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Inconsistent hyphenation in the original document has been preserved.

Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. For a complete list, please see the [end of this document].

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ON THE RIGHT
OF THE BRITISH LINE

From a photograph by Aylett.

Captain Gilbert Nobbs.[ToList]

ON THE RIGHT
OF THE BRITISH LINE

BY

CAPTAIN GILBERT NOBBS

(LATE L.R.B.)

NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
1917

Copyright, 1917, by
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
Published September, 1917

BESIDES THE MAN WHO FIGHTS
THERE IS THE WOMAN WHO WAITS, AND
IN HUMBLE TRIBUTE TO HER SILENT HEROISM
I DEDICATE THIS BOOK

PREFACE[ToC]

This is my first book. It is also my last. But I have a record to make and a duty to perform. I was five weeks on the firing line; four weeks mourned as dead; and three months a prisoner of war.

I have attempted to make a true record of all that happened. The names alone are fictitious (all except that of Saniez), for those days were too full of stirring events which will long live in my memory to need the aid of fiction. If I have dwelt at some length upon my experience in Germany, it is with the hope that the information may be of interest to those who have relatives and friends still in the hands of the enemy and burn to know the truth.

I do not deplore the loss of my sight, for I can say in all sincerity that I was never happier in my life than I am to-day.

G.N.

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

ON THE RIGHT
OF THE BRITISH LINE

CHAPTER I[ToC]

FOVANT

ORDERLY ROOM. OFF TO THE FRONT

"The C.O. wants to see you."

"What for?" I asked.

"I don't know, but he is in the orderly room."

It was the adjutant who was speaking, and his manner led me to think there was something in the wind which he did not like to tell me. I left the mess, and a few moments later I was standing before the C.O.

"I have just received a telegram from the War Office; you are included in the next reinforcements for France."

"I am glad, sir."

"You've only forty-eight hours' notice. You are to report at Southampton at 4. P.M. the day after to-morrow."

"Very good, sir."

"Well, as your time is so short, you had better go home and get things ready. The adjutant will have your papers ready for you within half an hour."

"Very good, sir."

The C.O. stood up, and in his cordial military manner, which seemed to take you straight from the orderly room into the mess, held out his hand to bid me good-bye.

There is quite a difference between a C.O. in the orderly room and a C.O. in the mess. I mean those C.O.'s who are made of the right stuff, and our C.O. was certainly one of them.

In the orderly room his presence keeps you at arm's length and makes you feel that you want to keep clicking your heels and coming to the salute. You are conscious of the terrible crime you would commit if you permitted your body to relax from the position of attention; your conversational powers are restricted; you fancy you have a voice at the back of your head, saying:

"Don't argue, listen; digest, and get out."

It's a feeling which does not make the orderly room a very pleasant place to go to; yet you have an instinctive feeling of confidence.

The same C.O. in the mess, however, is a different man and creates quite a different atmosphere. In the orderly room he holds you from him; in the mess he pulls you to him. You have the feeling that you can sit in an armchair, with your feet on the coal-box, and talk to him round the corner of your newspaper, like the very ordinary human being he really is.

"Well, good-bye, and good luck." We shook hands, I came to the salute, and the next moment I found myself once more outside the orderly room door.

Have you ever experienced the feeling? Yes, thousands have, for the despatch of reinforcing officers to the front in this abrupt manner was taking place daily throughout the empire. You remember the feeling quite well; amazement at its suddenness; eagerness for the adventure; the prospect of the home parting; the sudden change in the daily routine; the mystery of the future—all swirling through your brain in a jumble of thoughts.

Then the hasty despatch of telegrams, the examination of time-tables, and the feverish packing of a kit which has grown to enormous proportions and hopelessly defies the regulations for weight.

An hour later and I had made a quick sale of my bicycle, distributed odds and ends of hut furniture which I should no longer need, and was sitting in a motor-car, outside the mess, grabbing at hands which were outstretched in farewell.

Those who lived in camp at Fovant can remember what an uninteresting, dreary place it seemed at the time, and how we cursed its monotony. Rows upon rows of uninteresting and uninviting looking huts; the large, barren square; the heart-breaking trudge to the station; the little village with the military policeman, who stood at the fork of the roads, and whose job seemed so easy, while ours seemed so hard; and who always seemed so clean and cool, while we seemed so hot and dusty.

The city of Salisbury, our one ray of hope, but which was too far to walk to, and too expensive to ride to—all these things we used to look upon as sufferings which had to be put up with. But we can look upon the picture now, and there are few of us who can do so without a feeling of affection, for there was a spirit of comradeship there which links up the dreariness into pleasant recollections.

Now that I have been through the mill I can look back at that parting scene, and as the car whirls away and my brother officers walk back into the mess, I fancy I can hear the comment of those who had not yet been out and those who had:

"Lucky brute."

"Poor devil!"

CHAPTER II[ToC]

THE SILENT HEROES

THE WOMAN WHO WAITS—AND SUFFERS IN SILENCE

I was soon comfortably settled in a first-class compartment and whirling towards Waterloo, with the worst ordeal of all still before me: the breaking of the news at home and the parting while the shock is still fresh.

Who are the true heroes of the war?

Our fighting men are cheered in the streets; every newspaper and magazine sings their praise; every shop-window reflects their needs; in theatre, pulpit, and workshop their praises are sung.

But are they the real heroes of the war?

Ask the fighting man himself. Speak to him of his wife or mother, and the expression on his face will answer your question.

There is no one to sing her praise, no one to paint the picture of her deeds; no one to tell of that lonely feeling when her hero departs and the door is closed behind him.

The fighting man looks upon his share of the war with a light heart. Events come too rapidly upon him to feel depressed. He does not feel the gnawing hunger of the lonely wait; the emptiness of the world when the parting is over; the empty chair at the table, and the rooms made cheerless by his absence.

There is no one to describe the terrors of the morning casualty list; the hourly expectation and frozen fear of the telegraph boy's "rat tat," bringing some dreadful news.

There are no crowds to cheer her; no flags or trumpets to rouse her enthusiasm and occupy her thoughts. No constant activity, thrilling excitement, desperate encounter.

Hers is a silent patriotism. She is the true hero of the war. And in hundreds of thousands of homes throughout the empire, her silent deeds, her wonderful fortitude, are making the womanhood of Britain a history which medals will not reward, nor scars display.

The fighting men know it, and when you cheer them, they know that there is still one at home who deserves your cheers, yet will not hear them; and who will seek no greater reward than the safe return of her own hero amid the applause which greets their homecoming.

Fighting men acknowledge it! And when your ears are no longer deafened by the cheers of others, take off your caps, fill your lungs, and cheer to the echo the real heroes of the war.

All honour to the woman who waits.

CHAPTER III[ToC]

DEPARTURE FOR THE FRONT

WATERLOO STATION. LUNCHEON ARGUMENTS. THE BAGGAGE PROBLEM

Waterloo Station in war time presents a picture of unending interest. Here it is that a thousand dramas are acted daily. It is one huge scene of bustle and excitement. The khaki of the soldier, the blue of the sailor; the mother, the wife, the sweetheart; the sad partings, the joyful greetings. The troops entraining, spick and span in their new war kit; the war-worn soldier home on leave, bespattered with the soil of France; troops from the near-by camps on week-end leave, tumbling out of the carriages with the spirits of schoolboys, or looking for standing-room in the overcrowded compartments on the last train back.

The scene is inspiring, depressing, historical.

Hear the noise and babble of the throng; the sobs and the cheers; the last look, the last hand-shake, the cheery greeting and the boyish laughter—whilst out in the street, London continues its unaltered ways, indifferent to the greatest war in the world's history reflected within a stone's throw, in Waterloo Station.

The Southampton train was rapidly filling, and I just managed to secure a seat and take a last look round. It needed a minute before the train was due to depart. Every window was filled with soldiers, and small groups were standing round each carriage door.

Porters were hurrying backward and forward, trying to find seats for late arrivals. Women were sobbing, men were talking earnestly. Presently the shrill whistle of the guard; hurried farewells, spontaneous cheers, and the slowly moving train gradually left the station, carrying its human freight to an unknown destiny.

I turned from the window and settled myself down in a corner. With me was Lieutenant Collins of our regiment, and Second Lieutenants Jones and Bailey of the London Regiment, while between us was a table laid for lunch.

"Well!" said Collins, packing his kit which had been dangling in a threatening manner from the rack, "that's one job over. I'm not sorry it's over, either. I wish we were coming back instead of going. I wouldn't mind getting a blighty wound in about a month's time. That would suit me down to the ground."

"Looking for trouble already," said Jones.

"You don't call that trouble, a nice little blighty wound, and then home."

"Don't be an idiot," I interrupted. "If every one felt the same way, who do you think is going to carry on the war?"

"Don't know. Never thought of it. But all the same a blighty wound in about a month's time will suit me down to the ground."

The conversation drivelled on in this way for a few miles, and finally turned into a heated discussion of the wine-list at the back of the menu.

Luncheon was served, and we were soon heavily engaged in a fierce attack on chicken and ham, intermingled with joke and arguments. The cause of the war and the prospect of its finish.

"Here's to a safe return," said Bailey, when his ginger ale had ceased to erupt its displeasure at being released from the bottle.

"And here's to an early blighty wound," said Collins.

"Hang it all," said Jones. "Can't you forget it?"

The conversation was bursting out afresh, and fortunately did not drift into politics or religion; and arguments easily turned to jokes, and jokes into a fresh onslaught on the chicken and ham.

There are some men who can argue best when armed with a knife and fork, and a good meal indisputably in their possession. There are others whose oratorical powers show greater promise when liquid refreshment is within easy grasp. In others yet again, the soothing influence of the twisted weed develops extraordinary powers. And before we arrived at Southampton town station the gift of each had full play.

We soon found ourselves scrambling amongst the heap of luggage which had been thrown in confusion on to the platform, and commenced an anxious search for our kits.

It is always the same at English railway stations, and our cousins from America and Canada scorn our system, or rather lack of system, for those who travel with baggage in England have always the possibility in front of them of a free fight to regain their possessions.

There seems to be only one thing to do if you are going to travel with a trunk, and that is either to paint it in rainbow colours, so that it will stand out in striking contrast to the mountainous heap of baggage thrown topsyturvy out of the wagon on arrival at a terminus. Or, if not provided with this forethought of imagination, it is best to arrive at the starting station some hours ahead of time, and sit down on the platform and study the peculiarities of your trunk, its indentations and scratchings, and other characteristics, and committing all these details securely to your memory, so that when you arrive at the other end, and you jostle among the crowd gathered around the baggage-car, you can grab the collar of a porter and frantically shout: "There it is!" as it tumbles out of the wagon, to be finally submerged at the extreme bottom of the heap.

Unfortunately, all military kit bags are exactly the same. It is true you have your name painted on the outside, but so has everybody, and when fifty or sixty bags come tumbling out, they all look exactly alike.

That is how it was at Southampton town station, but we were all in good spirits, thanks to the wine-list before mentioned; and as all the owners of the kit bags were carrying an uncomfortable amount of ordnance stores on their backs, the heap of luggage soon became submerged beneath a still greater heap of energetic and perspiring humanity, until the scene looked not unlike a very much disturbed ant-hill.

But I am exaggerating. Yet, the exaggeration of my words, written in a calm moment of thought is far less vociferous than the exaggerated words used at the time during the frantic endeavour to seek one's solitary kit bag, and extricate it in such a scramble.

But at last the four of us, bent double by our packs, and freely perspiring in the heat of an August day, could be seen rolling, pushing, kicking, and dragging our worldly belongings off the platform towards the station entrance, to seek the hospitality of an ancient hack. And then we drove away, our kit and our equipments stacked high around us at precarious angles, and completely submerging the occupants, to the delight of the people who stood and watched us in open-mouthed amazement.

CHAPTER IV[ToC]

CROSSING THE CHANNEL

THE DOCK PORTER. A WHIFF OF BOND STREET

Arriving at the dock we reported to the embarkation officer, and were given a pass to leave the dock, but bearing the strict injunction that we must embark at 6 P.M.

When you cross to France for the first time you are so nervous about missing the boat and running the risk of a court-martial, or some other such dreadful suggestion, that you hardly dare to leave the dock gates, and you are certainly waiting at the gang-plank a full fifteen minutes before the appointed time.

But those who are no longer novices to the mysterious calculation of those who regulate our army traffic, would, on receiving such instruction, immediately repair to the best hotel, there to regale themselves in a glorified afternoon tea, and afterwards seat themselves in the front row at the local Empire; subsequently rolling up at the ship's side shortly after 9 o'clock, to find that the troop-ship is not due to sail for another hour at least.

Having enjoyed all the pleasure of such disregard to orders, and arriving in due course at the ship's side, I searched around for my baggage and for means of getting it on board. I had not far to look, for there were a number of soldiers standing about, whose evident duty it was to do the necessary fatigue work.

I call them soldiers because they were dressed in khaki; but the King's uniform could not disguise the fact that they were the old-time dock porters. There is something about the earnest, anxious look of the dock porter, as he tenders you his services, which even the martial cut of a military uniform cannot hide. His adopted profession in peace, inscribed so deeply in his face and bearing, cannot be hidden so easily by the curtain of war.

A lance corporal approached me, and, assuring me that nothing would go astray that was left in his charge, slung my kit over his shoulder with professional skill and followed me up the gang-plank, placing my belongings carefully down in what may once have been the cabin of the ship. He crossed his legs, leaned heavily with one arm on my baggage, and tipping his cap on the back of his head to enable me to see the exact amount of perspiration upon his forehead, and breathing heavily, so that I might form an exact estimate of the fatigue he had undergone, he waited in hopeful expectancy.

I gave him a tip.

It is against all regulations to tip a soldier; but it seemed such a natural thing to do, for his khaki uniform could not hide the habit of years.

He did not salute, but touched his cap. I smiled to myself as I watched him depart. He was a soldier now; but the uniform could not disguise the fact that he was still a dock porter.

We had a splendid crossing, and I shall not readily forget the romantic atmosphere of that night.

The sea was calm, and a full moon cast a silvery, shimmering pathway across the water.

All lights on board the troop-ship were extinguished, and with black smoke belching from the funnels, and the vibrations of the engines trembling through the ship, we made our dash across the Channel.

Who but those whose duty it is to perform the arduous task of protecting our troop-ships can understand and appreciate what it means to live the life of the sailor on those comfortless-looking destroyers.

Night after night, week after week, throughout the years, tearing frantically up and down, seeking a hidden foe; daring the treacherous mines; safeguarding their trust with apparent disregard for their own safety.

