on the night of September the 25th, even that stickler for organization and efficiency, P.J., had to acknowledge himself the Weasel’s inferior.

The problem confronting the commander of the 4th Southdown Brigade comprised, briefly, the assembling of six hundred men, five hundred horses, and innumerable vehicles, scattered over at least seven miles of ground, the moving of them forward—provisioned, munitioned, and if possible without casualties—over unexplored country to the support of an infantry whose whereabouts had not been ascertained. And all this had to be accomplished through officers mostly ignorant of active service, by weary men, under incessant shell-fire and in pitch darkness. Moreover—as the only definite information consisted of “You will report yourself at once for orders to G.O.C. 2nd Southdown Infantry Brigade” at farm three miles away—arrangements to meet all contingencies had to be made instanter.

But Weasel Stark forgot nothing, left nothing to chance. Within three minutes of receiving the first telephone-call, a cyclist was on his way back to the five-mile-distant waggon-lines, another to the Ammunition Column; Lodden and Torrington had left their Batteries for Headquarters, Purves was getting communication (through three different field-exchanges) with the forward batteries in Vermelles, the Doctor was packing up his instruments, Mr. Black serving out a second “tea” to H.Q. Staff, Gunner Horne preparing dinner for its officers. . . . Since tired men may fight, but hungry men, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, won’t.

By the time D.R.L.S.^[12] arrived with confirmation of the vague instructions, Bombardier Pitman and his typewriter were installed in the mess-room; and Peter, map in front of him, was dictating exact orders—“A and B would move by such and such a road, C and D would fall in in rear of them at such and such a point; Ammunition sections must keep touch by this means; Ration orderlies by that: the Brigade would halt here; a mounted officer from each battery await the Colonel there. . . .”

And all the time Stark was making certain, from Lodden, from Torrington, from Mr. Black, from Purves and the Doctor, by telephone messages and cyclists and mounted orderlies, about fodder and maps and a new gun for A Battery, and telephone-wire, and sand-bags and spare springs, and the million details which the Commander of a seasoned unit may leave to his subordinates but the Colonel of a new Brigade dare not abandon to chance.

Three quarters of a hour after the Weasel had said, “Gentlemen, we’re for it this time,” he and Peter—warmed by a square meal and a glass of port, their preliminary work accomplished, heavy belts bulging their aproned hunting-mackintoshes—climbed to horse in the rain, and set off, followed by their grooms, towards the shell-bursts over Vermelles.

Passing the gun-pits, Peter could see hurricane-lamps moving, figures unpiling sand bags from the blocked entrances. . . .

§ 3

Single file through the streaming darkness, they jog-trotted the uneven road.

The rain beat in Peter’s eyes; little Willie stumbled, pulling wet reins through wet gauntlets; recovered himself; jogged on. Peter leaned over; gentled the arched neck. Peering forward, he could just see the huge chestnut’s lifting croup, the Weasel’s bobbing torso. . . . Something came screaming out of the murk; flashed crimson; whistled; pattered to ground. Instinctively, Peter’s knees tightened on the saddle-flaps. Little Willie hunched himself for a gallop; felt steady hand at his mouth; desisted. “Anybody hurt?” called the Colonel. Peter turned in his saddle; saw Jelks wrenching Queen Bess back to the road, a second figure coming up steadily behind. “No, sir. Ten yards to our left.” . . . They rode on.

Now they were into Vermelles—a broad street of battered houses. The Colonel slowed to a walk. Came another whistle, followed by the smash of tiles, the clink of falling brick on cobble. “This is damned unpleasant,” thought our Mr. Jameson. He saw Stark bend down, speak to a shadow on the road. They veered left; right again; over a railway-line into a soft road, trees on either side. The rain had almost stopped. Behind them, shells still whistled over the town. Immediately about them, all was quiet. Stark bent from his saddle; flashed a torch at the roadway; inclined right. They jogged on three hundred yards over turf, past a big hay-rick. Stark flashed his torch again: signalled “dismount.”

“Sorry,” he said when Peter came up. “Couldn’t risk being blocked on the main-road. That’s the farm. We’ll have to walk the rest.” He pointed to a yellow light; handed reins to his groom—an old man, clean-shaven and bow-legged.

“Doherty, you and Jelks will take the horses back to that hay-rick. Let ’em feed. Whatever happens, don’t move from it. You understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ruddy muck-up all round,” commented the Weasel to his Adjutant as they stumbled down into a greasy trench; lost the light; hauled themselves out; found it again; picked their way through five yards of wire; felt mud and cobbles under their feet; saw the light close in front of them. . . .

Suddenly, Peter grew aware of noise. A noise inhuman. The whimper of damned souls. A wail as of wet fingers on an enormous glass: a wail that rose and fell, interminable, unbearable. Suddenly, he was aware whence that wail came.

All along the muddy roadway they lay: the wounded: hundreds of them: thousands: brown blanket shapes: some muttering: some moaning: some singing in delirium: some quite still. The agony of it gripped Peter in the stomach. Vomit rushed to his throat; was choked down again. . . .

The Colonel stepped over a moaning form; pulled back a sack curtain revealing bare walls, an oil-lamp, three gunner officers eating round a trestle table.

“Is this Le Rutoire?” rasped the Weasel.

