A Fox Under My Cloak (6 page)

He pedalled beside one rail, between rows of cottages with white-painted German numbers on their doors, obviously
billet-numbers
. He got another shock when he saw what hitherto had been seen only in a photograph: the menacing words painted large on a barn door:

Near the barn was an estaminet, and outside the estaminet a bearded German was standing, smoking a new meerschaum pipe. Feeling white about the gills, Phillip gave a salute, which
nearly caused a fatal wobble. “Ja! Ja!” he cried out. “Kronprinz. Prächtig Kerl! Auf wiedersehen,” and wondering if he would hear a shot any moment, he rode on, while the tune of
O, for the wings, for the wings of a dove! Far, far away would I rove!
ground like broken shells in his mind, accompanied by his teeth grinding out the time. Then, half-turning to wave at the German, he said to himself, incoherent with an upsurge of tremendous joy, “I bloody well am roving, too!”

There was no-one else in sight; he was alone on the
Wytschaete-Messines
crest.

*

Whatever he did, he must keep on cycling. He felt inside out, he felt unreal, he was on the wings of a dove, and if he kept on cycling, no-one would think of stopping him. After all, it was Christmas Day, which everyone was celebrating. The whole countryside was quiet: only the rattling of the bicycle, with its queer high handlebars, on the
pavé
surface of the long, tree-lined road. He hoped that the spokes wouldn’t start going through the rims, so that the wheels collapsed, and he was forced to walk. He told himself that his luck would hold so long as he rode on. No harm would come to him, if he rode on, and kept his thoughts to himself—he must not look about him, lest he give the idea that he was trying to find out about the German defences. There were, he could see by taking half-squeezed glances to the left with his eyes, some trenches with knife-rest wire in front of them. When he got back, he must say nothing about them; it would be rather mean to do that.

The weak sun, free of clouds in the deep part of the year, cast a long shadow of himself across the rimed grasses growing above the ditch on the left of the road. Then he thought that he must, to attract the least attention, should he meet anyone, ride on the right of the road in the Continental manner. But no-one was in sight.

What a wonderful adventure it was! The whole thing was a miracle!

How the people at home would be utterly astounded, when they heard that the Germans were not just brutes, as hitherto everyone had imagined!

He must have been going for the best part of two miles, he reckoned, when with a shock he recognised the place where the company had come up in extended order on the morning of
Hallo ’e’en. He felt a chill strike into him when he saw the farm buildings on the right, down the cart-track, where, during that awful night just before the Bavarians’ bayonet-charge he and Martin had failed to bring up the boxes of ammunition to the firing pits. Martin, one of the Leytonstone tent, had lain down and been unable to get up, ill with pneumonia. His heart beat so rapidly that he felt faint when he came to where the Bavarians had poured over the road, and down the track to behind the farm, and the M.O., Captain McTaggart, had been bayoneted, and Peter Wallace too, going to his rescue. He began to feel very cold and frightened. What should he do? He must go on, keep on, he must go through with it now. Was he really alive, was he
really
there, was it all happening, had it all happened? He felt like a ghost.

In places where shell-holes in the
pavé
had been filled in with brick rubble, the ice was opaque. The steam-tram lines were gashed where splinters had torn them. Soon, now, somewhere on the right, should be the stump of the windmill, and the site of the corn-stack where the Iron Colonel had lain until the Earl of Findhorn came and ordered his body to be carried back. Over the field on the left the Bavarians had advanced as the moon rose up, cheering, shouting, bands playing. Ah, there were the old trenches, how small and forsaken, how
insignificant
they looked among the shell-holes. No sign of the windmill, but there was the red barn, or the walls of it, on which they had advanced, out of l’Enfer Wood. Suddenly he saw a burial ground, beside the road, with white-and-black painted wooden crosses. Before he could stop to think, he had dismounted, thrown down the machine, and was walking to the graves, many with crosses stencilled with the Iron Cross above the lettering
Hier
rüht
in
Gott.
They all rested in God, German and Englishman buried side by side. With a pang he saw that some crosses were hung with the glengarry. Some had no names. He dared not be there too long. Many were nameless:
Unbekannt
after
Unbekannt
, resting. All of the
Engländers
were resting; but the Germans were resting in God. Why was that? Both German and Englishman shared the same deep deep sleep, side by side.