The men who perform such duties are hidden heroes; and the safe transportation of our fighting millions across the seas is a silent tribute of their bravery.

This work goes on, and will go on until the end of the war, and the men who perform this great task do so with the knowledge that only failure can bring their names before the public.

I met many old friends on board, and several new ones. But one man in particular attracted my attention, for his appearance seemed so strangely out of place with the surroundings.

Standing near the companionway, and looking upon the scene with a bored expression, was a young man in the thirties, in a brand-new uniform, with a single star on his shoulder-strap, which proclaimed him to the world as a second lieutenant.

He was rather tubby in appearance, with a round, chubby face, which was screwed up in a frantic effort to retain within its grasp a monocle, through which he viewed his fellow beings in mute astonishment; and what is more, he wore new kid gloves. It was Septimus D'Arcy, dressed in immaculate neatness, radiating the atmosphere of Bond Street; indifferent to everybody, yet with a horrified look of discomfort at finding himself in such unusual surroundings.

I had hardly turned from the strange scene when Collins caught hold of my arm.

"Come over here; I want to introduce you to a friend of mine, who, I believe, is coming out to be attached to us," he said.

We walked along the deck, and, to my embarrassment, a few moments later I found myself shaking the limp paw of Septimus D'Arcy, glove and all.

I am not quite sure that Septimus, on my introduction, did anything more than open his mouth, while I raised and lowered his right forearm. Septimus would have spoken, I am quite sure, as the movement of his mouth indicated that such was his intention; although the expression, or rather lack of expression, on his face, bore no proof that his remarks, if uttered, would be very interesting. In fact, Septimus needed encouragement.

"We are having a very pleasant crossing," I ventured.

"Ye-s," he drawled, "but a demned overcrowded one—what?"

"I suppose so, but troop-ships are always overcrowded."

"I say, though, where does one sleep?"

I rather suspected that what Septimus really wanted to know was whether there was such a thing to be had as a private cabin, where he could disrobe his tubby figure in seclusion.

"There seems to be two places to sleep," I replied; "either in the boiler-room or on deck."

"On deck! Rather uncomfortable—what?"

"Well not nearly so uncomfortable as it may be later. I am just going down to get my kit and lay it out on deck," I said. "Hadn't you better get yours, too?"

I went down below, leaving Septimus with his mouth still open, and his round nose wrinkled up with an expression of discomfort. But he made no move to accept my invitation.

I unrolled my kit on the deck by the side of a long row of officers who were already comfortably settled for the night. On either side of each officer were his war kit and a life-belt.

I got into my sleeping-bag, and not feeling very sleepy, I lit a cigarette and looked upon my surroundings.

The scene was a very inspiring one, and I could not help dreaming of the future. What had destiny in store for us? Who would return in glory? And who would be called upon to pay the great price—to come back bleeding and disabled, dependent for future existence upon the benevolence of a nation's gratitude?

The ship sped onward, carrying its human freight. Greater and greater grew the distance from loved ones left behind. Nearer and nearer we sped towards the unknown future.

How many of those lying around, silent companions of their thoughts, were thinking the same as I?

What was the future? Horror, anxiety, success, failure, mutilation, death; which was it to be? And what a change this was to the times we had had in the past.

We were all civilian soldiers: lawyers, merchants, bankers, and tradesmen. Fighting was not our profession nor desire.

Whose power was it to transform these lives so ruthlessly from the habits of peace to become instruments of war? Whose was the hand which plucked us from homes and families, to hurl us into the caldron of hell? Was it the ambition of a nation, guided by the despotic direction of a tyrant?

We knew it and believed it. We could not remain idle to see our homes and families suffering the destruction and barbarities inflicted on Belgium. The fire of hell blazed by the petrol of German fury must not be wafted in the direction of our beloved country.

The call had been answered, and these silent forms of England's sons were speeding through the night in the direction of danger, at the bidding of a nation in peril.

My cigarette was finished, and I was becoming sleepy. I turned over to settle myself comfortably, and turning my eyes in the direction of the companionway, I saw the tubby figure of an officer standing near the rail, immaculately dressed, and in strange contrast to his surroundings.

It was Septimus D'Arcy, immaculate and indifferent. Septimus was at war; but Septimus was still in Bond Street.

CHAPTER V[ToC]

GOING UP THE LINE

PERFIDIOUS GANG-PLANKS. D'ARCY STRANDED. GUIDES WHO CANNOT GUIDE. A HEATED ARGUMENT

Next morning we were disturbed early, and rolled up our kits ready for disembarkation.

About 7 A.M. we pulled alongside the wharf, and a light-hearted, jostling crowd struggled for the gang-plank.

I have not yet been able to find out why gang-planks are made so narrow, so that only one person at a time dare undertake the passage.

Chaos seemed to prevail. The deck suddenly became a struggling mass of humanity, struggling, tugging, and dragging at valises and kit bags.

Officers were manfully shouldering their "marching order," and struggling with their valises, hoping that their turn would come to find a footing on the gang-plank.

The gang-plank was long and narrow, bending and squeaking under its burden. There were two gang-planks: one to go down and one to come up.

But we were not sailors, and did not know the system; the inevitable result being that those going up met those coming down, until they became an unwieldy medley of men, baggage, protests, and apologies.

Gang-planks at the best of times appear structures of absurdity. They either appear to be placed at an angle so dangerous that the only safe way of getting ashore appears to be to sit down and slide. At other times the gang-plank has an unhappy knack of sagging in a precarious manner as you approach the middle, while a couple of sailors hold desperately on to the end to prevent its slipping off the dock.

Here we reported to the landing officer, who was making frantic endeavours to create order from chaos.

In circumstances of this kind the best thing to do with the landing officer is to keep clear of him. So we seized the only hack available and drove to one of the leading hotels, which had the reputation of being popular.

I am not quite sure if these conveyances are called hacks, but the name seems very appropriate; for carriage seems too dignified a term for such dilapidated vehicles.

We were, however, too glad to get away as rapidly as possible from the dusty deck, and it was already getting very hot.

Turning into one of the side streets, we beheld the immortal Septimus, looking like one who is hopelessly lost in the middle of the Sahara Desert.

Now Septimus was not a born soldier, and he had made no attempt to carry his equipment on his back; neither would it seem right for Septimus to carry any greater burden on his podgy form than his well-polished Sam Brown. So his equipment lay on the pavement beside him. He had evidently dragged it some little distance, and looked upon it as a beastly nuisance, and was standing there vainly hoping that a taxi would come to his rescue and help him carry the beastly thing away.

We gave Septimus a lift, as he evidently needed looking after.

Arriving at the hotel, we all tumbled into the dining-room for breakfast, all except Septimus D'Arcy, who made straight for the nearest bar, and was last heard of that day tapping a coin vigorously on the counter, and with the perspiration standing in beads on his nose, frantically screeching for a whisky and soda.

Two days later I received a slip of paper which warned me that I was to proceed up the line that evening.

I was a senior officer, and would have charge of all the troops departing that evening. If you have never had that job, take my tip and avoid it; for of all the thankless tasks the poor devil who suddenly finds himself O.C. train, has the most difficult one of all.

I reported to the camp adjutant, an awfully decent sort of chap, and as a farewell gift he placed in my hands a pile of documents and several sheets of printed instructions.

"There you are, old chap, you will find everything there."

"Why, what is all this about?" said I, holding on to the mysterious bundle of papers which he thrust into my hands.

"That is a complete record, in duplicate, of all the troops in your charge. When you get to the station hand those papers over to the R.T.O."

"How many men have I charge of?"

"Rather a big crowd going to-night—38 officers and 1,140 other ranks."

"What regiments do they belong to?"

"Well, I think you have got men who belong to nearly every regiment serving in France. There are reinforcement draughts going to various units, and numerous men returning from leave. You've got English, Scotch, Canadians, and Australians. You've got cavalrymen, artillerymen, engineers, and infantrymen. Believe me, you've got your hands full to-night.

"You will find a guide at the head of the column who knows the way to the station. It's a good five miles from here."

When I got outside I found the column nearly a quarter of a mile long, formed up ready to march off.

I gave the order to move to all those within reach of my voice, and trusted to the remainder to follow on.

It was quite dark as the long column moved slowly down the long boulevards. I had not the faintest notion where the station was. Wherever I went that long, unwieldy column would slowly follow me, and trust blindly to my direction. I pinned my faith to the guide, and on we went.

Before we had got half-way it became evident that the guide had a very remote idea which was the direction to take; and he began to make anxious inquiries of passers-by as to the right way.

I was beginning to feel anxious and lose patience.

"What are you fussing about for? Are you taking us the right way?" I demanded.

"I think so, sir. I don't know."

"You don't know! But you are the guide, aren't you?"

"Yes, sir. But I've never been to the station before."

"But you are supposed to be the guide. Do you mean to tell me that you are not sure of the way?"

"Not quite, sir. But I am doing my best."

"Well, you are a fine sort of guide! Who detailed you?"

"The adjutant, sir."

"Well, did he know you had never been down to the station before?"

"He never asked me, sir. I was not doing any other duty, so he detailed me to act as your guide."

What staff work! But it served me right; and we muddled along, and finally, to my great relief, we entered the station yard.

I walked into the R.T.O.'s office and laid my pile of papers on his desk.

The railway transport officer is an individual who is prominent in the memory of all those who have passed up the line; and many of us have reason to remember at least one of them with indignation.

There are two kinds of R.T.O.'s, and you have met them both.

There is the one who has earned his job at the front by hard work. He has been through the thick of the fighting, and after months in the trenches has been sent back to act as R.T.O. at the rail-head or the base, to give him a well-earned rest beyond the sound of the guns. We have no unpleasant memories of him. He is a man; he is human; he treats you as a comrade; he is helpful and considerate. And you can spot such men in a moment.

But R.T.O. No. 2 carries no sign of war on his features. He has never heard the sound of guns, and never intends to, if he can help it.

Look back upon the time when you left the base, and you find him prominent in your memory. When you are huddled up in your dugout, how you wish he could be transferred to you for a tour of duty in the trenches.

What a delight it would be to send him in his immaculate uniform; his highly polished leggings and boots, along the muddy communication trenches. You know what the feeling is, for oftentimes you have said to yourself in those lonely night-watches: "How I wish I had him here!"

It is 2 o'clock in the morning; the rain is coming down in torrents; danger lurks in every fire-bay; the loneliness and the weirdness give you the creeps.

How you wish you could wake him up by digging him in the ribs, and telling him that it is time to go on his tour of duty up and down those clay-sodden trenches at the hour of the night when his courage (if he ever had any) would be at its lowest.

What a delight it would be if we only had him with us when we take over our trenches, to show him that foul-smelling, rat-ridden dugout, and tell him to curl himself up to sleep there.

How sweet would be the joy to see him in his pale-coloured breeches, huddled up in a saphead, trying to get a little comfort on a cold, raw December morning, from a drop of tea in a tin mug, well smudged with the wet clay of numerous fingers.

CHAPTER VI[ToC]

RATIONS

I LEARN TO HATE FOOD. MATHEMATICAL PROBLEMS

We arrived at Rouen at 7.30 the following morning. I had to report to the R.T.O. by 9.30, and in the meantime 3,534 rations had to be cut up and distributed on the station platform among 1,178 officers and men.

Have you ever had such a problem as that? If not, then avoid it, if it ever comes your way.

The train was about twice the length of the platform, so on arrival it was broken in half, and the rear half shunted on to another line.

The rations were contained in two trucks, attached to the rear half of the train, so the contents had to be carried by hand across several sets of rails, to the end of the platform.

I had a fatigue party of 60 men at work, and presently a huge quantity of provisions began to pile up. There were chests of tea, cases of biscuits, cases of jam, cases of bully beef, sugar, and bacon sufficient to fill the warehouse of a wholesale provision merchant.

Three days' rations for 1,178 officers and men, in bulk; and 1,178 officers and men began to gather around the stack, in hungry expectancy of breakfast.

Now to issue rations to a battalion straight from bulk is quite difficult enough, but to issue rations from bulk to units of various strengths, belonging to over fifty regiments is enough to drive any one crazy.

Each man was entitled to two and one-fourth ounces of tea, one-fourth ounce of mustard, two and one-fourth pounds of biscuits, three-fourths pound of cheese, twelve ounces of bacon, one tin of bully beef, nine ounces of jam.

Each unit had to be dealt with separately, so that each unit presented a mathematical problem of the most perplexing kind. Each unit sent up its fatigue party to draw rations, whilst I and several officers who had volunteered to assist me made a bold attempt at distribution.

"Come along, first man, what's your regiment?"

"Manchester, sir; 59 men."

I looked through my volume of papers to check his figures.

"Quite right! Fifty-nine men."

Fifty-nine men meant fifty-nine times two and one-fourth ounces of tea, one-fourth ounce of mustard, two and one-fourth pounds of biscuits, three-fourths pound of cheese, twelve ounces of bacon, one tin of bully beef, and nine ounces of jam. My brain whirls when I think of those problems.

The next unit consisted of 9 men; the next of 1; then came a long list of 2's, 5's, and 7's, and so on; and in each case the mathematical problem had to be worked out; and when the figuring was finished, the stuff had to be cut up.

Seventy-nine pounds of cheese for the Manchesters; does any one know what seventy-nine pounds of cheese looks like? No one did; we had never seen so much cheese before in our lives.

"Give him a whole cheese and chance it. And now tea; the Manchesters want one hundred and thirty-two and three-fourths ounces of tea. Give him about three handfuls and chance it."

The next party consisted of 2 men.

"Six ounces of jam for the 19 Canadians; how much is that?"

"Nearly half a pot."

"What are you going to put it in?"

"Got nothing."

"Can't have any, then?"

"Come on, next man."

When I saw the last of that stack of food it was 11.30. We were hungry and tired, and we made our way to the nearest hotel, fervently hoping that we might never see food in bulk again.

CHAPTER VII[ToC]

ST. AMAND

I REPORT AT HEADQUARTERS. THE PROBLEM OF VENTILATION

We made our way back to the station and secured a very luxurious compartment; and to my intense relief on this occasion I found there was an officer senior to me present, who succeeded to the duties of O.C. train.

The duties of O.C. train are a new sensation to most officers; and it is particularly difficult to know just what to do, and how to do it, when you have an unorganised body of men made up of sundries from every part of the British army.

Our new O.C. train evidently felt the difficulties of his position, and came to me for assistance.

"Excuse me," he said, "but were you in charge of the train last night?"

"Yes, sir. I'm sorry to say I was."

"Well, what does one have to do?"

"Nothing."

"Well, but how does one keep order?"

