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

point of view, the scene was an artistic failure. Not a man was shrieking; not a man "clawing up the ground." Here and there men had rolled over on their sides, and were groaning quite softly to themselves. Here and there a purple patch in the dusty khaki....

The instinct of men, like animals, is to crawl quietly away from their fellows, and die in solitude.

The Colonel, very little perturbed by the bombardment, had sat throughout with his back resting against a tree, writing messages, or glaring at the map. Once, a large piece of shell casing had buried itself in the ground a few inches from his leg. The jagged piece was hot and heavy.

"Good Heavens," he said to himself, "what curious things Chance and Fate are. If I had stretched my leg out! Why didn't I?" He smiled.

At length a few Stretcher Bearers began to arrive, and the worst cases were carried off by them. Many of the less seriously wounded had to hobble, or even crawl down the hill, as best they could. It was a pitiable sight.

The Subaltern looked up, and caught the eye of an Officer being carried off on a stretcher. His mutilated leg was covered by his Burberry. He instantly recognised him as an Officer who had "brought out" a "draft" some time previously.

If he were suffering great pain, he did not show it. He seemed annoyed, and a little ashamed.

"Just the look," thought the Subaltern, "that a fellow wears when he's out at Cricket—walking back to the Pavilion."

The comparison, though not happy, was apt. It was just like Cricket. Some missed their catches; some never had any sent to them; and others did brilliant things. A few had long innings, and compiled glorious scores, but the majority "got out" pretty soon.

He pulled from his pocket a "Caporal" cigarette, and placed it in his mouth, partly to show every one around how cool this inferno had left him, and partly to steady his nerves. But just as he was striking the match, a violent desire to laugh assailed him. He suppressed this tendency towards hysterics, but he shook so much that it was impossible to light the cigarette, and in the end he threw it away in disgust.

And so the day dragged on. They were shelled with varying ferocity all the time. Once they attempted to launch an attack, but it failed, almost before it had started. The enemy artillery observation seemed too acute, the weight of his shells too heavy, and the wood in front too thick.

About three o'clock in the afternoon the General must have decided that the holding of the hill was too costly a business. He therefore ordered it to be evacuated, and the troops to retire on the village of Poussey. Every one, from the Colonel down, was privately relieved by this order, for every one felt that, if they had stayed there, by the end of the next day there would have been no regiment left.

The behaviour of the men had been superb. They had entered into this new phase of the war with that strange combination of recklessness and reliability which had made our "contemptible little army" what it was. Not a complaint had been uttered. They had joked all day—and there is an especial relish to jokes that are made between the thunderclaps—but they were worn out, not only by the terrors of that day, but by the accumulated loss of sleep and lack of food.

A further advance was impossible. The Germans had checked the onrush by the weight of their artillery. The victory of the Marne was over. The phase of the deadlock had begun.

CHAPTER XXVI THE CELLARS OF POUSSEY

The Subaltern was too dazed to realise the significance of the day's fighting, but he brought his men back to the village without mishap, and behind the shelter of its walls they lay down to sleep just as they were.

In a little time the whole Battalion was rallied in the village, and fresh reinforcements were sent forward to hold a line nearer the village.

The night that followed was cold and windy. In spite of a fire that his men lit in a little side street, and various sacks that they "lifted" from barns, the cold caused extreme discomfort, and it was with a great sigh of relief that at length dawn broke upon them.

The Subaltern stumbled to his feet before it was fully light, shook the miserable sacks from his feet, and set out to explore the village.

Like most of its kind, it had only one central street, which was steep and winding. Underfoot were the usual cobbles, and the walls had a queer look of leaning inwards over the road with a protective air. He had not gone many yards before he came upon the little village square. Half of it was shut in by a huge, castle-like structure, which with its carved stone fountain gave the place almost a medieval air.

The gate in the wall was unlocked, and through the aperture he caught a glimpse of a trim garden and a comfortable-looking house.

"This," said the Subaltern to himself, "is just the sort of place that the Captain would choose for his headquarters."

He slipped into the garden and peeped through one of the windows. Sure enough, there were the Captain, the Senior Subaltern and the Doctor. They had already risen and were trying to boil a kettle on the ashes of last night's fire. It was not an inviting scene, by any means, but he pushed open the door, and started in the search for food.

