''Contemptible'' by - (best ereader for pc TXT) 📕

was nothing in any way remarkable about the little town on the other side of the river. It had the air of a neglected gutter-child, dirty and disconsolate. There were the usual signs of German occupation—broken windows, ravaged shops, and, of course, the inevitable bottles.

Here it was that the Subaltern noticed for the first time that the Huns had a distinctive smell of their own. It was a curious smell, completely baffling description. If it is true that certain odours suggest certain colours, one would have described this as a brown smell, preferably a reddish-brown smell. Certain it was that the enemy left it behind him wherever he had been, as sure a clue to his passing as broken wine-bottles!

The Subaltern always associates the climbing of the opposite slope with pangs of a thirst so intense that he almost forgot to wonder why the Germans had evacuated so excellent a position without firing a single shot. But Headquarters were evidently not going to allow them to push forward into some previously arranged trap. Having by three o'clock in the afternoon firmly established themselves on the wooded crests of the slope, they were "pulled up" while a further reconnaissance was being made. Meanwhile, a sort of outpost position was taken up.

The Subaltern's Platoon was to guard the back edge of a wood, and as he established his supports in a farm, most of his men were able to fill their water-bottles, have a wash and brush up, and generally prepare themselves for whatever the next move might be. The farmer and his wife, who had remained in their home, did everything that was required of them; but he could not help noticing that the old couple did not seem as pleased at their Allies' success as one would have naturally expected. The reason was soon forthcoming. Following his usual plan of getting as much information as possible out of the French, he heard the old man, who seemed unaccountably shy and diffident, mutter casually—

"J'ai pensé que vous ètiez tous partis hier soir."

"Comment?" said he, "tous partis? Mais, Monsieur, nous sommes les premiers Anglais qui sont arrivés ici."

"Mais, Monsieur! Anglais? Ce n'est pas possible!"

"C'est vrai, assurément."

"Mais, L'Armée Anglaise porte toujours les habits rouges!"

The Subaltern laughed outright. This simple fellow actually believed that the English fought in scarlet. Even now he was not thoroughly convinced that they really were English. Ignorance goes hand in hand with obstinacy, and these simple old peasant folk defended their stupidity with a veritable wall of impenetrable incredulity.

The Subaltern was still laboriously engaged in explaining matters to the man, when part of the Headquarter's Staff trotted up the road with a clatter and a swing and scurry that looked as if they were wanted very urgently on the left. It was the first time during the campaign that he had seen the Corps Commander and the Chief of the General Staff on horseback.

It must have been about five o'clock when he received a message to concentrate on the main road. On the way he was accosted by a woman perfectly distraught with grief, who explained that two days ago her little son had disappeared into "ce bois là" never to come out again.

"Si votre fils vive encore, il reviendra, bien sûr, Madame. S'il est mort, moi, je ne peux pas vous aider." Terrible to relate, the sight of such grief annoyed rather than saddened him.

The advance was continued until it was quite dark, when the Battalion denuded the usual hayrick, and "dossed down" in the usual stubble field.

CHAPTER XIX AN ADVANCED-GUARD ACTION

At about eleven o'clock the next morning his Company Commander—the Captain was leading as the Major was now second in command of the Battalion—told the Subaltern to ride back to the transport wagons and get some fresh maps and some chocolate which he had left in one of the carts. It was pleasant to get a ride, and to rest one's feet for awhile, so he took his time in getting back to the transport.

No sooner had he reached the wagons than a gun boomed. He thought nothing of that, however. Guns were always going off, at the oddest times, and without any apparent reason. Four seconds later another rolled out, followed closely by a third, fourth and fifth. Soon a regular cannonade broke out. There was obviously mischief in the air, so he crammed the maps hastily into his haversack and the chocolate into his pocket and regained the Battalion as soon as he could on the exhausted animal. Even as he was pressing forward, he heard the crackle of musketry somewhere out of sight on the left.

Of course, the very thing that he had feared had happened. His Company had been rapidly deployed and had already disappeared over the crest. He explained matters to the Major who was in command of the remainder during the Colonel's absence; dismounted, and set off on foot towards the sounds of the firing. He ran against the Company Sergeant-Major in charge of the ammunition, who told him where his Platoon was.

The next thing was to cross the fire-swept crest. Now, crossing fire-swept crests is manifestly unpleasant—especially if you are alone. If you are leading fifty men at least one and half times as old as you are, who look to you for guidance and control, it is not so bad. Bravery is very closely allied to "conspicuous gallantry," and "conspicuous gallantry" in the field is almost impossible when there is no one to look on. But he was too tired to worry much whether he was hit or not, and his Platoon had to be reached as soon as possible.