It was cold. He must go on. He must get back to the British lines. He began to feel desperately alone. The flat-tyred,
high-handled
machine rattled on over the sett-stones, following the rusty steam-tram rails. Messines now awe-fully near: a terrible
place of machine-guns. With relief he saw a peasant in a black suit and peaked cap walking, with a pail in his hand, near the cross-roads. He had a huge moustache. He stopped and stared. Phillip waved; he must keep on pedalling, for if he stopped, he might be asked awkward questions, even be taken prisoner.

“Bon jour, m’sieu! Santé!”

The man stared, his peak-capped moustache-faced head moving round slowly, like a dummy’s, as Phillip passed him.

Which way? Straight over the cross-roads was best. He went straight on, leaving the half-broken church behind. Going through the square, he tried to look as careless as possible, riding with one hand on the handlebars only, the other on his bare knee. He was now enclosed between houses on both sides, with white billet-numbers on them. Where did the road in front lead to? It was the wrong way to Wulverghem, judging by the direction of the sun: for Wulverghem, to where they had retreated, had been west of Messines, and the sun was in front, more or less south.

If any German sentry stopped him he would be able to tell them the truth: he had gone to watch the football match, and then thought he would look for his dead friend. How lucky he had come at just the right time, when everyone was eating, or sleeping after, Christmas dinner!

It would end all right, if only the wheels held out. The front wheel was twanging a bit, with a wonky spoke or two. He must go on slowly, and all would be well. To an imaginary hard-eyed German officer he heard himself saying, I saw your unbeknown German heroes being buried; and I came to pay my respects to my dead comrades.

When the road forked, or rather the tram lines turned to the left, he found he could not decide which way to go, so he followed the lines. Whatever he did, he must not stop, it would break the luck.

The road sloped down; he could free-wheel. Where did it lead? He must think. The sun would be west of south now, as it was about half an hour since he left White Sheet, round about twelve thirty. So it must now be one o’clock. O, what was he trying to think? Start again. If the sun was sou’-sou’-west, and on his back, as it was, then he was heading nor’-nor’-east,
which
was
straight
behind
the
German
lines.
Where did the
steam-tram
go to—Lille?

It was an alarming thought. Then he saw, not very far away and below, the dim suggestion of a fairly big wood. This must be the one south of Wulverghem, where the London Rifles were. Yes, as the road curved, so that the sun was on his right cheek once more, he could see that it led down to level ground
extending
to the distant wood. There was a little bridge in front, slightly hump-backed; he rattled over it, seeing a narrow stream below.

Phillip’s misgivings had made of the ride an ordeal; but the worst was to come. His mouth went dry when he saw in front, where the road went through a small cutting that gave cover from view, some field-grey figures standing; and pedalling nearer, he saw wheels, spade-trails, the barrels of field guns, under wooden shelters roofed with faggots. A German battery!

He felt himself going white. He thought of the story of the plowman and the grey horses, plowing furrows to point at a British battery. Shot as a spy!

He was being stared at. They were all smoking new
meerschaum
pipes. Feeling a little French beard on his chin, he sliced a hand upwards from the elbow, and cried out, in a voice thin and throaty, “Bon jour, messieurs! Kronprinz prächtig Kerl! Hoch der Kaiser!” and rode on past one gun, then, another, and another, hoping that, as obviously they didn’t know what to make of him, bare-headed in a goat-skin, kilt and khaki puttees, he would be out of their way before anyone of them might think to stop him. To extend the period of their wonder, he curved his arm over his head and scratched exaggeratedly. He could feel their eyes like potential bullets, directed towards his shoulder blades.