The room in which he found them was a typical French kitchen, with a dirty grey ceiling, walls, and stone floor. The furniture consisted of a table, a couple of forms, and a chair or two. Otherwise there was absolutely no attempt at either comfort or adornment. Ransacking a dirty cupboard, the Subaltern drew forth in triumph a promising-looking bottle, and having pulled the cork, smelt at the contents with caution. It contained a curious sort of liquor, apparently home made, which saved their lives that morning. Then the Doctor, after many amusing efforts to clean himself in a bucket, went off to the improvised hospital that had been set up in the village.

The early part of the morning passed peacefully enough; but the bombardment was renewed at about seven o'clock, and was followed by a hasty evacuation of the village to reinforce the front line. The Captain's Company, however, and one other, were ordered to stand by in reserve, but to be prepared to move at a moment's notice. The bombardment rolled on as usual for about an hour. Then came a tremendous crash, which made every wall and roof tremble, and gave warning that something worse than ordinary had happened.

Everybody rushed into the street, but there was no longer a square. One of the "Jack Johnsons" had alighted in the centre of it. The first glance at the scene disclosed the fact that the fountain had been blown sky high, and the cobbles torn up like pebbles, but it was not until afterwards that one realised that there had been men in that square. None was left alive in it now. One poor fellow had been struck by a piece of shell and had died before his head had crashed against the ground. The colour of the dead face reminded the Subaltern hauntingly of the grey walls of the kitchen. Fortunately, the eyes were closed, but the horror of the thing—the shattered skull, the protruding, blood-smeared brains, bit into the Subaltern's soul. He gazed at it for a moment, spellbound, and then turned in towards the kitchen, feeling broken and humiliated.

"We must get them into better shelter than this," said the Captain. "That might happen again."

The owners of the house came out to meet them. The old man and his wife seemed strangely unperturbed by the noise and the sights around them. He was a fine old man, with a yellow skin, long, flowing beard, and a bald head. He explained that he was the local Mayor, and there was more natural dignity about him than many a Lord Mayor of a huge city. He told them that underneath his house was a cellar large enough to hide the whole Company, and led the Captain away to see it.

In a few moments they returned.

"Just the very place," said the Captain; "we'll get the Company down there right away, before the next big one comes over."

He led them down a flight of steps, opened a door, and stepped gingerly into pitch darkness. When their eyes became accustomed to the gloom, it was just possible to make out the dimensions of the place, and very gradually the men filed in, and lay down wherever they could. By the time the last man had pushed his way in, there was scarcely an unoccupied foot of room in the whole cellar.

After a time the talk died down, and sounds of slumber filled the darkness. Probably the only men in the whole Company who did not spend the rest of that day in sleep were the "look-out" men, one posted in the road to intercept messages, and the other at the head of the steps to give warning.

As soon as it was dark they could leave the cellar with perfect safety—a thing they were glad to do, for the atmosphere was not as fresh as it might have been, and the place was very crowded. Only about half of the men, however, availed themselves of the opportunity. The others were too tired and just went on sleeping.

Some time in the middle of the night they were awakened by the Mess Sergeant, who had successfully arrived with rations. The only possible way, it seemed, was to get supplies over the bridges under cover of darkness, as the enemy had got their range to a yard. He left their share of food, and then hurriedly left.

"If I don't get well over by the morning, I don't get over at all," he explained.

The next day was in every way similar to the previous one. No order to move was received, and sleep was the most popular occupation. Now and then, in intervals between the artillery duels, they would dash up the steps and air themselves as best as they could. In one of his rambles the Subaltern alighted upon a peach tree, which was greatly appreciated. When the familiar sounds began again, they would troop once more down the steps and fall asleep in the cellar, until peace was restored.

On one occasion, following his men after he had seen them all safely down, a piece of high explosive shell-dust bounced from the wall, and embedded itself in the skin of his temple.

"By Jove!" he said, when he was safely in the cellar; "this is all very well, but if a big one did happen to drop on this house above here, we shouldn't stand the ghost of a chance. It would be better to be out in the open. We might be buried by the falling bricks."

Fate was kind. But once, on regaining the open, some one noticed that a weathercock had been struck off one of the gables.

"It just wanted to be twenty feet lower," said some one speculatively.

The Subaltern enjoyed very much his short stay in Poussey. The old Mayor and his wife were a charming couple, and as usual did everything in their power to make their Allies comfortable. On the other hand, it must be admitted that the British Officers, with their unfailing politeness and good spirits, made no small impression on them. The Subaltern once heard the old lady say to her husband—

"Eh! Mon vieux, quelle différence! Ils sont si gentils, si polis ... et les autres.... Ach! Les cochons!"

"What an impertinence," he thought, "to compare us!"

His coat was badly rent in the back, and once, while he was asleep, the old lady took it, and mended it