"One doesn't keep order. But they've given me a pile of printed instructions, and I don't see how they can possibly be carried out. How can I keep order in a train half a mile long with men I know nothing about?"

He was getting worried. I knew the feeling.

"Do you want a tip," I said.

"Yes, if you can give me one."

"Well, just walk along the train until you find a very comfortable compartment marked, 'O.C. train.' Get inside, lock the door, pull down the blinds and go to sleep."

"Thanks, awfully. I think I'll take that tip."

"By the way," I shouted after him, "what is our destination?"

"Haven't the faintest idea."

"Does anybody know?"

"I don't think so."

"Thanks, awfully."

The train journey was uneventful, save for alternatively eating and sleeping, and two days later I reported at battalion headquarters.

The battalion was in rest billets at St. Amand; and I was posted as second in command to B Company.

The officers of B Company were just about to begin their midday meal when I put in an appearance at the company mess.

Captain George commanded the company. He was a splendid type of the fighting man of the present day—young, active, and clear-cut, boyish, yet serious. Captain George was made of the right stuff, and we became chums on the spot.

The other officers of the company were Second Lieutenant Farman, who had just received his commission in the field, Second Lieutenant Chislehirst, and Second Lieutenant Day.

They were all splendid fellows, the type you meet and take to at once; all as keen as ginger when there is serious work to be done; and when work is over are as light-hearted as schoolboys.

The mess consisted of a dilapidated kitchen, with a stone floor, and ventilated by the simple method of broken windows and a door removed from the hinges.

In those northern farmhouses of France it is purely a matter of opinion as to whether ventilation is really an advantage; for from the yard in front of the house the odour from the refuse and manure of the farm, piled up in a heap outside your window, becomes very acute when the wind is in the wrong direction, as it usually is.

CHAPTER VIII[ToC]

EARLY IMPRESSIONS

BILLETS. A STARTLING INCIDENT. REST CAMP

I shall never forget the day I made my first inspection of billets.

While walking through the village street I noticed a structure which appeared to be inviting some stray breath of wind to cause it to surrender its last resistance by collapsing into a heap of rubbish.

Many years ago, in days of prosperity, it had served the purpose of a covering for cattle, for I believe cattle are not very particular in northern France.

It is quite within reason to suppose that, with a view of misleading his cattle into a false sense of security, the farmer may have called it a barn. It had never been an expensive structure, nor did it give any evidence of having ever laid claim to architectural beauty.

But its simplicity of construction was a marvel of ingenuity. Yes, it was a barn, but who but a genius of modern arts would have thought it possible to build even a barn by the simple but equally economical method of erecting a number of props and simply sticking mud between?

But the stability of the barn was, as might reasonably be supposed, subject to "wind and weather permitting," and was now sorrowfully deploring its advancing years, and anxiously waiting an early opportunity to rest its weary limbs in a well-earned rest in a shapeless heap on the ground that gave it birth.

How very strange! Out of the numerous holes in the wall I saw familiar faces, while inside a score of men were laughing and joking, playing cards or lounging about in loose attire, as though they were enjoying the freedom and comfort of a West End club.

"But what are you men doing here?" I asked.

"This is our billet, sir," answered a lance corporal.

"Your billet? Do you mean you sleep here?"

"Yes, sir, this was allotted to half my platoon."

"Comfortable?"

"Yes, sir. Quite a treat after the trenches."

"A bit draughty, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir; but, like everything else, we have to get used to it."

"But can't you find a better place than this, and with more room? You seem to be almost on top of each other."

"There is no other place available. The men are quite satisfied, sir."

I turned away thoughtfully. What magnificent chaps! And yet, when they were in comfortable billets at Haywards Heath, or in well-built huts at Fovant, they were far more particular; when they were recruits and spent their first night in the army, they looked with dismay at the prospect of sleeping on a clean straw mattress in a well-built modern English house.

War makes men, and hardships breed content!

I will pass over our life in the trenches in this part of the line, but an incident worth recording occurred while we were marching back after five days amongst the rats and mud of the trenches facing Gommecourt Wood.

It is interesting, by the way, to watch the men leaving the trenches for their rest billets, for, in addition to their packs, they carry many an additional article of private belongings to add to their comfort during these tedious days of duty, and they emerge with all kinds of curious packages and extra articles of clothing strapped or tied to their equipment. They were covered with mud and clay before they left the front-line trenches, but the long journey along endless communication trenches on their way out, gathered up an additional covering of clay and mud through their bulky attire, until they resembled a curious assembly of moving débris.

But the incident I have referred to occurred just as we were approaching a village.

An observation balloon was being drawn down, but when within a hundred feet of the ground suddenly broke away and began to rise rapidly and drift towards the German lines.

I halted the men, and we watched in breathless suspense the tragedy which was about to take place before our eyes. There was some one in the basket of the balloon.

It rose higher and higher. Nothing could save it! Presently the occupant was seen to lean over the side and throw out a quantity of books and papers.

Still upward it went, and seemed to reach a great height before the next sensation caused us to thrill with amazement.

Something dropped like a stone from the basket and then, with a sudden check, a parachute opened, and a man was seen dangling from it. When he dropped, the balloon must have been many thousand feet in the air, and both balloon and parachute continued to drift towards the German lines.

Then a flight of four or five British aeroplanes went up and soared around the balloon, evidently bent on its destruction.

As we watched we saw a flash and a puff of smoke! A bomb had struck the balloon, but seemed to have no effect.

The aeroplanes withdrew, and a minute later we heard the boom of the anti-aircraft guns.

The second shot was a dead hit, for we saw a flash of fire clean through the centre, a volume of blue smoke, and then it buckled in the middle. The flame spread, and the blue smoke increased in volume until the balloon resembled a curious shapeless mass, twisting and turning and shrinking as it quivered and fell to earth; meantime, anxious eyes were also turned to the parachute, which by this time had approached to within a few hundred feet or so of the earth.

Both armies must have watched the spectacle in silent wonder, for no shot was fired at the falling figure from the German lines.

It was difficult to tell from where we were just where it might fall. It seemed to me from where I stood that the odds were in favour of it reaching the ground in No Man's Land.

As it neared the earth it began to sway to and fro, in ever-increasing violence, and finally disappeared from view behind a clump of trees. So far as I could observe, it did not seem in any way possible for the parachute to have delivered its human freight safely to the earth.

Next day we began a three days' march to a village some thirty-eight miles back of the line.

We were to be rested and fattened for the Somme.

The mention of rest camps to men at the front generally raises a smile, for if there is one thing more noticeable than anything else during a rest period, it is the hard work which has to be done.

The long days of training, the unlimited fatigue work, and the never-ending cleaning of tattered uniforms and trench-soiled boots are equalled only by the fastidiousness of an Aldershot parade.

CHAPTER IX[ToC]

DEPARTURE FOR THE SOMME

CORBIE. HAPPY VALLEY. PASSING THROUGH THE GUNS

On Sunday, September 2, our so-called rest came to an abrupt finish, and we entrained for an unknown destination. Destinations are always a mystery until the train pulls up with a jerk, and peremptory orders are given to get out.

The difference in travelling as a civilian and travelling as a soldier is that in the former case you choose your time of departure or arrival at a convenient hour; while in the latter case the most unearthly hour is selected for you.

We arrived at Corbie at 2 A.M. Not that we knew it was Corbie at the time, or cared; and even if we had known, we should have been little the wiser. Still, I will say this about Corbie, that it is pronounced in the way it is spelled, and that relieves one of a sense of uneasiness. For, as a general rule, no matter how you pronounce the names of a French town, you will find some one with an air of superior knowledge, or gifted with a special twist of the tongue, who will find a new pronunciation.

However, we detrained onto the line. The night was as black as pitch. Sleepy soldiers, struggling with their equipments, dropped out of the carriages; and after a great deal of shouting we got into some kind of formation, and the long column slowly moved off into the night.

I dropped into position in the rear of the column, feeling very tired, and wondering where I should find a place to sleep. The long column wended its way through narrow streets and along cobbled roads, and gradually seemed to melt into mysterious doorways under the guiding influence of quartermaster sergeants.

This process went on until I suddenly realised that the whole column had disappeared, and I was left alone in the streets of Corbie at 3 A.M. in a steady downpour of rain, without the faintest notion of where I was, or where my billet was. I walked a little farther down the street, and being very tired, wet, and sleepy, had almost decided to lie in the street until the morning, when I tumbled across Farman, Chislehirst, and Day following the faithful quartermaster-sergeant to an unknown billet.

The billet consisted of a bathroom in one of the outbuildings of a large estate. The door of the bathroom had been locked, and the water had been turned off. However, we scrambled through the window. The floor was hard, but we had a roof above our heads, and we were all soon snoring on the floor, fast asleep.

Next morning I took a walk around the estate and found myself in a lovely orchard. It was deserted. An abundance of most delicious fruit met my gaze wherever I went. I wandered up and down, picking the apples and the pears, biting the fruit and throwing it away. I felt like a bad boy in an orchard; but the orchard was deserted and the fruit was going to waste; so if I was looting, I consoled myself with the thought that I was preventing waste.

It was about 1.30 in the afternoon, and I had just settled myself down in a comfortable seat under an apple-tree, and had pulled a Sunday newspaper out of my pocket; it was a hot September day, and I was feeling lazy.

I was bound for the Somme. There was a mysterious air about the place that seemed unnatural. These beautiful gardens were deserted, but the sound of the guns could be heard in the distance.

I had settled myself comfortably, trying to imagine with the aid of the Sunday paper and a cigar that I was really sitting in my own gardens, when I noticed a man filling his water-bottle.

"What are you filling your water-bottle for?" I asked.

"We have got orders to parade at 2 o'clock, to move off."

"Good Lord! Who told you that?"

"Captain Wilkie, sir. The orders have just come down."

I never had such a scramble in my life. With an appetite oversatisfied with apples; my kit spread all over the floor; my company half a mile away in all sorts of holes and corners—to move out of the village in twenty minutes.

It's the same old thing in the army; you say to yourself it can't be done; but it is done. And at five minutes past two the whole brigade was moving out of Corbie, and was once more facing towards the Somme.

Our destination was in Death Valley; but before going into the line we rested a few days in Happy Valley. Happy Valley and Death Valley—there is a touch of sarcasm about the names, but they are, nevertheless, very appropriate.

Happy Valley is a peaceful spot where we would sit contentedly in the afternoon puffing at our pipes, listening to the sound of the guns; watching the shrapnel bursting in the air some two or three miles away, and thanking our lucky stars that we were watching it from a distance. But we were resting. It was a lull before the storm, and we were soon to march towards the storm.

Death Valley was three miles away, and to-morrow the storm would break upon us! We were thinking; men everywhere were writing. Why were they biting their pencils and thinking so hard? The padre was a busy man. Everything was so quiet and mysterious: there was no joking, no laughing, men were thoughtful and pulled hard at their pipes. To-morrow the storm would break! To-morrow! And what after?

The following afternoon, after struggling across a sea of shell-holes, we arrived at Death Valley and halted by Trones Wood. Here hundreds of our guns of all sizes were massed, wheel to wheel, and row upon row; and every gun was being worked as hard as possible.

A bombardment was taking place. And in the midst of all these guns we were halted for two hours until our trenches could be located. The sight was wonderful. It was impressive. The might of Britain was massed and belching forth its concentrated fury.

As darkness came on the roar of the guns was accentuated by the flash of the discharge. We did not speak, for speaking was out of the question; the noise was too terrific; and we lay on the ground silenced by wonder and bewilderment.

What was happening over yonder where those shells were dropping? What was that droning, whistling noise far overhead? They were the big guns: the 15-inch, five miles back; 16-pounders, 4·9-inch, 6-inch, 9-inch, 12-inch, and 15-inch. Guns here, guns there, guns everywhere; all belching and flashing; all concentrating in a stupendous effort to pound some part of the German line into confusion.

Ammunitions workers in England, and those who should be munition workers, come right over here; creep with us along the edge of Trones Wood, and watch this amazing sight. You miners, you tramway men, you boiler-makers! You, who would throw down your tools and strike, look upon this sight!

This is the voice of England. This is the stupendous effort which is protecting you. On your right, that dark, creepy, silent place, is Trones Wood. Look across to your left, those sticks showing on the sky-line, across the valley. In those woods, churned up in the soil, lie the rotting bodies of your comrades, your brothers, your sons. They have sacrificed all; they have suffered untold deaths.

The contrast between that thundering voice of England and the silent mystery of those woods causes a shudder. Bring out those strikers and let them get a glimpse of this and realise their danger, and the horrors which will come upon them, their wives, their children, their homes, if those guns fail.

What is their quarrel to this? Shall we stop those guns for a penny an hour? Shall we leave unprotected those desperate men across the valley, who are hanging on tooth and nail to those last trenches gained? Shall we do these things for a penny an hour? Shall we do these things so that we can stand up for these so-called rights in England?

No! Our mines must be worked; our boilers must be made; and our munition machinery must be run to its utmost capacity, or we are traitors to those guns and our fighting men; our brothers, our own sons, who are depending upon the might of England for victory and their lives.

Throw down your tools, slacken your machinery, and High Wood and Trones Wood will become blacker still with the mutilated bodies of a thousand men. A penny an hour! You, who are being coddled under the protection of these guns, what is your quarrel to this?

If those desperate fellows on the other side of the hill were to leave their tasks, they would be called traitors. Yet, when men in England, whom these fighters are dependent upon, and whose work is just as necessary for the success of the war, throw down their tools, they are only called strikers.

The crime is the same; the punishment should be the same.

CHAPTER X[ToC]

ARRIVAL ON THE SOMME

FEEDING THE GUNS. SEPTIMUS D'ARCY ARRIVES. A CURIOUS KIT

Late that evening orders came to move into the trenches on the far slope of the Valley of Death. Trenches here, trenches there, trenches everywhere, while we groped around without knowing where the trenches led to, or the position of the German lines.

We spent an anxious night, the uncertainty of our position and mystery of those massed guns, thundering their wrath into the darkness of the night, caused a tension which defied any desire to sleep.

What was the meaning of it all? What was happening over yonder, where the iron of England's anger was falling, bursting, tearing, killing? What was happening over there? Would we receive a similar reply? The signs were significant: we were at last on the Somme; we were in for it with a vengeance.

The next morning broke bright and fair, and found us still awake with eyes peering anxiously through the rising mist. We were evidently not in the front line, but were there on the Somme; and that sea of shell-holes which everywhere surrounded us told its own story of what had been, and what was yet to be.