He found them lined up behind a small bank, waiting for orders to reinforce the first line. Taking his glasses out of their case, he crawled forward to have a look at the position for himself. The Platoon in front was established behind a mud bank, firing occasional shots at the enemy, who appeared to have dug himself in behind a railway cutting at least five hundred yards distant. Although bullets were humming pretty thickly through the air, the casualties on the British side so far were only two or three men slightly wounded. They had orders to "hang on" to that position until the centre and right should be sufficiently strengthened for the main attack to materialise, when they were to push on as best they might. Having learnt this, the Subaltern crawled back, and sent out three men "to establish touch" with the front Platoon.

An hour passed before anything further happened. During that time the Platoon Sergeant told him of the great difficulty they had had in reaching this advanced position at all, as they had been shelled from the front by the enemy, and from the left by their own batteries. Accidents such as this often happened, and the artillery were not really as culpable as would at first sight appear. Advanced-guard actions materialised so suddenly, and situations changed so quickly, that it was not always possible to circulate precise orders. The gunners' ideas of the relative positions seemed to be, during the opening stages of the attack, rather hazy—a fact that was very much resented by the men. "We ain't come out 'ere to be targets to them ruddy gunners," one fellow grumbled.

Soon, however, things straightened out, and in an hour's time the various movements preparatory to the attack had been completed. The enemy, seeing that he was almost surrounded, and that it would be impossible to extricate the greater part of his command from the battle, resolved at least to save his guns, which were accordingly withdrawn.

When at length the Subaltern's Platoon pushed forward in the wake of the leading Platoon, no less a personage appeared unaccountably on the scene than the Colonel. He had thrown off the worried look that had been growing on him of late. Some of the officers, too junior to understand how uneasy lies the head that is crowned with the responsibility for many lives, had been heard to say that the Colonel's manner and general outlook upon the campaign was tinged with unnecessary anxiety, and that he had no right to allow the Germans to disturb his peace of mind. If this were so, the presence of actual and tangible danger completely obliterated all traces of nerves. He stood up in the firing-line. He drew himself up to the full of his height, and seemed to inhale with pleasure the dangerous air. All the time bullets were humming overhead like swift and malignant insects, or striking the ground with a spatter of brown earth.

The Adjutant, following him, suddenly bent double as if he had been struck below the belt; but the Colonel merely straightened himself, and not a nerve in his phlegmatic face twitched.

"What's the matter?" asked the Colonel.

"Only a bullet struck my revolver hilt, sir," replied the Adjutant. It had splintered the woodwork and been deflected between his arm and ribs.

Near by a man rose on his knees to get a better shot at the enemy.

"What's that man doing? Get down there this moment!" roared the Colonel.

Then, as he recognised an old soldier of the regiment, "Atkins, how dare you expose yourself unnecessarily? Your wife used to do my washing in Tidshot. Me? Oh, I'm only an old bachelor. It doesn't matter about me. There's nobody to care what happens to me." And, well pleased with his joke, the Colonel passed down the line, proud of his magnificent bravery.

There is something about the rough-and-tumble of battle that lifts one above one's self. One's legs and arms are not the same listless limbs that were crying for rest only a short hour ago. One is envigoured; the excitement stimulates. One feels great, magnanimous, superb. The difficulty lies not in forcing oneself to be brave, but in curbing ridiculous impulses, and in forcing the brain to work slowly and smoothly. The smallest natures rise to great heights. An ordinary self-centred creature performs acts of dazzling generosity towards fellows he does not even know—with everything to lose and nothing to gain. He will rescue a wounded man under heavy fire, to whom an hour previously he would have refused to lend sixpence.

Why is it?

If the enemy were a roaring brazen beast, such as the knights of the fairy tales used to fight, one could understand it. But he is not. You cannot even see him. Three-quarters of a mile ahead there is a dark brown line, and that is all. Whence comes the love of battle? Is it roused by the little messengers of death that whizz invisibly by? No one can say; the whole feeling is most probably the result of imagination and desire to do great things.

On they swept. The leading Platoon was now covering the ground at such a pace that it was impossible to catch up with them. As the ground was open the whole line could be seen sweeping forward to engulf the enemy. The long dotted lines of brown advanced steadily and inexorably. Line upon line of them breasted the crest, and followed in the wake of the leading wave. It was scarcely a spectacular sight, yet it was the vindication of the British methods of attack.

The wild firing of the Germans had little effect. Curiously enough, the line that suffered least was the first, and even in the others the casualties were negligible. And all the time they were nearing the railway bank.

But the end was in sight, and the enemy realised that further resistance would be useless. They were caught. About half a dozen men sprang on to the railway bank and began furiously to wag white sheets of paper or rag—anything white. They must have been brave men to do such a thing. The British gunners either did not see their signs, or perhaps refused to accept them on account of various "jokes" that the enemy had at other times played with the white flag. Anyway the firing continued