The three officers rose to their feet: “Part of it, sir,” said one, “the rest’s about fifty yards down the road.”

“Is General Ballardyce here?”

“No, sir.”

“Who are you?”

“Siege,” said the officer, and gave his number. “We’ve got two six-inch Hows. in the farm.”

“Haven’t seen an Infantry General anywhere about?”

“No, sir.”

“All right. I’ll try down the road.”

“Have a drink before you go, sir?”

“No, thanks.”

They clambered back into the darkness; set off, between the moaning forms, down the road; found a great gloomy gateway. Here, the wounded lay in hundreds. Shapes stood over them; lifted them; loaded them into the shelves of hooded cars. The cars chugged away. Other cars chugged up. . . .

They passed through the gateway. “Do you know if General Ballardyce is here?” asked Stark of a big man, chaplain’s cross on his cap.

“No, I don’t,” answered the parson. “Who the hell is General Ballardyce?”

They searched the farm, gloomy outhouse after gloomy outhouse. Everywhere lay the wounded, brown shapes, moaning and wailing. Finally, they found steps; stumbled down them into an underground cellar. The place looked, smelt, was a charnel house. The reek of it struck Peter like a blow. Reek of blood! Blood everywhere. Bloody forms lying on bloody sacks. Bloody bandages in bloody buckets. A man with bloody hands stooping over bloody flesh.

“Let’s get out of this,” rasped Stark. . . .

Once more they stood outside the farm, among the chugging cars, the moaning wounded. A form approached them. A voice asked “Are you General Ballardyce?”

“I am not,” said Colonel Stark.

The form materialized into a pale-faced subaltern, whom Peter recognized.

“Aren’t you Rutton of the Chalkshires?”

“Yes. Jameson, isn’t it? I say, I wish you could help me. I’ve got all the travelling cookers of the 2nd Infantry Brigade just up the road. And I’ve been ordered to rendezvous with them at Haisnes Church at dawn. . . .”

“Haisnes is three miles away from here; and it’s inside the Boche lines, young man,” interrupted Stark.

“I know, sir. But I’ve got written orders.” He fumbled inside his coat, produced a message-form. Stark flashed a torch on it. “You see, sir. It’s quite clear. What am I to do, sir?”

“Use your common sense, young man. You can’t charge the Boche with your sanguinary kitchens. . . .”

An orderly stumbled up; saluted Rutton; said, “The General’s been gone three hours, sir. One of the doctors just remembered him riding up and riding off again.”

“What am I to do, sir?” wailed Rutton.

But Stark was indulging himself in one real outburst: a frothing torrent of scarlet blasphemy that submerged every gilded head between Saint Omer and the Pylons of Loos. . . .

§ 4

Men under fire for the first time are not usually frightened.

Peter, re-walking the muddy road between those wailing wounded, was conscious of no fear. His orders—to find the horses, take them back through Vermelles and rejoin his Colonel at the cross-roads which the map called Corons de Rutoire—seemed simple enough. But he was in a black rage at the incompetence of those behind; and he cursed them as he pashed into the greasy trench, hauled himself out of it, tried to locate that hay-stack.

Damn that hay-stack! Where the devil could it have moved to? He saw the thing suddenly, outlined black against the saffron of a shell-burst; saw the silhouettes of horses rearing at their bridles; dashed forward. As he reached the two men, he heard the whistle of another shell; heard it stop, plop into the ground. No detonation followed.

“By the Lord an’ I’m glad to see you, sir,” ejaculated the shadow of Driver Doherty, “I’ve been thinking we’d be killed every minute.”

“You will be if you don’t hurry up,” snapped Peter, swinging himself straight from the ground to his saddle. “Up you get, both of you.”

Unthinking, he put spurs to Little Willie; set off at a hand-canter; turned in his saddle; saw the Colonel’s groom struggling with the big chestnut. The old ostler had caught his right leg against the unaccustomed rifle-bucket; couldn’t get it across the saddle of his own horse. Jelks was in the act of mounting. Peter wrenched his horse’s head round; galloped back; threw the man somehow into his seat. Another shell whistled over, plopped harmless into the ground. The Colonel’s chestnut reared.

“For God’s sake get a move on,” roared P.J., and slashed the groom’s mount over the croup with his heavy riding-stick. The old man and his two horses shot forward down the track; Peter and Jelks followed at a gallop.

They came unscathed to the road; slowed to a trot, Peter taking the lead. No more shells followed: the road was deserted. They crossed the railway, swung left, arrived suddenly in an empty square. Above them rose the skeleton of a church tower. Peter pulled up; took out his map; flashed torch at it. The grooms joined him.

“You can’t stop here, sir.” A sentry popped up amazingly from nowhere.

“Why not?”

“Road’s being shelled every two minutes. One’s just about. . . .” The whizz-bang gave no warning. Even as Peter flung up his arm to cover his face, he saw it hit the ground ten yards in front, detonate blue in the dust. Little Willie reared straight up; Peter flung himself forward on the horse’s neck; gave him his head. He came down again; stood shivering.

“Anybody hurt?” asked P.J.

“No, sir.”

“Then come on.”

Behind them, they heard shells bursting; in front, the road lay deserted between shattered houses. They trotted past a level crossing; came on confusion beyond belief.