*

There were some ruined cottages in front. The narrow lane was very rough; shell-holes grey with ice. He must be just behind the German support trench. Yes, there before him, a hundred yards away, was the barricade. He had to walk now, his legs were weak, but he managed to wheel the bike forward, trying not to have a strained expression on his face He was trembling, he looked straight ahead, deliberately avoiding a glance at the German trench. The grasses on the road looked very fresh and green, the metalling clean, washed by rains, untrodden. Eyes on the road before him, he pushed on towards the last sandbag barricade beside a roadside cottage.

So near and yet so far. Fear rose out of the ground, all about him, as though of the exhalations of the spirits of the hatless British dead lying on the ground.

Perhaps they had been killed in the attack of 19 December, one of many made all along the line in order to hold down the German divisions which otherwise would have been sent to Russia. Living German faces were looking at him, as he could see from his retinae as he moved through a thousand dragging threads of fear, his face feeling transparent, his glance upon the ground. Slowly the big barricade of the German front trench became larger in its fixedness across the lane, beside a white estaminet stabbed all over with bullet marks in its plaster. A thin ragged hedge, clipped and cut by bullets, stood on the other side of the lane. How could he get past that solid-looking
barricade
? It was frizzed with coils of wire above and around it. He must leave the bike there, and try and find a gap. Ah, there was a way between the sandbag’d door of the estaminet and the barricade. Now he was walking on an area, unrecognised as a field, torn up by circular shell-holes in places; and fifty yards away stood a group of mixed and mud-stained soldiers in khaki greatcoats, goat-skins, and
feld-grau
jackets. He was safe; he was in No Man’s Land.

“Can you tell me the name of this place, please?”

“St. Yves. ’Oo are yer?”

“London Highlanders. Who are you?”

“Warwicks.”

“I’m looking for the London Rifles.”

Thumbs jerked—“Down there.”

Through the fraternising soldiers, on the frozen level field, he walked towards some cottages seen in the near distance. He asked again.

“East Lancs, mate.”

He went on, past Somersets, and Hampshires. He saw a peasant in the usual black suit being led away to behind the British lines. He had come up to look at his property—the white estaminet stabbed all over with bullets.

“I say, can you tell me where the London Rifles——?”

“We are the London Rifles!”

“Oh, good!”

“I say—who are you?”

“London Highlanders.”

“London Highlanders? Are they here?”

“No, up north—near White Sheet.”

“Have you just come down from there?”

More men of the Rifles were now gathering round him.

“Didn’t you come from behind the German lines?”

“Yes. I came along the Messines crest, on a bike.”

“A bike? From behind the German lines?”

“Where did you leave it?”

“Leaning against their barricade over there.”

“Good God!”

“Were you with the London Highlanders at the battle of Messines?”

Questions followed in quick succession. He looked from one face to another.

“Give him a chance to speak, you fellows,” said someone, who thereupon in the silence began to ask his own questions. “You did say you were with the original battalion at Messines?”

“Yes.”

The questioner looked at him intently. “Mean to say you’ve been a prisoner ever since the bayonet charge?”

“Good lord, no! I wasn’t taken prisoner.”

“Then how did you come to be wandering free behind the German lines?”

“I just went there for a bike ride.”

“What, right behind their lines?”

“Yes. Some of our fellows went behind them to have a football match, so I thought I’d have a look round. Then I came on here, on the off-chance of finding one of your chaps, called Maddison.”

“Maddison? What company?”

“I don’t exactly know.”

“Maddison? Anyone know Maddison? Sure he’s with the first battalion, and not with the second at home?” No-one knew Maddison. “He may be down in front of the convent.”

Phillip was now the centre of about a hundred men, in khaki and grey. One of the Germans listening to him was a tall officer, who looked steadily at him when he had finished speaking. Phillip felt he was thinking about the battery he had passed in the sunken lane; and this feeling was confirmed when the German officer approached him and said in a quiet voice, “May I have a word with you? Shall we walk this way, and see the
prie Dieu at the Cross-Roads—we ‘huns’ have not yet succeeded in shooting it down, you will be able to observe, to the satisfaction of some of your newspapers,” as he indicated the several new crosses of ration-box wood set up over various new graves in No Man’s Land that day.