Behind the Lines (26 page)

Rawley followed slowly and re-blocked the entrance with the baulk of timber. He wedged it firmly with the pit-prop and returned to the dug-out.

II

Alf was sitting dejectedly upon his bunk. “You didn't ought to have done that,” he said. “Kelly's a fair devil when he's riled.”

Rawley flung the revolver noisily on the table. “Kelly can go to hell,” he cried.

“But why didn't you tell that bloke we was coming to the redoubt, then when he'd gone we could've nipped off on the quiet,” persisted Alf, in an aggrieved tone.

Rawley thumped the table with his hand. “Because I'm not going to bother to lie to a swine like that,” he yelled.

Alf shrugged his shoulders and got off his bunk. “Well, we've done it now, anyway,” he said, with a resigned sigh. “And the sooner we
partit
from this neighbourhood the better.” He picked up a sack and began filling it.

Rawley watched him moodily for a few moments, and then picked up another sack. “I suppose you're right,” he admitted. “No good meeting trouble when you can avoid it.”

Alf did not pause in his task of stuffing tins into the sack. “Too true,” he agreed. “Once I get on top there, you won't see me for dust.”

Rawley threw down his sack. “Look here,” he said. “It's no good just stuffing things in. We can't take everything, that's obvious. And it's very doubtful if we shall be able to come back for more later. So let's decide what we are going to take. It's no good loading ourselves up so that we can't move.”

They spread their possessions out on the floor—their store of food, tools, candle ends, blankets and clothing. Rawley surveyed them with his hands in his pockets. “Well, it's pretty clear that we can't take a quarter of that,” he said.

Alf nodded dolefully. “It do seem 'ard lines to 'ave to leave all that good stuff,” he complained.

“Well, let's eliminate,” said Rawley. He indicated the battered gramophone, and its one warped record with his toe. “That's out, anyway. And we can't take the lamp or the oil; therefore the candles must come. The ham comes, of course, and the bulk of the tinned stuff. There's those two remaining bottles of wine. Can't possibly take them. Must drink 'em before we go, that's all. Then blankets; must have those. And we'll roll up some underclothes inside 'em.” He pulled his blankets from his bunk. “We will roll up the blankets first and strap them on, and then we will see how much more we can carry comfortably.”

Rawley spread his blankets on the floor, placed his spare underclothes and one or two treasures on top, and began to roll them up. A dull thud from the direction of
the steps stopped him. He paused with his head raised, listening. A scraping noise came faintly from the top of the shaft. Neither spoke. The scratching and bumping noise continued. Rawley rose from his knees and silently took one of the rifles from the corner. He pulled back the bolt. The magazine was full. He re-shot the bolt, sending a round into the breach. Alf too rose to his feet, and his hand went out to his revolver.

Rawley walked to the foot of the shaft and stood with one foot on the bottom step. He held the rifle lightly in his two hands. He shouted up the shaft, “Keep out of here. You haven't got an earthly. We can shoot you down one by one as you come—and we will if you try it.”

There was no reply. The noises had ceased, and an uncanny silence reigned. Rawley moved from the foot of the shaft and glanced round the dug-out. His glance rested on the lamp that hung from the centre beam. His eye travelled from it to the shaft; then he moved the lamp to a nail nearer the wall. “They might try to shoot out the light,” he said, in a low voice.

They waited side by side for the attack, their eyes fixed on the foot of the shaft, their ears strained to catch the slightest sound. But none came.

Rawley lowered the butt of his rifle to the floor. “They've thought better of it,” he said. “They would not have stood an earthly, and they know it.” He lifted his foot to step over his roll of blankets on the floor, but he never completed the pace. A great gust of hot air leapt from the foot of the shaft, caught him up, and hurled him to the
floor. The light was extinguished; the dug-out vibrated as though rocked by an earthquake; and a mighty roar smote his ear drums.

He lay where he had fallen, half stunned by concussion, but his experiences under bombardment in the gun-pits had taught him to think quickly in moments such as this. One hand still retained its grasp of the rifle, and before the earth, splintered timber and stones had ceased to hurtle through the darkness, he dragged himself to a sitting position and pushed forward the safety-catch. “Alf!” he cried. “Alf! Look out; they'll try to rush us now.”