In the inky darkness, men, horses, guns, infantry cookers, cars, motor-cyclists, lorries were fighting their way forward. There was no traffic control, no attempt at order. On the road, at the side of the road, anywhere man or beast could find foothold, feet pashed, wheels rumbled. An enormous pontoon-boat on its low carriage had broken down. Round it, and about it, stood cursing men. There were cries in the darkness: “Who the ’ell’s that? Where are you, mate? Are you the Suffolks?”

Damning and blasting, Peter barged his way through; made the cross-roads. There, just lighting a cigarette, he found Stark.

“Didn’t expect you quite so soon. Fine picnic, isn’t it?” said the Weasel, as the three horsemen dismounted. “Didn’t see anything of the Brigade, did you?”

“No, sir. They’ll have a job getting through.”

“They’re not due yet.”

Peter drew off his gauntlet; looked at his watch; saw the hands pointed to ten o’clock; groped instinctively for his cigar-case; pulled out a weed; bit off the end of it; found his matches; lit up.

“What about General Ballardyce, sir?”

“God knows where he’s got to. You might ask some of these infanteers. The whole place is swarming with them. Don’t be away long.”

Peter plodded off haphazard into the murk; barked his shin against a vehicle. “Who’s that?”

“Cookers. Second Southdown Infantry Brigade,” answered Rutton’s voice. “I say that Colonel of yours is a brick.”

“Oh, to hell with you and your cookers,” said Peter, and plodded on again. He had been sweating: now the perspiration began to dry. Also the black rage was on him again. He heard the jingle of bits in the darkness; somebody shouted “Halt!” A shell, out of sight, crashed to ground. Then somebody called out from his horse, “I say, you with the cigar?”

“Yes,” answered Peter.

“Can you tell me where I am?”

“Who are you?”

“Southdown Yeomanry.”

Peter gave the information; and added, “I should get out of this if I were you. It’s no place for Cavalry.”

Asked the somebody, “Have I your permission to retire, sir?”

And Peter Jameson, Adjutant of the 4th Southdown Brigade, who had as much right to order Yeomanry out of action as Driver Jelks, said—without a quiver in his voice—“You have”; listened, cigar in mouth, to the somebody’s “Walk—March,” to the jingle of bits and the creak of accoutrements; saw the last file of that squadron disappear into the darkness.

“Discipline be sugared,” thought P.J. “A child could see that this isn’t the place for Divisional Cavalry.”

He plodded on, enquiring of all he met: “Have you seen General Ballardyce?” But nobody he met had either seen, heard of, smelt or felt the missing General of the 2nd Southdown Infantry Brigade.

§ 5

Meanwhile, Lieutenant-Colonel Douglas Stark, D.S.O. R.A., ruminated at the roadside. In front of him, the amazing traffic disentangled itself somehow; moved forward, a grotesque shadow-show, through the darkness. Behind him, he heard the jingle of harness, a battery moving forward over turf. He called out, “Who are you?” “B Battery 3rd Southdown Brigade,” came the answer. The battery disappeared. . . .

Stark began to reason out his position. He knew Ballardyce of old: a sound fellow, the last person to disregard detail. Therefore, Ballardyce had not been told to keep touch with his guns at Le Rutoire. Point one settled. Point two—Murchison’s cryptic orders about the forward move. Murchison was over-conscientious in the transmission of orders. Followed that Murchison had practically no information. Point two settled. And with that—added to his own private telephone-talk to the Brigade Major of Seventh Artillery—Stark arrived at a definite conclusion: The blunder lay further back than either Southdown or Seventh Division Headquarters.

Obviously. Because Rutton’s order to rendezvous with firstline transport at a village still in possession of the enemy, proved an entire misconception of the battle-front. . . .

The Weasel had not wasted the hour it had taken his Adjutant to find the horses and return with them to the cross-roads. He had spent it in reconnoitring, as far as possible, the immediate ground; in acquiring miscellaneous scraps of information.

Remained three problems—the exact position of our own front line, which section of it he would be asked to protect, and where to plant his batteries.

And the Weasel thought: “This road runs straight into Loos village. There are no shells coming from that direction. We are supposed to have taken Loos. I think we have. Beyond Loos”—he consulted his map—“is this Hill 70. The chances are we have not taken Hill 70. There is a lot of hostile artillery fire coming from my left front. . . .”

He timed with his watch the period between the discharges of the guns and the shell bursts over Vermelles. . . . “Those guns are not much over two thousand yards from me. I know for certain, because of the targets we were firing at this evening, that the centre of our original attack was held up: and if P.J.’s information about City Saint Élie was correct. . . .”

“And by Jove it was correct.” The Weasel suddenly broke into speech. “That gun-fire proves it. As sure as God made little apples I’m sitting on the base-line of a semi-circle, plum in the middle of a five-mile salient.”

Then he took out his compass; laid it on the ground till the needle steadied; and turned due west. “Damn it,” said the Weasel, “what’s happened to the Véry Lights? . . .” And even as he spoke, directly to the south of him, he caught a faint white shimmer in the sky; and even as that faded, due north of him, he caught the barest glimpse of another.

“Oh, hell!” thought the Weasel. “Oh, ruddy hell!”