At about 11 o'clock all eyes were turned towards High Wood, on the crest of the hill to the left. A burst of shells from the enemy's guns told that a target had been found. We watched, and presently we could faintly see a column slowly moving along the road through the wood.

Three ammunition wagons moved slowly towards our guns. Crash! A 5.9 fell in front of the leading horses; a cloud of dense, black smoke arose and blotted the picture from view. The smoke cleared, and the little column was still moving slowly forward, undisturbed and indifferent. Crash! Crash! Two more shells burst by the side of the second wagon; the smoke cleared; the horses were startled and giving trouble, but once again the defiant little column moved slowly forward, indifferent and undismayed.

We continued to watch the plucky little column, now obscured by the black smoke of the bursting shells, then again emerging from the smoke, heedless of danger.

Those men were human. How could they stand it with such calm and determined indifference? The answer was the guns: the guns must be fed; and British grit and discipline were unconquerable. The army is wonderful.

At this moment I received a message calling me to headquarters, and I at once went to find my C.O.

"Well, had a good rest?" he asked.

"Not much, sir."

"Stuff and nonsense; get your map out."

I spread my map out on my knees and took a note-book out of my pocket.

The C.O. pointed on the map with his pencil:

"We are here; the —— Regiment is there."

"Front line, sir?"

"Right bang up in the front line."

"What are the trenches like, sir?"

"No time to dig trenches; they're hanging on to a few shell-holes, though they may have connected them up by now. See, there's Combles, and that's Leuze Wood. We shall be on the extreme right of the British army. B Company will be on the right; C Company in the centre, and A Company on the left with D Company in support. Headquarters will be close by Falfemont Farm."

"Very good, sir."

"You won't find any farm left; been blown to dust. Men are to go in battle order; packs are to be parked just outside here, by companies. No. 5 platoon will move off at 7 P.M., the remainder following in succession at fifty yards' interval."

I understood, and turned to go.

"By the way, I am not sure whether the Germans are in that trench or the —— Battalion, London Regiment. Anyhow, that's where we've got to be to-night."

Half an hour later and the men were laying out their packs in long rows, by companies. Strange sight, all these packs laid out in neat rows. The reason did not need explaining. There was work at the other end of that Valley of Death; there lay the pit of the Great Adventure. Perhaps to-night we should look into it; but how many would come back to claim their packs.

We are in the soup with a vengeance! Well, who cares?

Early that afternoon I went to my dugout, and was just trying to get a little rest, when I was disturbed by a voice outside, which sounded strangely familiar.

"Sergeant, excuse me, but is this the beastly hole where B Company is to be found?"

"Yes, sir, this is B Company's line."

"'Pon me word, extraordinary place! Demned hot; walked nearly five miles. Where's the captain?"

"In his dugout, sir, near that shell-hole."

"I've got to report to him; will you tell him I'm here?"

"Hadn't you better go to him, sir?"

"Oh! Is that the thing to do?"

At that moment, unable to restrain my curiosity, I came out of my dugout, and there, sure enough, was none other than the irresistible pattern of Bond Street, Septimus D'Arcy, by all that was wonderful!

There he was, with his monocle riveted in his right eye, between the frown of his eyebrow and the chubby fatness of his cheek, with the bored expression of one who saw no reason for the necessity of the fatigue which caused the undignified beads of perspiration to assemble on an otherwise unruffled countenance. A pair of kid gloves, buttoned together, were hanging from the belt of his Sam Brown, and four inches of a blue-bordered silk handkerchief dangled from his sleeve. As he approached he half carried on his arm and half dragged along the ground, the burden that was known as his full marching order.

"Hello, Septimus!" I said, as he came along, dragging his things behind him.

"Ah! Hellow! Well, I'm demned! Never expected to find you here; awfully glad to meet you again."

"What are you doing here?"

"I'll be demned if I know! Uninteresting spot this—what?"

"Well, what have you come here for?"

"Nothing much. I saw a fellow in that big dugout in the valley, and he told me to report to you. The fact is, you know, you are attached to me, or I'm attached to you, or something of that sort."

"Well, you are not in Havre now; there are snipers about, and if you stand up there like that, you'll get hit."

"You don't mean to say so; that seems perfectly safe."

"Well, get down, and don't be a fool."

He carefully got down into the trench, leaving his equipment behind, probably hoping it would get lost, and we entered the dugout.

"I must tell you, captain, I am horribly fatigued. I came through the guns; very interesting and all that, but it's made my head ache."

"Have some water. It's rather muddy, but better than nothing these days."

"No, thanks; doctor warned me against drinking dirty water; dysentery and all that, don't you know. Any whisky and soda?"

"Look here, Septimus, now you are here, you must drop that nonsense."

"All right, old thing. I rather doubted the soda, but thank Heaven I've got a flask; a sort of emergency ration. Help yourself and let's drink it neat."

"How long have you been in the army, Septimus?"

"Three months. Why?"

"Like it?"

"Not bad. Saluting seems rather absurd; but it seems to please some. I longed to come out; thought it would be interesting and all that sort of thing. But so far I've had nothing to do but get from place to place, carrying a beastly load with me."

"Probably your own fault. I have never seen a pack or haversack crammed so full. What have you brought with you?"

"Necessaries; but not half what I shall need. Has my kit arrived?"

"My dear chap, you will never see your kit up here; and what is more, you will have to leave most of those things you have brought with you behind, before you go up the front line. Dump your things out here, and I will tell you what to take."

We emptied his pack and haversack. I have never in all my life seen such a lot of rubbish in the war kit of a soldier. There seemed to be nothing there he would really need; but a curious mixture of strange articles which would fill a fancy bazaar. There were hair-brushes with ebony backs and silver monograms, silk handkerchiefs with fancy borders, a pinky tooth-paste, oozing out of a leaden tube; and crushed between a comb and a pair of silk socks, a large bottle of reddish tooth-wash, sufficient to last him three years; and half of which had leaked through the cork to the destruction of about a dozen silk handkerchiefs, spotted and bordered in fanciful shades. There was a box of cigars, a heavy china pot of massage-cream, a pot of hair-pomade, a leather writing-case, a large ivory-backed mirror, which had lost its usefulness for ever, a bottle of fountain-pen ink, two suits of silk pajamas, one striped with pink and the other blue, a huge bath-towel, a case containing seven razors, one for each day in the week, and a sponge as big as his head. Poor Septimus! in his simplicity and ignorance, for the first time in his life he had packed his own kit.

CHAPTER XI[ToC]

DEATH VALLEY

MOVING OVER BATTLE-FIELDS. —— BATTALION, LONDON REGIMENT, IN POSSESSION. THE MYSTERY TRENCH. FALFEMONT FARM

The final preparations completed, the first platoon began to move off; other platoons followed at intervals, the column slowly wending its way through the Valley of Death to its mysterious destination.

We seemed to be going into the unknown; the air was full of mystery; it was uncanny, unnatural. We were moving over battle-fields. The ground was a mass of shell-holes; progress could only be made by walking in single file along a narrow footpath, which twisted in tortuous persistency between the shell-holes, causing innumerable halts and starts, until the column tailed off into an endless line of shadowy figures.

Here and there the men became lost to view in some gun-ridden cavity; whilst there again they appeared silhouetted against the moonlit sky, as man by man they appeared and disappeared from view over a rise in the ground.

Those who had fallen in the desperate struggle of the previous week lay yet unburied. Friend and foe alike shared the shelter of the heavens, clutching at the soil of France in the agonies of death. There are times when the sight of death excuses the quivering step and the irrepressible sob from the hearts of those who pass onward to brave a similar fate.

The Valley of Death was a silent tomb of the wrath of nations, that long, winding Valley of Death, where the bodies of friend and foe lay side by side, or clutched in a desperate embrace, marked the line where the fury of nations found its expression, like the scar of a devil's vengeance.

As I looked on the bodies of the dead, twisted and mutilated, limbless and torn, some half buried in débris—here and there lying doubled in unnatural positions, while others yet, seemed to be clutching at some mortal wound—I felt like one who fearfully treads into the vortex of Dante's inferno. Yes, this was the devil's own hell, but a hell far more dreadful than I had ever imagined it to be.

After a tiring, disheartening trudge, we found the spot we were to occupy, and, to our intense relief, the —— Battalion, London Regiment, were in possession.

After the usual formalities of the relieving and taking over of the line of shell-holes which marked the position, I stopped for a final word with one of the —— officers:

"How many casualties?" I asked.

"About fifty in two days—bit tough, eh?"

"Been attacked, then?"

"No; shelled like billyho. They've got the range nicely."

"Where's the Boche?"

"Don't quite know; somewhere in front. About eight hundred yards away there's a trench which forms three sides of a square, each side about three hundred yards, with the open side resting on Leuze Wood, and the lower end extending into the wood."

"Fritz there?"

"In the upper part, yes; but the lower part is a bit of a mystery. The part that extends into the wood the —— Regiment are holding; but the rest of it the Boche seems to have. At least, that's what I think. Awkward position! Well, cheer oh!"

After a sleepless night I anxiously waited the rising mist to take a view of my surroundings. There, on the right, was a high table-land, with a frowning bluff overlooking the town of Combles, which slowly emerged, house by house, from the rising mist.

In the trench the right man of my company was vigorously shaking the hand of a French soldier, who marked the left of the French army.

There, straight in front, could be faintly seen the trench formed in the shape of a square, and left of it Leuze Wood. But what were those peculiar stumps to the left of our trenches? They looked like the remains of a copse which had been shelled until only the stumps of a few trees remained. And where was Falfemont Farm? There was no sign of it anywhere. I was not sure of my position on the map; it was puzzling.

I went over to consult the French officer on my right:

"Morning, monsieur," I said, approaching a smart young officer.

"Ah! Good morning; you relieve the —— Battalion, London Regiment, already—yes?"

"Yes; last night. I came to ask you what those stumps are over there; they are not marked on the map. Do you happen to know?"

"Ah! Oui; zat is Falfemont Farm. Nothing left now; very bad place that farm. Zay say one whole brigade of infantry was lost in storming that farm. Yes, nasty place, that farm, M. le Capitaine."

I went back to my trench. I didn't like the look of things. If Falfemont Farm got blown to smithereens like that, what chance did I stand? Whew! I was getting the wind up.

CHAPTER XII[ToC]

OUT IN NO MAN'S LAND

SUDDEN ORDERS. THE BEGINNING OF A GREAT ADVENTURE. DIGGING IN

After a strenuous day's work, during which I had only time to take a mouthful of bread and cheese, which I carried in my pocket, I espied an orderly making his way towards me.

"The C.O. sent me, sir; you're wanted at once."

"Oh! any news?"

"I think we are in for a binge, sir."

"Which is the way to headquarters?"

"About two hundred yards back. Follow that narrow little track which winds around the shell-holes, and you can't miss it. Don't leave the track, or you will lose your way."

On arriving at H.Q. I found a small group of officers bending anxiously over a map. The C.O. turned to me as I approached:

"Ah! There you are. Get your books out, and take down your orders—ready! You are to take command of B Company. Well, now, here's our position; there's Combles and there's Leuze Wood. Take your company out into 'No Man's Land,' and extend along a line facing half right to our present position, with your left resting on the wood. C Company will be in the wood on your left; and A Company will be on your right—understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"You'll dig in to-night, and to-morrow we are going to take that trench that's formed like a square, to prepare the way for a frontal attack on Combles by the French. You'll take the upper portion of that perpendicular trench, passing the wood on your left."

"Then, I shall have to cross over the lower trench; isn't that occupied, sir?"

"The battalion bombers will clear that out for you during the night."

"When is zero hour, sir?"

"Don't know; I've told you all I know at present. Take ten flares, and send up two when you arrive at your objective, and send up another two at 6 o'clock the following morning."

"What about ammunition and water, sir?"

"The water you've already got is supposed to last forty-eight hours. I don't know about ammunition; I think there's an ammunition dump in the wood, but I will find that out and let you know. All right; it's dark enough now."

Sch!—Crash!—Zug! A 5·9 burst on the parapet a few yards away. The thud of an awky bit was felt in our midst, and the sergeant-major jumped up, holding his foot. The C.O. looked up without turning a hair:

"Any one hurt?" he asked.

"Only my boots, sir," replied the sergeant-major, suspiciously feeling his heel.

I took my departure and began to grope around in the dark in search of the narrow track which would guide me back to my company. I searched for about ten minutes, but in vain, and I became for a while hopelessly lost in a mass of shell-holes. I knew the direction roughly, but direction was of little use in that wild confusion of broken ground and débris.

What if I should be lost all night? What would they think? It would be put down to funk. A cold perspiration came over me. I felt an overwhelming sense of loneliness amidst that gruesome scene of destruction; and to crown it all, a feeling of responsibility and anxiety which made the craters seem deeper as I frantically scrambled out of one and into another. At last, to my intense relief, I found the little footpath and reached my trench safely.

Time was getting on. I gave orders for the men to dress and lie flat on the parados, ready for the word to move. When all preparations were completed, and bombs, picks, and shovels issued to each man, I signalled the advance, and with a few scouts in front and on the flanks, we slowly moved in single file into the unknown.

It was a pitch-black night, intensified by a slight fog, and I took my direction by compass bearing, wondering all the while if it would lead me right.

The men marched in silence. Nothing could be heard but the muffled footsteps over the soft ground, and occasional jingling of a spade or pick against the butt of a rifle.

Distance became exaggerated, and fifty paces seemed like five hundred, until I began to get a horrible fear that my compass had misled me, and that countless German eyes were watching me leading my men into the midst of their guns. Where were we going? When would we get back, and how many of us? Call it funk or what you like, but whatever it is, it's a devilishly creepy feeling; and when at last I found myself close to the edge of the wood, I felt as if I were arriving home.

But the real job had not yet begun. I signalled the halt to the leading file, and passed the word to turn to the right and extend two paces to the right and lie down. I next ordered a sentry group, consisting of one section to be sent out by each platoon to occupy shell-holes fifty yards in front as a protection against surprise.

The platoon on the left was to bend its flank to face the edge of the wood, and get in touch with C Company in the wood; while the platoon on the right secured connection with A Company. One Lewis-gun section took up position on the left flank at the corner of the wood, whilst the other Lewis gun protected my right.

These precautions against surprise being completed, I ordered the men to dig for all they were worth; rifles with bayonets fixed, and magazines charged to be placed within arm's reach at the back of the trench, the earth to be thrown in front until the parapet became bullet-proof.

I spotted one man leaning on his shovel, and looking vacantly into the darkness.

"Dig, man! Don't stand looking about you," I whispered hoarsely.

"The ground's hard, sir; it's all chalk here."

