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

Of course they had the inevitable sons or nephews at the front, and they had received no news of them. One had to listen with great attention, and an air of solicitude, and murmur some little consolations.

One morning, the Subaltern forgets whether it was the first or second day of their stay, the old man took him into his library. It was a long, low room, fragrant with the smell of old books, and it looked out upon the leafy orchard. All the volumes were beautifully bound and nearly all were standard classics. He was surprised at the culture of this little spot, tucked away in the intellectual desert of rural France, and at the refinement of this man, who had been a farmer all his life. All the while a great battle was being fought outside; one could not be sure of life for a consecutive hour; at such a time it was amazing to be fingering fine old books, in the quiet, sombre library, by the side of an old man in a black velvet skullcap.

Eventually the Subaltern picked out a volume by Ségur, not because he wanted to read about war, but because he feared that the Voltaires, the Rousseaux, and the Hugos would be too difficult for him. Ségur was easy: one could skip whole phrases without losing his gist: one was not worried by the words one did not know. He read of Napoleon's retreat on Paris—in its time accounted the most scientific retreat in history. Soissons! Montmirail! Why, they had almost passed into both these places! How everything that had ever happened would shrink before this—which was going on now, half a mile away.

Whether it was the second or third day of their stay in Poussey that the march began again the Subaltern does not know. The only thing he remembers is being awakened from a peaceful afternoon nap, hurrying rather confusedly on parade, and marching off, out of the village. Turning sharply to the left, the troops descended the hill, and at length crossed the canal, which had evidently parted company with the Aisne. All was quiet, and he was making his way drowsily along the dusty road, when a whizz and a whistle brought him sharply to his senses. There could be no mistake about it, the shell was coming right at them.

"Oh, damn," he said; "we've been spotted."

The shell burst short of them.

There was a space of about two hundred yards that would obviously be shell swept, and the road offered not the slightest cover. Two hundred yards ahead there appeared to be a good stout bank, which would shield them very effectually. The only thing to be done was to rush on as fast as they could, and thus suffer as few casualties as possible.

The men, however, did not quite realise the situation. By long training and a great deal of actual experience they had learned that the best thing to do when you are under fire is to tear for the nearest cover, and, failing that, flop down on your faces where you stand, and take your chance. As a general rule this proved sound enough, but in this especial case it was obvious to the Officers that the longer they delayed, the heavier would be the casualty list, a fact which the men did not understand. The British soldier is a sportsman, and understands the game as well as his Officer. He only wants to be led; and in battle, scarcely that. Driving is an Art absolutely unknown in the British Army.

In the stress of the tense moments that followed, the Subaltern owned to himself that as a driver he was not much good. The German artillery had got their range to a yard, and it was very trying to have to stand up in the open and spend precious seconds in urging on men who ought to have known better. He was strongly tempted to run for it, but a sense of duty prevailed, and he stayed there dashing about in a futile effort to speed matters up. He shouted, he shrieked, he swore, he has a dim recollection of even kicking at his men in the effort to get on out of the terrible danger zone. But perhaps to his overwrought nerves the delay seemed longer than perhaps it really was, or perhaps force of numbers from behind succeeded where he had failed; anyhow, he got his Platoon into safety, and only sustained the loss of five or six men.

His Platoon Sergeant behaved with an intrepid bravery that gave him a moral right to the Victoria Cross. He stayed in the fire-swept area to carry two wounded men into safety, and tended several others as they lay. He received no recognition—but those who were near him will never forget.

The bank reached, safety was achieved for the moment, at any rate. They pushed on for another half-mile or so, and were then halted under cover of the bank. They had not long to wait before the purpose of the whole manoeuvre was revealed to them. In their capacity of Local Reserve they had been hurried to the point of the line where the next attack in force was expected.

The whole thing was ridiculous in its mechanical exactitude. In about five minutes the artillery bombardment died down. Hard upon its heels arose a most lively rifle-fire, which showed clearly enough that the preparatory bombardment was over, and the real attack about to begin. Higher and higher rose the note struck by the rifle-fire, as the contest thickened. Never had they heard such intensity of concentration before. Now up, now down, it rocked on in one sweeping, continuous note for nearly half-an-hour. Then it died down, almost to silence. The attack had failed, and the Local Reserve would not be needed.