Down the road behind him, headlamp flaring recklessly, dodging in and out among the traffic, a motor-cycle phutted its jolting way. The Weasel jumped into the middle of the road; stood there, coat open, arms outstretched. The cyclist halted, dropping one leg to the ground.

“D.R.L.S.?” asked the Weasel.

“Yes, sir. I’m in a hurry.”

“To hell with your hurry. Put that blasted lamp out. Now wait.” The Weasel shaded the Orilux torch at his belt; drew a message-pad from his pocket; inserted the carbon; began to write. And while he wrote, very meticulously, he thought of the Brigade he had trained so carefully, of his wife and the life she carried, and of a certain individual at St. Omer who would not be displeased if Weasel Stark happened to make a mistake. . . . For in the bigger affairs of earth, as in the smaller, it is easier to break a subordinate than admit one’s own failure. . . .

“Sign on the message-form, please,” rasped the Weasel, holding his hand over the meticulous words. Then he tore off the top copy, and stuffed it into an envelope which he addressed, marking the time of dispatch on the space provided, to: “B.M. Southdown Div. Arty.”

“And now,” rasped the Weasel, “why the devil didn’t you shout out who your message was for? Don’t you know your job?”

“O.C. 4th Southdown Brigade R.F.A., sir,” said the cyclist. “He’s at Le Rutoire farm, sir. . . .”

“Is he?” said the Weasel; and opening the envelope, began to read: “Further to my B.M. 764, through 7 D.A., please report by bearer map-references of your batteries and what time G.O.C. 2nd I.B. proposes to attack. . . .”

“Why didn’t Davson or Hathway bring this?” asked the Colonel.

“I don’t know, sir. I only joined Divisional H.Q. this morning.”

The Weasel turned the torch on his own face: “You’ll know me next time, young man. Now buzz off.”

“I was told to wait for an answer, sir,” said the cyclist, slipping the empty envelope, signed for evidence of receipt, into the case slung at his side.

“You’ve got your answer,” rasped the Weasel. “Buzz off; and be quick about it.”

“Don’t switch on that headlamp till you reach Vermelles,” the great voice boomed like a megaphone through the phutting darkness.

§ 6

One o’clock a. m. on the morning of the 26th. A drizzle of rain. Stretching a mile down the road from Corons de Rutoire, its last water-cart just clear of the shell-fire on the Vermelles railway-crossing, waits a long column of dripping horses, loaded vehicles and weary men. The men are dismounted. They stand, gunners by gun-wheels, drivers at horses’ heads. “What’s happening, Joe? I dunno. Wish we could smoke. Where’s the old man? Up in front! Anyone hit in your lot? Only our Number one’s horse. Just a splinter. . . .” Laughter. . . . “Bet he danced a bit. Who bound it up? The Doc. Good for the Doc. He ought to be at Number Nine Hospital. What-ho!”

At the head of the column stands a little red-headed man; Adjutant by his side; round him, his four battery commanders: Torrington, dropping with fatigue; Lodden, very calm, all his irascibility vanished in the presence of crisis; Bromley, twirling brown moustaches; Major Lethbridge, the newcomer, a tiny fat man with a weak mouth and unsteady eyes, fidgeting his riding-switch.

“Well, that’s the position,” says the Weasel. “We can’t move forward because we haven’t got guides and God knows where the trench-bridges are. We can’t go back, because Ballardyce has obviously been ordered to attack. Therefore, though we may get it pretty hot if the Boche is still in Fosse Eight tomorrow morning, I intend to stop where I am. There’s an old trench just in front of us; the parados will give us a bit of cover.”

“But what about the horses, Colonel?” from Torrington.

“They’ll have to stop with the guns till dawn anyway. If the front line gives, we shall be liable to want our teams in a hurry. Well, gentlemen, if nobody has anything better to suggest. . . .” A silence. . . . “All right. Jameson, you’d better go with Bromley and mark for the right of the Brigade. Batteries to come up one at a time in column of route. Action left. Get your guns as close to the trench as you can. Usual intervals if possible. Teams to remain with the guns till dawn. Purves. . . .”

“Yes, sir.” The Balliol man appears out of the darkness.

“Tell H.Q. to walk their horses forward to that hay-stack. See it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Unhook the telephone-wagon and the M. O.’s^[13] cart. Send your horses a hundred yards to the rear, and report to me when its done. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

§ 7

If ever man in a tight corner drew comfort from good work done in the past, it was Weasel Stark as he stood alone that night, and watched this entity of his creating file past him in the darkness.

Very quietly they came, team after toiling team, gun after creaking gun, subaltern after subaltern leading his section to their marked position—O’Grady, Archdale, Pettigrew, Straker, Conway, Merrilees, Hall and Hutchinson. One by one the teams were unhooked, led away; one by one the guns swung round, muzzles across the gaping trench. And about each gun, as it dropped into position, men laboured, men very weary of labour, with pick and shovel and sand-bag, making what cover they might against the dawn.

And till dawn began, up and down among the labouring men,—the orders he had anticipated received at last—strode the Weasel, rasping across the darkness: “Dig! you blight-hawks. For the Lord’s sake, dig!”