"Don't be a fool! Dig! I tell you we may be discovered any minute. If we get shelled you'll be glad enough of a hole to lie in."

Passing along the line, I overheard two men talking in an undertone:

"How do you like it, Timmy?"

"Fed to the teeth. It's all very well for the skipper to say: 'Dig like hell!'—Seems quiet enough here."

"Heard about Bill? Went balmy just after we started. He began by laughing and crying; he was as mad as a hatter. He nearly put the wind up us in the rear. The skipper sent him back with a couple of stretcher-bearers."

"Poor old Bill, hard luck. Thought he couldn't stand much. Got any water?"

"Not a drop; I'm as dry as a brick."

"Shut up; there's the skipper standing there."

The conversation stopped; but the latter part worried me not a little. Water-bottle empty, good Lord! and no more water for forty-eight hours.

All of a sudden the sky was illuminated. Half a dozen Very lights went up in rapid succession: we were discovered!

A moment or two later from two different points, three reds and a green light went up, falling in our direction. Every man stopped work and looked up in amazement. We were in for it; we wanted no telling.

"Dig like hell!" I whispered hoarsely, hurrying along the line of wondering men.

But they wanted no urging this time, and every man set to work with feverish energy.

Then the bombardment commenced, and in a few minutes the air was filled with whistling shells, screeching through the night and making the darkness hideous.

We were only a foot below the surface of the ground. Once again I hastened along the line:

"Dig like hell!"

Lights were going up in rapid succession, and the German line whence they came appeared only a couple of hundred yards in front, and seemed to form a semicircle around my left flank.

Clack! Clack! Clack! What was that?—Rifles! My sentry groups were firing. Again the rattle of rifles, this time all along the line of sentry groups.

"Stand to!"

Every man seized his rifle and crouched in the pit he had dug and faced his front. We waited: the bombardment had stopped, and the crack of the rifles alone disturbed the night.

I drew my revolver and waited in breathless suspense for the sudden rush which seemed imminent.

Were our preparations to be nipped in the bud, after all? Would it be a sudden rush; a desperate hand-to-hand fight?—and then, what then?

The minutes passed like hours in an agony of suspense, and then, unable to bear the strain any longer, I crept cautiously forward into the inky darkness towards one of the sentry groups to find out what was amiss.

"Halt! Who is there?"

"O.C., B Company."

"Advance!"

"What's up?" I asked, sliding into the shell-hole beside the corporal.

"There seemed to be a patrol moving about in front; it's all quiet now, sir."

"All right; double the sentries for the next hour."

I returned to the line and ordered the men to continue digging.

The bombardment continued, but by and by we began to grow accustomed to the din. Several casualties occurred; but still the work of digging in continued.

Time was getting on, and I must make my plans for to-morrow's attack.

A few minutes later I chanced to notice a figure sitting leisurely in a shell-hole.

"Why, Septimus, is that you?"

"I think so; I say, I think so. Unearthly row; devilishly dangerous place, this—what?"

"But what are you doing in there?"

"I was just coming to talk to you about ammunition. A shell burst, and my face is simply covered with dust. Has the ammunition arrived yet?"

"No; there's an ammunition dump in the wood somewhere."

"Like me to go and find it?"

I looked at him in amazement. It wasn't funk then, that made him seek safety in that shell-hole. Was it possible that dear old Septimus, this bland, indifferent tubby, blasé old thing of Bond Street, was anxious to go into that creepy, mysterious wood to look for ammunition?

"All right; take a corporal and 12 men, and bring back six boxes. Don't take unnecessary risks; we shall need every man to-morrow."

Septimus sprang out of the shell-hole, saluted in the most correct manner—something quite new for him—and disappeared in the darkness.

This was a new side of Septimus's character which had not shown itself before. Only the stoutest heart would have chosen to wander about in that wood at midnight, with enemy patrols lurking about. Septimus was a man, after all.

Five minutes later he passed me, leading his men. He gripped my hand as he passed, with the remark: "Well! Ta-ta, old thing."

"Cheer oh!"

And Septimus was gone. We may call men fops, simple vacant fools, or what we like; but the war has proved over and over again that the man within the man is merely disguised by his outer covering. Many a Bond Street Algy, or ballroom idol has proved amidst the terrors of war that the artificial covering of a peace-time habit is but skin-deep; and the real man is underneath.

CHAPTER XIII[ToC]

A NIGHT OF ALARM

SEPTIMUS IN A NEW RÔLE. SAVING THE AMMUNITION. THE LAST CARTRIDGE

Just then a movement in the rear of my position attracted my attention. A number of men were approaching; then halting, they sat on the ground, while two figures continued on towards me.

They were Second Lieutenant Wade, the intrepid scout officer, and Second Lieutenant Brady, in command of the battalion bombers. It was Brady who spoke first:

"Hullo! Getting peppered pretty hot, aren't you?"

"Rather lively! Where are you off to?"

"I've got orders to bomb out that mysterious trench you've heard so much about, in order to clear the way for your attack to-morrow. I'm going in front of your line and along the edge of the wood."

I despatched a runner to warn the sentry groups, and presently the little group of bombers disappeared round the edge of the wood into the darkness on their adventurous errand, the success of which would mean so much to me on the morrow.

All this time the work of digging is continued with unabated anxiety, shells dropping around unceasingly.

All of a sudden I was startled by a rattle of musketry in the direction of the wood. There was silence; then several more shots followed by a rushing, tearing noise, and yells.

Almost at the same moment the ammunition party emerged breathlessly from the wood.

I ran forward to where the men were dropping the ammunition boxes on the ground, and falling exhausted. For a moment or two they were too breathless to speak. I counted the men: there were 12 of them, and the six boxes of ammunition had safely arrived.

But where were Septimus and the corporal? All was silent in the wood. I turned to the nearest man who was by this time sitting up, holding his head in his hands.

"Where is Mr. D'Arcy and Corporal Brown?" I asked.

"God knows, sir! They stayed to cover our retirement."

"What happened?"

"We found the ammunition dump, sir, and were just beginning to move the boxes when we heard some one moving. We grabbed our rifles and waited. There seemed to be quite a number crawling around us. Mr. D'Arcy ordered us to retire at once, and get the ammunition away at any cost; he said he would stay behind and cover our retreat, and Corporal Brown offered to stay with him. We hadn't got far, sir, when they opened fire; bullets hit the trees and whizzed over our heads. Then we heard a rush and some yells. I distinctly heard something in German, and Mr. D'Arcy's voice shout back: 'Kamarade be damned!' Then there was a scuffle; that's all I know."

My heart beat wildly as I listened to this story. Good God! what did that silence mean? There was no further time to be lost.

I ordered a relief party and led the way into the wood. There was not a sound to be heard as we crept forward on our hands and knees towards the spot where the ammunition had been found.

What was that? We listened breathlessly, and again we heard a low groan almost in our midst. There was a shell-hole just in front, and crawling along on all fours, I found Septimus D'Arcy, wounded and helpless, with his left leg almost blown away, and bleeding from the head.

"What's up, D'Arcy? What has happened?" I whispered hoarsely.

A faint smile of recognition came over his pale face as I supported him in my arms. His words came painfully:

"The ammunition—is it—safe?"

"Yes, quite safe."

"But what happened after they left?"

"I stayed behind—with the corporal—to protect their retirement. We opened rapid fire—to draw German fire on to us. I saw six creeping forward. They called to us—to surrender. I refused—demn them! They threw bombs—killed the corporal—dirty dogs! smashed my leg—nothing much. I picked off three—with my revolver—never used beastly thing before; two bolted—last one jumped at me—with bayonet. That's him there—just got him—last cartridge."

Septimus was lying heavily on my arms. Nothing could be done for him; I saw the end was at hand.

"Good-bye, captain! Knew you'd come. Don't know much about soldiering—good sport; shan't have to carry that—demned pack again."

A placid smile came over his chubby face as he gasped out the last words. His monocle was still firmly fixed between his fat cheek and his eyebrow. Once more he seemed indifferent to his surroundings.

In front of him, the silent evidence of his plucky stand, were the dead bodies of four Germans. By his side lay a revolver. I picked up and examined the chamber; the last cartridge had been fired!

The men had gathered around; their caps were off. Septimus seemed to be looking up smilingly into their faces.

Septimus was dead! But Septimus was still in Bond Street!

CHAPTER XIV[ToC]

NEXT MORNING

A COUNCIL OF WAR. OPERATION ORDERS. A BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT

Three A.M. Heavy shell-fire still continues. I have just ordered the men to cease work and take rest. Trench is about two feet deep; men are dead beat.

4 A.M. Have just received three pages of operation orders. We are to attack at 4.45 P.M. in four ways, starting from the trenches we have been digging, and advancing diagonally from the corner of the wood across the open; passing over the mystery trench and taking the central trench.

I have only a vague idea at present where that is. Am fervently hoping that the battalion bombers have solved the mystery trench and cleared it. No news from them yet. God knows what has been happening there during the night.

5 A.M. Have just held a council of war with my officers and N.C.O.'s, and explained in detail my plans for the attack. Very impressive sight, seeing them all crouching around me in a shell-hole, with shells bursting around us, while they listened intently to my orders.

"Each officer is to carry his papers in lower right-hand hip pocket; and if he fails, the nearest man is to search the pocket and hand the contents on to the next senior. I intend to attack in the following order:

Eighty yards interval between each wave. Bombing sections of Nos. 5 and 7 to be on the right, and Nos. 6 and 8 on the left of their respective platoons.

"No. 1 Lewis Gun to be on the right of the second wave; No. 2 Lewis Gun to be on the left of the fourth wave.

"Two runners from each platoon to report to me five minutes before zero hour. My position, accompanied by the runners, will be between the third and fourth wave.

"On arrival at objective Lewis Gunners to establish strong points, assisted by bombers at each end of objective. Each man to carry two hundreds rounds of ammunition and three bombs; also three sand-bags in his belt, and a pick or shovel tucked through his belt behind. Bombers to carry each a sack, containing twelve bombs, but no tools."

Strange warfare this, going into a fight like a navvy.

5.30 A.M. Plans have been explained in detail to every man, and orders given that if all officers and N.C.O.'s are knocked out, the men are to carry on and finish the job themselves.

Very foggy morning; we are able to finish digging trench.

6 A.M. Astounding news. The battalion bombers have failed. A few survivors, after fighting all night, have been driven into the wood. The mystery trench over which I must cross is in the hands of the Boches. Could we hope to accomplish the double task?

The men heard the news in silence.

7 A.M. Breakfast consists of some dirty bread and cheese, and a little water.

8 A.M. Fog lifted. Our position is correct. Can see objective plainly about four hundred yards off. We can also be seen plainly, and snipers are busy trying to pick us off.

Have made a reconnaissance, and find intervening ground a mass of shell-holes. Looks like a rough sea. The advance will be difficult; the ground is so churned up. Not a square yard of unbroken ground.

2 P.M. Everything is now in readiness, with nearly three hours to spare.

Have ordered men to eat their dinners, which consists of bread and cheese at 3 P.M., so that they will go into the fight on full stomachs.

I have had no sleep or proper food for nearly two days. Will lie down and get an hour's rest before the attack.

CHAPTER XV[ToC]

THE ADVANCE THROUGH LEUZE WOOD

NEW OPERATION ORDERS. "AT ANY COST." LIKE RATS IN A TRAP

I had hardly closed my eyes when a runner from headquarters came hurrying along the line, and was directed to where I was dozing at the bottom of a trench.

"Message from the C.O., sir, very urgent."

I signed the receipt and tore the envelope open. Good heavens! new operation orders! I was astounded. I looked again, hardly daring to believe my eyes. Sure enough, there was no mistake about it, three pages of closely written operation orders. The head-line seemed to be mocking me:

"Fresh operation orders, cancelling those issued this morning."

I read on: "You are to advance on through Leuze Wood, and attack from that part of the wood which forms the fourth side of the square-shaped trench, thus attacking the inside of the square; B Company taking the lower half, and C Company the upper half; A Company to be in support."

A cold shiver ran down my back. What a calamity! and after all the pains I had taken to work out the details of the attack, and that dreadful night spent in digging these trenches to jump off from. Every man knew what to do, and now at the eleventh hour the whole plan was altered.

I glanced again at the new orders:

"You are to be at the new place of assembly by 3.30 P.M.; zero hour is 4.45."

I looked at my watch—Great Scott! it was already 2.15; at 3 P.M. I must commence the advance through the wood.

The men had not yet commenced their dinners. What time was there? and how was it possible to sit down quietly and digest those three pages of new orders and understand their meaning? What time had I to make new plans and explain to each man his new task?

There was not a moment to be lost; I turned to my two runners:

"Dinners to be eaten at once. Platoon commanders wanted at the double."

I waited, and by and by the platoon commanders, Second Lieutenant Farman and Chislehirst, and Sergeants Blackwell and Barnes, came running along the top, snipers shooting at them as they ran along. They halted on the parados, saluting as they came up, and, still standing up, awaited orders, seemingly indifferent to the excellent target which they presented.

"Lie down flat," I ordered.

They did as I directed, their faces turned anxiously toward me, wondering what was up.

"New operation orders just arrived from headquarters; previous orders cancelled. We are to advance through the wood and attack from the inside of the square."

I hurriedly read the whole of the orders over to them, and they listened silently.

"Go back to your platoons. The men are to be dressed in battle order by 2.50—it's now 2.30—by 3 P.M. the platoons are to be closed up along the trench, and the leading platoon will enter the wood in single file, other platoons following."

As I glanced up I noticed their faces were pale; they were listening intently, but uttering no sound. They were receiving orders; they realised their responsibility, and they knew their duty.

The last paragraph was underlined. I hurriedly read it and looked up at them again:

"Just one more thing," I said. "These are my orders underlined:

"You must reach your objective at any cost. If driven back, you are to make a stand at the edge of the wood, and hold out till the last man falls."

It sounded like a death sentence, a forecast of the hour of trial which we were to face. Only those who have received such orders on the field of battle can realise what it feels like.

In those few dramatic moments we counted our lives as lost. We recognised how desperate was our task. Success we might hope for; but failure we must pay the price of. We must fight till the last man falls—and yet we were merely civilian soldiers.

I looked into their faces; our eyes met. I understood; I could trust them; they could trust me.

"That's all; return to your platoons and prepare to move."

They had not uttered a word through all this; no words were necessary. They jumped to their feet; saluted as though we were back on Salisbury Plain, and the next moment ran along the parados to their platoons.

I watched them, and saw them kneel down on the top of their trench, indifferent to the snipers' bullets whistling about their heads, hurriedly explaining the situation to their men.