Alf's voice grunted from the darkness beside him. No other sound, except the trickle of a few pebbles down the steps, broke the silence. “You all right?” whispered Rawley.

“Yes.”

“Got your revolver?”

“Yes.”

A gallery of a deserted coal mine could not have been darker or more silent. The air was heavy with the acrid smell of high explosive.

They had looted a packet of matches from the village canteen. Rawley had a box in his pocket. “Look out,” he whispered. “Keep your eye on the shaft. I'm going to strike a light. If anyone appears—shoot.”

A match scraped on the box, and a little flame spluttered up, disclosing smoky fumes wreathed like a fog around them, and Alf propped on one elbow, his revolver pointing somewhat shakily towards the shaft foot. The floor of the
dug-out was littered with earth and stones. No sound came from the shaft.

The lamp lay smashed beside the overturned table, but among the stores that were spread out on the floor lay their collection of candle ends. Rawley slipped his left arm through the sling of his rifle and crawled forward, holding the half-burned match in his right hand. He propped up a candle end and lighted it. Then without removing his eyes from the foot of the shaft, he righted the table with one hand, placed the candle on it, and rose to his feet.

Alf too rose cautiously.

Rawley, with a finger on the trigger guard, tip-toed to the shaft, paused a moment listening, and disappeared up the steps.

He was back in a moment, and leaned his rifle carelessly against the wall. “Well?” whispered Alf, who stood holding his revolver ready.

“It's all right,” said Rawley in natural tones. “You can put that down. They're not coming.”

Alf slowly lowered his revolver. “'Ow do you know they ain't comin'?” he demanded.

Rawley pulled his pipe from his pocket, shook some earth from the bowl, and began filling it deliberately. “ 'Ow do you know?” repeated Alf.

Rawley did not look up. “They can't,” he said. “They've blown in the shaft.”

Alf's jaw dropped. “Watcher mean?” he said.

Rawley jerked his head towards the shaft. “Go and see for yourself.”

Alf gazed at Rawley for a moment, and then he stumbled quickly across to the foot of the shaft and disappeared. He re-appeared slowly, dropped his revolver on the table, and sat down on his earth-sprinkled bunk. He rubbed the back of his neck with a grimy hand. “Yars they've got us all right,” he said dejectedly.

Rawley threw away the match with which he had extravagantly been lighting his pipe. “What do you mean—‘got us'?” he demanded.

“Got us!” repeated Alf, with vehemence. “Bloody well got us. We're buried alive, ain't we? An' all through your ruddy yappin' with that chap.”

“Not a bit of it,” said Rawley. “We can dig ourselves out.”

“What, with a trenchin' tool!” exclaimed Alf, with caustic sarcasm. “We ain't got nothin' else, you know that. An' there's thirty foot o' muck there, if there's an inch.”

“It will be a long job, I know,” said Rawley. “But we've plenty of time. We've any amount of grub and water—how about the water, though!” He strode across and inspected the tins. “One full and one half full, including several handfuls of earth. That's enough, if we go easy.” He came back and sat down on the edge of his bunk. “What they have forgotten is”—he nodded towards the little alcove where the bucket fire was kept—“is that. They've forgotten the pipe. If they'd blocked that up, we would have been suffocated.”

Alf took a brighter view of the situation. “Oh, well,” he said, “I s'pose you're right. We might 'ave been foot-sloggin' it outside an' 'ere we are still in 'ome sweet 'ome.
It's a perishin' ill wind what blows nobody no good! But they've made a bleedin' mess,” he added, as he surveyed the rubble-littered floor.

“Oh, well, let's clear it up,” said Rawley. He put the ham on the table and flicked off the dirt with a bit of rag.

“'Ow do you reckon they did it?” asked Alf.

“Shoved a six-inch or a toffee apple outside the plank and touched it off with a plunger. Easy enough.”

Alf went down on his knees and shook his blankets to rid them of the soil which covered them; but the thud of some heavy object falling in the alcove made him pause and turn his head in that direction. And at the same moment Rawley, it seemed, went mad; he leapt upon Alf like an avalanche and knocked him flat.