§ 1

Daylight revealed an irregular line of fifteen field-guns and limbers, weary men piling sandbags round their wheels. Already the sandbags had risen to the gun-axles.

The line of guns lay in the centre of a great shallow saucer of ground, scarred with zig-zag trenches; and as the first blue of dawn cleared to white, the men who laboured could see, straight to their front and on the lip of the saucer, the shattered top of a solitary tree. And looking to the left of the tree, they saw,—first of all—a road, and then a big battered farm-house, beyond which—miles away as it seemed to the weary men—rose over the ultimate edge of the huge saucer a something which Gunner Mucksweat, miner by trade, pronounced to be the wheel of a pithead. Had Gunner Mucksweat been able to read a map, he would have known the pithead wheel for the top of Fosse Eight.

Prolonging the line of guns on the left ran the road they had traversed during the night—at its end, the torn roofs of Vermelles; and behind the guns, bunched together over a square mile of ground, stood horses—hundreds and hundreds of horses. For the fourth Southdown Brigade was not alone in that huge saucer of chalk! And behind the horses, parallel to the guns, lay another road, lined with red brick houses, above which towered the huge slag-cone of Fosse Seven.

§ 2

The toe of a boot woke 2nd Lieutenant Stanley Purves to consciousness of the fact that he was sleeping in the lee of a particularly noisome hay-stack.

“Get up,” said P.J. “The Colonel wants you.”

“What’s the time?” asked the thing under the hay.

“Half-past four.”

“My grief, what a time to get up!”

He struggled to his feet, pulling wet wisps from his hair; realized that he could hardly walk for cramp; limped forward; stumbled over a low stretcher on two-cycle wheels, into the shafts of a hooded cart painted with a large Red Cross.

“Anybody want me?” Doctor Carson, a light sleeper, pushed his white head out from the tilt; saw Purves making for the guns. “Suppose I’d better get up,” said the Doctor; and in doing so, woke Horrocks the Vet. They cursed each other, and stepped out onto the wet ground.

Said Purves, returning: “The Weasel wants his breakfast, and he wants it damn quick.” He limped off to find Gunner Horne, found him asleep under the spidery telephone-waggon. Him, by right of seniority, Purves kicked also. Moreover, after a careful reconnaissance, the Balliol man discovered two foreign-looking boots projecting from the afore-said hay-stack, which—being sternly pulled—produced Morency.

Meanwhile the four battery commanders—Torrington, hobbling along somehow in the rear—followed by two men carrying a red drum of wire, were toiling up the slope towards “Lone Tree.”

§ 3

“Have you been smoking those cab-rankers of yours all night, P.J.?” asked the Weasel.

They were standing in the middle of the gun-line, watching Charlie Straker as he bent over the pointer of his No. 1 director.

“I should lay on that tree till you hear from Torrington,” said Stark; and repeated his question to Peter.

“Pretty well, sir.”

“I wonder they don’t make you sick. Had any sleep?”

“No, sir.”

They looked at each other, the two unshaven men; and both laughed for the first time in twenty-four hours. Whatever else happened, the fourth Brigade was at least in position. Merrilees, solemn as an owl, came up with “Mr. Conway’s compliments” and “should he lay his guns on that tree”; departed with his instructions.

By now, sticks were crackling in the deserted trench, tea boiling and bacon sizzling. Weary men struggled into their tunics; ate and drank gratefully. “Keep ’em at it,” said the Weasel, as they passed the last gun on their way to breakfast. “Very good, sir,” answered horsy Hutchinson; and added sotto voce, “what the devil does the old man think we’re all made of—pigskin!” . . .

“Rotten job, driving tired men, isn’t it, P.J.?” said the Weasel, balancing himself—mug in hand—on the shafts of the doctor’s cart. “But I don’t like the look of that,” he pointed to the far pit-wheel, “and I don’t like the look of this,” he indicated the cross-roads, “in fact, entre nous, the more I see of things all round, the less I like any of ’em.”

Half way through breakfast, Peter—called to the telephone—heard Lodden’s voice. They had made out, roughly, the infantry’s position; were coming back. Would Peter send up O’Grady and one other subaltern to observe? At half-past six, the four battery commanders returned. It was still too misty for shooting.

Appeared, on a frisky charger, red hat glowing, eagerness personified, Murchison the Brigade Major. He waved a large white map at the Weasel; pointed with his finger to a wriggly red line on it. “We want you to open fire on that trench, Colonel. Fire as much as you like: but don’t fire a round after 10:30; because the Infantry are going to charge then.”

“Who’s going to cut the enemy wire?” To Peter, overhearing, the tired voice sounded very serious.

“Oh, that’ll be all right.” Murchison galloped off.

The right-hand gun of the Brigade shot out a tongue of flame; a sandbag dropped from its parapet. O’Grady, beyond the crest, had begun his ranging.

Appeared, on a quiet brown mare, Coolsdon, the Staff Captain. He, too, had a white map in his hand; indicated a target.

“Oh, if Murchison’s been here,” said Coolsdon; and galloped off. . . .

Now, all round the great saucer of chalk, men bent to telephone receivers. “Add 100. Five minutes more right,” shouted the men, and voices down the gun-line repeated, “Add 100. Five minutes more right.” The thing that ballooned slowly into the air behind Fosse Eight, could not hear the shouting men; but it could see, vaguely through the low mist, tiny sparks of fire in the great saucer!