By 3 P.M. the men were ready and had closed along the trench to the wood.

The movement had been seen by the enemy, and a terrific burst of firing commenced; although, at the time I could not see what effect it was having.

I waited several minutes, but there was no further movement along the trench to indicate that the first platoon had entered the wood. I sent forward the message, "Carry on," but still no movement resulted.

At last, feeling something was wrong and unable to restrain my impatience any longer, I jumped out of the trench and ran along the parados.

What I saw there appalled me for the moment; the wood in front of me was filled with bursting shells; a continuous pr-r-r-r-r seemed to be moving backward and forward, and bullets were whistling in all directions.

Good God! what a hell! No wonder the men hesitated! What was to be done? My orders left me no alternative. I must advance through the wood. My brain kept repeating the words, "At any cost!" What a cost it would be to enter that hell! It was now, or never!

We were hesitating; something must be done, and done quickly. I looked at Farman, and I knew I could count on him.

The next moment I leaped into a newly made shell-hole, about five yards in the wood; called upon Farman to follow, and a moment later he came jumping after.

The noise was terrific. We yelled at the top of our voices for the next man to follow.

The next man to take the leap was the company sergeant-major. A piece of shell struck him in the side, and he rolled over on the ground, clutching at his tunic.

Again we yelled for the men to come along; and one by one they took the leap.

When six of us were in the shell-hole it was time for us to empty it to make room for others. Farman and I took it in turns to lead the way, and this process went on through the wood, leaping from hole to hole, and yelling at the top of our lungs for the others to follow us.

By this time the scene inside the wood was indescribable. Machine-gun bullets were spraying backward and forward; 6-inch shells were exploding in all directions; and the din was intensified by the crashing of trees uprooted by the explosions, and the dull thud of the missiles striking the ground.

Through the dull light of that filthy wood we frequently cast an anxious glance towards the red rockets being sent up from the German lines, directing the fire of their artillery towards us.

Sometimes, in leaping forward, we would land beside the dead and mutilated carcass of a German soldier who had fallen a week before. It was ghastly, terrible; and the millions of flies sucking at his open wounds would swarm about us, seemingly in a buzz of anger at our disturbance. But sickly and ghastly as the scene was, farther and farther into this exaggerated hell we must go.

By this time the cries of the wounded added to the terrors of the scene. Each time we jumped into a shell-hole, we turned to watch the men leap in. Each time it seemed that a new face appeared, and the absence of those who had jumped into the last shell-hole was only too significant.

But, undaunted by their falling comrades, each man, in his turn, leaped forward and would lie gasping for breath until his turn came for another effort.

Farman was the first to speak. It was his turn to take the next leap:

"I don't think it really matters. There's a hole about thirty yards away; I think I'll go straight for that."

He got up and walked leisurely across, as though inviting the death which seemed inevitable. He stopped at the shell-hole, and for a moment seemed to be looking down undecided whether to jump in or not.

I shouted at him:

"Don't be a damned fool; jump!"

The next moment a shell burst between us, and I fell back into the shell-hole. When I again looked out and my eyes could penetrate the smoke, I saw no sign of Farman. I yelled, and to my intense relief I saw his head appear. He was safe!

Again and again the last paragraph of my orders seemed to be blazing in front of me, and like a hidden hand from that dark inferno of horrors, kept beckoning me forward, "At any cost! At any cost!"

Yes; this must be the end; but it's hell to die in a wood.

The men used to call it Lousy Wood. What do they call it now? They were brave fellows; and they were only civilian soldiers, too! They used to be volunteers once. People would laugh, and call them Saturday afternoon soldiers.

Reviews in Hyde Park used to be a joke, and the comic papers caricatured these men, and used them as material for their jests.

They were only Territorials! That man, panting hard at the bottom of the shell-hole, and still clutching at his rifle, is a bank clerk; that man who fell at the last jump, with his stomach ripped up, was a solicitor's clerk.

Look at the others. Their faces are pale; their eyes are bulging. But they are the same faces one used to see in Cornhill and Threadneedle Street.

Yes, they are only Territorials! But here in this filthy wood they are damned proud of it.

And what is taking place in England to-day?

Is it really true that while all this is going on in Leuze Wood, orchestras are playing sweet music in brilliantly lighted restaurants in London—while a gluttonous crowd eat of the fat of the land? Is it really true that women in England are dressing more extravagantly than ever? Is it really true that some men in England are unable or unwilling to share the nation's peril—are even threatening to strike?

No! No! Do not let us think that this is the true picture of England. If it is, then, Territorials, let us die in Leuze Wood!

CHAPTER XVI[ToC]

THE ATTACK

A DESPERATE SITUATION. BATTLE FORMATION. "FOR ENGLAND"

Joy! The last leap I took landed me in a trench, and I found to my great relief that it was the lower part of the square which ran through the wood. A few yards along this trench it emerged into the open, where it was in possession of the Germans.

Farman and I sat down, side by side, breathing heavily from our exertions.

"That was hell, Farman," I said, hardly daring to trust my voice.

"Awful!"

"I hope the men are still following."

"Those that are left."

"Have a cigarette; it will buck the men up to see us smoking."

"Thanks, I will, though I'm as dry as a bone."

"Save your water; we've still got the attack to do. We've got an hour yet; that will give the men time to recover."

By this time, one by one, the men began to jump into the trench. As the men arrived, their faces pale and eyes started, we called them by name. They looked up and smiled with relief at seeing us sitting there, side by side. They recognised that the last jump had been made, and for the time being, at any rate, they were safe.

We had started through the wood, about one hundred and thirty strong, and barely eighty mustered for the final attack.

Some men of C Company appeared, threading their way along the trench. Farther in the wood, the commander, Lieutenant Barton, came up to arrange details for the attack.

"You got your new orders in time, then," I remarked.

"Just in time. It's hell, isn't it? I've lost heavily already, and we've still got to go over the top."

"I've got orders to take half the battalion bombers from you; where are they?"

"I would like to keep them; there are not many left, and they are badly broken up—been fighting all night."

"All right, you keep them. I'm going to form up between here and that broken tree. Will you form up farther to the left?"

"All right. Well, I'll be off; cheer oh! old chap."

"Good-bye, Barton. Good luck!"

I never saw Barton again! I heard some months afterwards that he fell, riddled with machine-gun bullets whilst leading his men into the subsequent attack.

"Pass the word for No. 8 Platoon commander," I ordered, wishing to ascertain if the last platoon had arrived.

A young sergeant came up at the double, and saluted.

"I am in command, sir."

His tone and manner inspired me immensely. Notwithstanding all the danger we had passed through, he seemed to be full of ginger and pride at finding himself in command of the platoon.

"Where is Mr. Chislehirst, then?" I asked.

"Wounded, sir, in the wood; shot through the chest. The last I saw of him he was giving another wounded man a drink from his water-bottle."

"All right; do you understand your orders?"

"Yes, sir, quite."

"Return to your platoon, and await orders to form up."

He saluted and doubled back to his men. I forget his name, but he was a fine fellow, that sergeant; quite cool, and evidently pleased at his new responsibility.

So poor old Chislehirst was hit; fine fellow; very young, only about twenty; good company in the mess; reliable in the field. Just like him to give his water-bottle to some one else when he could go no farther.

Farman was my only subaltern left. Suddenly he gripped my arm and pointed into the wood:

"Look over there. Who are those fellows creeping along that trench?"

I looked in the direction he was pointing, and there, to my astonishment, on the very ground just vacated by C Company, about a dozen figures in bluish grey were creeping along a shallow trench. I thought at first they were coming in to surrender; but they made no signs, but were evidently making the best of cover.

What were they up to? There were only about 12 of them, and I had between 70 and 80 men. For such a small number to come out alone and attack us seemed absurd, and I waited, expecting them to throw up their hands and come in. Perhaps they thought they had not been seen. I picked up a rifle, and taking aim, fired at the last man but one; I missed.

Still they kept creeping on. I fired a second time at the same man, and he dropped. The thing didn't seem real, seeing those heads bobbing along a trench; I felt for a moment as though I were shooting rabbits.

The next moment I realised their object. By this time they had worked well round my flanks. They were evidently a few daring men, who were trying to creep up unnoticed, with the intention of throwing bombs while we were in a congested area, occupied in forming up for the attack. A daring ruse, but a clever one; for a dozen men throwing bombs at close quarters could wipe us off the map, or, at any rate, could do enough damage by shock action of this kind to prevent our attack starting.

I dared not give any order to fire for fear of hitting the men of C Company. The situation was desperate. I had no time to spare, for zero hour was close at hand. The same thoughts were running through Farman's mind.

"Shall I have a go at them?" he said.

"Yes; form up your platoon, and stick them with the bayonet; then join the attack as a fourth wave."

I watched Farman and his platoon with bayonets fixed, creeping on all fours towards the German bombers. That was the last I saw of them, as it was within 10 minutes of zero hour, and we were not yet in battle formation.

I heard afterwards that they did the job well. But to part with the platoon and my only remaining officer at this critical moment was a great loss to me; for I could not count upon them in the attack for which I had now only three platoons left—about sixty men.

Half my strength had gone, and the real attack had not yet begun. I sent for the remaining platoon commanders and explained the situation:

"No. 6 Platoon will now become the first wave. Form up and extend along the edge of the wood and await my signal to advance into the open. No. 7 Platoon, form up immediately in rear; and No. 8 Platoon, assemble in the trench close up. Bombing section of No. 6 will proceed along the trench parallel with the advance, bombing it out as they go along."

The men formed up. The minutes seemed to be like hours. We were facing the inside of the square trench, which was a mass of shell-holes, and as though anticipating our intention, shells were bursting and bullets whistling on all sides.

How peaceful England must be at this moment; how pretty the villages! And how wicked this hell seemed in front of us! And these were the men of England—nice chaps, only Territorials.

One used to meet them in the city every day. Some were awful nuts. See them at lunch; watch them pouring out of Liverpool Street Station between 9 and 10 o'clock in the morning, with newspaper and walking-stick; see them in the banks, bending over ledgers. You could hardly believe it; but these were the same men.

They were not very trim just now; their hands are grimy as they clutch at their rifles, undaunted by the terrors they have already passed through and the sight of their fallen comrades left groaning in the wood.

There they are, extended and lying flat on the ground, waiting further orders. They have come through one hell by the skin of their teeth, and are patiently looking into another hell; their lives were counted by minutes, these office men. But their eyes were fixed on the far side of the square trench which was to be their objective; unless by God's will, and for the sake of England, they found an earlier one.

London men! Some may call you "only Territorials." Training has been your hobby; but fighting was never your profession.

What will England think of this? England may never know.

Who ever heard of Leuze Wood before? If a man is killed in England there is an inquest. People read about it in the papers.

Are the people left behind in England suffering hardships uncomplainingly, and gritting their teeth like you are? You are only getting a bob a day. England needs you; you are masters. Why don't you strike at this critical moment?

No, my lads; you are made of different stuff. You are men! There are those in England this day who work for England's cause; there are others who are enriching themselves by your absence; there are homes which will feel your sacrifice.

You have seen the wasted homes and the ghastly outrages in France; and between that picture and the green fields of England you must make your stand; those in England will depend upon you this day.

Zero hour is at hand. Agonies, mutilation, and death are within a few yards of you. There will be no pictures of your deeds; there are no flags or trumpets to inspire you; you are lying on the dirty ground on the edge of Leuze Wood, with hell in front of you, and hell behind you—hell in those trenches on the left, hell in those trenches on the right.

One more minute and you will stand up and walk into it. My lads! It's for England!

CHAPTER XVII[ToC]

AT ANY COST

OVER THE TOP. MAD, FIGHTING MAD. THE FINAL ASSAULT

At last the thunder of our guns towards the German lines confirmed the hour. Zero hour had arrived; the barrage had begun.

"No. 6 Platoon will advance."

The front line jumped up and walked into the open. Wonderful! Steady as a rock! The line was perfect.

On the left the front line of C Company has also emerged from the wood; the bombers of No. 6 Platoon disappeared along the mystery trench.

The tut-ut-ut-ut of machine-guns developed from several parts of the square, while the crack of rifles increased in intensity.

No. 7 Platoon jumped up and advanced into the open, followed by the third wave.

I extended my runners and followed.

What followed next beggars description. As I write these lines my hand hesitates to describe the hell that was let loose upon those men. No eye but mine could take in the picture so completely.

Will the world ever know what these men faced and fought against—these men of the City of London? Not unless I tell it, for I alone saw all that happened that day; and my hand alone, weak and incapable though it feels, is the only one that can do it.

Barely had I emerged from the wood with my ten runners when a perfect hurricane of shells were hurled at us, machine-guns from several points spraying their deadly fire backward and forward, dropping men like corn before the reaper. From all three sides of the square a hurricane of fire was poured into the centre of the square upon us, as we emerged from the wood.

In far less time than it takes to record it, the attacking waves became a mere sprinkling of men. They went on for a yard or two, and then all seemed to vanish; and even my runners, whom I had extended into line, were dropping fast.

The situation was critical, desperate. Fearful lest the attack should fail, I ran forward, and collecting men here and there from shell-holes where some had taken refuge, I formed them into a fresh firing-line, and once more we pressed forward.

Again and again the line was thinned; and again the survivors, undaunted and unbeaten, reformed and pressed forward.

Men laughed, men cried in the desperation of the moment. We were grappling with death; we were dodging it, cheating it; we were mad, blindly hysterical. What did anything matter? Farther and farther into the inferno we must press, at any cost, at any cost; leaping, jumping, rushing, we went from shell-hole to shell-hole; and still the fire continued with unrelenting fury.

I jumped into a shell-hole, and found myself within ten yards of my objective. My three remaining runners jumped in alongside of me. They were Arnold, Dobson, and Wilkinson.

Arnold was done for! He looked up at me with eyes staring and face blanched, and panted out that he could go no farther, and I realised that I could count on him no more.

I glanced to the left, just in time to see three Germans not five yards away, and one after the other jump from a shell-hole which formed a sort of bay to their trench, and run away.

Wishing to save the ammunition in my revolver for the hand-to-hand scuffle which seemed imminent, I seized the rifle of Arnold and fired. I missed all three; my hand was shaky.

What was I to do next? The company on my left had disappeared; the trench just in front of me was occupied by the Boches. I had with me three runners, one of whom was helpless, and in the next shell-hole about six men, the sole survivors of my company.

Where were the supports? Anxiously I glanced back toward the wood; why did they not come?

Poor fellows, I did not know it at the time, but the hand of death had dealt with them even more heavily in the wood than it had with us.