It does not require much imagination to picture the state of mind of the men in reserve—cowering behind the bank. They could almost see the whole thing—the grey dots crawling over the crest of the hill, the shots that announced their detection, the uprising of them in a solid mass, sweeping towards the trenches; the withering fire, reaping in its victims like a scythe. They were wondering every second of the time, "How far have the Germans got? Have they pushed us out?" But no order came to advance to re-capture the trenches, so they presumed all was well.

As the crossing of the open ground had been so rough, they were allowed to postpone their return journey until it was dark. But even then they were not safe.

The Colonel led the Battalion a clear two hundred yards away from the road. The darkness was so intense that they could not be seen, but in the silence of the night they were sure to be heard, and, on hearing them, the Germans would certainly plaster the road with shells in the hope of "getting" them as they returned.

The Colonel was right. The German observation-posts must have heard them, for the old, familiar whizz came whistling through the darkness. The first shells seemed incredibly long in the air. One's heart was in one's mouth, as one listened to hear if they were going "to fall short," or "go over." Then the crash came, in front, on the road, and they knew that the Colonel had saved them once more. Even as it was, their Company Quartermaster-Sergeant was hit in the foot.

The shelling in the darkness must have affected the nerves of the leading Company. They struck out at a tremendous pace. The Subaltern was dropping further and further behind. He could not keep up, and the prospect of losing touch in the darkness was extremely serious.

At last the canal bridge was reached and the bombardment ceased, but instead of being allowed to turn in towards Poussey, they were told to relieve the other two companies in the trenches.

They found the line, and "took over" the trenches without mishap. Of course, in those days trenches were not built as they were later. To begin with, the men had no tools, except their "entrenching implements," so naturally the work could not be very elaborate. Moreover, the thought that such works would be wanted for longer than a day or two never entered their heads. Each man dug a shelter for himself, according to his skill, ingenuity and perseverance. There was little or no attempt at digging a long, consecutive trench. A series of holes had been dug, that was all.

The monotony of the night was broken by the arrival and distribution of rations. An hour or so after this had been accomplished the east began to grow grey, and they were soon able to take stock of their surroundings.

The trenches, or rather holes, were dug on the side of the road. Behind them the ground sloped straight down to the canal. They could not actually see the enemy trenches; and there was no attempt made by either side to "snipe."

The first day of trench life—if such it could be called—was not a very trying experience. There was nothing to do except a little improvement of the shelters. Their only duty was to "wait and see." It was not cold, and they had their rations. The Subaltern dug, and slept, and ate, and then dug again, and thus the day passed. Indeed, he even began to write a long letter home in his notebook, but he lost the pages almost as soon as they were written.

They were shelled twice during the day, but all one had to do was to lie comfortably in one's "funk hole" and wait for the "hate" to die down. After many experiences in the open, without a particle of cover, being shelled in deep holes had few terrors.

"Of course," he said to himself, "if they get a direct hit on this hole I'm done for, but otherwise I'm pretty safe."

Nevertheless, in spite of the holes, several men were carried away.

The greatest inconvenience to the place was the stench of decaying horses. About twenty yards down the hill the horses belonging to a whole Battery had been struck by a shell. About a dozen of them lay dead where they had been standing. The story had been told of how one of the Subalterns of the other Company had left his hole, rifle in hand, in the middle of a bombardment, to put the wounded animals out of their agony. He had succeeded in shooting them all, but on his way back had been struck in the foot with a piece of shell casing. It was an heroic, kindly act, typical of the brave man who did it. But it seemed a pity....

It was, of course, impossible to bury the dead animals, and to drag them further away was out of the question in the daylight. There was nothing else to do but to sit tight and endure in silence.

Their second night in the trenches was merely a repetition of the first. After a lively sunset fusillade had died down, the Germans lay quiet until dawn. The German artillery were so regular in their habits that it almost seemed as though they must be working by a printed programme, which directed that at six o'clock precisely in the morning, every battery was to fire off a certain number of rounds, absolutely regardless of whatever targets they might have been offered, and, having fired the requisite number of rounds, the battery was to lie quiet until, say, eleven o'clock. Of course, the thing was ludicrous, but it seemed to be the only explanation.

A mail was included in the rations. He himself drew blank, but the Senior Subaltern was sent a box of chocolates. The sight of them, on Active Service, was a farce. They were not the usual sort of chocolates that one saw—"plain," useful, nourishing chocolates. They were frankly fancy chocolates, creams with sugared tops, filled with nuts, marzipan, or