§ 4

“Three rounds Battery-fire. One-O seconds.” “Stop.” “Add twenty-five.” “Two rounds Battery fire, One-O seconds.” “Go on.” “At Battery fire, sweep one five minutes.”

Up and down the long line, men stood shouting, men jerked triggers, muzzles roared and recoiled, shells leapt to open breech, breech-blocks twirled home, gunners—knees astride—clung to rocking seats. And round the rocking, roaring guns, deafened men still toiled with pick and shovel at the sandbag epaulments.

Batteries were firing independently: and Stark, mackintosh spread on the parados of a crumbling trench, watched them without a word. He felt a hand on his arm; saw two fingers and a cigar pointing over his shoulder, forward and upward through the gun-flashes. “See that sausage, sir,” shouted P.J. in his ear.

The Weasel looked round at his Adjutant: the Adjutant flickered an eye towards the crowded horse-lines.

“Behind those houses,” rasped the Weasel. “Get ’em away quietly, or they’ll panic. And tell ’em to post a look-out man to watch for signals.”

“Not bad for a civilian,” thought the Weasel as he watched Peter stroll calmly to the haystack, tap Horrocks on the shoulder.

The balloon had gone down again; guns were still firing; and across the fields—veterinary officer’s white breeches at their head—filed at a walk the horses of the Headquarters Staff. Now, in and out among the tethered teams at the battery horse-lines, cigar in mouth, strode a stocky figure, whispering, “Hook in and get away quietly. Behind those houses. At a walk, please, Quartermaster Sergeant.” Like figures in a quadrille, the bays and browns and blacks of the teams, the dark green of the ammunition wagons, curved to slow life; emerged into four long lines that unrolled steadily across the dun fields to safety. But as the lines drew clear, they revealed behind them, low dark bunches in the middle distance; other horses—hundreds and hundreds of horses. . . .

“Ich kann nicht genau sehen,” mumbled a guttural voice three and a half miles away, “aber am Dreiweg finden wir sicher etwas. Also, los damit, lieber Oberleutnant.” . . .

Peter heard, above the roar of his own guns, a high shrill scream; saw a black fountain spurt from the ground three hundred yards in front. The Weasel was on his feet, hands to mouth, “Take cover,” roared the Weasel. “Take cover. All except gun-numbers into the trench.” For the diggers had stopped work, stood staring at the dropping fountain.

Rose another scream up the sky. . . . “Get down, you fools, get down.” Now the Weasel was half way along the flashing line. . . . The scream came shrieking to earth, stopped. A hundred yards in front, a few clods leapt from the ground. “Under cover. . . . Under cover.” . . . Like rabbits to burrow men popped to earth. . . . But still the guns went on.

Peter, kneeling behind quivering sandbags, was conscious of a mule braying high in air, of a second’s deadly silence, of a thudding crash; felt a rush of air at his ears; saw something slice the sandbag at his side as a knife slices cheese, plunge into the turf. . . . Then he heard fragments pattering on the hard earth behind him; looked up; and saw, a hundred yards away, standing upright, hands in his pockets, the Weasel; and the Weasel was still shouting “Under cover, you fools, get under cover.” The gun behind which Peter had knelt, went off with a crash. . . .

“My aunt,” he thought.

Except for the Colonel’s figure, nothing moved behind the guns. Purves and the Doctor, noses to ground, were lying flat against the haystack. Very high in air, another shell went howling on its way. Peter, following the noise with his eyes, found dark clumps of horses; was conscious noise ceased; saw a great black earth-spout shoot up among the horses; heard the double crash of shell’s alighting; saw terrified teams rear and plunge; saw little figures hurling themselves at bridles. . . .

Another shell swished over; and another; plunged to ground in rear of him. The whole middle distance seemed a mass of stampeding beasts that hurled themselves through black fountains across the plains.

“Didn’t you hear me say get under cover, you sanguinary cigar-merchant?” rasped a voice at his ear. . . .

§ 5

“Another five minutes,” ordered the Weasel. “Tell ’em they can go to gun-fire if they like.”

Hostile shelling had ceased. Only, far away over the roofs of Vermelles, an occasional gray puff-ball betokened shrapnel. Sun shone on bare plain behind, on bare crest in front. Round the farm, little figures moved.

Torrington, V.C., pale and shaky, lay in the bottom of the recess between his sections: “What’s that, Sergeant Major?” he asked the man standing behind him. “Colonel says we can go to gun-fire, sir.” “All right. Tell ’em five rounds.” “Five rounds gun-fire,” megaphoned the Sergeant Major. Straker and Pettigrew, kneeling between their pieces, flung out hands in acknowledgment; repeated the order. Flames roared above Torrington’s head; chalk pattered down on him from the trench-walls. “How much longer, Sergeant Major?” “Four minutes yet, sir.” “Battery fire, till the last minute.” “Right sir. . . . At Battery fire, go on.”

“God’s teeth,” muttered Torrington, V.C. “I can’t stand this racket much longer.” . . .

“Stop!”