My position was desperate. I could not retire. My orders were imperative: "You must reach your objective at any cost." I must get there somehow. But even if we got there, how long could I hope to hold out with such a handful of men?

Immediate support I must have; I must take risks. I turned to brave Dobson and Wilkinson:

"Message to the supports: 'Send me two platoons quickly; position critical.'"

Without a moment's hesitation they jumped up and darted off with the message which might save the day.

Dobson fell before he had gone two yards; three paces farther on I saw Wilkinson, the pet of the company, turn suddenly round and fall on the ground, clutching at his breast. All hope for the supports was gone.

At this moment the bombing section, which by this time had cleared the mystery trench, arrived on the right of the objective; and to my delirious joy, I noticed the Germans in the trench in front of me running away along the trench.

It was now, or never! We must charge over that strip of land and finish them with the bayonet. A moment's hesitation and the tables might again be turned, and all would be lost. The trench in front must be taken by assault; it must be done. There were six or seven of us left, and we must do it.

I yelled to the men:

"Get ready to charge, they are running. Come on! Come on!"

I jumped out of the shell-hole, and they followed me. Once again I was mad. I saw nothing, I heard nothing; I wanted to kill! kill!

Pf—ung!

Oh! My God! I was hit in the head! I was blind!

CHAPTER XVIII[ToC]

LEFT ON THE FIELD

THE MYSTERY OF DEATH. THE SECRET CODE. TWO TERRIBLE DAYS

I was wounded! I was blind! But the moments that followed are clear in my memory. The brain shocked by a blow works quickly and actively in its excited effort to hold its own.

I was quite conscious and thinking clearly: I knew what had happened and what would happen; I remembered every detail.

My head at the moment was inclined to the right, for I was shouting to the men. Like a flash I remembered that about fifty yards to the left of me there was a "German strong point" still occupied by the Germans. A bullet had entered my left temple; it must have come from a sniper in that strong point. The bullet had passed clean through my head; I thought it had emerged through my right temple. I was mistaken on that point, for I found some days later that it had emerged through the centre of my right eye.

I remember distinctly clutching my head and sinking to the ground, and all the time I was thinking "so this is the end—the finish of it all; shot through the head, mine is a fatal wound."

Arnold jumped up, and catching me in his arms, helped me back into the shell-hole.

I hesitate to tell what followed. But as I am trying to record the sensations experienced at the time of receiving a head wound, I will describe the next experience simply, and leave the reader to form his own conclusions.

I was blind then, as I am now; but the blackness which was then before me underwent a change. A voice from somewhere behind me said: "This is death; will you come?"

Then gradually the blackness became more intense. A curtain seemed to be slowly falling; there was space; there was darkness, blacker than my blindness; everything was past. There was a peacefulness, a nothingness; but a happiness indescribable.

I seemed for a moment somewhere in the emptiness looking down at my body, lying in the shell-hole, bleeding from the temple. I was dead! and that was my body; but I was happy.

But the voice I had heard seemed to be waiting for an answer. I seemed to exert myself by a frantic effort, like one in a dream who is trying to awaken.

I said: "No, not now; I won't die." Then the curtain slowly lifted; my body moved and I was moving it. I was alive!

There, my readers, I have told you, and I have hesitated to tell it before. More than that, I will tell you that I was not unconscious; neither did I lose consciousness until several minutes later, and then unconsciousness was quite different.

I have told you how clear was my brain the moment I was hit, and I tell you also that after the sensation I have just related, my brain was equally clear, as I will show you, until I became unconscious.

Call it a hallucination, a trick of the brain, or what you will. I make no attempt to influence you; I merely record the incident—but my own belief I will keep to myself.

Whatever it was, I no longer feel there is any mystery about death. Nor do I dread it.

Arnold was busy tearing open the field dressing which I carried in a pocket of my tunic.

"Use the iodine first, Arnold; it's in the pocket in a glass phial."

"The glass is broken, sir."

"In a piece of paper there are two morphia tablets—quick, better give them to me."

"They are not here, sir." And he bound the dressing round my eyes as the blood trickled down my face.

"Quick, Arnold, my right pocket—feel in it; some papers there—a secret code—take them out—tear them up—quickly; tell me have you done it?"

"Yes, sir, I have done it."

I was sinking; I felt myself going; I felt that the end was at hand. I clutched his shoulder and pulled him towards me:

"Arnold, I'm going. If you get back—tell my—wife—" But the message that was on my lips was not finished; I could speak no more. I was dropping into space, dropping, dropping; everything disappeared, I remembered no more.

I do not know how long I remained in this condition. I remember gaining consciousness and finding Arnold by my side.

Something terrible was happening. I gradually began to realise that another attack was taking place over my head. This time the fire was coming from both sides. A stream of bullets seemed to be pouring over the shell-hole. The meaning was obvious: a machine-gun had been placed in the trench ten yards away, and its deadly fire was pouring over the shell-hole in which we lay. Loud explosions were taking place all round us, and with each explosion the earth seemed to upheave, and I felt the thug, thug of pieces of metal striking the earth close by; whilst showers of earth kept falling on my body. I couldn't last long. The guns of both sides seemed to be searching for us; we must soon be blown to pieces.

How long this lasted I cannot say. I was weak; my shattered nerves could not stand such a terrible ordeal. I lay huddled and shivering at the bottom of the shell-hole, waiting for the jagged metal to strike my body, or be hurled, mutilated, into the air.

Again I became unconscious. When I next recovered my senses Arnold was trying to lift me, to carry me away, but his strength was not equal to it. He laid me down again.

The firing had ceased. He seemed to be peering out of the shell-hole and talking to me. I think he was planning escape. It must have been dark, for he seemed uncertain about the direction.

Then I began to vomit; I seemed to be vomiting my heart out, while Arnold seemed to be trying to comfort me.

I again became unconscious. When I regained consciousness for the third time it seemed to me that I had been insensible for a great length of time. But I seemed to be much refreshed, although very weak.

Everything was silent, uncanny; I could see nothing, hear nothing. Yes, I remembered; I was shot blind, and I was still in the shell-hole. I felt my head; there was a rough bandage round it, covering my eyes. The bandage over my right eye was hardened with blood, and dried blood covered my left cheek. My hair was matted with clay and blood; and my clothes seemed to be covered with loose earth.

But what did this uncanny silence mean?—Arnold, where was he? I called him by name, but there was no response. I remembered the firing I had heard: yes, he must be dead.

In my blindness and despair I groped on my hands and knees around the shell-hole to find his body. He was not there. I was alone!

CHAPTER XIX[ToC]

THE JAWS OF DEATH

LONELINESS, DARKNESS, AND SILENCE. A LAST EFFORT. I PREPARE FOR DEATH

I did not know at the time, of course, what had become of Arnold; but I found out later.

Fearing I was dying when I lapsed into unconsciousness again, after my fit of vomiting, he decided under cover of darkness to try and find his way back to the British lines to bring me aid.

After stumbling about in and out of shell-holes, he suddenly saw the barrel of a rifle pointing at him from a trench close by, and following him as he moved; and a moment later he was a prisoner.

Understanding German, he told his captors that I was lying out in No Man's Land, and begged them to send me medical aid; and they answered that stretcher-bearers would be sent to make a search.

Whether the stretcher-bearers were sent or not I do not know; but if they were, they were not successful in finding me; for to the best of my belief it was on the Monday morning that I again regained consciousness, to find myself alone—two days after I had been shot.

It is difficult for me to describe my feelings when I found myself alone. I had no pain, I seemed to feel very small and the world very large. I sat up and felt my head; my face felt twice its usual size, and seemed sticky and clammy with earth and blood.

Everything was so silent.

There was a great lump of hardened blood where the rough field dressing covered my right eye; my left cheek, nose, and lips were swollen tremendously.

Whether it was night or day I did not know. But I knew I was blind. I tried to collect my thoughts and to reason out my position.

Where was the German line, and where was the British? I knew that I must be a considerable distance from the British line; but which direction it was in, I could not tell.

If I were to crawl, which way should I go and where should I find myself? Better to make the attempt and take my chance, than lie where I was. On my hands and knees I tried to crawl up the side of the shell-hole. But I had not reckoned on my weakness; the world was so large and I was so small.

Before I could reach the top my strength gave out, and I slid to the bottom. Again and again I tried, and with each attempt I kept slipping back, each time, bringing with me a pile of loose earth.

At last I realised how hopeless it all was, with so little strength. And unable even to reach to the top of the shell-hole, how could I hope ever to reach the British line across the sea of shell-holes which intervened? I seemed so far from everything; though little did I dream at the time that German soldiers were within a few yards of me in the trench from which I had driven them by such desperate efforts two days before—two days! Surely it was two years!

Then my fate dawned upon me. Of course the end was quite logical. This was the end; it could not be otherwise. Had I not made up my mind it would come? Surely I did before I started? Was I not shot through the head and left to die? Well, this was the proper place to die. But what surprised me was that the thought of dying seemed so comforting. I was so weary, and death seemed so peaceful.

I have heard people say that when a person is drowning, after the first frantic struggles are over, a delightful sensation of peacefulness comes over him, and he ceases to desire to help himself. That was how I felt at that moment. This shell-hole was my grave. Well, it seemed quite right and proper.

The idea of getting back to life after suffering so many deaths seemed very unreasonable. My sensations were those of one who had awakened to find himself buried alive. To be alive at all was cheating death, which held me firmly in its grip. Better to accept it and wait calmly for the end.

The life of the world seemed so far away from me. My family, my home, my friends and scenes that I used to know so well seemed in a misty past, a long, long way away—a different age.

After all, it did not matter very much. It was all so very long ago. It had all happened long ago. My absence was an accepted fact; I was now a memory.

Now, I have already said that I awoke refreshed. I will say, further, that I was never so clear-headed in my life. I had little power in my limbs. My brain was never more calm and calculating and indifferent to the death which I knew was at hand.

It was not nerve, because I had none. It had nothing to do with the question of pluck or cowardice. It was simply the state of the brain before its last kick. I had ceased to resist my fate; I accepted it. I was not dead yet—but I was to die there, and that was to be my grave.

I began to think out calmly in what way my life would flicker out, and I concluded that it would come as a result of my wound during a period of unconsciousness, or by the slower process of thirst, starvation, and exposure. In the latter case I should probably have violent spasms or struggles. I had better prepare myself.

I was lying in a very uncomfortable position. There was a pile of loose earth, which stuck against my body awkwardly. With my hands and feet I scooped it out until my body lay comfortably in a hollow, with the loose earth forming a sort of bed. In doing this I found a water-bottle. Arnold must have left it behind for me. There was only a drain in it, which I drank, and threw the bottle away.

I next searched my pockets for food and found a small crust, the remains of what had been my food the day before the attack. I placed this carefully in my pocket for use at the time when I should experience the final pangs of starvation. My own water-bottle still contained about half a pint of water. I placed this on the ground, close to where my face would be, so that I could clutch it readily.

These preparations over, my brain began to get tired. There was nothing else to be done; everything was ready. I would lie down now and wait for the end. I laid my head on the ground, using the side of the shell-hole as a pillow.

I was very comfortable, the soft earth seemed almost like a bed. After all, I was a lucky fellow to be able to die in a comfortable way like this. I wondered how long it would really be—days more, perhaps, but still I could wait. Yes, the life of the world was a very long way away; after all, it did not matter.

How long I waited in this position I do not know, but it suddenly occurred to me that I was passing away, and for a moment all the old scenes came closer. They were passing by in a sort of procession.

A sudden impulse caused me to raise myself into a sitting position. I waved my hand above my head and shouted out, "Good-bye." The procession was over. I lay down again and waited for the end.

CHAPTER XX[ToC]

AT THE MERCY OF THE HUN—AND AFTER

A BASIN OF SOUP. HOSPITAL AT ST. QUENTIN. THE "OPEN SESAME"

A moment or two later something occurred which caused my wearied brain to be roused again into activity. What could it mean?

I was again thinking hard, listening intently; something undefinable had happened to suddenly revive my mental condition. Had I passed away, and was this the next life? I felt like one who had awakened out of a dream in the dead of night, conscious that some one or something was moving near him.

"Englishman! Kamarade!"

Great God! I was found!

Had I the strength I should probably have screamed with joy, for that was my impulse at hearing a human voice. A second later and my feeling was to shrink from discovery. Surrender? Was it then to come to this, after all?

I did not answer; it was not necessary.

He must have heard me shout; he must know where I am. I was unarmed and helpless; what need to answer such a call? He would probably seek me, and I should be found without need to foul my lips with an answer.

And then I felt that it was not my life that was being saved, but a lingering death avoided by a murderous, but quick despatch. Well, perhaps it was better it should come that way.

Presently I heard some one crawling towards me. A few pebbles rolled down the slope, and there was silence again. I felt that he was looking down at me. Again a shuffle, and a quantity of loose earth rolled down the slope, and he was sliding down towards me.

The supreme moment had arrived. Would it be a bullet or a bayonet thrust; and where would it strike me?

I lay perfectly still. He seemed to be bending over me undecidedly. I thought he might believe me dead and go away without finishing me off, to seek the cause of the shout elsewhere.

I raised myself on my elbow and turned my face towards him. Then, to my astonishment he put his arms around my body and raised me up. What strange wonder was this? He put my arm around his neck, and with his own arm around my body, he raised me to my feet. But I could not stand. Then, placing both arms firmly around me, he dragged me out of the shell-holes. I felt myself being dragged several yards, and then he stopped.

I heard many voices talking below me. What would happen next. Then several hands caught hold of me, and I was lifted into a trench.

Some one gave an order, and I was dragged along the trench and around a corner. More voices seemed to come from still farther below. Some one picked hold of my feet, and I was carried down several steps. I was in a dugout.

It seemed warm and cosy. There were officers around me. Here must be the company commander whom I had driven away two days before. Now he could take his revenge. What mercy could I hope from him?

A voice asked me a question in English. But by this time I had collapsed completely. I tried to speak, but no sound would come from my throat. My head seemed to be an enormous size; my jaw would not move. I felt some one examine my tunic and examine my pockets. No, there were no papers there. I heard some one say "Hauptmann." Then more talking.

A cigarette was put in my mouth. I held it between my swollen lips, but could not inhale. A sharp command was given, and once more I was lifted up on to some one's back, and was being dragged down a long communication trench.

I was able presently to realise that I was in a dressing-station, for I was laid on a stretcher. Some one bent over me, evidently a medical officer.