A stunning, ripping crack smote the ear-drums like a blow; the candle went out; and a number of deep-toned buzzing noises, like a flight of bumble bees, droned noisily across the darkness and ended in a series of sharp smacks and dull thuds.

Rawley released his hold. “All right?” he asked.

“What the hell was that?” panted Alf.

“Mills' bomb. I saw it just as it landed. The swine must have dropped it down the chimney.” He began to crawl across the floor. “Don't get up,” he said. “There may be more to follow.” His outstretched arm touched the table leg, and he raised himself, and felt along the top for the candle. He found it, and felt in his pocket for the matches. But he did not strike one; instead he put the candle in his pocket. “If they look down the chimney they will see the
light,” he muttered. “We shall hear it drop, anyway.” He tilted the table on to its side and dragged it back to where Alf lay. They crouched behind it listening.

Rawley could hear the beating of his own heart and Alf's laboured breathing; there was no other sound except the intermittent scuffling of a rat behind the revetment. He held his breath and strained his ears. He thought he could detect a faint sound in the direction of the chimney. Yes, he was sure now: a scraping noise, but very faint.

A second explosion shook the dug-out, but the sound was muffled and seemed to come from above. Stones pattered on the earth floor and clattered as they hit the invisible bucket. Then silence settled down once more.

Rawley took the candle end from his pocket and lighted it. He scrambled to his feet and righted the table. Alf too rose gingerly. “Is it all right?” he asked.

Rawley did not reply. He stood looking down at the stones and earth that was mingled with the wood ash in the fire bucket and lay on the floor round about. Then he put his head down and looked up the chimney.

“Look out!” cried Alf. “If they drops another . . .”

Rawley turned from the alcove and looked round the dug-out without speaking. Then he strode across to Alf's bunk and took a cigarette from the tin on the shelf above. He lighted it at the candle and puffed at it for a moment. Then he strode to the alcove and puffed smoke across the bottom of the chimney. The blue wreaths curled lazily along the low roof of the recess; a little disappeared slowly up the chimney.

Rawley dropped the cigarette into the fire-bucket, and went and sat on the edge of his bunk. Mechanically he pulled out his pipe and filled it. Alf watched him in silence. “What 'ave they done?” he asked at last.

Rawley pulled the table to him and lighted his pipe at the candle. “They've blocked up the chimney,” he said.

“Are ye sure?” demanded Alf.

“'Fraid so; there's no draught.”

Alf dropped rather wearily on to the edge of his bunk. His face was a little pale. He rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. “Well, that's torn it, right up the leg. Can't we do nothin'?” he asked in a strangled voice.

“I don't know. I'm trying to think. Of course, we ought to put that out.” He nodded towards the candle. “And I ought not to smoke. Burning up air. But what's the odds, anyway.”

“Couldn't we dig ourselves out?”

Rawley shook his head. “Not in time. The devil of it is, that chimney is a good thirty feet long, and we've got nothing that would go up—not that it would be likely to be any good if we had.” He looked round the dug-out, estimating the latent possibilities of each article it contained. Suddenly he jumped to his feet. “By jove, of course—the rifles!” He took his rifle from the floor where it had fallen, and pushed forward the safety-catch. Alf, too, had dived for his rifle and was ramming a round in the breech. Rawley suddenly dropped his butt on the floor. “Wait a minute,” he cried. “Go easy. They may still be up there, and if we clear the chimney, they'll only block it up
again. We must let them think they have done it all right, and give them time to go away.” He sat down again on the edge of his bunk.

Alf stood with his rifle balanced in his hands. “I don't like waitin',” he said. “Fair gives me the creeps, it do. Supposin' the air give out. . . .”

“It won't yet awhile,” said Rawley. “We will wait ten minutes by your watch. Hang it up where we can see it.”

Alf put down his rifle and hung up the watch. “Seem to be gettin' pretty phuggy already,” he said nervously.

Rawley had thought the same himself, but had not liked to put his thoughts into words. “It's the fumes from the H.E.,” he said carelessly. “If we put out the candle it will help.”

But Alf shook his head vehemently. “No, mate; if I'm going west, let's 'ave a light. It'll be more cheerful-like than in the dark.” He rubbed the back of his neck and glanced at the watch. “Supposin' the rifle won't clear it.”