All round the hollow saucer of ground, noise ceased miraculously. Only, every now and then, the howitzers roared separately at their far targets. And from beyond the lip of the saucer came a distant stutter, as of men swinging gigantic rattles—the chattering of machine-guns.

Behind the tattered hay-stack, stood a signaller, flags outstretched. “W N,” wagged the signaller. “W N,” replied far flags at the corner of the houses under the Fosse Seven. Ammunition wagons came trotting across the field. . . . Down in the trench, black instrument in front of him, another signaller buzzed frantically. “F.O.O.” buzzed the signaller, “F.O.O.” But no answering buzz sounded in his ears. For the red wire lay frayed beyond the crest-line—and the guns were blind!

“This is nice muck-up,” said the Weasel to Lethbridge. “Strict orders not to fire after ten-thirty. The line dished and the Lord knows what may be happening.”

A man, telephone-case on his arms, climbed out of the trench; began making his way up the wire.

At the end of the gun-line, by an emptying ammunition-wagon, Peter stood talking to Bromley. They looked towards Vermelles. Suddenly, under a gray smoke-puff they saw a horseman at full gallop; behind him—drivers bending low in their saddles, whips plying,—a six-horse team came hell for leather, and behind the team, a leaping bumping thing on wheels. “Charge of the horse-artillery?” laughed Bromley. “No,” said Peter, “Lodden’s missing gun.” The team arrived with a clatter and jingle at the cross-roads. Lodden leapt by. They heard his furious voice. “Who told you to gallop, Bombardier? Who the hell told you to gallop?” Drivers grinning from their sweating mounts, the gun creaked past.

“Hurry up with those shells, you chaps,” said Bromley to his gunners. . . .

There jog-trotted slowly to the cross-roads a young Staff officer. He put hand to eyes, shading them from the sun; said, “Good Lord, it’s Peter”; trotted over to the guns. The horseman in the creaseless tunic looked very out of place, as he leaned from his saddle talking to the unshaven tired-eyed Gunners.

“What are you doing up here, Francis?” asked Peter.

“Trying to find Le Rutoire, and a prisoner or two. That’s it, I suppose.” He switched riding-stick towards the red buildings in front. “What’s supposed to be happening here—a battle?”

The three stood gossiping. The ammunition wagon, empty of its contents, wheeled past them; trotted across the field. “Well, so long,” said Francis, “I must be off.” He puts his horse to a trot. . . .

Peter heard the shell scream; flung himself on his face; heard the burst of it, the clods falling about him. “Christ!” he thought, “Francis. . . .”

Bromley, unhurt, was first to reach the bloody kicking heap at the roadside. Even as he came to it, the kicking legs jerked convulsively—the beast rolled over—lay still. Peter, rushing up, saw a gaping, steaming belly, a scarlet boot protruding from it. . . . Together, they dragged out the tortured thing that had been Francis Gordon. He lay there, face dead white, just muttering. Only the upper part of his body seemed human—the rest was blood, blood and dirt.

Across the turf towards him, white hair ruffling in the breeze, darted the doctor, looked for a second at the thing on the ground.

“Shell-dressings! In my cart. Quick as you can. Case of instruments. My orderly!” Peter rushed off. . . . He came back carrying a great armful of lint, to find the doctor and Bromley on their knees. A boot, bloodsoaked, was lying on the ground. “Cut the seam,” he heard; and “all right, Doc,” from Bromley. Something ripped: they were turning over the thing which had been his cousin.

“Dressings,” said the doctor, “thanks.” He took them, began bandaging the ripped flesh.

Francis opened his eyes; saw Peter standing over him. “Make—him—give—me—morphia,” gasped Francis. Then pain stunned him; he lay there, as a shot rabbit lies, eyes still open. . . .

The doctor’s orderly came running, case under his arm. “Morphia,” said the doctor calmly, not looking up from his work. “Rip that sleeve, please.” . . .

Blessed needle slid under white flesh: eyes closed. “More dressings, please,” said Doctor Carson, “and you can be getting up that wheeled stretcher, Masterson.”

§ 6

“Will he live, Doc?” Peter, rather white about the gills, watched the stretcher down the road, out of sight.

“I’m afraid not. Though mind you, there’s a chance. The left femur’s broken; that right foot. . . . But there, you saw for yourself.”

“You’d better look after these, P.J.” Bromley handed over a bundle of papers, a wrist-watch, a morocco leather photograph-case. Peter stuffed them into his pocket; walked back to the Colonel. He had been awake so long, the thing had happened so suddenly, that the fact of the casualty being his cousin hardly touched him. He felt the horror—but horror numbed, impersonal. . . .

At the Colonel’s side, leaning over from his horse, Peter found Murchison.

“Any news from your F.O.O.?” asked the Brigade Major.

“No. Wire’s broken. I’m having it repaired. Hallo, what the devil’s that?”

He pointed to the crest on their right. Little figures, figures of men running, rose over the skyline; bunched together as they streaked down the hill. A shell burst black among the figures—a second shell. And up the slopes towards the figures, galloped miniature horses with tiny jockeys; and as they reached the crest, horses silhouetted black against the sky-rim, the jockeys flung themselves from their saddles; dashed forward out of sight. And still little men poured back over the hill, past the waiting horses. . . .

“My God,” said Murchison, “I thought at first they must be Boches.” (For there were two hundred British guns in that great saucer of ground.) . . .