My throat was parched. Oh, how thirsty I was! He was saying something to me in English in a very kindly manner. He opened a bottle of Seltzer water, and, lifting me up, placed it to my lips. Oh, how thirsty I was! I held out my hand for more. Bottle after bottle of Seltzer water was opened, and I drank one after the other. In my haziness I seemed to be wondering how they came to be supplied with such quantities of Seltzer water so close up to the front line.

He opened up my tunic and rubbed something on my chest. I heard him say, very gently:

"Injection against tetanus. It won't hurt you"; and then I felt a very slight pin prick. He laid me down again. My head was throbbing.

How hot and stuffy it was! I heard some groans, voices were speaking in a low tone. I again heard the word, "Hauptmann."

Of the days which followed I have only a hazy recollection. My brain and body sustained during the period of danger and strain, collapsed completely, and during the next six days I had only occasional periods of sensibility.

I can, therefore, only recall the facts between the time of my being picked up and my arrival at Hanover, six days later, in a disjointed manner.

Telling only of incidents, which stand out here and there in my memory, it must be borne in mind that during the operations of September the 8th and 9th I had felt the weight of my responsibility; and the great shock caused by my wound and the two days' exposure and suffering that followed, imposed a great strain upon my system, and reaction had now set in.

My wound had received no attention, and my right eye was hopelessly mutilated. The optic nerve of my left eye was damaged beyond repair, and the eye itself was obscured by an enormous swelling. My sense of smell was gone, and my cheeks, nose, and mouth were swollen and numbed to a painful degree.

I had lost power in my lower jaw, which would barely move. My nerves were completely shattered, and the mere touch of a hand would make me shrink with fright.

I had lost my voice, and during the occasional periods of sensibility, I could only speak in a startled whisper, while my brain in hideous delirium would constantly take me back to the scenes through which I had just passed.

I remember my stretcher being lifted and being placed in a horse-drawn ambulance with several others. Before leaving, the M.O. gave me a bottle of water, and so great was my thirst that for several days I kept this tightly gripped in my hand, and would not part with it except to get it refilled.

I have a hazy idea of being transferred from one ambulance to another, and several journeys. The ground was very rough, and the shaking of the wagon seemed to cause great pain to other occupants. The bumping to my own head compelled me to raise it from the pillow and resist the jolts by resting it on my hand.

Where I spent Monday night I do not know, but on Tuesday night I found myself in what must have been a small hospital in a town I do not remember.

It seemed to me that I was in a sort of basement of a private house, and that a man and woman were watching over me, exhibiting very great kindness and compassion.

I seemed to awaken from my stupor, and remember some snatches of conversation, as they bent over me, for they could both speak a little English.

Blood and clay were still caked on my face and hair; and my uniform was sticky with blood and grime. Oh, how I wished I could take it off and be put into clean clothes and a bed!

The man was taking off my boots:

"Dese very goot boots, yah?"

I assented in a whisper.

"You have dem give you, yah?"

"No," I whispered, "bought them myself."

"Where do you buy such goot boots?"

"London."

"Ah, yah. I thought you would not get such goot boots for nothings. Look after dem well; we don't get goot boots like dat here."

I whispered to him:

"What is that noise?"

"Ah, it is a pity. Ze English zey have been firing ze long-range guns here, big guns. Zay carry twenty-seven miles. Ve moved dis hospital two times, yah."

The woman came up to my stretcher with a basin of soup. I shall never forget that basin of soup. It was probably very ordinary soup, but when I tasted the first spoonful I devoured it ravenously, for all this time I had not realised that I was suffering from starvation. For the past three days not an atom of food had passed my lips, and for two days previous to that an occasional bite of bread and cheese was my only ration. Even now I was not destined to receive the nourishment my body craved for; for one basin of soup per day was all I received during the remainder of that week.

Still grasping my bottle of water under my blanket, I was removed next morning and placed in a freight truck with two others, one a sergeant in the Guards, and the other a private in the ——, London Regiment. We were locked in the truck, and kept there for many hours without food or conveniences of any kind, and finally arrived at St. Quentin.

Some one removed the blanket from my face and examined my shoulder-straps. I heard him say "Hauptmann," and after that I seemed to be treated with some consideration.

I did not understand a single word of German, and the repetition of this word puzzled me. It must have been some connection with my rank. I would try it on the next person who came near me and see what happened.

I had not long to wait, for by and by the stretchers were lifted and we were carried into the hospital at St. Quentin. I was placed alongside a large number of others, and the place created a very unpleasant impression of the attention I was likely to receive.

The place seemed like Bedlam. All round me I heard the groans and cries of the wounded. How long would I be left here unattended? How I longed to have my clothes removed! And what of my wound—how much longer must I go before it was attended to? And what was happening to it all this time?

I heard some voices near me speaking in German. Now was the time I would test that magic word, and see what would happen. Removing the blankets from my face, and lifting my arm to attract attention, I whispered hoarsely:

"Hauptmann!"

Some one stooped down over me, examined my shoulder-strap, and said, "Huhzo!" He then gave an order, and my stretcher was again picked up, and I was carried up-stairs to a room reserved for officers.

That "Open Sesame" served me in good stead on several occasions.

But the hospital at St. Quentin was a horrible place. There was a Frenchman in the ward who was raving mad, and between his yells and shrieks of laughter, the moaning of the wounded, and the fitful awakenings from my own delirium I spent a most unhappy time. I think I must have been there about two days, and on the morning after my arrival I was sensible for a while.

Adjoining the ward and only separated by an open doorway was the operating-room, where first operations were taking place hurriedly. The scene was something I can never forget. One by one we were being taken in, and the shrieks of pain which followed were too shocking for description. To hear strong men howl with pain is agonising enough; but to hear them shriek, and for those shrieks to fall upon the ears of nerve-broken men awaiting their turn just outside the open door was terrifying, appalling.

As the shrieks subsided into weakened groans the stretcher would come back into the ward, and the next man be moved in; and so we waited in an agony of suspense, horror, and dread as nearer and nearer we came to our turn.

I do not wish to harrow my readers' feelings any more by describing how I felt when my stretcher was at last lifted and I was laid on the operating-table. I could not see the bloodiness of my surroundings, but I murmured to myself, as I had occasion to do on subsequent and similar occasions:

"Thank God I'm blind."

There was a nurse at St. Quentin whose devotion and humanity will be long remembered by the many British and French wounded officers who have passed through that ward. In my half-dazed condition I seemed to have an idea that she was some sort of angel, whose gentle voice and comforting words were so soothing to the wounded, and inspired us with confidence in our painful conditions and surroundings.

On Friday, still greedily hugging my bottle of water, I was removed from St. Quentin and placed in a hospital-train bound for Hanover. I was told it was a splendidly appointed train, with every modern appliance.

The journey to Hanover occupied two days and two nights, but I remember nothing of it, as I believe I was unconscious the whole time.

I do remember just before leaving being presented with a haversack from the French Red Cross Society, and it was full of things which were extremely useful: a sleeping-shirt, handkerchiefs, biscuits, and similar articles. I have the haversack still. I carried it wherever I went in Germany, and never allowed it to leave my possession.

On Sunday morning, September 17, the train pulled into Hanover, and the wounded were carried out and left for a time on the platform.

Some girls seemed to be busy giving refreshment to the wounded. A girl came to my stretcher, pulled down the blanket which covered my face, and clumsily pushed the spout of a drinking-cup, containing coffee, into my mouth. I thought she was trying to feed me from some kind of teapot. The pot fell out of my mouth, and the coffee ran down my neck.

A man picked it up, and holding it to my lips, enabled me to sip it. I felt very grateful to him, for I was badly in need of sustenance. He spoke to me very kindly.

I thanked him in a whisper, and asked him if he was an officer.

He replied in English: "No, I am a waiter."

I think I became unconscious again. Rather unfortunate, for had I been stronger the humour of the remark would have amused me.

CHAPTER XXI[ToC]

ALIVE

It was the first night after my arrival at Hanover that I really fully recovered a state of consciousness.

Although I have recorded several incidents of the week which had just passed, they were only occasional glimpses from which I would relapse again into unconsciousness, and it only comes back to me in a hazy sort of way, like dreams through a long night of sleep.

But I remember well the moment when I finally awoke and took in my surroundings. It was early in the morning. I seemed to have had frightful dreams; the horror of what I had passed through had been a frightful nightmare, mocking at me, laughing at me, blowing me to pieces.

I turned over on my side. Strange place this shell-hole; it seemed very comfortable. What was this I was touching—a pillow, bedclothes. Good God! I was in a bed! As my thoughts became clearer I lay perfectly still, almost in fear that any movement I might make would awaken me from this beautiful dream.

A long, long time ago something frightful had happened from which rescue was impossible. Yet, surely this was a bed.

Then I remembered the attack which had taken place over my body while I lay out in No Man's Land; of the shells which had burst around me in violent protest to my presence. I could not possibly have escaped; I must be maimed.

Cautiously I began to feel my limbs, my arms, my body, my feet, my fingers; they were all there, untouched. The whole truth dawned upon me: My God! I was alive!

I sat up in my bed; I wanted to shout and dance for joy. There was a bandage round my head: I was blind! Yes, I knew that, but there was nothing really the matter with me except that. The mere fact of being only blind seemed in comparison a luxury.

I was blind! But joy indescribable—what was that triviality—I was alive! alive!

Oh, my! I never knew before that life was so wonderful. Did other people understand what life was? No; you must be dead to understand what life was worth. I must tell every one how wonderful it all is.

But where was I? I could hear no guns—a bed? There were no beds at the front. I couldn't have dreamed it all; it must have been true; otherwise I should have been able to see.

Where then could I be? Oh, God! Yes, I know—I am a prisoner of war!

But even this knowledge, which for the moment quieted me, could not suppress my exaltation. I was saved! I was alive! No pain racked my limbs; no terror prodded my brain.

But I was weak and wasted. Oh, how weak I was! How hungry! But what of that, I was alive!

And where was England—such a long, long way off. I must go there at once, this minute. No, I can't; I'm a prisoner.

How miserable some people are who have no right to be. They cannot know how wonderful life is. Oh, how wonderful it is to die, and then to come to life again.

I'm only blind! Just imagine it! What is that?—it's nothing at all, compared with life; and when I get well and strong I won't be a blind man.

I may not recover my sight, but that doesn't matter a bit, I will laugh at it, defy it. I will carry on as usual; I will overcome it and live the life that has been given back to me.

I will be happy, happier than ever. I'm in a bed alive. Oh, God! I am grateful!

CHAPTER XXII[ToC]

BLINDNESS

How reckless we are in referring to death! There are many people who would say they would prefer death to blindness; but the nearer the approach of death, the greater becomes the comparison between the finality of the one and the affliction of the other.

Those men, however, who have faced death in many frightful forms, and dodged it; suffered the horrors of its approach, yet cheated it; who have waited for its inevitable triumph, then slipped from its grasp; who have lived with it for days, parrying its thrust, evading its clutch; yet feeling the irresistible force of its power; men who have suffered these horrors and escaped without more than the loss of even the wonderful gift of sight, can afford to treat this affliction in a lesser degree, holding the sanctity of life as a thing precious and sacred beyond all things.

Even the loss of God's great gift of sight ceases to become a burden or affliction in comparison with the indescribable joy of life snatched from death.

There are men, and we know them by the score, who are constantly looking out on life through the darkened windows of a dissatisfied existence; whose conscience is an enemy to their own happiness; who look only on the dark side of life, made darker by their own disposition.

Such men, and you can pick them out by their looks and expression, who build an artificial wall of trouble, to shut out the natural paradise of existence; these men who juggle with the joy of life until they feel they would sooner be dead, do not know, and do not realise the meaning of the life and death with which they trifle.

Let us think only of the glory of life; not of the trivial penalties which may be demanded of us in payment, and which we are so apt to magnify until we wonder whether the great gift of life is really worth while.

Let us think not of our disadvantages, but of these great gifts which we are fortunate enough to possess; let us school ourselves to a high sense of gratitude for the gifts we possess, and even an affliction becomes easy to bear.

Here I am, thirty-six years of age, in the pride of health, strength, and energy, and suddenly struck blind!

And what are my feelings? Even such a seeming catastrophe does not appall me. I can no longer drive, run, or follow any of the vigorous sports, the love for which is so insistent in healthy manhood. I shall miss all these things, yet I am not depressed.

Am I not better off, after all, than he who was born blind? With the loss of my sight I have become imbued with the gift of appreciation. What is my inconvenience compared with the affliction of being sightless from birth.

For thirty-six years I had become accustomed to sights of the world, and now, though blind, I can walk in the garden in a sunny day; and my imagination can see it and take in the picture.

I can talk to my friends, knowing what they look like, and by their conversation read the expression on their faces. I can hear the traffic of a busy thoroughfare, and my mind will recognise the scene.

I can even go to the play; hear the jokes and listen to the songs and music, and understand what is going on without experiencing that feeling of mystery and wonder which must be the lot of him who has always been blind.

And the greatest gift of all, my sense of gratitude, that after passing through death, I am alive!

CHAPTER XXIII[ToC]

THE WOMAN WHO WAITS

THE TELEGRAPH BOY'S RAT-TAT. KILLED IN ACTION. WEEKS OF MOURNING

Meanwhile, what was transpiring at home? What interpretation had been put upon my absence?

Many weeks later, after my first letter had reached home like a message from the dead, a post-card was handed to me from my father, which seemed to echo the sob of a broken heart. It was the first message to arrive from the England I loved so much, and my home, which I yearned for.

Letters from every member of my family were hastening towards me; but all were delayed except the single post-card, which told me only too plainly of the tragedy at home which was the result of my absence.

The message, written in a shaky hand, ran briefly, thus: "My son, for four weeks we have mourned you as dead; God bless you!"

In the despair of my heart my blindness and my bonds of captivity seemed to grow greater. In that simple message I realised the terrible truth, the full significance of the tragedy which had followed my fall.

What had been my suffering to theirs? After all I was a soldier, and mine was a duty. But those who wait at home—what of them?

The letters which followed confirmed my worst fears. I trembled and cried like a child.

How brave they had all been! How unworthy seemed my life to warrant the heroic fortitude and silent suffering which these letters unfolded! What were a few bullets compared with the pluck and silent self-sacrifice of the women of Britain, who were untrained to bear such shocks? What physical pain could compare with such anguish as theirs?

The first intimation reached my home by a letter returned from France, undelivered, and bearing a slip containing these words, type-written: "Killed in action September 9."

Three days later a knock at the door, and a telegraph boy handed in a telegram which read:

"Most deeply regret inform you Cap. H.G. Nobbs —— London Regiment, Killed in Action Sep. 9."

and also another telegram: