How Dear Is Life (30 page)

*

The London Highlanders marched away from St. Eloi, passing fields where an occasional small stack of hay or corn stood. They came to a road beside which peasants in peaked caps, double-breasted jackets, and
sabots
were slowly pulling up lines of roots and throwing them into a long waggon shaped like a boat. They stopped work and stared as the kilted troops marched past. Hardly had they gone by, when Phillip saw, with others, a strange-looking aeroplane circling in the sky above them. Its wings were curved back at the ends—it must be a Taube! Had the peasants been signalling to it, he asked Baldwin, when a few moments later Black Marias began to drone down, buzzing fatly, hugely, to burst with black rending, in pairs, two short of the road, two beyond it. The nearest was a hundred yards away; even so, splinters buzzed and hissed past alarmingly. One fell with a tinkle on the
pavé
,
and Phillip stepped out to pick it up for a curio; he dropped it, blister-hot.

After two more 8-inch salvos the shelling stopped. So far it was not bad, he agreed with Baldwin. He was relieved that he could stand it. If that was all that was going to happen when they were in reserve, he was glad he had come.

As they marched into a village of red brick and tiled roofs, shelling started again. What made his heart drum hollow in his white-bone-seeming ribs was wondering where the next one was going to fall. He began nervously to work his teeth, while trying hard—how silly it was—but anyway try to think whether or no the insurance policies of such buildings in Belgium had a clause, like the London Tariff policies, stating that in the event of war, riot, or civil commotion—how did the clause end? If he did not finish the thought, a shell would fall beside him with its colossal rending iron crash. Think of Mr. Hollis’ face, quick! But in the way was Mr. Howlett’s benign face puffing Hignett’s Cavalier from his pipe until—down! down—tiles, bricks, stones went up in one black shattering explosion which hung a haze of
brown dust in the air, falling slowly down rather like pictures of a water-spout at sea; then the smoke was drifting away. He was surprised to realise that he was still marching on. Could it be himself who was walking on, upright? He tried to swallow, found his throat was dry and prickly. Far away he heard a cry of
Stretcher
bearers!
The order was given to halt.

Why were they halted in the Square, when the shells were falling right into it? In white-faced panic he was aware of others only as khaki flat movements, except the pink side of Baldwin’s face. Why did they not lie down? More terrible swooping, groaning noises came corkscrewing in massive black steel upon them. He felt split in two as he saw one actually bursting upon the
pavé
,
with a hot, screaming noise, more rending than when the shells had plunged into the clay of the fields. Why did they not move away at the double? Only fools would remain where they were!
Obviously
that Taube had signalled back to the batteries, just as the English Farmans did! Fools, fools, fools, fools! his mind screamed, seeing in his mind the irritable grey-moustached face of the Earl of Findhorn when he had gone to his grey Boer-War-rotten bell tent to get leave to go with Father and Mother to Crowborough. The Earl was not really a London Highlander; he was a regular officer of the Guards, where the men, according to Baldwin, were treated with the harshest discipline. When they were drilled on the square, with rifles at the Present, the blood showed round the nails of their right-hand fingers, so hard and continuously were they ordered to slap their rifles at the first of the three movements. They were automatons.
Theirs
not
to
reason
why
,
theirs
but
to
do
and
die
. O God, was this going to be like the Modder River battle, which Uncle Hugh had told him about? Why did they not double off and get
on to
the flanks like old Purley-Prout always did, unlike those Berehill and Fordesmill fools whose men came right up to the camp in frontal attack upon the Dowager Countess’ paddock and banged away on the barb-wire fence with their poles!

Memories of Boy Scout ‘manoeuvres’ with present fears and dreads raced in panic through the head of the hare with the thoughts of a fox. Instinct suffered; it was utterly stupid to stay there. At last he managed to say to Sergeant ‘Grannie’ Henshaw,

“Why, oh why, are we standing still here?”

“Because that is the order,” said ‘Grannie’ Henshaw, as he twirled and rctwirled his moustache.

*

When the scouts returned, with their reports, the order was given to about-turn; and the battalion marched back the way it had come for three hundred yards and turned off the road, near a large red-brick building beside a wood. The brick building reminded Phillip of the Randisbourne Home of Rest, for many old people were being brought out of it. But these were dressed in black, whereas the Infirmary people wore red.

“Poor devils,” said Baldwin. “I suppose that’s a sort of Workhouse. I suppose the Germans are over the skyline? They’re rather awful, those big shells, don’t you think?”

“Norman, I don’t think I can stand much more,” said Phillip, his tongue clucking in the dry roof of his mouth. He thought whitely that he never was any good at things like fighting, football, or boxing. His throat had always dried up at the school-sports, so that he could never run properly.

“You’ll be all right, Phil. The only thing to do is to keep on. It’s the only thing one can do, really. Anyway, we’ll stick together.”

“It’s the noise I find so awful.”

“Same here. Did you notice Collins shaking and muttering
while we waited just now? I thought he was going to throw a fit.
”

“Did you see Martin when he was hit by a bit of whizzing brick on the ribs?” asked Elliott. “He looked white as a sheet as he cried out ‘Send for the stretcher bearers’.”

“You’ve made a pun, d’you know it?” said Baldwin.

“How d’you mean?” asked Phillip in a shaky voice.

“The Scots Greys called this place Whitesheet.”

“I don’t damn well wonder at it, old son,” said Elliott, with attempted jocularity.

While waiting by the Hôspice he heard the Colour-sergeant telling “Grannie” Henshaw that the battalion had been ordered to debouch from the village by the road along which the steam-tram lines led up to the sky-line a quarter of a mile beyond; but the scouts had reported it was “very undesirable”. He said also that the battalion was now in support of the cavalry brigade holding the crest—reassuring information to Phillip, who thereby had hopes of returning to Ypres that night, and perhaps steak and fried potatoes in an estaminet, before a proper night’s rest in the Cloth Hall.

“Fall in, ‘B’ Company!”

At first it seemed that his hopes were to be realised; for after passing through the village once more, they turned into another road leading down a long gentle slope towards distant woods and villages. While marching, they had a fine sight below them of a battery of Royal Horse Artillery galloping up, swinging round with the guns in line, and soon the 15-pounders were recoiling with their short stabbing scarce-visible puffs followed instantly by sharp cracks and the
paa-a-angs
of swishing shells. As they passed the battery, not more than fifty yards off the road, some of the company waved, Phillip with them. Those gunners had been out since Mons, and now he was with them, he, Phillip Maddison! He longed to fire his rifle at the Germans. Enemy shells were still womping down as though aimed anywhere. He felt he had had his baptism of fire. I shall be all right now, he told himself.

*

Leaving the battery behind, the battalion swung off the road and moved down a cart track beside a small brook, and followed its course towards a wood about six hundred yards in front. He wondered if there were any fish in the brook. Perhaps he could make a fire in the wood, to dry his clothes before riding back to Ypres. This seemed to be a distant possibility, as they were ordered to halt and fall out at the edge of the wood, near a farmhouse where peasants were still walking about. Perhaps they might get some hot
café
.

“All officers to the Colonel, sir,” said a scout, saluting Captain Forbes.

Phillip watched the officers going to the Earl of Findhorn. Each one came to attention, and saluted him where he stood with honorary-Colonel ‘Oscar’ Hatton, the gaunt brown-moustached warrior with his Queen’s, Coronation, and Territorial Decoration ribands, thin long legs, and riding whisk with its white horse-hair fringe for flicking off flies. First came Major MacAlister, who was on the Metal Exchange; Captain Mac-Laglan, the son of a bishop, of ‘A’ Company; Fiery Forbes and his friend Captain McQuaker, a small, pale-faced officer known as ‘Oats’, of ‘G’ Company. ‘Oats’ was remarkable to Phillip in that he was the only officer he had ever heard to swear, or seem to lose his wool. ‘Oats’ McQuaker once, at Bleak Hill, had run down ‘G’ lines crying out in his high voice, “Come
on, you blighters!” just before battalion parade. Beside him stood Captain Millar of ‘C’ Company, a man with a rather dour appearance; Captain Duncan of ‘H’ Company; Captain Orr of ‘D’, Captain Mackae of ‘E’; and portly ‘Jumbo’ Meiklejohn of ‘F’. Phillip and Baldwin watched as the officers stood and listened to what the C.O. was telling them.

When the C.O. turned and pointed up the steep slope towards the rattle of firing, Phillip felt a stab of fear. He forced himself to breathe slowly, to keep himself steady.

Martin, one of the Leytonstone tent, monkey-anxious beside him, said, “Christ!” He looked thin and white as a sheet.

Shortly afterwards Captain Forbes returned with Mr. Ogilby and Mr. Tennant. All their faces were very serious. They had a conference with Colours, and the company sergeants. Captain Forbes pointed with his stick in the same direction. Phillip swallowed the moisture which flowed into his mouth suddenly, and turned aside under necessity to urinate. Several other men were doing the same thing, but he hardly noticed them, so harsh seemed his breathing to himself. Lily-livered, lily-livered, he thought wildly, struggling against the scenery becoming lopsided.

An agonising thing occurred, after they had fallen in. When the order to charge magazines was given, and Phillip tried to push home the bolt, he found that his rifle was jammed. The bullet would not enter the barrel chamber. He tried again and again. In desperation he struck at the knob of the bolt. It jarred forward. But the tip of the bullet broke off. So did the next one. With sudden hope that he would not be expected to go into the trenches with a faulty rifle, he went on legs that seemed filled with water to report the defect to Lance-Corporal Douglas. His mouth opened, but no words came. His jaws worked only, his breath seemed solid.

“Get back into line!” ordered Lance-Corporal Douglas.

Phillip went back to find Baldwin.

Captain Forbes blew his whistle.

“Mr. Ogilby, lead on your half company!”

Captain Forbes’ teeth were unusually visible, as he gave the order in a voice higher than usual.

*

The orders from the Colonel were that the battalion was to advance in columns of half-companies up through the wood.
‘D’ Company, in the centre, was to give direction. The objective was a windmill on the crest beside a farmhouse with a red-tiled roof. Both landmarks stood beside the road from Wytschaete to Messines. The road ran along the top of the slope, from north to south, sixty metres above sea-level. The Germans occupied the reverse slope beyond the road in further dead ground to the east. On the right of the ridge, the C.O. told his officers, the enemy had obtained a footing in Messines, beside the road. That would mean a certain amount of enfilade fire. The companies, in rushes by half-sections, while the other sections lay down to give covering fire, would cross the road and reinforce the trenches held by the Carabineers.

An Indian regiment, Wilde’s Rifles, had helped to hold the ground with the Carabineers since the previous day. All their European officers having been killed or wounded, Wilde’s Rifles had been ordered back, but some remained. The London Highlanders would now deploy, for the advance in columns of half-companies.

*

Phillip followed the man in front. The centre company was already taking up its position in the dead ground through the trees. ‘B’ Company passed behind them.

The advance was to be made in three lines, with the men extended to five paces. It took about ten nervous minutes to deploy.

‘B’ Company’s position was on the right flank, in the second line. While Phillip waited behind an oak tree at the verge of the wood, he tried again to load his rifle. This time, the leading cartridge jammed. He wrenched back the bolt, the brass cartridge flipped out; he rammed back the bolt. The next cartridge stuck again. He struck it with his fist, uttering a wild cry: the tip of the nickel bullet broke off.

“I can’t load my rifle!” he complained, as though to the tree. No one else took any notice of him; no one heard him. He tried once more, without success. Then looking at the next man, Elliott, he saw that he too was fumbling with his bolt. Sergeant Henshaw came running up. Phillip waited for him to pass, while trying to think of what to say. Shells were plunging down into the wood, with the noise of electric trams stopping in the High Street, only a thousand times darker, coarser. He heard distant shouts, the blowing of whistles. As ‘Grannie’ Henshaw
approached, he saw that his nostrils were distended. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead.

“Sergeant——”

‘Grannie’ Henshaw took no notice. Phillip caught hold of his tunic. A face, no longer that of ‘Grannie’ Henshaw, turned to him and cried, “I can’t listen to anything now!” Then, with hand to ear, he stopped, looking towards Mr. Ogilby.

“Fix bayonets! Fix bayonets, everyone! Fix bayonets!” shouted ‘Grannie’ Henshaw. Phillip saw officers drawing their swords.

Nearer whistles were blowing. Captain Forbes and Mr. Ogilby were swinging their arms for the advance. Phillip stood by the tree, as he fixed bayonet, ‘Grannie’ Henshaw muttering to himself as he fixed his.