“My God,” rasped the Weasel, “I wish they had been.” (For it is not good to watch the unofficial side of history in the making.) . . .

Suddenly, they heard a voice, roaring, “Action”; an orderly dashed up; “Through to F.O.O. sir.”

“Shrapnel. . . . Four six hundred. . . .” roared the voice. . . . “At gun-fire sweep five minutes from your zero lines. . . .”

The rest of the orders were howled down by a hurricane of gun crashes. . . .

§ 7

Beyond the farthest lip of the chalk-saucer; beyond the zig-zag communication trench; beyond the old front-line, cut deep into the chalk, studded with empty gas-cylinders, littered with rifles and the uncleanly débris of war; beyond the lonely tree; beyond the burrow where O’Grady’s telephonist crouched at his instrument; beyond sight and touch and hearing, and every human emotion save that last instinct which is the naked life—lay Second Lieutenant Peabody of the Chalkshires.

His brown face was gray in the dust. He had no cap. His outstretched hands were ripped and torn from clutching at rusty wire. His left puttee had fallen in coils over his boot. And where he lay, he panted: as a hound pants after the kill.

But Peabody had not been killed. . . .

He became aware of bees, swarms and swarms of bees that zipped and buzzed about him. Then he felt a terrific tug at his ankles; felt his face scraping against the ground. Something grabbed him round the neck; pulled him over backwards.

He wiped the dust out of his eyes and began to curse. The curses were utterly inhuman. The kind of curses doctors hear at times from perfectly respectable young mothers in milk-fever—foul blasphemies that have their roots in the subconscious dark of sex.

The soul of Second Lieutenant Peabody returned to his body. . . .

His soul remembered peculiarly little. They had arrived—in Artillery formation—somewhere or other—on a pitch-dark night—occupied some trenches. He had posted sentries—and the sentries had gone to sleep. Everybody had gone to sleep—except himself and Arkwright. Arkwright, by the way, must be dead. Otherwise, why should he think of Arkwright as doubled-up over something or other, with a pair of wire-cutters clutched in his hand. . . . Oh, yes—now he came to think of it, most people were dead—because Slattery had come along and said something about “half-past ten.” Then, they had all got up—with their packs on—they ought to have been told to take their packs off. . . .

“ ’Ave a drop of this, sir?” said a well-known voice at his elbow.

“Thanks, Haddock. I think I will,” answered the soul of Second Lieutenant Peabody.

The mind came back to the soul. “What the hell happened?” asked the boy.

“Whizz-bang. Thought you were gone that time, sir,” answered the dirty little man with the dirty rifle. “ ’Tain’t no use going hover again, sir. We’ve been hover three times.”

“Get me another rifle, you son of a bitch,” said Peabody curtly. Something cracked like a whiplash in the air: he felt a terrible kick on his left ear-drum; collapsed to ground.

For a second, the boy lay perfectly still; then, to his utter amazement, he realized that he hadn’t been killed. On the contrary, the shock of that second whizz-bang seemed to have cleared his brain.

He hauled himself up very cautiously; peered over the edge of the shallow trench.

Just above him, the ground rose—two hundred yards of ground—littered with brown heaps—some of them moving—at the top of the slope, more bodies—hundreds of them—hanging grotesquely in the air. He dropped down again. . . .

“How many of us got back, Haddock?”

“Dunno, sir. Old Long. ’E’s just round the corner, sir.”

“Well, you stop here. If you see anything coming, shoot at it!”

The boy bent down; crawled along the trench; ran his head into a man’s knees. “Heasy on there,” growled Long Longstaffe. “Heasy on.” Then looking down, “Sorry, sir. Didn’t know it was you.” The boy gave his instructions; crawled on. Private Longstaffe arranged his elbows in the dirt; kicked his long legs behind him; cuddled the rifle-stock to his cheek. “Carn’t miss the sods from ’ere,” he said to himself. . . . And then, suddenly, he saw a cautious dot bob up on the near skyline. . . .

§ 8

“Blast it, oh, blast it. Get me a line, damn you.”

O’Grady, binoculars to eyes, could see the gray figures crawling through the wire; could hear rifles crackling just below him.

The man on his knees tapped key frantically. “F.X. Don,” tapped the man, “F.X. Don.”

More gray figures came through the wire. On the left of the wire, up a little white road with trees on each side, came another line of gray figures; flung themselves down. O’Grady could see flame from their rifles, toy smoke puffs.

“F.X. Don,” tapped the man, “F.X. Don.” The gray figures by the road were on their feet, running.

“F.O.O.” throbbed the plate at the man’s eardrum, “F.O.O.”

“Got ’em sir,” said the man to O’Grady, “will you speak?”

O’Grady grabbed the receiver, and said, speaking very slowly and distinctly: “Esses—O—Esses. Do you understand?”

“Esses—O—Esses” throbbed the plate at his ear.

Private Longstaffe, wrenching frantically at jammed breechbolt, heard a whirr as of homing pigeons over his head; was aware of white smoke puffs bursting among the gray figures all along the slope in front of him. . . . The breechbolt shot home at last, but when he lifted the rifle to his shoulder, peered through the V of the backsight, the gray figures had disappeared.